aechor

[aechor]

visenya keeps amethysts on aeryn, watching as he talks about a cloud. she stills sees him, that prince that the celtigar has found an understanding in. the prince that sought out the corners of a room rather than the centre of it. ❝ there are many clouds. perhaps we will find a dragon-shaped one, too. ❞ she tries to keep her voice casual, trying to revert back to a time of blissful unawareness ( then again, was she ever really ignorant of it all? eyes never quite rested. not even when she wished them to, bound to a curse of observance ). for a single heartbeat, visenya wishes she could go back to a time where she is blind to all the plotting stares and deaf to all the whispers that fill the cobblestone of the red keep. then, she might have been able to look at a friend and not see a possible foe ⸻ she could ignore it all, in lieu of her own family's safety and upholding of their own right, but then she would not be herself.

the young celtigar does not understand the wordly dances of court, how one might know exactly what she means but twists it into something vague and inconsequential. visenya is certain aeryn understood her, so why must he pretend not to? the blonde furrows her eyebrows at such words, lips parting while she considers what she is meant to say. ❝ emā se eman dōrī istin inditan ao qrīdrughagon ao syt ziry. ❞ you have and i have never once pushed you away you for it. confusion consumes her chest, yet there is a burning unwillingness to see aeryn for what the whispers say him capable of. is she being a fool? she does not want to believe so, nor does she want to accept what many say the prince is. visenya does not know what to do.

words sting like an unseen thorn on a plucked rose. it is honesty she receives but a hurtful one, all the same. first, an aunt. then, a mother ⸻ there is a void inside visenya's chest, left by loss ( her mother a sacrificial tragedy from the gods, no memory left of a loving touch anywhere in visenya's body ). and there the prince is, unphased by the sort of death that still haunts visenya to this day. ❝ how is that enough? gaomagon ao daor miss zirȳla? ❞ do you not miss her? she ought not to judge him for it but something bubbles inside an otherwise still chest.

visenya searches aeryn's stare, no hesitation for it is a perceived friend next to her. ❝ nyke rȳbagon se ȳdragon. gaoman daor jaelagon naejot yn nyke rȳbagon zirȳ. nyke zūgagon se truth hen zirȳ. ❞ i hear the whispers. i do not want to but i hear them. i fear the truth of them.

@aechor          ╱          𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚  𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫

clouded by what is to come ( her sister's words have taken root, unwanted paranoia making a home in her mind ), an answer is not made clear. visenya's lips relax. ❝ gaomā daor vestragon aōla.❞ you do not seem yourself. although nestled in the comfort of such a language, it is not for herself that she chooses the valyrian tongue ⸻ there is always someone listening in. ❝ se gaoman daor gīmigon skoros naejot pendagon hen ziry.❞ and i do not know what to think of it.

a  canted  hip,  head  turned  almost  sideways  as  he  squints  at  the  offending  condensation,  marks  aeryn's  dedication.  his  father  always  said  he  lacked  discipline,  but  that  simply  isn't  true.  aeryn  is  well  and  truly  capable  of  applying  himself  in  numerous  sciences⸻like  meteorology,  for  one.  he's  simply  discerning  with  his  time  and  energy,  which  he  thinks  is  an  equally  important  asset  for  a  ruler,  given  the  circumstances.    ❝    oh,  yes,  i  suppose  i  can  see  it  too.  that's  more  of  a  tail  than  an  ear...    ❞    he  cannot  glance  sidelong  at  visenya  from  this  angle;  she  is  more  voice  than  person  to  him,  a  hint  of  radiating  warmth  indicating  her  position  to  his  left.  is  this  how  they're  doing  this  ?

