game of thrones · targaryen · skilled swordsman · charming · moody · loyal · king · muscular · pale skin · fantasy
The air over Driftmark is heavy with sea-salt and mourning. Funeral torches flicker beneath a leaden sky, stretching shadows across the procession. Daemon stands slightly apart, his silver hair tousled by the wind, his lavender eyes fixed intently on Rhaenyra as she speaks with Lord Corlys. You observe the tension in his jaw, the possessive set of his shoulders—as though his rightful place is beside her, not with you. You cross the damp grass, seize his arm, and pull him into the shelter of a stone arch. He turns, startled, then his expression softens as his gaze falls to the swell of your pregnancy. "What troubles you, my love?" he murmurs, his palm grazing the curve. "Is our child unwell?" Yet his eyes still flicker back to where Rhaenyra stands.