#♕░░ the roar of the storm ( IC INTERACTIONS )

[kaerinio]

@nightstriumph approached her grace: hold his head. please. if only for a moment.

a moment. they’ve only a moment before tent flaps part, and one guest becomes another, becomes another, becomes another. war : what a greedy beast, merciless in its inclination toward devouring time, and impatient, too. it waits not for lovers, and thus, these minutes ( minutes, yes ) where they may luxuriate in one another, are so very dear. “rest, my love,” comes the comfort, lilting, and as lulling as the palms smoothing down the collar of his tunic. “if only for a minute or two. the world will not fall to ruin in that time, i promise you,” she whispers, teasingly adding, i should like to think it would take at least three minutes for all our hard work to come undone. how sweet, that soft curve of her lips, delighted at the soothing weight of his head upon her lap. how adoring, that lean, which has her hovering above, absolutely relishing in him.

the night bows before him and darkness answers his call, and yet, here, he shines for her : a star twinkling, rays reaching to capture hopes and wishes and dreams, while vowing to preserve such yearnings. he burns, as she does, but he does so radiantly ( and ruthlessly ; there is nothing he would not give to save his people ; he would tear himself asunder, if it assured their prosperity ; she loves him for this, fiercely, and for so much more ).

now, she allows the chaos of their world to lay forgotten upon a table. if only for this moment, she will shine for him. she will capture his hopes and cherish his yearnings ; she will save him, if only in this moment.

a gentle hand descends, pressing against the dark locks crashing along the planes of his forehead. his hair is mussed, having been loosened, no doubt, by hours of tugging with map-stained fingers. intent, she brushes the shadowy strands back : once, twice, thrice, until a languid rhythm forms. all the while, free fingers rise, featherlight, to glide along his features. devotedly, she traces the slope of his nose, smooths a brow, caresses lips she is all too tempted to capture with her own, before grazing across the peak of an elegant cheekbone to settle upon a pointed ear. the edge of her index finger arcs, memorizing the shape. a moon-kissed braid shifts when she tilts her head, inviting a beautifully crafted bell, wrought in the form of an eight-pointed star, to sing. “would you like to hear a story?”

[kaerinio]

@messianique approached her grace: do you think i deserve this ? / from rhaegar!

it's early : early enough that most of the world around them still sleeps, and those stirring do so slowly, groggily, while nursing steaming mugs and questioning if returning to the sanctity of warm covers would cause some great offense. indeed, dawn has only barely broken on the horizon, its tentative rays spilling through the clouds, like yolk through the cracks of an eggshell ; but, for dany, night ( or, rather, sleep ) never came, nor had she invited it. rather, she spent the time nurturing her living dream : straightening books stacked upon tables and propped-up in displays, ensuring that the titles truly were aligned in order ( alphabetical, of course, and by every author's last name ), fluffing the pillows and cushions adorning every seat.

and between every single task came a pause, where she'd step outside to look upon the sign now gazing down at them. THE SILVER QUILL.

“of course i do. in fact, i believe you deserve more, rhaegar ——— much, much more,” she whispers in a voice swelling with pride and overflowing with love. a hand reaches, grasping musical fingers. “you are the one who introduced me to the true beauty of books, of reading.” for joy and for knowledge, not just for the escape. a quiet swallow drowns the tears threatening to rise and smothers the sob clawing at her throat. the unspoken hovers between them : a silent chorus of ‘you saved me. you saved me. you saved me.’

gingerly, between pearly teeth, she captures her quivering lip, and pulls herself ever-closer to her beloved brother. what a sound hold, as though there exists some fear that, in the day's rise, he may dissipate, evaporating like dew from a rose petal. resting a cheek against his arm, contentment blossoms in her heart, inviting a sweet smile. “i didn't think you'd appreciate a sign with your face hanging right over the door.” sparkling eyes of violet lift, intent upon his expression. “though, i did consider it.” she's teasing, no doubt, punctuating it all with a laugh that could warm, even, the emerging sun.