❝    nykēla  iksan.  va  mōriot  istan.   ❞    that  is  not  what  she  means  and  he  knows  it.  but  why  in  the  names  of  the  old  gods  and  the  new,  must  he  be  forced  to  have  this  conversation  ?  to  be  watched  as  if  he  were  as  temperamental  as  his  beast,  all  snapping  jaws  and  snarling  growls,  the  smell  of  gas  heralding  a  burst  of  dragonfire  ?  at  least  here,  he  thought  he  would  find  respite  it  had  been  what  brought  them  both  together,  after  all.  no,  i  don't  want  to  entertain  another  lickspittle  /  yes,  this  lord  is  bothering  me  and  i  need  an  escape  /  you  understand,  don't  you,  the  itch  to  get  away  from  it  all  ?  betrayal  is  too  strong  a  word,  frustration  too  soft.  aeryn  exhales  noisily  to  expel  his  annoyance,  rocking  back  on  his  heels.

best  to  get  it  all  out,  he  supposes.    ❝  muñe  morghūlis.  dario  syt  glaestas.  yne  syt  daor.  dārion  ziry  ilimēlza.  that  is  enough.    ❞    the  slip  back  into  the  common  tongue  is  an  unintentional  one,  but  it's  fine.  that's  all  he  has  to say.  more  than  enough  will  mourn  her  for  me.  a  dreadful  statement,  he  imagines,  aimed  at  one  who  has  also  lost  a  mother.  but  aeryn  has  never  not  been  honest  with  visenya.  he  sees  no  purpose  in  starting  now.  so  he  thinks.

[aechor]

𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 | 𝐏𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐭

[aechor]

[aechor]

amethysts look at nothing, even if they appear to be affixed to something on the table. under the sun they are unfocused, they see nothing before them. the impending doom weighs upon visenya, upon her ability to remain where she is and not let her mind float away to a better reality. it is wylla's voice that brings her back again. ❝ perhaps we should both just fill out trunks with these treats. or we could raid the kitchens, ❞ the young celtigar starts, a genuine smile appearing upon her lips. albeit a small one. visenya welcomes the comfort of the liege's company, a sibling that does not force their expectations upon her. she breaks a lemon tart apart, a bit of it between her fingers as she speaks. ❝ and you could always visit claw isle, wylla. it is not king's landing but i can vouch for the lemon tarts. ❞ visenya takes the treat into her mouth, takes the taste of it upon her tongue and closes her eyes with the untainted happiness they provide. a moment after, her eyes meet wylla's. ❝ you and your sons would be welcomed there. ❞

closed starter / with visenya celtigar ( @aechor ), seated at a table in an isolated area within the gardens.

birds  chirp  overhead  as  the  two  enjoy  an  afternoon  brunch,  complete  with  some  of  their  favorite  desserts.  wylla  slides  a  tray  of  lemon  cakes  in  visenya's  direction  as  they  retrieve  one  of  their  own  favorites  from  another  plate,  a  blackberry  tart.  the  manderly  liege  tilts  their  head  back  to  glance  up  at  the  sky  and  take  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun  on  their  skin.  "  the  chefs  here  make  a  magnificent  treat,  "  they  finally  break  the  silence  only  to  return  to  the  tart  in  their  hand.  how  exquisite  everything  in  the  capital  must  be...  it  only  hastens  their  present  distaste.  "  they  do  in  white  harbor  as  well  but  our  fruit  is  never  this  fresh.  "  fruit  itself  was  rare  the  further  north  one  traveled,  yet  merchant  ships  would  sometimes  make  the  journey  in  time  for  certain  fruits  to  ripen.  "  i  think,  besides  seeing  certain  faces,  i  will  miss  these  the  most  when  we  leave.  "  wylla  finishes  the  dessert  and  leans  forward,  reaching  for  their  goblet  to  wash  the  food  down.

