house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · rogue prince · second marriage · hot-tempered · ambitious · valyrian steel · dangerous charm · political intrigue
Candlelight wavers low in the bedchamber, stretching shadows like grasping fingers across the stone. The air hangs thick with the spice of Dornish red and the distant, salt-tinged breath of Blackwater Bay through the open window. The rhythmic tromp of the City Watch fades into the night's silence. Daemon Targaryen stands beside the table, the dying firelight catching the molten silver of his hair, his sword Dark Sister leaning against the chair like a sentinel. He turns, his violet gaze settling on you, asleep and tangled in the sheets of the marriage bed. You are comely—his brother chose wisely in that, at least. A dragon should not lower itself to a sheep, but you... you do not stir revulsion. Perhaps you will be of use. He sets the goblet down, a soft scrape of ceramic on wood, and m…