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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. )
— see i've come to burn your kingdom down.
she had no expectation of this being a simple, easy thing but perhaps a part of her had hoped it would have pacified those around them for a longer time. long enough for her to feel more certain in her own footing, in what this would become between her and elrond. some part even entertained the thought of them being happy. while there was understanding between them, laid out as impressive foundations — and likely it alone kept her concerns at bay — there was still so many things to find out, to establish. all that was needed was time.
but, the court loves gossip, and otto hightower is a proficient player in pulling the necessary strings. he had managed to insert himself back into her father's good graces not so long before, after all (an easy thing to do when the hand before him met such untimely end in a tragic fire) and where otto's reach may end, larys strong is more than an apt shadow for his queen. it is unspoken and yet so terribly clear, how there exist those who seek to undermine her claim at any opportunity.
when there was another question raised within her father's small council, brought up as a matter of concern, carefully worded by the hand of the king, rhaenyra first thinks it is something trite, or yet another attempt at delivering a blow towards her. they may dress it up as well-meaning inquiry but it stinks of vitriol and it doesn't escape her notice, how alicent can't seem to look her in the eye when the words settle.
are we certain of his lineage? otto asks. what proof do we have that he is not a bastard to his kind? his name means half-elven, does it not? through the ringing in rhaenyra's ears, she hears more questions posed. was your marriage witnessed by the high septon, princess? can we be sure?
she has sniped something back, something seething even if not particularly clever (i find your timing curious, lord otto; or do you imply not conducting a thorough study of my lord husband before our marriage? or perhaps you call your king a liar?) before it was viserys that raised his voice, citing the ridiculousness, stilling its immediacy. she knows he will be convinced to pursue it, at least to some degree. and with it, she knows that it was too late. that it might have only been asked now but it was conceived weeks before and that if it was said out loud here, it was whispered in their halls already, amidst the greens. viserys dismisses the council, and she leaves with a straight back and without a moment's pause and knows already that the first blow was dealt, right under her fucking nose.
by the time she is near enough to her quarters, her anger feels like a burn in her chest and she swings open the doors with little grace, lets them shut loudly behind her. whatever restraint she tried to hold onto at the face of listening to this idiocy wavers now, expression tight.
she will have some time to feel guilty for interrupting whatever he was in the midst of, when her temper cools enough. for now: )
Fucking vipers, ( she seethes. she should be bigger than this, she supposes. this anger should be beneath her but it isn't. they decided to target her through him.
her eyes sting, pinpricks of frustration. beneath it rolls a beast she doesn’t want to name — fear, for what she’s heard, for the possibility that whatever foundations they have started to build might crumble; for the possibility that the greens already have more unsaid inquiries.
she is, also, sharply aware that she’s afraid for his safety, knows something of how heavy-handed some solutions are when people work against you. he is clever, whip sharp in ways no one in her court is but he is kind and he is gentle and none of that is a weakness but the fact that it can be used as such by those who know less angers her to no end. and maybe therein lies the problem — her duty puts more than herself under a blade.
moments like these, she resents her inheritance most — this division, this challenge directly against the conqueror's dream. she shakes her head, in disbelief, and finally looks to elrond: ) They seek to undermine us. Already. It took less than half a year.
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Indeed, his impression of the fact is only strengthened on the journey that bears them from Lindon and back to Westeros. She tells him of her father's court, fills him in on details that would not have been entirely pertinent to his position as herald to the High King, and there are enough thorns amidst all the flowers for him to feel a certain cautiousness even as they disembark. The fate of House Strong is not something to be taken lightly, nor Otto Hightower's fairly mercenary view of his daughter's fate. (Nor Daemon, for that matter, though that is a separate matter entirely.)
But the journey itself is a pleasant one, otherwise. As they stand upon the deck of the ship, shoulders brushing, he lays his hand upon hers on the rail, gently enough that she could pull away without too much fuss should she feel it too forward or bold a gesture. That she doesn't is a small blessing.
There is some comfort, too, in the act of planting the Lindon tree. As Rhaenyra had suggested, they place it in the courtyard with the Weirwood tree, not so close by as to crowd it, but near enough to complement it. There are servants to tend the grounds, but he still visits it near daily. It will be years before it is anything more than a sprout, but it is the ritual, he supposes, that he values, as well as the symbolism inherent in the two trees.
What is strangest, in those few months before Otto Hightower sets his plans into motion, is determining the shape and scope of his responsibilities — he has no official role here, not in any material way, and likely will remain so until either Rhaenyra's ascension occurs, or some significant shift takes place in the Small Council (not, in other words, an event he necessarily expects to happen with any haste). So he contents himself with studying what he can of his new wife's realm's history, of High Valyrian (and he keeps his promise to teach her the language of his kin), as well as establishing correspondence with a few of the friends he's left behind. He writes to the High King as well, though with less frequency, for lack of news to convey.
