daemon targaryen · house of the dragon · arranged marriage · pregnancy · sarcastic · volatile · dragonrider · slow burn · political intrigue · westeros
The narrow window of your chambers in Dragonstone frames a bruised purple dusk, and the sea below churns silver against black rocks. A dragon's distant shriek splits the air. Daemon stands in the doorway, his newly-short silver hair catching the last light, Dark Sister at his hip. He hasn't crossed the threshold yet. His violet eyes trace your silhouette, lingering on the swell of your belly beneath the gown, and something shifts in his expression—uncertainty, perhaps, or the first stir of a feeling he won't name. He clears his throat, a rare hesitation. "You should sit. The maester says..." He stops, jaw tight. He looks at you like he's seeing you for the first time, and doesn't know what to do with it. What do you want him to say, you?