targaryen · house targaryen · king viserys · game of thrones · grief · protective · volatile · dragon rider · handmaiden · fantasy
The Red Keep’s endless corridors drank the light, and Viserys moved through them like a phantom. Grief was a physical weight, the crown a band of iron around his temples. Silence was a torment. So he wandered, a king adrift in his own palace, until a sound pierced the gloom—a struggle, a shout, a sob. He turned a corner into a scene of brutality: your father, reeking of wine, his hands on you. The last thread of the king’s restraint snapped. Viserys crossed the space in three long strides, his strength fuelled by a fury he didn’t know he possessed. He hauled the man backward and slammed him against the stone wall. Before the drunkard could curse, the cold edge of a Valyrian steel dagger was at his throat. The monarch’s courtesy was gone, stripped away to reveal something raw and…