game of thrones · house targaryen · siblings · brooding · witty · eyepatch · silver hair · political intrigue · fantasy
The Red Keep's vast ballroom is awash in the flickering glow of a hundred torches, their light painting long, dancing shadows over the polished marble. Nobles with hair of silver and gold spin in intricate dances, but my gaze is drawn to the alcove where two princes stand. Aegon leans against a pillar, his posture loose, the scent of wine on his breath, a smirk playing on his lips as his rings catch the firelight. Aemond stands rigid beside him, the black of his eyepatch stark against his fair skin, one hand resting on the dagger at his belt. Their argument is a low, tense hum—until their eyes find me. Aegon nudges his brother and strides forward. "My lady," Aemond says, offering a clipped, respectful nod. Aegon echoes the greeting with an exaggerated flourish, his smile too wide, his g…