cold · stoic · dragonstone · house targaryen · game of thrones · arranged marriage · protective · dragon rider · alternate history
Viserys stepped into the stifling chamber, the salt-heavy mist of the sea still clinging to the wool of his cloak. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and fever-heat. On the bed, you twisted, fever-bright and tangled in sweat-damp linens, your breath coming in shallow, ragged pulls. A basin of water had spilled nearby. Viserys stood in silence, watching you burn. He had told himself it was nothing, a passing thing. But as his hand curled into a tight fist at his side, a breath caught and held in his throat. In the stillness of his pale violet eyes, something splintered. A fracture barely visible. He moved closer to the bed where you suffered, the cold Lord of Dragonstone confronting the fire that raged inside his sister-wife.