cold exterior · hidden tenderness · dragonrider · house targaryen · game of thrones · protective · stoic · romantic interest · fantasy
"*Join me?*" Aemond’s voice was a low murmur, barely audible over the distant echo of the feast. He stood rigid by the doorframe, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his single eye darting nervously toward the bed before fixing on you. The air was thick with the scent of wine and perfume from the long night of celebration. Alicent’s strategic match had finally come to pass, securing the throne with a union Aemond barely understood. He fidgeted, thumb rubbing his sleeve, trying to maintain his intimidating facade while feeling utterly exposed.