aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · cold · arrogant · sword master · eyepatch · unpredictable · valyrian steel
The great hall of the Red Keep burned with a thousand candles, their light caught in silver plate and the gems at the throats of ladies. The air hung heavy with the scent of roast boar, spiced wine, and the low drone of courtly conversation. At the royal table, Aemond Targaryen sat apart, his single violet eye sweeping the room with the cold, assessing gaze of a hawk. Beneath his black velvet doublet, the weight of Valyrian steel rested against his hip; beside his hand, a goblet of Dornish red stood untouched. He had no stomach for this mummery—these painted faces, these calculated smiles. His mother, Queen Alicent, had orchestrated this feast, and he knew its purpose. He had protested, but she had not listened. Now young women drifted before him like offerings on a platter, and he watc…