It is in such study that Rhaenyra finds him, now, though his attention is already upon the door by the time she bursts in, her footsteps an ample alert as to her approach. His expression is, accordingly, one of concern, only deepening as he sees the look upon her face. (He would not necessarily describe her as patient, but she is not someone he would say was easily driven to such frustration, either.) He rises from his desk in the rooms they keep together, moving quickly to her side. (His robes are of Westerosi custom — he still wears some of the clothes he'd brought with him, but, for the moment at least, assimilation seems a more helpful tactic.) ]
How so?
[ He asks, even as he has some idea as to the answer. His ears are sharper than most — what whispers have been circling through the castle are not totally foreign to him. He had not thought any of them would make their way into the light, not really — the marriage had been arranged by the two kings, after all, not by Rhaenyra's will, thereby making any challenge to the match more difficult, but a drowning man will make no distinction between a piece of driftwood and a ship.
(And perhaps he had been too generous in his characterization of the Greens. He knows there is a limit to what danger will be posed to him directly — whatever harm comes to him will have an immediate effect in the realm's relations with the Elves — but it will do him no good to be complacent.) ]
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When the seed is planted, and she steals the time away to visit it herself (though at times worries on interrupting his quickly formed ritual) and works to impart on anyone who tends the gardens within the courtyard that it should be tended to with utmost care, small stones placed around it so that that no one may tread into it.
That Elrond bares no formal responsibilities other than title of Prince Consort had not carried a pressing need to remedy. That they were able to entertain their respective lessons with a pleasant sort of consistency felt well enough like a victory (that he had a natural talent for languages, by her estimation, was nearly frustrating as it was impressive; her progress felt sluggish in comparison); though she had started to worry at the potential press of boredom. Their libraries were filled enough, but that was hardly exciting. Certainly not for someone who has seen so much in his time (a thought that was closely followed with the understanding that she barely knew what he's seen at all).
In truth, she thought — with some selfish sort of excitement — that she would perhaps be able to convince him to ride Syrax with her soon (a half forgotten dream from childhood brought closer to the truth). That any such plans would be interrupted by Otto Hightower's machinations, souring mood significantly, was a somber reminder of their reality.
There is to be no peace; to have expected differently was foolishness.
His approach interrupts her pacing, if not the spiraling thoughts. It stops her from twisting at her wedding band, glimmering stones that catch even the slightest of light like bottled starlight and instead she pivots towards him.
When she reaches for his hand, it is to anchor; a minute touch that somehow serves to bring her comfort, some slowly forming habit that she doesn't realize, a dance of boundaries and some balance of boldness. ) They seek to call your lineage into doubt, ( Her voice still sounds wavering, wrapped up in a rolling anger. She does have to wonder, just how much of the whispers he's heard. How much of a surprise this even is. It's difficult, to meet his gaze, if only because she's abundantly aware that he had little choice in being shoved into this mess at all. ) Alongside it, of course, the legitimacy of this marriage — a finer point made more difficult to argue, given that Viserys himself bore witness to it.
( The laughter that bubbles over is incredulous. ) One would think. ( That Elrond characterized the Greens with any lasting generosity was still an indication of his better nature. But she would not see him befall to their poison. His safety might be more assured than any other, as the Elven alliance hangs from it. But — accidents happen, well timed. Locked doors and fires.
She shakes her head, glassy eyes falling to their hands instead, a thumb passing across his knuckle. ) They — ( A beat, hesitating. But no, he should know all that was said. A sting of truth is better than hiding it. ) — they raised the question on the translation of Peredhel.
To what fucking end? ( She can guess. A blow to his name and weakening a claim to their union means they can claim illegitimacy to their eventual — assumed, supposed — progeny, and thus further alienating her and her name from the throne. Let alone ruining an already less than pristine reputation. It may be a reach, but — well, it suits. )
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Even now, he remains somewhat cautious, his other hand finding her shoulder, another point of touch meant to steady her. Frankly, the degree to which these matters affect and upset her trouble him more than the accusations themselves, given the truth of how much his people care about such things. ]
I see. They object to the fact that I am half-elven.
[ He doesn't seem particularly angry, though he knows that such relative passivity is just as likely to annoy her as the Greens' tactics themselves. Briefly, he lets go of her arm to draw a chair, offering her a seat rather than leaving her to pace. ]
I suppose to be half anything has somewhat different connotations, here, but it is not a mark of illegitimacy, [ he says, though his tone is somewhat ponderous. It isn't necessarily an easy thing to explain, given how rare the title is, and he expects that Otto and the rest will be as pedantic about it as possible. And as for his lineage, he knows it to be unimpeachable, even if, to put it plainly, the story of a man who'd sailed to confront the gods and eventually been granted passage through the night sky sounds somewhat fantastical. (Had he ever recounted the tale to his wife? Not yet — a failing on his part. Now is certainly the time for it.) ]
Do not let it trouble you, [ he adds, making sure to catch (and hold) her gaze. ] They ask questions for which we have the answers. A handful of arrows fired upon a castle's battlements.
