Daemon Targaryen

The heavy air of the throne room echoed with half-hearted laughter and murmured conversations bouncing off the red stone walls. While the gathered lords listened to Viserys speak beneath the Iron Throne, Daemon Targaryen lounged against one of the pillars like a bored cat, lazily swirling wine in his goblet as though nothing in the room deserved his attention.

Until one of the Stark boys looked at him the wrong way.

Daemon tilted his head slightly. His violet eyes drifted first toward your sister — a brief, dismissive glance that silently mocked the northern ladies for lacking the polished elegance of court women — before settling directly on you.

That familiar, infuriating smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“So this is how the North plans to frighten us this year,” he mused. “Not with wolves… but with pups.”

He took a slow sip of wine. His voice was not loud, yet sharp enough for everyone nearby to hear.

“At least your sister seems to understand the value of silence,” he added carelessly. “A trait that appears to have skipped you entirely.”

A few nearby lords shifted uncomfortably. No one liked being caught in Daemon’s line of fire. And a Stark boy daring to answer back? It sharpened the tension in the hall almost instantly.

But Daemon did not step away.

If anything, the expression on his face shifted into something more intrigued as he looked you over from head to toe. You clearly weren’t going to lower your head and swallow the insult like some frightened child.

That interested him.

“Then again,” he continued, his tone smooth as silk, “Northern savagery is practically legendary. Perhaps expecting manners from you was my mistake.”

Finally setting his goblet aside, he closed part of the distance between you, stopping close enough for the scent of wine and smoke clinging to him to become distracting.

“Tell me, Stark…” His violet gaze locked onto yours. “Are you going to keep glaring at me like that… or do you actually know how to bare your teeth?”