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— something new begins to take
— 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. )
— 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. )
no subject
I think it did, once, [ he answers, at length, though the way he looks at her now is almost searching, as though she might be able to tell him if he's on the right or wrong path. To know that he looks upon his father when he casts his gaze into the night sky, to know that his mother once held a Silmaril, to be so closely connected to the Valar — these are not weightless things, not as intangible as memories usually are.
(It costs him nothing to recount this later to her father, and he does so freely and willingly, finding ample reward in the King's interest and a sense of friendship as one talk begets another, two histories shared piece by piece as the great model in Viserys' chambers slowly comes together.) ]
But, now, and in these recent years, I think my desires and ambitions have not grown out of a sense of matching them, of that my name is remembered, so much as as honoring their intentions, and doing what is best for my people. For our people.
[ He does not doubt that his parents had loved him and his brother dearly — and he had heard that they had feared them lost following the attack upon the Havens of Sirion — but they had left them, in the end, for the sake of the greater good, for duty. He cannot fault them that choice — he would have done the same. Should have. But that knowledge does not totally ease the pain of parting.
He knows, too, that such feelings often breed resentment, given their place at the uneasy crux between what can rationally be seen to be right and what one wishes had happened instead. However, he does not grant that feeling any fertile ground upon which to breed — he knows better, and it is better to love them from afar, to miss them, than to hate them without any true purpose. ]
I believe that is the most one can aspire to, [ he adds, as a sort of cap to his point. ] Ambition is not always a flaw, but to want too much, and too greedily, is a danger that often does not reap rewards, and can corrupt the heart of an endeavor that was once pure in intention.
[ And besides, he has seen too many men fall to ambition's sword, not least the fall of his brother's former domain (and, further afield, Morgoth and his followers). He had felt anguish, then, at the news of the city's fall, though there had been some small comfort in the escape of Elendil and his company.
His focus, formerly a little hazy as he'd recounted his family's history, turns back to Rhaenyra, now, studying her expression as he considers that the question she poses is one that applies to her as well. She comes from a storied house, and the burden placed upon her as heir, especially in a realm so unwilling to accept a woman in a position of power and influence, is one he knows to be heavy to bear. Still, he asks: ]
And what of you, Rhaenyra? You were still but a child, when your father named you heir, and even before then, you bore the weight of your family's name.
no subject
these are noble paths he speaks of, actions that saved worlds, outsmarted evils and preserved all that was beautiful and good in the world. an influence reflected, she thinks, in all that he is.
but the grandeur of his parentage is at the cost, she notes at the implication, of leaving their sons to an unknowable, cruel fate. a lesser of two evils does not change the truth of it; and while she imagines it was driven by duty, it is that fact in itself that speaks of its chains. that those who carry power are destined to be beholden to it — that the good of the many must outweigh the few, even if it was their own children.
that he has remained kind, and good, even if it left pain in the wake of it, that all he can claim is ambition (one that lacks a poison more frequently seen in the realms of men, she thinks) speaks more and more on his true nature. she sees no anger in him, as he recounts it. could she have ever sworn to do the same? or would she have let that beast fester and grow?
she certainly had allowed it to already, with alicent. love and hate are so closely bound, after all, and she cannot think — or look — at her once friend with anything but pain. hurt that never healed. perhaps that is the burden, that is the result of resentment grown. )
If only more shared your outlook. ( is said, with a subtle fondness. ) And yet, it is a rare thing.
Weak hearts are more common here, I’m afraid. ( ambition, greed, survival. she wonders, what he thinks when he looks to the seven kingdoms. there are noble houses, yes; ones that are known to keep their word once it is given, like the starks. but there are those driven by less virtuous desires. the peace that viserys tries to shepherd doesn’t erase such things. a good nature does not a weak man make, but sometimes she wonders at him — she navigates to less dreary thoughts.
though one thought still sticks with her — elrond has no kin, not in middle-earth. his parents are skyward, present in ways unfathomable to mortality. and his brother — a legacy buried under a great sea. gently: ) I would have liked to have met them.
