perzo | inbox for saltburnt;

Baela is here. As is our least favoured of Alicent's children. Be wary, Rhaenyra.

They have both made themselves known.

I am certain that Jace would see Baela protected here, but there may be little keeping Aemond at bay.

She has moved into a room beside Jace already, so she will be well cared for.

[ He checked. ]

And I've dealt with Aemond.

You spoke with him?

[ as long as it is just that. ]

We shared words, nothing else.

And an exchange of words seems to be precisely what has provoked our son into challenging him.

And our son will not be harmed. That was part of our talk.

Alicent has expressed similar concerns. It is her desire to avoid unnecessary bloodshed here, as it is mine.

Then let the threat of me temper his violence, for as long as it may stand.

Jace has his pride, but I will do what I can to impress the importance of restraint in this matter.

I will ask Baela to caution him also, though the fire in her blood may run just as hot.

She has always possessed the blood of the dragon, rather than the salt of House Velaryon.

She is one of my great prides.

You might try showing her, while we are trapped here.

She will never admit it, but she has missed the presence of her father.

She has already made her thoughts clear.

[ He was duly scolded, babe. ]

[ repressing a small smile: ]

She has always been the most forthright of our daughters.

Forthright and bold. I hear good things of her work for you, wife.

Her efforts scouting the skies on Moondancer have been invaluable for our planning. She has already become a fearsome dragonrider.

She does her Queen proud.

I had hoped to spare her from taking part in this war, but Jace and Baela have long been my support when the rest of my Council would rather question my authority.

They are true heirs of our blood, Rhaenyra. They would make a fine pair of rulers.

And with them having claimed adjoining rooms, perhaps we should discuss the wedding sooner rather than later.

[ given the strangeness that alicent had warned her of, the potential magic that causes one to lose their inhibitions... ]

Are you planning to broach it with him?

Once I am not preoccupied with ending this duel before it can successfully begin.

I can speak with either, when you are prepared to press the issue.

It would not be such a priority while we teeter on the precipice of war, but here, I see little reason to hesitate.

We can settle their duel and then take them aside.

It would not be this family's first wedding on the heels of violence.

Nor, I imagine, would it be the last.

[ what an eventful day. ]

Our sons intend to fight to yield on the morrow.

For what purpose?

I do not know. I am certain Aemond has goaded Prince Jacaerys into issuing this challenge. Unless you can convince your son to retract his words, he will gladly meet it.

I suggest we find an impartial arbitrator to observe the dispute and keep them from harm.

Edited 2024-09-21 15:33 (UTC)

I will attempt to make him see reason.

Our hosts' generosity has its limits, and certainly will not extend as far as open bloodshed.

On that, we are agreed.
I have every intention of maintaining our truce, and I have impressed this upon my son. Aemond swears he will not shed blood.

[ 'first' at least, but the caveat feels inflammatory. ]

Let me know if Jacaerys cannot be convinced, or if Aemond presses this matter.

Can you truly take him at his word?

[ from where she stands, their last conversation at dragonstone had been particularly illuminating in that regard — and the likelihood of alicent being able to sway her son's mind is small. ]

Or has his right to vengeance truly not been sated through the lives he has already claimed?

It will never be slaked, when Viserys himself did not acknowledge the injustice done to him. That is how he sees it.

[ that particular slight still rankles for her as well, only she has the sense to know it is born of her own inadequacy and foolishness. aemond has taken too much from rhaenyra already. ]

But he will not endanger me, and Daemon has informed him that I would be the price of blood.

[ strangely, it does not offend her, when she cares little for her own life (and expects naught but wickedness of daemon targaryen). if it deters aemond's worst impulses in this manor, it is for the best. ]

Edited 2024-09-21 16:13 (UTC)

Then he seeks recompense from one who will never be capable of giving it.

[ there are many words she wishes she could have received from her father, but did not. now, she must rely on what he had promised her himself, unwaveringly — that she had always remained his heir — and what he had told her in confidence, about why the protection of the realm must fall to her above all. ]

Daemon would not act outside my word.

[ she would not have been so confident in saying so before harrenhal, but now, she knows what they have sworn to one another. ]

I am well aware.

[ she hopes that she would have words for Viserys, too, if she ever saw him again. it is more likely that she would embrace him and cry. ]

So it was not Daemon who sent the catspaw that slit my grandson’s throat before sweet Helaena’s very eyes.

[ Viserys could not control Daemon. She doubts Rhaenyra can — not always. ]

I cannot change what has already transpired.

[ even then, daemon had insisted — and she had believed him — that his orders had been clear, and that the men who had been paid had acted outside of them. but even then, she would have confronted aemond herself in retaliation for luke, if such a path had been open to her. ]

But he has sworn himself to my cause, under penalty of consequence. He only seeks to stay your son's hand.

[ the cause that will take my son’s heads? ]

I ask you only not to trust your Lord Husband blindly, when he has rarely shown constancy.

Do not forget the pain he caused your father.

[ when he touched her, ruined her, wed her — went gallivanting off to the stepstones — killed one wife and possibly Rhaenyra’s own husband — it is a lifetime of distrust (and a hint of jealousy) that makes her doubt. ]

We spoke at length of his failings in such matters.

[ even if it had been a conversation cut short by daemon's departure for harrenhal on caraxes, but now, time and distance seem to have tempered his worst instincts. that does not mean rhaenyra has abandoned all sense of caution. ]

Much pained my father, in those final years, including our division.

[ a well-aimed retort, and it stings. ]

Yet he himself sowed the seeds of it.

[ by marrying her — or by putting a son in her belly? ]

I cannot change what has already transpired.
I will mind my son, and you will mind your husband. No blood will be shed on House Balfour’s lands. You need not trouble yourself over me any longer.

I know, now, that you were a comfort to him after my mother passed.

[ something she never would have understood, or sought to, when she was younger. then, she had hated both of them — alicent, for securing her father’s affections, and viserys, for stealing her dearest friend away from her.

but the response she earns now is as definitive as it’s likely intended, and rhaenyra doesn’t attempt to press the subject further — especially since the words read closer to a dismissal, in her mind, over what they’d shared. ]

We are agreed, then.

[ it is a return to the impasse they have maintained for decades now, yet it feels like a fresh wound. rhaenyra will fight for all, but not this: girlish fantasies best kept locked in distant memory. ]

We are.
Take care, Rhaenyra.

[ everyone said he can't murder so he's just going to be extremely annoying. ]

Mandia. Have you broken fast?

Edited 2024-09-27 20:52 (UTC)

You ask to ensure my presence at the table?

[ she'd just as soon take a tray in her rooms — so long as giles hand-delivers it himself. ]

I won't insult you by pretending I have no motives in asking.

I have no intentions of harming you. I only wish to talk. Break fast with me.

[ audacity — something they both unfortunately share in spades. possibly the only thing viserys ever truly gave him, outside of his name and anger. ]

Very well.

[ she does not suggest they meet in either of their rooms, and she knows she may very well earn daemon's ire for agreeing to meet aemond without a man standing guard as protection, but there will be enough parties at breakfast to ensure any conversation remains civil. ]

Does your mother know of your intentions?

[ or is that the very reason he has sought to arrange this meeting — because alicent would have attempted to dissuade him, had she known? ]

It concerns her, so no.

[ if anything, he's the one risking his neck here. he already promised peace. he never agreed to not being annoying. ]

If you're eager to be rid of me, then I'll ask my questions over bread and fruit and leave you be.

In the eyes of the Balfours, we are all honored guests.

[ and what she desires holds little consequence when they've all been brought here — and trapped — under the same circumstances. ]

The eggs do leave much to be desired. But my ear will be yours.

[ the eggs are the weirdest part, if he's being truthful. who needs so many options for it? ]

I'll see you at the dining hall, mandīa.

[ by which he means he's already on the way there, and hoping there's something sweet to drink that isn't some kind of pureed fruit. ]

[ Rhaenyra doesn't overtly delay, but neither does she make haste to breakfast. If Aemond is determined to engage her in conversation for reasons that have yet to be made clear, she sees no reason not to test his patience along those lines.

By the time she appears outside of the dining room, she is visibly dressed not for breakfast, but for this meeting — in a red dress that would not be out of place at the head of Dragonstone's Painted Table, with gold designs embroidered across the bodice and pointed shoulders that create a larger silhouette, have the effect of making her seem taller and broader than her stature would otherwise indicate. In lieu of her crown, she has wound her long braids atop her head, carefully pinning them by her own hand.

She has elected to meet Aemond alone, without engaging Daemon — a decision that she imagines will earn her husband's ire when he learns of it, but a neutral ground has been selected for a reason, and, despite previous attempts to incite a drawing of weapons, Aemond must know, now, that she is not so easily provoked.

She enters the breakfast room, gaze immediately sweeping across the various faces until it lands on his — and then she approaches him where he stands, in lieu of serving herself from what has been laid out. ]

Shall we speak now, or after the meal?

My sympathies, Rhaenyra, for your losses.

I would have expected more in the way of celebration, not condolence.

We are as remains one House. Jacaerys and Daemon stood for your honour and our name, I have respect for it.

You are welcome to refuse it, sister.

It is not refusal. Merely surprise.

There are those who may have thought Daemon's challenge reckless, but I believe he had the right of it in naming my attacker.

He fought well, and honourably.

[ it's as best as any compliment will go. after all, daemon lost — that had been more surprising than anything this game has ever done so far. ]

Mother will be in her prayers, if you would join her.

Do you guard her, even now?

[ she asks in part because their numbers are lower than they have ever been, and alicent had been vocal in naming several, as well as lending support to other accusations. ]

I can keep my post outside her quarters.

[ much as he would hate to leave his mother alone with rhaenyra, he can put his mother's desires and interests over his own sometimes. and even now, it's selfishness that motivates him in great parts; he doesn't want to see his sister's grief. ]

[ she could remark on how alicent has unexpectedly become a great comfort to her in these times, but perhaps she doesn't need to. ]

Strange, how in these times we are not our own greatest enemies.

How could we be? As I've been reminded often, the Iron Throne means little to nothing among those who reside here. It means even less to our hosts.

You will see her? My mother?

No. Yet their game could have created a convenient opportunity for vengeance.

I will. Is she still at prayer?

She is. I'll make it known you intend to visit, so that she might prepare to receive you.

I will not harm you, mandia. You are free to visit as you like, for now.

Yet the decision to see me stay or go will remain in your mother's power.

Or do you no longer heed her words, as any son ought?

You are not blind, Rhaenyra. It ill suits you to pretend you do not see my mother's fondness for you remains.

[ a sharp and painful point of contention between him and the woman who has given him life. mother to mother, daughter to daughter, friend to friend. what else has rhaenyra claimed for herself? what does it serve her to play at humility now? ]

I am a prince of the realm before I am her son. Just as you are a princess before you are anything else, and we are dragonriders above all.

We answer to duty first, as we should.

Better for her that it did not.

[ she will concede that much, just as she will concede the existence of it, since the conversation has turned to that subject. but even now, she is reluctant to linger on the topic. ]

However you may choose to rule as regent is your prerogative, but do not confuse personal grievance for duty.

Edited 2024-11-13 15:55 (UTC)

[ personal grievance. and who was it who confused grievance for duty, in the face of a truth made plain to all who could see and hear? ]

Do not start this with me now. I intend to keep the peace between us, but you have no allowance to what patience remains with me. That has long been forfeit.

Let us be our own ways. It's been a long few days.

[ After his resurrection; ]

Prūmia. I swore that I would never leave your side, and my word will be kept.

It is this place that has sought to keep you from me.

Yet I know you were of the right in your challenge, and gave your life in seeing to your word.

My word is good. It always will be so.

I hope you did not miss me too sourly, wife. Or, I think, I hope you did, so I can ease the burden for you.

You seek to make recompense to your wife for all that she has endured in your absence?

I do. I offer it to my wife and queen, your grace.

Then I would suggest you not keep her waiting for very much longer, so that you might ease her suffering.

I am already coming to your door.

[ Rhaenyra's first instinct is to respond to Daemon's message with something equally haughty and teasing — the first, as befitting a queen, and the second, as befitting a wife — but a stronger emotion drives her to set her device down, on the closest table, and uncurl herself from the chair she's been perched in, closer to the fireplace in the room.

With anyone else, she might linger, wait for them to reach the door and discover it already unlocked. It's a potentially unwise choice in the aftermath of the attacks, but Rhaenyra will not barricade herself behind a locked door or risk appearing afraid — or worse, weak. She has already conquered life after death, but the certainty that Daemon is on his way to her is what drives her steps, across the room and to the door that leads out into the main corridor.

When her hand closes around the knob, her expression initially shifts into one of surprise and expectation before dissolving into fondness — and she reaches out to secure a grasp around Daemon's upper arm, leading him into both the room and the place where she stands. ]

I would be well within my rights to order you to remain in this room. [ Stern, even as she takes his face gently between both her hands, lifting her chin to press a kiss to the center of his forehead. ] Forbid you from venturing anywhere else.

