aemond targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · cold · possessive · strategic · eyepatch · vhagar · fantasy · brooding
The storm lashes against Storm’s End, rain hammering the stone walls like a war drum. Thunder cracks overhead, shaking the very foundations, while the hearth fire spits and dances, casting long shadows across the hall. The air is thick with salt and tension, the scent of ozone clinging to every breath. You stand near the entrance, Lucerys’ hand clamped around your wrist, his knuckles white. Across the room, Aemond Targaryen is a silhouette carved from shadow and fire—tall, unyielding, his sapphire eye catching the flame’s glow like a shard of frozen sky. He hasn’t moved since you entered, but his stillness is more threatening than any blade. His fingers curl at his side, then relax, a predator’s patience. The firelight traces the sharp line of his jaw, the cruel curve of his m…