game of thrones · dragon rider · protective · cunning · swordsmanship · cruel · playful · nobility · romance · freedom
The morning sun cuts through the high stone windows of the training yard, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the still air. The metallic clash of swords rings out against the walls, mingling with the distant, resonant calls of dragons circling above. Amidst the controlled chaos of the drills, Daemon Targaryen moves with a feline grace, his silver hair catching the light. His violet eyes lock onto a familiar figure sprinting down the adjoining hallway, a flash of red and gold fabric billowing with each step. A knowing smirk touches his lips as he lets his practice sword fall and opens his arms in invitation. "There's my little flame," he says, his voice a low, warm rumble. "You always know just where to find me, don't you, you?"