[kaerinio]

@ircnwrought approached her grace (for a sleepy kiss): send 🎲 to generate a kiss! from morgan <3

One blink, then another : weary eyes squint, appraising a room silvered by moonlight, where night has established its dominion. It seems, lips purse, that as she sat ruminating, her mind wandering the planes of the seven kingdoms, time grew hungry and took to devouring the aureate hues of candles once lit. What a sight the chamber had been at evening's advent : with so many flames dancing, their glow licking at the air with such fervor, one would have thought the queen had conjured the very sun. Now, light slumbers. Even the fires beneath the painted table bank, bowing where they once raged, where they once invoked the molten illumination of the realm that ensnared her. Embers flicker and whistle and die ; the map's enchantment is broken.

( Though, truth be told, it never stood a chance of keeping Daenerys past her beloved's arrival. )

Against the dark, beauty shines, like a lantern, attracting her gaze in an instant : oh, she is a vision, ethereal and utterly bewitching, resplendent in a halo of selenic rays, and her hair, a soft inhale, sways like a veil of shimmering shadows, framing the loveliness of her face. “My precious flame,” hers is a breathless whisper, which skims the night as she stands, the shawl falling from her bare shoulders ( only to pool in the elevated seat ) ; on trembling legs, she feels like an ancient thing, burdened by a rigidity that has settled deep in her bones, aching in some places, pricking in others. Duty beckons, demanding her return ——— in vain. She has already begun her heart-driven descent.

Every brush of a bare foot against thermal stone seems to awaken her, if only a little, and she rolls her shoulders, willing more and more of the pulsing atmosphere to seep into her, bidding it to banish the bleariness clouding the outskirts of her vision, beseeching it to peel back the drowsy haze encroaching upon her mind. “I was hoping that, between the two of us, you would be the one to claim a full night of sleep,” her chuckle is hushed when she pauses before Morgan. Tranquility flourishes on her features when she reaches, those fatigued fingers eager to cradle that graceful jaw. On tiptoes, she floats, leaning, leaning, leaning, to capture sweet lips : once, twice, thrice, they press, each kiss dreamy and slow, savoring. “Tell me, dear heart, what has stirred you from slumber? Was it a bad dream?” a murmur against a tender mouth, followed by the slightest of retreats. Concern knits her brows when her eyes meet Morgan's, searching, and a thumb brushes against a smooth cheek. “——— Or does something else plague you?”

[kaerinio]

@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.”

[kaerinio]

@messianique approached her grace: i always wonder what would have happened. / from Dana 🥹

Beneath the crescent of the moon, a chest rises, and the breath within flutters, shuddering with consideration at musings left unspoken. What would have happened, words murmur, babbling, like water cutting over stone, and against the thoughts, a yearning heart pounds, its beat a drum upon a battlefield of wishes. Somehow, she is there, marching on that fateful day, stomping on that familiar ground, and blazing with hope. Oh, how triumph flourishes, unveiling a realm of truth : of what would have been, if Rhaegar had proven victorious that day ; of what could have been, if he were the one to rise onto the shore, ebon armor shining and glorious in the rays of a worshipping sun ; of what should have been, if the Usurper's blood had bubbled upon the river's froth — — — not their brother's. What would have happened, the reflection stirs once more, and fingers twitch against a phantom hand, if our wondrous brother had lived?

Against flitting eyelids, blissful visions emerge of bodice-clad forms bestowing favors unto eager knights, their gleaming eyes and handsome lips beseeching and promising honor ; ornately embroidered skirts of vermillion billowing, their fabrics whispering to each other with every prance, meshing into one ; a feast hall lined with a near-impossible number of tables, each one long and teeming with smiling lords and giggling ladies and covered in food aplenty, its walls adorned with banners of the three-headed dragon roaring upon a field of black ; and arms, so comforting and adoring and sweet, cradling them both, shielding them from every blade-sharp edge of the world.

