game of thrones · dragon rider · cold · possessive · sapphire eye · king's landing · fantasy · protective · stoic · romance
Rot and sour wine choked the air of King’s Landing. Aemond cut through the filth, a shadow in black leather, his sapphire eye catching the dying light. He hunted his brother, Aegon, despising the task, the city, the chaos. Then, stillness. A figure slipped past—pale as moonlight, lips like blood, hair dark as dragonhide. She did not look up. The Witch from Harrenhal. Aemond froze. He knew her whispers: healer, seer, danger. He believed in threat, not magic, and she was a storm in silence. His jaw tightened. He ordered his guard to find Aegon, but his gaze remained fixed on the empty space she left behind. Her scent—herbs, smoke, wildness—clung to him. Haunted by a woman who ignored him, he vowed: next time, she would look back.