( she realizes, when the silence settles back until he breaks it with a question to her, how badly she wants to tell him. the truth, the full extent of it, to not bare it alone. to not think about the cost of peace weighed against the conflict her inheritance creates. to wonder if he would have more wisdom in it than she could ever know. she did not think she would ever be in a position to desire shared honesty so strongly.
he was forthright with her, had trusted her to carry this and it is a simple thing, to think of doing the same.
her voice is quiet, but before long, the words tumble out like from an overflowing glass. ) There are days, where I think I want it. My inheritance.
But — ( a shrug, smile dry. ) There are days when I think — if my brother had survived for more than a handful of breaths, that things would be simpler. ( the brother her mother bore. not alicent's children. those she could not bare to call her siblings. )
My father named me to spurn his brother — Daemon. Viserys may deny it, may stand by his claim now, but I know it to be true. I know I was not named, at the heart, out of his belief in my capacity for it. The Realm must stay united and yet — it may divide instead.
( she looks to him now, realizes she spilled more heart to it than perhaps was asked. Her eyes travel to the walls of their quarters. and there was more still. ) If we are to bare the weight of legacies, let us not do it alone. ( it’s a bold statement, filled to the brim with assumption that she must risk, and can only hope elrond agrees. though when she says the next aloud, her intention is two-fold. it was high time for Elrond to know of the secret passages, too. ) I’ve something to show you. And to share.
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He had heard, naturally, a little about the matter of Rhaenyra's naming as heir, given his former position as the High King's herald, and now as Rhaenyra's husband. Even though he is a little more reluctant to acknowledge that Viserys' motives may have had more to do with his feelings toward his brother than about his daughter's eventual ability to rule, it is not a point he seeks to argue with her, and one he fully understands in how it has shaped her sentiments today.
It is not easy to bear such responsibility, let alone for a reason that one does not perceive to be genuine. And power has a way of fracturing friendships, of twisting love. He wants to ask if she doubts herself, but he thinks the answer is already clear in what she tells him now — of course she would doubt. No matter how much confidence she might have in herself, no matter how willing she might be to push back against the social mores that attempt to close in around her, that feeling would be impossible to truly brook.
(Or, at least, impossible to brook for a heart that would be truly worthy of such a weight. Those who crave power are often those least deserving of it.)
Still, he shakes his head in mild self-deprecation as she notes she wishes more were of his temperament, the expression shifting into one that is almost regretful at her wish that she might have met some of his family. He wishes it, too, now — it is strange, that she will never know those who were once closest to him. He feels lucky, to be able to speak with her father, to have some idea of her family. He supposes that Elendil and his sons are the last true link he has left upon this Earth, descendants of his brother's house, but they're distant from him in a way that doesn't feel quite the same.
But his focus remains sharp upon her in this moment, studying the way the minutiae of her features shift as she speaks of her inheritance. Without thinking, he reaches out, taking her hand. Even if Viserys had not believed in her in that moment, he wants to say, he does. He believes in her ability — a fact that does not preclude the fact that she could just as easily turn into a tyrant or a scourge upon her people. The potential exists in everyone, but to truly grasp it is the difficult part.
His eyebrows raise slightly at her last words — he had expected a sort of end to the conversation, for it to conclude with an affirmation on his part that he does intend to let her walk this path alone. But, he supposes, he ought to have expected that the Targaryens would have other secrets, that there would be some things that the Elves would not know, that they would not have been told. His gaze follows hers to the walls before flickering back to her face as he offers her a nod. ]
I will follow wherever you lead, [ he says simply, the single statement containing several layers of meaning — not just now, but in the days to come, in the years they are to spend together. ]
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and she knows — she knows as she pours her sentiment out and he receives it without any reservation she can see, that she should likely show more restraint.
but there is another side of that coin — the one that sees a more hopeful future, somewhat made easier by his views (no matter how humble he may be in regards to it). one that might mean a steadfast rule. and therefore, a steadfast peace and safety to the realm — new connections that may lead to something greater than she can imagine. but, just as easily — all of that can crumble should not enough caution be taken.
she was not without her flaws and being a worthy heir had not always been at the forefront of consideration, she would admit. she’d spurned tradition, tossed her head at what’s always been, and, in parallel to it, enjoyed the freedoms of being princess that allowed her to behave the way she had until viserys reminded her that would not always be the case. so of course, there was doubt.
