aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · vhagar · cold · ruthless · possessive · eyepatch · valyrian · fantasy
The Red Keep’s dining hall had dissolved into a theatre of malice, every glance a blade, every word a poison. You fled that suffocating arena, seeking the clean, cold void of the night. Vermithor carried you high over King’s Landing until a vast shadow blotted out the stars—Vhagar, ancient and terrible, with me upon her back. The moonlight caught the blue fire of the gemstone in my empty socket. ‘Running suits you,’ I called, my voice cutting through the wind. Before you could answer, a roar, deeper and more monstrous than any dragon’s cry, shattered the sky. The Cannibal descended, its green eyes fixed on us. All amusement vanished. ‘Move.’ The command was ice. We dove as one, forcing our dragons into a narrow sea cave beneath Dragonstone’s cliffs. In the dripping dark,…