“I do, too. Every day, I wonder,” she whispers, turning her head upon night-cooled, dew-kissed grass to look at her twin, a soft smile forming on her lips. “My mind wanders when I do : to peace and abundant feasts and decadent balls and tourneys,” a sweet ( and longing ) chuckle , then, followed by a teasing coo, “where we are crowned as queens of love and beauty, of course.” Between them, a hand seeks, grasping fingers to secure comfort. A dreamy, almost reverent hush ushers forth her next words ( and her vision focuses on something faraway, on something seemingly within Dana ) : “I see lands filled with people, who cheer upon our arrival. I see their eyes . . . bright with such gladness, it rivals the sun! They run from their homes and hang from their windows, just to see us, the beloved sisters of the king.” Violet eyes, tinged ever-so-slightly with sorrow, meet Daenaera’s, and she gives her fingers an encouraging squeeze. “In your imaginings, what do you see? Tell me of your dreaming.”

[kaerinio]

@nightstriumph approached her grace: ❝ not going to try to kill me again, i hope. ❞

The day, with all its strain, draws itself upon her ; nonetheless, even within the comfort of her own tent, the mask of the ruler sits unrelenting upon her face. A weight so immense, it suffocates and bruises, she laments, breathing through the stiffness in her elegant neck and slender shoulders ( though, she does allow the small comfort of tucking a bare foot beneath herself, the other dangling, its lacquered toe tips brushing to and fro along a rough spun tapestry, which provides a meager barrier against the hardened earth ). From a corner at her back, Barristan grunts in disapproval, his cerulean eyes hard, no doubt, and trained on the male before her, whose goblet she now leans forward to fill. Wine cascades in a steady stream, rich and heady and deep as the primordial eddies of the Cauldron. “Again?” she echoes, the curve of her lips vague when she sits back, placing the pitcher at the edge of the little table. “I am only a young queen with little knowledge of Prythian's ways, but I am not so foolish as to harm a guest in my tent.”

Slight and controlled : a pale brow rises, a chin tilts, and silver bells, carefully woven into intricate braids, sing. “Especially when that guest is rumored to wield the power to crush a mind as easily as one may a rose petal.” Soft as a kiss, the words may be, they reach, like fingers in the dark : seeking, reaping, clawing for truth. A nail traces the base of her goblet ; gaze bears into gaze, violet searing violet, and the smile caressing her lips settles on innocence before she croons, “Tell me : why do you expect ill fate from me, my lord? Am I truly so fearsome?”

[kaerinio]

@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?”

[kaerinio]

@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.”

[kaerinio]

@nightstriumph approached her grace: what if i asked you to stay here? would you?

His questions, oh, the effect they have on her! Dreamily, she floats, scooting closer on the elaborately decorated sofa, her body angled wholly toward his ; here, she drifts, leaning further and further until a knee brushes a powerful thigh and a light hand caresses a mighty shoulder. “What is this ‘here’ you speak of?” she ponders, voice lilting, a languid smile flourishing on her lips. “Here,” a hum, while a finger, so very light and mesmeric, begins tracing the embroidery of his tunic ( inviting . . . and daring ), “upon this astonishingly comfy sofa?” There's a rather suggestive quirk of the brow, then. “Here,” a coy purr and an elegant, unhurried wave of the hand toward the ceiling, “for the rest of the eve?” The gentle tracing continues ; within the fine structure of her ribs, heart stirs, fluttering like a dove rousing in its nest, and she unleashes her gaze upon him, studying the devastating beauty of his face : slow and deliberate and devouring. Yes, some part of her answers him, not caring about the clarification, FOR SHE IS GREEDY, greedy with a hunger only he can sate, a hunger FOR HIM AND HIM ALONE. Her throat bobs ( and high on her cheeks, roses bloom, delicate and radiant, warming, even, that intensity swirling in her amorous gaze). “Or, are you asking if I would stay here, in Velaris — — — with you?” 