and yet, here is someone who’s destiny was bound to hers without real choice, and yet who shares his knowledge and history freely, and who looks at her like he believes in her potential. he, who’s seen so much, and it feels a little surreal. like perhaps, with someone such as him by her side — guiding her, where needed, she may not be lead towards the darker nature targaryen rule.
he reaches out for her hand and she grasps at his, fingers briefly intertwining as she rises. eyes soften, last vestiges of her initial anger ebbing away. a small tug, an ask of him to follow.
and perhaps the next revelations, too, will serve to strengthen what is between them, shedding light to more unknowns. even if at the heart of it, she will ask him to carry a burden.
she moves to a corner of the room, hand passing along the stone wall, engraved and decorated with carved arches and motifs within. ) Firstly —
( she pushes at the central panel, depicting a weaving dragon. it swings open at the pressure, revealing beyond it a tunnel, stone steps winding into the dark; it’s then that she looks back to him, and her expression is one of small thrill — secrecy shared. ) — there is a series of secret passages, built at the time of Maegor’s rule. ( the cruel built them, of course, to make a quick escape, should the tyranny of his rule catch up. as it were, it’s builders were slain to keep such secrecy and to some degree, it was unsurprising that even such a thing was steeped in some blood. rhaenyra’s use of them had not been as malicious, and she’d explored them a little more since the first time she was introduced to them. ) I believe their existence remains to be of limited knowledge. They lead out of the keep, as discreet means of escape, but — they’re interconnected with other chambers.
( she uses the moment to step through, to the other side. when they venture forth, she’ll take a moment to point out where each branch that she knows of leads to — taking care to note the one that will take them to the outer walls of the keep, and down into the city proper.
but — as she ducks out of another arch, it is a different location that they approach — a great chamber and at its heart there stands a great line of candles, old wax dried and forming around the stone, as the flames flicker. balerion’s skull hangs suspended, a great shadow. a reminder to what they were: a symbol of their conquest — and their legacy.
she approaches, slowly. he may have been here before, though the chamber isn’t often frequented. the skull dwarfs them both. ) The Targaryens held the Iron Throne since Aegon’s conquests, nearly a century ago now — ( in some way, she knows its redundant history that she’s repeating. that he’s undoubtedly aware of their history, and of the relative youth of their power in westeros. ) Our blood had survived the fall of Old Valyria, and with that we are said to be closer to gods than men.
It’s not true, of course. ( dragon blood had been a result of blood magic, most records lost to the great fires during the Doom.) Our dragons made us kings. We’re no different from anyone else without them. ( in this, her father's words ring the most true. )
( there’s hesitation, one that seems to belie buying time of her own, an introduction to the true point she wishes to make. she turns to study him. ) What have you heard, of what drove Aegon to conquer Westeros, and unite it into the Seven Kingdoms?
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And so, he offers those he meets his trust, his belief, the chance to share in hope for the future rather than to think it doomed.)
She offers him something similar, now, imparting to him not only the feelings he can only imagine she has had to bottle up over the years but the secrets held by the Red Keep, by her lineage. That is the magic of it, he supposes — when trust begets trust, when belief is met by shared strength rather than poison.
For a while, he is content to listen and follow, simply taking in the breadth of the passages she shows him, quietly putting the pieces together as to their intended function under Maegor's rule as well as their current role, now, as a secret kept by Rhaenyra and, he imagines, precious few others. (It reminds him, a little, of the kingdoms of the Dwarves, of the many winding routes they'd made through the earth, all in search of something more.)
The chamber she finally leads them to, however, gives him pause.
The skull is titanic, of a size that makes imagining the living dragon a terrifying thing. The wavering shapes of candlelight cast upon it only serve to make it more forbidding. The dragons, as they are here, as still somewhat difficult for him to wrap his head around. The bond between dragon and rider is a precious thing, one that he understands better now having seen how Rhaenyra cares for Syrax (and vice versa), but the scale to which the beasts are capable of destruction (and the idea that all of that should hinge on the will of a single soul) is somewhat more complicated.
