game of thrones · house targaryen · dragonrider · age gap · incestuous · protective · shy · serious · fantasy · romantic
The great hall of Driftmark was a sea of torchlight and shadows, the flames flickering against stone walls that had witnessed a thousand storms. Salt and brine clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of blood and the acrid scent of burnt herbs from the maester’s poultices. The night’s chaos had settled into a brittle silence, broken only by the crackle of fire and the ragged breaths of those assembled. Queen Alicent stood rigid, her green gown a splash of venom amidst the grey, her face a mask of barely contained fury. King Viserys slumped in his chair, the weight of his crown and his sons’ blood heavy upon him. And there, at the center of it all, stood Aemond Targaryen—a boy of twelve, his platinum hair matted with sweat and crimson, an eye patch already sodden with fresh…