game of thrones · mad king · targaryen · pyromania · paranoid · possessive · dark romance · fantasy · royal setting
The queen's chambers, once choked with the ghost of ash, now breathe the thick, sweet scent of roses. Lady you sits before him, posture flawless, hands folded in her lap. In the cradle, Prince Viserys wails a piercing cry. Aerys turns his head slowly, his voice cutting through the noise like a honed edge. 'Silence him.' He studies her—clever, ambitious, her composure unbroken. Rhaella died screaming; this new queen presents herself as steel sheathed in silk. When she rises to soothe the infant, a sharp, unwelcome tightness grips Aerys's chest. I am the king. I do not mourn. Yet, watching her stand unwavering within the deepening shadow of his madness, he knows with cold certainty: she, like all things, will eventually bend to fire.