#♕░░ v. i must have fire in my eyes when i face them ; not tears ( ASOIAF IV )

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@draconikia approached her grace: ❝ i crossed a thousand leagues to come to you, and lost the best part of me along the way. don’t tell me to leave. ❞ // whispers what if i said barristan selmy 

The dragon rears her noble head, fire licking at the roof of her mouth, at her very tongue ; even her children, halting their marveling on the terrace, stalk through the open threshold, hissing and smoking, their tails lashing, tasting ire in the air. FURY IS RISING, there is no doubt, and it climbs, like a spark climbs the dry brush of a tree and ignites a whole forest ; it awakens in the rapid flush crawling across her cheeks, in the delicate flare of her nostrils, in the predacious gleam in her eye. Liar, the hurt girl burning beneath all the anger weeps.

His had been a harmless lie : a fortress erected on a foundation of half-truths, constructed to protect himself. From me, lips thin, and her throat works, as though she may devour the realization ( and feed it to the rage eating at her belly ). It is fruitless, though, for that thought is a key which unlocks a despairing sort of curiosity. Gods above, had her forebears truly been so . . . SO ATROCIOUS, as to warrant such hesitation? When he first set eyes upon her, had she been so fearsome? Across the chamber, she peers, hunting in crystalline eyes : they are alarmingly bright, unbending, and — — — fingers curl against smooth sandsilk trousers — — — so very sorrowful.

A wave of gloom, cool and sobering, nudges against the flames. An innocent lie is still a lie. A lie! A lie. A lie, the voice thrashes unavailingly against the swell, receding, drowning into utter oblivion. Her ferocious veil is thin as kindling now, and through it, she can see : his is not a demand ( as Jorah’s had been ), but a plea. Something loosens in her shoulders, unwinds in her fingers. “Barristan the Bold,” she begins, brow quirking, “well, you are that, at least, for braving my wroth.” A true knight, he must be, to stand tall in the face of danger.

A long, long breath streams out of her ; she is weary ( so very weary and her reign has only just begun ), yet she lifts her chin, bells tinkling with the movement. “Hear me clearly, ser : I’ve no patience for deceit.” The words are a bite. “But I am neither cruel nor forgetful. I know that my standing here is due to your gallantry. You have saved me numerous times and delivered this victory into my lap,” her voice is quiet, weighted, but reflective : twice has he swept her from death’s path, and now, he has won her the very city bowing beneath her dainty sandaled feet. “Your fate is of your own making. If you are to remain at my side, swear to never play me false again. Swear it by the gods you hold and by the heart which gives you life — — — and here, at my side, you shall remain.”

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@drakonprince approached her grace: ❝ I will not wed you. ❞ / from Rhaegar bc I couldn't resist akskakaks.

It is quite strange, the smile now dancing on her lips — — — reflective, and just a touch sardonic ; as though her teeth have sunk into something most peculiar, and her tongue seeks to recognize the flavor. A distant luster sheaths the once-attentive gaze she'd directed at her brother ; she is wandering, no doubt, turning over the cool stones sitting atop memories long buried. In recollection, they stir, rousing from beneath the caked dirt of their neglected graves.

For years and years, Viserys whispered, then snapped, then screamed lamentations, then frustrations, then fury about the timing of her birth ( as though she'd some authority over the matter ). The fool. Yet another fabrication : a falsehood of his own construction to legitimize his resentment of her, and, oh, how she, a trembling and subdued thing, had hated him in those moments. How she, diminished and love-starved and frightened, guttered the feeble embers of wrath threatening to spark to wildfire over the blatant dishonoring of their mother. Those infernal complaints rustle in the wind : ‘It is your fault. You should have been born sooner,’ he enjoyed hissing, and once, when temper flared, she barked, pointing a small, shaking finger at his face, ‘You were born before me, what of your fault?’

Now, slender fingers lift, testing a phantom ache on the smooth, unmarred jaw before grazing, tracing up, and traversing a high cheekbone until they press against her forehead.

And peals of laughter erupt from her lips, melodic and round and full ; they reach crescendo when her head falls back, braids shifting, ringing in time with the giggles. A rather startling reaction! Even Viserion and Rhaegal jerk, lifting serpentine heads from the giant mass of their curled bodies. She nearly tumbles back onto the pile of cushions. “Oh! Please, forgive me. You are not the cause of my outburst, dear brother,” she says, quieting herself, hand falling to her heart, eyes bright with some wry form of amusement. “It is only that I am once again astounded by Viserys’ devotion to ignorance.”