[aechor]

❝ ivestragī īlva hope daor tyrell rȳbagon ao. ❞ let us hope no tyrell hears you. valyrian words are like a pool of honey. a salvation amongst wasps ⸻ they are a comfort that visenya had not realised is a need, a bit of familiarity offered when king's landing stands unrecognisable for the youngest celtigar. and yet, it is not the lips of someone whose blood she shares that move and offer that much needed reprieve. it is but a lord whose family connects to hers through the business of gemstones and nothing more ( and yet, it is his company that she wishes not to depart from, his words that have her thinking that perhaps things are not so bleak ⸻ a fool's belief but one visenya years for all the same, even in the face of possible betrayal ). eyes lock onto the reyne lord's own. talk of peace leaves the taste of metal inside of visenya's mouth; if there a need to hope for peace, it is because of those that do not know their place nor their own right to the crown. ice dissipates yet, even against visenya's better judgement ( she ignores the voice inside her head that might warn her of the reyne's intentions, that they might support someone that wishes to harm family over a throne that is not meant for them ).

is she a fool, willingly blind to what could be an ankle height snake ready to strike?

visenya grew up looking at people and seeing the best in them ⸻ has the time come to let go of such beliefs? visenya is left disharmed by sebastian's next words; in a place where it all reeks of games and underlying meanings, truth found only in between the lines of a conversation that is not happening, his candor comes as a relief. what is there to be said when sincerity is so scarce? visenya feels her mind slowly cracking at the realisation and she anchors herself onto sebastian's presence. ❝ gaomā daor jorrāelagon naejot ivestragon vaoreznuni syt mirros konir sagon sīr quptenka daor. ❞ you do not need to apologise for something that is so rare. words are wrapped in relief and yet they feel foreign to visenya's ears ⸻ she is no one's peace, not even her own. in her chest, there is a void big enough to swallow a dragon whole. visenya shakes her head, scoffing slightly at the words before amethysts fall to her hands. ❝ is it that rare, my lord? ao tepagon nyke tolī olvie credit. ❞ you give me too much credit, words proffered as visenya looks up again. ❝ kessa īlon sagon va keskydoso paktot? ❞ will we be on the same side? a whisper, nervousness exiting her body through hands playing with her dress' fabric.

❝ mērī lo īlē konīr ❞ sorrow wears a different face to the likes of sebastian reyne , pulls an peculiar response . it urges him to take a closer look , to lean in and stare at it , raw , unprocessed , and discarded , contrary to the distance many would opt for when it casts its looming shadow . he does not give it power , refuses to let it draw a line to never step on or cross over . this vice - like grip of a perspective allows him to carry on , to slither , pounce , and feast . something about the way the word fell from visenya's lips made him silent . lyks . she made it seem real and tangible . the impossibility of holding it in his hands nonexistent . the cacophony that keeps him on his toes day and night became all but an irrelevant sound . ❝ lo lyks iksis sir quptenka daor , ❞ being with someone who can simply say a word and breathe life into an idea long buried in the past makes the overwhelming sense of confusion claw at his neck . ❝ ziry mērī mazverdagon nyke jaelagon naejot jurnegon syt ziry tolī ❞ but he doesn't struggle free from it , instead shoves himself further in to be devoured . his words , both common tongue and valyrian slip between the spaces of his fingers , and he stands there fumbling with only a quiet hum and smile left in his arsenal . what a fool ! instead he could only motion to the path of cobblestone that lay before them , a light bow as the leisurely walk commenced . ❝ gaoman pāsagon se jurnegon syt lyks kessa sagon mība lēda ao kesīr ❞ it's as if the walls that hold up this world shake , never has it felt this fragile before and fear dares tap on his shoulder . any minute now the sky will fall upon him , and its weight will slam on him until there is only labored breaths and shaking hands , and the lilac - eyed beauty will look over his faltering body with a sinister smile etched at the corner of her lips . it's the most convenient of scenes , that westeros is a mere menagerie , both of them included . ❝ forgive my candor , my lady , but this rarely happens ... ❞ once more the common tongue paints the turmoil within , putting it in full display . it would be a relief to think visenya celtigar to be capable of such savagery ... for the words that fall so sweetly from her lips made him want to be ... decent , to be exactly who most believe him to be . ❝ bona iksan geptot mijegon udra . ❞ he could barely recognize the sound of a beating heart in his ears , the dampness in his palms ... he envisions himself a cornered prey , not at the mercy of vicious fangs or claws , or steel , but kindness . ❝ kostilus bisa iksis se lyks ao maghagon ... ❞

