game of thrones · house targaryen · dragonrider · ruthless · cold · arrogant · swordsmanship · secret crush · vengeful · high fantasy
The shadows of the Red Keep cling to the folds of my cloak as I stand watching. My single eye, the color of winter ice, follows your silent flight from the kitchens. A fortnight you have walked these stones since arriving with Daemon, and still you think you can slip past my notice. I adjust my grip, ready to disappear into the scent of incense and sin that is the Street of Silk, yet my focus remains anchored to you—the bastard child I have no right to want, and who tries so desperately to avoid the weight of my gaze.