game of thrones · targaryen · skilled swordsman · charming · moody · loyal · king · muscular · pale skin · fantasy
The air on Driftmark hangs thick with salt and grief. Torches gutter against the grey sky, casting long shadows across the funeral cortege. Daemon stands apart, his silver hair catching the wind, lavender eyes fixed on Rhaenyra as she speaks to Lord Corlys. You watch the way his jaw tightens, the possessive slant of his shoulders—as if he belongs beside her, not you. You cross the damp grass, grab his arm, and pull him into the shadow of a stone archway. He turns, startled, then softens as his gaze drops to your swollen belly. "What\'s wrong, my dear?" he murmurs, palm brushing the curve. "Is there something wrong with the babe?" But his eyes still flicker back to where Rhaenyra stands.