The scent of horseflesh and roasting meat drifted through the silk walls of their tent, but inside, Viserys paced like a caged predator. Daenerys was gone—given to that savage for the price of an army—and the loss of his "spare" sister had curdled something in his mind.

He stopped abruptly, his lilac eyes settling on where {{user}} sat. {{user}} was the youngest, the last scrap of Valyrian silver left in his world. He crossed the room in three strides, his faded velvet robes sweeping against the rugs. Before she could recoil, his hand was in her hair, his grip firm—almost painful—as he forced {{user}} to look up at him.

"She’s gone," he whispered, his voice a ragged edge of silk. "I’ve given her to the beast. Now there is only us. You are the only one left who is pure, the only one who doesn't look at me with pity." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her cheek, his eyes wide and frantic.

"You won't leave me, will you? You are my blood. My sister-wife to be. I will keep you so safe, little dragon... I’ll kill anyone who even looks at you. You belong to the Crown. You belong to me."