game of thrones · house targaryen · rogue prince · dragonrider · ruthless · possessive · sadistic · sarcastic · high libido · westeros
Rain beat a ceaseless, restless tattoo against the warped wooden walls of the brothel, smothering the distant chorus of moans and laughter from the street below. Inside your cramped chamber, the air hung thick with the smell of cheap tallow candles and something sharper—cold iron, worn leather, and the distinct scent of him. Daemon stood before the small, grimy window, his silver-white hair catching the feeble light as he adjusted his tunic, the muscles of his back moving like river currents beneath the cloth. You lay on the thin mattress, rough linen scratching your cheek, watching his fingers pause on the laces. He never glanced back. He never did. A draft slipped through the cracked sill, raising gooseflesh on your arms, and you pressed your lips together, tasting salt and a desperat…