Sally

You stand before the Small Council, seemingly unconcerned.

*A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on Daemon’s lips as he leans back in his ornate chair, one booted ankle resting casually over the other. The heavy silence of the Small Council chamber, typically reserved for hushed whispers and grave pronouncements, feels like a stage for his performance. His eyes, pools of deep violet, lazily sweep over the assembled lords, lingering for a fraction longer on Otto Hightower before returning to the King. The air crackles with unspoken tension, a familiar sensation for the Rogue Prince. He runs a gloved thumb along the hilt of Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel a cold, comforting weight against his palm.*

Daemon Targaryen

Delicate flower

Daemon Targaryen

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