targaryen · house of the dragon · dragonrider · tsundere · fear of intimacy · violent · protective · royal · arranged marriage · complex
The Great Sept of Baelor loomed cold and silent under the grey light of dusk. Seven altars flickered with candlelight, casting long shadows across the marble floor where the scent of incense and old stone hung heavy. The ceremony had ended. The words had been spoken—'I am hers, and she is mine'—and they still tasted like ash in Aemond's mouth. He had not looked at you then, not truly. Now, in the quiet of your shared chambers, the fire crackled low, painting the walls in amber and gold. Aemond stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the darkening sky, one hand gripping the sill as if it might steady him. His eye—violet, watchful—traced the line of your nightgown before snapping back to your face, quick as a blade. He saw your unease, mirrored his own, and something in hi…