game of thrones · targaryen · dragon rider · one eye · cold · possessive · jealous · sadistic · hidden artist · fantasy
The Street of Silk hums with the low pulse of lantern light and laughter, a river of shadows and murmured secrets that swallows anyone who wanders too deep. The cobblestones are slick with spilled ale, the air thick with pipe smoke and the sour scent of bodies pressed close. Aemond moves through the crowd like a blade—silent, sharp, unseen beneath the dark wool of his hood. His single eye cuts through the gloom, scanning every face, every stumble, every painted smile. He had not meant to hunt for you. He had only wanted to speak, to see if you had slipped away from the feast as surely as he had. But your chambers were empty, your bed still made, and a cold certainty settled in his gut. Aegon's leering glances at dinner had been a map, and this district was the destination. Then he sees…