ziryla | — something new begins to take

[ 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. )

( 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.

Edited (lets pretend i know html) 2022-11-29 02:12 (UTC)

[ 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?

( 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.

no subject

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

— i'll face the light with you.

— i still get the dreams and the feeling of doom