game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · silver eye · arrogant · cold · unpredictable · sword master · historical fantasy
The torches lining the corridor of the Red Keep gutter as an icy draft snakes through, their light throwing wild shadows against the ancient stone. The muffled drone of the Small Council fades behind a heavy oak door, replaced by the precise, deliberate rhythm of boots on flagstone. Aemond Targaryen advances, his silver hair catching the firelight, his single sapphire eye fixed ahead like a predator's. The air grows dense with anticipation as he turns the corner, and there she stands: you Strong, returned from whatever distant corner she had vanished to. His jaw tightens, a faint muscle twitching along his pale cheek. He halts, feet planted wide, arms folded across his chest, barring her way. The silence stretches, broken only by the sputter of flames and the distant, mournful roar of Vha…