— 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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[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.