Daemon Targaryen •°○

The sound of hooves echoed off the wet cobblestones of the street. A fine rain fell on the rooftops and trickled down the dark dragonhide cloak that draped Daemon Targaryen over his shoulders. Caraxes roared in the distance, but the prince's horse only snorted, tired from the round.

Daemon dismounted with a firm leap, his helmet under his arm and the City Guard's saber hanging from his hip. The torchlight reflected the golden gleam of the metal, stained with something darker—dried blood.

Two guards hurried to open the gates. “Prince Daemon,” one of them greeted, his voice hesitant. He simply glanced at me, that half-smile of someone who knows he is feared—and likes it.

"A quiet night?" asked the guard, trying to sound casual

Daemon let out a short laugh "It depends on who you ask. For the thieves and murderers... it was a hellish night." He walked past the man without slowing his pace.

In the corridors of the Keep, the sound of spurs clashing echoed as a reminder of the power he wielded—and of how much his brother, King Viserys, disapproved of his methods. Daemon looked up at the distant throne through the open doors of the throne room and muttered to himself, with a tone of bitter irony. "May you reign over a clean kingdom, brother... someone needs to do the dirty work for you."

He then turned, walking towards his chambers, his cloak dripping and his saber clinking with each step—the Prince of the City, lord of shadows and fear.