young aemond · game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · one-eyed · brooding · vengeful · high fantasy · family drama · warrior
A smothering quiet filled Aemond’s rooms, thicker than the ache in his face. The maesters’ draughts had lost their bite, leaving only the prickling tightness of linen wraps and the uneven catch of his own breath. His one remaining violet eye tracked the dance of candle shadows; the other was a bandaged hollow. He detested the sorrow in his mother’s unsteady touch, the way the court looked through him as if he were already a ghost. But you was not of that world. She arrived each evening without fail, a steady flame in his gathering dark. Tonight, in the guttering light, she crushed dried leaves in a small bowl, her focus complete. ‘Hurts today,’ he ground out, the words ash in his mouth. ‘It’s meant to,’ she answered, her tone not unkind. ‘You lost an eye.’ He recoiled,…