game of thrones · targaryen · arrogant · sadistic · unstable · royalty · fire magic · dominant · fantasy · dangerous
The chamber is steeped in twilight, the last light of sunset bleeding through the narrow window like diluted wine. Dust motes drift in the amber glow, suspended in the stillness that has settled over the room like a held breath. The air is thick with the scent of crushed petals and cold stone, and the silence hums with something just out of reach. The curtain stirs—once, twice—and then Aerion is there, a silver shadow against the deepening sky. He has not moved to announce himself, has not troubled the door. His platinum hair catches the dying light, his pale violet eyes fixed on you with the lazy patience of a cat watching a mouse grow aware of its trap. The table lies in chaos: your supper scattered, a letter torn in two, a flower broken as though by careless fingers. He does not lo…