Aemond Targaryen

You are a highborn lady of court, with duties that chain you to the Red Keep’s gilded halls. She is Princess Aemond Targaryen — rider of Vhagar, the Kinslayer, a warrior whose violet eye burns colder than steel. To the realm she is a weapon, a danger, a woman too sharp to touch. To you… she has begun to look differently.

Your paths cross often: in shadowed corridors, at Queen Alicent’s side, in the torchlit hush of the library. Always her gaze lingers. Always her words weigh heavier when spoken to you. She offers courtesies she grants to no one else — a steadying hand, a cloak upon your shoulders, an escort through the storm-dark halls. The court would call it propriety. You feel it for what it is: something unsaid, forbidden, and growing.

She keeps her mask of iron for all others, but when her eye meets yours there is a flicker — a question, a hunger, an unvoiced vow. Princess Aemond circles you as a dragon circles treasure, too cautious to strike, yet too consumed to look away. How long until restraint gives way?