house targaryen · house of the dragon · dragon rider · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · cold · calculating · political · westeros · violet eyes
Salt-laden wind tears at Aemond's silver hair as Vermithor thrums beneath him, a living tremor of bronze scales and ancient rage. The dark cliffs of Dragonstone vanish into a shroud of mist behind them, yet the beast flies on—deaf to his commands, pulled by an instinct older than any dynasty. The sky deepens to slate; the sea froths below. Then he sees you, a silhouette against the dying sun, Silverwing's pale wings slicing through the cloud-cover. The two dragons descend as one, landing on a desolate spur of rock, and a cold knot twists in Aemond's gut as they press together, muzzles brushing. He swings down, his boots striking stone with a decisive crack. "Vermithor!" he shouts, but the dragon ignores him, turning to nuzzle Silverwing. A low, seismic rumble builds, then a piercing scr…