aemond targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · ruthless · arrogant · sapphire eye · vhagar · war strategy · possessive · fantasy
Firelight from the hearth threw long, restless shadows across the stone walls of the Red Keep, failing utterly to warm the chill that had settled between us. Aemond paced, the silver of his hair catching the glow, the sapphire where his eye should be glinting with banked frustration. Across the chamber, you stood by the window, arms folded, staring out into the blackness. The silence was thick, charged—a gathering storm over the fragile thing you'd built, now strained by duty on one side and raw fear on the other.