( It is a blistery day in Driftmark, ocean-air thick with salt, waves crashing along the seaboard. Spraying upwards, scattering along the coastal rocks as they stood gathered around Laena’s stone coffin, and watched it descend into the sea. Rhaenyra stood rigid, shoulder brushing against Elrond’s and hands tightly wound around themselves and tried to remember to breathe.
The height of her anxiety crests in the gathering afterwards, as the truth of such a tragedy lingers — it is a loss she is keenly familiar with, her mother gone the same way and childbirth again reminded as a cruelty. Though if she were honest, it isn’t grief that drives her stomach to knots (no, the grief is cold, in congruence to the ocean chill) — it was her uncle.
She wondered, from time to time, what it would be like to see him again, after all the complexities left behind them, from the near decade gone by. She had missed him, to a unique extent (had she missed him, or the unruly fires of youth that he’d careened along with him, all wild and all dragon? untouched by time where her father wasted away, embers doused so thoroughly that she wasn’t sure they were there these days at all).
Perhaps that nostalgia would have left a different aftertaste, if her current marriage had been kept to politics alone. As it happens — Elrond had changed everything. Had carved some hold into her soul, like spindling roots and made it sing; something still theirs, amidst (or in spite) of all the duty and expectation still awaiting. A rarity within their realm, it felt like. An envy, Elrond had called it and while it had been said in half jest, the other half was truth, felt in all the ways Alicent’s eyes lingered. In the prodding questions and the levied accusation once more tossed out in evident hurt (why is it that you always get what you want?).
Still, her eyes meet Daemon’s across the balcony a few times, split between moments of condolences shared between many until they find themselves standing across one another. She hadn’t noticed, who had drifted to whom, as her elbows lean against the stone, and look down to the water. She can see Laenor from here, though she averts her gaze to give privacy to his grief, and as she does, it is Daemon’s face she finds.
I’m sorry, she says, thinking of Laena. Of his children. And of him. Evening crests, and all is somber. They stand barely knowing a single thing about the years between, ignorant to each.
And what of you, Rhaenyra? Are you happy? he asks in High Valyrian, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes go to Elrond, appraising in a sort of slant she doesn’t quite like, as he thinks this a private conversation. Rhaenyra is still surprised at how there’s a spike of something in her chest — that telltale throw of possessiveness, that thrill of secrecy (Elrond had taken to High Valyrian with enviable efficiency, after all). A rather draconic tendency of protectiveness, not unlike the way Syrax is of her. Daemon is an unpredictability, and once, once she was drawn to his chaos before she had come into the ownership of her own. Once, she thought the only way to withstand the withering felt within this court was to burn brightly alongside him. She thought, one day, that they would burn together; that she needed him, an inexplicable draw towards tradition and fire as the only path to surviving duty and yet. Yet here she stood, on a different path, and no less sure. Fire undiminished, within the safety of immortal hands. Left to flourish.
She realizes now, that this isn’t some unresolved beast anymore, between her and Daemon. And that she was far from the girl left at the pleasure house. She loves him, of course, in the way of blood, and had missed him in some regard and mourns the loss of her cousin with him but when he asks her that, if she is happy, her answer is simple, and without a second thought. I am, uncle.
His eyes drop to the glimmer of the Elessar, green and bright and contrasting sharply against the Targaryen reds and blacks of her dress. Her chin is held high and proud and he holds her gaze. The moment passes, some concession given and taken with a nod, an implication of closure that makes Rhaenyra breathe a sigh of relief — a minute gesture as her posture eases, as the hardness of her gaze lessens.
They speak a little longer, the tension ebbing away into something more familiar. He tells her a little of Pentos, and of his girls, and she speaks of the journey she and Elrond soon plan to take to Middle Earth until it lulls into a respectable end. No small surprise, to see how much they’ve seemed to change. No small relief. Shockingly, she would even say fatherhood had done him well — his girls stand a reflection of both their parentage. She promises an egg to offer Rhaena, should Syrax bring a clutch.
There is a part of him that remains unconvinced of her husband, she knows. Can only guess at what issue he might find within but if there are thoughts on it, he remarkably holds his tongue. Perhaps now is not the day.
It isn’t long after that that Viserys departs (her mother’s name on his breath rather than Alicent’s) and Rhaenyra gravitates back to Elrond’s side. She slips her arm through his with a long sigh and wishes, selfishly, to leave.
When she speaks again, it’s in Sindarin, mellow and low, in testament to her growing understanding — longer lessons held in preparation for their departure, on her insistence. ) A long night is coming to an end, my love.
( Their journey is but a day away. Preparations had been in full swing, at the cost of her nerves, mind occupied with far too many things. The evening troubles her. Her eyes find Rhaenys and Corlys across the way. She’d found the Princess earlier that night and held her hand tightly, softer edges ebbing into the set of her eyes (Elrond all to blame).
