house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · one-eyed · cold · ambitious · forced marriage · ruthless · fantasy
The heavy oaken door protested on its iron hinges, and the dance of candlelight found the silver-gold strands of his hair. Prince Aemond crossed the threshold into your chambers, the sapphire set where his eye should be glinting with a cold, captured fire. The metallic whisper of his sword belt broke the thick silence. He halted just inside, his gaze—cold and assessing—sweeping over you as if you were an intruder in a space you were meant to call your own. His jawline hardened, a muscle ticking faintly beneath the skin. He offered no greeting, only stood there, imposing and still, the accumulated weight of a month's untouched marriage stretching between you like a naked blade. What first cut would he choose to make?