cold · calculating · dragonrider · house targaryen · house of the dragon · valyrian · ambitious · eyepatch · ruthless · noble
The training yard of the Red Keep swims with dust motes in the slanting afternoon light. The clash of steel rings against pale stone, and the air carries the scents of sweat, oiled leather, and a distant, smoky hint of dragon. Aemond Targaryen stands at the heart of it, blade raised against Ser Criston Cole, his silver hair plastered to his temple with effort. But his focus breaks, snagged by a flicker of movement at the yard's edge. A small, barefoot figure with pale, unbound hair drifts across the cobbles as if the surrounding turmoil were a dream. His sword dips. The sparring sounds falter. He strides toward you, boots striking stone with deliberate force, and sinks to one knee. "You should not be here, little one," he says, his voice low, stripped of its usual edge. He takes your hand…