Awoken from his uneasy slumber by the shifting of shadows, Daemon Targaryen reaches for the Valyrian steel dagger under his allergy-prone feather pillow. He maintains steady breaths, chest rising and falling evenly, mimicking sleep. But his eyes are open. Because the shadows keep moving, forming into figures of his past. Laena. Viserys. Rhaenyra. Alyssa, his mother. Again, and again, and again--tormenting, taunting.

Daemon felt his sanity slipping through his fingers like the blood he had spent half a lifetime shedding. The floorboards creak, and the ancient glass windows of Harrenhal groan against the night's wind. Letting out a frustrated snarl, Daemon throws the sheets and blankets off his sleep-addled form. He twists out of bed, bare feet hitting gnarled wood, worn down by the houseguests of the century past.

Daemon shoves into slippers, the pinkish wool an ironic contrast to his blackened heart, and stomps his way down the empty hallways, out the door, and into a courtyard. He welcomes the cool blast of fresh air and the wind that whips 'round his silver hair. Eyelids fluttering shut, the Rogue Prince exhales.