[aechor]

the rose of highgarden finds herself studying the flowers in king's landing: those that bloom in their time and those that prance about the capital, thinking themselves well scented when all they are is all poison in disguise ( alicent pities those that think themselves more than they are ). thoughts dance about a sharp mind, all careful and choreographed as to not get cut. lithe fingers seek the sharpest thorn, let the blood be drawn as a smirk appears upon rose lips. all roses have their thorns, some keep their hidden ⸻ for survival or out of mere want ⸻ but alicent chooses to keep hers dipped in honey, too pretty to be seen as a thorn piercing anyone's skin. she plays her part in someone else's play while being the star of her own, hidden one.

alicent's own favourite company ( her own ) gets interrupted by a familiar face, one she looks back at for a moment. a pretty one. the tyrell rose smiles, back now again turned to her newfound company. ❝ if it is a surprise that you've found me here, lady rhae, i do hope it is a good one, at least. it would be the most heart breaking to find that you'd prefer me gone. ❞ alicent now turns to the lady, the arryn's following words both surprising and delightful. a lopsided smile grows upon her lips, crafted to look more innocent than cunning. ❝ were it a doable plan, my lady, i suppose i would be yes. do not tell me you wish to leave king's landing so soon. whatever could be the reason for such a desire, hm? ❞ she jests, head tilted.

pacing  the  gardens  of  the  red  keep,  intruding  upon  lady  alicent          ╱         @aechor

rhea  was  quite  finished  now,  if  the  not-yet-king  was  through  playing  detective.  was  this  not  the  duty  of  the  kingsguard,  or  were  they  purely  ornamental  ?  and  if  the  princess  was  so  intent  on  being  friendly,  couldn't  she  have  put  in  a  good  word  for  rhea  with  her  brother  ?  anyone  with  half  a  brain  could  tell  that  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  princess  regent's  death⸻and  her  comment  on  the  food's  quality  was  pure  honesty,  not  an  admission  of  poisoning.  perhaps  it  was  a  punishment,  then,  being  detained  here  and  forced  to  rely  on  the  cooks  she  besmirched  for  nourishment.  petty  cruelties  did  not  seem  to  be  vaeles  targaryen's  weapon  of  choice  (  especially  with  a  dragon  at  his  disposal  ),  but  rhea  could  never  be  too  sure.

there  were  small  mercies,  too.  at  least  she  wasn't  confined  to  her  rooms,  even  if  it  seemed  like  her  every  move  was  followed  each  time  she  explored  the  red  keep's  halls.  these  ventures  were  always  half-baked  anyhow.  straying  too  far  ran  the  risk  of  upsetting  the  ever-watchful.  although  it  was  against  her  better  nature,  she  endeavored  to  make  herself  as  small  as  possible  so  that  she  could  slip  through  the  cracks  of  the  red  keep  unseen.  happening  upon  someone  else  in  the  gardens  was  mere  coincidence.  broadly  declaring  her  intentions,  in  search  of  a  laugh,  was  not.    ❝    well,  well,  if  it  isn't  lady  alicent,    ❞    rhea  hummed.    ❝    if  there  was  ever  one  to  grow  strong  and  tall  enough  to  get  us  up  and  over  the  keep's  walls,  it  would  be  you,  wouldn't  it  ?    ❞

[aechor]

[aechor]

visenya's lithe fingers find the green of a leaf, let it be an anchor that keeps her steady when all she wants is to float away and go back where there are no games, no snakes and no teeth around someone's neck. at that same time that thought crosses visenya's mind, a bitter taste makes itself known on her tongue ⸻ is there such a place left? still, there is a sense of peace to be found when among the vines ( no matter how false it is ), shielded from the shadow that looms over king's landing. all seems far away, the voice of lady daena spoken from the far end of a tunnel that visenya does not even know she is in ( perhaps that is how she is meant to feel until she returns home ⸻ far but not far enough away ). the words spoken to her are still heard, still cycled through and thought about. visenya does not understand why her thoughts could be of the mistress of whisperers' interest. the young celtigar takes the leaf in her hands, plays with it as she speaks. ❝ can anyone find comfort in seeing vultures circle a body that is still alive? ❞ visenya's voice is soft yet troublesome, inner thoughts and battles slipping through the cracks of what she hoped was a better facade. it is vaeles she worries for, his body and his mind. the regent has been laid to rest and all she shall find is peace with all the gods, old and new ⸻ it is the ones left behind in her death's wake that will find the discomfort of war if paranoia comes to life. ❝ to some, something else seems clearer, doesn't it? that is what i find the most discomforting. ❞

