— 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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— i'll face the light with you.

[osanwe]

[ On the day they are to be wed, he tells her that the Elves marry for love.

He is a romantic, to some degree — before he meets her, he does not yearn for it, necessarily, nor does he attempt to seek it out, but he finds some sort of comfort in the knowledge that he will one day have a partner, someone with whom to share in life's many joys, someone with whom to share the many years that lie ahead of him. It is not that these ideals are dashed when the match is arranged, but rather than his sense of it changes. That they are brought together by forces outside of their control does not change the fact that love is something that must be grown, developed, nourished.

And he thinks he spots it, here and there — in glances shared across the courtyard, in knowledge shared, in brief touches they grow increasingly comfortable with exchanging.

He could not say what emboldens him, now, but in the privacy of their chambers, he finds himself reaching out, his fingers ever so carefully brushing back a lock of white hair from her cheek, tucking it safely back behind her ear. (Her hair glows, in the candlelight, like pearls or silver.) Papers cover the desk before them — remnants of the lessons they offer each other (the ink is still trying on some Tengwar script, tonight's teachings just barely concluded), correspondence from days past. He sits closer to her than he usually has, and he feels suddenly more aware of the distance (or lack thereof) between them, as he looks at her.

He knows already that appeals to her station and to her beauty mean little to her, but still, more and more, he finds himself admiring her — the way her cheeks flush when she laughs, the particular set of her mouth when she expresses displeasure, the mellow tone of her voice. He understands the inclination of some to say that love makes one weak, that it clouds the thoughts, but if anything, he thinks it is a strength, a sign that they have grown closer together. ]

I hope you do not find me too bold, [ he says quietly, as he lets his hand drop back to the surface of the desk. ] I must confess I find myself thinking of you often, in recent days. Not just for what machinations we face together, but—

[ He shakes his head slightly, searching for the right words. ]

—but, I suppose, simply out of affection.

[ There is, for once, something shy about the way he looks at her, different from the certainty and confidence with which he usually carries himself. ]

Is that strange?

[ziryla]

( 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. )

[osanwe]

[ Despite the Greens' attempts to further discredit them and their marriage, Elrond maintains a sort of geniality around Viserys' court — he is too much of a diplomat to act otherwise, no matter how he may feel about them and their repeated sallies against his wife's position. It annoys Rhaenyra to some degree, he knows, which is perhaps why he makes further effort to be fully honest with her when they are alone, talking through his opinions of Otto Hightower's methodology and general temperament. It makes things easier between them, makes it easier for to share things both little and small, inconsequential and of great import.

Viserys, he finds somewhat more easy to be around, if only because there is no enmity between them. It strikes him, early on, that Viserys might have been much happier had he not been born to a noble house, had he not had to take on the mantle of king. But such things are not always within one's control, and he appreciates what the man has made of his station.

And of course, as to the development of sentiment between him and his wife—

—there is something young in the way they look at each other now. Despite his age, he remains youthful, though that is often overshadowed by the way he carries himself. But now, that fact seems to come through to the forefront, the simple fact that the ground they tread now is new to him.

Some things are now familiar, near taken for granted — her habit of touching her rings when she is nervous or otherwise occupied, one now followed by, if he can, a touch of his own hand to steady hers. The way her gaze can steel itself should she be challenged, and the way it can melt, as it does now, in moments when her heart allows it. (It is in such moments that he wonders — who would not love her as a queen? To be so human— it is a special thing.)

It does not escape his thought that to become truly close to her is to open them up to vulnerability — to make an attempt upon either of their lives is something that comes with a host of risks, but with a clear reward as well. (But, he reminds himself at times, though he may have chosen politics as his path, he had come of age in a time of war. He knows full well how to wield a blade, how to protect himself against at least some threats.)

It feels irresistible, to smile in return, to laugh a little at the question she asks in answer. ]

Not strange at all, [ he says, a slight relief audible in his voice. ] Rather, it is the answer I wished to hear.

[ His every nerve feels pinpricked, a thrum of uncertainty — and excitement — he cannot say he has really felt before, not in this same way. He opens his mouth to speak, then breaks into a laugh instead, clearly sheepish.

As he collects himself, he reaches out again, a little more tentative, the pad of his thumb brushing over the round of her chin.

