— 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]

( 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.