for: @aechor

location: a small, private courtyard within the keep

Under a grand gazebo draped with vines, Daena had taken her customary seat, having first persuaded Visenya to sit by her side. The weather was too fine to not live outdoors, no matter the calamity at hand -- Daena often held court here, offering lively lectures on whatever best pleased her. Her eyes drifted lazily across the courtyard before them, dissecting each twig and leaf that lay across broad sooted stone. She sought no apt pupil today, no eager mind to hang upon each of her syllables -- Daena wished for Visenya to offer her own thoughts, to dispense what only her quick mind and quiet eyes could discern. "I thought the sunshine would be a welcome reprieve from the heat of suspicious eyes; do you find comfort in the interest placed upon the regent's passing, or do these affairs trouble your heart?" Though she seemed to find little pleasure upon a stage, Visenya's intelligence and sympathies were easily plead to within a tête-à-tête. Daena would always seek those who spoke less -- fierce minds rarely overindulged in performative exercises, or sought the gratification of an audience. "Little is clear, beyond security in knowing we have lost a mighty woman, but inherited a promising king."

[aechor]

visenya keeps her eyes on lady rohanne, letting her words simmer inside her skull ( it beats inside of it like a war drum, a reminder of what is to come if the lion does not remember who he cannot roar towards without a swift reminder ). she listens and she studies every line in the reyne's expression, look for any clue that might not paint her as a foe by association alone ( if that were, whatever comfort the reyne lord might have provided will not remain so ). words that are to follow are almost a plea, as if any worrisome eavesdropper might heed them, should they need to. ❝ an air of uncertainty... ⸻ it should not be so, should it? vaeles is king, there's no uncertainty about it. ❞ they are a whisper, nonetheless, careful yet unapologetic in nature. visenya picks at the skin around her nails, absentmindedly letting a nervous habit take front stage. the young celtigar cannot tell if the lady reyne's words are sincere or a ploy to settle herself beneath visenya's skin ⸻ feigned kindness a poison whose taste is the most bitter. ❝ you are not wrong, i reckon, and i'm certain you are not the only one to see those dark days ahead. ❞ darkness is sewn into every inch of king's landing, visenya can see so now ⸻ it is far clearer than ever before, amethysts stuck to the way golden vultures circle a crown that is not theirs. ❝ i have no doubt it will be darker for some more than others. ❞ and whose party does lady rohanne belong to, visenya wonders?

   ❛  i  am  certain  they  do .  the  death  of  a  ruler  ,  or  a  regent  ,  brings  with  it  an  air  of  uncertainty  ,  even  if  succession  is  secured   as  it  is  with  his  majesty ,  the  transition  of  power  is  still  a   worrisome  time .  people  will  pray  for  his  strength  and  fortitude  ,  perhaps  now  more  than  ever . ❜    lips  curl  into  a  faint  smile  ,  had  she  known  the  woman  better  a  hand  may  have  reached  out  to  offer  comfort ,  instead  they  remained  stoically  entwined  before  her .  though  ulterior  motives  breath  life  into  her  words  ,  they  were  far  from  falsehoods  .  uncertain  as  she  may  be  regarding  visenya's  knowledge  towards  the  current  political  climate  ,  it  was  no  closely  guarded  secret  that  a  lion  seldom  relinquished  its  prey  and  for  too  long  their  maw  had  been  locked  around  the  crown's  neck  ,  teeth  grazing  its  jugular .    ❛   though  i  am  certain  all  will  be  well  in  time . ❜   conviction  purposely  lacks  ,  and  she  shifts  as  though  discomfort   rises  within .   ❛  forgive  my  gloominess  ,  lady  visenya  ,  but  i  fear  dark  days  ahead ...  though  i  do  pray  i  am  wrong .  ❜   her  purpose  ?  to  drive  the  celtigar  towards  her  confidant ,  her  dalliance ,  or  whatever  sentimental  entitle  she  may  ascribe  her  brother  in  affection  (  or  otherwise  ) .  rohanne  does  not  expect  to  learn  much  this  day  ,   but  in  the  coming  days  she  hopes  to  learn  more  about  the  private contemplations  of  the  king  and  his  sister . 