Then, a second attempt: ]

—May I kiss you?

[ziryla]

( in some roundabout way, perhaps it’s his diplomacy that might offer the necessary salve. she might chafe at it (soothed only in hearing him speak his thoughts away from eyes and ears), but it ensures even sturdier battlements. it is his actions, whatever he says near as much as what viserys supports that diminish most of the insults to their union as something weak. and thus that which started out as a match in tentative alliance for an undefined future might actually work with far better proactivity than its creators expected.

and so, less and less does she feel alone. when he says idle remarks, passing observations — she’s careful to listen, to be validated in her assessments or attempt to see it from a different perspective. it doesn't always fall within her agreement, but it matters that it happens.

the path is still unclear; still many ways in which they can be undermined, many yet in which they will be tested. she’s not sure when exactly she’d started thinking in terms of them more frequently than in terms of her, but it happens simply; that she was intended to wear the crown and sit upon the iron throne but the wisdom of his experiences, knowledge gathered in all of his time from kings and war and friends would act as adamantine guides.

though all of that lies with pragmatic thoughts, which have little place in a moment of sentiment, which happens not because it’s supposed to, or implied within some dutiful obligation of marriage but because it’s wanted. and maybe therein lies the youth, that serves to pull forth a moment not defined by anything other than them. it feels new to her too — in a way her other dalliances had not (all heat or rebellion but little heart).

she’s not seem him like this before, not really — the surety given way to something else. its charming, she thinks, that laugh that he ducks into or how his cheeks look dusted in color in the dim light and she'd barely notices how her shoulders had angled more openly towards him.

he asks her this, so entirely polite, fingers along her chin, that she nearly laughs — a soft amusement touching the corners of her eyes instead. her own hand settles on his chest, palm flat against silvery silk, eyes flicking up from the curve of his mouth to his eyes. when she nods, she realizes she's leaned close enough for their noses to nearly touch. ) — please do.

[osanwe]

[ 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.

[ziryla]

( to know that one is no longer alone to weather oncoming storms might indeed be a thought one would cherish dearly. to know that he might stand beside her, no matter what comes (no matter who she is); to know that something within her nature earned such a loyalty from one such as him (none other like him, a wholly singular spirit) would be remarkably emboldening, where another part of her might wonder as to how she could have ever proven herself worthy of it. kindness might not be reserved only for the deserving, but loyalty was.

but thought sputters out — this isn't at all about duty. nothing in the gentleness between implies as such.

pinpricks along the skin as eyes close; the soft press of his lips is near lulling, and there is a feeling in her chest that harkens to warm summers and sunshine on skin.

restraint lingers somewhat with difficulty, hand sliding slowly up to hover featherlight against his neck, her other settling on his wrist; thumb just under the sharp line of his jaw and when he draws away, she catches herself wanting to follow. it is a dangerous thing, to open your heart. it is a vulnerability to be exploited by outside forces and yet — is it not worth the risk, when the way he looks at her is the reward?

it is such dichotomy to the handful of experiences from before — unruly and impulsive desire sharpened by loneliness. instead, there is something to his patience that makes her feel eternal when she is anything but and it is so terribly unfair, that he prompt such feelings at all. (how dare he, with one simple kiss?)

the weight of his gaze in hard to ignore, however, eyes rising to meet his. it does little to diminish her own spark of heat, perhaps inherent to her nature, the guarded want of keeping him near.

within her station, she had been called many things and none had really lingered. the impact was skin deep, the attention equally so. and yet, lovely he says and it inspires a flush to her cheeks and maybe the difference is in the tone, in who he is and in how much she'd longed to know his innermost thoughts without realizing. )

Flattery from your honeyed tongue, ( laughed, softly, as she tips her head forward just so, to press her brow to his, lips ghosting along his cheek. ) You can call me lovely as often as you'd like, valzȳrys. (husband, she says, with a curl of a wry smile. )

[osanwe]

[ It is part of the nature of Elven marriage that the way she looks at him now — the particular kind of want he can see in her gaze, in the blush that suffuses her cheeks — is singularly new. There is nobody else that has looked at him like this, nobody else that has set such a lightness in his heart, not in this way. It's exciting, and, despite being such an unknown, not something that frightens him.

