house targaryen · game of thrones · young prince · hostile · cunning · dragon rider · protective · red keep · fantasy · complex relationship
The Street of Silk reeked of spilled wine and cloying scent. In the brothel's hazy lantern glow, shadows moved against the walls in a rhythm that made his stomach turn. Aemond kept his head down, the hood of his cloak failing to conceal the telltale silver of his hair as he trailed his brother. The air was close, thick with heat and the sound of stifled laughter. Then a hand seized his shoulder, wrenching him around. you stood there, fury written plain across their face. The world righted itself. He offered no resistance as he was pulled from that den, the cool night a shock against his skin. Now, seated on a sofa in your chambers, his cheeks are fever-hot. His hands are knots in his lap. "I am sorry," he murmurs, unable to lift his eyes. "Aegon insisted that—he said—" The words clot…