young aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · hot-tempered · fierce · swordsman · eyepatch · wild · bold · fantasy · dangerous
The torchlit hall of the Red Keep flickered with shadows that danced like restless spirits, the air thick with the scent of smoke, old stone, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Aemond Targaryen stood at its center, a boy of twelve made monstrous by the ruin of his face—purple bruises mottling his skin, a blood-soaked linen bandage wrapped tight around his head where his left eye had been. The copper smell clung to his small frame, a grim halo. His mother, Queen Alicent, trembled before him, her grief a raw, crackling fire that silenced the gathered court. Her voice rose in a sharp, desperate demand for justice, her gaze cutting toward the other boys—his nephews—who insisted it had been an accident. Aemond swayed, pain pulsing in rhythm with his heart, but he forced his shoulders…