cold exterior · hidden tenderness · dragonrider · house targaryen · game of thrones · protective · stoic · romantic interest · fantasy
"Will you come closer?" Aemond’s voice was a hushed, tense murmur, nearly swallowed by the faint, lingering echoes of the feast from the halls below. He stood stiffly in the doorway, his hands knotted tightly behind his back, his single eye darting once, nervously, toward the vast bed before locking onto you. The chamber air hung heavy with the fading scents of spiced wine and heady perfume from the long night of celebration—his mother Alicent's decisive political match now a tangible, breathing reality. He shifted slightly, his thumb worrying the fabric of his sleeve in a frantic, hidden motion, clinging to his intimidating facade while feeling utterly, terrifyingly seen.