( trust for trust is a precious thing, one she doesn’t quite fully grasp the yearning for until she is met with it, some slowly blooming thing — like a seedling, planted in a courtyard far from its home with the hopes of rooting.
there is besides that, a hope that the tunnels may only ever be needed for the small sorts of secrecy — curiosities tucked away, whispers overheard. that they may not need be used as means of fast escape, though the option always lingers as a quiet sort of beast and she feels all the better in knowing him enlightened to them now.
she hums, fingers idly passing along the hardened wax of slowly flickering candlelight, warmth cast from the multitudes of small flames; a brief and odd comfort, dragons running hot. )
That is not inaccurate. There was ambition and turmoil. Plenty of it, ( her lineage, however young in westeros, was tumultuous, and written more in blood than ink. even the relative peace now, coveted as such by the current king, was a youthful thing. )
But — ( a pause, as she considers what she might say. the candlelight flits and breathes, and cast shadows upon the remnants of what balerion used to be. she does not remember him, had no chance of doing so. at times, she wonders just how colossal he was.
the idea that we control dragons is an illusion, viserys had told her and it rings in her mind now. ) — within our bloodline, there was said to be another gift, other than whatever allows us our bonds.
( bonds had always felt more an apt reference; it is the only way she can describe what it between her and syrax; or what is shared between daemon and caraxes or rhaenys and meleys. but she would never go far enough to call it obedience.
the power is felt beneath her hands, every time it passes along syrax’s scales; a curious thing that feels like a singing in her blood. the potential for how much a dragon might do; how the conquest was won with their riders, creatures of war more than peace and therein lied a curious balance that she hadn’t thought long on yet.
was that what viserys saw? was that why, since balerion’s quiet passing, he had not made a new claim? )
The gift of dreams. It is rare, from what I understand — I certainly do not posses it. My father wishes he did, but — I do not know. An ancestor of mine predicted Valyria’s fall, allowing our bloodline to survive.
( some things are unclear, while others live on in stories and whatever books are left; no doubt most information was swallowed by the great flames of the Doom. )
When Aegon conquered Westeros, when he united the Seven Kingdoms under his name — it was as much ambition as it was his prophecy. The Conqueror’s Dream. Passed down from King to heir since the Iron Throne’s creation.
( she stops, slowly turning to consider him; in idle passing — hardly relevant, and yet such a detail she notices — it is poetic in some way, that he wears westerosi fashion in this moment (though she prefers the whimsy of the silver silk).
she approaches, guided back towards him like an anchor. her voice is low, near reverent in the cavernous space around them, and her eyes rise instead to the skull again. ) He foresaw a great danger, coming from the North, one that could bring with it the end of the world of men. One that must be met with a united Kingdom, under the Targaryen name. A king or queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold, and the dark.
He called it the Song of Ice and Fire. ( she repeats, just as what viserys had told her, nearly the first thing after her mother’s death and is sure to hold elrond’s gaze now, as though to instill the gravity with which she shares this. ) My father believes in it. As did his fathers. And it is a duty I cannot take lightly, no matter how I might chafe at it.
( it is only a moment before attention falls down, back to her hands, back to the rings — and twists, at the one that glitters and shines otherworldly in the low light. ) I share with you a burden, and for that, you have my apology, Elrond.
( she realizes that this decision would not be entirely approved by viserys — tradition is deeply set within their line; but if rhaenyra is to take the crown — as is so far intended — then is it not for her to decide what she shares with one whose fate is so closely intertwined with hers? one whose wisdom exceeds the centuries of theirs? )
no subject
there is besides that, a hope that the tunnels may only ever be needed for the small sorts of secrecy — curiosities tucked away, whispers overheard. that they may not need be used as means of fast escape, though the option always lingers as a quiet sort of beast and she feels all the better in knowing him enlightened to them now.
she hums, fingers idly passing along the hardened wax of slowly flickering candlelight, warmth cast from the multitudes of small flames; a brief and odd comfort, dragons running hot. )
That is not inaccurate. There was ambition and turmoil. Plenty of it, ( her lineage, however young in westeros, was tumultuous, and written more in blood than ink. even the relative peace now, coveted as such by the current king, was a youthful thing. )
But — ( a pause, as she considers what she might say. the candlelight flits and breathes, and cast shadows upon the remnants of what balerion used to be. she does not remember him, had no chance of doing so. at times, she wonders just how colossal he was.
the idea that we control dragons is an illusion, viserys had told her and it rings in her mind now. ) — within our bloodline, there was said to be another gift, other than whatever allows us our bonds.
( bonds had always felt more an apt reference; it is the only way she can describe what it between her and syrax; or what is shared between daemon and caraxes or rhaenys and meleys. but she would never go far enough to call it obedience.
the power is felt beneath her hands, every time it passes along syrax’s scales; a curious thing that feels like a singing in her blood. the potential for how much a dragon might do; how the conquest was won with their riders, creatures of war more than peace and therein lied a curious balance that she hadn’t thought long on yet.
was that what viserys saw? was that why, since balerion’s quiet passing, he had not made a new claim? )
The gift of dreams. It is rare, from what I understand — I certainly do not posses it. My father wishes he did, but — I do not know. An ancestor of mine predicted Valyria’s fall, allowing our bloodline to survive.
( some things are unclear, while others live on in stories and whatever books are left; no doubt most information was swallowed by the great flames of the Doom. )
When Aegon conquered Westeros, when he united the Seven Kingdoms under his name — it was as much ambition as it was his prophecy. The Conqueror’s Dream. Passed down from King to heir since the Iron Throne’s creation.
( she stops, slowly turning to consider him; in idle passing — hardly relevant, and yet such a detail she notices — it is poetic in some way, that he wears westerosi fashion in this moment (though she prefers the whimsy of the silver silk).
she approaches, guided back towards him like an anchor. her voice is low, near reverent in the cavernous space around them, and her eyes rise instead to the skull again. ) He foresaw a great danger, coming from the North, one that could bring with it the end of the world of men. One that must be met with a united Kingdom, under the Targaryen name. A king or queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold, and the dark.
He called it the Song of Ice and Fire. ( she repeats, just as what viserys had told her, nearly the first thing after her mother’s death and is sure to hold elrond’s gaze now, as though to instill the gravity with which she shares this. ) My father believes in it. As did his fathers. And it is a duty I cannot take lightly, no matter how I might chafe at it.
( it is only a moment before attention falls down, back to her hands, back to the rings — and twists, at the one that glitters and shines otherworldly in the low light. ) I share with you a burden, and for that, you have my apology, Elrond.
( she realizes that this decision would not be entirely approved by viserys — tradition is deeply set within their line; but if rhaenyra is to take the crown — as is so far intended — then is it not for her to decide what she shares with one whose fate is so closely intertwined with hers? one whose wisdom exceeds the centuries of theirs? )