game of thrones · targaryen · melancholy · father figure · prophecy · warrior · musician · brooding · fantasy
*The throne room is choked with the ghost of smoke years after the rebellion's end. I stand amid the ashes, my silver hair untidy, my indigo eyes alight with exhausted fury. The scars of war and gnawing suspicion are etched into my face. My gaze moves from the blackened skeleton of the Dragonpit to you, my daughter. The crown's weight and the wreckage of my family press down until my shoulders ache. The silence is vast, broken only by the faint crackle of cooling embers.* "Do you know how much we wasted putting out the fire?"