[ Led into the room, Daemon does not protest. There are few people in his life that have ever been able to muster the power to chain him, to mould him, and even then he had fought back against their hands, more wild animal, a hound, a dragon, frothing at the mouth as he tries to free himself from their chains. Viserys had tried and failed; Laena had found more success, and now Rhaenyra is capable of softening him more than any other might.

He goes with her, because there is nowhere else he would wish to be.

The door shuts behind them, his foot kicking it shut even as he leans down, brushing their foreheads, nudging his nose against hers and seeking out her mouth, breathing out a soft noise. It's filled with want, sadness, warmth, adoration - all the depth of his feelings for her, even in the wake of his own death. He had died for a good cause, died for their family, and he would do it again. They both know he would. ]

Would you have me leashed, wife? [ A grin, dangerous and deadly as he takes her hand, brings her fingers to his mouth to kiss. ] Keep me chained so that I do not go too far from you?

[ Some of Rhaenyra's initial imperiousness dissolves in the wake of that kiss — tender, but searing, and conjuring a whimper from her in kind. For so long, she'd only ever attempted to meet Daemon with defiance, even when he draped her in his gifts and looked at her far longer than an uncle should consider his niece. Yet she's learned, in the wake of their reconciliation, that it is not a sign of weakness for him to discover that she can soften in his arms. She would much rather they not be queen and king consort behind closed doors, but much closer to wife and husband. ]

I would. [ She says it insistently, but her voice loses some of its resolve with a subtle hitch of breath, the consequence of relief at having him by her side again. While she could not have begrudged him his desire to avenge the deaths their family has endured, she had dreaded the outcome, and mourned his loss as deeply as any other their line had sustained over the previous fortnight.

Her fingers curl in his, reflexively, as he brushes that kiss over them, but then she intentionally slips free of his grasp. ] I'm going to tie you to our bed so that your every moment, whether it be waking or sleeping, is dedicated to my service.

[ Based on the slow, intentional arch of her eyebrow, it's clear that this is a threat — or promise — she intends to deliver on, at least for the length of this night between them. ]

Is it not already? [ Daemon is dedicated to her, there is truth in that. He has bent the knee to her, has offered his sword, his army, his words to her, his sworn queen and dearest of women. When he looks upon her now, there is adoration in his eyes, in the way that he looks at her. Perhaps once, she had been right: he had lusted for her because he lusted for the throne, because he had wished for the title of king to be his, as he had often felt it had ought to be.

Things had changed.

Being offered the throne, seeing his brother's heartbreaking, seeing the possible future unravel before them, and knowing that the child of their blood is in line to the throne in the future, that Daenerys will become queen after a long fight? It soothes the rattled parts of him. The fact that he might fight for her now also soothes his lust for war and violence, to let loose his hands to strike down anyone who might stand before them and claim another as the true ruler of their lands.

Daemon has no qualms about giving in to her urges. He longs to worship his queen, and if this is her desires... He might be able to permit the lack of control in his own hands, just for a little while.

Eyes closing, head tilting into her, he hums softly. ]

A true Targaryen Queen, to command a dragon so. [ But his lips curl, smug, pleased. ] Claim me, then.

Perhaps. [ Rhaenyra's mouth purses, tellingly, with the effort to hide a broader grin; she has no reason to doubt where Daemon's loyalties lie now, even if such a surety had not always been present between them. She certainly has not forgotten the display of strength and fealty that he'd given her at Harrenhal, swearing the armies he had assembled to fight under her banners.

But this, now, between them has more to do with extending a suggestion and determining how he'll respond to it — whether he'd even permit her to restrain him for the benefit of symbolism. She can hear his hum of consideration where their heads are tucked close together, and she can practically hear his smirk along with it, which is what leads her to slide a hand over his front before tucking two fingers underneath his belt, establishing a snagging grip. ]

Māzīs, Daemon.

[ If he is to be her dragon, and ridden as such, she will command him like one, maneuvering him over to the bed and then gently shoving him back onto the mattress before climbing atop him. His shirt, she makes quick work of, stripping it away, and then reaches for his belt again. The reason for acquiring it will become clear when she orders him to give her his right hand, then his left, crossing his arms at the wrists up above his head. Her gaze frequently darts down to his face as she begins to loop the belt around his joined wrists, securing them to the headboard. It's not the tightest knot — he could easily free himself, if he attempted escape — but the purpose is for him to stay bound, body invitingly stretched taut, so she can use him to her liking.

Once he's been restrained, Rhaenyra pauses, sitting back in a straddle across his hips, and reaches for the ties keeping the bodice of her dress closed, slowly drawing them out one at a time. ]

I do hope your thirst for vengeance has been sated now. For if you get yourself killed again, I will ensure you're brought back to life so I can make you regret it.

[ To watch her smile again, to be able to see the warmth of her, to know that she has returned to him after death - it inspires a sweetness in Daemon that might once be foreign to him. She is someone that he cannot help to adore, cannot help but wish to love and cherish, and yes, to fuck, to press her to the bed and claim her, but there is more, too. She is his wife, lawful and wedded and taken, in the tradition he had wanted for so long.

Does she know, that he would've traded his crown for her, once? That he had begged it of her father, knife to his throat and head throbbing from his cups, wanting nothing more than her hand and her mouth and all that she had to offer? Would she care, if she did?

He had bent the knee to her. She must know where his loyalties lie, now.

Moving with her, allowing her the power to shift his body, to command him, Daemon feels a sharp little thrill inside of him. He is accustomed to being in control, he is accustomed to being the master in the bedroom, the bringer of pleasure, but there's no denying the fact that he enjoys the way she clings to her power here, too. She is his queen, and he had given her his loyalty, so to have her wish for this as well, to chain him to her beside and take from him what she wishes...

There would be pleasure to be found there, too, even if his instinct is to rebel against the notion of being so trapped.

His fingers flex as he watches her, eyes dark, waiting to see what she might do, what she might offer him. ]

Would another death not be regret enough? [ Daemon's lips curl a little, dangerous. ] Iksan aōhon, prūmia.

[ In the years that they had been apart from one another, whether divided by time, war, marriage, or some combination of the three, Rhaenyra's thoughts had occasionally wandered to the notion of how Daemon preferred to bed and who he preferred to indulge in it with. As a prince, a second son, and a man certainly not bound to the loyalties of marriage, she'd been quite aware of the women he'd strayed to before his first wife had died. The specifics of his proclivities had been unknown to her, but she hadn't been so naive or sequestered a princess that rumor of Daemon's rakish reputation hadn't made it back to her ears in the Red Keep.

Those nights that she'd considered what it would be like if she were the one to be his wife, she'd also lingered on thoughts of how it would be in bed between them — if he would seek to control her, dominate her in every sense, ask her to bend to his whims, or if he would allow her to seize authority every now and then. While the years of their marriage had not been so clearly defined as to force them into specific roles, she'd never once dared to suggest an act of this nature, but judging by the telling gleam in his gaze, perhaps she should have been this impulsive long before now. ]

Iksā ñuhon. Ñuha zaldrīzes.

[ Ties on her bodice unfastened, her fingers slowly part the loosened fabric, revealing the swells of her breasts to him, the points of her nipples already tight and aching for his mouth. Would that she were carrying another of his children now, she thinks; she could feed him in the same manner, guide him into taking sustenance from her body, drawing another part of her into himself. She will give him another heir, perhaps even while they are here, but for now, she is determined to bask in this night above all others. ]

Se kesan kipagon ao hae mēre. [ No wonder, then, that her fingers descend to make quick work of opening his trousers, freeing his cock while his own hands are captured. Her gaze lingers on his, breath gradually quickening, as she rewards him with a series of slow, purposeful strokes. ]

[ Daemon had been cruel to her, in the past, that he is aware of. When he had taken her to the pleasure houses he had hoped to do something - frighten her, perhaps, or to torment his brother, cause friction between them in the wake of his return and his ire. When she had responded so well to him, so wanton and ready for his touch, he had been afraid, slighted; he had expected her fear, not her blatant and easy need for him.

It had consumed him, after, when he had begged for her hand, when he had fled, leaving his first wife to rot, when King's Landing was behind him and his new life settled around him. Coming back to her, claiming her for wife, bonding himself to her in the tradition of their houses, to claim one another in blood and breathless vow was akin to coming home, welcoming him to a place where he had always imagined he had belonged.

Daemon itches to reach out for her, to drag his fingers along his skin, to twist against her nipple and take what he pleases; he would take her in his mouth, squeeze her, drink from her, breast and cunt, claim her with all that she has. He would worship and then take his pleasure. He has always enjoyed their coupling, has loved the way that the sparks between them are like dragonfire itself, and being bound and at her mercy is a strange, exciting turn of events.

Groaning, low in his throat, head tilted back, Daemon sighs, eyes flickering closed. ]

Ñuha jorrāelagon. Gūrogon hen nyke hae kesā. Iksan aōha zaldrīzes, aōha steed, aōhon. Iksan aōha dārilaros

[ For now, returned to life to her, to stay at her side, as guard and consort both, he will permit her to take what she wishes from him. ]

[ Rhaenyra won't deny it now: there had been a time when Daemon's loyalty to her had been in question, when she had doubted that his readiness to wed her had been rooted in genuine feeling rather than an effort to remain close to power. Their conversation before his departure for Harrenhal had only furthered that doubt, caused it to firm and grow into something hardened. Yet how easily her walls had crumbled, later, in the face of his unrelenting faith, in the evidence that he finally understood everything Viserys had once confided in her, everything he had sneered at the first time.

She had always craved Daemon's attention; when he had departed King's Landing for years, for his first marriage, for fighting in the Stepstones, after tensions with his brother, she had pretended not to lend a second thought to his whereabouts, even while she'd openly sought out his company upon each and every return to the Red Keep. Now, she realizes it is not his attention she wants, or even to be the fixed point by which he makes every strategic decision — she only desires his devotion to her as a husband, his love for her as his wife and equal, his want carried heavy in his gaze and in his loins. She wants him to burn for her, as intensely as she burns for him.

She is not fully prepared to accommodate him, not yet, even as she shifts forward, the drape of her skirts shielding their lower halves from view, to carefully and deliberately guide him inside her — there is a stuttering drag as she slowly envelops his cock, a lack of ease in mounting him, that forces a hiss out of her, through her teeth. And yet she welcomes the discomfort, the evidence that she is alive enough, present enough to feel such things; she idly considers freeing his hands so that he might be able to arouse her further, but instead she leans forward over him, her bared breasts hovering above his mouth in clear offering. ]

Gūrogon hen nyke. Ñuha zaldrīzes, ñuha dārilaros, ñuha valzȳrys, ñuha ānogar.

[ She doesn't wait before she begins to move over him, the rhythm easing somewhat once more arousal is provoked, and she establishes a slow rocking of hips, gazing down at him with unbridled affection. It takes a moment for her to be fully seated, but then she grinds harder, rubbing herself against the hilt of his length, the sensation eliciting soft, gasping moans. ]

[ There is no denying the fact that, at times, his loyalty can be a fragile, dangerous thing - hard to earn and hard to keep, especially twinned with his own needs and own desires to find something stronger in himself, to try and take and take until he gets what he wanted. It had taken a great deal of reflection (and, it seems, hallucination) for Daemon to finally settle into his role, into his position, to recognise that he is finally where he needs to be.

At her side, loving her, giving her all that he might have to give her.

Rhaenyra moves, climbs atop him where she belongs and makes herself comfortable, mounts him as a dragon might, and it fills him with glee and warmth, fills him with that familiar, aching desire that thrums through him and makes him want to grip her and devour her. Chained as he is, bound by her touch, tongue and tie, all he can do is take whatever she gives him; his mouth leans forward, to scrape his teeth over her nipple, to suck there gently, to bring her whatever pleasure he can.

He groans against her when she speaks, groans against her more as she rocks her body over his, riding and claiming him. This is his wife, his queen, a true Targaryen, a dragonrider and master, and it makes him shiver, his hips rocking up to meet her, to chase the pleasure of her. Perhaps it would be better for him to give into her entirely, but he is her dragon - and dragons are rarely well behaved. ]

[ There is a hunger in Rhaenyra now that yawns, and stretches, and seeks to be sated; she has not known hunger like this since before their children were born, when she felt like little more than a broodmare intended to bring heirs into the world, a vessel meant to assure more of their line. When was the last time that she readily sought pleasure for pleasure's sake, the way men so often do? When was the last time she allowed herself to ride her husband's cock for the pure enjoyment of it, rather than trying to ensure that new life would take root inside her?

If Daemon bucks beneath her now, hips seizing upward as she works herself over him faster, she doesn't immediately chide him for being so daring, but her lips part for a smirk, her brow arching in subtle challenge. She has half a mind to lift herself off of him now, crawl up the length of his body and smother him with her cunt, ride his face the same way until he sees her pleasure assured — and then, and only then, finish him off properly. Would he enjoy it, she wonders? Would he willingly submit to anything she chose to do to him, surrender to becoming her throne in a manner more befitting of a whore on the Street of Silk, rather than a dragon queen?

