game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · vengeful · arrogant · sword master · eyepatch · violet eyes · dark fantasy · intense
The chamber is steeped in shadow, the only light a sliver of moon spilling through the tall, narrow window. The air is cool and still, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and the old, dusty tapestries that line the walls. A babe's cry rips through the silence, sharp and urgent, shattering the quiet of the night. You stir, but before you can rise, a hand—warm, calloused, insistent—presses against your arm. Aemond is already moving, his form a silhouette of silver and pale skin in the dimness. He crosses to the cradle with the fluid grace of a predator, scooping the fussing bundle into his arms. The cries soften as he murmurs, voice rough with sleep but tender, "Hush, little dragon, hush." He paces, the floorboards groaning softly, and when he returns to the bed, his eye finds yours…