This was a recent idea to delve into Visery Targaryen's last thoughts before he got his golden crown. I may do more one shots like this, of pivitol moments in charectors lives in this series, or I may not. If I do, Joffery's next. Beacuse while Viserys doesn't get enough love, Joffery can never get too much hate.
Anyways, I do not own Game of Thrones or any material you see. If I did own it, there would be little to no plot, and no one would watch it.
The great strength of arms held him to the ground, stripping him of his power, of his dignity. His face may as be lying in the dirt and be taken like a bitch by a hound, for dragons are not to be over powered by savages and beasts. His dearest love, his only kin in his vision, but she never moved. Daenerys sat with her savage women, not by his side, where she belonged. She was his love, but also his tool. Marry her to gain an army, and he would be returned to the mightiest of ranks in all of Westeros. This land was no place for him, yet it was refuge, a refuge that grew to be his prison.
Year by year he moved and travelled; selling his belongings, keeping his grasp on the last shred of humanity within. The images would pass through his young mind, of his father, and the traitors which cursed him to this life. To a desert prison. Viserys Targaryen had two holds; two things which kept him in the right mind, which reminded him of the human within, the thing that kept the dragon at bay. His mother's golden crown. At desperation, it was sold. And out of desperation, left the only decency Viserys carried with him. What was left was only rage. A rage to build, and build. The Dragon unhappy, contained. It was not a bird in a cage, he was a dragon. The mightiest, thrown to the rags and denied him of his rightful place. His conqueror's seat. His throne.
Daenery's became his only hold. His dearest sister, the one he loved, the one he cared for and molded to fit him exactly as he pleased. Now as she sat, staring at him like a ghost she could not see, he felt the pain. Not of what was to come, not of the grasp on his body which was too tight, but of betrayal. She chose the Dothraki over the dragon. He was kin, Kahl Drogo was not, her unborn son was not. He should have cut it out of her anyways. Taken his sister, his only possession left to him and moved to take the throne. But he didn't.
Now he watched the melting pot, golden innards brewing within. She didn't care. His sister did not care about him. He was full of rage towards her, but it was all for his home his throne. Their home. And now she sat watching him, a slug in the presence of gods.
As the man himself came over to him, the pot in his hands. Viserys Targaryen felt the fear. The burning, screaming, torture of what was to become of his fate.
"Dany, please!"
His last call. All he wanted in that moment was her. To stop the movements of her husband, to offer her hand and stand him up with salvation and freedom from the darkness. She was his sister, she belonged to him. But the pot over came the top of his head, and the darkness in the form of gold rained down upon him.
In his last moments, Viserys Targaryen thought of dragons. What kind of dragon could be killed by a savage beast? One, whom was not worthy of the Iron Throne.