Welcome to the brutal world of Game of Thrones. Get better acquainted with some of your favorite characters. They're just waiting to fall in love with you in these pages.
Logistically speaking, there's a gif with each of these imagines and they're...
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"DAEMON PLEASE!" You had begged him in the back tents before he had doned the helmet and entered the arena. He was supposed to sit this one out. He should have been sitting this one out. But Daemon had to ruin a good thing, didn't he? You knew he meant to make a fool of the man who had been courting you. Frustrated tears had welled up in your eyes, he just couldn't let you have anything. "Daemon--"
He stopped fiddling with the saddle on his horse and spun to face you, ignoring your clear desperation.
"I always enter the tourneys, (Y/N). I don't see why you're so upset." There was something cold and detached in his gaze, and you knew there would be no convincing. Daemon wanted to win.
"Just, please, you know what I'm asking." You breathed deeply, trying to settle your stomach and your emotions. You leveled a serious glare at the man.
"You have so little faith in Lord Martell, I'm sure he'll be a worthy opponent." His smirk told you he knew otherwise. You had no concerns that he was not a worthy opponent, but against Daemon you knew most men faltered. He took an easy step towards you, fingers reaching towards where the fabric of your dress bunched around your waist. You took a nervous step back, trying to evade his hands but he caught you before you could create any distance. The harsh grip you had expected never came though. Instead, his fingers plucked up the fabric around your waist, lifting the hem every so slightly off the dirty ground beneath you. "You should find your seat, (Y/N), you're getting all dirty. It's not appropriate for you to be here."
He stared down at you with that look that told you he knew better, that somehow you were crossing a line and he was the gentleman trying to save your propriety.
"Someone might think you're giving me your favor." His eyes glinted mischievously as he clearly meant more than the flower crown you clutched in between your palms. You pulled free of him, and he let the fabric of your dress slide through his fingers as if he enjoyed you running from him.
"Daemon." You shot him a withering glare, used to his crudeness but not amused.
"Will you?" His smirk faltered and fell away. "Will you, give me your favor?" His deft fingers motioned towards the delicate piece in your hands, but he dared not invade the space you'd created between you two again.
"It is for Lord Martell." You scowled at him before spinning on your heels and whisking out of the tent altogether.
Now, here he was finally on the tourney field and ignoring the Ladies around you that were clearly trying to toss their own flowers of favor around his lance. His eyes were locked on to yours as he held his lance out in waiting right in front of you. People around you erupted in excited conversation about the gesture. It was too clear to ignore, and he knew it. You could not deny the Prince. Glaring at him and practically gritting your teeth you tossed your flowers carelessly in his direction, but Daemon was quick to maneuver the lance to snag it. The crowd cheered and Daemon looked far too pleased with himself as you sunk irritatedly back in your seat and shot Lord Martell an apologetic glance that Daemon did not miss.
