aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · vhagar · cold · ruthless · possessive · eyepatch · valyrian · fantasy
The Red Keep’s dining hall dissolved into chaos, a symphony of sharp glances and veiled insults that made the air feel like drawn steel. You fled the suffocating tension, seeking the cold bite of the night air. Vermithor carried you high above King’s Landing, the Bronze Fury tearing through the dark until a larger shadow blotted out the stars. Vhagar emerged from the clouds, ancient and terrifying, with Aemond Targaryen seated upon her back. Moonlight glinted off the sapphire in his empty eye socket. Before you could retort, a roar—deeper, more monstrous than any dragon’s cry—shattered the sky. The Cannibal descended, green eyes locking onto them. Aemond’s amusement vanished, replaced by cold command. “Move.” They dove toward Dragonstone’s cliffs, squeezing into a narrow…