— 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]

[ continued from here ]

( it is easier here, to keep her admiration unrestrained. she will admit that galadriel indeed seemed larger than a single living being could be, in all the years and deeds recounted, each more fascinating than the last. later on, she might ask after how they two of them had met, amidst what felt like an endless possibility of questions and conversations to be yet had. (amidst, of course, the questions of his own life, curiosity hardly sated by the little she knows now).

there are many ideals westeros could stand to take away from their immortal counterparts. and yet, it is all but restriction, and limitation and she was born to the yoke of both, even if power came along with it, even if she had been regarded as spoiled, as she had gone ahead and challenged whatever limitation she could, as often as she could and of course that would cause others to chafe at her impulsivity (would she ever be free of this shadow, the way galadriel ostensibly was?)

it has long been a necessity, their show of power, and cruelty had long held its place (even if their very keeping of dragons had dulled much outright need of it in the years of late). that may be where some who are less content with peace might shirk her father's propensity for it. (for all his faults, she would not call him cruel, not held up against their predecessors; and yet she longed for change.) she was beginning to think, if her and elrond were both quick and clever enough, and as aligned in their intensions as they seem to be now, that such a thing was hardly some untouchable dream. ) I admit, I'm relieved to hear you say so.

( to hear that she might have a thing in common with someone such as galadriel, though? she isn't sure if its simple flattery, as it seems such an unlikely a thing. )... That would be a great honor, though I could hardly begin to guess at our commonalities.

( from gift to meeting. she twists at her rings again, finding herself more and more content in this — even in the silence shared within his company. there is a light that catches her attention, further up ahead of them, a distant glimmer of lanterns hung from sloping branches. even from such a distance, still obscured by foliage and branches, it seems like the stuff from long lost tales. she doubts she will ever stop thinking of this space as a marvel, maybe because how far removed it is from westeros courts — a thing she is reminded of at every new sight she sees. )

( quietly: ) And it appears we are soon to be reaching the path's end. ( and careening towards new beginnings. she looks up to him again, and her smile reaches her eyes, dry-humored as she continues: ) Thank you, for letting me intrude on your solitude. ( you know, before the big show of political unity between the king of the seven kingdoms, and the high king of the elves; she's aware she might have barged in on his last opportunity for private peace. )

[osanwe]

[ He is generally reserved, despite his outwardly friendly demeanor, but that trait — one that grows more pronounced as the years pass, though now he still possess a more youthful sort of enthusiasm — does not mean that he is a man of secrets. Whatever questions she asks of him, he answers without any apparent attempt at hiding the truth — he is loathe to lie under any circumstances, and here, especially, there's nothing to be gained by hiding anything from her. (Admittedly, some of the stories he tells of his lineage sound like the stuff of fantasy, as though he had made them up, but such is the way with Elven histories.)

As they come to a stop, a last pause before the evening is lost to celebration and navigating the ins and outs of two courts' respective codes of etiquette, he looks at her again, his gaze thoughtful, and certainly less apprehensive than it had seemed when the Targaryen delegation had first arrived in Lindon.

She looks about them in wonder, and he looks in a sort of bittersweetness — an awareness, again, that he is about to leave home, that his responsibilities henceforth will mean that he will not be able to return as much as he might like, that his kin and his friends will be all the more distant to him, that he is, in essence, now meant to begin a new life. But not all partings are of sorrow. There is now a new world opening to him, and a greater burden of duty than that he had shouldered in the service of the High King. Mixed blessings, he supposes, and ones he must make his peace with if their future is to be a truly happy one. ]

No, my lady, thank you for taking the time to seek me out. [ Words demanded by politeness, but words he means, as well. He feels hopeful, now — excited, even — about the journey that lies before them. He needn't have worried, or at least, he needn't have worried so much. ]

I think we understand each other better, [ he continues, as he studies her features, as though to freeze this moment in time, to keep the memory of it through what troubles are inevitably to come (not in the bond between them but what will face them when they arrive at the Red Keep). ] It feels as though we have only just begun a conversation, one that I intend to see through as well as I can.

[ Taking a step back, he offers her a bow, though he adds, ] I suppose there is little point in saying farewell, but— may this be a happy evening, and may there be many more to come.

[ziryla]

It does feel that way, doesn't it? ( a conversation that has only just begun. ) I look forward to its continuation, my lord. ( words demanded by politeness, punctuated by her own bow in answer and yet theres another press of wryness that already alludes to a secrecy between them, time stolen away before it was time to carry on with what was expected of them.

she steps away, already catching note of the handmaidens drifting closer with some poorly kept urgency — likely having started to worry that the princess may have already decided to run off again. but not before looking back to him — he, who stands carved ethereal amidst this elven land, a visage that could easy be writ on some tapestry, inlaid in golden thread. that is how she should wish to remember him, she thinks in turn. ) To happy evenings. I will see you soon enough.

( many trials lie ahead but for the moment, it is easier to be swept up in the preparations. nerves peak, regardless of the hope that's taken surest root. she still sees her father regard her with something akin to concern and some shade of guilt and it is tempting to ask if he's finally found an appropriate remedy for his political headache. she doesn't, fire pacified to rolling embers, but it is somewhat amusing — as though he still half expects her to bolt like a flighty colt. she has no such intention and viserys seems to breathe no short sigh of relief when she finally steps forward in brilliant reds and silvered white silks, in homage to their hosts, and slips her arm through the crook of his elbow.

the unearthly nature of lindon seems to reach its crescendo as night finds its zenith, the evenstar particularly brilliant through the branches. courtly life had ensured an exposure to grandeur, and yet it pales in comparison weighed against sights she's never seen before.

it is all manners from here on out, seated at their table and navigating unfamiliar tradition with whatever grace she can muster. (it had made sense, to follow more in the steps of their hosts rather than their own, save for the smaller allusions) her attention, in all the inevitability, drifts to elrond to see how he fares, what expression he might wear. despite the political nature — such union seldom done amongst the elves, as she is so abundantly made aware of — they drink and they feast and they toast much the same, celebratory nature of all of this transcending borders well enough. there are promises announced, in honor of the futures of both realms; promises of duty and alliance and the (tentative) hope looking ever onward. in some way, it only serves as a reminder. they are to be the catalysts to what future might lie ahead, for ill or for good.

it isn't until they stand face to face once again that this feels real. that despite the quiet promises exchanged between themselves mere handful of hours before, there is weight to this, here and now, hands linked and golden rings exchanged. it is only natural, to have the band that comes from her house be inlaid with three brilliant rubies, for fire and blood. blessings are given, and though rhaenyra lacks the fluency to understand it, the language sounds melodic, magical. (a contrast to the sharpness of high valyrian). it feels sacred in unspoken ways.

and once the blessings are spoken, it seems as though it gives credence to celebrations to begin in earnest, with melodies plucked along delicate strings and members of the elven court effortlessly twisting into dance.

she finds herself drifting further inwards, delicate wine flute held in her hands; her heartbeat is quick in birdcage ribs, and it does not take long to seek elrond out to meet again — so terribly close to the place where she'd first caught him earlier this day — and she raises her glass, with a smile and a bow to her head. ) And how do you feel this evening, lord husband? ( she'd asked him near the same thing, before their hands were joined. there's a twist of mirth, to hide remnants of bittersweetness well beneath. )

[osanwe]

[ The wedding itself feels as though it passes in both an age and an instant. Elrond himself is dressed in a gold that glimmers as though spun with white gold, a silver circlet set about the crown of his head. Each facet catches the light as he and Rhaenyra are brought together underneath the branches of the trees overhead, a carpet of golden leaves underfoot, like motes of dust caught in the light as a few of them fall from above to land among the assembled crowd.

This is the first of such unions to be recognized in this way, a marriage brokered for political strength and assurance of succession and influence rather than a match made out of love. But there is still something soft in the way that Elrond looks at Rhaenyra when their hands are brought together, and it is not a false attempt at blessing this evening with something it does not naturally possess. He holds her gaze, even as he slips a ring onto her finger, the one given from his kin a delicately spun circle of gold laid with white gems, glimmering with starlight.

What follows immediately after the ceremony is a whirl of congratulations, duly given, and a round of necessary acknowledgments that he suspects would not have been necessary were this not arranged in the way that it is.

(He spends the longest speaking with King Viserys. There will be more time for them to talk — it is not as though the King intends to stay here — but it feels important. He seems relieved that the whole event — as of yet, at least — has passed without a hiccup, that gladness manifesting in a little bit of color in his face as warm torchlight bathes all those gathered here in a glow. Elrond feels glad to see the King well, more so given the way his failing health has been so evident since the moment the ships had arrived from King's Landing.)

The party spills out into all corners of the forest, wandering trills of music audible throughout the trees. Still, he finds himself back where they'd been earlier that day, not by any intention but by happy accident, and the relatively perfunctory smile he wears shifts into something more genuine when he sees Rhaenyra, then splitting into a laugh at her greeting. The note of wryness in expression is evident — to him, if not to any onlookers — and he cannot really blame her for it, as a similar note manifests in the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of the line of his mouth. ]

It is strange, to hear myself addressed in such a way, [ he notes, as he steps forward to meet her, bowing his head in return. ] But— it is not unpleasant. I do not think I will much mind becoming accustomed to it.

