[ He notices that early on, in the few interactions they have long before they are ever betrothed: She is a lonely girl, made that way by the expectations placed upon her, the untouchability of her bloodline, the many responsibilities shouldered by her father. It is not for that reason that he is kind to her — kindness is a thing meant to be shared freely, not doled out to those deemed deserving — but it informs the decisions he makes as to how to approach their lives now that they are intertwined. He does not want her to think him craven, to believe that he would not treat her the same way (feel the same way) were her position any different.
It is his duty as her husband to cherish her, yes, but to do something out of want rather than out of duty — the chasm between the two principles is near unbridgeable.
He sees the way she regards him now and he thinks that this would be enough — to have her know that she is not alone, that his care for her would remain the same even if their lives were to amount to little else, even if House Targaryen should fall in some manner, that he would do everything in his power to ensure her safety. (That is what all wish to know, is it not? That there might be one other soul upon this earth that would feel differently should one depart from it.)
But coherent thoughts melt away at mere proximity, leaving behind only sensation — the warmth of her hand upon his chest, the soft brush of her breath. Silence, then, as he closes the gap between them, his lips pressing against hers (almost just against the corner of her mouth) in a chaste kiss.
It's as much shyness as it is a willful decision to take things slowly, given the nature of their union in the first place. They are to spend the rest of their lives together (her life, at least, though he chooses not to think in such a manner for the immediate moment), they have a little time, gods willing, to figure things out, and he would not have something he deems so precious put at any risk by too unruly an impulse. ]
I think I have been quite remiss, [ he begins to say, as he draws back by just a fraction, his eyes finding hers again, ] in not saying often enough just how lovely you are, though I fear that word does not suffice in doing you justice.
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It is his duty as her husband to cherish her, yes, but to do something out of want rather than out of duty — the chasm between the two principles is near unbridgeable.
He sees the way she regards him now and he thinks that this would be enough — to have her know that she is not alone, that his care for her would remain the same even if their lives were to amount to little else, even if House Targaryen should fall in some manner, that he would do everything in his power to ensure her safety. (That is what all wish to know, is it not? That there might be one other soul upon this earth that would feel differently should one depart from it.)
But coherent thoughts melt away at mere proximity, leaving behind only sensation — the warmth of her hand upon his chest, the soft brush of her breath. Silence, then, as he closes the gap between them, his lips pressing against hers (almost just against the corner of her mouth) in a chaste kiss.
It's as much shyness as it is a willful decision to take things slowly, given the nature of their union in the first place. They are to spend the rest of their lives together (her life, at least, though he chooses not to think in such a manner for the immediate moment), they have a little time, gods willing, to figure things out, and he would not have something he deems so precious put at any risk by too unruly an impulse. ]
I think I have been quite remiss, [ he begins to say, as he draws back by just a fraction, his eyes finding hers again, ] in not saying often enough just how lovely you are, though I fear that word does not suffice in doing you justice.