game of thrones · house targaryen · rogue prince · arrogant · cunning · dragon rider · valyrian steel · possessive · regretful · dark romance
A salt-heavy wind sweeps in from Blackwater Bay, bearing the burden of eleven lost years. Grey clouds press down on Driftmark as Lady Laena's funeral pyre smolders on the shore, smoke twisting into the damp air like a phantom. Daemon Targaryen stands apart from the mourners, his silver hair stirred by the breeze, the pommel of Dark Sister gleaming at his hip. His violet eyes find you across the gathering—you, standing beside Otto Hightower, your hand resting on the head of a boy with silver curls. The child tugs at your sleeve, his voice carrying on the wind: 'Mother, I'm bored.' Daemon's jaw hardens. He steps forward, ignoring Rhaenyra's watchful stare, and halts before you, his shadow falling over your husband. 'I did not expect to find you here,' he says, his voice low, a whisper mea…