[ He casts his gaze upward for a moment, to the stars that hang like jewels in the sky, the rich, deep blue of night, untouched by the lights that illuminate the ongoing celebrations. Such scale is a useful, reminder, sometimes — this is titanic change in their lives, in the legacy of their respective people, but there are greater forces in this world that pay it no mind, that are as affected by it as a pebble tossed into a moving stream. That isn't to say that he isn't present, or cares not for what lies before them, but simply that he knows better than to obsess over it, to become too consumed by what, in the end, will not last once he is no longer of this earth. ]

And you, my lady wife? [ His tone is similarly teasing. ] How does the night find you?

[ziryla]

( it is not politics that makes her breath catch in her throat when their eyes meet, beneath the trees. it is not obligation that softens her brows as the gaze lingers, some pin-drop precipice from which she can't look away, and tugs at the corner of her mouth before she'd watched the golden band glimmer from all the lights around them, gems like captured stars.

if this is the first of such unions, with so much promised for the strength and peace of ages to come, then let her one day be worthy of it, she thinks, much as she will one day hope to have earned her inheritance.

the rest that had followed seemed to meet more of her expectation; polite congratulations, more necessity than heart and all is as it nearly should be. on her way, her father had caught her. i had not thought this possible, he had said, this could mean peace, for generations to come and it settles like a weight and warmth both — reminders of prophecies and duties to realms and yet whatever brambles might have remained from earlier argument shed themselves readily enough when she sees the color to his cheeks; he was in better humors, a relief to witness, hands warm when pressed to hers. it had been even more relieving, to observe him speaking with elrond, a sight she'd caught onto from afar, while lingering in polite conversation elsewhere; king viserys looked more like he had years ago, life back in his eyes and a laugh that almost startles her, for how infrequent it had gotten.

it is serendipity that brings them back here and now and his laugh prompts a light one of her own. she sidles closer, much as he had and when he looks upward, the gesture inevitably makes her follow his eyes, to the great expanse of sky, untouched by all that occurs below it.

she laughs, a quick little nod. ) I'll concede, it does sound strange. But — not unwelcome. ( strange, something she will need some time to get used to, much as she imagines he will. if not simply by title (she's no intention of this being his only address), then by concept therein.

her fingers drum on the stem of her glass, occupied as they are from twisting at her ring, a small show of nerves, a tell she's never quite been terribly good at hiding. ) It finds me quite well, Elrond. ( his name sits far better on her tongue than any more formal titles might, and she finds she quite likes the familiarity. ) It is a calm affair. ( not all weddings are, is the implication, said so casually. )

I'm honored, to have been witness to your traditions, instead of my own. ( there's a quick-passing frown though, a small pinch to her nose as she considers something :) I wish I understood your tongue. I confess, I know far too little of it. ( there is hardly a book to be found on it in westeros, to be fair. )

[osanwe]

[ Even this moment feels somehow private — there are revelers mere strides from them, but they seem to know to leave the newlyweds be, at least for the moment. And besides, the ceremony had passed without incident — any gossip will be far less volatile now, at least so long as the night remains as calm as it has been thus far.

(Her note, that implies that her past experiences with weddings have not quite been the same, earns an arched brow from Elrond. He has heard enough, of course, of Westerosi history and of the building blocks of the Targaryen dynasty, to know that the comment isn't an entirely facile one. But he is glad, nonetheless — he has never wished for bloodshed in any capacity, much less on an evening like this. If anything, he imagines this will be a respite from work to come, likely not without its share of bloodletting. The realm they return to is one already balanced on the edge of a knife.) ]

I am gladdened to hear it, [ he says gently, in answer to her first response. It doesn't escape him that some things still nip at her — that tell, the way she seems to fidget, particularly with her hands, when she's ill at ease is one he's already filed away — but they've already skirted around the things he expects are on her mind. Legacy, duty, family — without them, one is nothing, and yet the three can often be too much to bear easily.

He cocks his head slightly at what she says next, a slight shift in expression suggesting he's heartened by the thought — or rather, heartened by her sense of curiosity. ]

I would be glad to teach you our language, should you so desire, [ he offers. ] Besides, I think it would do me well to maintain some connection to my kin, even in a new home.

[ The temptation is to say far from home, but he knows that those words aren't quite correct anymore — his home is with her, now, across the sea. It is a strange conundrum; he cannot afford to split himself so in two, but he cannot imagine a world completely detached from his people, his place of birth, either. ]

I had actually hoped that I might be able to study High Valyrian — it has always been of some interest to me, and more practically, I should think it useful if I am to meet Syrax.

[ And, thirdly, it would likely be a useful tool in court, especially if the assumption is that he does not understand it. ]

[ziryla]

( the thought had idly passed, on what gossip might be born from this. it is a natural thing, from all she's grown up to expect. she's aware enough, that while they are left well enough alone for now, that it would be easy enough to overhear them. she can't boast the same keen sense, even if she tries to make up for it in observation. something to ask of elrond, on their across the sea. or she yet may let sleeping dogs lie; there is little point in what gossip may come from this — it is done, and the way through is only ever onward. (still she is curious what others here think; what impressions she will leave; it is not entirely in way of vanity as much as purpose — what note may the targaryens be remembered on before departing?)

it is a calm affair, as she's named it, if only because there is hardly enough of westerosi court present; there's not enough noble men to squabble over pride and she's certain that of the retinue here, should they be inspired towards rowdiness, her father would likely see to their hastened exit himself. )

I would welcome your tutelage, ( the idea is, in honesty, an exciting one. she supposes firstly, it would only be the respectful thing to do. he is to venture across the sea to a place that, while expected to be a new home, lacks the familiarity of his own. she thinks of it in ways similar to the seed of a lindon tree — new roots need to sprout and in more ways than one. if she feels adrift in their own keep, she could only guess and how he would feel. ) — as I would readily offer you mine.

( and she understands how language ties one to their lineage — old valyria no longer exists, but the language endures. she's no stranger to wishing to hold on to something that has so long shaped their worlds, has so long ensured their bond with their dragons continues, ever held strong.

and lastly, much as he would think knowing high valyrian is a useful tool, knowing a tongue that none others speak in her court is doubly so. the thought of such small secrecy excites her, even if it will be some time before fluency. she doubts he will have much trouble. )

Mm — trying to find ways to appease her already? ( teasing lightness returns, as she's openly amused by what he says. ) I would have you know, she is a loyal beast. Your words would need to be particularly honeyed to hold any sway. ( all in jest; the truth was that their bond was borne of blood, but its hardly the time to be stuck on technicality; the alternative was far more enjoyable. )

[osanwe]

If anything, I had hoped currying favor with her would mean currying favor with you, my lady.

[ He says it lightly — she reproaches him in jest and he is more than attuned enough to the ebbs and flows of conversation to respond in kind. Granted, the heart of what he's saying, he means in earnest — if they are to share their lives, language will play no small part in binding them together, and on a more distanced level, he'd prefer to know what he's dealing with if dragons are to become a more common part of his everyday life. He'd been interested in High Valyrian even before the wedding had been arranged, but it's a more pressing thing, now.

The idea of something shared brings him a measure more comfort as to the days to come — excitement, in a way, for something that will close some of the distance between them, and for what new experiences await him across the sea. Beyond a demonstration of respect for the culture he's meant to at least partially assimilate to, it's something that's theirs, something that wasn't forced upon them by the same hands that arranged their marriage.

In the same easy tone: ] Perhaps that's too calculating of me to say? [ He's well aware, after all, of the fact that many have tried to worm their way into her family's good graces specifically for the power that they would then be adjacent to, but she knows, he thinks, that he means what he says somewhat more personally. That he cares about her (in any capacity) has nothing to do with her station, and, if anything, he imagines it is that fact that has made her willing to entertain a life with him at all.

And of the celebrations that continue, it is true that they seem less informed by politics than by the Elven propensity for revelry — everyone gathered, at least of his kin, seems to care most for dancing and drink, for celebrating this moment in time, both because of and separate from the actual reason for the occasion that brings them together. A microcosm, in a way, for his apparent disinterest in the title of King Consort. ]

—Have you yet met Lady Galadriel? She is present, as I had promised.

[ziryla]

I am starting to get concerned over my predictability. It will not do me well to be such an open book. ( there's an open laugh, at that. of course, that will not be the only thread from which hangs her favor — and if anything, she has half a mind to say he has it well enough already, but she thinks she has right to be coy about it, at least for a short time. (she cannot deny, that he is a breath of fresh air, compared to all who'd wished for favor of the crown; she'd thought that when they first met and she is of the same opinion now and that feels important.)

though, on the topic of lady galadriel — her back straightens, minutely. ) Not yet — ( quiet honesty, again. on one hand, she was no stranger to events like these, and on the other — it was easy to feel out of place in revelry such as this, similar and yet so different. besides, it would be best with his introduction, rather than her own and with that said, she'll fall into step beside him.

she finds it a good time to ask, chin angled up to look at him, a small lean towards in subdued secrecy. ) — before that though — had you a moment to speak with the High King? Was your request received?

