Not better, exactly. But certainly different—more languid and somehow more destructive. Sometimes Dany wonders if this is what he would be like had they never been sent away. A dangerous man to be sure, but lacking the more obvious cruelty that is born of a need for survival. She likes to think she wouldn’t be his target in those circumstances.
He doesn’t strike her when he’s drunk but his grip is just as bad, fingers like wires digging into her skin. He never wants to let her go on those nights and lately, now that she’s been promised to another, they have grown more frequent.
He’ll enter her room and latch onto her, cupping her cheek and studying her face, gripping her breasts and appraising their weight, lamenting over giving her up. She says nothing. Somehow she knows it is all her fault.
It’s nearly dawn when he comes this time, pulling her from her bed with a jerky grip, pinning her against the bed post, pressing against her. The smell of wine on him makes her want to vomit, but she stands stock still.
“You should be mine,” he slurs at last and Dany says nothing. He’s right and she knows it, and on some level she finds herself wishing she was. If she was, that would mean everything was alright again.
Viserys runs his fingers down her cheek and across her lips, gently, raising gooseflesh on her arms. He presses against her harder.
“But you can’t be,” he runs his thumb over her lips again and Dany parts them, reflexively. He’s being gentle, and she’s not quite at ease with it, but she finds herself grasping at what little is there. Like a drowning man gripping at the driftwood.
“But perhaps a taste,” he continues and smiles and it’s so odd she really doesn’t know what to make of it for a second. “A real kiss, a bit of practice. How does that sound, darling sister?”
She has to struggle to find her voice. She thinks back on all her childhood imaginings—a wedding in King’s Landing, a family, a legacy. It all seems so silly standing here, skinny and barefoot in the dawn, but the fear and anticipation she expected are there, twisting in her stomach. She mutters some consent she’s not sure he hears.
His mouth is hot on hers and needy, teeth grasping at her lips. The wine is pungent and it’s all Dany can do to keep breathing, to remain steady.
It’s very like Viserys—violent and grasping and not at all what she expected.
He pulls away suddenly, ripping into her lower lip as he does so. She can taste the blood on her tongue, and is stunned when he reaches up to wipe it away. She wonders if she can keep him drunk all the time.
“Someday sister, you will be mine,” he smiles as though he comforted her, and strangely enough she finds herself mirroring it back.
When that day comes, we’ll be home. And Viserys will be better, she thinks as he stumbles from the room. She bites down on her lip again, wanting to taste, to remember.
Dany/Viserys, Just a Taste
Not better, exactly. But certainly different—more languid and somehow more destructive. Sometimes Dany wonders if this is what he would be like had they never been sent away. A dangerous man to be sure, but lacking the more obvious cruelty that is born of a need for survival. She likes to think she wouldn’t be his target in those circumstances.
He doesn’t strike her when he’s drunk but his grip is just as bad, fingers like wires digging into her skin. He never wants to let her go on those nights and lately, now that she’s been promised to another, they have grown more frequent.
He’ll enter her room and latch onto her, cupping her cheek and studying her face, gripping her breasts and appraising their weight, lamenting over giving her up. She says nothing. Somehow she knows it is all her fault.
It’s nearly dawn when he comes this time, pulling her from her bed with a jerky grip, pinning her against the bed post, pressing against her. The smell of wine on him makes her want to vomit, but she stands stock still.
“You should be mine,” he slurs at last and Dany says nothing. He’s right and she knows it, and on some level she finds herself wishing she was. If she was, that would mean everything was alright again.
Viserys runs his fingers down her cheek and across her lips, gently, raising gooseflesh on her arms. He presses against her harder.
“But you can’t be,” he runs his thumb over her lips again and Dany parts them, reflexively. He’s being gentle, and she’s not quite at ease with it, but she finds herself grasping at what little is there. Like a drowning man gripping at the driftwood.
“But perhaps a taste,” he continues and smiles and it’s so odd she really doesn’t know what to make of it for a second. “A real kiss, a bit of practice. How does that sound, darling sister?”
She has to struggle to find her voice. She thinks back on all her childhood imaginings—a wedding in King’s Landing, a family, a legacy. It all seems so silly standing here, skinny and barefoot in the dawn, but the fear and anticipation she expected are there, twisting in her stomach. She mutters some consent she’s not sure he hears.
His mouth is hot on hers and needy, teeth grasping at her lips. The wine is pungent and it’s all Dany can do to keep breathing, to remain steady.
It’s very like Viserys—violent and grasping and not at all what she expected.
He pulls away suddenly, ripping into her lower lip as he does so. She can taste the blood on her tongue, and is stunned when he reaches up to wipe it away. She wonders if she can keep him drunk all the time.
“Someday sister, you will be mine,” he smiles as though he comforted her, and strangely enough she finds herself mirroring it back.
When that day comes, we’ll be home. And Viserys will be better, she thinks as he stumbles from the room. She bites down on her lip again, wanting to taste, to remember.