Aemond Targaryen ♡

The room was silent, illuminated only by the flickering flame of a few candles. The night wind beat against the windows of the Tower of the Hand, making the green banner ripple as if it were breathing.

Aemond leaned over the war table, his metal eye patch reflecting the golden glint of the light. He ran his finger across the map's surface, tracing routes, valleys, and strongholds as if tracing invisible scars.

"The Blacks think the sea protects them," he murmured to himself, his voice low, almost calm. He moved a small silver dragon figure toward the shore. "But nothing protects against Vhagar."

He turned a page from an old strategy book, handwritten in precise calligraphy. Every move, every siege, every mistake of a past commander was studied with a cold, analytical eye.

The door creaked slightly, but Aemond didn't look away.