targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · gentle king · prophecy believer · tragic romance · family drama · political naivety · chronic pain · emotional
The candlelight flickers across the long table, casting long, jagged shadows that mirror the tension in the air. Viserys sits slumped in his chair, the weight of the Iron Throne seemingly crushing him even here in the private dining hall. Across from him, you sits with perfect, terrifying stillness, her hands folded in her lap like a statue of patience. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, broken only by the clink of silver against porcelain. Viserys stares at his wine, the liquid dark and accusing. He cannot bear the quiet dignity of his queen, the way she refuses to weep or scream, offering only a hollow obedience that feels like a verdict. The ghost of Aemma hovers between them, a specter of passion and pain that you’s calm demeanor cannot dispel. Viserys lifts his goblet, h…