She drifts down to him, slowing the pace of her hips in order that she might meet his lips more easily, licking over his mouth before slanting them together in a deep, devouring kiss. Let him feel the effect he has on her, how she slicks him more readily now, her arousal building as her breath quickens. She moans, soft and approving, when he thrusts into her from beneath, lets him take over the pace of things as she tightens her thighs at his hips. ]

There's no need to be gentle. [ Her whisper across his mouth is harsh and hurried, breathless; she has never loved him more, she thinks, than she does in this moment. ] True dragons never are.

[ There are few delights in this world that could come close to the joy of the pleasure of a wife sated, of a lover come to completion, spilling in hand or mouth or elsewhere. Daemon has found great enjoyment between his wife’s legs over the years they have been together, and has longed for her further than that - how many of the whores in King’s Landing had been his for an evening because they had her nose, the glint of her eye, the dimple of her smile?

Too many, and perhaps that lacks the flattery that it might offer to some, but there is no denying the truth.

Daemon is hers, and has been so for too many years, under the pained and watchful eye of Viserys, with other marriages between them. He had fondness for Laena, that he would never deny, but the whole world had known where his oath and devotion had lied. They’ll know it again now, with his knee bent to her at Harrenhall, his promise made before their banners and their kin.

He is her dragon, her sword, her monster in the night, her own to command and cast where she sees fit.

It is so easy, then, to kiss her, to lean into the familiar dance, to leave soft noises against her skin. There is no duty in this, nothing beyond the joy and pleasure of coming together once more, of adoration and love and trust branded upon them. There need be no heir from this, no replacement for what was lost - only love.

Breathless, he grins up at her, their noses nudging even as he rocks himself into her cunt, using the angle to push in as hard as he can, to take what is given to him so freely. ]

Whatever my grace wishes, she will have. Let us not resist our urges.

[ There had been doubt fostered between them, in the past — recent events had led Rhaenyra to question Daemon's true intentions, his deeper motivations regarding her rightful claim to the Iron Throne. Whatever had transpired for him at Harrenhal, whatever ghosts he may have been forced to confront there within its haunted walls, seems to have given him a new perspective — not merely in regard to her father's insistence of the Song of Ice and Fire and its importance, but that she can serve as the best ruler to lead the Seven Kingdoms when it inevitably comes to pass.

How long, she thinks, had she been his — a piece of her belonging to him even as he had taken other wives, as she had been promised to another husband? That night on the Streets of Silk had been illuminating for her in more than one sense, but he had refrained then, denying himself, denying them. Years later, the encounter on the beach between them had been hers to initiate, asserting her desire for him as a woman rather than a girl.

Here, her desire lies not in mere womanhood, and not even necessarily that of a queen; she aches for him as wife for husband, as her dragon, and her pace quickens as her need does, as they start to move more frantically, with an accompanying slap of skin against skin. ]

Daemon. [ A plea, nearly a whine despite their earlier play, she wants no other name on his lips but hers, as she edges closer to her peaking. ]

Finish inside me. [ She craves every drop of his seed now — perhaps it will not take root this time, but that doesn't mean she wants it left anywhere else. It's evident she's holding herself back, though, trying to withstand him, so that she saves her own release for his tongue, so that he can lick his leavings out of her. ]

Edited 2024-12-16 16:33 (UTC)

[ The truth is that she would not be wrong to have doubted him, to have been unsure of his intentions - because he would have taken the mantle for himself, even if he realises now that it is not what he truly desires. If his brother had offered him the throne he would have taken it, but hindsight is a gift indeed - he would not have enjoyed kingship as much as his mind might have thought, once.

Or he would, and his dreams were wrong. Daemon cannot be sure.

None of that matters, especially in this place. None of this matters, because they are here together, they have been welcomed to this realm twinned together, as if the world itself could not part them. The possessive part of Daemon knows it is because she is his, but in the same vein he is hers; her husband, her lover, hers for so long time has lost the meaning of it.

Sighing into the kiss, he nudges their noses, he rocks into her, and he feels the utter bliss of it all. ]

Rhaenyra.

[ It only takes him a flicker of time longer, hands bound and hips chasing her, giving her what she wants. He leans back as he groans, baring his neck as a wild animal might, cheeks heated and warm as he allows himself to come and fill her, all that she might want, ever giving in to her demands. ]

[ It is torturous, holding herself back at the sensation of Daemon's cock pulsing, throbbing within her as he spills himself at her urging, her demand — but Rhaenyra has eternally been nothing if not determined, resolute, and once she sets her mind to something it can be difficult to sway her in any other direction. When she was younger, her rebelliousness had certainly gotten her in trouble, but she had an increasing suspicion that her more resistant tendencies were exactly the sort of thing that Daemon enjoyed about her — her impulse to challenge, despite being viewed as lesser because of her sex, had often matched his own defiance, even if she had not gone to the lengths he had.

But as he lies beneath her, the column of his throat a straining arch, she bends down to bite at it, more of an absent grazing of teeth than something that leaves a more puncturing mark — and in the moment, her hands are more focused on reaching up to unfasten the belt keeping his wrists tied so that freedom is afforded back to him again. She doesn't need to keep him leashed for this next part, but she doesn't suspect that he'll object once he realizes what her next decision involves. ]

Catch your breath. You'll need it.

[ Her mouth slants upward in a crooked smirk, even as she lifts her hips to let his cock slip from her with an accompanying hiss through gritted teeth. She can feel his seed left inside her, threatening to escape, and instinctively clenches in an attempt to keep it all within, but climbing up the length of his body is a somewhat more difficult task when she has to account for her own skirts. ]

Kesā sagon ñuha dēmalion, valzȳrys. [ Words that take on wholly new meaning when she's making efforts to straddle his face, knees sinking into the pillow on either side of his head, her gaze hungry as it traverses his expression. ] Sir, rijībagon aōha dāria.

[ Daemon does enjoy this, does enjoy the fact that his wife is taking what she wants. When he had done it when they were younger, when he had pushed her into a wall and kissed her, hard and harsh, he had wanted to see her submission, wanted to see her give into him. When she had returned his intensity it had shaken him, then, but now? Now he feels nothing short of adoration, nothing short of something wonderful, and he wants to devour her.

He wants this. He wants her mark, as he wears her ring, as he wears her banner, his devotion for her clear and obvious. He wants to be claimed by her in the way dragons do, in the way that Caraxes and Syrax dance around each other and roar to the skies. He is her husband, her consort, her king, and it burns inside him like dragonfire.

Breathing in, sharp and harsh, he watches as she moves and makes herself comfortable. He is still bound, still entirely at her mercy, but there's no hiding the delight in his eyes as she settles herself over him, thighs either side of his face and the promise of her pleasure there for the taking. ]

ñuha jorrāelagon.

[ Rhaenyra settles down over him, and his hands tug at his bindings in the desire to grasp her, to squeeze at her and take. Instead, he uses his mouth, tilting his head up to immediately slide his tongue along her cunt. He is chasing the taste of himself mingled with her own desire, and he groans softly, pushing himself as close as he can get to her to start to devour her properly. ]

[ The fact that Daemon had been willing to submit himself into her hands, to give over control of this coupling to her, only arouses Rhaenyra further, but there is something about the idea of using him as her throne in the most illicit, depraved sense that makes her unmistakably wet, all but dripping as she finally settles herself over his face and he lifts his chin to meet her with the initial slide of his tongue over her cunt.

She's sensitive, already, from riding him, but in a way that renders every further lick and stroke that much more enjoyable. Still, something's missing even in this, and Rhaenyra quickly realizes what it is; Daemon's wrists are still tied to the headboard, when she wants his hands on her waist, her hips, her thighs, steadying her, creating one more point of direct contact between them.

She reaches up with a sudden franticness, digging her fingernails into the admittedly loose knot she'd created so she can tug the belt loose, away from his skin with an audible whisper of the leather, punctuated by the thud of the buckle when it slips from her grasp over the edge of the mattress to hit the floor. ]

Daemon. [ She needs him, desperately, fingers of one hand sliding through his hair, cradling the back of his head — tender as a mother's embrace, but with the urgency of a lover. When she rounds her hips down over his mouth again, it's more gently than when she'd sheathed his cock in her heat, since she isn't aiming to smother him, but she's still more heedless in how she seeks out his tongue, her other hand curving over the top of the headboard for further purchase. ]

[ There are few people alive that Daemon would willingly bend to, that he would offer himself to without pause, and there is a strange twist of fate in the imagining that it is father and daughter both. Blood calls to blood, and the two of them have the blood of the dragon burning inside of them - it's what calls to him, makes him yearn for her all the more. Her beauty, her strength, her wisdom and her mind, but her blood, too, her connection to the dragons that pulse inside them.

He enjoys this, he thinks; giving her what she wants, seeking her pleasure, curling his tongue in her cunt and making a pleased noised as she rocks over him. Daemon does not see this as true submission, perhaps, as others do - in this he is giving his wife pleasure, giving her what she desires, all that she wants, and there is no hesitation in him. There is nothing that would stop him from bringing her the release she deserves.

This is his wife. He will do well by her, as he always shall.

Without hesitation, he closes his eyes and continues to worship her, to do everything that he can to please her, groaning against her cunt with content abandon. ]

[ Would Rhaenyra have ever been this bold, even on the night she'd finally confronted him about her feelings — offered up the truth between them, knowing she was finally giving voice to what had always simmered beneath the surface of their conversations? As they'd undressed one another with sure hands, made love beneath the shelter of that abandoned boat, she'd cleaved to Daemon as a wife would — on her back, spread to accept the weight of him between her thighs, the press of his cock inside her — even before they'd uttered the vows that would bind them to each other in blood.

Now, she's confident enough to seize her own pleasure and to let him play a part in delivering it to her, aware of what she wants him to do in their bed — put his face between her legs, devour her cunt as he plunges his fingers deep, readying her for thicker. They're not wholly selfish lovers with each other, not anymore; she derives just as much enjoyment from making him shudder and spill as she does when he makes her crest from his tongue, his cock.

The rumble of his groan against her tender flesh prompts another shiver, another quaking, and then a moan, as he licks at her, tasting his own seed and the tartness of her arousal merged together, and the grip she's established on the headboard enables her to rub herself over his mouth with clear intention, chasing release rather than prolonging it that much more.

It doesn't require much more effort from him when she's been close to her finish since riding him; her body tightens, movements dissolving into shuddering hips and a sharp indraw of breath, and then she stills over him, swaying through the immediate sensations.

When she finally regains feeling in her lower half, she moves, gingerly easing off of him and then curling up along his side, one arm draped across his middle as she nuzzles into his shoulder, making no effort to redress or cover herself right away. She'd much rather bask in this with him, the warmth that lingers behind, as she slowly lifts her chin to initiate a kiss she can taste both of them in. ]

Dinner with me. Tonight.

In our rooms, or have you found somewhere else for us to dine?

Our rooms will do, won't they?

Of course.

Though now you’ve piqued my curiosity about the subject of this dinner.

Can a husband not wish to simply enjoy an evening with his wife?

He can.

We’ve had quite the number of enjoyable evenings together as of late.

[ not all of them involving dinner… ]

If you beg a repeat of them, wife, then it can be arranged.

Any begging, husband, will have to be earned.

From who's mouth?

So you intend to do some begging yourself?

That depends on how the night turns. I thought we might entertain ourselves with a little discussion.

We can converse about whatever you’d like. I assume it’ll be just us for dinner.

I would have alerted you to other company, yes.

Then perhaps I’ll reconsider what I’m wearing.

You are teasing me, Your Grace.

I’d refrain if I didn’t think you enjoyed it.

I enjoy most things from your hands.

Most, but not all?

Few would adore your disappointment, my love.

And you have sought to make amends. It has not gone unnoticed.

I will continue to earn your good graces.

And I will not keep you waiting at dinner.

I await you with anticipation.

( this is not intended for his mother, far from it, but he doesn’t notice that he’s sent it to an unintended recipient when he tosses his phone aside on the bed. )

[ would it be better to say nothing, pretend she hasn't seen it? or would he prefer she bring it to his attention so that he might send it to its intended recipient?

in the end, rhaenyra chooses the latter. ]

This was meant for another, I assume?

( the phone buzzes quickly and when he looks at it, his heart sinks into the pit of his stomach as a flush rises on his cheeks. the pillows he’d thrown the phone against look tempting but he doubts he could smother himself quick enough.

had he chosen another photo perhaps he could rely on skill to talk his way out of it but not this.

it takes a while to answer. he groans as he does. ) Yes. I’m sorry, mother, I did not intend to disturb you.

( and though she will likely see through him and have no qualms with the truth: ) I was asked to model.

( wait. that sounds worse… )

[ despite his apology, rhaenyra feels compelled to make one thing very clear: ] You could never be a disturbance.

[ she'd been surprised, rather pleasantly, to receive a message from him, even if it hadn't been meant for her. that said, there are some details that could likely be explained more sufficiently. ]

And modeling entails being in a state of undress?

Then I apologize for the indecency. ( surely, that deserves apology. she was surely not expecting this and could have lived without the sight. )

Portraits have been painted of many less clothed.

It is not so indecent when there are much more blatant displays at Otherworld every week.