He has felt love before — for his friends, for his people, for those closest to him — but nothing quite comparable to how he feels as he looks at Rhaenyra now. As a politician, as someone who is aware of the importance of public appearances and maintaining polite relationships with those one might not genuinely feel kindly toward, he knows how to put on a facade, how to control his emotions (and he knows that she knows that, now, knows how to divine a false feeling from a true one), but it's a guard he lets drop more and more when he's around her.

That manifests, sometimes, simply in the willingness to speak relatively informally, to jest with her in a way that he generally refrains from when in court (to allow himself some fraction of youthfulness that should be long gone from him). Now, for instance: ]

Flattery and truth, combined. [ Her brow presses to his, and his eyes momentarily close, a contented sigh escaping him before he looks at her again. ]

Lovely, then, ābrazȳrys, [ he says — wife, an echo as well as a nod to his progressing studies. ] Beautiful. As radiant as any of the stars placed in the sky.

[ He could go on, but it is not totally in his nature to be quite so sentimental (or at least to be so demonstrative of it), and it feels better this way, he thinks, than to dare come close to treading into the kind of obsequious flattery she'd been subject to in the rest of the Red Keep. And besides — again, they have time, and he hardly intends to refrain from expressing just how he feels about and regards her for the rest of their marriage.

With that in mind, he makes sure to catch her gaze for another brief moment before — slowly, cautiously, making sure he isn't overstepping — he leans in to kiss her again. ]

[ziryla]

( being fair, she won't be able to claim that another had looked at her the way he does now — though it is a notion strengthened by the days and conversations before this; by the careful time spent piecing together the intricacies of who he is, like a mosaic, to only be drawn deeper and deeper into discovery. what he means when he says something amidst the court, and to divine the truth of it instead. the subtleties paint him a wordsmith indeed and it is no wonder why the High King had appointed him herald for so long a time.

it is his particular humor that she's grown fond of — the sort of thing that can catch her off-guard, a thing that makes him seem so less untouchable, a reflection of youth and mirth and it is no wonder, the desire to hold it close. she thinks there is something beautiful in the idea — that there is a side to his nature reserved to be between them and despite the multitude of knowledge and years that separate their lives, she had never felt more an equal. perhaps it is the dragon-blood that stirs, that sleeping beast that will never quell her own ambitions (the sort that speaks of things greater than the microcosm around them), but it is he who makes her feel as such most of all and be less afraid of the unknowns laid ahead with sharpened edges.

is that how such a union is meant to feel, she wonders? or is this, too, wholly singular between them? progenitors of their own universe unto themselves, creatures of fire and earth without the weight of realms.
(or will this, too, be lost to her one day?)

a soft tickle of breath, when lips meet again. where he treads so carefully, she is inclined to be more bold, if only just so, feather-touch turning real as her hand rests against his neck, fingers carding through soft, fluffy curls of hair as she leans minutely closer.

he speaks of stars and it is funny how she sees them in his eyes instead. )

A poet's envy, ( lightly teasing, between another soft press of lips, tries to ignore the thrill that rings through the tips of her fingers at how her mother tongue sounds shaped by his. ) You can kiss me anytime you like, too.

( this close, the caution is difficult to miss, so she lets it be voiced, instead. she isn't without her own care, not pushing to chase her inherent heat — he is infuriatingly good at inspiring patience. )

[osanwe]

[ It is strange — there is not a thing in this world that he does not desire to share with her. Somehow, the world seems larger with her in it, as though the years he had spent prior to their marriage had been but a taste of what the world had to offer. He looks at her and he wishes that he could show her some fragment of the splendor of Beleriand in the First Age, the slivers of what he remembers before Sauron's rise. After that, his impulses compete with each other, the desire to travel, to see everything there is to see with her at his side entwined with the desire to build something here that will last, that will serve as a testament to their union.

(There is some folly, he supposes, in the degree to which he is also captivated by her beauty, but the Elves have always placed a high price on such things, and it feels— less facile, now, as something born not out of detached observation but something valued and cherished. The catlike moue of her mouth, the lines that form in her cheeks when she smiles, the way her gaze can run from hot to cold, the precious silver of her hair. She will be remembered as a great beauty, he thinks, as much as she will hopefully be remembered for her facility as a leader.)