[aechor]

Costumes

From: House of the Dragon, 1.03 & 1.04 Character: Rhaenyra Targaryen Actor: Milly Alcock Costume By: Jany Temime

(requested by anonymous)

[aechor]

Helaena crying at Aegon's coronation

House of the Dragon, Season 1 Episode 9, "The Green Council"

[aechor]

The Vampire Lovers (1970)

[aechor]

If she doesn’t marry me, she doesn’t go to Highgarden. Which means she stays in King’s Landing. Which means you’re trapped here with Cersei Lannister as your mother by law. Perhaps. Perhaps? Perhaps.

[aechor]

visenya seeks the sunlight like a flower who's been denied warmth for far too long. out the window, things don't seem as doomed; the wind flows and the trees dance with it and, below, the flowers cover every bad scent with their own hypnotizing one ⸻ visenya wishes she could be there, where no snakes could wrap themselves around her ankles and keep her cemented to where she does not want to be. the young celtigar reckons she is not the only one feeling such things and, if she dared look behind her and not through the frame of a window ( or rather, her salvation ), visenya would see many with sculpted smiles and some hint of loss in their eyes, born of either love or greed. behind her, shadows creep all around. they are not made by a shield from the light of the fires ⸻ they are the shapes of claws and fangs from foes, hidden in tall grass. only now, the blades are getting shorter.

she hears shuffling about in the halls, beyond her curiosity. visenya does not move, does not let amethysts meet what could very well ruin this circle of safety she's curated with only a window and a need for reprise. she certainly does not expect the sight of valyrian silver hair out the corner of her eye, to be followed by the most unanticipated string of words and the unmistakable scent of a prince that she's paired with when crowds seem too overwhelming. now, everything is overwhelming. for a heartbeat, visenya follows along. ❝ i do not see a bunny. perhaps a horse. ❞ it's not until surprise subsides that she lets her expression show the confusion she feels at the way the prince carries himself. furrowed eyebrows, amethysts meet valyrian purple. moments ⸻ she allows herself moments to look at the prince, see what he wishes none to see.

clouded by what is to come ( her sister's words have taken root, unwanted paranoia making a home in her mind ), an answer is not made clear. visenya's lips relax. ❝ gaomā daor vestragon aōla.❞ you do not seem yourself. although nestled in the comfort of such a language, it is not for herself that she chooses the valyrian tongue ⸻ there is always someone listening in. ❝ se gaoman daor gīmigon skoros naejot pendagon hen ziry.❞ and i do not know what to think of it.

in  the  halls  of  the  red  keep,  making  a  direct  beeline  for  lady  visenya          ╱          @aechor

eyes  followed  aeryn  everywhere  he  went.  aeryn  was  used  to  it⸻the  scrutiny,  shattered  expectations  of  an  eminent  prince,  mockery  and  derision  ever  louder  than  curiosity.  these  days  there  was  something  more,  a  blending  of  pity  and  wariness,  accusation  and  sympathy.  being  ogled  at  disagreed  with  aeryn,  but  he  had  thirty  years  to  grow  used  to  the  wheedling.  he  found  ways  to  cope,  to  avert  prying  observation  altogether.  he  took  some  comfort  (  not  much  )  in  knowing  that  the  gathered  lords  were  now  subject  to  his  petty  sufferings  throughout  the  red  keep.  in  truth,  he  would  much  rather  have  a  return  to  normalcy⸻a  reversal  in  time,  if  that  were  ever  possible.  but  seldom  were  aeryn's  wishes  ever  answered  by  man  or  god.

