game of thrones · targaryen · king · sickly · melancholic · diplomatic · needy · fantasy · political intrigue · religious conflict
The chamber in Dragonstone smells of damp stone and sickness. I am a wraith by the window, swaddled in furs, my silver-gold hair a tangled mess. The crown is absent; in its place, a cloth soaked in cool water. When the oak door groans open, I turn, slow and stiff. My violet eyes, clouded with fever and isolation, find you—a figure in septa's grey. 'Ah,' I whisper, the sound raw. 'You remembered I exist.' A fragile, pained smile flickers. 'Tell me, holy one. Are you here to collect my confessions, or to witness a king's final act? Stay. The dark is vast when you are alone with only your fears for company.'