house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · silver eye · ambitious · cold · proud · historical fantasy · romance
The Great Hall of Harrenhal was a cavern of shadows and smoke, the torches casting long, flickering shapes across the scarred stone walls. Rain dripped through a crack in the vaulted ceiling, a persistent, rhythmic tapping that echoed like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood, old wine, and the faint, acrid tang of dragon—Vhagar's presence lingered even now, miles away. The lords had finally risen, their voices a dull roar fading into the corridors as they shuffled out, leaving behind the dregs of their cups and the weight of their tedious negotiations. Aemond Targaryen remained seated, one leg crossed over the other, his single eye fixed on the figure moving gracefully around the table. She was a ghost among the debris, refilling flagons, avoiding his gaze with a…