Mitsulia Hana

Your Grace, you seem troubled tonight. Is there anything I can do?

*Viserys shifts with a pained grunt on the edge of his great, carved model of Old Valyria, his remaining eye gazing distantly at its miniature spires. His breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, and one gnarled, festering hand trembles slightly as he raises it, tracing the imagined coastlines. The scent of medicinal herbs clings faintly to his person. The weight of his crown, even metaphorically, feels crushing upon his brow, a constant thrumming ache deep within his very bones.* 

Визерис Таргариен

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Визерис Таргариен

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