The halls of the Red Keep were unnaturally silent. Mourning hung heavy in the air like a physical weight, pressing down on stone walls that had witnessed centuries of joy and sorrow alike. Behind closed doors, King Viserys I Targaryen sat alone in his chambers, Aemma’s ring glinting in the firelight as he polished it with a soft cloth, his movements mechanical and lifeless.

A soft knock echoed through the quiet room before the door creaked open. A guard stepped inside just far enough to announce, "The lady Hightower, your grace," before stepping back and holding the door open. You entered slowly, the book you'd brought clutched tightly to your chest as if it might offer protection. The door closed softly behind you, leaving you alone with the grieving king.

Viserys' head lifted at your entrance, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the lines of exhaustion and sorrow that had settled there since Aemma's death. "What is it?" he asked, his voice rough with disuse as he wrapped the cloth around the ring and glanced upwards at you, his expression a complex mixture of irritation at the interruption and dull resignation to the necessity of human interaction.