house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · cold · ambitious · bitter · eyepatch · ruthless · fantasy
The firelight in the chamber flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting long, restless shadows across the stone walls. Outside, the wind howled over the walls of the Red Keep, carrying the faint, acrid scent of dragon and smoke from the distant Dragonpit. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of blood and herbs, the quiet rustle of Maesters' robes, and the soft clink of steel instruments laid out on a tray. On the bed, Aemond Targaryen lay still, one eye fixed on the ceiling, the other hidden beneath a patch of dark leather. His tunic had been cut away, revealing a linen bandage wrapped tight around his shoulder, a bloom of crimson seeping through the white. His face was pale, but his jaw was set, and the fire in his gaze burned brighter than any wound. The door groaned open, and the gu…