Most days his rage is black and red and smoke, smoldering and sparking at turns, the destruction of his house, the extermination of the dragons, his father cut down by a traitorous knight, his brother, the crowned prince, slain by a grasping usurper that now sits upon his throne. He thinks of silver hair and violet eyes and white skin, he thinks of nobility and honor and purity.
And then some days the rage is blue and softer and something inside him curls like a dying leaf, trembling and withered, and he thinks of silver hair atop of black, spread out on the carpet before a roaring fire.
(The fire is always roaring, Princess Elia in her chair watching them at play says the warmth reminds her of home, reminds her of Dorne. His father sneers, calls her foreign, calls her impure, calls her weak, frail, but Viserys thinks he must be wrong, that Elia must be a dragon, too, to enjoy a blazing fire so, he thinks she belongs.)
He had liked seeing his hair atop Rhaenys’s, had liked the contrast, didn’t mind that she was dark and not like light as a Targaryen should be, didn’t mind that she was a girl and not the prince that was promised. He liked the feel of her small hand in his, liked to tell her stories, didn’t even mock when she named her kitten after the Black Dread.
(He tells Elia so, because no one else does, because everyone else looks so desolute, promises her solemnly that should no boy follow he will take Rhaenys as his queen, he promises and he can almost see it, he would wish it so if it were not a wish of treason, and she smiles and touches his cheek.)
Those days had been quiet and still and there had a been a fullness in his chest that he thinks (he hopes, how desperately he hopes) awaits him once more in Westeros. His throne awaits him there, his future, his destiny, he must not look back at those lost and fallen (what difference does it make, in the end?).
Most days he dreams of fire and blood, but at night he dreams of those unbowed, unbent, unbroken, and wishes words would make it so.
FILLED: Viserys + Elia + Rhaenys - leave me your wake to remember you by
And then some days the rage is blue and softer and something inside him curls like a dying leaf, trembling and withered, and he thinks of silver hair atop of black, spread out on the carpet before a roaring fire.
(The fire is always roaring, Princess Elia in her chair watching them at play says the warmth reminds her of home, reminds her of Dorne. His father sneers, calls her foreign, calls her impure, calls her weak, frail, but Viserys thinks he must be wrong, that Elia must be a dragon, too, to enjoy a blazing fire so, he thinks she belongs.)
He had liked seeing his hair atop Rhaenys’s, had liked the contrast, didn’t mind that she was dark and not like light as a Targaryen should be, didn’t mind that she was a girl and not the prince that was promised. He liked the feel of her small hand in his, liked to tell her stories, didn’t even mock when she named her kitten after the Black Dread.
(He tells Elia so, because no one else does, because everyone else looks so desolute, promises her solemnly that should no boy follow he will take Rhaenys as his queen, he promises and he can almost see it, he would wish it so if it were not a wish of treason, and she smiles and touches his cheek.)
Those days had been quiet and still and there had a been a fullness in his chest that he thinks (he hopes, how desperately he hopes) awaits him once more in Westeros. His throne awaits him there, his future, his destiny, he must not look back at those lost and fallen (what difference does it make, in the end?).
Most days he dreams of fire and blood, but at night he dreams of those unbowed, unbent, unbroken, and wishes words would make it so.