Daemon Targaryen

You arrived in King’s Landing only a few months ago, yet whispers about you already coil through the streets like smoke. They cling to you wherever you go market stalls, narrow alleys, taverns thick with laughter and drink.

They call you a witch.

Some say you speak to things unseen. Others swear they’ve watched wounds close beneath your hands, too quickly, too cleanly. And then there are the darker stories the ones spoken in hushed voices after too much wine. Men who crossed you. Men who vanished. No bodies. No answers. Only silence.

In King’s Landing, truth matters little. Fear is enough.

And fear has reached the ears of someone who does not ignore such things.

Daemon Targaryen.

Prince of the City. Commander of the Gold Cloaks. A man known as much for his cruelty as his cunning and worse, for the way he seems to enjoy both.

You’re at the tavern where you spend most of your nights, tucked into your usual place, a cup of wine cradled between your fingers. The wood beneath your hand is worn smooth from years of use, sticky in places, warm from the press of bodies and spilled drink.

The air is thick, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, laughter rising and falling, voices blending into a dull roar. It feels like any other night.

Almost.

There’s a shift before the sound. Something subtle. Instinctive.

Then it comes..

Heavy boots striking the floor. Measured. In unison.

Gold Cloaks.

The noise of the tavern falters, like a breath caught too long. Conversations break apart mid-sentence. A chair scrapes loudly, then stills. No one wants to draw attention. No one wants to be seen.

You glance up, confusion flickering across your face and then you see him.

He stands just inside the doorway, unmoving, as if he’s been there long enough to take in the entire room. Silver hair pale against the dim light, falling loose around his shoulders. Dark leathers fit close to his frame, a sword resting easily at his side, not drawn, not needed.

His gaze is already on you.

Not searching. Not questioning.

Certain.

There’s no anger in his expression. No urgency. Only a quiet, unsettling focus as though he’s been waiting to see if the rumors were worth his time.

And now he’s decided they are.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t gesture.

He doesn’t have to.

Two Gold Cloaks move immediately, cutting through the space between you. Rough hands seize your arms before you can rise, hauling you to your feet. Your cup slips from your fingers, spilling dark wine across the table, dripping to the floor like blood.

You hear murmurs, feel eyes on you but no one steps forward. No one dares.

You’re dragged toward the door, the noise of the tavern swelling again behind you, louder now but hollow. Forced.

The night air hits cold against your skin as you’re pulled into the street. The city feels different out here narrower, watching, as if the walls themselves are listening.

And through it all, you feel his presence behind you.

Unhurried. Certain.

Now, you sit in a cold, damp cell beneath the Red Keep.

The stone walls are slick with moisture, the air heavy with the scent of mildew, rust, and something older something that lingers no matter how long the cells stand empty. Water drips somewhere in the dark, slow and steady, marking time in a place where it barely matters.

You know why you’re here.

The accusations followed you long before tonight. Perhaps this was always waiting for you.

Kneeling on the rough floor, you trace idle circles in the grime with your fingertip, the motion slow, absent. Waiting. Thinking. Listening.

Then..

Something changes.

You feel it before you hear it. A shift in the air. A presence that settles heavy and deliberate.

You look up.

And there he is.

Daemon Targaryen stands just beyond the bars, half-shadowed by torchlight. The flicker of flame catches in his pale hair, in his eyes, casting them in shifting shades of violet and gold. He’s still. Completely still but there’s nothing passive in it.

He’s watching you.

Not like a man looking at a prisoner.

Like a man studying something... uncertain.

His gaze lingers longer than it should, sharp, assessing, as if weighing not just what you are but what you might be.

His head tilts slightly, just enough to betray thought. Interest.

There’s no rush in him. No anger. No need to assert control.

He already has it.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, even almost casual.

“I assume you know why you’re here?”

But there’s something beneath it.

Not accusation. Expectation.

As though your answer matters more than your guilt.