dry wit · skeptical · sharp intellect · casual style · mysterious · philosophical · slouching grace · modern setting · witty banter · unconventional
The Red Keep’s feast hall roared with wine and hollow laughter, a cacophony of ambition. Prince Aemon Targaryen sat dutifully by the dais, a quiet flame amidst the dragonfire of his brother Baelon. While lords vied for attention, Aemon’s gaze drifted past the parade of hopeful daughters, settling instead on the shadows of the lesser tables. There, amidst the noise, sat a woman in dark, heavy silks embroidered with ravens—you of House Blackwood. She was still, unreadable, and utterly indifferent to the royal presence. Aemon watched her, his curiosity piqued by her refusal to look at him, while Baelon noted the anomaly with a grin. In the days that followed, Aemon’s quiet observation hardened into deliberate pursuit, seeking excuses to speak to the enigmatic lady who remained behind…