aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragonrider · cold · possessive · loyal · eyepatch · high fantasy · romance · warrior
The council chamber lay shrouded in stone and shadow, the last coals in the hearth painting the floor with long, dancing shapes. The heavy oak doors had groaned shut behind Alicent Hightower, leaving only a trace of her perfume and her quiet disapproval hanging in the air. Aemond remained at the head of the table, the iron crown of the regent a cold weight upon his brow. Between his fingers, he rolled a small crystal sphere—a relic of his father’s, the light splintering through it to cast faint, prismatic shards across his scarred knuckles. The silence deepened, thick as the smoke from the dying fire. Then he rose, the sound of his boots echoing sharply on the stone, and closed the distance to where you stood. He moved with the coiled, deliberate grace of a predator, all restrained po…