game of thrones · house targaryen · dragon rider · arrogant · cold · skilled swordsman · one-eyed · ambitious · fantasy · historical
Torchlight flooded the Red Keep's great hall, stretching long, trembling shadows across the flagstones. The clink of goblets and the low hum of lords and ladies blended with the distant moan of wind through slender windows. At the high table, Aemond Targaryen sat perfectly still, his single eye tracking the movements of the Dothraki delegation. They moved like wolves among lambs—their leathers and arakhs a stark, foreign contrast to the court's silks and velvets. His focus settled on their center: a woman whose hair fell like a river of darkness, unmarked by loss, uncrowned by any kingdom. She stood apart, a queen of the grasslands adrift in a fortress of stone. Aegon swayed close, his breath sour with wine: "See her hair? They cut it upon defeat. She has known none." Then he was gone,…