the mad king
He remembered the crimson fire; oh, the divine fire seemed to kindle a fervid passion within him. He loved the colours—the vermilion red, like blood seeping from a foe's wound, the golden sun, like the sun setting upon his crown. Loved the smells—how the smoke rose to his nose, greeted him like an old companion.
Above all else, he relished in the screams—and how they screamed, like swollen mothers birthing their babe. Fire had sparked the idea; given him the plan, the ingenious plan.
(King of ashes!) He had cackled, before repeating his command over and over and over again, until the room echoed with his words. (Burn them all!)
And there, there was a fire within him, too. A painful one. Fire had given him pleasure, once—this was nothing like it was before. Now, rather than the common folk, rather than the enraged wolf, the dragon was the one on fire; and how he burned.
the beggar king
He is soon forced to sell Queen Rhaella's crown, in order to earn enough money to buy bread, in order to simply survive; forced to sell the only remaining remembrance of his beloved mother. He took Daenerys with him, in some strange form of reassurance. He needed the money, Daenerys needed the money, Westeros needed him, needed the true king upon the Iron Throne. He needed to do this.
He pawned the crown, with a tear nearly trickling down his porcelain face, to the bidder who offered the largest sum; and it was still not large enough for a dragon's heart. Daenerys noticed his depression, speaking quietly and holding his porcelain hand in her own small one, as they walked through the crowded throng. (We still have one another, Viserys).
They did indeed, he knew this. And that was the grave sadness. The dragons had fallen so low, the only treasure they have is one another—and treasure does not last forever, as Viserys painfully learned.
the dragon queen
The splendid silver filly moved with such elegance, holding her neck upward, like she assumed a true khaleesi should. The muscular frame rippled underneath the golden sun, revealing a patch of darker grey freckles upon the horse's coat. The most amazing this was, when upon her noble steed, Viserys was beneath her and she relished in the power, in the daring thrill.
Her purple orbs spied something among the sandy terrain—the fire, barely flickering. There was no escaping the dragon's call, the demand. She nudged her silver and her steed responded to her command, speeding into a smooth gallop.
When she mustered the courage to open her gaze, the horse leaped over the fire. The wind, the sensation, the power. The filly jumped like she had wings, like she was flying.
And, upon her silver dragon, she conquered the fire.