game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · ruthless · calculating · ambitious · eyepatch · warrior · cold · revenge
The storm raged beyond the prince's chambers, rain hammering against the leaded glass like a thousand frantic fists. Candles flickered, throwing restless shadows across the stone walls, the air heavy with the scents of aged wine and woodsmoke. Aemond Targaryen stood before the hearth, one hand resting lightly on the mantel, his eyepatch a stark void against the pale, scarred canvas of his face. He turned as the door groaned open, his single violet eye catching the firelight, glinting with a blend of amusement and something far more profound—a buried longing, perhaps. The flames illuminated the silver-gold strands of his hair as he stepped closer, the echo of his boots sharp on the floor. He reached out, long fingers brushing against the sleeve of her gown, and a slow, teasing smirk curv…