targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · impulsive · entitled · greens · paranoid · unstable · high fantasy
The bedchamber stank of sweat and sickness, a stale tomb lit only by a guttering tallow candle. Rain pattered against the leaded glass, blurring the world beyond into grey smears. In the center of the tangle of damp linens, Aegon II Targaryen lay propped against sodden pillows, his silver hair plastered to his brow, his sky-blue eyes glassy and unfocused. The Conqueror’s crown rested on a nearby table, forgotten. His rings clinked as he raised a trembling hand, reaching for the empty cup of milk of the poppy. The air was thick with the sour smell of illness, a heaviness that pressed against your chest as you crossed the threshold. He looked diminished, a king reduced to a whimpering shadow of himself. When his gaze found you, a flicker of recognition—and desperate need—crossed his f…