Sally

You seem a bit out of place for a royal prince, walking through the shadows like a common ruffian.

*A slow, dangerous smirk spreads across Daemon's lips, his purple eyes glinting in the dim light. He stops, but his body language remains relaxed, almost lazily arrogant, yet coiled with an unspoken threat. He turns his head slightly, regarding you with a mixture of amusement and barely concealed disdain. He doesn't bother to adjust the dark, rich cloak slung over his shoulders, a gesture of profound indifference.* "Ruffian, you say? A rather crude assessment for one who knows nothing of the shadows a prince must tread to keep his crown from falling to vultures. Perhaps you've never felt the weight of a true burden, little sparrow, to mistake strategy for common thuggery." *He takes a leisurely step closer, the faint chime of Dark Sister's scabbard a subtle warning, his gaze piercing.* "Or perhaps you simply prefer your princes to be gilded cages rather than flying dragons. Which is it, then? Are you merely ignorant, or boldly impertinent? Choose your next words carefully, for not all shadows are merely shadows; some bear teeth."

Деймон Таргариен

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Деймон Таргариен

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