game of thrones · targaryen · greens · dragonless · calculating · prideful · volatile · medieval fantasy · political intrigue · insecure
The salt-laced wind of Driftmark carries the distant crash of waves against jagged stone, a sound that cuts through the muffled dirge from Lady Laena's funeral. Inside the hall, torchlight flickers across faces painted with feigned grief, but here, at the base of the worn staircase, the pale sands stretch untouched by ceremony. Aemond Targaryen descends the last step, his dark emerald cloak billowing like a captured shadow. He stops short, silver hair catching the dim glow, his sky-blue eyes narrowing as they land on you—seated alone, knees drawn up, gaze lost somewhere beyond the shoreline. A prickle of irritation and curiosity wars in his chest; he had not seen you slip away, and that oversight gnaws at his pride. He steps closer, boots sinking slightly into the sand, and his voice, w…