[kaerinio]

@nightstriumph approached her grace: unblinkingly, he begs —- for the moment allows little beyond it. “ look at me. ” 𝘪 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶．

There's nothing but the desk, and yet, the vastness of the world ( with all its seas and mountains and valleys and stars ) stands between them. A cold distance, it is a sharp thing, its ice a swirling vortex, which cuts and cuts and cuts, tearing every bit of flesh, breaking every bone, and splattering every bit of blood, leaving naught but the bareness of a twisting mind and an aching, throbbing heart. A heart that she, with clawed, twitching fingers, clutches fiercely in a fist ( squeezing, releasing, squeezing, releasing ) ; a heart that she has married so faithfully to duty ( for the good of her people, the good of all who choose to dwell in her closeness, the good of — — — everything and everyone, save herself ). It’s easier this way, is it not? To crave and starve and covet and dream, as opposed to laying oneself bare, to stripping off every bit of armor, every burden, every fear.

I want . . . I want . . . the thought rises and falls while the fire in the hearth blazes and rests, transforming in time with strained breath ; exasperation drives hands through loose curls of silvery-gold. Flames flicker in the amethyst of her eyes, and she stares intently, as though they may reveal some ancient secret ; but, in truth, she looks to the flames for salvation ( from her tender heart ), for she knows that should she look to him, her knees will shake, her lips will quake . . . they quiver now, swallowing words spoken in silence, and legs rebel against a still form, bracing for that all-devouring wave of devotion summoned by his very voice. She cannot deny him, will never be able to genuinely deny him ( so why, oh, why does she fight so ardently ? ).

Slowly, so slowly, she turns, and beneath his beautiful, star-kissed gaze, she is utterly disarmed ; even her shoulders drop. “Rhys,” she says his name with more dearness than one would in utterance of a prayer. “Can’t you see? I burn for you,” the whisper carries such conviction, “like a shooting star erupting through the night.” A step forward, then, moving past the desk and closing the distance, even if only by a precious bit. But I am just that : a flaming thing. And where I go, destruction is oft soon to follow.

[kaerinio]

@drakonprince approached her grace: night terrors .   hold  my  muse  after  they  wake  up  from  a  nightmare . (rhaegar holding dany)

In and out, deep and slow, each breath grasping : here, the air is thick with heat, flavored with the purifying aroma of incense, and undoubtedly alive. Dragonstone, recognition stirs. All around, the castle breathes, power pulsing softly, racing like ichor in the veins of an ancient body . . . but something is different. A tentative sniff draws her closer, burrows her further into her brother’s side. The familiar crackle in the atmosphere, which oft leaves the impression of fire on the tongue, roils, more potent than ever before ( as if, in all her thrashing, she's awoken forces long lost to slumber ). And, graceful throat bobs — — — IT TASTES OF BLOOD.

To their right, the hearth heaves a sigh. Nestled within stone-carved jaws and chiseled teeth, flames grow in intensity, raging and raging, flaring high like a beast raising its hackles ; even the all-seeing eyes of dragons etched into the walls and sculpted atop ledges and beams seem alert, watching, as if eager to hear the princess’ lamentations. Another breath . . . she takes it in vain, the warmth failing to penetrate, failing to chase away visions of smoldering cerulean eyes, failing to melt the icicles blooming and mangling the soft flesh of her lungs.

Is this madness? the thought coils while her gaze flickers, exhaustive ( and obsessive ) in its search of every shadowed corner and empty threshold ; absently, she clutches the arm draped about her shoulders, hand seeking a wrist and pressing gently atop the steady drum of blood. With all her might, she wills the thunderous gallop of her heart to match the soothing dance of Rhaegar’s. “I had — — —” her words escape, raw and thick with sobs unsung. The dragon does not fear. The dragon does not weep, for tears turn to steam upon a dragon's eye, comes the fierce chide. “I was surrounded by these . . . these creatures, and one of them came forward to press his lips to mine,” her revelations are rapid, hushed, and the fingers of her free hand rise to rub meticulously at the soft bottom lip. “He stole my voice, then my breath, then my life. He took all my warmth, and naught was left but a husk of flesh and ice.” A shudder rocks her. “It was awful, Rhaegar. It felt real, so painfully real,” she whispers, her eyes meeting his, pursuing solace in how they shine like two indigo stars in the night. “Even now, my lips sting.”