(For a full day and a full night, his father had battled against Ancalagon the Black. In the morning that had followed, he finally managed to cast the dragon out of the sky.)
To trust in them requires another kind of belief, he supposes — the will to believe that these creatures, bred not for evil as they were during Morgoth's reign, and their riders should understand the power that they wield. It is with this thought in mind that Elrond's gaze falls back to Rhaenyra as she poses a question, one he can tell carries some weight. ]
I understand the decision was preceded by an age of significant turmoil, [ he says carefully, picking back through his memories of Westerosi history. ] Beyond that, I am afraid I have heard precious little, beyond the usual reasons of ambition that drive men to conquer other lands.
[ He hesitates, then, too, aware that he's treading into uncertain ground. ]
Am I to take it that there is more to the story?
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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? )
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He could be wrong, and this might all be wishful thinking on his part, but it isn't, it couldn't be, he thinks, as he looks at the way her expression changes as she tells him of the secrets carried in her family's history. When had she been told of this prophecy, he wonders, how long has she had to carry it?
Prophecy is not an easy burden to bear, much less when it seems to cover such a scope. It's easier to grasp on his side of history, he thinks, as the gods do not feel so removed, as great deeds and heroes are not totally stuff of history long past, but for the kingdom over which she is meant to rule, it can feel nothing if not titanic.
(There's something almost funny, though, in the nature of the great evil that purportedly will encroach upon her world; a thing of ice, of cold, as opposed to the flames that Morgoth and those who followed him had sought to bring upon all in their path. How strange, that the two dooms their people should face should be so opposite in nature.)
She seeks his gaze and he is quick to hold it, a slight furrow in his brow as he attempts to keep his thoughts clear. A great danger, but one that could come now or in centuries, with the only provision being that a Targaryen should hold the throne. ]
No more apologies between us, remember?
[ He smiles slightly, as he reminds her of the private vow they had shared before joining hands. Though he does not say as much in the moment, the burden is one, he thinks, that he had already taken, in some capacity, before she had even told him. To do his best by her, to maintain peace, to act in the interest of the people — is that not, in the end, what the prophecy demands?
His next words come somewhat more cautiously, his expression growing solemn again. ]
Do you believe in it, Rhaenyra?
[ He supposes it is a question of principle, in a way. Does she take this prophecy as a guiding star because the importance her father has impressed upon her, or would it not matter, in her wish to be a good queen? Would she still desire to rule? ]
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The expression that passes along Rhaenyra's face is one of quiet surprise — there's something owlish in the way she looks up at him, as though the question had never occurred to her. )
I must, ( in a tone no higher than a whisper, and it doesn't sound entirely convinced. ) If I do not — ( What is then the point of restraint? )
I must. If Aegon's conquests were a result of ambition alone, why keep this secrecy? If it was simply to inspire fear, and control, why not ensure the masses know of it too? ( A burden of impending doom, carried across heir to heir instead feels precise. Or perhaps it is the skewed perspective of someone who was told, all their lives, that they were destined for such a responsibility. It would be a clever way to ensure their ruling dynasty. And yet — prophecy was no trite idea. It carried weight. )
( Even as she says it, she knows its assumption — that no one can claim to understand the intention of the dead with such long shadows. She can only hope, which felt like a brittle emotion at best.
The truth is simpler — in asking such a question (a fair one, an honest one), Elrond had asked Rhaenyra something no one else has. It hadn't even crossed her mind as an option. The possibility that she may choose for herself — it frightens her. A choice, something she so coveted, but in this, there is another question — if it is hinged on her faith, what if she decides that she owes nothing, to this realm? What if she could simply turn away from the obligation of ruling, new order be damned? Follow her childish desires of far away lands and cakes, on the back of a spoiled she-dragon? Such a freedom is a dangerous thing (does she, in fact, wish to rule?). She swallows it down, this fear, and it catches in the hollow of her throat and she looks down, in an effort to hide it away.
