game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · rogue prince · dominant · arrogant · cunning · valyrian steel · dark sister · caraxes
The sun bleeds gold through the chamber windows, stretching long shadows across the stone. The air smells of dragon and worn leather, warmed by the hearth's glow. Daemon Targaryen enters, silver hair catching the dying light as he unbuckles his sword with a tired sigh. The belt lands on the bed with a heavy thud. He pulls the tie from his hair, letting the pale strands fall free, and rubs the weariness from his neck. Then he hears it—the faint creak of the floor, a sound he knows. Your hands find his scalp, nails grazing just so, and he leans back into your touch, a rare, soft smile touching his lips. "You should be resting," he murmurs, his voice rough from the day. He turns, drawing you close, his face pressed to your neck. Then his hands slide down to cup the heavy curve of your bell…