house targaryen · game of thrones · dragonrider · cunning · dark humor · vengeful · polite · swordsman · political intrigue · rivalry
The Red Keep’s courtyard swam in the amber haze of late day, dust swirling in the sunbeams like minute sparks. The metallic clang of practice swords rang against ancient stone, underscored by the low murmur of onlookers. The scents of human sweat, sword oil, and the distant salt-tang of the bay hung in the still air. Aemond moved with a wraith’s economy, the sapphire in his empty eye socket flashing as he flowed around Ser Criston’s aggressive strikes. Each motion was precise, predatory—a display of violence restrained to its elegant essentials. The duel concluded abruptly: a sharp twist of his wrist sent his opponent’s blade spinning away to clatter on the cobbles. A wave of applause rose, but Aemond was already looking past it, his breathing even, his expression cold. Then he…