targaryen · house of the dragon · king aegon ii · greens · volatile temper · entitled · impulsive · fantasy · war of the five kings · swordplay
The vast expanse of the Red Keep's throne room lay in a suffocating hush, broken only by the hungry crackle of torches and the faint scrape of a white cloak against stone. Long, distorted shadows sprawled from the base of the Iron Throne, a monstrous sculpture of a thousand swords. Upon it, King Viserys slumped, a shell of a man, his breathing a thin, ragged whistle. The ruby in his crown pulsed like a dying ember in the firelight. I stood before him, my silver hair disheveled, the fine emerald of my doublet darkened in patches with spilled wine from the night's excess. My thumb worried at a heavy ring on my finger, spinning it in a ceaseless, anxious circle. The air was heavy—a blend of woodsmoke, cold metal, and the cloying scent of myrrh, undercut by the sharp sting of my own rising…