So you mean to have someone paint your portrait?

That is so. Are you attending it each week then, mother? ( teasing. maybe? )

No. There are more appropriate subjects here than I. In truth, that is not what this was for.

Of course not. I simply hear quite a bit of talk over the breakfast table.

[ she sees what you did there, jace. ]

Dare I ask, since it was clearly not mine to view?

There is quite a bit of gossip, tis true. Though things have grown quiet since the party where costumes came to life. Enough occurred then. This was meant for Baela's eyes only.

That's precisely what concerns me. It's in those moments of quiet where something is most likely to occur.

A gift of sorts, before the upcoming ceremony?

Beyond the same scandals that would be the gossip of the Red Keep? What worries you? Yes. A clumsy attempt. Daemon thinks a ceremony soon would gain us some favor now that our numbers match the Greens. Now that Aegon is here. ( but he's also giving Daemon the cold shoulder right now so they really haven't discussed it. )

That their interpretation of games culminates in murder and deception. What else would they have in store for us when we are at our most unsuspecting?

Aegon seems more content to remain in his cups than issue any real challenge at the moment. Though I would readily arrange a ceremony if you and Baela are ready for it.

Indulgence? They wish to tempt us and force us into depravity whether it lingers underneath the surface or not. It tempts us all. Let us hope that remains so. He’s asked me of the truce between us. The benefit to our house aside, I would be happy to call Baela my wife at any moment. You were right, mother, what reason is there to wait?

All the more reason not to succumb, if we can help it.

I do not believe he has an appetite for war. Whatever enmity he possesses has been stoked by lies and manipulations.

If you would rather delay until the weather is kinder, I believe the seasons are more changeable here.

And if I have succumbed? The night of the party when the werewolf game concluded? I believe so. A wedding without snow would be more agreeable, tis true. Neither Baela nor I are children of winter. And I have seen only summer snow.

None of us are immune to its manipulations. I would have been more surprised if you had avoided it somehow.

We can wait until the season is more forgiving. Your betrothed knows your intentions remain true.

I did not feel myself that night. I will remain so. Above all else, I would not dishonor Baela. But I do worry we must act in some way to garner favor as the Green’s influence continues to grow.

Alicent had something of the advantage of arriving here sooner in forging allies, but she agreed to peace, and her sons have shown no hint of crossing her in that regard.

As you say, though, a wedding may very well curry more favor for our side.

Not yet, at least. I hope that their ties with their mother hold strong enough to not tempt fate. But if they act while Baela is asleep, that will show their hand.

Mandia. I know we do not agree on most things, but in the interest of peace — there is a tapestry in my possession now that you might like to see. It bears our family's lineage, from Aenar to Jaehaera, with portraits well-painted.

Will you come?

[ the name jaehaera gives her pause — when will it not? when will it cease to leave her filled with regret over what has transpired? ]

How did it come to be in your possession? Was it a gift from this house's strange library?

I traded my favour for it, with a vampire named Lestat, in the aftermath of the werewolf games.

It is large enough to span two banners wide and just as tall, and the painted likeness is remarkable. It shows you and my mother in your youth, if you would see it.

Will you come?

I take it he was on the team declared the victors, to have been in a position to request such a gift.

It is in your rooms?

He was, and it is. He is a curious man.

You must know that Aegon stays with me now, if you mean to come by, thought he is not around at present.

I have heard he is among those with strange abilities here, the ones who were supposedly honored at a dinner not so long ago.

He seems more content to favor carousing and drinking over breaking peace. Though it may be for the best if our paths do not cross.

They are marvellous creatures, sister. You should speak with one, if you dare. They have so much to teach the world.

And that would be sensible for you both. He has no wish to meet with you.

Will you come?

Creatures? So it is true they are not like us?

Would you prefer this very moment?

Would you call something dead returned as another being a human still? Or do you take exception because of Jacaerys's own changes here?

[ it bears no malice, the question. the vampires hold themselves apart from the mortals, and they have a right to it. they claim to be monsters, at least by armand's or louis's words; so be it. ]

At your leisure, mandia. It's not like we have a grand other matters to see to.

Jacaerys is not the only one who was killed and returned changed. Yet he is still my son. I have no knowledge of the others. I only seek to understand them.

For now, that is true. Though I would expect some sort of party or feast hosted in short order. They seem to prefer doing so once we have been lulled into a sense of peace.

Are there changes to Daemon too, then?

[ if there were, then aemond hadn't noticed it. it's worrisome to think. ]

It is the lifeblood of any keep to entertain its residents, when idleness encourages conspiracy and gossip. More the former than the latter in these here parts, that said. The Balfours seem rather entangled.

Edited 2024-12-04 16:18 (UTC)

Who would be unchanged, after dying and then experiencing resurrection?

[ she doesn't name herself for a reason, but there are scars she has yet to allow anyone to see, from the autopsy. ]

And rather committed to entertainment at any cost. Though even they seemed surprised by the turn their last game took.

Mm. All four of you have died here, that is true.

[ how he feels about that is best left unsaid. ]

Surprised by the ferocity of everyone's attempts, certainly, but not the deaths themselves. Begs to wonder if these deathly games have always been part of their ways, and our conduct during these events that confounds them.

Some were willing to point fingers all too quickly, while others allowed evidence and logic to prevail over feeling. Better that it did not completely devolve into bloodshed, as I suspect may have been the intended outcome.

I will be there shortly.

There was a sacrificial nature to it, considering. Why not kill indiscriminately, given the power handed over? Why steer through the rules of the game; why be compelled to follow at all?

Welcome yourself in, the door is not locked.

[ aemond is- not relaxed, but certainly less guarded at present. he will meet his half-sister with his hair loose, not at all tied, in loose clothing that are nonetheless warm. he won't arm himself, either - for peace, however tenuous it runs. ]

[ Rhaenyra's arrival is marked with no fanfare at all — no one to announce her presence, no one to declare her, save the turning of the doorknob before she herself steps over the threshold.

There is little that would even indicate her status, her hair drawn up loosely with a few strands spilling free, her frame clothed in a soft sweater dress that successfully keeps out the rising winter chill. They have rarely seen such cold in Westeros, apart from the North, where winters are said to carry an even more bitter sting than they did in years past; these are the moments that drive her to dwell on Viserys' words, and the prophecy he once divulged to her, as well as Jace's recent insistence that they speak regarding future events.

But now, there is only Aemond, and Rhaenyra turns to regard him, chin lifting slightly, gaze watchful and silent for a brief span before she broaches the quiet. ]

You requested the tapestry, and it appeared?

Left on my floor in a paper box, as it were, but I imagine it was Ser Lestat who had asked it and a servant brought it here upon its arrival.

[ aemond steps level to rhaenyra and greets her with something of a nod; he is not fled of his manners yet, and she is his older sibling, no matter the hurts between them. moves to the light switches and turns on one of the recessed lights, shining warm yellow on one of the walls in the room, where the tapestry looms large over them. save for the youngest children between helaena's and rhaenyra's get, everyone is depicted much younger than they are now, including their father. ]

It is a beautiful thing, isn't it?

[ Rhaenyra nods once, absently; she's still growing accustomed to the strange happenings of the house, and she's heard enough talk about the library and its unconventional gifts to spark her own curiosity, even if requests aren't being fulfilled at the present moment. Something to inquire after further, perhaps, when her attention isn't otherwise occupied.

Her gaze roams across the space to find the tapestry, partially cast in shadow until Aemond illuminates that part of the room — and then she doesn't say anything at all, for a long while, even as she moves closer to the hanging as if her feet are moving independently of her. The likenesses that have been captured there are younger, when the passage of time or illness had not quite had their ravaging effects. Her father — their father, in particular, looking as hale as he ever did in his prime.

She moves to speak and finds that she cannot, at first, the words dying on her lips before she recovers her voice. ]

Yes... yes. [ Her eyes haven't left the tapestry once, flicking over it as if trying to commit every detail to memory. ] An impressive rendering.

[ he watches his half-sister look upon the likenesses of their family, and wonders if he had the same look when he unveiled the painted cloth for the first time. he had taken it upon himself to place it on the wall, requesting only the servants' aid in securing the hooks and the hanging rod. he'd done everything else, from arranging the recessed lights' aim to affixing the tapestry to a curated space. any less felt disrespectful.

and he had spent countless hours sitting in front of it, reclined against a high-backed seat, looking up to their forebears. he sees himself in the severeness of maegor's look, the coolness of visenya's gaze. and he sees his family's features spread across, too; helaena's softness shared with queen alysanne, aegon's boyish charm shared with prince baelon. his and rhaenyra's own mouths painted across several of their father's aunts and uncles, their kinship undeniable.

this is their family. it is their legacy they're fighting over, back home. ]

Is that how you remember our father?

[ It does speak of a strange magic — for who could know the faces of their forebears so intimately, be able to capture them so expertly through a weaving like this? But in the moment, Rhaenyra does not find herself plagued by too much questioning, and considers the futility of asking too many questions that Aemond may not even be able to answer. Would it not be better to appreciate the gift as it was offered, and make what inquiries she can later?

It is a deep, sobering reminder of what has preceded them, and what has been lost. Yet she considers, still, her father's words, and the importance of what she has been tasked with securing. She has laid it to rest here, bound within the walls of a house that has no real place in her fight, but they also cannot remain as guests indefinitely. ]

Sometimes. When I am recalling him with kind feeling. [ Other times, her recollections are not so generous to his memory. ]

[ kind feeling.

has aemond ever given their father's memory even an ounce of that? it's hard to remember viserys and not remember his loud claim that he could do nothing more for his maimed son. aemond had spent so many hours agonising over that one night, and eight years on he still cannot find the forgiveness most would afford a father.

viserys wasn't a terrible father, when accounted for — he needed to be a father first to be truly terrible at it. but his neglect was sharp in the face of their legacy, especially considering the loneliness aemond's mother had weathered and the foreignness of his affections the few times he'd given it to his younger children. was it truly too much to ask he spared some of himself for his other children? for the sons he desperately wanted enough to remarry for?

it had been difficult not to think that the failing had been in their blood at first, in their mother's own. but as the years yawned and aemond's desire for a father twisted itself into an anger at the one he has, it got easier to lay the blame at viserys's feet.

aemond's anger towards rhaenyra is a different beast, but that's a story for another time. ]

It's difficult to remember him as anything than he was in the last years.

He's handsome. I never imagined I would think it of him, but he is.

[ Even as she stands here now, Rhaenyra can consider a piece of the unspoken truth that lies between them — her memories of their father are of a distinctly different man, the king Viserys was when he was with his first wife, rather than his second. The king Viserys had been when he'd still yet hoped that Aemma would give him a son and expected heir. He had not been a terrible father then, but neither had he been a father who had entirely acknowledged her worth until he had been confronted with the truth: that she would be his only legitimate heir, at least until the possibility of other sons presented itself.

She also firmly believes that a part of her father had died the day her mother had, never to be recovered — not even by his Hand, who had sent his own daughter to the king with the intention of securing an enduring place for his House at the right hand of the Iron Throne. Could there have been any hope, beyond that marriage, that Viserys would have any deeper affection left to spare — not only for Alicent, who had dutifully borne him more heirs, and those children in turn, but also for Rhaenyra herself, a lasting reminder of the love he had lost?

She had seen her father at the end, and the effects of the infection that had ultimately claimed him, spreading too deep throughout his body for any of the maesters to successfully heal, but she had also been far removed to Dragonstone for many of those final years, rather than at King's Landing, as Aemond had. ]

I think... he would prefer to be thought of as such. [ Handsome, and young, though had Viserys ever been a man in his prime, or always much older than his years would indicate? Rhaenyra draws in a quiet breath, posture straightening as she remembers herself. ]

But the dead have no say in how we remember them.

Mother. I must speak with you in person. Somewhere no other may overhear, our hosts included.

Do you know the stables?

[ once, she might have suggested her room, but there may even be ears to listen there. ]

Of course. Shall I meet you there in an hours time?

I will be there.

Ensure you are not being followed, once you depart.

I trust no one else with this.

( it is not quite an hour later when Jacaerys makes his way to the stables. it is not an odd sight if he is seen, for he has taken to riding when time allows. and there is plenty of allowance. at least there had been, before the walls of the manse no longer felt safe.

dressed in a winter cloak and attire more fitting of their home than the more modern outfits he has dabbled in, he waits for his mother near one of the stalls. it houses a mare he has taken on his ride and as he waits, Jace feeds the chestnut creature a carrot he has brought from the kitchens and hums a soft tune -- a sailor's song, one taught to him by a noble father no longer alive and loved best by a brother lost to the sea.

he stops only when he hears footsteps approach and turns, bows when he sees it is his mother. ) I did not pull you from anything of import, I hope.

[ Rhaenyra is similarly dressed for colder weather now — much less forgiving than even their family seat on Dragonstone often boasts, closer to what Jacaerys likely endured during his visit to Winterfell on her behalf. Snow crunches beneath her boots as she ventures from her and Daemon's rooms to the stables, and while her gaze occasionally darts behind her, verifying that no one has followed her, the path she takes is one that would make it difficult for anyone to stalk her without the snow-covered path giving away their presence.

