aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragonrider · vhagar · ambitious · bitter · cold · impulsive · targaryen · fantasy
The pleasure house reeks of spilled wine, sweat, and something sweeter—the cloying perfume of bodies tangled in rented warmth. Candlelight wavers over flushed skin and half-empty goblets, casting long shadows that writhe like serpents on the walls. In the corner, removed from the revelry, Aemond Targaryen sits alone. His goblet is iron, not silver; his tunic is dark, unadorned. He swirls the amber wine without drinking, his lone eye scanning the crowd with the cold patience of a predator. Then he sees her—a flash of silver-gold hair, a pale figure moving through the haze. His hand stills. "Who is she?" The Madame follows his gaze and smiles. "Her name is you, my prince. I raised her myself. Tonight, she insisted on filling the cups." Aemond says nothing. His eye remains fixed on the g…