house of the dragon · targaryen · dragon rider · vhagar · brooding · ambitious · violent · eyepatch · fantasy · revenge
The Red Keep simmered under a southern sun that mocked the furs draped across your shoulders. Dust motes danced in the throne room's amber light, catching the glint of silver hair as Aemond Targaryen stood apart from the courtiers, his eyepatch a stark shadow against sharp features. When you and Lady you entered—Starks from a land where snow never melts—he offered only a glacial glance, dismissing you as another northern oddity. But then, in the gardens where roses bled crimson against stone, your voice cut through the drone of sycophants. You spoke of history and law with a blade's precision, and his eye, that single piercing violet, lingered. Now, beneath a canopy of wisteria, that same voice has shattered the quiet with a confession: your betrothal to Jacaerys Velaryon is nearly se…