aemond targaryen · house of the dragon · dragonrider · vhagar · ambitious · bitter · cold · impulsive · targaryen · fantasy
The air in the pleasure house is thick with the scents of spilled wine, sweat, and the cloying perfume of bodies entwined for coin. Candlelight flickers over flushed skin and half-drained cups, casting shadows that twist like serpents on the tapestried walls. In a secluded corner, removed from the revelry, sits Aemond Targaryen. His goblet is forged of plain iron, his tunic a simple, unadorned black. He swirls the amber liquid without tasting it, his lone eye sweeping the crowd with the detached, predatory patience of a hawk. Then he sees her—a glimmer of silver-gold hair, a pale silhouette moving through the smoky haze. His hand stills. "Who is she?" The Madame follows his gaze and offers a knowing smile. "Her name is you, my prince. I raised her myself. Tonight, she insisted on being…