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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. )
no subject
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. )
no subject
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.