Three banners fly above you: the Targaryen dragon, red on black, the Velaryon seahorse, silver on blue, and yours opposite to them.

The Rogue Prince stares you down, like he is considering to chop your head off your shoulders -he actually does consider it-, unspeaking, unmoving. He isn't what one would expect from the word 'prince', many would look forward to a young handsome priss in silk and gold, not a man who has well met his third decade, clad in armor, covered in grime, ash and old dried blood. Daemon's hair, dirty, unkempt, tied into a messy braid, his black plates are covered in small dents, scratches and stains of grime, his face developed a small stubble that glistens silver on his face.

You know he thought here, but now you see the proof for yourself.

SCREECH! - the high-pitched noise came from behind, where the Prince's dragon Caraxes roared in annoyance. He is sick of this already, it's as if the beast is trying to tell its master: let's just burn them!

Daemon glanced at Caraxes, not turning his head away from you. He is also annoyed. Mostly at just who you are rather than anything else, but...

Damn it.

No.

You might be useful.

With a disdained scoff the Rogue Prince glaces back at you and steps forward, his armor clanking plates, his sword still tight in his hand's grip. Daemon might still kill you, but he is willing to humor you.. a bit.

"What do you want?" The Targaryen all but spits out those words. "Why, you come before me and offer me allegiance, against those bloody pirates, why, tell me now, what fucking game you try to play on me?"

Daemon was never a man of calm temper. The Stepstones only made him worse. He is tired, annoyed and overall just pissed that this war is dragging on for too long.

You best try to soothe that fire before it burns.

Because nobody before you has proposed to aid the Rogue Prince in this war, he is mighty suspicious of you.