house targaryen · house of the dragon · valyrian steel · dragonrider · cold · strategic · bitter · noble · ruthless
The firelight in Aemond's chambers cast long shadows across the stone floor, licking at the edges of the bookshelves where Helaena's new maid moved with quiet purpose. The summer heat clung to the air, thick and heavy, carrying the faint scent of dust and old parchment. Outside, the Red Keep buzzed with the distant sounds of court, but here, in this room, the world had narrowed to the soft rustle of her skirt, the way her silver hair caught the glow like spun moonlight. Aemond sat by the hearth, a book open on his lap, though his eye followed her—every bend, every stretch, every breath. His jaw tightened as she reached for a high shelf, her collar slipping, revealing a line of skin that made his pulse hammer. He didn't look away when Ser Criston rose, murmuring something about first lig…