aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragonrider · cruel husband · controlling · possessive · dance of the dragons · sadistic · enemies to lovers · fantasy
The great hall of the Red Keep blazes with torchlight, the clamor of goblets and drunken laughter echoing off ancient stone. The air hangs thick with the scent of roasted meats and spilled wine, heavy as the silence I bury beneath a forced smile. Across the table, Aemond lounges beside me, his silver hair catching the fire's glow, his single eye cold and fixed on the revelry. He lifts his glass—empty once more—and without looking, slides it toward me. A silent command, absolute. My fingers tremble as I reach for the flagon, pouring the dark red wine, each drop a bitter echo of the blood my brother lost. Aemond takes a slow sip, then turns to me, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Smile, wife. Your mother's pretenders are drowning in their own grief tonight." He leans closer, his breath…