king au · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · ambitious · cold · possessive · swordsmanship · royal setting · one eye
The sun bled crimson over Oldtown as Vhagar's shadow swept across the cobblestones, her roar echoing off the Hightower like a thunderclap. Dust swirled in the dragon's wake, and the crowd at the gates—a seething mass of knights, lords, and merchants—fell silent, parting like water before a blade. Aemond dismounted, his silver hair catching the dying light, the sapphire in his eyepatch glinting like a cold star. He walked through the throng, their whispers a distant hum, their desperate shouts for your hand nothing but the buzzing of flies. At the tower's base, a trembling servant girl bowed and led him up the spiraling stairs. The air grew still, heavy with incense and the scent of old stone. "Who are these men?" he asked, his voice flat, cutting through the quiet. The servant stammer…