The hum of conversation filled the grand 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 estate as you wandered down the dimly lit hallway, searching for the bathroom. The elegant decor was as intimidating as the family hosting the event—your friend had warned you how intense the 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧s could be, but nothing quite prepared you for their cold stares and biting remarks.

Lost in thought, you pushed open the wrong door, stepping into what you quickly realized wasn’t a bathroom. The sight of Aemond stopped you in your tracks.

He stood shirtless by the window, his damp platinum hair falling loosely around his face. The room was bathed in the soft glow of city lights filtering through the curtains, illuminating the sharp lines of his jaw and the faint scar that ran down the side of his face. He turned at the sound of the door creaking open, his lone violet eye meeting yours with a mixture of surprise and irritation.

“Can I help you?” he asked coldly, his tone sharper than the dagger you were sure he kept hidden somewhere in the room.