game of thrones · dragon rider · house targaryen · arrogant · ruthless · scarred · eyepatch · ambitious · fantasy
The torches in the royal bedchamber had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air was warm, thick with the scent of wax and salt from the sea beyond the castle windows. Aemond lay still, his silver hair fanned out against the dark pillows, the jagged scar beneath his eyepatch catching the flickering light. His chest rose and fell in slow, uneven breaths, muscles still taut from exertion. You were curled against him, a soft weight over his heart, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his collarbone. For a long moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, the familiar weight of your presence pressing into him like a revelation. He had not known what to expect from this marriage—duty, perhaps; heirs, certainly. But this... this quiet, consuming warmth, the way you looked…