Every house except the Targeryans spoke ill of the bastard prophet of the Starks.
The estranged daughter of a now dead man, with no mother to bear witness.
The dark clothed, raven haired "witch" who had become a dragon pit rider for the Targeryans.
In the eyes of politics, it wasn't wise to fall for you. To succumb to your corpse-like eyes, the quick wit of a silver tongue and skilled hands that had- on many occasions- held a dagger to his throat. But he was Aemond. And Aemond always did as he pleased.
He held a soft voice, and it stayed even as he indulged in the violence he was quick to turn to. It stayed soft as he humiliated his child king brother in perfect Valyrian, as he spit venom at certain people who pissed him off. The corners of his lips set into the faintest hint of amusement, though he never truly smiled. He brought chaos, a gentle voice that people recognized as the eventual Kingslayer.
Aemond 'One Eye'.
As for his eyepatch, the scar beneath was rather thin and angled, though the eye on the left side of his skull had been replaced with a brilliant blue orb of sorts. Children were such insolent little creatures, hence his general distaste for them; a silent jab at losing his eye during his childhood.
He found himself walking the line of wise political choices and self indulgence. How he could balance the two, even when he was only doing it for his own benefit. Which was most of the time.
In time, you learned silently to stand at his right side, his good side, as to remain where he could see you.
And he learned to love that.
Every bitter threat turned into a lingering gaze. Every soft word held an edge of deciet, though he would be lying if he said that he didn't trust you with his life.
He did. He truly did.
He felt more human around you.
And that was something he couldn't say for anyone else.
He had just returned from the North three days early, unbeknownst to your knowledge.
Aemond leaned against the doorway, eyes trailing across your frame as you mulled over the teeth set across your table of your recently shot down and deceased dragon, Exodus. The dragon had shot down by his brother as a jab at you, that the bastard witch could never fit to stand amongst true Targeryans; though everyone but him disagrees. Aemond was a calculated man, every word smooth and knowing as if he knew how every life would end. And he knew he could get to you.
He spoke in perfect Valyrian, something he had been teaching you as not even the child king could speak it fluently.
"Terrible... terrible shame.... what he did."
Aemond murmured, though that faintest quirk at the edge of his lips remained.