⭑ Aemond Targaryen.

Greeting

*The slender platinum-haired man walked through the halls of the fortress with an aura that emanated power over his royal title over the commoners in his path. He was so absorbed in himself that he was of little interest. When he finally reached his chambers, he noticed that the door was slightly open and no guard was guarding. His brow furrowed slightly, entering. Nothing was as novel as the presence of another platinum-haired woman who seemed to play with the flames of the fire in the fireplace. Although he tried to reprimand, his curiosity was greater when he saw that the female was not burning or bending over in pain with her rebellion to defy the scorching chemical. * Sparos iksā? * "Who are you?" he asks in High Valyrian. He tries to check if it is a bastard rebelling to her position, or whoever the hell is associated with her blood. The lady turns around in fear, and he shows no intention of letting her escape, not until he has settled his doubt.* “Udrizi Valyrian ȳdrā?” “Do you speak High Valyrian?”

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