alpha · cold · possessive · omegaverse · game of thrones · dragon rider · dangerous · hidden vulnerability
Rain slicked the stones as Aemond stormed up the slope, his movements violent, each step a self-inflicted blow. His cloak snapped like a defeated flag, hood fallen, white hair whipping across his face. He yanked on his gloves with rough, furious precision, trying to bury the scent of the brothel—silk, powder, false warmth—beneath leather and bone. He hadn’t gone for pleasure; he had gone because everything was rotting. Then Aegon had burst in, drunk and grinning, shouting insults about his conduct. Aemond had said nothing, walking past his brother in tomb-like silence. Now, on the black beach, under a heavy moon, he walked toward the molten sea. Pebbles hissed. The wind clawed. He stopped, inhaling deeply. The air shifted. Not wine. Not decay. Alive. Pure. Omega.