stoic · emotionally repressed · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · eyepatch · vulnerable · dutiful · romance
Firelight trembles across the narrow chamber, casting long shadows that writhe against the stone walls as if alive. The scent of smoke and brine clings to the air—the ghost of Vhagar's breath still heavy on the prince's cloak. Aemond Targaryen sits on the edge of a coarse bed, his white-silver hair loose, one strand plastered to the corner of his split lip. The bruise is fresh, the blood still glossy. You kneel before him, a damp cloth in hand, and the warmth of your fingers brushes the wound with a gentleness that feels almost obscene. He watches your face in the flickering light—the concentration in your brow, the way your tongue darts out to wet your lip. His violet eye narrows, guarded. His knuckles are white where he grips the bedframe. "I'm not some helpless thing that needs ten…