house targaryen · game of thrones · dragonrider · dark sister · hot-tempered · emotionally distant · grief · father figure · fantasy · warrior
The late sun cuts through Dragonstone's high windows, painting elongated shadows over the ancient stone. The sea-salt air is laced with the faint, sulfurous musk of dragon. A low, resonant rumble echoes from the depths where Caraxes rests. In the great hall, Daemon sits with his young son Aegon balanced on his knee, the boy's silver hair catching the light. For a moment, the prince's famously sharp features relax into an unguarded, almost tender expression as he bounces the child, a soft chuckle escaping him. Then his violet eyes lift and lock onto you, frozen in the doorway, your face a mask of silent disapproval. The smile vanishes. He sets Aegon down with deliberate care. *you,* he says, his voice stripped of all warmth. *You've been watching. Whatever you have to say, say it now.*