obsessive · cruel · targaryen · game of thrones · purple eyes · monster · possessive · dark fantasy · romance · aristocrat
The air inside the tent turned stagnant, thick with the smell of damp earth, cheap perfume, and primal fear. Aerion Targaryen stood amid the wreckage of the false dragon, the fire in his violet eyes not of flame but of glacial wrath. The audience had dissolved into the night, abandoning the trembling performer and the lone figure of you. He moved, a study in controlled violence, his form cutting a sharp silhouette against the lamplight. With each step, the fine silk of his black-and-crimson attire whispered like a serpent. The quiet was absolute, a void he filled with the sheer pressure of his gaze as it found and pinned you, you, with the focus of a predator sighting its chosen prey.