[ For better or for worse, Elrond has seen too many years to think that their return (and arrival, in his case) to King's Landing will mean lasting peace. Their marriage is a solution to one problem that births two others in turn. It solves the problem of finding a lord to take Rhaenyra's hand, and though he is certain both Gil-galad and Viserys would like it to solve the problem of an uncertain succession as well, that is not an issue that is so easily brooked, not least by her marriage to an outsider.
Indeed, his impression of the fact is only strengthened on the journey that bears them from Lindon and back to Westeros. She tells him of her father's court, fills him in on details that would not have been entirely pertinent to his position as herald to the High King, and there are enough thorns amidst all the flowers for him to feel a certain cautiousness even as they disembark. The fate of House Strong is not something to be taken lightly, nor Otto Hightower's fairly mercenary view of his daughter's fate. (Nor Daemon, for that matter, though that is a separate matter entirely.)
But the journey itself is a pleasant one, otherwise. As they stand upon the deck of the ship, shoulders brushing, he lays his hand upon hers on the rail, gently enough that she could pull away without too much fuss should she feel it too forward or bold a gesture. That she doesn't is a small blessing.
There is some comfort, too, in the act of planting the Lindon tree. As Rhaenyra had suggested, they place it in the courtyard with the Weirwood tree, not so close by as to crowd it, but near enough to complement it. There are servants to tend the grounds, but he still visits it near daily. It will be years before it is anything more than a sprout, but it is the ritual, he supposes, that he values, as well as the symbolism inherent in the two trees.
What is strangest, in those few months before Otto Hightower sets his plans into motion, is determining the shape and scope of his responsibilities — he has no official role here, not in any material way, and likely will remain so until either Rhaenyra's ascension occurs, or some significant shift takes place in the Small Council (not, in other words, an event he necessarily expects to happen with any haste). So he contents himself with studying what he can of his new wife's realm's history, of High Valyrian (and he keeps his promise to teach her the language of his kin), as well as establishing correspondence with a few of the friends he's left behind. He writes to the High King as well, though with less frequency, for lack of news to convey.
It is in such study that Rhaenyra finds him, now, though his attention is already upon the door by the time she bursts in, her footsteps an ample alert as to her approach. His expression is, accordingly, one of concern, only deepening as he sees the look upon her face. (He would not necessarily describe her as patient, but she is not someone he would say was easily driven to such frustration, either.) He rises from his desk in the rooms they keep together, moving quickly to her side. (His robes are of Westerosi custom — he still wears some of the clothes he'd brought with him, but, for the moment at least, assimilation seems a more helpful tactic.) ]
How so?
[ He asks, even as he has some idea as to the answer. His ears are sharper than most — what whispers have been circling through the castle are not totally foreign to him. He had not thought any of them would make their way into the light, not really — the marriage had been arranged by the two kings, after all, not by Rhaenyra's will, thereby making any challenge to the match more difficult, but a drowning man will make no distinction between a piece of driftwood and a ship.
(And perhaps he had been too generous in his characterization of the Greens. He knows there is a limit to what danger will be posed to him directly — whatever harm comes to him will have an immediate effect in the realm's relations with the Elves — but it will do him no good to be complacent.) ]
no subject
Indeed, his impression of the fact is only strengthened on the journey that bears them from Lindon and back to Westeros. She tells him of her father's court, fills him in on details that would not have been entirely pertinent to his position as herald to the High King, and there are enough thorns amidst all the flowers for him to feel a certain cautiousness even as they disembark. The fate of House Strong is not something to be taken lightly, nor Otto Hightower's fairly mercenary view of his daughter's fate. (Nor Daemon, for that matter, though that is a separate matter entirely.)
But the journey itself is a pleasant one, otherwise. As they stand upon the deck of the ship, shoulders brushing, he lays his hand upon hers on the rail, gently enough that she could pull away without too much fuss should she feel it too forward or bold a gesture. That she doesn't is a small blessing.
There is some comfort, too, in the act of planting the Lindon tree. As Rhaenyra had suggested, they place it in the courtyard with the Weirwood tree, not so close by as to crowd it, but near enough to complement it. There are servants to tend the grounds, but he still visits it near daily. It will be years before it is anything more than a sprout, but it is the ritual, he supposes, that he values, as well as the symbolism inherent in the two trees.
What is strangest, in those few months before Otto Hightower sets his plans into motion, is determining the shape and scope of his responsibilities — he has no official role here, not in any material way, and likely will remain so until either Rhaenyra's ascension occurs, or some significant shift takes place in the Small Council (not, in other words, an event he necessarily expects to happen with any haste). So he contents himself with studying what he can of his new wife's realm's history, of High Valyrian (and he keeps his promise to teach her the language of his kin), as well as establishing correspondence with a few of the friends he's left behind. He writes to the High King as well, though with less frequency, for lack of news to convey.
It is in such study that Rhaenyra finds him, now, though his attention is already upon the door by the time she bursts in, her footsteps an ample alert as to her approach. His expression is, accordingly, one of concern, only deepening as he sees the look upon her face. (He would not necessarily describe her as patient, but she is not someone he would say was easily driven to such frustration, either.) He rises from his desk in the rooms they keep together, moving quickly to her side. (His robes are of Westerosi custom — he still wears some of the clothes he'd brought with him, but, for the moment at least, assimilation seems a more helpful tactic.) ]
How so?
[ He asks, even as he has some idea as to the answer. His ears are sharper than most — what whispers have been circling through the castle are not totally foreign to him. He had not thought any of them would make their way into the light, not really — the marriage had been arranged by the two kings, after all, not by Rhaenyra's will, thereby making any challenge to the match more difficult, but a drowning man will make no distinction between a piece of driftwood and a ship.
(And perhaps he had been too generous in his characterization of the Greens. He knows there is a limit to what danger will be posed to him directly — whatever harm comes to him will have an immediate effect in the realm's relations with the Elves — but it will do him no good to be complacent.) ]