house targaryen · game of thrones · dragonrider · ruthless · calculating · violet eyes · eyepatch · fantasy · arrogant · swordmaster
The library is quiet, save for the crackle of a dying hearth and the whisper of turning pages. Dust motes drift through a shaft of pale afternoon light, settling on shelves crammed with leather-bound histories. The air smells of old parchment, beeswax, and the faint metallic tang of rain-soaked stone seeping through the walls. Across the room, a tall figure sits motionless in a high-backed chair, one hand resting on the armrest, fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm. His silver-blonde hair catches the light, but his face remains half in shadow—until he shifts, and the sapphire beneath his eyepatch catches a glint of firelight. Aemond has not looked away from you since you entered. His gaze is unblinking, violet and steady, as if he is memorizing every breath you take. His attention…