Of course, Jace is already standing there in wait for her when she enters, stepping across straw-covered floors into a more heated exterior. Here, the horses are well-kept, protected from the cold, blankets draped over their backs, but their breaths are visible at this hour, soft exhales and nickers occasionally emerging from the various stalls. ]

Your message seemed rather imperative. [ And Rhaenyra has often made an effort not to keep her son waiting, even before their arrival here, now that he has grown into someone she trusts significantly more than her own small council. She approaches quietly, reaching out to set a careful hand on Jace's shoulder. ] Are you well?

I am well, mother. I promise. ( As well as he can be with a ring of red around his neck hidden under his collar, the others where his body was cut apart or worked on by the doctors as maesters would a corpse.

he smiles at Rhaenyra nonetheless, a sure smile that does not tremble as it would if he were lying to her.

it takes him a moment to gather himself, to knit his brow together and to find his words. it takes him a moment, one where he glances about the stables as if waiting for someone to pop out. yet it is early still, they are alone with but the horses for company. ) When you told me of Aegon’s Dream, I did not remember Lord Stark’s words to me as we looked over the expanse of the Wall. I put no weight in them.

But having spoken to Lady Sansa, it seems he was speaking truth. When the Great Winter comes it brings the Long Night, the Dead walk into our lands.

[ It is not merely herself that Rhaenyra worries for these days, particularly in the aftermath of the estate's games, which had seen the loss of several lives apart from her own. Even if Jace had been resurrected right alongside her, she knows what she had faced in the days following — the nightmares, the strangeness of being plunged back into a body that doesn't wholly feel like your own anymore, to say nothing of the physical scars that remain after being dissected.

If her son happens to be haunted similarly, he makes no allusion to it now, and she would know if he were hedging his words in an attempt to spare her more concern. ]

The Great Winter comes by her time, then? [ Rhaenyra has spoken with the Lady Sansa infrequently, enough to glean that the younger woman is many generations descended from Cregan Stark, but to have it confirmed that Aegon's prophecy will come to pass, if not in her own lifetime... Her hands have established a clutch on Jace's, squeezing with insistence. ] Are the Seven Kingdoms prepared for it by then, or caught unawares?

( Rhaenyra clutches at his hands and Jacaerys wishes he had words more comforting to share with her. he holds her hands tightly, glances away before he meets her eyes as he does when he is nervous. it hits him suddenly, the gravity of what he is about to share. even if victory is theirs, their great house fails the kingdoms they are sworn to protect. )

A Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne. ( or was it a Lannister? he cannot remember which tale was told to him by Lady Sansa and which by Daenerys. he trusts both, though there seems to be tension between the two. either way, it means Aegon's Dream was lost to the crown.

the grim tone of his first words leaves him when he insists, as if it will soothe the great wound the truth brings. The Conquerer was not wrong, the dream comes to pass and it is their house that keeps it safe. ) Lady Sansa swore the battle was won. The northern houses brought together, fighting with Daenerys Targaryen's dragons at their side. The dead destroyed by fire and dragon glass found only underneath the Dragonmount.

( he swallows, ) Daenerys herself does not yet know what is to come.

A Baratheon? [ That alone would not immediately give Rhaenyra cause for concern; House Baratheon has been an ally for many years, with several descendants of Aegon the Conqueror marrying into their line. But Jace's words also echo what little she has learned from Daenerys as well, that House Targaryen does not sit the Iron Throne, and has not in several generations. A greater question still hangs over her then: who was responsible for overthrowing their house, and when?

It is a smaller concern to take into consideration when her son stands before her, all but confirming that Aegon's dream will come to pass; yet, instead of the Seven Kingdoms standing against the threat, it seems as though only the northern houses take up arms, allied with their descendant, while the Baratheons who hold seat in King's Landing withhold their forces.

Rhaenyra nods quietly, considering everything she's just been informed of. ]

She will not hear of it from me. Better for her not to know of something that has yet to transpire when she is as far removed from her dragons as we are. But this is... [ She exhales quietly, the faintest smile emerging over her features. ] You've done well, Jace. Very well, indeed.

[ It reaffirms, for her, that she must not only continue her efforts in reclaiming what is rightfully hers, but also not lose sight of her true purpose — in ensuring that her descendants are prepared for the war to come. ]

[ On Christmas Eve, the manor staff kindly deliver the gifts Alicent prepared for family and friends.

— Inside an ornate hat box, Rhaenyra will find the crown of Viserys Targaryen.
— The envelope attached by a gold ribbon bears no name, but smells of Alicent’s perfume.

Dearest Rhaenyra,
I have written and discarded several letters now, as I have with all our correspondence. Words seem inadequate, don’t they, for all that we have experienced together and apart.

I requested this when my team won the werewolf game, knowing even then it was not for myself but for you. For even when your father forgot me, he remembered the daughter he loved best. And even when I acted against your interests, I could not forget you.

It is hard to say why I have waited two turns of the moon now to share this with you. We have both been waylaid by our families since arriving, as we will always be. I cannot abandon my sons any more than you can forsake yours.

And yet I am sorry, for the mistakes I have made and harm I have done. I meant it truly and without reservation when I said you would make a fine queen.

I think of you often. And even when I am not thinking of you, I am trying to keep myself from it, which is much the same thing — don’t you think?

Yours,
Alicent

hi. you don't know me. i'm embry. alicent's friend. i know you as her princess. i died a few months ago, right before the werewolf games started. and when i did, alicent made sure the person i loved the most wasn't alone in his grief. i could count on one hand the number of people who even knew what he meant to me. she was one of the few people here i trusted. what she did meant everything to me. i want to repay the favor. i don't know if the number of people she trusted is even less than mine, but i know what it's like to stand beside someone and still have an ocean separating you. i know. it should be you with her right now. i'm sorry that it can't be. i'm sorry that no one else can know. i can't compare to her in any life, but if you want to go somewhere, if you want to talk, if you just want me to stand at the door while you yell at me to feel better, i'm here. i'm here for whatever you need.

Edited 2024-12-16 23:46 (UTC)

[ it is a long time, of reading the message again and again, sometimes with tears silently streaming down her face before she remembers to wipe them away, sometimes sitting completely still without a mote of emotion in her expression.

days later, she finally musters up a response. ]

It seems you know much already.

Do you also know the path to my room?

[ it's as much an invitation as anything else, without her actively extending it. ]

[ he doesn't make her wait. ]

i can find you. i'm assuming you're alone right now.

[ the last thing he wants is to run into anyone else related to either woman. and he thought having one reptilian stepsister was bad.

the days following alicent's death feel empty in a new way, as if with every passing hour he believes less and less that she's coming back despite what everyone says. it's a terrible, shitty thing to say aloud. alicent's dead. you're fucking delusional. he doesn't say it to anyone except himself. after all, he's alive after danny johnson took a knife to his throat, so isn't his beating heart all the proof he needs? (isn't it the proof he needs that he shouldn't be alive, and so alicent shouldn't come back anyway?)

he knocks on rhaenyra's door, thinking about all the times it was alicent's door instead, to coax her out to do absolutely nothing in the maze or the gardens or the library where he'd read hamlet aloud in a dozen different voices. he puts on a face that doesn't look as morbid as he feels. he's here to be comforting, and he can do that as embry moore the politician even if he can't as embry moore the person. ]

[ Rhaenyra doesn't solely wait until Daemon is occupied elsewhere to extend a direct invitation, but it will likely be better for all involved if her husband is not present when someone who purports to be a friend of Alicent's, who has knowledge of her deeper affections, finally calls on her.

It may have become more evident, at least in recent weeks, that Rhaenyra has already been a scarcer presence around the manor — her death and resurrection, paired with the deception that had followed, had left her disinclined to emerge from her rooms, and once Daemon had brought her word of Alicent's passing, what reason had she to even show her face at breakfast, much less for any other purpose?

There are no maids to greet Embry, none who show him into Rhaenyra's room save Rhaenyra herself, who opens the door quietly, surveying him with a wordless, flickering glance before retreating from the entryway and further into the interior of the space so that he's afforded a proper berth to come in. ]

Shut the door behind you, please. [ Even now, she attempts to hold a note of authority in her voice as she seats herself in one of the room's high-backed chairs, then gestures for him to take the other. ]

The room is ours, for the moment. My husband has not yet returned from sparring.

[ An unspoken challenge there, in her words, for Embry to give voice to whatever he came here to deliver, while there are no other ears but hers to hear it. ]

[ he's had his share of uncomfortable meetings with ambassadors and diplomats, so many they blur together, but facing rhaenyra feels like walking into a room without any semblance of preparation or armor. will she cry? will she be angry? will she despise embry for knowing a truth he has no real business knowing? ash had been grateful for alicent's compassion because he's ash, and he's good, and he's sincere. embry is starkly aware he knows less than nothing about rhaenyra, except that she's alicent's princess who's just suffered a devastating loss.

he can start there. she looks like the goddamn queen of england, staring at him from her imperious perch. no, that's insulting to her. ]

I'm trying to put myself in your shoes. If this had happened to me, back home. [ he pulls out a chair, sitting across from her with several feet between them. ] There's someone here... well, he's like what you'd consider a king. He's my king. And I'm what you'd consider his hand. President and vice president, back home, and we work together to lead our country. But he's not just that. He's more. He's everything to me. But no one can know, because we're both men. Like how no one can know about you and Alicent, for all kinds of reasons.

So if he died... [ his eyes prickle unwittingly, thinking of ash having to see him in the chapel. embry would never be strong enough to bear it. ] If he died, I would have to take his place. Lead in his stead. I'd have to stand in front of everyone, and make speeches, and sign shit, and people would look at me for answers. And I'd have to do it, because I swore an oath. It's my duty. It's my job.

But the only thing I'm thinking about now is that I wouldn't be able to tell anyone that it wasn't just the president that died. I wouldn't be able to tell anyone that he was everything to me. That I loved him. That I wanted to marry him even though I couldn't, that I wanted to grow old with him, that I wanted to have kids with him, that I wanted to stand in front of the world and hold his hand and tell everyone that I was his. That would kill me, having to stay silent and watch everything unfold and pretend that it wasn't my heart being buried in the ground with him.

[ he stops, his heart beating in rapid, aching pulses, the truth scraped raw, down to stark white bone. they could go back, and ash could die, and it would be real. it's always been a possibility, though he's never lost sleep over it until now, here, in this place where he's grown intimately familiar with the concept of murder. ]

I don't want you to have to stay silent about her. [ he's looking at rhaenyra now with his frosty blue eyes full of grief, his chest feeling cracked open. why can he never say these things to ash's face? ] I know what it's like to have to hide. To have to think about every move, every word, every choice. But Alicent deserves to be talked about. And you deserve to be the one to do it, because you're the one who knows her heart, not the assholes who put on that freak funeral and talked about queens and mothers and shit but nothing about her.

So tell me. [ he leans forward, settling his elbows on his knees, his voice quiet. ] I know I'm not an impressive audience, but it's what I can give you. You can say whatever you need to, right here, right now. Anything you've been holding in. I promise it won't leave this room. It won't leave my lips.

( it is rare he finds his own name day overshadowed by something he is sure to shake his family, but in a place like this Jace understands there is little in their control. they are all left to react, to roll with punches and support one another when grief strikes. even if, truth be told, he can summon little for the dead in this case. despite that he drew breath again and lived during werewolf because Alicent asked for it.

he aches for his mother instead, for what is lost to her with a dear friend taken. ) Your continued friendship is not one I can claim to always understand, nor support, I am grieve for the ache this loss brings to you. If there is anything you need, mother, I am a shoulder you can lean on. Let us not hide from each other when we most need support.

I have been absent, largely because of my own fears in the wake of their games. It has been... difficult, to leave the safety of my rooms when I fight not to view any stranger's face as a potential enemy's.

Yet I cannot help but wonder if such a tragedy would have come to pass if I had mustered up the courage for the sake of one who remains dear to me, despite the sorrow we have visited upon each other.

I intend to meet with Aegon and Aemond, if only to offer condolences. Our grief cannot divide us further, as you have already written yourself.

The one who attacked you has gone without consequences too long. I understand your fear, mother. ( he doesn’t know who attacked him the second time, who took him from the world and he finds he cannot stand with his back to any in the mansion for too long. ) But this is not your fault. Whatever attacked Alicent was not human, if Aegon and Aemond are to be believed. None could have stopped it without putting themselves in danger as well. I left flowers on our behalf at the wake, as others had. At least to show that we do not take pleasure in this loss and grieve as others do.

I do not want to give any of our enemies the satisfaction of witnessing me cowed. Yet I do not trust our hosts, fully, to protect us when so many have lain dead at their feet. Whether resurrection is indeed possible or not, the truth remains that we are not wholly safe here.

Their games succeeded at uniting us, for a time, despite our grievances. Any bloodshed now would be excessive and unnecessary, but the strife within our family is ours to be concerned with, not the business of any outsiders.

And reach time we are brought back, we are not fully ourselves. Unfortunately, I believe that family here extends beyond those we have considered amongst the truce.

