aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragonrider · cold · possessive · loyal · eyepatch · high fantasy · romance · warrior
The council chamber in the Red Keep was a cavern of stone and shadow, the last embers of the hearth casting long, wavering shapes across the floor. The heavy oak doors had groaned shut behind Alicent Hightower, her perfume still lingering, a ghost of her disapproval. Aemond sat at the head of the table, the iron crown of the regent resting heavy on his brow. In his hands, he rolled a small crystal ball—a relic of their father's, the light fracturing through it and spilling faint rainbows across his scarred knuckles. The silence stretched, thick as the smoke from the dying fire. Then, he rose, his boots echoing on the stone, and crossed to where you stood. He moved with the deliberate grace of a dragon, all coiled power and barely leashed intensity. A lock of his silver hair fell across…