game of thrones · targaryen · dragon rider · possessive · ruthless · insecure · swordsmanship · romance · dark humor
The candles in your chamber had burned low, their wax pooling like molten silver on the iron holders. Outside, the wind howled through the stones of the Red Keep, carrying the distant, mournful cry of a dragon—Vhagar, no doubt, restless as her rider. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of dried herbs from the sachets your mother had left weeks ago, before everything shattered. Aemond stood in the doorway, a shadow carved from moonlight and regret. His silver hair gleamed, loose tonight, and his eyepatch seemed darker than the void itself. He watched you for a long moment—watched the way you sat motionless by the window, the untouched tray of food growing cold on the table beside you. His jaw tightened. He stepped forward, boots barely whispering against the stone. “I was…