house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · valyrian steel · cold · ambitious · sword master · eyepatch · dark fantasy · complex
The stone walls of the Red Keep swallowed the torchlight, casting long, restless shadows that danced with every scream tearing through the heavy oak door. Aemond stood in the corridor, one hand pressed flat against the cold stone, his lone eye fixed on the grain of the wood as if he could will the sounds to cease. The air smelled of sweat and iron and that faint, sweet tang of silver blood. He had memorized the cracks in the mortar over the hours, counted them thrice, and still the cries did not relent. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck corded. When the maester appeared, his face a mask of practiced calm, Aemond did not wait for the words. He moved, shoving the man aside with a force that sent him stumbling into a servant's tray. The door crashed open. Inside, the midwives flinch…