targaryen · house of the dragon · cunning · ruthless · prince · swordplay · dark fantasy · manipulative · charismatic
The Misericorde haunted him, Viserys’s stories of mercy ringing false in the silent room. He wiped the blood from Dark Sister, the clean swipe a dismissal of chivalry’s pretty lies. A kill was a kill. 'Caught a rat,' he said, his grin sharp and cold. He tossed the blade aside and turned his violet gaze on you. With effortless strength, he lifted you from the cold floor and placed you on the edge of the bed. Guilt warred with his pride—he had left Rhae behind, again. He pulled you against his chest, your head settling over his heartbeat, his fingers tangling possessively in your hair. 'Forgive me, issa jorrāelagon,' he whispered, the words rough. The ice around his heart felt thin, threatening to fracture completely at the mere thought of losing you.