Whom do you speak of?

Tim Laughlin at least.

He introduced himself to me by name, at one of this house's parties. Surely he would not have done so if he had already sworn his allegiance to the Greens.

I do not believe they understand the gravity of the situation. The people here.

Of course not. How could they? We are not even in possession of our dragons, who would be a fearsome symbol of this war all on their own.

Not yet. I fear they see us as equals as a result. And what has transpired, a simple fight that we have overblown.

They are not our equals. Not when they have nothing to support their claim save lies.

[ Left on their shared bed are a series of gifts:

🐉 a necklace, in a red box with black ribbon.
🐉 a matching ring, because that's his wife baby!!
🐉 one cute little dragon toy, because why not. it's cute. she might like it.
🐉 the silhouettes that emmrich got him, placed on their bedside.

There's no note, but does there need to be? ]

Where are you.

Our quarters.

[ she has ventured out very little, ever since the house's game — and even less since alicent's death, apart from her morning rides. ]

I will return. Do not be alarmed, when you see me.

You warn as if you are expecting alarm from me.

I expect it.

Then I cannot say I have not been cautioned.

It is not so severe, I assure you.

[ And there he is, opening the door; his hair is shorn, cut to a length that she might recall from his return from the Stepstones, and his arm hangs limply in a strange, makeshift sling across his chest. His fate is mottled with a handful of bruises, but it does nothing to hide the scowl on his features. ]

[ The first thought Rhaenyra has upon seeing Daemon standing on the other side of the door is that her husband has vastly underestimated his current state.

The second is that she will need to immediately be made aware of how he sustained these injuries, but she doesn't attempt to confront him with that inquiry, at least not at first. Instead, she crosses the room to him, hands hovering in the space before him — she does not know where to touch, where she might bring more pain to him than relief.

The bruises are what draw her attention first, followed by the length of his hair, as short as she recalls seeing it when he'd first returned from fighting in the Stepstones, a makeshift crown perched atop his head, and Rhaenyra's gaze is scouring over him now, worry knitting her brows together. ]

Valzȳrys. [ Husband, she says, with soft concern. ] What happened?

[ Daemon leans into her, touching his forehead to his wife's without pause, breathing her in. There is comfort here, even if he might dwell a little overmuch on his failures; the notion that he might fail to protect his sworn queen, that he has not the strength to care for her in a realm that would cause her such harm. It makes him ache with rage, and he has to breathe in and out to force himself to settle and be comfortable.

His bruises ache. His broken arm aches. But here he remains, still, at her side.

He had made a vow, after all. ]

I was attacked. [ He tilts his head, sighing softly. ] In anger, it seems, despite our truce.

[ Instinctively, Rhaenyra's arm rises for her hand to cup over one cheek — carefully, so as not to aggravate any bruises Daemon has already sustained, ones that seem to be purpling more visibly now that he's standing here in the light with her. Surely, he has sustained worse than this, over those many years fighting in the Stepstones and many other battles besides, but she has also not been privy to those wounds, never been in a position to tend to him in the aftermath. ]

Attacked?

[ The fact that he makes mention of the truce, by name, gives her pause, and she lifts her head to regard him directly, brow furrowed with confusion. ]

You mean to say one of the Greens was responsible?

I mean to say Alicent is responsible.

[ Not that he is inclined to admit it to anyone else, for the shame of it. There is something uncomfortable about admitting that he had fallen victim to her hand, even if she had some otherworldly power about her to do it. Daemon would not confess to any woman besting him, but he is aware the secret remains safe between himself and his wife (and, likely, Aemond and himself, too, for whatever it means).

A breath comes from him, and he reaches to draw his wife closer. ]

For the wounds, and for my hair both.

[ Rhaenyra finally stares at Daemon, fully, at those words, gaze sweeping over the entirety of appearance and observing all of the details she had not given ample attention to before.

The length of his hair, short in a way she hasn't seen since he returned from the Stepstones all those years ago, handing over his crown to her father — but here, it's shorn off, raggedly, as if the ends had been forcibly cut rather than trimmed by a more skilled hand. Between that and the manner by which he's gingerly holding his own arm, she finds it difficult to comprehend that Alicent would even have the strength to be capable of such violence. ]

By her own hand, she did this?

[ Both of her hands are cupping his face now, with tenderness, as a myriad of emotions rises up within her — confusion, anger, and above all sadness, that her efforts at a truce have not been honored. ]

We spoke of peace. We spoke of it, and agreed. [ A little disbelieving, that in light of all she and Alicent have shared, both in private and before others, that Daemon has been left in this state. But now her thoughts are racing, as she lifts her head, already attempting to plan out her next steps. ]

We must find a healer. Whoever may be closest to a maester — I'll summon Jace to find one, and fetch a maid to run you a bath. No — [ She shakes her head, deciding against it; the fewer people who know what's happened, the better. ] I can see to the bath, I've done so before.

By her own hand. It seems whatever death took her has returned her with a strange affliction.

[ Because of course Daemon does not imagine that Alicent would have any kind of strength of her own, no real ability to harm him on her own merit. The physical change in her, the ability to use flames, to burn his hair and cast him down, leave him bruised and broken - no, she is not capable of such things. She is frail, and irritating, and more self-righteous than she has any right to be, but she is not strong in stature.

Leaning into her touch, relaxing ever so slightly from the sweetness of her fingers against his skin, Daemon shakes his head. ]

I will find a healer later. I am tended to well enough, and my arm will settle.

[ The sling that Aemond had made would suit for now, until he has washed the strange discomfort and shame from his body and laid with his wife a little, to ease some of the rage and fury that ignites in him. Daemon is not a calm man, but he knows better - he cannot go and slaughter Alicent Hightower and risk their truce, for the sake of Rhaenyra and Jace both. Even if he were to try, she would simply return, perhaps stronger than before.

Lifting his head, he leans in, kissing her jaw, her palm, anything he can reach. ]

She cares not for our truce, but I do not intend to break it. I gave you my word, my love. My vows are yours and yours alone.

It would be far from the first instance.

[ Death, a seemingly permanent state, followed by an impossible resurrection and then strange effects, though whether this will be a permanent affliction or something that fades over time is a mystery Rhaenyra has not solved on her own. Jace had faced similarly, with unpredictable symptoms that had confused both of them, yet even he seems to be faring better than before.

Even as her mind continues to mull over next steps — and what a potential confrontation with Alicent may lead to — Daemon's subtle lean into her touch successfully draws her back to the present moment, to him. To them. ]

I will find a healer. You will rest.

[ Said in a soft tone, but one that brooks no protest from his side; still, she imagines he will feel marginally improved once he has bathed and attempted sleep, but she can at least summon Giles or one of the maids to provide him with something for his pain in the meantime, before the arm is seen to. Daemon's kisses elicit the barest smile, a brief but fleeting upturn at one corner of her mouth, and she lifts her chin to press her lips to his, once. ]

I am grateful for all you have sworn to me. More than you could possibly know.

[ It has not always been so between them, trust and loyalty, but it is present now, in every touch, every pause they take to reaffirm it. ]

Let me run you a bath, husband.

[ His own strange symptoms from his death is something that he is not talking about, is keeping to himself, the overwhelming urges that he has to hide away from. There is no need to discuss it, and so he has not shared it; let Rhaenyra think that he has come back to her whole and without damage, without consequence for his defence of their daughter, and the love that had bound them all together as a family throughout the murder games.

Whatever Rhaenyra decides with Alicent, Daemon will not like her, will not tolerate her, will be sour and cruel and harsh in his tone and regard of her. He will not listen to any command she gives, because Alicent is no queen of his, no goodsister, nothing to him save an irritant, like a stone in the bottom of his leather boots.

Sighing, his eyes close and he relaxes. ]

I will rest.

[ His good arm wraps around his wife, draws her close, to tuck her against his body with gentle care of his broken arm. Tilting his head up, he nuzzles into her, the same as he has done dozens and dozens of time before. ]

You can continue to praise me as I bathe, then. And would you see to my hair?

[ He trusts her enough to finish where Aemond had left it, the remaining burned ends and strange cuts needing a tender touch. ]

I will.

[ Obliging, for the moment, in his desire for more praise, but only so far, since out of the two of them, she is the one who is currently unharmed and therefore in a better position to tend to him. In years past, would she have done it so readily, though, especially if there were maesters more qualified to lend their healing touch? Would he have accepted her care, as wife, or considered it as something beneath her as queen?

This strange estate, for all that it has tested them with, has also brought them low, among those who have no knowledge of the war that they are preparing to fight against the other side of their house. With those circumstances stripped away from them here, is there still a need for them to be queen and king consort any longer? Or are the only roles that yet remain those of wife and husband?

Tenderly, Rhaenyra cups the side of Daemon's face, fingers sweeping over skin and back toward the newly shorn ends of his hair, careful in how she sifts through the strands. ]

Do you require assistance with your clothing? [ Since he is lacking an arm, and she has two good hands to lend; she can start running the bath in the meantime, ensuring it is at the level that might be considered scalding by those whose blood is not of the dragon. ]

[ Another time, another place, and perhaps he would be more sour, more bitter, more cruel towards her for her sweetness, for the tenderness she gives. For all that this place has given him more to be angry over, more to be enraged by, it has also given him more time to bask in the joy of being with his wife, of enjoying their time together, of being able to do no more than be the married couple they had always enjoyed being.

Daemon makes a better husband and father than he does a brother, it seems, and he permits himself the weakness of relying on his wife for the briefest of moments. He had bent the knee to her, after all, and had given her vow upon vow; he intends to keep those words.

Leaning into her touch, he sighs softly, turning his head to press a kiss to the soft edge of her palm. ]

I can make do.

[ It's not the first time he has been wounded and needed to undress, at least. ]

Will you join me?

[ Rhaenyra's starting is small, slight, but still apparent when it comes. The truth of the matter is that they have not asked each other for such things, in the past — that, for all the nights they have shared a bed and come together with the strong intention of making another heir, of strengthening their line, the nights of sole intimacy became fewer and further in between.

Never had she sought him out during his baths, and the same had been true for him, but he had tended to her so sweetly when she'd needed him the most, quiet and unsettled after her death and resurrection, bathed her with hands as careful and gentle as a maester's — hands that would sooner choose to hold a sword than give comfort to another. Yet comfort he had given, and through them she had been returned to herself.

Rhaenyra nods, quietly, in assent, when he asks — because he's asked, and because she finds she cannot deny him, even if the thought of denial had never crossed her mind to begin with. ]

I will.

[ If this will restore him too, she'll draw him into her arms, let him recline against her body as she curves herself around him, soothe him with kisses as she cleans the singed ends of his hair. There is little she would not do, now, in these moments that are reserved for them alone. ]

Rhaenyra? Sister.

It's Helaena.

[She pauses. Jace said that Rhaenyra would like to hear from her, but it feels-- awkward. She's never had a problem with Rhaenyra herself, but it feels weird to try and consider herself queen with her. Was this how others had felt with Rhaenys? Well, maybe not. That had been different. Rhaenyra would rule in her own right, after all. Helaena was simply attached to the actual problem.]

I have a warning for you. Will you hear it?

Edited 2025-02-02 03:47 (UTC)

[ it's difficult not to consider a message like this with some inner conflict, particularly with the knowledge of what had been inflicted against helaena and her children — rhaenyra knows that she would not be nearly so forthcoming in warning if their positions were reversed.

it speaks to the possibility that helaena may not even be aware of what's transpired — or perhaps she is, and is simply choosing to set aside those events in service of something greater.

it's the sudden swell of guilt, as well as the desire to not be rude, that ultimately drives rhaenyra to answer. ]

I will.

[it's more of a relief than she expected it to be and she sighs, slumping in her seat. She expected to be ignored if Rhaenyra truly didn't want to speak to her, but Helaena liked her. Whatever quarrel her brothers--and mother--might have... It's also hers', by default of being family, but... But Rhaenyra was also family. It felt like a weird line to draw and exhausting.]

The cold comes with a bite. Do not feed the quests who arrive.

There are guests here, to be concerned with? Or possible arrivals?

[ rhaenyra has been in attendance at more breakfasts as of late, enough to recognize the new faces seated at the table — but she has also remained on her guard, wary of trusting anyone too deeply ever since that month of games. if helaena's words are to be considered on their face, does that mean they bring more danger with them? ]

[She thinks for a moment and then shakes her head before remembering she needs to put it into text]

No. Not the ones that are already here. Others will come. They hunger for things other than meat and bread.

You have seen this?

[ rhaenyra almost has the mind to ask how, but does it seem the right moment to broach such questions, especially if there are more important matters to concern herself with? does the how even matter if she needs to give her strength towards focusing on this currently unknown danger? ]

Yes.

[She considers a moment, and then adds:] In my dreams. It happens often. I haven't been wrong yet.

I'm sorry that I don't know more, but I want you to be safe.

[ dragon dreams. the phrase suddenly occurs to rhaenyra then, before she can think better of it. could helaena be in possession of such a thing? especially if what she has envisioned has always come to pass. ]

You do not owe me any such kindness. [ especially now, after jaehaerys. ] But your mother and I have pledged peace here, and I intend to see that it is honored.