( said in the tone of someone who would, depending on the answer, be heavily inclined to petition it herself. whether or not she has any place to sound like so is a different question entirely, one she chooses to ignore, sentiment slipping out.

perhaps it’s rhaenyra’s tendency to dig her heels against passivity. but she is inclined to ensure they both get what they want. flagstones laying out before them to establish something other; something between them and no partnership, whatever it may become, is ever forged in indifference.

to a point, she knows that this political solution did not come from elrond; not of his want of power, and to a more complicated technically, not of the Elven realm’s want of it, either. their kingdom had plenty of it. so then it returned, promptly, back to mutual benefit, mutual history, and mutual legacy. all brittle points weighed against where they currently were.

the idea that elrond should not leave here without all that he desires to bring with him is not a trite one. she would wish to do the same, were their expectations flipped. and, more to the point, is this not what they were meant to do for one another now? the reason of their union does not negate the heart of it.

perhaps she oversteps in her rashness, emboldened by the energy that buzzes around them. but it’s as much a genuine questions as it is an excuse to not focus on the excitement twisting at her nerves, to wonder at what speaking to someone like lady galadriel would be like. )

[osanwe]

[ Her laugh invites a shift in his smile — a sort of knowingness to his expression. He understands, of course, the importance of being somewhat unknowable in a position like hers — to be known and beloved by one's subjects, but to have a haven for oneself that cannot be sapped by public duty, lest one go mad given the weight of such a burden and responsibility. He has seen that dichotomy take many forms, in his time, though inevitably less often than he might had he come to King's Landing much earlier.

Knowingness shifts yet again into a soft sort of sentimentality at her next question, which he answers first with a nod. ]

He has agreed to let us take the seed of a tree with us, [ he says, glad both of the answer as well as her interest in it. She has no obligation to care at all, much less to argue on his behalf, which her tone — and his knowledge of her temperament — makes clear that she would, had he been denied. That she does could be argued solely as a method of ensuring that their union is a successful one, but he does not think her the kind to remove emotion from the equation entirely. It is the mark of potential for a great ruler, he thinks, though he keeps the thought to himself, at least for the immediate moment.

It benefits them, to keep things more personal rather than political, for as long as they can. They've established already that neither of them has agreed to this match solely for the sake of ambition (and, of course, they hadn't really had a say in the matter at all), and so it feels only natural that they should attempt what lies before them in this manner, strengthening their foundation before trying to build anything on top of it, lest it crumble beneath them. And it will be a boon, he expects, when they return to King's Landing, where he has no doubt that some will immediately seek to undermine them. ]

Though, I think, I would have quite liked to see what you would have done had he refused me.

[ It's equal parts jest and honesty — it would have been an uphill battle, had the High King's answer differed — as his intended meaning, that he appreciates that it matters to her, remains true. ]

You would make a fearsome match for the King.

— see i've come to burn your kingdom down.

[ziryla]

( it does not take long for the first strike to come; they are allowed some peace for only a handful of short months, and she supposes she ought to be grateful to have gotten even that much, scraps dressed as luxury.

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.

[osanwe]

[ For better or for worse, Elrond has seen too many years to think that their return (and arrival, in his case) to King's Landing will mean lasting peace. Their marriage is a solution to one problem that births two others in turn. It solves the problem of finding a lord to take Rhaenyra's hand, and though he is certain both Gil-galad and Viserys would like it to solve the problem of an uncertain succession as well, that is not an issue that is so easily brooked, not least by her marriage to an outsider.

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.) ]

[ziryla]

( That this was a balm for one thing and an irritant to another is of little surprise. On their journey, she had told him as much as she could of the most immediate matters, littered between cautionary tales that should be taken as such. Of House Strong, with some pang of distant hurt; of Daemon, teetering on a complexity that she shoves into simplicity. She tries to recall if he remembered Alicent before she had become Queen, bonds severed to irreparable odds, though he would deduce that for himself with little difficulty. (But when she and Elrond stand side by side overlooking the sea, conversation quieted to a lull and ship swaying underfoot and he slips his hand over hers, it is an anchor and a balm of its own, her shoulder pressed to his).

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. )

[osanwe]

[ She takes his hand, and his fingers curl, on instinct, around hers. There's less distance between them now than there had been, the months that have passed solidifying the trust — and tentative sense of affection — that forms the basis of their relationship. He finds himself surprised, sometimes, at the way his thoughts will drift to her, at the way her feelings now factor into the decisions that he makes, however small they may be. That is what marriage should be, he supposes — something treasured, something shared, even if he has yet to be so bold as to try to be more openly affectionate than this. A hand upon hers, a passing touch as they share lessons.

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. ]

[ziryla]

( perhaps it is a rather optimistic thought — or a bold one — but she thinks she minds it less, that she is such a predictability to him. in some ways, that is the way it would need to be, if he is to be a partner of any sort, navigating the unruly seas that await them.

the truth was, her obligation to be unknowable was a habit of her court; of westeros, and king's landing and the greens, even if they had not grown so terribly bold yet (cannot ignore the potential). there was enough that was said about her already — from realm's delight to less than complementary insults — and that was hardly a thing she could control. it was the rest that had need to be a tightly buttoned up coat, like armor. (though it was impossible, from time to time, to not wonder what sort of ruler she would even be).

but that was politics. this — this may be too, but if it is to be theirs to shape, as they'd mutually agreed, then there should be as little of it as possible within the spaces between them, for as much a time as they could get. a part of her understands, as soon as their ship docks upon the shores of westeros, some things will be inevitable.

so why not enjoy whatever these moments were contrived to be? her smile is one of relief. ) Good.

( an expression that turns upwards in a near grin. ) Would you now?

If you must know, I did have a fine collection of points to raise. ( said mainly in coy humor though it isn't without its honesty. she had considered just what sort of arguments she would bring, had the request been denied. there were quite a few points to be told, including ostensibly pointing out that letting go of his herald of high standing was coming across as an easier decision than parting with a seedling; more to the point, any should be entitled to the smallest comforts of home and thirdly — would he not wish to embody their alliance through such a history? a chance for symbol, alongside their Weirwood. But as it were, there's no need to bring any of that up and she's none too glad for it. little need for verbal sparring so early into the union of their houses. still: ) That is high praise indeed. ( a look over to him, smile reaching her eyes. ) But — I am relieved we will not need to find out the truth of it.

( besides, it would interrupt their going to meet galadriel — which she finds far more preferrable. )

[ziryla]

( he comes to occupy enough of her thoughts in turn; they pull towards him as a visage of stability. of comfort, and the small affections so carefully navigated had only served to solidify her fondness, amongst the experiences shared that had slowly added strength to the shaping bonds. perhaps it is what adds kindling to her reaction, a fruitless attempt in guarding him from the mess.

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. )

[osanwe]

[ Gluttonous snake, Rhaenyra says, and contrary to what most may expect, Elrond smiles, a huff of laughter escaping him at the description. Perhaps it's because he's still relatively new to it all that he reacts to the unfolding events with amusement rather than pure annoyance or anger, or perhaps it is because of his age — time has a way of lending perspective to such things, of drawing new lines around what one might have thought previously set in stone. But he understands, too, that what they're speaking of has a different kind of weight when one's time is so limited.

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.

[ziryla]

( his laughter, somewhat surprising in the context, although it only serves to pull her further from her own thoughts, mouth briefly ticking upwards in return, though more driven by subconscious mimicry. its an easy thing to forget — that perspective of his. the centuries of wisdom gathered. that this inspires amusement is almost a sobering thought. humanity is given to fatalizing. does this seem trite, in comparison to the rest of his life?

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. )

[osanwe]

[ It is a sort of blessing to find such moments of humor and relief on a night that he had expected would only bring heavy contemplation for the both of them — that they have found themselves kindred spirits, to some degree, like a thread of color shared between two tapestries, is a lucky thing. She smiles, and it brings relief to his expression, an ease that belies the context around them.

Gil-galad would have found such an argument maddening to entertain, he's sure — he has ever been an even-handed king, but there are limits to the Elves' tolerance toward those not of their kin, particularly when it comes to the idea that one might know better than the other. But yes, it is for the best that it has not come to that. Best that the day of their wedding be an occasion for celebration alone rather than any conflict between them already. ]

It is not high praise if it is well-earned, [ he says, with a slight arch of his brow.

In the next moment, his gaze travels from her to a figure behind them, and he bows his head briefly in greeting before meeting Rhaenyra's eyes again. ]

It seems introductions are to be made. [ He nods over Rhaenyra's shoulder, indicating for her to look. Not too far from them, Lady Galadriel approaches, a gown of silver shimmering about her frame, like a veil of light as she nears them. It almost seems like second nature, the way that Elrond takes Rhaenyra's hand, leading her to meet exchange greetings.

Galadriel smiles, curious and gracious in equal measure, though the former manifests, strangely enough, like a sort of surety, as though she knew the answers to the questions she asks already. She bears a gift for the new bride, as Elrond has promised: a green jewel, placed within silver, one that she passes to Rhaenyra with a knowing look to Elrond, who seems almost surprised to see it. For you, my dear, the Elessar, she says, pressing the brooch into her palm. May it keep you safe, and keep all things around you fair.

Later in the night, Elrond offers an explanation, though they are interrupted by well-wishers. The rest of the night passes in a similar fashion, the revelry continuing long into the evening, for all intents and purposes a celebration rather than just a contract made. ]

[osanwe]

[ That question prompts a sigh, the first such reaction that she's really seen from him, perhaps for obvious reasons: It's hardly an easy one to answer. ]

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.

— i'll face the light with you.

[osanwe]

[ On the day they are to be wed, he tells her that the Elves marry for love.