That is to say, he begins to understand, in these stolen moments, the love borne between Beren and Lúthien, in the great tales he had heard in his youth, though he hesitates yet to say the word aloud, lest it be reckless.

And, truthfully, lest fear — fear of a world without her, of what their path may hold — overtake him.

Besides, there are larger, heavier questions to follow, questions that ill befit the moment they're in, as to the matter of children, of what is expected of them. Such discussions grow more difficult in a context like theirs, when time to truly get to know each other is a luxury rather than a given factor. ]

That permission, I think, is the greatest gift I have yet to receive, [ he says, his smile matching hers. Granted, he sees it, too, in the way she leans toward him, in the touch of her hand at his neck. ] And I would be remiss not to offer it in turn.

[ A beat, and then: ] I cannot truthfully say that you have not enchanted me — nor can I honestly say that I would have it any other way.

[ziryla]

( the promise of worlds — of sights to behold far beyond her imaginations, unruly and vast as they were already — would be a temptation most difficult to resist. if he asked, the truth of it was that she would follow. if he asked for more than a visit to rekindle old friendships and tend to budding alliances, if there ever came a time where he asked to leave this truly behind, she is unsure that it would be possible to refuse.

shaken free of duty, what would there be left but the whole world to see?

the true weakness, she realizes in a breath, is not what others might wish to enact against them in the face of their strengthened bond, but what he could convince her of doing, should he had any inclination. is that not also the danger of such trust? but did she not put it into his hands all these days? from the secret burden shared with balerion's skull as witness, to the pieces of her in between?

perhaps it is not in targaryen nature to want nothing short of everything, all encompassing in their passions, be it wrath or love. rhaenyra did not think it possible, to have her senses be clouded so wholly, with a singular soul to blame.

where his impulses are torn, so are hers — ever between duty and freedom. ever between weight of prophecy and the lure of something other. the way she had been jealous, in a way, of laena and daemon's leaving to chase adventure in pentos (the way she had thought that she needed that unruly, vicious fire beside her to be able to live without fear; she thought she needed a dragon). instead that need is met in hands far gentler. she does not mind being proven so wrong. )

I would think it is you who has ensnared me, ( is countered in mild accusation. there's a warmth, settling in her chest that feels so close akin to happiness it may as well bare such a name.

she is reluctant to part, to create any sort of distance and feel colder still from the miniscule shift. but she reaches out to hold his face, to pass thumbs over his cheeks and watch the candlelight catch his features in their soft light. ) What a pair we make, mm? ( there still remain the weight of their expectations — of what is meant to come from this union, of all that is meant to be raised from them that may still work incongruously with that starts between now. but that is a weight shouldered for another time. )

[osanwe]

[ Were they different people — were he a different kind of person — the fear that he might truly try to tempt her away from her duty might be warranted, but he has never been given to such subterfuge, and, moreover, he is not the sort of man to shirk such responsibility. Perhaps there might be some other version of their lives in which he would be content simply to travel the world with her, but his heart is too steadfast for that, too open to allow for the suffering of others so long as he might be able to prevent it in some way.

And she would suffer, he knows, were they to leave. She bears too much love for her father, if not necessarily for the idea of ruling, and the chaos that would be left in her stead would be sure to tear the realm apart. To crave power is different from being fit to wield it, and he is not sure the distinction is one that has been made by those who would seek to usurp her. Granted, it ought not to be her responsibility to brook that kind of ambition, but they have not the luxury of choosing the time they have been born into; all that can be done is to make the best of it.

They already have, to a degree, he thinks, as he looks at her now. The warmth that she offers him, like the warmth of the sun or the comfort of a fire lit on a cold night, is not something he could have imagined when their betrothal had been made. It's easy to lean into her touch, to smile against the gentle press of her fingers. ]

What a pair, indeed. [ The answer comes easily, happily. ] The envy of any who would see us, I should think.

[ He says it mostly in jest, but it is clear enough in the way that he looks at her that a part of him thinks it genuinely, too. Such is the strangeness of love, of devotion. A perfect moment, a private thing meant for them before they must face the vicissitudes of court, before the difference in what they are becomes so pronounced as he remains ageless. ]

Well, whatever it is, be it enchantment or a snare, I am glad of it.