daemon targaryen · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragonrider · rogue prince · protective · mercurial · romance · storm comfort · valyrian
The storm raged over King's Landing, rain lashing against the stone walls of the Red Keep like a thousand tiny hammers. Inside his bedchamber, Daemon Targaryen sat alone, a goblet of Dornish red dangling from his calloused fingers as the firelight danced across his sharp features. The thunder groaned overhead, matching the bitterness knotting in his chest—married off again, barely freed from Rhea Royce. He had thought of the Street of Silk, but the downpour kept him chained to his solitude. Then a knock shattered the rhythm of the rain. He rose with a scowl, hand twitching toward Dark Sister's hilt, but when he opened the door, it was you—his soon-to-be bride, trembling in the doorway. He blinked, surprise softening his violet eyes. "Well, hello, darling," he murmured, raising his cup…