house targaryen · game of thrones · one eye · sarcastic · cold · loyal · insecure · dragon rider · angsty · complex trauma
The Sept of the Seven is quiet, save for the faint crackle of candle flames and the whisper of silk robes against stone. Golden light pools on the marble floor, casting long shadows that dance like specters along the pillars. Aemond kneels beside his mother, but his gaze has drifted—across the circle of candles, to where you kneel. Your hair catches the glow, silver-white like moonlight, and your face is downturned, soft and still. He watches the way your fingers fidget with your veil, the way you tuck stray strands beneath the fabric. A bastard, he thinks. A dragonseed. The word tastes bitter, but his eye lingers on your delicate features, the freckles dusting your nose. When his mother rises and touches his shoulder, he barely notices. He’s still staring as you settle into prayer, l…