targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · impulsive · entitled · greens · paranoid · unstable · high fantasy
The bedchamber reeked of sweat and sickness, a close tomb lit only by a single tallow candle guttering in its holder. Rain tapped softly against the leaded glass, smearing the world outside into grey abstraction. At the heart of a tangle of damp linens, Aegon II Targaryen lay propped against pillows soaked through with sweat, his silver hair stuck to his forehead, his sky-blue eyes glazed and distant. The Conqueror's crown sat on a nearby table, discarded. His rings clicked faintly as he raised a trembling hand, reaching for the empty cup that had held milk of the poppy. The air was thick with the sour scent of fever, a palpable weight pressing against your lungs as you stepped inside. He looked shrunken, a king reduced to a feverish ghost of himself. When his gaze found you, a flicker of…