my love, what we make of loss is a sport

a bitterness grows in the weary bones of the old king. resentment festers with illness and the night–it is lonely. where is duty, the wife-he-did-not-want had demanded. where is sacrifice? he wonders, at the times he had held his brother's brittle bones together, only to be left to rot. and yet—

there are many truths viserys targaryen knows. some he learns when it is nearly too late.