in  contentment's  place,  a  steady  itch  persisted  under  his  skin,  rubbed  beneath  the  dermis  by  the  combined  weight  of  the  eyes  upon  him,  and  so  he  was  forced  to  retreat  to  familiar  pastures.  the  echo  of  his  heels  clicking  down  the  hall  was  a  deliberate  telegraph,  both  to  visenya  and  the  passing  servants,  of  his  quick  approach.  from  behind,  aeryn  smoothly  turned  round  her  right  shoulder  to  stand  parallel  to  her,  speaking  to  both  the  window  and  the  lady.    ❝    lost  in  thought,  are  we  ?    ❞    the  softness  of  his  voice  held  the  suggestion  of  conspiracy.  the  truth  of  it  was  pure  relief.    ❝    or  is  it  that  cloud  over  there  that's  caught  your  eye  ?  if  you  squint,  it  almost  looks  like  a  bunny.    ❞

[aechor]

feet walk heavy against the ground, pulled forward in a motion that the celtigar feels she has no control over. they slowly follow the crowd, the sea of nobles whose frowns are either real or carefully curated to appear so. visenya doesn't like dancing so close to death ⸻ she has done it before, with someone that felt like a ghost even before leaving to meet the seven gods ( her mother feels like a ghost, even when none of it rings true in visenya's head ). polite smiles are exchanged as the nobles gather aimlessly and now visenya stands in a known corner, goblet of wine in her hands. she does not remember taking it or even pouring it ⸻ she has to lick her lips to know if she's tasted it. the only thing that breaks her from the thoughts that threaten to swallow her is a familiar voice. a sound that accompanied words written on paper that visenya read over and over for some comfort borne of unlikely friendship. ❝ elayna. ❞ a sigh of relief folds around her voice, grip loosening around the goblet of wine. ❝ i am glad you have found me. ❞ hand reaches for elayna's, an anchor that makes her stay where she is instead of floating away. visenya looks around, finding no other familiar face that would make the moment any better. amethyst meets elayna's own eyes. ❝ shall we go outside? some fresh air is very much needed. ❞

closed starter : after the news has broken. / @aechor, visenya celtigar .

word  from  last  letter  indicated  that  a  dear  friend  would  be  here,  that  elayna  would  have  good  reason,  besides  that  which  lurked  in  the  back  of  their  mind,  to  have  attended  this  at  the  red  keep.  pushing  through  with  narrow  shoulders,  ensuring  the  crowd  parted,  searching  for  her  in  the  heavy  and  betting  gazes  of  those  who  were  just departing the funeral services.  perhaps grief should be further at the front of the liege's mind, but it was not.  they  could  not  imagine  something  worse  to  attend,  considering implications of intentions to  win  favour  and  alliances.  ( in which they also engaged, but that was neither here nor there. ) disinterested,  craning  their  neck,  expression  remaining  dour  with  a  muttered,  where  could  she  be  hiding?  until,  at  last,  glimpsing  brilliant  hair  and  garment.  “i  knew  it.”  louder.  crackling  like  lightning.  “oh,  i  knew  i  would  find  you  here!”  approach  with  full  intention  of  gripping  hands,  of  shaking  her  in  like  -  embrace.  “it's  been  too  long  since  we  have  seen  one  another's  faces.  and  here,  of  all  places  to  have  it  happen.”