The room — and Balerion — suddenly feels titanic in a much different way; the shadows deepen, severe and sharp, inky black under their feet and words threaten to taste like ash upon the tongue. )
Whether it happens in a month or in the centuries to come, it is a duty I cannot shake. But I am given to wonder now — is a prophecy of a conqueror too fine a thread from which to hang a kingdom? ( She feels like she should be sure; she feels like in the face of such a question, she ought to stand tall and receive it as a future queen might.
So why is there such a desperation to her thoughts? To find a sense to cling to, as though a reminder still, that such inheritance remains unearned? ) I did not consider the possibility of wavering.
( She finds both hands, again, fingers slipping under his palms, thumbs settling along the curve of knuckles. Should she worry, at how much such simple nearness soothes? Willing her voice into more surety: ) It may be selfish, to share this with you, I admit. But — in doing so, I would hope — I would hope to ask something else of you. ( she recalls, in their walk amidst the lindon trees before their ceremony, that he had offered her that gift — should she require anything of him, that she might only ask it.
She knows, not without some degree of guilt that is perilously tamped down, that this will not be the only thing she asks. That whatever requests may come, that they may only grow. Would he remain is giving? ) If there is any truth to this, then I would ask you to grant me your wisdom, Elrond. You speak of gods and heroes and powers far beyond my understanding, and in that, I hope, to have your counsel. ( there is one certainty that remains — he has her trust. Such a thing she did not think any one would hold ever again. )
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She whispers when she next speaks, and his eyes seem briefly to glimmer, a silent acknowledgment of what she has suffered and what now lies before her. He does not flatter himself unduly by thinking that she would never have shared this with anyone else had she married some other lord, nor does he think he is necessarily better equipped to deal with such a thing (even though she might), but he knows, at least, that he would do his utmost for her.
When she takes his hands, he is quick to hold her hands in turn, his fingers wrapping tightly around hers.
(He has never seen her so vulnerable, he thinks, except in flashes. Meeting his gaze when they had been wed; glimpses of it when she had still been a girl; in passing moments between them now as they grow closer. It would be wrong to say that she needs protection, but— it is the matter of loneliness again, he supposes. To live as an island is not an impossibility, but it is a bleak sort of existence, and more can be accomplished through the strength of many, or even just two, than alone.) ]
Not selfish at all, [ he says, his voice certain and clear. ] I would rather you share this with me than bear the weight of it on your own. And even if it should not come to pass in our lifetime, even if it may one day prove to be false, I think what it ultimately demands is perhaps less burdensome.
[ He lets out a huff of laughter, then, aware of how ridiculous what he says next sounds, but hoping that the relative scale of what he means makes some sense. Perhaps it's a little reductive of a prophecy that foretells the end of all things, but he thinks he has the heart of it. ]
It demands you rule fairly. And I believe you more than capable of that, and moreover, you are not alone on this path. [ He squeezes her hands again, holding her gaze. ] All that is mine is yours, whether that be counsel or strength.
[ A little more softly: ] And it is not weakness, to waver. No one is certain in all things, not even I.
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he may not wish to flatter himself in such assumptions, but he should; other lords might be more tempted to see it for what it might be — an invitation for harsher control, upon any provocation or threat; a clenched fist upon the land. other lords may not have garnered her respect and her trust as quickly as he has, if at all; other lords are not him, with years and kings and wars all endured enough to still shape him into who he is now (one who sees so much light, and she cannot help but envy it).
she is not vulnerable often. but more so, as of late, with him. she realizes it toes the line of foolish, to some extent. an indulgence or relief both to allow for the tension to ebb from her posture. the habit of holding things close to her chest remains yet but there is a softness to her gaze when his eyes glimmer in the candlelight, rife with some sentiment and belatedly she questions if it is for her.
his hands are warm; shadows shudder further away, and she is aware that she is no longer alone. that there may be hope, if he promises his counsel, his strength, without any air of doubt.
there's a shift of expression, curious in the way her brow quirks, chin tips when he speaks next. ) You make it sound so simple.
( it demands you rule fairly he says, as though her rule was assured. as though it has never been in question and it alludes once again to the differences between; such opinions not often heard and his belief is a sharply treasured thing. a brief smile curls, voice thick with feeling. ) I will do what I can to ensure your faith is not misplaced.