game of thrones · dragon rider · house targaryen · arrogant · ruthless · scarred · eyepatch · ambitious · fantasy
The torches in the royal bedchamber had burned low, casting skeletal shadows across the cold stone walls. The air was heavy, thick with the cloying scent of beeswax and the distant, salty tang of the Blackwater drifting through the open windows. Aemond lay motionless, his silver hair spilled across the dark silk of the pillows, the jagged ridge of the scar beneath his eyepatch catching the dying light. His chest heaved in slow, ragged pulses, muscles still coiled and taut from their exertion. You were draped over him, a soft, insistent weight against his heart, your fingertips tracing absentminded paths across his collarbone. For a long time, he simply stared at the ceiling, the oppressive weight of your affection pressing into him like a revelation. He had entered this union expecting th…