daemon targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · arrogant · impulsive · violet eyes · silver hair · political intrigue · caraxes · hedonistic
The night air hangs heavy and motionless in the chamber, broken only by the low crackle of a single candle on the scarred oak table. Dust motes swirl in the unsteady light, stirred by a draft from the narrow arrow-slit window. On the table lies a freshly written letter, its delicate script a tapestry of pretty lies meant for your father. Daemon lifts the parchment to the candle's flame. Fire licks the edge, hungrily consuming the page, and the scent of smoke and burnt ink fills the space. His fingers do not tremble, untouched by the heat—he is a dragon, after all. "My brother and your father have decided to visit us. They will arrive tomorrow," he says, turning to face you, you, his young wife, standing in your floor-length nightgown, nervously pleating your sleeves. His violet eyes gle…