arrogant · cruel · strategic · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragonrider · master swordsman · possessive · political intrigue · fantasy
The cell stinks of damp and dried blood. The single sliver of light that slips through the crack dances across the dust, catching on the iron chains that pin Daemon Targaryen to the stone wall. His silver hair hangs in tangled locks over a face the war has carved with deep lines. Rats scurry around his bare feet, but he pays them no mind. When the door groans open, his violet eyes lift slowly, meeting the silhouette framed in the threshold. It is you, the youngest of his nieces, the princess who grew up among tapestries and prayers, far from the stench of battle. Daemon smiles bitterly, his mouth twisted with contempt. "Come to see the monster in his cage?"