He is a romantic, to some degree — before he meets her, he does not yearn for it, necessarily, nor does he attempt to seek it out, but he finds some sort of comfort in the knowledge that he will one day have a partner, someone with whom to share in life's many joys, someone with whom to share the many years that lie ahead of him. It is not that these ideals are dashed when the match is arranged, but rather than his sense of it changes. That they are brought together by forces outside of their control does not change the fact that love is something that must be grown, developed, nourished.

And he thinks he spots it, here and there — in glances shared across the courtyard, in knowledge shared, in brief touches they grow increasingly comfortable with exchanging.

He could not say what emboldens him, now, but in the privacy of their chambers, he finds himself reaching out, his fingers ever so carefully brushing back a lock of white hair from her cheek, tucking it safely back behind her ear. (Her hair glows, in the candlelight, like pearls or silver.) Papers cover the desk before them — remnants of the lessons they offer each other (the ink is still trying on some Tengwar script, tonight's teachings just barely concluded), correspondence from days past. He sits closer to her than he usually has, and he feels suddenly more aware of the distance (or lack thereof) between them, as he looks at her.

He knows already that appeals to her station and to her beauty mean little to her, but still, more and more, he finds himself admiring her — the way her cheeks flush when she laughs, the particular set of her mouth when she expresses displeasure, the mellow tone of her voice. He understands the inclination of some to say that love makes one weak, that it clouds the thoughts, but if anything, he thinks it is a strength, a sign that they have grown closer together. ]

I hope you do not find me too bold, [ he says quietly, as he lets his hand drop back to the surface of the desk. ] I must confess I find myself thinking of you often, in recent days. Not just for what machinations we face together, but—

[ He shakes his head slightly, searching for the right words. ]

—but, I suppose, simply out of affection.

[ There is, for once, something shy about the way he looks at her, different from the certainty and confidence with which he usually carries himself. ]

Is that strange?

[ziryla]

( she has to wonder at it; does he see his father in the sky? his mother? he looks to her now and it feels like there should be an answer looking back.

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.

[ziryla]

( where elves married for love, rhaenyra had seen marriage as politics. a tool to further a kingdom, to bolster an alliance, unions made for something other, as those bound to duty did not have the luxury for much else. (she does not realize yet, however, that such a union for elves is wholly singular).

in some ways, nearly everything about their budding partnership defied her expectations rather quickly. right from their quiet promises, made in the glades of lindon trees, of choices and freedoms tucked away under the nose of duty. to the ritual of the seedling in their courtyard, and all the small habits that had formed their way around them. to the secrets and histories they shares. to how she came to care for him far more deeply than she thought she would (in part, perhaps she expected friendship. that it so seamlessly become something else was without thought, all heart).

she thinks she sees it in the smallest moments, too. conversations shared late into the night, lessons concluded. in how they seem to find each other, glances held across rooms in a way that makes it seem like he is the only one there and how they drift to one another without trying, ending up side by side by the end of a social evening with notable consistency. he inspires her, often in infuriating ways, to be better.

in how easy it is to lean closer to say something in low confidence, and laugh about something shared only between them and she finds, serendipitously, that she rather likes the sound of his laugh. the airy hitch of breath, and how she can tell the honesty of his smile by how it reaches his eyes (or how it doesn't, when it is perfunctory). he occupies more and more of her thoughts and she notices his absences when they are apart and it is that latter point that strikes her most curious, if not outright embarrassing.

(a darker part of her rolls closer to a possessiveness that she has little claim to, when she catches the glaring look otto throws him across the room. its intermixed with a thrilled satisfaction if she catches something that looks like uncertainty in otto’s face instead, when viserys’s laughter is loud to what elrond tells him. but she knows, in some way, it paints a target.

because, while love itself is no weakness, and can create bonds stronger than any steel or stone, she knows somewhere deep down that elrond is becoming a way to reach her, should one be just desperate enough to. it isn’t entirely rational. she knows elrond is more than capable. )

but — back to point, love is hardly rational. was this inevitable? in some ways, the same way it could have never been predicted. affection born from arranged union isn't unheard of, of course, but hatred and comtempt are born in equal measure. that rhaenyra still hesitates to give whatever buds in her heart a name is attempted restraint.

the lesson had lulled to a natural conclusion as night settled more surely beyond, candlelight a flicker across an array of pages, and she had taken another moment to try and memorize - if not outright admire - the elegant curves of the drying ink.

when his fingers brush her cheek, tucking errant hair back into place, it has her turning to look. it is rather girlish, in how her heart drums faster from something that she would not describe as overly bold at all. she is aware, pinpricks on skin, of how close they’ve gotten throughout the evening, knees nearly knocking together as she shifts.

too bold, he says. you could be bolder, she wants to smart.

instead, she watches him — the set of his eyes, to the sharpness of his cheeks and the gentle curve of his mouth. a small smile pulls on hers, somewhat wry: ) Would it be strange of me to admit the same, then? ( is the hushed response. she thinks she notes a vulnerability to the way he looks at her. she isn’t sure anyone’s ever looked at her like that before. )

[osanwe]

[ The subject of ruling is a difficult one, and one that Elrond knows is near impossible to truly understand without some experience in the matter. It is easy to cast aspersions upon Viserys' rule, upon Gil-galad's, but whatever some might find objectionable about their methods, there are years upon years of reasons shaping the paths they choose to take. In Viserys' case, an uneasy succession, a hard-won and fragile peace, an attempt to create a legacy that will not paint him as a poor ruler. And in Gil-galad's, the memories of the chaos Morgoth had wrought through the First Age, and the responsibility he has for his people as the heir of the kings of the Noldor.

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. ]

[osanwe]

[ Despite the Greens' attempts to further discredit them and their marriage, Elrond maintains a sort of geniality around Viserys' court — he is too much of a diplomat to act otherwise, no matter how he may feel about them and their repeated sallies against his wife's position. It annoys Rhaenyra to some degree, he knows, which is perhaps why he makes further effort to be fully honest with her when they are alone, talking through his opinions of Otto Hightower's methodology and general temperament. It makes things easier between them, makes it easier for to share things both little and small, inconsequential and of great import.

Viserys, he finds somewhat more easy to be around, if only because there is no enmity between them. It strikes him, early on, that Viserys might have been much happier had he not been born to a noble house, had he not had to take on the mantle of king. But such things are not always within one's control, and he appreciates what the man has made of his station.

And of course, as to the development of sentiment between him and his wife—

—there is something young in the way they look at each other now. Despite his age, he remains youthful, though that is often overshadowed by the way he carries himself. But now, that fact seems to come through to the forefront, the simple fact that the ground they tread now is new to him.

Some things are now familiar, near taken for granted — her habit of touching her rings when she is nervous or otherwise occupied, one now followed by, if he can, a touch of his own hand to steady hers. The way her gaze can steel itself should she be challenged, and the way it can melt, as it does now, in moments when her heart allows it. (It is in such moments that he wonders — who would not love her as a queen? To be so human— it is a special thing.)

It does not escape his thought that to become truly close to her is to open them up to vulnerability — to make an attempt upon either of their lives is something that comes with a host of risks, but with a clear reward as well. (But, he reminds himself at times, though he may have chosen politics as his path, he had come of age in a time of war. He knows full well how to wield a blade, how to protect himself against at least some threats.)

It feels irresistible, to smile in return, to laugh a little at the question she asks in answer. ]

Not strange at all, [ he says, a slight relief audible in his voice. ] Rather, it is the answer I wished to hear.

[ His every nerve feels pinpricked, a thrum of uncertainty — and excitement — he cannot say he has really felt before, not in this same way. He opens his mouth to speak, then breaks into a laugh instead, clearly sheepish.

As he collects himself, he reaches out again, a little more tentative, the pad of his thumb brushing over the round of her chin.

Then, a second attempt: ]

—May I kiss you?

[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?

[ziryla]

( in some roundabout way, perhaps it’s his diplomacy that might offer the necessary salve. she might chafe at it (soothed only in hearing him speak his thoughts away from eyes and ears), but it ensures even sturdier battlements. it is his actions, whatever he says near as much as what viserys supports that diminish most of the insults to their union as something weak. and thus that which started out as a match in tentative alliance for an undefined future might actually work with far better proactivity than its creators expected.

and so, less and less does she feel alone. when he says idle remarks, passing observations — she’s careful to listen, to be validated in her assessments or attempt to see it from a different perspective. it doesn't always fall within her agreement, but it matters that it happens.

the path is still unclear; still many ways in which they can be undermined, many yet in which they will be tested. she’s not sure when exactly she’d started thinking in terms of them more frequently than in terms of her, but it happens simply; that she was intended to wear the crown and sit upon the iron throne but the wisdom of his experiences, knowledge gathered in all of his time from kings and war and friends would act as adamantine guides.

though all of that lies with pragmatic thoughts, which have little place in a moment of sentiment, which happens not because it’s supposed to, or implied within some dutiful obligation of marriage but because it’s wanted. and maybe therein lies the youth, that serves to pull forth a moment not defined by anything other than them. it feels new to her too — in a way her other dalliances had not (all heat or rebellion but little heart).

she’s not seem him like this before, not really — the surety given way to something else. its charming, she thinks, that laugh that he ducks into or how his cheeks look dusted in color in the dim light and she'd barely notices how her shoulders had angled more openly towards him.

he asks her this, so entirely polite, fingers along her chin, that she nearly laughs — a soft amusement touching the corners of her eyes instead. her own hand settles on his chest, palm flat against silvery silk, eyes flicking up from the curve of his mouth to his eyes. when she nods, she realizes she's leaned close enough for their noses to nearly touch. ) — please do.