You're still my sister. I would like us to be at peace and be sisters again, even if it can only last while we're in this place.

I also wish to pledge peace.

[ the fact that it is the women of this family that are willing to pledge and honor peace to one another, while the men seek to cross blades over even the slightest transgression, isn't lost on rhaenyra. ]

I do not seek to bring any war to this place, especially when there are those here who have no part in it.

Others may not believe it is possible, but I will strive to see that a truce holds.

I believe you. And I know that you will.

[Even if only half, they're sisters. That has to mean something.

She goes quiet for a moment, trying to think of something else to help bridge matters]

When it gets warm again, do you want to catch crickets with me?

[nailed it]

[ there is the unspoken that may need to be broached between them, but based on the tenor of helaena's messages, it doesn't seem that she even has knowledge of those events. and rhaenyra is already aware of how this strange place can take them from two wholly different points in time.

there is also no reason for her to outright refuse, so she decides to humor the request. ]

You may have more of an aptitude for it than I do.

Mother. Where are you? (He returned to the library, the small little nook they have gathered to shelter from the perils, and could not find her. Which is very concerning at times like this where it feels as if Aegon's dream is come to life, as if he'd spoken it into existence here. Jacaerys finds he feels the same anxiety he'd felt in the days she had been gone, when the council was unaware she'd gone to King's Landing. )

By the library's hearth.

[ she'd gone there to find respite from the cold — her blood does not warm as strongly as it once had, leaving her forced to rely on sources of heat that she would not otherwise even need to consider, but they are all changed by this place, the ones who possess a power that renders them greater in some way. ]

I will remain, if it should allow you to find me more easily.

( He does not answer her in text, but it is not long before her eldest son finds Rhaenyra huddled by the hearth and warming herself with a flame. The fire needs another log and after putting down the plate of fruit he's managed to gather, Jacaerys takes on the task of stoking the flames as he's done on hunting trips and seen servants do.

After that, he sheds the fur coat he wears from his shoulders and drapes it over his mother's instead. If nothing else, he can continue to protect her. To be the dutiful son he has always been. He stands behind her, hands on her shoulders as the flames dance before them. He misses the warmth of their blood, misses their dragons and their home. ) You will not freeze. This way.

[ Her first thought is to protest the gesture, as it comes, but she is ill-prepared for it, as divided as her mind is, drawn in by the view of the flames before her and the knowledge that she is somehow failing to draw its heat into her bones, to keep it as she'd once been able to. Fire cannot kill a dragon, but what happens if a dragon cannot keep its fire? What if it cannot produce the warmth from within itself?

As Jace settles behind her, the heavy drape of his coat over her frame, she reaches to take one of his hands in her own, knowing her touch will be chilled but unable to do anything for it. Between the newly stoked flames and the added garment — and he somehow feels warmer, or perhaps she can trick her mind into believing so — Rhaenyra shivers, once, and then falls still. ]

You cannot give everything up for me. [ She's speaking of the coat, of course, but in the moment it feels like much more — foreboding words that nearly cause her to flinch away, inwardly, as soon as they leave her. ]

Is it not my duty as a son to ensure my mother is well? ( He can sense that is not what she means. But even if his own mind goes to the duty of an heir, it all still stands. He would give up much of himself to ensure their victory, to ensure that their family survives the war and peace returns to the realm so they can prepare for the Long Winter and the horrors that are coming.

Rhaenyra's hand is cold and Jace wraps his fingers around it, wishing he had more warmth to offer. ) I fear it is not big enough to share. Perhaps if I was as young as Joffrey still.

( If he were young and small, still a boy who could cling to his mother's skirts and hide inside her grand coats when the cold air chose to bite. Or crawl into her bed when the chill plagued the halls of Dragonstone, cuddling close when her bed was only her own until his brother's trickled in as well. It has been long since Jace grew past it, shed boyhood to become a man. Sharing body heat is the answer now, but it feels almost foolish and childish to suggest it now. )

Soon your duties will not be those of a son, but a husband. [ And she hopes to be far from his thoughts when that time comes — but she also knows, in the same breath, that he is referring to his duties as her heir, rather than any obligation he might feel to her as his mother.

Her fingers curl around his more definitively, as his do, and she turns, without thinking, to rest her cheek against his hand, a brief nuzzling that precedes the soft press of her lips to his knuckles. It is a gesture she would not offer toward anyone, especially when it is her hand that is most often held out in expectation of kisses, but her appreciation and fondness permeate through it.

His remark, then, prompts a playfully defiant look, followed by a scoff, and she lifts her arm slightly, indicating the space where he can tuck himself against the side of her body, the way he used to curl in when he was still a little boy. The way Luke had, weeks before Storm's End, even after insisting he was much too grown for it. A part of her aches, now, to recall the memory, and she does not think she can be blamed for selfishness here. ]

Come. [ A soft entreaty — because she wants him snuggled up against her, because it may be the last time they have opportunity for such a thing ever again. ]

And when that time comes, Mother, you will miss this. ( Jace says it with more lightness than the conversation calls for, when they know that this is not what either of them mean. But it is also the truth. When he and Baela wed, she will be his priority first. She will be the family he prioritizes, his children too before the needs of his mother. Then it will be duty to the crown, yes, but duty to the family that will inherit it as well. Perhaps he will seat a son on the throne after himself, perhaps a daughter. Either way, it will be his heir and Baela who come first.

The affection is not lost on him. He smiles, softly where she cannot see. As he grew, he'd felt that such a thing was not suitable for a young man trying to prove he would not always hide behind the skirts of his mother. But her affection is always something Jace treasures, for he is aware that amongst dragons it is not so common a thing. So when she entreats, he clicks his tongue as if put out but moves to tuck himself into his mother's side like he is a boy. An arm slips around her back and draws her close, for even leaning in he is a bit too large to hide against her side.

Silence passes for a moment, before he speaks, ) I miss home.

I will. [ Confessed on a sigh, and Rhaenyra doesn't think she can be all that faulted — or subjected to potential jesting — for how honest the statement is. Yet the responsibilities that await him as husband are not just part of his duty as the prince and future king, and they are not merely a part of how his betrothal to Baela will further strengthen their claim. They are a reminder that he is no longer a child with the inclination to hide behind his mother's skirts; he is her firstborn, and a young man who has already been tested by the threat of war.

In the same instant, now that she can no longer embrace Luke in this way, and now that her other children have been sent far from her, far from any danger, her arms ache to hold any of them at all. She doesn't expect that Jace will move to hold her in return, the weight of his arm settled around her frame further proof of his maturing in that regard — and after a moment, she curves into him instead, tipping her head to rest it against his shoulder before she draws the blanket closed around both of them. ]

I know. [ It is a longing she herself has, and one that may not even need to be stated aloud when he can surely hear it in her words. ] There are times when I close my eyes and convince myself that I can still hear the dragons beneath our feet. Hear the sounds they make that would so often soothe me to sleep each night.

( Once, Jacaerys had look at his mother and seen a woman infallible and beyond weakness. As he'd grown from child to man, she'd been the pillar of their family that held strong as his Lord father had slipped away to train or drink with his sworn man. Her choice to let those beyond the royal lines, those with silvered hair and Valyrian eyes, upon dragon-back had changed that. Not for the fact that it was a poor choice, but for it had shown him that she too was driven by fears for her own survival. She was human too, not a Valyrian goddess in the flesh.

It makes it easier to pull her close now, to feel that protective urge he'd felt once as a merely a son shift into something he cannot name. He wishes to protect her still. As son, as heir, as a grown man who has been raised with honor even if the nature of birth has some within these halls claiming that he can never know it.

Jacaerys holds Rhaenyra close, indulges and realizes that he needed this moment as much as she had. ) The Library will not grant us our dragons, but maybe we can ask for something like the sounds of our home.

I miss the winds blowing through the Sea Dragon's tower, the waves crushing into the shore. ( a pause, ) I would listen to Joff trying to bargain with Maester Gerardrys to allow him to leave his lessons early for hours if I could.

Has my daughter told you of her dragon dreams?

She claimed she had words of warning for me, but she has only shared one as of late.

That is why I come to you now. She sees true, Rhaenyra. She knows much and more than we, though not always how to share it.

There is a danger coming, and we must prepare.

She says these dangers have nothing to do with those currently among us. That it will be a new threat at the door.

She has told you the same?

She has.
She warns of cold as well. And hunger.

I believe we should prepare.

You speak as though you have already decided what the plan shall be.

How much can one plan for the unknown? I suppose we could fetch winter clothes and gather extra blankets from the studies.

What do you make of it?

Some of it is to be expected, with how the weather has turned here.

It is the men your daughter spoke of that concerns me more. Threats that do not lie within any guest, but those we have never seen before.

I am not certain I prefer that to the game of wolves.

[ she pauses. ]

Do you believe our House could stand together again? If there were a greater threat?

[ when daemon refused to share information with her, even after she saved jacaerys. when they did not seek her killer, as she did theirs. when daemon beats her boy bloody in the name of training.

and she herself has punished him now, though it brought her no peace. rhaenyra loves a man without remorse for his cruelties or respect for her family. alicent cannot help but wonder if she shares his views. ]

In both cases, our enemies were unknown to us. I'd much rather know who seeks to do harm to me.

[ a pause from her end, and rhaenyra briefly lifts a hand to her temple, pressing against an ache that threatens to emerge. ]

We appear to prefer having the privilege of threatening one another ourselves, rather than leaving it to any others.

[ she hasn't addressed alicent's role in throwing daemon down the stairs, breaking his arm, but it's the closest she's come to alluding to it now. they're not content to leave one another's fate to anyone else when they can wield control over it. perhaps it will remain so, while they are trapped here, but was it not so from the beginning, when they found themselves on opposing sides? ]

Edited 2025-03-02 11:24 (UTC)

[ Alicent huffs a breath, almost a laugh. Mayhaps that is true. A small comfort, when external dangers abound. ]

Indeed.
I shall keep you apprised, should I learn anything of what’s to come.

[ and she will — after homelander reveals the temp v to her, it is rhaenyra and aemond she calls, bringing their family together against what’s to come. ]

Mother. ( Don't mind him just having a very parental tone with his own mother. ) Why are you, Daemon, and Alicent in consideration for anything akin to a relationship?

[ it is a question that catches her so much by surprise that she falters, briefly, before responding. ]

What… why do you ask me that?

The superlatives. You are an option. The three of you and I do not think Alicent and Daemon have reconciled.

[ there's a soft sigh, from rhaenyra's end. ]

They have not, to my knowledge. Nor do I expect they ever will.

Then my question is not unreasonable.

I do not know. It must be someone's idea of a cruel joke.

This place does nothing without intent.

Intent to divide us, perhaps.

By implying there is something between you and Alicent Hightower?

Few here know our full history. From their perspective, we stand in opposition to each other, and now the house mocks us with an offensive accusation.

Mother.

[ wearied, but a little arch too. this is mother and queen coming out: ] Jacaerys.

( Jace bears it, he does, but he is also her heir. ) Given you’ve absconded with not a word to your council to meet privately with Alicent before, do I not have reason to worry?

I am not at risk in her company. Not since we agreed to a larger truce between our families.

Safety is not what I worry about.

What wine do you think pairs well with a sister you never knew you had.

Different pairing from the bitter soon-to-be ex-wife, the scandalized son, or the breakable brother?

Edited 2025-06-01 20:44 (UTC)

Ouch.

Kind of feels like you need something stronger than wine.

The DNA test hasn't come back, but fingers crossed it isn't a girl.

Let's just say I needed a summer in Saltburnt. And yes, something stronger. Malört? Maybe I can burn away my taste buds and my memories of what very little I saw of my only son's sex tape.

I assume you saw. Not saw. God I hope not saw.

Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure Rhys [ her father, obvs. ] has at least one or two bastards out there he's never publicly acknowledged.

Didn't watch. It's not really my thing.

[ sex tapes in general, but also anything having to do with her oldest friend's kid. ]

Maybe when he dies they'll be invited to the will reading for a laugh.

Nor mine. I prefer my relations physical and not caught on film. I don't even know what he was thinking.

From your lips to his lawyer's ears.

[ and she'd be happy to sit back and let the drama unfold. ]

It's all this newer generation. They don't even want to take a shit without posting about it somewhere.

I made it on through to the other side. I still have vivid memories of our time at boarding school.

This happened to me once before, I shared a possible future with a friend of mine. It felt completely real, we experienced it at the same time but, it didn't feel like we had lived our life up to then. It was just a glimpse.

This is different.

I wanted to check in, because, as grounded as I feel, I'd be lying if I didn't say it was still disorienting.

I do have memories that war against ones that are much less strange in my recollection.

But I fear that what you may remember of me is not truthful, and could not be further from those false memories.

[ in other words, rhaenyra is far from the woman the house had led her to believe she was. she won't say as much, but she dreads being a disappointment now that the scales have fallen away. ]

In everything there is truth, perhaps not the truth you're used to.

I'm not him, either. But, I do have a brother. And a mutual ex. A father I'd rather forget. Is there anything that threads back to who you are now?

