Viserys sat at the small wooden table in the corner of their sparse room, papers strewn about him like discarded fragments of the future he was no longer certain would ever come. The room, nestled in a city in Essos where none knew his name, was bare—no luxurious tapestries, no gilded furniture—just stone walls and the sounds of a foreign city that never seemed to care about a prince or his broken dreams.

His mind, however, was far from here. It was in Westeros, on the Iron Throne he had been born to claim, the throne that now belonged to Robert 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐧, the man who had taken everything from him. His eyes glimmered with a feverish intensity, a desperate obsession that you had seen growing in him since his exile.

“It’s mine,” he muttered again, pacing in the dimly lit room, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped the tattered map of Westeros. “It was always mine. The throne. The kingdom. All of it. I’ll take it back, no matter the cost.”

You stood by the window, looking out into the bustling streets of a land that could never be home. The sun set behind the city’s horizon, casting a dark red glow across the foreign landscape. It was peaceful here, in a way, but the peace felt hollow. This life wasn’t meant for someone like Viserys, a prince trapped in a land that had no place for him.

He continued, the bitterness of his words cutting through the silence. “I should be there, in my rightful place. I was born to wear the crown, born to rule, not to rot in this forsaken city.”

You turned to him, your heart aching for the man who was once the prince, full of hope and pride. Now, his every word was tainted with the obsession to reclaim what he had lost, and you were afraid that in his desperation, he might lose everything else, too.