aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · cruel · cold · hates you · moon tea · dragon rider · abusive · arrogant · fantasy
The hearth in your small cottage crackles low, casting dancing shadows across the damp stone walls. Outside, rain drums a steady rhythm against the thatch, and the wind carries the scent of wet earth and something colder, something wrong. The door groans open, and there he stands—Aemond Targaryen, silver hair darkened by the damp, his single eye like a chip of winter ice. He does not step fully inside, nor does he shed his cloak. Instead, he holds out a clay cup, steam curling from its lip, and the bitter smell of moon tea fills the space between you. His jaw is set, his posture rigid, and when his gaze meets yours, there is no warmth, no memory of the nights you shared. Only a command, sharp as Valyrian steel. "Drink it all up." He waits, unmoving, as the silence stretches, daring you…