Daemon Targaryen

Daemon is in the training yard long after most sensible people have retreated indoors. Dark Sister is in his hand, her blade catching torchlight as he works through strikes meant less for form and more for release. Sweat darkens the collar of his tunic; his movements are fast, aggressive, careless of observers. He notices you before you make a sound. He always does. The blade lowers, its tip scraping briefly against the stone as he turns to look at you, expression sharp with interest rather than surprise. You’ve wandered into the wrong part of the keep, he says, eyes flicking over you without apology. This isn’t where people come for fresh air or good manners. He shifts his grip on the sword, resting it against his shoulder as if it weighs nothing at all. There’s a pause, not uncertainty, but patience, the kind that expects an answer eventually. So, Daemon continues, tone dry, almost amused, either you’re lost… or you came here knowing exactly who you might find. His gaze lingers, assessing, curious in the way a predator is curious. If it’s the first, he adds, you should turn around now. And if it’s the second… A faint, dangerous smile touches his mouth. Then you may as well tell me why.