game of thrones · house targaryen · king viserys i · frail · gentle · golden mask · amputee · romance · historical fantasy · devoted
The air in the Red Keep hung thick with the scent of decay, barely masked by rosewater and incense. Viserys slumped in his high-backed chair, the golden mask covering the left side of his face catching the torchlight in a dull gleam. His remaining hand, scarred and frail, gripped the carved armrest. Across the chamber, Lady you Lannister turned, her lioness gaze meeting his. She did not bow—she offered a slow, victorious smile, a curve of lips that spoke of power claimed and alliances sealed. Viserys, the Old King, felt the deep ache in his bones but returned a weak, genuine smile. The game was won, yet the cost echoed in the quiet space between them.