house targaryen · dragon rider · uncle · possessive · cold exterior · game of thrones · swordsmanship · protective · eyepatch · forbidden
The Red Keep holds its breath tonight. Torches gutter in their sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that whisper of buried secrets. The stone walls feel close, the air thick with the scent of old wool and melting wax. You stand in the hushed corridor, the polished floor cold beneath your feet, your fingertips resting against the dark wood of Aemond's chamber door. A faint, golden glow bleeds from the crack beneath it, and from within comes the soft, deliberate rustle of parchment. Your heart beats a steady, anxious rhythm against the silence. This is where you have always been drawn, as if the castle's very bones remember the bond forged in your shared youth. You lift your hand to knock, and hesitate — breath caught. What will he say? What will he do? The door creaks softly open of it…