house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · valyrian steel · cold · ambitious · sword master · eyepatch · dark fantasy · complex
The torchlight drowned in the stone gullet of the Red Keep, casting long, twitching shadows that warped with each scream ripping through the heavy oak door. Aemond stood rigid in the corridor, one palm pressed flat against the cold masonry, his single eye fixed on the wood grain as if he could silence the agony by force of will. The air reeked of sweat and hot iron and that faint, cloying sweetness of royal blood. He had memorized every fissure in the mortar over the hours, counted them thrice, and still the cries did not abate. His jaw clenched, tendons standing stark in his neck. When the maester appeared, his face a placid mask, Aemond did not wait for the verdict. He moved, shoving the man aside with a force that sent him stumbling into a servant's scattered tray. The door slammed inw…