[ It's said slyly — the only kind of insult or ill will he tends to voice, shared just between the two of them. ]
I would be more than willing to speak before the Small Council, if they'll allow it.
[ And even then, his words will likely mean less than some sort of documentation or further support from the High King.
The line of his mouth twists accordingly — after all, an argument designed to be lost will hardly be an easy one. Still, in the next moment, his expression shifts again, this time to one of wry amusement. ]
But I must say, it is quite bold to question the will of the King himself. What did your father make of that?
[ He knows, of course, that Viserys has nothing but love for his daughter despite what disagreements they'd had as she'd grown up, and he'd had more than a little say in the brokering of the match. Of course, the King's will had been questioned before — an inevitability, given his general good nature — but his title is still not an empty one, and to question him is not an action taken without some amount of risk. It is a sign of some desperation, he thinks, that Otto would go so far. ]
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the hand on her shoulder stills her, and her hand absently drifts to his elbow and she focuses on watching his reaction. whatever lines of concern she sees seem disproportionate to her own (and seem more aimed towards her than what is said), and at times, his sanguine nature acts in contrast to the sparks of hers.
an observation he redirects by pulling at the chair and she has half a mind to reconsider, some unfair instinct at digging her heels but it will do them no good; it only takes a beat before she concedes, sinks into it with a forming frown. fingers reluctantly slip from his at the motion, though her chin is angled upwards to watch him. )
It is what they take it to represent, Elrond. ( said lowly, though the initial burst of ire with which she walked into their shared rooms does lessen. he holds her gaze and she is struck again by its steadiness. she envies it, at times.
there is a long sigh. ) Speaking before the Small Council feels like entertaining their farce, to which they hold no entitlement. ( it isn't a no, because what he suggests does hold a lot of sense. going directly to the council means they will need to stare him in the eyes while touting their insults to his honor. a concise note from the high king would serve to back up his claim into something concretely irrefutable, but to ask for such would imply a lack of control of their affairs. the point goes unvoiced, though her eyes fall to her hands. ) I know what end Otto likely wishes, and it is far closer to treason than anyone ought to dare. And yet, my father keeps him as Hand. Gluttonous snake.
( elrond's implied insults still bare an elegance to them, said between them as they are. hers land more pointed.
he does raise a good question. and one she has considered already as their first line of defense — king viserys still rules. more than that, to keep speaking against him would be treason. even lord otto knows it. ) Viserys did not particularly take kindly to the implication. A strong support for us, but that it was questioned at all is what worries me.
We should speak to the King first. Alone. As his family. ( his first blood; the daughter he chose as heir (and often times she'd wondered if it was truly just out of spite to daemon, even if viserys would insist differently).) He has power to put this to rest before they may act on it. To continue anything after the King declares its cessation would guarantee consequences. Not even Otto is that desperate. ( it won't stop them from searching to land a different blow, of that she is certain, but it would prevent quite a lot.
she leans back against the chair, not exactly pacified, but having shed enough of her initial reaction to actually think. carved wood digs into her spine, grounding, as she considers him for a moment, silence settling; considers the clothing of westerosi fashion, targaryen black and red and severe in its lines and yet somehow made elegant by his posture. she finds herself realizing a finer point, unknowing that he may be thinking the same. ) But I admit — I have allowed an oversight of my own. ( in not asking him about his family. and not only because such knowledge would mean she can better defend him. she is curious to hear of them, but had worried that in asking, she would open old wounds. but now seems less a time to hesitate. )
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He nods, then, at her suggestion that they speak with her father, first. Even aside from the fact that the marriage was more her father's choice than her own, it will do them good to ensure solidarity among their allies (to put it coldly), especially in the face of such an attempted blow to their legitimacy. As for the rest— ]
If there is any blame to cast, I think it should fall at my feet. We are wed — I owe it to you to be more forthcoming. And if my family's history should sound didactic, then I apologize for that as well.
[ He pauses, then, wondering where to start. (He will deliver some version of this story to the Small Council, later, but here, in the intimacy of their quarters, the task seems somehow difficult to take on.) He draws another chair, next to hers, a gesture that both fulfills a need and takes up a little time, granting him another moment to clear his mind. ]
In the history of my kin, there have been two great unions between Men and Elves, [ he begins, speaking deliberately in an attempt to keep his thoughts in order, ] that of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel, and of Tuor, son of Huor, and Idril Celebrindal. My father and mother — Eärendil and Elwing — were their children. If it is my lineage that they seek to question, they will find nothing but the names of Kings and heroes of the Edain.
