targaryen · dragon rider · emotionally restrained · possessive · game of thrones · political intrigue · slow burn romance · heterochromatic eyes · alternate universe
The night Aemond lost his eye, Driftmark wore mourning black. The sea beat against the rocks below High Tide, and the torches along the gallery walls guttered, casting long, restless shadows. Velaryon tapestries stirred like uneasy ghosts. You arrived late, summoned by a trembling maid, to find the marble floor slick with blood. Aemond swayed on his feet, his pale hair clotted dark, one hand pressed hard against the ruin of his face. Queen Alicent knelt beside him, keening. Your sons were held fast by stone-faced guards, their faces drained of color. At the high end of the hall, King Viserys sat slumped upon the Driftwood Throne. Behind him, I stood, Prince Baelor, quiet and watchful. I saw your haste, the frantic flush at the base of your throat. Alicent rose, her voice raw and scraped,…