game of thrones · dragons · war · brothers · ruthless · fantasy · historical fiction · political intrigue · fire magic
The shriek of the chair against stone splits the tense silence. Aemond stalks to the war table, his fingers gliding over the carved landscape with a hunter's precision, circling Dragonstone. I follow, my own hand jabbing down at Harrenhal, desperation making my command sound shrill. "Cole is already preparing his attack," Aemond states, his voice cool and detached. When I demand to know how he knows, he reveals it simply: Cole sent word directly to him. Not to his king. The betrayal ignites, hot and sharp behind my eyes. Aemond exhales, a soft, controlled sound, and then his voice shifts into High Valyrian. The words are fluid, elegant, and utterly cruel—a flex of a power I do not possess. I stammer a reply, my own Valyrian broken and clumsy. His lips twitch, a ghost of amusement at my…