[ But those are simply facts, rather than what he knows to be of more importance to her — that is, the personal rather than the historical. Though, to a certain extent, the two are inextricable. To wit: ]
As for the title of half-elven— [ another pause, a breath ] —in a time of great strife, my father sailed to Valinor to plead with those who shaped the world to lend their aid in the fight against Morgoth. Because he sailed on behalf of their two peoples, rather than for himself, the Valar granted to him — and to his descendants — the choice between joining the Elves or the race of Men. That is what "half-elven" truly means.
[ His gaze falls. What comes next is not necessarily difficult for him to speak of, nor only a source of hurt, but— well, he supposes she will understand. ]
My father now sails the sky, bearing the light of a star, and my mother, upon white wings, flies to meet him. As for my twin brother, he— we made different choices, of the gift given to our family. His legacy is that of Númenor, as its first king.
[ There are years upon years of sentiment in the tone with which he speaks of his brother, a bittersweet fondness that will ring familiar to any who have lost a loved one. His feelings toward his parents are somewhat more complicated — they live, still, but are ever distant from him, in the performance of duties that seem almost inconceivable to any who had not witnessed such things occurring firsthand, and he and his brother had been but children when they had been taken captive.
Which, now that he thinks of it, does sound like something Otto Hightower would latch onto. Somewhat more quietly: ]
I suppose I ought also to mention that Elros and I were once taken from our parents by those who were driven to slay their own kin. An attempt was made upon the life of our mother, and we were— to be abandoned, at first, until one of them took pity upon us. We stayed with him — with Maglor — for some time, and he showed us great kindness. But he was lost to us as well, after the War of Wrath.
[ He sighs, suddenly aware of how much he's said. ]
That is the short of it, at least. I can only hope I have not bored you with it.
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it isn’t meant to be self-deprecating — if anything, it is still her reality to fend in — but it is a point more strongly proven by the time he begins his account. )
Elrond, ( she chides, softly and it is her turn to catch his eye. ) Had we not agreed? Nothing is owed. Though, ( wryly: ) forthrightness is appreciated — and I do greatly wish to hear this.
( and with that said, she falls silent, for most of his retelling, attention entirely enrapt. takes the time to watch the shifts of his expressions, the depth in his eyes, the cadence in his voice — something strikes her as near reverence.
she heard some of the tales, of course. limited, and as such, had failed to aptly capture the extent of their grandeur.
they will find nothing but the names of kings and heroes, he says, simply fact and she wants to laugh. it all sounds so fantastical — so far removed from anything they’ve known.
targaryens are said to be closer to gods than men, but — if that were even half truth, they would have stories like this of their own. instead, they had dragons (a fearsome force, but the truth of it is clear — without them, they are just men). and even if this history is recounted to viserys (who would no doubt be far more invested than elrond might realize), she imagines he would be moved to propose yet another retelling to the small council, if only to watch the look on their faces when they are proven so deeply and astoundingly wrong.
but beneath it all — he is a child of such legacy. that reverence with which he speaks might hide the truth of how great a shadow such a history may cast. inevitably, it strikes a cord, one that teeters dangerously back to duty. does he put upon himself those expectations? she almost thinks to interrupt to ask, but —
he speaks of his capture, and something in her throat presses in. hands, folded on her lap, and she had resisted the urge to turn at her ring until there is mention of this. to have witnessed such a horror in his lifetime and yet still be so kind through the rest of his life — she cannot imagine. targaryen nature lends less to gentleness. such stories are not unheard of in their lands — people, children murdered for less. to hear of it amongst the elves...
she supposes it doesn't matter. elf or human, there will always be a capacity for tragedy and a place for cruelty. that he was not alone through it is some consolation, though the note of grief with which he speaks of his brother doesn't go unnoticed. she likes to think she understands, what missing someone like that feels like.
when he quiets, he dares think she was bored to listen. her expression is one of disbelief. ) You recount tales that most would not witness in a lifetime — and yet you ask me that? I — ( a shake of her head, a moment to gather her thoughts. there could be so many things to ask — about his brother. his parents. pieces of his past that served to define him in some way because she finds herself drawn towards that curiosity, towards knowing his heart.
for now though, she settles on the expression he wears, the softness of his voice. simply: ) I'm sorry.
( followed by a short beat, brows knitting.) — does it weigh heavy on you? Such a legacy? ( she searches for...something, in that question. she cannot stop herself from thinking of the conqueror’s dream. an heir’s secret. a lineage’s task, defining so much. )
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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.
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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.