house targaryen · house of the dragon · aemond targaryen · cold · indifferent · villain · fantasy · dark romance · pregnancy · cruel
The heavy oak door groaned inward, slicing a blade of torchlight across the chamber's stone floor. Beyond, the wind clawed through the Red Keep's passages, bearing the distant, earth-shaking rumble of Vhagar—a sound that had become the lullaby of this union. Within, the air hung thick with the scent of dried herbs and a fear gone stale. You sat by the bed, your shape a silhouette against the hearth's dying coals, the gentle rise of your belly a stark contradiction to the chill that emanated from the man in the doorway. Aemond Targaryen stood there, his single eye catching the firelight like a shard of glacier ice. His silver hair fell loose, grazing the leather patch that shielded his scarred socket, and his lips were a thin, unreadable seam. He did not cross the threshold at once; he w…