— 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]

( one day, she’ll ask him how he can give his belief out so wholly. she knows she asks for it, asks for a commitment that is lifelong that still remains somewhat separate from what was asked by their kings — let us not walk this alone — and wonders if she actually has a right to it. to much extent, she would not begrudge him if his loyalties remained more to his people than hers. and in some ways, that was expected — after all, they signified a union of two sides, and therefore must represent them, must consider the both in what decisions may be needed.

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?

[osanwe]

[ (He holds her hands in his as he answers the question — frankly, it is a difficult task, one that seems to grow harder with each passing year. The capacity for kindness is matched only by the world's capacity for incredible cruelty — he has seen it wrought upon his people, by those in the service of evil and those who perceived themselves as acting on behalf of good. He sees it in the orcs, in his kin who have been twisted beyond all recognition; he sees it in the way shadows ever seem to loom despite their best efforts to usher in an age of light. But to close one's heart completely is to invite the darkness in. Ultimately, one can only choose one's own path, and trust in what difference that may make in the outcome of things.

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?

[ziryla]

( trust for trust is a precious thing, one she doesn’t quite fully grasp the yearning for until she is met with it, some slowly blooming thing — like a seedling, planted in a courtyard far from its home with the hopes of rooting.

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? )

[osanwe]

[ The tunnels and the dragons — they're similar in a certain respect, as far as Elrond can divine as to how Rhaenyra feels about them. Their origins are in blood and warfare, the tunnels built as a means of escaping the discord their maker had sown, the dragons best known for setting entire corps of soldiers aflame, for turning the tide of war. But now, in a time of relative peace, she seems to wish for them to remain that way; the tunnels now simply something to be shared between them, and Syrax a boon companion rather than a sword to be wielded against some unseen enemy.

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? ]

[ziryla]

( The irony of their dangers is something that is only mildly lost on her. The flames Morgoth had sewn were chronicled in histories even here. But the issue with mortality is that the further away from history that each generation falls, the more they are likely to forget its terrors. Elven longevity ensures such remembrance. Ensures such comparisons.

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. )

[osanwe]

[ It saddens him, a little, to see that surprised look upon her face. In an instant, he understands that no one has really asked that question of her before, that she had not even considered that she might have some say in the matter or the freedom to feel anything other than confidence or responsibility. Such, he thinks, is the difference between the way he has seen prophecy unfold and the way it seems to affect those in her realm — here, it is taken as law, as something inexorable. It feels more malleable, in his own impression of such a thing; a tiding worth heeding, but not the end-all, be-all in the way this seems to be.

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.

[ziryla]

( a tiding worth heading; such concept of malleability has not been an option. it was not presented as such and while there has been a time when she questioned her father's sincerity, it was the weight of the prophecy and the subterfuge behind it (heir to heir and only that) that wrote it in such stone.

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.