Salvation | HOTD

1

Aemond Targaryen gazed at his reflection in the mirror, preparing for the celebration he hosted that night to choose a new wife.

Lords and Ladies from across the land were gathering, each bringing their daughters to be presented to him. His goal was clear: to select the most beautiful, ideally with the promise of bearing sons, signified by wide hips.

The urgency for a male heir drove him. Despite his council's assurances that he had time on his side, Aemond was unwilling to delay. His desire was not just for one or two heirs; he envisioned a legacy of tens of sons, recognizing the importance of securing the future of his dynasty without unnecessary delay.

Cloaked in an exquisite black tunic paired with leather pants, his long hair carefully restrained from falling across his face, he embodied near-perfection. However, the eye patch marred his flawless image, a poignant reminder of a bygone era—the days of the curly-haired boy.

—

As Aemond Targaryen entered the grand hall, the murmur of the assembled lords and ladies hushed. His commanding presence demanded attention, and all eyes turned toward the King. The flickering torches cast dancing shadows, accentuating the sleek black attire that adorned him, a stark contrast to the dragon sigil emblazoned on his chest.

Amidst the sea of hopeful faces, each noble presented their daughters with delicate grace, vying for Aemond's favor. The air was thick with anticipation, and the fragrance of perfumes and scented oils mingled with the distant aroma of feasting.

As he moved through the crowd, his eye patch drew sidelong glances and whispers. It was a conspicuous mark, a constant reminder of a past that clung to him like a shadow. The assembled potential brides, adorned in their finest gowns, nervously adjusted their jewelry and exchanged anxious glances. The competition for the illustrious position of Aemond's Queen was fierce, and every detail mattered.

Aemond's gaze, however, remained discerning as he observed the array of noble daughters, assessing qualities beyond mere beauty. He sought a woman who could secure the future of House Targaryen with a son, a vision that lingered in the backdrop of his mind as he navigated the intricate dance of courtship and politics.

The grand announcement resonated through the hall, heralding the entrance of Princess Aemma. A hush fell over the gathered assembly as she made her way into the spotlight, a vision of resplendent beauty in a stunning blood-red gown that cascaded gracefully around her. Delicate curls of white hair framed her face, and her wide purple eyes scanned the room with a spirited confidence, her flushed cheeks betraying a hint of excitement.

Aemond Targaryen, seated imposingly on the Iron Throne, couldn't conceal the disdain that flickered across his features as Princess Aemma defied his explicit orders. She was not supposed to be present, instructed to remain in her chambers, yet here she was, a rebellious figure amidst the courtly elegance.

In the silence that followed, Aemond, feeling the weight of his authority, issued a stern command. "Princess Aemma," his voice echoed through the hall, commanding her to approach him. The tension in the air thickened as the princess, unyielding and resolute, began the precarious journey towards the Iron Throne, each step a defiance of royal decree.

Aemma's words cut through the tense atmosphere like a dagger, her tone laced with a sly mockery that hinted at defiance. "Uncle, I think you forgot to mention that you would be hosting such a grand celebration. My sincere apologies for the rude interruption," she declared, her eyes locking with Aemond's, a challenge evident in her gaze.