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