( where elves married for love, rhaenyra had seen marriage as politics. a tool to further a kingdom, to bolster an alliance, unions made for something other, as those bound to duty did not have the luxury for much else. (she does not realize yet, however, that such a union for elves is wholly singular).
in some ways, nearly everything about their budding partnership defied her expectations rather quickly. right from their quiet promises, made in the glades of lindon trees, of choices and freedoms tucked away under the nose of duty. to the ritual of the seedling in their courtyard, and all the small habits that had formed their way around them. to the secrets and histories they shares. to how she came to care for him far more deeply than she thought she would (in part, perhaps she expected friendship. that it so seamlessly become something else was without thought, all heart).
she thinks she sees it in the smallest moments, too. conversations shared late into the night, lessons concluded. in how they seem to find each other, glances held across rooms in a way that makes it seem like he is the only one there and how they drift to one another without trying, ending up side by side by the end of a social evening with notable consistency. he inspires her, often in infuriating ways, to be better.
in how easy it is to lean closer to say something in low confidence, and laugh about something shared only between them and she finds, serendipitously, that she rather likes the sound of his laugh. the airy hitch of breath, and how she can tell the honesty of his smile by how it reaches his eyes (or how it doesn't, when it is perfunctory). he occupies more and more of her thoughts and she notices his absences when they are apart and it is that latter point that strikes her most curious, if not outright embarrassing.
(a darker part of her rolls closer to a possessiveness that she has little claim to, when she catches the glaring look otto throws him across the room. its intermixed with a thrilled satisfaction if she catches something that looks like uncertainty in otto’s face instead, when viserys’s laughter is loud to what elrond tells him. but she knows, in some way, it paints a target.
because, while love itself is no weakness, and can create bonds stronger than any steel or stone, she knows somewhere deep down that elrond is becoming a way to reach her, should one be just desperate enough to. it isn’t entirely rational. she knows elrond is more than capable. )
but — back to point, love is hardly rational. was this inevitable? in some ways, the same way it could have never been predicted. affection born from arranged union isn't unheard of, of course, but hatred and comtempt are born in equal measure. that rhaenyra still hesitates to give whatever buds in her heart a name is attempted restraint.
the lesson had lulled to a natural conclusion as night settled more surely beyond, candlelight a flicker across an array of pages, and she had taken another moment to try and memorize - if not outright admire - the elegant curves of the drying ink.
when his fingers brush her cheek, tucking errant hair back into place, it has her turning to look. it is rather girlish, in how her heart drums faster from something that she would not describe as overly bold at all. she is aware, pinpricks on skin, of how close they’ve gotten throughout the evening, knees nearly knocking together as she shifts.
too bold, he says. you could be bolder, she wants to smart.
instead, she watches him — the set of his eyes, to the sharpness of his cheeks and the gentle curve of his mouth. a small smile pulls on hers, somewhat wry: ) Would it be strange of me to admit the same, then? ( is the hushed response. she thinks she notes a vulnerability to the way he looks at her. she isn’t sure anyone’s ever looked at her like that before. )
no subject
in some ways, nearly everything about their budding partnership defied her expectations rather quickly. right from their quiet promises, made in the glades of lindon trees, of choices and freedoms tucked away under the nose of duty. to the ritual of the seedling in their courtyard, and all the small habits that had formed their way around them. to the secrets and histories they shares. to how she came to care for him far more deeply than she thought she would (in part, perhaps she expected friendship. that it so seamlessly become something else was without thought, all heart).
she thinks she sees it in the smallest moments, too. conversations shared late into the night, lessons concluded. in how they seem to find each other, glances held across rooms in a way that makes it seem like he is the only one there and how they drift to one another without trying, ending up side by side by the end of a social evening with notable consistency. he inspires her, often in infuriating ways, to be better.
in how easy it is to lean closer to say something in low confidence, and laugh about something shared only between them and she finds, serendipitously, that she rather likes the sound of his laugh. the airy hitch of breath, and how she can tell the honesty of his smile by how it reaches his eyes (or how it doesn't, when it is perfunctory). he occupies more and more of her thoughts and she notices his absences when they are apart and it is that latter point that strikes her most curious, if not outright embarrassing.
(a darker part of her rolls closer to a possessiveness that she has little claim to, when she catches the glaring look otto throws him across the room. its intermixed with a thrilled satisfaction if she catches something that looks like uncertainty in otto’s face instead, when viserys’s laughter is loud to what elrond tells him. but she knows, in some way, it paints a target.
because, while love itself is no weakness, and can create bonds stronger than any steel or stone, she knows somewhere deep down that elrond is becoming a way to reach her, should one be just desperate enough to. it isn’t entirely rational. she knows elrond is more than capable. )
but — back to point, love is hardly rational. was this inevitable? in some ways, the same way it could have never been predicted. affection born from arranged union isn't unheard of, of course, but hatred and comtempt are born in equal measure. that rhaenyra still hesitates to give whatever buds in her heart a name is attempted restraint.
the lesson had lulled to a natural conclusion as night settled more surely beyond, candlelight a flicker across an array of pages, and she had taken another moment to try and memorize - if not outright admire - the elegant curves of the drying ink.
when his fingers brush her cheek, tucking errant hair back into place, it has her turning to look. it is rather girlish, in how her heart drums faster from something that she would not describe as overly bold at all. she is aware, pinpricks on skin, of how close they’ve gotten throughout the evening, knees nearly knocking together as she shifts.
too bold, he says. you could be bolder, she wants to smart.
instead, she watches him — the set of his eyes, to the sharpness of his cheeks and the gentle curve of his mouth. a small smile pulls on hers, somewhat wry: ) Would it be strange of me to admit the same, then? ( is the hushed response. she thinks she notes a vulnerability to the way he looks at her. she isn’t sure anyone’s ever looked at her like that before. )