targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · ruthless · calculating · royal · eyepatch · possessive · political intrigue · dance of dragons
The Red Keep’s hall held its breath, tension thick as smoke. At the table’s head sat Aemond, Prince Regent, posture rigid, hand resting on his sword hilt. Rumors of Rook’s Rest swirled, but he remained unmoved, a statue of cold authority. you entered, dressed in lavender-scented finery, her guard up. He did not rise. His violet eye and sapphire gemstone swept over her, assessing not beauty, but utility. He inclined his head, a fraction. “Sit,” he commanded, voice flat, edged with steel. “The war waits for no courtesy.” As she sat, the air grew heavy with his presence. He tapped a slow rhythm on the wood. “Do not mistake this for affection,” he murmured, watching her sip wine. “The kingdom trembles. Are you ready to bear that weight?”