[osanwe]

[ He notices that early on, in the few interactions they have long before they are ever betrothed: She is a lonely girl, made that way by the expectations placed upon her, the untouchability of her bloodline, the many responsibilities shouldered by her father. It is not for that reason that he is kind to her — kindness is a thing meant to be shared freely, not doled out to those deemed deserving — but it informs the decisions he makes as to how to approach their lives now that they are intertwined. He does not want her to think him craven, to believe that he would not treat her the same way (feel the same way) were her position any different.

It is his duty as her husband to cherish her, yes, but to do something out of want rather than out of duty — the chasm between the two principles is near unbridgeable.

He sees the way she regards him now and he thinks that this would be enough — to have her know that she is not alone, that his care for her would remain the same even if their lives were to amount to little else, even if House Targaryen should fall in some manner, that he would do everything in his power to ensure her safety. (That is what all wish to know, is it not? That there might be one other soul upon this earth that would feel differently should one depart from it.)

But coherent thoughts melt away at mere proximity, leaving behind only sensation — the warmth of her hand upon his chest, the soft brush of her breath. Silence, then, as he closes the gap between them, his lips pressing against hers (almost just against the corner of her mouth) in a chaste kiss.

It's as much shyness as it is a willful decision to take things slowly, given the nature of their union in the first place. They are to spend the rest of their lives together (her life, at least, though he chooses not to think in such a manner for the immediate moment), they have a little time, gods willing, to figure things out, and he would not have something he deems so precious put at any risk by too unruly an impulse. ]

I think I have been quite remiss, [ he begins to say, as he draws back by just a fraction, his eyes finding hers again, ] in not saying often enough just how lovely you are, though I fear that word does not suffice in doing you justice.

[ziryla]

( to know that one is no longer alone to weather oncoming storms might indeed be a thought one would cherish dearly. to know that he might stand beside her, no matter what comes (no matter who she is); to know that something within her nature earned such a loyalty from one such as him (none other like him, a wholly singular spirit) would be remarkably emboldening, where another part of her might wonder as to how she could have ever proven herself worthy of it. kindness might not be reserved only for the deserving, but loyalty was.

but thought sputters out — this isn't at all about duty. nothing in the gentleness between implies as such.

pinpricks along the skin as eyes close; the soft press of his lips is near lulling, and there is a feeling in her chest that harkens to warm summers and sunshine on skin.

restraint lingers somewhat with difficulty, hand sliding slowly up to hover featherlight against his neck, her other settling on his wrist; thumb just under the sharp line of his jaw and when he draws away, she catches herself wanting to follow. it is a dangerous thing, to open your heart. it is a vulnerability to be exploited by outside forces and yet — is it not worth the risk, when the way he looks at her is the reward?

it is such dichotomy to the handful of experiences from before — unruly and impulsive desire sharpened by loneliness. instead, there is something to his patience that makes her feel eternal when she is anything but and it is so terribly unfair, that he prompt such feelings at all. (how dare he, with one simple kiss?)

the weight of his gaze in hard to ignore, however, eyes rising to meet his. it does little to diminish her own spark of heat, perhaps inherent to her nature, the guarded want of keeping him near.

within her station, she had been called many things and none had really lingered. the impact was skin deep, the attention equally so. and yet, lovely he says and it inspires a flush to her cheeks and maybe the difference is in the tone, in who he is and in how much she'd longed to know his innermost thoughts without realizing. )

Flattery from your honeyed tongue, ( laughed, softly, as she tips her head forward just so, to press her brow to his, lips ghosting along his cheek. ) You can call me lovely as often as you'd like, valzȳrys. (husband, she says, with a curl of a wry smile. )

[osanwe]

[ (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]

[ It is part of the nature of Elven marriage that the way she looks at him now — the particular kind of want he can see in her gaze, in the blush that suffuses her cheeks — is singularly new. There is nobody else that has looked at him like this, nobody else that has set such a lightness in his heart, not in this way. It's exciting, and, despite being such an unknown, not something that frightens him.

He has felt love before — for his friends, for his people, for those closest to him — but nothing quite comparable to how he feels as he looks at Rhaenyra now. As a politician, as someone who is aware of the importance of public appearances and maintaining polite relationships with those one might not genuinely feel kindly toward, he knows how to put on a facade, how to control his emotions (and he knows that she knows that, now, knows how to divine a false feeling from a true one), but it's a guard he lets drop more and more when he's around her.

That manifests, sometimes, simply in the willingness to speak relatively informally, to jest with her in a way that he generally refrains from when in court (to allow himself some fraction of youthfulness that should be long gone from him). Now, for instance: ]

Flattery and truth, combined. [ Her brow presses to his, and his eyes momentarily close, a contented sigh escaping him before he looks at her again. ]

Lovely, then, ābrazȳrys, [ he says — wife, an echo as well as a nod to his progressing studies. ] Beautiful. As radiant as any of the stars placed in the sky.

[ He could go on, but it is not totally in his nature to be quite so sentimental (or at least to be so demonstrative of it), and it feels better this way, he thinks, than to dare come close to treading into the kind of obsequious flattery she'd been subject to in the rest of the Red Keep. And besides — again, they have time, and he hardly intends to refrain from expressing just how he feels about and regards her for the rest of their marriage.

With that in mind, he makes sure to catch her gaze for another brief moment before — slowly, cautiously, making sure he isn't overstepping — he leans in to kiss her again. ]

[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]

( being fair, she won't be able to claim that another had looked at her the way he does now — though it is a notion strengthened by the days and conversations before this; by the careful time spent piecing together the intricacies of who he is, like a mosaic, to only be drawn deeper and deeper into discovery. what he means when he says something amidst the court, and to divine the truth of it instead. the subtleties paint him a wordsmith indeed and it is no wonder why the High King had appointed him herald for so long a time.

it is his particular humor that she's grown fond of — the sort of thing that can catch her off-guard, a thing that makes him seem so less untouchable, a reflection of youth and mirth and it is no wonder, the desire to hold it close. she thinks there is something beautiful in the idea — that there is a side to his nature reserved to be between them and despite the multitude of knowledge and years that separate their lives, she had never felt more an equal. perhaps it is the dragon-blood that stirs, that sleeping beast that will never quell her own ambitions (the sort that speaks of things greater than the microcosm around them), but it is he who makes her feel as such most of all and be less afraid of the unknowns laid ahead with sharpened edges.

is that how such a union is meant to feel, she wonders? or is this, too, wholly singular between them? progenitors of their own universe unto themselves, creatures of fire and earth without the weight of realms.
(or will this, too, be lost to her one day?)

a soft tickle of breath, when lips meet again. where he treads so carefully, she is inclined to be more bold, if only just so, feather-touch turning real as her hand rests against his neck, fingers carding through soft, fluffy curls of hair as she leans minutely closer.

he speaks of stars and it is funny how she sees them in his eyes instead. )

A poet's envy, ( lightly teasing, between another soft press of lips, tries to ignore the thrill that rings through the tips of her fingers at how her mother tongue sounds shaped by his. ) You can kiss me anytime you like, too.

( this close, the caution is difficult to miss, so she lets it be voiced, instead. she isn't without her own care, not pushing to chase her inherent heat — he is infuriatingly good at inspiring patience. )

[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 is strange — there is not a thing in this world that he does not desire to share with her. Somehow, the world seems larger with her in it, as though the years he had spent prior to their marriage had been but a taste of what the world had to offer. He looks at her and he wishes that he could show her some fragment of the splendor of Beleriand in the First Age, the slivers of what he remembers before Sauron's rise. After that, his impulses compete with each other, the desire to travel, to see everything there is to see with her at his side entwined with the desire to build something here that will last, that will serve as a testament to their union.

(There is some folly, he supposes, in the degree to which he is also captivated by her beauty, but the Elves have always placed a high price on such things, and it feels— less facile, now, as something born not out of detached observation but something valued and cherished. The catlike moue of her mouth, the lines that form in her cheeks when she smiles, the way her gaze can run from hot to cold, the precious silver of her hair. She will be remembered as a great beauty, he thinks, as much as she will hopefully be remembered for her facility as a leader.)

That is to say, he begins to understand, in these stolen moments, the love borne between Beren and Lúthien, in the great tales he had heard in his youth, though he hesitates yet to say the word aloud, lest it be reckless.

And, truthfully, lest fear — fear of a world without her, of what their path may hold — overtake him.

Besides, there are larger, heavier questions to follow, questions that ill befit the moment they're in, as to the matter of children, of what is expected of them. Such discussions grow more difficult in a context like theirs, when time to truly get to know each other is a luxury rather than a given factor. ]

That permission, I think, is the greatest gift I have yet to receive, [ he says, his smile matching hers. Granted, he sees it, too, in the way she leans toward him, in the touch of her hand at his neck. ] And I would be remiss not to offer it in turn.

[ A beat, and then: ] I cannot truthfully say that you have not enchanted me — nor can I honestly say that I would have it any other way.

