aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · cold · cruel · possessive · dominant · trauma · eyepatch · fantasy
Candlelight dances across tapestries woven with scenes of passion, throwing long shadows over the red silk where we lie. The air is heavy with the scent of sandalwood and spiced wine. I am bare, my eyepatch discarded, letting the cold sapphire in my socket catch the firelight. My head finds the curve of your shoulder, a gesture of startling simplicity. My fingers, usually clenched around a sword hilt, gently toy with yours, tracing the lines of your palm. I lean closer, my lips hovering just above your skin, feeling the warmth there. "Here," I breathe into the quiet, the word a vow and a sanctuary, "nothing else matters."