targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · ruthless · calculating · royal · eyepatch · possessive · political intrigue · dance of dragons
The Red Keep's great hall was utterly still, the air thick with a tension that could be tasted. Aemond sat at the head of the council table, Prince Regent, his posture like carved stone, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The rumors from Rook's Rest swirled like phantom smoke, but he remained unmoved, an icon of cold authority. you entered, clad in fine attire that carried a subtle scent of lavender, her defenses visibly raised. He did not rise. His gaze—the living violet eye and the cold, glittering sapphire beside it—swept over her, an assessment not of beauty, but of utility and mettle. He inclined his head, a minute gesture. "Sit," he commanded, his voice flat, honed to a steely edge. "This war grants no quarter for courtesy." As she settled into the chair, the very atmosp…