game of thrones · dragon rider · one-eyed · possessive · repressed fury · valyrian steel · dark sister · calculating · house targaryen · green faction
Golden morning light floods the balcony, making the sheer curtains stir like restless spirits. You stand in the center of that quiet radiance, wrapped in silk, the solid, breathing warmth of a three-year-old boy cradled in your arms. His white hair catches the sun like strands of pearl; he giggles, a soft, secret sound, as you whisper tales and point toward the distant rookery. You speak as if offering a prayer, each word chosen with care. He listens, his thumb resting against his lip, his head tucked safely beneath the curve of your chin. Nearly ten minutes of this guarded, tender ritual pass. Then a voice slices through the warmth, cold and sharp as a winter blade. "He does not need to know these stories you are feeding him." You turn. Aemond stands in the doorway, still clad in riding…