Her gaze drifts somewhat slowly across to Alicent, and to Larys Strong standing besides, but does not linger. Stiffly: ) We should retire early; we’ve a longer journey ahead of us still.
— i still get the dreams and the feeling of doom
The height of her anxiety crests in the gathering afterwards, as the truth of such a tragedy lingers — it is a loss she is keenly familiar with, her mother gone the same way and childbirth again reminded as a cruelty. Though if she were honest, it isn’t grief that drives her stomach to knots (no, the grief is cold, in congruence to the ocean chill) — it was her uncle.
She wondered, from time to time, what it would be like to see him again, after all the complexities left behind them, from the near decade gone by. She had missed him, to a unique extent (had she missed him, or the unruly fires of youth that he’d careened along with him, all wild and all dragon? untouched by time where her father wasted away, embers doused so thoroughly that she wasn’t sure they were there these days at all).
Perhaps that nostalgia would have left a different aftertaste, if her current marriage had been kept to politics alone. As it happens — Elrond had changed everything. Had carved some hold into her soul, like spindling roots and made it sing; something still theirs, amidst (or in spite) of all the duty and expectation still awaiting. A rarity within their realm, it felt like. An envy, Elrond had called it and while it had been said in half jest, the other half was truth, felt in all the ways Alicent’s eyes lingered. In the prodding questions and the levied accusation once more tossed out in evident hurt (why is it that you always get what you want?).
Still, her eyes meet Daemon’s across the balcony a few times, split between moments of condolences shared between many until they find themselves standing across one another. She hadn’t noticed, who had drifted to whom, as her elbows lean against the stone, and look down to the water. She can see Laenor from here, though she averts her gaze to give privacy to his grief, and as she does, it is Daemon’s face she finds.
I’m sorry, she says, thinking of Laena. Of his children. And of him. Evening crests, and all is somber. They stand barely knowing a single thing about the years between, ignorant to each.
And what of you, Rhaenyra? Are you happy? he asks in High Valyrian, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes go to Elrond, appraising in a sort of slant she doesn’t quite like, as he thinks this a private conversation. Rhaenyra is still surprised at how there’s a spike of something in her chest — that telltale throw of possessiveness, that thrill of secrecy (Elrond had taken to High Valyrian with enviable efficiency, after all). A rather draconic tendency of protectiveness, not unlike the way Syrax is of her. Daemon is an unpredictability, and once, once she was drawn to his chaos before she had come into the ownership of her own. Once, she thought the only way to withstand the withering felt within this court was to burn brightly alongside him. She thought, one day, that they would burn together; that she needed him, an inexplicable draw towards tradition and fire as the only path to surviving duty and yet. Yet here she stood, on a different path, and no less sure. Fire undiminished, within the safety of immortal hands. Left to flourish.
She realizes now, that this isn’t some unresolved beast anymore, between her and Daemon. And that she was far from the girl left at the pleasure house. She loves him, of course, in the way of blood, and had missed him in some regard and mourns the loss of her cousin with him but when he asks her that, if she is happy, her answer is simple, and without a second thought. I am, uncle.
His eyes drop to the glimmer of the Elessar, green and bright and contrasting sharply against the Targaryen reds and blacks of her dress. Her chin is held high and proud and he holds her gaze. The moment passes, some concession given and taken with a nod, an implication of closure that makes Rhaenyra breathe a sigh of relief — a minute gesture as her posture eases, as the hardness of her gaze lessens.
They speak a little longer, the tension ebbing away into something more familiar. He tells her a little of Pentos, and of his girls, and she speaks of the journey she and Elrond soon plan to take to Middle Earth until it lulls into a respectable end. No small surprise, to see how much they’ve seemed to change. No small relief. Shockingly, she would even say fatherhood had done him well — his girls stand a reflection of both their parentage. She promises an egg to offer Rhaena, should Syrax bring a clutch.
There is a part of him that remains unconvinced of her husband, she knows. Can only guess at what issue he might find within but if there are thoughts on it, he remarkably holds his tongue. Perhaps now is not the day.
It isn’t long after that that Viserys departs (her mother’s name on his breath rather than Alicent’s) and Rhaenyra gravitates back to Elrond’s side. She slips her arm through his with a long sigh and wishes, selfishly, to leave.
When she speaks again, it’s in Sindarin, mellow and low, in testament to her growing understanding — longer lessons held in preparation for their departure, on her insistence. ) A long night is coming to an end, my love.
( Their journey is but a day away. Preparations had been in full swing, at the cost of her nerves, mind occupied with far too many things. The evening troubles her. Her eyes find Rhaenys and Corlys across the way. She’d found the Princess earlier that night and held her hand tightly, softer edges ebbing into the set of her eyes (Elrond all to blame).
Her gaze drifts somewhat slowly across to Alicent, and to Larys Strong standing besides, but does not linger. Stiffly: ) We should retire early; we’ve a longer journey ahead of us still.