HĀROS BARTOSSI | DAEMON T.

[ 𝟎𝟕 ]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 - 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

── •✧• ── ⋆⋅༻✦༺⋅⋆ ── •✧• ──

Daemon sat in silence, his gaze completely fixated on the younger lady across him, who was under the effects of alcohol and pouring her heart out. Her words were gushing out in haste, raw and unguarded. Her expression altered through a cycle of joy, mischief, and finally, a quiet sorrow that softened her features. 

His lips twitched slightly as he observed her, noting the change in her demeanour. He had never been one for such displays— never one to be bothered to listen to other people's pity tales. He could barely have the patience for those who sought to unburden themselves, especially when the weight of his own burdens was more than enough to bear.

Empathy was a rare thing for Daemon Targaryen. If he could, he preferred to avoid it, and often he did. When people began to unload their misery, he usually found it easier to walk away, to retreat into the quiet distance where the mess of others' emotions could not touch him. 

But not tonight. Not with Maevys Velaryon.

As much as he tried to fight it, he could not bring himself to turn away. There was something about Maevys that anchored him to his seat, something in the way her voice trembled with vulnerability, in the way her eyes flickered with emotion. It was as if in spite of his every instinct telling him to get up and walk away, his feet were nailed to the floor, and his gaze was helplessly drawn to her.

He watched the Velaryon bastard daughter, not with judgement, but with an odd tenderness, a fraction of sympathy and endearment beneath the surface of his usually indifferent conduct. 

For a moment, he wondered if the rumours he had overheard from the soldiers earlier that day were true. Perhaps he had, indeed, been hypnotized by the Siren of Driftmark, as they claimed. He was never a man to admit to being swayed by anything— least of all a woman. And yet, as he sat there with his eyes on Maevys, his pride bristled but he could not avoid the truth. Her radiant character, her beauty, her undeniable skill, and the enchantment in her voice wavered him. Slowly but surely, they all drew him in until he was a captive to her presence. And although a part of him loathed how easily she bewitched him, another part of him could not deny the pull.

The Rogue Prince hummed in response to Maevys's explanation, his mind drifting as she divulged her unexpected friendship with Rhaenyra. Her words slowly became a soft murmur, a distant thrum in the back of his mind, and he was beginning to lose track of his reality that his replies were soon reduced to a series of absent 'Hmms' rather than coherent sentences. Her usually commanding voice now seemed to float around him, muffled and distant.

It was not the words that drew his attention, but the face that spoke them. Daemon's gaze lingered on Maevys, his focus narrowing to the sharp curve of her jaw, the soft arch of her brow, and most striking of all, the depth of her eyes. Bluish-purple, like the finest sapphires he had ever seen, glowing with an intensity that caught him off guard as if they held a thousand untold secrets and more he desired to learn.

It shocked him, really— how exceptionally more beautiful she seemed now that he was truly looking at her. Her features were perfect, almost sculptured by the gods themselves, and the way her lips parted slightly as she sipped her drink. He found himself transfixed by the way she wetted them, so soft and inviting.