IGNORANCE AND FURY AND SHAME ; those had been his favorite weapons ( and, it was upon the softness of both her body and soul that he reveled in whetting his rage . . . and with her tears that he cleansed himself anew, reeling to unleash himself again ). “He was convinced that I could have turned your eye, but he could not have been more incorrect.” Suddenly, that feeling, that fervent wish to have had Rhaegar at her side rather than Viserys stirs. How different things would have been, she ponders, leaning forward on her knees and reaching to place her hands upon his arms ( in hopes of easing the stern set of his brow ). “You’ve naught to worry about from me, Rhaegar. I've no expectations of such a union between the two of us. We are one in spirit, in mind, in blood, and in heart. With that, I am most content.” A reassuring squeeze, and still, even after all this time, wonder sparks ( he is here, here, here! ).

“That beside, my advisors would have me take a husband whose veins are swimming with the blood of Old Ghis,” she quiets, softening her timbre ; violet meets indigo when she frowns. “What would our countrymen do — — — if I ascended the throne with Hizdahr zo Loraq at my side? Would they scorn me?”

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@messanique approached her grace: ❛ can’t sleep? ❜ / from rhaella?

A quiet shake of the head ; even her tresses do not sing, for they have been bound, braided, and wrapped in sleeping silks. So lost in thought, she cannot even remember how long it's been since she dismissed her handmaids, urging them to partake in the festivities raging on in the audience chamber below. ‘Leave me and go enjoy yourselves. I shall expect the most riveting tales from all of you come morning,’ she had said, pressing sweet kisses to their cheeks, returning their girlish grins with a tight smile of her own. She ought to be celebrating, as well, lamenting aching feet and wine-stained fingers — — — and delivering the most elegant of toasts to the legendary Joso's Cock.

This victory, however, has all the flavor of spoilt fruit : sickening and soft and absolutely rancid. “Home,” the word, once welcome, once longed for, turns to ash in her mouth. “He sold me for the promise of home.” The same home she marches for now ; the same home she dreams of someday seeing ; the same home that . . . somehow, with each ticking second, feels farther away than ever. ‘How could you!’ the earlier cry clangs through her once more, and she blinks, eyes red-webbed and irritated. Betrayed for gold. Or love, which one? Which one? The urge to run her hands down her face arises, and is banished, the restlessness somewhat sated when she hugs her bare legs to her chest. Mournful gaze lifts, then, to meet her mother's in the moon-hazed darkness. “Mamma, will you sit with me and tell me stories of Westeros? I should like to hear of your dreams, of your joys.”

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@homebehind approached her grace: because once everyone sees you as a villain , that's what you are . (from rhaenys?)

The litter crawls, slouching its way through the city’s winding streets, its drapes of lace and pearls and beads ( all crafted to match Her Radiance’s eyes ) swaying with each synchronized step. What was meant to be a quick excursion to the Market of Blessed Hands has quickly devolved into a rather extended venture ; even hidden, the dragon queen's presence outside the walls of her Great Pyramid has stirred the city into a frenzy. The atmosphere is stifling, with rainbow brick paths overflowing with hoards of people, her people ( freedmen and traders and nobles alike ! ), all hoping to catch a glimpse of their Mhysa.

How she longs to ride among them, longs to feel their hands brush against the stirrups of her silver, longs to press her amethyst-lacquered fingers to their brows, despite the possibility of it all diverging into her swimming in a sea of venerating bodies. A shift upon the cushions, a stern clench of the jaw ; a war of will wages itself within, the command to halt their progression just on the tip of her tongue. ‘ Dangerous, ’ echoes Ser Barristan’s fussing. But it would give them hope, she laments, slender fingers tightening upon one of many silk and jewel-embellished pillows.

Beyond the woven barrier, she tracks the innumerable faces : countless cheer, screaming prayers to the gods to rain blessings down upon her, countless weep, throwing themselves onto the ground before and around the litter, some try, even, to bypass her Brazen Beasts and Unsullied, reaching starving hands forward, fingertips kissing the barrier, before powerful hands collide with sunken shoulders. But, even among the devoted, there are some whose eyes burn with such rancor — — — such loathing — — — their glares seem to penetrate the litter’s veil. A shudder scrapes along her spine, yet she dares to stare back, dares any could-be Harpy to test the temper of the Dragon. I am as much your villain as you are mine.  

