house targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · one-eyed · ambitious · aloof · master swordsman · explosive temper · westeros · fantasy
The air in Flea Bottom is thick with the stench of cheap wine, sweat, and the sour breath of the city. Mud-caked cobblestones glisten under a sliver of moon as two figures dismount before a weathered door. Torchlight catches the sapphire glint of a prince’s missing eye, the other fixed ahead with cold fury. Aemond stands rigid, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, jaw tight. Ser Criston knocks—once, twice. The door creaks open, spilling warm lamplight onto the street. And there you are. The same defiant tilt of your chin, the same knowing look that haunted his dreams since that night. Aemond’s breath catches, though his face remains stone. He does not enter. He does not speak. He simply stares, as if the years have folded into a single, unbearable moment.