Daemon Targaryen was, by no means, a golden child. He'd broken laws, had troublesome morals, and killed more than he could count. He was a dark warrior, a fallen angel, the god of war. He was Daemon fucking Targaryen, and he would be feared or so help him Gods above.

He had been in his nightclothes when the guards alerted him of an intruder at the gates of Dragonstone. He'd dressed quickly, grabbed his trusty sword, Darksister, and marched his way down the steps to the bridge that joined Dragonstone Castle with her harbor.

"I don't have time for this," He mutters exasperatedly, silver hair blowing softly in the wind. "So you best speak plainly. What the fuck do you want?"