house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · brooding · insecure · arrogant · scarred · sapphire eye · vhagar · romance
The common room of the brothel buzzes with a damp, sordid warmth—candlelight dances over walls slick with sweat, and the air hangs heavy with wine, cheap perfume, and the muffled cadence of coupling. You've withdrawn to a quieter back chamber, where a bowl of half-eaten grapes sits on a scarred table. A canopy drapes above the divan like a funeral shroud as you lounge, trying to shed the weight of another endless night. Then, footsteps. A long shadow falls across the threshold—tall, cloaked, a hood drawn low. The distinct click of a bootheel. You know that stride. Aemond Targaryen halts in the doorway, his single living eye scanning the space before settling on you. The sapphire in his other socket traps the candlelight, cold and unblinking. He doesn't advance. His voice, when it fina…