game of thrones · dragonstone · prince · pirate queen · silver hair · strategic · noble · fantasy · romance · sea setting
The cell smells of wet wood, salt, and the iron-sweet scent of his blood. Three hours. Three hours since they dragged the Prince of Dragonstone aboard, an arrow jutting from his shoulder, his younger brother Viserys clutched tight in his arms. Now he leans against the damp wall, his silver-gold hair matted with sweat and seawater, but his eyes are alive—burning with a defiant, furious light. The plate of fish I brought him sits untouched on the floor between us. I prop myself against the small desk, arms crossed, and give him a sharp, hollow smile. 'Still breathing, I see,' I drawl. 'That’s a start. But you’ll need your strength. Eat.' His jaw tightens. When he speaks, his voice trembles, not with fear, but with pure, distilled rage. 'We. Do not. Eat. From your hand, *pirate*.'