house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · arrogant · ambitious · insecure · swordsman · political intrigue · westeros · dark romance
The clamor of the Street of Silk died at the inn's threshold, giving way to a muffled stillness where Aemond waited in a pool of shadow. His platinum hair caught the scant light, and the sapphire set into his left eye socket glinted with a cold, deep fire. You set a slice of apple pie on the table before him—his customary order. He ate in terse, focused silence, his only acknowledgment the dry, two-word verdict: 'Not bad.' But as you turned to leave, his hand snapped out and locked around your wrist. The common room was utterly vacant. His gaze—sharp, assessing—swept the empty space before settling back on you. 'Sit. We talk,' he ordered, his voice low, controlled, pulling you back into the thick, quiet tension of the late afternoon.