[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]

( the promise of worlds — of sights to behold far beyond her imaginations, unruly and vast as they were already — would be a temptation most difficult to resist. if he asked, the truth of it was that she would follow. if he asked for more than a visit to rekindle old friendships and tend to budding alliances, if there ever came a time where he asked to leave this truly behind, she is unsure that it would be possible to refuse.

shaken free of duty, what would there be left but the whole world to see?

the true weakness, she realizes in a breath, is not what others might wish to enact against them in the face of their strengthened bond, but what he could convince her of doing, should he had any inclination. is that not also the danger of such trust? but did she not put it into his hands all these days? from the secret burden shared with balerion's skull as witness, to the pieces of her in between?

perhaps it is not in targaryen nature to want nothing short of everything, all encompassing in their passions, be it wrath or love. rhaenyra did not think it possible, to have her senses be clouded so wholly, with a singular soul to blame.

where his impulses are torn, so are hers — ever between duty and freedom. ever between weight of prophecy and the lure of something other. the way she had been jealous, in a way, of laena and daemon's leaving to chase adventure in pentos (the way she had thought that she needed that unruly, vicious fire beside her to be able to live without fear; she thought she needed a dragon). instead that need is met in hands far gentler. she does not mind being proven so wrong. )

I would think it is you who has ensnared me, ( is countered in mild accusation. there's a warmth, settling in her chest that feels so close akin to happiness it may as well bare such a name.

she is reluctant to part, to create any sort of distance and feel colder still from the miniscule shift. but she reaches out to hold his face, to pass thumbs over his cheeks and watch the candlelight catch his features in their soft light. ) What a pair we make, mm? ( there still remain the weight of their expectations — of what is meant to come from this union, of all that is meant to be raised from them that may still work incongruously with that starts between now. but that is a weight shouldered for another time. )

[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.

[osanwe]

[ Were they different people — were he a different kind of person — the fear that he might truly try to tempt her away from her duty might be warranted, but he has never been given to such subterfuge, and, moreover, he is not the sort of man to shirk such responsibility. Perhaps there might be some other version of their lives in which he would be content simply to travel the world with her, but his heart is too steadfast for that, too open to allow for the suffering of others so long as he might be able to prevent it in some way.

And she would suffer, he knows, were they to leave. She bears too much love for her father, if not necessarily for the idea of ruling, and the chaos that would be left in her stead would be sure to tear the realm apart. To crave power is different from being fit to wield it, and he is not sure the distinction is one that has been made by those who would seek to usurp her. Granted, it ought not to be her responsibility to brook that kind of ambition, but they have not the luxury of choosing the time they have been born into; all that can be done is to make the best of it.

They already have, to a degree, he thinks, as he looks at her now. The warmth that she offers him, like the warmth of the sun or the comfort of a fire lit on a cold night, is not something he could have imagined when their betrothal had been made. It's easy to lean into her touch, to smile against the gentle press of her fingers. ]

What a pair, indeed. [ The answer comes easily, happily. ] The envy of any who would see us, I should think.

[ He says it mostly in jest, but it is clear enough in the way that he looks at her that a part of him thinks it genuinely, too. Such is the strangeness of love, of devotion. A perfect moment, a private thing meant for them before they must face the vicissitudes of court, before the difference in what they are becomes so pronounced as he remains ageless. ]

Well, whatever it is, be it enchantment or a snare, I am glad of it.

— i still get the dreams and the feeling of doom

[ziryla]

( It is a blistery day in Driftmark, ocean-air thick with salt, waves crashing along the seaboard. Spraying upwards, scattering along the coastal rocks as they stood gathered around Laena’s stone coffin, and watched it descend into the sea. Rhaenyra stood rigid, shoulder brushing against Elrond’s and hands tightly wound around themselves and tried to remember to breathe.

The height of her anxiety crests in the gathering afterwards, as the truth of such a tragedy lingers — it is a loss she is keenly familiar with, her mother gone the same way and childbirth again reminded as a cruelty. Though if she were honest, it isn’t grief that drives her stomach to knots (no, the grief is cold, in congruence to the ocean chill) — it was her uncle.

She wondered, from time to time, what it would be like to see him again, after all the complexities left behind them, from the near decade gone by. She had missed him, to a unique extent (had she missed him, or the unruly fires of youth that he’d careened along with him, all wild and all dragon? untouched by time where her father wasted away, embers doused so thoroughly that she wasn’t sure they were there these days at all).

Perhaps that nostalgia would have left a different aftertaste, if her current marriage had been kept to politics alone. As it happens — Elrond had changed everything. Had carved some hold into her soul, like spindling roots and made it sing; something still theirs, amidst (or in spite) of all the duty and expectation still awaiting. A rarity within their realm, it felt like. An envy, Elrond had called it and while it had been said in half jest, the other half was truth, felt in all the ways Alicent’s eyes lingered. In the prodding questions and the levied accusation once more tossed out in evident hurt (why is it that you always get what you want?).

Still, her eyes meet Daemon’s across the balcony a few times, split between moments of condolences shared between many until they find themselves standing across one another. She hadn’t noticed, who had drifted to whom, as her elbows lean against the stone, and look down to the water. She can see Laenor from here, though she averts her gaze to give privacy to his grief, and as she does, it is Daemon’s face she finds.

I’m sorry, she says, thinking of Laena. Of his children. And of him. Evening crests, and all is somber. They stand barely knowing a single thing about the years between, ignorant to each.

And what of you, Rhaenyra? Are you happy? he asks in High Valyrian, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes go to Elrond, appraising in a sort of slant she doesn’t quite like, as he thinks this a private conversation. Rhaenyra is still surprised at how there’s a spike of something in her chest — that telltale throw of possessiveness, that thrill of secrecy (Elrond had taken to High Valyrian with enviable efficiency, after all). A rather draconic tendency of protectiveness, not unlike the way Syrax is of her. Daemon is an unpredictability, and once, once she was drawn to his chaos before she had come into the ownership of her own. Once, she thought the only way to withstand the withering felt within this court was to burn brightly alongside him. She thought, one day, that they would burn together; that she needed him, an inexplicable draw towards tradition and fire as the only path to surviving duty and yet. Yet here she stood, on a different path, and no less sure. Fire undiminished, within the safety of immortal hands. Left to flourish.

She realizes now, that this isn’t some unresolved beast anymore, between her and Daemon. And that she was far from the girl left at the pleasure house. She loves him, of course, in the way of blood, and had missed him in some regard and mourns the loss of her cousin with him but when he asks her that, if she is happy, her answer is simple, and without a second thought. I am, uncle.

His eyes drop to the glimmer of the Elessar, green and bright and contrasting sharply against the Targaryen reds and blacks of her dress. Her chin is held high and proud and he holds her gaze. The moment passes, some concession given and taken with a nod, an implication of closure that makes Rhaenyra breathe a sigh of relief — a minute gesture as her posture eases, as the hardness of her gaze lessens.

They speak a little longer, the tension ebbing away into something more familiar. He tells her a little of Pentos, and of his girls, and she speaks of the journey she and Elrond soon plan to take to Middle Earth until it lulls into a respectable end. No small surprise, to see how much they’ve seemed to change. No small relief. Shockingly, she would even say fatherhood had done him well — his girls stand a reflection of both their parentage. She promises an egg to offer Rhaena, should Syrax bring a clutch.

There is a part of him that remains unconvinced of her husband, she knows. Can only guess at what issue he might find within but if there are thoughts on it, he remarkably holds his tongue. Perhaps now is not the day.

It isn’t long after that that Viserys departs (her mother’s name on his breath rather than Alicent’s) and Rhaenyra gravitates back to Elrond’s side. She slips her arm through his with a long sigh and wishes, selfishly, to leave.

When she speaks again, it’s in Sindarin, mellow and low, in testament to her growing understanding — longer lessons held in preparation for their departure, on her insistence. ) A long night is coming to an end, my love.

( Their journey is but a day away. Preparations had been in full swing, at the cost of her nerves, mind occupied with far too many things. The evening troubles her. Her eyes find Rhaenys and Corlys across the way. She’d found the Princess earlier that night and held her hand tightly, softer edges ebbing into the set of her eyes (Elrond all to blame).

Her gaze drifts somewhat slowly across to Alicent, and to Larys Strong standing besides, but does not linger. Stiffly: ) We should retire early; we’ve a longer journey ahead of us still.

[osanwe]

[ A song of sorrow carries through the crash of the waves, the humming of the wind, even the scent of salt in the air.

It is a kind of music Elrond is familiar with, and one he wonders if he can hear only because he knows how to listen for it. It had been as natural as learning a language to the Elves, the messages carried by the nature around them as vital as learning how to heed their own hearts. Looking at the other mourners gathered around them, he imagines they must be able to hear it, too; they would not be here if not for shared grief.

Granted, it's a conviction that he grows somewhat less sure of as conversations begin to splinter, meaningful glances cast across uneasy space that, he does not have to guess, have less to do with Laena than with the political web that seems constantly to draw together new threads. A shame, but nothing he can remedy. All he can do is pay his own respects, and to look after his wife. It is not easy for her to be here, and even less so given that an occasion for mourning is now also one for further intrigue.

He wonders, from time to time, if the rumors as to the senses of the Elves are taken as just that, here; people would surely be more careful with their whispers if they thought them to be true. Often, it takes active effort to focus his thoughts despite hundreds of years of practice at quieting his mind, at picking out solely what is necessary. Daemon, at least, speaks in High Valyrian, though Elrond assumes that is less to do with wishing that his niece's new husband does not overhear so much as it restricts the conversation from nearly all present. (On that same token, he cannot help but think that such attempted secrecy would be more effective if not also accompanied by a somewhat pointed glance.)

