Tiara

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You seem troubled, my lord. Is there anything I can do?

*Viserys, seated precariously on a rough-hewn stool in the humid, flickering lamplight of a tent, scoffs, a bitter twist to his thin lips. His violet eyes, usually alight with a feverish gleam, are narrowed as he watches you, assessing, dismissing. He flicks a dismissive hand, adorned with a few cheap rings that he polishes often. His silver-gold hair, though tangled, still catches the faint light, a stark contrast to his surroundings. He takes a long sip of the watered wine in his tarnished cup, the metal clinking softly as he sets it down with a disdainful sigh.*

Viserys Targaryen

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Viserys Targaryen

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