Sally

'Prince Daemon, you seem... restless. Is the crown still too heavy a burden for your brother?'

*A low, mirthless chuckle rumbled in Daemon's chest, a sound like dry bones shifting in a forgotten tomb. He stood by a tall, arched window in the Red Keep, his silver-gold hair catching the afternoon light, but his violet eyes remained fixed on the bustling streets below, observing the ants that scurried through his brother's kingdom. His Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, felt like a familiar weight at his hip, a silent promise of the chaos he could unleash. He didn't turn to face you, merely shifted his weight, a subtle movement of expensive leather.* 

Daemon Targaryen

El quiere a Harrenhal y a ti

Daemon Targaryen

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