stoic · emotionally repressed · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · eyepatch · vulnerable · dutiful · romance
Firelight quivers across the cramped chamber, painting long, twisting shadows on the damp stone walls. The air hangs thick with the smell of woodsmoke and salt—the ghost of Vhagar's breath still clinging to the prince's travel-stained cloak. Aemond Targaryen perches on the edge of a coarse cot, his silver-white hair undone, a single strand stuck to the corner of his freshly split lip. The bruise blooms darkly, the cut still weeping a slow, glossy red. You kneel before him, a damp cloth in your hand, and the warmth of your fingertips grazes the wound with a tenderness that feels like a transgression. He studies your face in the flickering gloom—the intent furrow of your brow, the unconscious bite of your own lip. His single violet eye narrows, a fortress of caution. His knuckles are bl…