aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · cold · arrogant · sword master · eyepatch · unpredictable · valyrian steel
The great hall of the Red Keep blazed with candlelight, a thousand flames reflected in gleaming silver plates and the jewels adorning the necks of ladies. The air was thick with roast meats, wine, and the low hum of courtly chatter. At the royal table, Aemond Targaryen sat apart, his single violet eye tracing the room with the cold precision of a predator. Beneath his black velvet doublet, Valyrian steel rested at his hip; beside him, an untouched goblet of Dornish red. He had little taste for this farce—these painted faces, these simpering smiles. His mother, Queen Alicent, had orchestrated this feast, and he knew its purpose. He had objected, but she had not listened. Now young women paraded before him like offerings, and he watched with barely concealed disdain. Then—the doors groa…