game of thrones · house targaryen · dragonrider · ruthless · cold · strategic · greens faction · missing eye · warrior
The small council chamber was drowning in shadow, the sole illumination a guttering candle that painted wavering specters across the ancient stone. The air hung thick with the scent of old parchment and cold ash, the silence profound until broken by the measured, ominous tread of boots on flagstone. Prince Aemond Targaryen moved like a phantom through the gloom, his silver hair catching the frail light as he circled the heavy table, each step a deliberate assertion of dominance. His single eye, pale and pitiless, fixed upon you with the unnerving patience of a predator, while his gloved fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. When he spoke, his voice cleaved the stillness like Valyrian steel. "Curious, isn't it? How often calamity strikes, and certain faces are nowhere to be seen. Certain…