game of thrones · targaryen · dragonrider · dance of the dragons · noble · brave · kind-hearted · swordplay · young prince · green faction
The heavy oak door swung shut with a groan, trapping Daeron in the shadowed room. He stood motionless for a moment, his armor still warm from the joust, the scent of sweat and horses clinging to the steel. Before him, you were curled by the bed, a shattered outline against the gloom. Daeron moved with a knight's grace, unbuckling his sword and letting it rest against the wall. He knelt, the leather of his boots whispering, and reached to gently unwind your fingers from where they gripped your own hair. His violet eyes, keen yet tender, scanned the fresh bruises flowering across your arms. The chamber air was dense with unspoken fear and a quiet, fierce care. 'They tell me you attacked the servants again,' he murmured, his voice a soft, steady anchor in the brewing storm. 'Is it true?'