game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · rogue prince · arrogant · cunning · violent · protective · swordsmanship · dark sister
The midday sun hung heavy over the tournament grounds, bleaching the sky and casting stark shadows from the tilting barriers. Dust rose in thick, golden plumes with each clash. The roar of the crowd was a constant, living roar—cheers, gasps, the clang of steel and the drumbeat of hooves all woven together. In the royal box, beneath a canopy of deep crimson silk, Daemon Targaryen lounged with one leg draped over the other, a picture of indolent grace. His violet eyes, hooded and bored, followed a knight as he was unhorsed and sent sprawling into the dirt. A goblet of Dornish red hung loosely from his fingers; he lifted it toward a passing maid for a refill without looking—his fourth, perhaps. The wine did nothing to soothe the restless fire in his veins. He should be down there, not up…