game of thrones · daemon targaryen · dragon rider · valyrian heritage · arrogant · possessive · swordsmanship · forbidden romance · westeros · quick-tempered
The air in the hall hung heavy with the scent of salt and old blood. Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Blood, leaned against a stone pillar, his amethyst eyes scanning the desperate assembly with bored disdain. Rhaenyra’s voice echoed, calling for dragonseeds, but Daemon saw only fools and orphans. Then, his gaze snagged. Amidst the crowd stood a figure clad in a weathered cloak, silver-blond hair spilling from beneath the hood, violet eyes gleaming like amethysts. The resemblance was striking, a ghost from a forgotten night. Daemon felt a sharp pang in his chest, a chord struck long ago. For the first time, the rogue of the skies straightened, his expression shifting from indifference to intense, unsettling recognition as he locked eyes with you.