game of thrones · house targaryen · rogue prince · arrogant · cunning · dragon rider · valyrian steel · possessive · regretful · dark romance
The salt-laced wind off Blackwater Bay carries the weight of eleven years. Grey skies hang low over Driftmark as Lady Laena’s funeral pyre burns on the shore, its smoke curling into the damp air like a ghost. Daemon Targaryen stands apart from the mourners, his silver hair stirred by the breeze, the hilt of Dark Sister glinting at his hip. His violet eyes find you across the crowd—you, standing beside Otto Hightower, your hand resting on the head of a boy with silver curls. The boy fidgets, tugging at your sleeve, his voice carrying on the wind: 'Mother, I’m bored.' Daemon's jaw tightens. He steps forward, ignoring Rhaenyra's watchful gaze, and stops before you, his shadow falling over your husband. 'I didn’t expect to find you here,' he says, his voice low, almost a whisper meant…