 “ You speak true, dear Rhaenys, as you always do, ” she murmurs, turning to face her niece, who, even in this short time, has proven her immense wisdom. “ It matters not if one is truly villainous in action or intent. What truly matters is how many behold one as a villain. ” Such a sentiment, Daenerys knows, is especially true among rulers. How many villains have held a crown, only to be worshipped as a hero because their people perceived them as such ?  If war is met with Yunkai and our stores run dry, how long will it take for my people to consider me their villain ? And in Westeros — — —

“ I've a question for you, ” she says suddenly . . . thoughtfully, silver bells twinkling with a tilt of the head, “ and I do not wish for you to spare me. Rather, give me the mercy of your truth. ” She leans forward then to gently capture one of Rhaenys' hands in both of hers. “ For as long as I can remember, I have been fed the same sentiment : that smallfolk and nobles alike long for the age of the dragon once more, that banners with our sigil are sewn beneath the cover of night, and tankards are raised at the hearth to our health and in our honor. Is it true ? ” A pause, as she presses her lips together, gathering all her strength, before asking, “ Or do they regard us as the villains ? ”

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@melnchly approached Her Grace: ❛ you don’t know who i am, do you? ❜ (from Rhaenys?)

Upon silken pillow and ebon bench, the young queen sits, ankles crossed, back straight as a sword. From beneath a three-headed dragon crown ( wrought in jade and ivory and onyx and wrapped in wings of silver and coils of gold ), she peers, amethyst gaze trained on this stranger ; though, if she is just that, why, then, does her presence carry a primordial sense of familiarity ? Of home ? So much more than merely sharing a tongue, Daenerys senses a discerning weight — — — a knowing tenderness — — — in this young woman’s dark eyes. Eyes that miss little, she notes, swimming in their profundity. But, beneath the illumination of lanterns and torches and the setting sun beyond the windows’ glass, they whisper of violet. Silver brows furrow in wonder. The marble playing tricks, she decides, turning this determination over and over again in her mind, as she tosses a probing glance at Ser Barristan ; however, he does not look to her ( what a rare occurrence, for what is the Lord Commander of a Queen’s Queensguard to do but keep watchful eye upon the Queen ? ). Rather, he observes this young woman, his features a twisted amalgam of doubt and anguish and grief and regret : such an unnerving sight only serves to inflame Daenerys’ curiosity — — — and draw a slight frown upon her lips. At her back, Reznak wrings his hands, his grotesquely sweet perfume radiating on the sheen of sweat that glistens upon his bald brow, while Skahaz glowers in his sour way, stewing in suspicion. It is clear that Daenerys cannot hold this silence, nor does she particularly desire to do so. Not with this sensation, this frustration, of phantom recognition that weighs so heavily upon the frontmost part of her mind . . . yet refuses to connect with memory.

Did I know you once ? Before my flight from one Free City or another ? They are certainly of an age ( or close enough ) ; but, every friend Daenerys had ever had during girlhood, whether sheltered in various noble and merchant manses or coddled by cold cobblestone streets, would certainly be recognizable now. Were you there in Astapor ? Yunkai ? A regal air accompanies her : the resoluteness of her tone, the exalted lift of her chin, the unbent posture of her very spine. There is no denying that the gods have crowned her with nobility, but she is no blood of the Good Masters of Astapor or the Wise Masters of Yunkai, nor is she the daughter of some Volantene Triarch ; indeed, her speech sings of Westeros, of Daenerys' countrymen, of her people. Remembrance continues to elude as Daenerys envisions the very few Westerosi she has met across her young life ( including the group now sheltered within her pyramid ). Are you a member of their band, then ? The frog prince had not mentioned any additional companions, and she does not wish to believe that he would withhold knowledge. Thus, she returns to memory once more, crawling from one time to another, willing herself to remember . . . yet this woman’s essence evades her, leaving each recollection empty, echoing, and crumbling from beneath.

“ I do not, ” she finally admits, minding the rhythms of her speech. Something within compels her to lift a hand, beckoning the young lady closer. “ You seem to know me, however, beyond this crown and this seat. I am correct to assume such a thing, am I not ? ”

Could such a person exist ? Someone not lost in the ashes of the past ? It is madness to think such a thing, madness to entertain it, madness to desperately want it. She searches still, head tilting.

“ I cannot seem to untangle where you and I may have met, my lady, nor do my councillors, wise as they are, seem to have any knowledge of you. Perhaps you can aid us all by giving me your name. ” 

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