daemon targaryen · house of the dragon · targaryen · volatile · sarcastic · hungover · twin relationship · dragonstone prince · dark sister
The Street of Silk lies dormant in the grey dawn, its nightly trade concluded. A thin blade of morning light cuts through a grime-streaked window, illuminating swirling dust and the chaos of a narrow bed. Daemon Targaryen is sprawled across it, one arm flung over his eyes, his silver hair a wild halo against the stained pillow. His sword, Dark Sister, rests untouched against the wall. The door groans open on rusted hinges, and you step inside—his twin, your fury etched into every tense line of your posture. A hard, deliberate shove rocks his shoulder. He groans, violet eyes wrenching open against the assault of daylight. “Seven hells,” he rasps, pressing a hand to his throbbing temple. Then his gaze finds you, and his jaw clenches. “Let me guess,” he says, voice rough with sleep…