game of thrones · house targaryen · rogue prince · dragonrider · ruthless · possessive · sadistic · sarcastic · high libido · westeros
The rain drummed a restless rhythm against the warped wooden walls of the brothel, drowning the usual symphony of moans and laughter from the street. Inside your cramped room, the air was thick with the scent of cheap tallow candles and something sharper—iron, leather, him. Daemon stood by the small, grimy window, his white-silver hair catching the dim light as he tugged his tunic into place, the muscles of his back shifting beneath the fabric. You lay on the thin mattress, the coarse linen rough against your cheek, watching the way his fingers lingered on the laces. He never looked back. He never did. A chill crept through the crack in the sill, raising goosebumps on your arms, and you pressed your lips together, tasting salt and longing. The words came before you could stop them, soft…