[aechor]

isse zȳhon morghon, se realm jāhor qūvy se targaryens open rȳ pōja weldie seam. those words rip visenya's open, an abyss of a new reality that she wishes had simply remained as a seam of paranoia and nothing else. still, such want does not mean amethysts were blind to the chess moves ( denial is a powerful thing when danger and cracks in the veneer of friendship are what plagues such a worrisome mind ) or the way chess works among so many nobles. a whisper gets lost in the breeze, eyes never leaving the calm water below. ❝ kostagon se rot daor sagon kelitan gō mazēza naejot zȳha tīkuni? ❞ can the rot not be stopped before it takes to its wings? for it is a rotten, becoming an usurper. there is belief ( perhaps a blind hope, a treacherous hope ) that not all is lost; visenya is stuck in a friendship forged in silence and the outskirts of every noble-filled room ⸻ the young celtigar does not want to believe that such a future, where dragons battle dragons and all becomes fire and blood, can come of it. it is her sister's next words that make visenya snap her head to meet her sister's own purple hues. ❝ konīr iksis mērī mēre iderennon, mandia: se paktot mēre. īlva ānogar kessa ūñagon va īlva. ❞ there is only one choice, sister: the right one. our blood will count on us. naivety tells visenya that perhaps it will not come to that.

dislocated, waterlogged gazes stare up at them out of the shallow depths. beauty, it should be remembered, is deceptive. a delicate armor neatly sewn up the middle, containing the unseemly, pink-raw viscera of a rabid motherwound, insatiable starving, foul decay. how glad man is to be fooled by the sweet, supple flesh, for its wretched meat cannot distinguish the hare from the fox — bite from touch. glad for her sister's beauty, the ease which life shall bloom under her unblemished facade. but pale eyes alight at the scent of the faintest rot that seeps from sister's declaration. mouth snags on pride, smiling faintly. " se prince spent zȳhon glaeson disguising se qringaomnon hen zȳhon ānogar. isse zȳhon morghon, se realm jāhor qūvy se targaryens open rȳ pōja weldie seam. " a truth verging on treason, spoken thinly enough to be heard and evanesce into the dry air. continuing in high valyrian, " a choice will be demanded of us, and we may give it freely or it may be taken from us. there is no room for uncertainty. " the question is implicit, sharp: do you stand with us?

[aechor]

time passes but death never lessens, not even with the feel of the sun on light skin. a flower has bloomed and visenya plucks it from its home, something to busy her nervous hands with. an unfamiliar voice in turn plucks her from her own peace. with grace, she turns to face the reyne, mirroring the same incline. ❝ lady rohanne. yes, of course. ❞ a rather small smile appears between sentences, delayed by thought. paranoia sows itself beneath visenya's skin. friend and foe walk the same cobblestones, pass each other with no mention of loyalties ⸻ the celtigar wonders who of the two stands before her ( history between the two families clarifies none, just the memory of easy conversations with the lady's young brother ). ❝ one would hope everyone partakes in the same prayer. ❞ hands lock together, fingers intertwined as visenya rests them in front of her, flower stuck between. ❝ i would not speak for them on their state of mind. ❞ flower twirls in nervous hands, amethysts never leaving the reyne lady. ❝ but they mourn their aunt and late regent. ❞

𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫  ;  @aechor   ⟳   chapter  𝘰𝘯𝘦   /  following  the  death  of  the  princess regent . 

    ❛   lady  visenya  ❜  the  incline  of  her  head   is  a  courteous  gesture  in  such  melancholic  times  ,  the  curls  of  her  braid  catching  in  the  sunlight  ,  emphasising  their  copper  hues  .  a  stark  contrast  to  the  cool  tones  of  valyrian  silver  on  the  woman  before  her ,  yet  aesthetics  are  not  their  only  differences .  alas  ,  time  does  not  allow  her  to  dwell  on  such  trivialities  ,  these  are  pressing  times  and  rohanne  knew  the  importance  of  haste .   ❛   may  i  accompany  you  a  moment ?  ❜   the  sun  is  warm  upon  the  flesh  ,  when  the  cool  breeze  releases  its  icy  tendrils  long  enough  for  it  to  have  an  effect .  around  them  flowers  are  still  in  bloom  ,  and  evergreen  trees  hold  their  leaves  despite  the  season  ;  the  gardens  are  a  peaceful  retreat  ,  a  place  of  contemplation  and  she  does  not  plan  on  disturbing  visenya  for  long  .  ❛  i  pray  for  the  comfort  of  your  cousins  ,  tell  me  ,  how  does  our  new  king  and  princess  fair  in  these  mournful  times ?   ❜