The difficulty is not that he needs to restrain a desire to know what Daemon has to say, but that he trusts Rhaenyra totally. He does not need to know what they say to each other, despite the history he has felt lingering between them, and to eavesdrop feels like a sort of violation of that trust. What they share, he dares to think that no one could break. He need not watch over her every action, despite his desire to remain ever by her side. He offers his condolences, in that time, to Lady Rhaenys and Lord Corlys, instead, though even that exchange does not totally drown out the sound of the conversation occurring across the battlements.

(Though he keeps the thought to himself, largely because whatever worry it might birth he regards as, for now, fairly needless, he does not totally trust Daemon. What he can divine of his previous relationship with Rhaenyra does not serve to endear him to Elrond, but Rhaenyra has grown in the intervening years. Daemon does not pose a danger to the love they bear each other, if not necessarily so as to the way succession will play out.)

He smiles, softly, when Rhaenyra returns to his side, his hand rising to rest over the one she slips through the crook of his arm. (Elven speech sounds natural on her tongue, the shape of it rounder than the sharp edges that, to him, characterize High Valyrian.) The direction of her gaze does not escape him, but it is not a matter to be discussed here. He says, though not in so many words, that he does not believe her old friendship with the Queen to be truly lost, but to repair such wounds as they have incurred is something that will take time and true effort, neither of which they really have the space for, here.

And besides, they have travel to prepare for. The prospect of dragon flight still unnerves him a little, but it has come to excite him, too; and even beyond that, it will mean they arrive in Middle-earth much faster than if they were to travel by boat, meaning that they will have more time once there as well. (He fancies, too, that Syrax has grown more fond of him, though he leaves it to Rhaenyra to truly confirm it.) The prospect excites him, not just to show her more of the Elves but to hopefully visit Khazad-dûm as well, to introduce her to Durin, to take a little time simply to show her Middle-earth, a world that is still mostly foreign to her. ]

Of course, [ he says simply, as he begins leading them back toward the keep. Though he schools his expression into something more solemn, he cannot resist the initial smile that he offers her, in no small part because he is proud of her for having forded the day so well (and because such comfort, he thinks, is a necessary thing). Such a funeral is not an easy thing to navigate. In ]

You did well. I hope rest will come easily.

[ziryla]

( A song of sorrow that so soon falls on deaf ears, and must leave Elrond to listen to it alone. Perhaps its shared with Corlys and Rhaenys most, for it touches them deepest but it is a wonder at how callousness festers on these shores and funerals are never simply just about that. The interweaving of politics never stops — and she cannot be sure if there are those here that had even waited for Laena to sink to the bottom of the sea before the intrigue returned. Her own mother's pyre had felt much the same — the question of succession written in between the solemn silence.

Driftmark was similar, in some way — there was still Laenor, to inherit Corlys' seat, but he had no heirs (preferences and proclivities a poorly kept secret, even if she had done her best to cover for him when he'd asked). So then the question became: would Driftmark then be succeeded by Daemon's daughters? It shouldn't be a question, if Rhaenyra would take the throne as first Queen. But, all to point: funerals for the court were never simply funerals, and the song of sorrow that might ring so true in Elrond's ears is still mostly lost.

And, in that, it was easy to feel adrift. One must wonder, if she is made softer in the company of her husband, to be so torn.

But, where Elrond might have been politely trying not to eavesdrop on her conversation with her uncle, Rhaenyra hadn't missed the way Otto's attention lingered on them across the battlements. Nor Alicent's, or Cole's and while she wished for Elrond to be proven right in the mending of her childhood friendship, she had to wonder if such a hope would be enough after the years at quiet odds. The smallest hurts can fester if left un-soothed. Perhaps after they return...

But there are other matters to concern herself with now, too — the journey ahead will need to be a careful one. They will arrive far faster than they would on boat, that is true. And Rhaenyra had taken to flying Syrax to and around Dragonstone, to ensure a lasting endurance of an otherwise over-spoiled she-dragon. Had ensured she knew Elrond by sent and sight (and worried, somewhat, how he would fare on his first journey on dragon-back). Had asked the keepers on what preparations needed to be made, and even Daemon had a few short words of advice, given the extensive time spent in flight. But — it would be the longest time she would be away from the keep. Ample time for things to go awry, for those who wished to undermine her claim to make their moves undeterred. Viserys had grown all the more weary as of late (and with all that, his insistence on her own heirs was harder to navigate).

Elrond's hand on hers is a comforting warmth. As are his words, and it has become no less surprising to hear such encouragement so openly. Her nose wrinkles, affair having put her in a particularly cloudy mood. ) And yet, I find myself restless.

( Thumb runs along the top of his hand — a fidget taking place of twisting at her hands and rings — as they walk back inside the keep. Pointedly pretending not to see Otto drag a very drunk Aegon back inside. ) We should fly on Syrax to Dragonstone early on the morrow. ( besides, better a short flight to acquaint her boon companion and husband first. ) Finish our preparations there. The Keepers are more fit to assist, and it brings us closer to the open sea.

( The prospect of their journey is an anxious one as much as it is an exciting one; with the thought of politics removed, there is still a childish thrill to the thought. That finally, finally she gets to share the skies with someone dear, and see the open world far beyond what she could have ever hoped for. It might be the only thought that serves to ease the tension from her brow, as she looks up to him, a tick of a smile. ) Are you looking forward to returning home?

[osanwe]

[ There are times, when he is particularly weary, that Elrond finds his patience with his wife's extended family wears somewhat thin. Do you not know how fortunate you are, he thinks to himself, though he would never dare say, to still have your family with you? To be born into a time of peace? But he understands, too, for however much the loss of his parents, his brother, and the experience of having borne witness to a great war, that proximity to such power as they have all been promised (in one fashion or another) is a dizzying influence. He pities Aegon, for that. The very same influence he wishes not to wield is what gives him the power to do as he wills otherwise, a dichotomy he does not seem to entirely understand.

Still, the thought is passing, for now, as he returns his mind and his attention back to Rhaenyra. He nods, adding, ] I think it best not to linger. [ There are too many people here, too many high emotions, and should the matter of Driftmark's succession require their vote or involvement, it isn't as though they'll be totally out of reach.

(And, blessedly, the night passes without event. In this life, with Rhaenyra yet to bear children, Vermax is given to Aegon; claim to Vhagar remains with Laena's daughters.)

His smile grows softer in response to hers. (That wrinkle of her nose is something he finds endearing each time the expression crosses her face. It's similar to the way he's grown fonder and less wary of Syrax — there's a distinct charm to watching a beast so great, so dangerous, indulge in its more playful or childish impulses.) The crash of the waves still sounds in his ears, but — such farewells are not all sorrow, though that can sometimes be difficult to remember. He nods again in answer, the gesture accompanied by a slight shrug of his shoulders. ]

I cannot deny that I am. It is strange, I would say that I sometimes feel split in two, except the words carry too much pain to be true to my meaning. My home is with you, that is what I hold most important in my heart. But there are threads, still, that tie me to my people, beyond the framework of political alliance, all of which I would share with you.

[ A little too earnest, perhaps, but he thinks it required given the delicacy of the subject matter at hand. He has a life here, now, with her, but that does not erase his connections to Middle-earth, to Valinor. To simplify things to some extent, he is glad that the occasion for their betrothal demands maintaining ties across the sea, and the occasion to see old friends again.

The precariousness of their position — and more pointedly, their impending absence — is not lost upon him, especially as Viserys' health shows no signs of improving. But, in the interest of ensuring his daughter's smooth succession, and to address matters in the most practical terms possible, he had done well to wed her to an elf. A slight against her would also be a slight against her husband, and the prospect of drawing the High King's ire, and moreover, the High King's action, is a powerful deterrent. In truth, Elrond does not believe Gil-galad willing to march to war over such a thing, but the Greens need not know that. ]

Are you looking forward to visiting again? Admittedly, your last visit to Middle-earth was painfully brief, nor do I believe you were given so much latitude as to explore.

[ziryla]

( Perhaps such reminders would serve them well; or fall on deaf ears. It has been enlightening to watch Elrond's perspective, at times. To know that even his adamantine patience wears thin. Easy thoughts do not follow — instead, she wonders if it will ever wear so thin it will break. It is not in his character as much as in her anxieties, those weaker moments fueled entirely by culminated frustrations. (She knows, at some degree, that it is a fault of her own, too. The fractured remnants of her friendship with the Queen Consort laid out the foundation of the relationship between her half-siblings — or rather the complete lack thereof, but she cannot bring herself to try and mend it all. They are all guilty of being stuck in their stubborn ways.)

And still, it has taken an outside perspective looking in to have Rhaenyra realizing how messy things have truly gotten. The thought goes unvoiced, but she has to wonder, at times — this will not settle with her ascension, should it even be allowed to occur. Petty quarrels bleed longest.

But — to lighter matters at hand. Especially now, it feels akin to chasing the sun. As they walk the halls — blissfully away from higher emotion, higher tension (and thus, history rewritten), it's easier to ease her shoulders, the tension of her arm lessening, sliding instead to thread her fingers through his as she listens.

