— something new begins to take

[ziryla]

— I need my golden crown of sorrow, my bloody sword to swing; I need my empty halls to echo with grand self-mythology —

( a little place for our feral little hearts. )

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[ziryla]

( perhaps it is a rather optimistic thought — or a bold one — but she thinks she minds it less, that she is such a predictability to him. in some ways, that is the way it would need to be, if he is to be a partner of any sort, navigating the unruly seas that await them.

the truth was, her obligation to be unknowable was a habit of her court; of westeros, and king's landing and the greens, even if they had not grown so terribly bold yet (cannot ignore the potential). there was enough that was said about her already — from realm's delight to less than complementary insults — and that was hardly a thing she could control. it was the rest that had need to be a tightly buttoned up coat, like armor. (though it was impossible, from time to time, to not wonder what sort of ruler she would even be).

but that was politics. this — this may be too, but if it is to be theirs to shape, as they'd mutually agreed, then there should be as little of it as possible within the spaces between them, for as much a time as they could get. a part of her understands, as soon as their ship docks upon the shores of westeros, some things will be inevitable.

so why not enjoy whatever these moments were contrived to be? her smile is one of relief. ) Good.

( an expression that turns upwards in a near grin. ) Would you now?

If you must know, I did have a fine collection of points to raise. ( said mainly in coy humor though it isn't without its honesty. she had considered just what sort of arguments she would bring, had the request been denied. there were quite a few points to be told, including ostensibly pointing out that letting go of his herald of high standing was coming across as an easier decision than parting with a seedling; more to the point, any should be entitled to the smallest comforts of home and thirdly — would he not wish to embody their alliance through such a history? a chance for symbol, alongside their Weirwood. But as it were, there's no need to bring any of that up and she's none too glad for it. little need for verbal sparring so early into the union of their houses. still: ) That is high praise indeed. ( a look over to him, smile reaching her eyes. ) But — I am relieved we will not need to find out the truth of it.

( besides, it would interrupt their going to meet galadriel — which she finds far more preferrable. )

[osanwe]

[ It is a sort of blessing to find such moments of humor and relief on a night that he had expected would only bring heavy contemplation for the both of them — that they have found themselves kindred spirits, to some degree, like a thread of color shared between two tapestries, is a lucky thing. She smiles, and it brings relief to his expression, an ease that belies the context around them.

Gil-galad would have found such an argument maddening to entertain, he's sure — he has ever been an even-handed king, but there are limits to the Elves' tolerance toward those not of their kin, particularly when it comes to the idea that one might know better than the other. But yes, it is for the best that it has not come to that. Best that the day of their wedding be an occasion for celebration alone rather than any conflict between them already. ]

It is not high praise if it is well-earned, [ he says, with a slight arch of his brow.

In the next moment, his gaze travels from her to a figure behind them, and he bows his head briefly in greeting before meeting Rhaenyra's eyes again. ]

It seems introductions are to be made. [ He nods over Rhaenyra's shoulder, indicating for her to look. Not too far from them, Lady Galadriel approaches, a gown of silver shimmering about her frame, like a veil of light as she nears them. It almost seems like second nature, the way that Elrond takes Rhaenyra's hand, leading her to meet exchange greetings.

Galadriel smiles, curious and gracious in equal measure, though the former manifests, strangely enough, like a sort of surety, as though she knew the answers to the questions she asks already. She bears a gift for the new bride, as Elrond has promised: a green jewel, placed within silver, one that she passes to Rhaenyra with a knowing look to Elrond, who seems almost surprised to see it. For you, my dear, the Elessar, she says, pressing the brooch into her palm. May it keep you safe, and keep all things around you fair.

Later in the night, Elrond offers an explanation, though they are interrupted by well-wishers. The rest of the night passes in a similar fashion, the revelry continuing long into the evening, for all intents and purposes a celebration rather than just a contract made. ]