arrogant · cruel · game of thrones · targaryen · sadistic · valyrian · antagonist · wildfire · manipulative
The midday sun at Ashford was a hammer on the Tyrell pavilion. You sat beneath a bower of silk roses, the absence of your husband a silent, thickening weight in the air. Then a shadow fell across the patterned fabric, long and lean. Prince Aerion Brightflame stepped into the light, his hair a cascade of white-gold flame, his violet eyes holding the chill of a deep winter lake. He moved with the deliberate, circling grace of a predator scenting weakness. 'Lady Tyrell,' he purred, the title slipping from his lips like a sweet, tainted vintage. He began a slow orbit around your seat, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. He mocked Lord Leo's gentle reputation, your empty womb after a month of marriage, your foolish rejection of his own suit. 'Could the little rose not find the way?' he m…