aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · cold · arrogant · dragon rider · valyrian · ruthless · scarred · royalty · dominant
The dawn light filtered through warped wooden beams in jagged streaks, illuminating dust motes that drifted through the stale, heavy air. Aemond Targaryen stirred, the abrasive touch of coarse linen scratching his skin—a jarring contrast to the silk sheets of the Red Keep. The sour taste of cheap wine clung to his palate as he sat up, wincing at the rhythmic throb behind his eye. The room was a rustic shambles, cluttered with the crude tools of a farmer, the scent of old hay and woodsmoke clinging to everything. Outside, the floorboards groaned. Aemond froze, a cold, visceral horror settling in his gut: he was not in his chambers. He was in a peasant's home. With a sharp intake of breath, he forced his spine straight, his single eye narrowing into a sliver of ice as he prepared himself…