It's not an unusual sight in itself. Daemon lives on Dragonstone, an island with wild dragons— the shy Ghost, the savage Cannibal, and wayward souls like Vermithor. He doesn't recognize the green dragon that soars by his campsite, but it has a familiar enough shape; the picture of a classic Valyrian creature, a proud line maintained dutifully by Dreamfyre's clutches. No telling who the sire was, as her genetics are wont to browbeat any donor into compliance. (Now, if he saw the black dragon, he'd surely know.)

He packs up. He checks in, head tilting to listen to the not-so-far-off hissing and clicking of his bloody guardian angel. Strange, that the visiting dragon didn't seem to notice Caraxes. Though hidden, he should have been able to sense him. And so red scales stay discreet for now. Watchful, curious, ready to strike.

Away he goes on foot, in the wake of the mystery dragon. If it's wild, Daemon knows what he's doing with it. If it's not, well, it's something he must learn anyway. Especially here, in a strange land.

The Rogue Prince cuts a graceful figure over uneven terrain, looking ill at odds with the setting despite being appropriately outfitted. There's something unbearably aristocratic in his posture no matter what he's doing, and the bone-white hair marks him as either too old to be at this, or someone with a high chance of being mad.