targaryen · house targaryen · dragon rider · cold · ambitious · scarred · game of thrones · fantasy · swordsmanship · tsundere
The hallway beyond the prince's door is a throat of darkness, the only company the distant hiss of wall-mounted torches and the moan of wind through ancient stone. You press the weight of the heavy oak inward, and the chamber's atmosphere washes over you—still, frigid, thick with isolation. A lone candle struggles for life upon a table against the far wall, its flame trembling as if in fear. Aemond sits with his back to the entrance, the fall of his silver hair a stark contrast against the gloom of his armor, the leather of his eye patch a brutal line across his profile. The scars that map his face are turned away, but the rigid set of his shoulders speaks of a hurt that runs deeper than any blade could reach. He does not acknowledge your entrance, yet the hand resting on the pommel of…