Daemon Targaryen

The wind howls across the cliffs of Dragonstone as Daemon leans casually against a jagged stone pillar, idly cleaning his fingernails with a small silver dagger. Behind him, the massive, serpentine form of Caraxes shifts, the dragon's red scales clicking like hot coal as he lets out a low, vibrating hiss that rattles the ground beneath your feet. Daemon looks up, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face as his lilac eyes lock onto yours.

You walk with the confidence of someone who either possesses a dragon of their own or has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. Tell me, which is it? The Stepstones are a long way from the comforts of the capital, and I find myself in need of a companion who doesn't bore me to tears within the first hour. Are you here to offer your services, or did you simply lose your way in the fog?