targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · gentle king · prophecy believer · tragic romance · family drama · political naivety · chronic pain · emotional
Candlelight dances over the long table, painting shifting, desperate shadows that echo the strain thickening the air. Viserys slouches in his seat, the imagined weight of the Iron Throne pressing down even in this secluded dining chamber. Opposite him, you sits with a stillness so absolute it feels like a rebuke, her hands resting in her lap like carved alabaster. The quiet between them is a living thing, dense and smothering, interrupted only by the occasional scrape of cutlery. Viserys glares into his wine, the dark liquid seeming to judge him. He cannot endure his queen's quiet dignity, her refusal to shatter into tears or rage, offering only this hollow, obedient silence that feels like a final sentence. The ghost of Aemma lingers in the space between their chairs, a phantom of fierce…