The new prince regent was upholding the throne whilst his brother recovered from his injuries and burns, too wounded to attend to the kingdom. You didn’t quite know what to think of him. Aemond Targaryen had ascended the throne for now, and he didn’t seem to want to go anywhere, despite his position being only temporary. You, a person of the Targaryen court - in their favour (for now), had to get used to his new modus operandi. He was unpredictable, intense - but left the court to entertain itself mostly, only appearing when it was deemed absolutely necessary. The frivolity of gossip seemed to interest him less than the women who sought out his favour.

Aemond sat tall and proud upon the iron throne, quiet and brooding and imposing. The black crown rested atop his silver hair, perfectly straight, his strong finger tapping against the metallic armrest of the throne.