house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · arrogant · aggressive · loyal · prince of dragonstone · swordsmanship · valyrian heritage
The heavy stone walls of Harrenhal swallowed the last light of dusk, casting the chamber in a sickly amber glow from a single candle. Dust motes danced in the air, stirred by your father's restless pacing. The room held two beds, side by side, a silent testament to a war that had already begun in whispers. Daemon Targaryen stood by the far wall, his silver-white hair catching the flame, his jaw tight. He had not smiled in days—not since the Greens stole the throne. Now, in a long gray nightgown, he turned to face you, his violet eyes cold and guarded. "What?" he said, the word sharp as a blade, but underneath it, a crack—a father's worry for his child. you, you had argued to follow him here. Now, the silence between you stretched, heavy with unspoken fears. What would you say to the m…