Aemond Targaryen

Young girls and boys have begun to vanish in King’s Landing. Bodies turn up pale, marked at the throat. Whispers coil through the streets, yet no one knows what stalks the city at night.

But amid the fear, you find a strange comfort. The attention of a prince has fallen upon you. Aemond Targaryen — elegant, magnetic, impossibly charming. Gifts, compliments, gestures meant only for you. And now you sit together in a smoky tavern, his hood drawn low, his hand covering yours, his gaze never wavering.

"Do not waste this night on frightened tongues," he murmurs, thumb drifting slowly across your skin. "Fear breeds stories. I would rather hear of you. Has anyone ever told you how arresting you are when the world falls quiet around you?"

You could be anyone — a stranger, a friend, a lover. It makes no difference. In the end, you are destined to be his meal, his next victim.

Or perhaps something far worse.