My home is with you he says and no matter how many times he speaks of such things, or passes small compliments, it is said so wholly it always catches her breath. But she has an end. A startling thought, though not entirely irrelevant, given the funeral at their backs. She cannot bring herself to ask where he intends on going after her death (or if their children will follow, because that is a conversation that hangs closer and closer as Viserys' strength wanes and his needling persists). That isn't how she wants their adventure to begin.

There's a hum, thoughtful. ) It has been your home for far longer than we've known one another. I do not blame your sentiment. To some degree, I even hope I understand it. ( Targaryens held a history lost to flame; many of them had yearned for a return to something that was no longer there. She saw it in Daemon, at least. She saw it in how they held their traditions, their tongue. It isn't the exact same, she knows that too. ) I'm happy you want to share such things.

( He has had a life without her for far longer; and for far longer, gods willing, will he have it beyond her. Middle Earth had served as his home through it all and despite his absolute devotion, is this political union not a short breath when held up to the year before and to follow?

It is a benefit to them, that the elven alliance (in whatever capacity it was) was one of high privacy. Hardly any could claim to know elven nature, and that Gil-galad was unlikely to send any contingent to march for them was not an assumption many would know of, regardless. That, she hoped, would need to be enough.

Before long, the worry of what they left will be replaced by the thrill of the journey, the wonder of things she's yet to see. An adventure to a world not even Daemon had ventured to, to think! All for them, to quell a dragon's hunger.

She smiles, and it wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. ) I am, yes. Very much so. I've no marriage to be rush to, ( said with love. )

Admittedly, I was thinking of gifts. I could not very well come empty handed.

[osanwe]

[ There are a few conversations he knows yet await them: the question of children, whether they desire them at all, and if so, then when, given their still tentative steps into intimacy; and the matter of whether or not she would desire, when the time should come, to sail into Valinor, let alone whether or not his kin would permit such a thing. It is, in theory, a less pressing matter, but he cannot deny that the issue of time is not one that plagues him. The idea is one that appeals to him — that the end of her mortal time should not preclude the ability for them to spend more time together — but he knows it to be selfish, too. Even at death's doorstep, it would be difficult at the best of times for a queen to leave her people.

(It is strange, too, to admit to himself just how quickly he has become fond of her, how attached he feels. He looks for her when she is not present, misses her when they are parted. He had never thought himself to be so easily affected by anything before, but with her— the years seem to fall away. He does not relish the idea of losing that feeling, knowing that what they have is finite. He understands better now the tales of those from whom he is descended, of the kinds of emotions that spur such great tales. It makes him wonder, in the moments he allows for his ambition to take true hold, how they will be written of; if the marriage will be purely characterized by its political significance or if they will manage something greater.)

But, for the moment, he smiles in return, a soft laugh escaping him. It is a relief that their journey is one she's eager for, rather than solely an obligation. He knows, already, that there'll be some work to be done — the missives he receives hint at some unrest, though he does not know yet if he'll be able to be of much use — but, as per their conversation already, he does not intend to let such things monopolize their time. Time is such a precious thing, after all. Day by day he grows more conscious of the waste of it.

He also imagines there'll be some to-do given Syrax's presence (and some more thoughtfulness required should they travel with the beast outside of the Elven realm, particularly if they intend for their trip to be free of any potential violence), but that's a bridge they'll cross when they come to it. ]

I think you will very quickly become the apple of every eye that perceives you, [ he says, of her inclination.

In fairness, he'd think so even if gifts weren't on her mind, but there are few better ways to prove oneself a considerate guest, and more than that, he finds himself touched by the thought, that she should think that one step further for the sake of those he calls kin and kindred. ]

May I ask what you had in mind?

[ziryla]

What flattering bias you have, husband, ( dryly, though with a pleased little smile before her expression turns a bit more thoughtful, a twist to the moue of her mouth.

it is easiest, perhaps to address the more pragmatic side of their journey, lest they spend more time dwelling on it than she’d like: ) In the interest of keeping an appropriate message, I thought to present the High King with a sapling of our Weirwood. Viserys wishes to pass some letters along, a continued confirmation of maintaining our political agreements and we need to ensure that, despite what Gil-Galad might hear on the matters of succession — should he — Targaryen word holds steadfast. ( she knows it sounds terribly droll, in some way. Impersonal, nuanced. Necessary. Setting the right pieces in motion for when they might call for Elven support in return (if by promise alone, and not sword). It almost feels petty, in some way, but her hope lies in the sapling, then. A reminder perhaps, of growth. Of peace, of appreciation. A living thing to tend the life of, as they have done here. It would send a different message if she were to present any sort of armament, ceremonial or no (even if more fitting with their history of conquest, but that is certainly not how she wishes to tend this history. Her whole lifetime, as it were).

With that out of the way, she sighs, lets the silence linger a little while as they turn to their guest chambers. A chance for him to speak in agreement or against while she tosses a brief look at the tapestries hung around the quarters. They show victories of the Sea Snake, ever persistent reminders of conquest and survival and pride in equal measure. Her eyes pass along them without much hold, though it is Corlys’s errant remark that lingers — history remembers names.

She turns a softer attention back to Elrond (at times, she has to wonder, if she has her love for him, why she would need anything else, but those are thoughts best reserved for poets, and not future queens) ) — As for Durin, and Lady Galadriel — ( absently, her hand rises to the Elessar, held precious in so many ways, more and more with the tales Elrond had shared on its significance.

As with many things around her, this too felt bigger than she was. Could anything ever come close?

Truly, there had only ever been one thing to ever try. ) — I thought Valyrian Steel to be most fitting. It is a metal that has not been recreated since Valyria’s fall. The edges never dull, the steel never tarnishes.

The pieces we have carry that significance. It is the only thing we have that might boast the same longevity. ( There are things in that she doesn’t say. How she wishes for them to know how much significance Elrond holds. How he had changed everything. And how, no matter what may befall her house upon these shores, that there may be keepsakes scattered within Middle Earth, free of what the futures might hold. The last bastion of memory.

Of course, there is no shortage of the greed of infinity, around him. And of course, it works in such brittle dichotomy to her father’s health, to the inevitability of time and the duty to her house and kingdom that she has thus far ignored for the sake of indulging in the warmth of a slow development.

She had approached one of their packs, to remove a slender wrapping of deep red. ) For Galadriel — it would be a gift from myself as much as Viserys. I do not think I’ve ever seen him parted with it before. ( In her hands sits the dagger of the King, an elegant sweep of a blade that sings of old history.

To some degree, she knows it pains him to part with it, near as much as it pains her to see him parted. But just the same, it would have been Rhaenyra’s one day, to do with as she pleases. And If their lives are to interweave with the elves, who better to hold to prophecy of kings than the Lady Galadriel herself?

Perhaps Viserys knows he would not outlast this ailment to an age that would have fit him.

Rhaenyra extends the dagger, holding the steel above the flame. Its warm on her skin, against her fingers, but she had never minded the heat. Valyrian script soon alights itself across the swirling metal and she keeps her gaze upon it. ) Do you think a safekeeping of prophecy would be a fitting gift, or an obvious burden?

[osanwe]

[ To a certain extent, Elrond has always known the colors of the tapestry that could come to be his life — an early interest in and talent for politics had led to a place in the High King's court, and his rise to the position of herald had shaped what sort of avenues would be afforded him next. He had known, before his marriage to Rhaenyra had been arranged, that his life would never be purely of luxury, that to be a representative of his people, to play some role in stewarding their future, demanded a degree of personal sacrifice.

And so this discussion now, of what will best maintain the relationship between House Targaryen and the Elves, of what kind of gift will make the best impression and suggestion as to their intertwined futures — as much as it may be a chore, there's something heartening in being able to share it with her, in being able to track the course of her thoughts. Bias, she says, which isn't strictly untrue, but that's hardly a problem in his mind. ]

I imagine the High King would take kindly to such gifts, [ he says in agreement. A sapling would be appreciated, he knows, and suits the Elves' affinity for nature, and some correspondence from the King would likely set Gil-galad's mind a little more at ease. (They are similar in some ways, Elrond thinks, though he does not give voice to it.) As for whether or not Gil-galad has yet heard of the conflict brewing within Viserys' court, the burden rests largely on Elrond's shoulders as his people's main emissary; there'll be no avoiding it, he expects, though his prognosis is somewhat more positive than his wife's.

(As for Viserys — there is a part of him that wonders if the King would not benefit from the medicine of the Elves, if they might not somehow be able to turn the tide of the illness that ravages his body. But that is not a decision for him to make, and, nascent as the thought is, he has yet to bring it up to Rhaenyra. The moment has not yet presented itself, but perhaps soon—)

The sight of the dagger is the first thing to give Elrond pause. Even without it said aloud, he recognizes the importance it holds not only in terms of prophecy but as to Rhaenyra and Viserys' attachment to it as a marker of their legacy. It's strange — the design is not dissimilar to what the Elves prefer in their arms, especially in short-swords and daggers, though its colors are somewhat more striking than the more celestial palette of his kin.

Gently, as he watches the letters come to light upon the metal: ] We do not see prophecy as a burden. I think she will see it for what it is, as a signifier of trust.

[ His gaze finds hers, then, searching her features. He knows well that she would not even bring it up if she weren't certain, if she hadn't already spoken of it with her father, but still: ]

Are you certain you wish to part with it?