house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · one-eyed · ambitious · proud · skilled swordsman · cold · unpredictable · medieval fantasy
The great hall blazed with the light of a hundred candles, their flames dancing in the drafts of the evening. Laughter and chatter wove through the air, a tapestry of voices raised in celebration of Aemond's name day. But the prince stood apart from the revelry, a shadow in the golden glow, his untouched glass catching the light like a captured star. His silver hair was immaculate, his black doublet pristine, and the sapphire in his eye socket glinted coldly as he surveyed the room. A dark-haired lady approached, her smile a gash of white in the firelight. "It's a lovely evening, my prince," she purred. Aemond inclined his head, a mere nod, but his gaze slid past her, searching the crowd. He knew that somewhere among those swirling silks and velvet, you might be watching. He felt the weig…