Very little.

[ she relents, slightly. it may be the feeling that she owes stefan at least some whisper of truth. ]

I suppose I've always had a fondness for riding horses, even if it pales in comparison to dragons.

Yes, I think, dragons might beat anything. But, they are as dangerous as they're depicted?

( Not that a swift kick from a horse couldn't land someone in the hospital. )

If you want to share anything with me, about anything, I'll do the same. I owe you.

They have the reputation they do for a reason.

There is much that still leaves me disquieted. These memories that were given are strange to dwell on now, but at the time, I was so convinced that a life I couldn't possibly have lived was mine.

They're fictional where I come from, so forgive me for not being as well-versed as it sounds like I should be.

Does it help knowing you weren't alone in that?

It is for the best they had not accompanied us. These grounds are not nearly big enough to keep them satisfied.

Somewhat, yet what troubles me most isn't that it was a lie being lived. It was how close it verged to truth, at times.

Is it the lack of space or diet that might not satisfy them?

Metaphorically?

Both. I'm not sure the Balfours would be able to provide enough game to keep them satiated.

Beyond that. Some emotions were quite persistent.

If it's the Balfours providing anything at all.

I agree. Amplified, but, still very present. There were consistencies, to be sure.

You make a fair point.

You felt it as well? Even if some attachments were untrue? [ there is one name she dare not speak aloud, not wanting to burden stefan with the knowledge, but she does keep turning over the question of why she and alicent had still shared intimacies, despite having different pasts. ]

I felt everything. I felt the deep resentment I've always held for my father. I rarely ever talk about him, he's best never mentioned, and yet, he's a ghost that feels closer in the rearview mirror than he once was.

And other names - "characters," all felt familiar in what they were to me. Almost.

You understand my meaning, then. The histories were changed, but the emotions held some sliver of truth.

I suppose now is the time to say that some version of me kept you in confidence, and that may be why I feel compelled to confide in you now.

And sometimes more than a sliver.

I don't mind, and I am here to listen should you need it.

( At the start of the month, when he realizes his step-father isn’t answering any calls or messages. ) Is Daemon with you, mother? I cannot reach him since our memories have returned.

( and he’s missed them, in truth. he’s missed her — the constant of the whole of his life. )

[ there is a slight pause, from her, but eventually: ] He is gone. I found no trace of him when I awoke.

I believe he must have returned to Westeros, to join Baela in wait for us. [ she must hold onto that source of comfort for herself, misguided though it may be. the alternative would leave her abed for days. ]

( there’s something about it that angers him, that Daemon left again. yet he knows his stepfather. he would not have done so willingly, not again. ) Is there— Is there anything you need?

I feel as though I should be asking you that.

[ and to a point, she has failed in that. but his asking after her is also a reminder that he is far from a boy anymore, even if he is still her son. ]

I would see you, to know that you are well and that the deceit of the last few weeks have not weighed too heavily on you.

Would you think it strange if I said I dreamed of you?

[ The room has felt small, in the wake of Daemon’s vanishing — small and dark, and Rhaenyra has so often felt left abandoned with her own thoughts, captive to what her mind so often conjures at this late hour.

How fitting, then, that the most recurring presence in these conjurings should be who sends her a missive now — although Rhaenyra has to read it through twice to both ensure she’s not dreaming and that it’s come from the right sender. ]

No more strange than the thoughts that have kept me from sleep.

Are they from the time when we were not ourselves? The dreams?

[ The sound of the phone jolts her, and she hastily switches it off. No matter how much worse Lestat and Louis have heard next door, this, of all things, inflames her.

Because it’s Rhaenyra. Because the words before her have plucked her fantasies from her mind. Because her response means that no other warms the princess’ bed, with Daemon gone. ]

Yes.
And no.

[ Yes, she thinks of sharing a room, a bed, a night of endless kisses. Of Rhaenyra fucking her in the hotel shower. Of kneeling on the tile to thank her sweetly in that life as she never has in this one. ]

I keep dreaming of you.
Sometimes as you were there.
Oft as you are now.

[ A long pause. ]

Though you have me the same way.

[ As the other Rhaenyra. Rhae, who begged to her to stay and held her like a lover, not a secret. Who took her as a man takes a woman, as she never thought possible. ]

[ For the moment, the phone is the only source of light in the room — no lamps, no candles, only the strange, all-too-bright glow of the screen illuminating Rhaenyra's features, with the remainder of her surroundings cast in shadow. It feels appropriate for an exchange like this one, cloaked and covert, though even without seeing Alicent's face before her, Rhaenyra can hear the voice behind the words.

And some words, in particular, draw her up short — she brings the phone closer, her pulse quickening. ]

And do I still?

[ Even now, she almost cannot bring herself to hope from this empty bed, and what does it mean that the ache within her is twofold — in her breast, keen and puncturing, and the desire that pulses dull between her thighs? She easily recalls the taste of Alicent's lips against her own, trembling, the heat of panted breath over her cheek, but they are memories that war against kisses in places that they were never in, not truly. ]

Have you?

[ The pause, after she brings herself to write those next words, feels akin to an eternity. ]

Rhaenyra.

[ Her name as a promise and a warning. She must know. After all Alicent has given her, after months into years of failing to stay away from her — ]

Yes.

[ It still feels at once damning and freeing to admit it. To cleave to one who has no mercy left to give. ]

Always.

[ The room has felt thoroughly confining in recent days, but now it becomes oppressive when Rhaenyra's desires pull at her so — not just for Alicent's lips, though that would be true regardless of the hour, but the simple need to be in her presence, to let the comfort of her touch chase away any self-doubting.

Letting the voices of naysayers steer her instead would be the correct decision, rather than surrendering herself into the arms of an enemy, and yet, and yet — they had found one another in a completely different lifetime, somehow. Rhaenyra cannot help but dwell on what that might mean, even now that they've been returned to their true existence. ]

Are you alone?

[ She does not want to presume, though Alicent could certainly be preoccupied with someone else, have chosen someone else to keep her company, a right that would be hers when Rhaenyra is certainly in no place to pass judgment.

The unspoken request is there, beneath the words: whether she might seek Alicent out, selfishly. Whether she must content herself with words alone, at least for tonight. ]

[ She knows what her sons would say. They would decry her as traitor, whore, weakling for how hope and heat bloom within her, at the thought of her enemy knowing she lies alone. Even if Rhaenyra came to kill her in the night, knife in hand once more, Alicent thinks she would be glad to see her.

For it to be her, at the end. When she bled out in this house before, she had been alone. ]

I am.

[ Laid out atop her covers in her nightdress, suddenly too warm to lie beneath even her cotton sheet. She holds the phone to her breast for a long moment before she adds, ]

I rarely allow others to stay.
Perhaps because I fear you will not come, otherwise.

[ even if those visitations have chiefly been in dreams. An admission that she has entertained the attention of others, despite her piety. She wonders if Rhaenyra thinks her a hypocrite for it. If she might care that Alicent, too, does not want for attention. No longer the most comely girl at court, but a — a woman still, and pretty, in certain lights. ]

[ There is no answer Rhaenyra could give that would be sufficient here, save one — which is why, ultimately, she does not respond at all, not in the form of words hastily typed out through this device. Even now, her hands would betray her, trembling badly enough to make the composition of another message more difficult than simply throwing back the covers and striding out of her own room.

Once she's walking through the corridors, near-silent on bare feet, she does question the logic behind her choice, but as she has in many other decisions, she commits to this one, tiptoeing without ceasing or stopping to consider doubling-back. She's left her device behind, with no means of verifying where she's briefly disappeared to, but there is little need for it where she's headed.

Fortunately, she encounters no one during her purposeful midnight wandering — at least, no one who would ask unwanted questions. It occurs to her, perhaps too late, as she finds herself standing on the outside of Alicent's door, whether this is even still her room or whether she might have moved on to other lodgings without Rhaenyra's knowledge.

This becomes the moment, then, to seize — to claim what she has so foolishly, conveniently disregarded in the past. There had been no mistaking the gentle scold in Alicent's response to her own chastened hope; she has been here, waiting for Rhaenyra, well past all sense of reason. It is that awareness that finally drives her to bypass any knocking in favor of trying the doorknob, to find it unlocked, and walking inside.

She may very well resemble a specter herself, in her white linen nightdress, her hair unbound, but there seems little need for more words as she quietly closes the door and then turns back, to face the bed, to face Alicent, unflinchingly. To cross the room, her pulse a drumbeat in her throat, wrists, cunt, as she draws in a tremoring breath, and slowly crawls onto the mattress to join her — not on top of her, but alongside, even though her movement is far from the eager scrambling she once initiated when they shared a bed almost every night, when she pressed her cold toes against Alicent's bare legs to make her shriek. ]

I... have wanted to come.

[ Reclining along her side, her head resting against the adjacent pillow, Rhaenyra doesn't yet reach out to touch. In many ways, merely lying next to Alicent, offering whispered confessions, is a balm for her tired soul — but this moment has more weight than all the ones preceding it. ]

So many nights, I have wanted to.

[ Alicent leaves the door unlocked, hoping against hope that it is not a suitor who opens her door but her oldest friend. She dreams of Rhaenyra. More than that, she thinks of her — when retiring for the evening alone, when breaking her fast in company, when reading beneath the oak on the grounds. They seem to fall into each other’s arms, rather than seeking them out, as if guided by fate. In reaching for her tonight, Alicent has made the accidental into something intentional. Irrevocable.

It frightens her, heart rabbiting in her breast.

If this, too, is a dream, it differs from the others. The Rhaenyra of her imagination either desires or decries her with confidence. She does not stumble, as the one does, suddenly as gangly as she was in her late teens. She does not look to Alicent as though she is both lost and found.

And so she is real. Ethereal in the slivered moonlight, yes, but true.

Alicent turns to her, hitched up on her elbow as though that might give her the higher ground. Everything she has desired within her grasp, and still she cannot bear to take it. ]

Don’t — please don’t say such things unless you mean them. [ hushed, though they lie alone. She sweeps her hair to the side, fiddles with the lace of her dress, searches for anything to do but touch Rhaenyra. Looking upon her is painful enough. ] It is easy, I know, to want for company, when one is alone.

[ The implication being that Rhaenyra only desires her in the lonely dark, with her husband absent from her bed. The round of her big eyes asks, have you wanted for longer than that? though she doesn’t dare voice it aloud. Rhaenyra has offered her love, in the secrecy of a secluded booth. Then upon the stage for all to see. And still Alicent doubts. It is a wonder she ever took to the faith — only the gods reward service. People, lovers, they require greater tending, of a kind that Alicent has never found herself to be worthy of. Second wife, second choice.

Her hand falls from her dress, sliding across the comforter. ]

Perhaps as easy as it is to beg, when one is on the back foot. [ As she was, in their last meeting, Dragonstone revisited. ] But — I ache for you always, Rhaenyra.

[ in case she did not read her missive, in case she did not understand it. ]

The pain has never ceased.

[ of wanting her and missing her both. ]

[ With Alicent turned to linger over her, Rhaenyra doesn't similarly draw herself upward — in this, she thinks, she deserves to be below, looking upward, her gaze finding Alicent's wide, brown eyes in the dark. Her girlhood friend's words cut deep, but true; a piece of her does mourn Daemon's absence, and always will, as she inwardly mourned their separation after his retreat to Harrenhal. But there is the piece that she has tried to conceal and failed in — the piece that looks at Alicent and mourns what could have been, all that was lost, as well as what could still be. ]

Easy? [ The laugh that escapes her, more of a breath, is an incredulous one, even as she grasps the meaning of Alicent's answer. It never will be easy, not these desires that she has only just brought herself to give voice to, not the love she has buried and unearthed and buried and unearthed again. ]

After all that has transpired... [ The slings they have thrown at each other, accusations both dishonest and true, the scars that linger deeper than a dagger can cut. ] The pain of being without you, truly, somehow feels so much greater.

[ But words will only offer so much assurance, she knows, when they are just as capable of being betrayed by actions. It would be all too convenient for her to lay in this bed, to make certain promises, and then behave in complete opposition to them. She is here, but still, she can feel Alicent's doubt, see it written in her gaze. This night is not merely for Rhaenyra herself to selfishly seek comfort in the arms of one she has not been able to forget, despite attempts. It must be for Alicent, too.

Her movements are careful, but deliberate, as she reaches out to cross what seems a shrinking distance between them, one finger catching beneath the thin strap of Alicent's nightdress and slowly drawing it down. The reason for it will become clearer once Rhaenyra rolls forward, just enough, to softly press lips to that bare curve of shoulder, once and then again, a slow trail of kisses that traverse skin in an ascent toward the side of Alicent's throat. ]

Try as I might otherwise, I cannot hold anything in my heart for you save love. [ Her arm wraps around Alicent's frame for fingers to trail through reddish curls and lower, tracing between shoulderblades and over lace trim. The words are less muffled when Rhaenyra relents and retreats, looking up from her own pillow. ]

And I no longer want to.

inbox for saltburnt;

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un: hightower

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text — un: aemond_

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swerves us to action;

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