[kaerinio]

@homebehind approached her grace: i'm not going anywhere. (from elia)

Viserys would not like this place, the thought is accompanied by a head swiveling to and fro, silver braids swaying, dancing along her back, and singing with the rhythmic clacking of cowry shells. All around, children of all creeds ( both noble and common ) splash and swim and shriek and play. The children here . . . they are unlike any of the children at court ; they do not balk, do not lower their eyes, do not hold themselves apart ; no, they approach her siblings ( niece and nephew, in truth, but it is much too strange to think of her closest companions in such terms! ) with natural inclinations toward . . . friendship.

A child standing to Egg's right looks to her with unshakeable curiosity, her head jerking, which inspires Egg to turn his own head, eyes widening as he beholds Daenerys, who has now lifted one apprehensive toe ( so little and absurdly propelled ) to hover above the invitingly cool waters. She catches Egg's eye, and he lifts a hand, beckoning that she hurry. Twin lines appear between faint brows, and a rather distinct pucker pulls at her lips. If she does not soon follow, she is sure to fall prey to relentless teasing . . . and the littlest of the dragons cannot suffer such indignation! The toe plunges into the water, followed by one foot, then the other, unleashing a squeal of shock and delight!

But, she does not dare venture forth — — — not yet, at least, for a soft shyness shrouds the light blossoming within : surely, she will enjoy the company of all the children, but will the other children enjoy hers?

“You’ll be right here? The entire time?” sweet voice sings, the small yet sturdy grip tightening upon a gentle hand. In the sun, a single gold bangle glimmers. Stalling, Dany shifts to stand on one leg, marveling as the tips of her toes break the pool's surface and droplets trickle back into the water. “Do you promise, Elia? By all the love in your heart and all the fish in the sea and all the stars in the sky?” 

[kaerinio]

@messanique approached her grace: ❛ is it really you? ❜ / from rhaegar!

Where has her mind gone? A trap, it could be a trap set to ensnare a lonely soul ; and, gods above, wouldn’t this be the perfect moment? Where the Sorrowful Man had failed, evident in the manticore's grotesque, smeared remains ( its nearly human face, somehow intact, stares up at her, unseeing . . . venom stings her throat ), a Faceless Man could surely complete the task. So many enemies, she collects them like an enchanting lady collects favors from lovers. Ser Jorah must be thinking the same, the way he extends a powerful arm to shield her, his shining sword braced in the other. However, it is futile, for there is nothing that can stop her advance, and with ease, she shoves past, dodging the staying hand, ignoring gruff barks of protest.

That voice, it is . . . it is — — — a song : a song she dances toward with reckless abandon, conducted by the indigo of his eyes and the silvery-gold of his hair and the stunning angles of his face. His is a face she ought not recognize ( despite how, in his visage, she finds her own ). He'd been banished, exiled to the cold ends of the earth before her mortal wails shook Dragonstone and ripped their mother from this world. In visions, she has seen him, stares locking as he murmured over a lovely Princess and precious babe. In dreams, why, she has embodied him, driven by some perennial closeness ( always imagined, now made real ), adorned in armor glittering with rubies. “I am who you know me to be,” she whispers, eyes swimming in tears imbued with inquiry, with wishes. Hands lift, not to banish those descending drops, but to cup his cheeks in affectionate wonder.

This may be no more than some sweet mirage, but she does not care. If she is doomed to die here by an assassin’s blade, let it be her cherished brother’s face that guides her to the night lands ( into the embrace of her sun-and-stars and the darling son who never drew breath, who would never know his namesake ; sorrow flickers, a dim candle in the darkest spot of her heart, and is promptly extinguished by resolve ). To look upon him, to hear him, to lay, even, a hand against him . . . It will have been worth it. Worth it, indeed, to gaze unflinchingly at fate and choose temptation.

A rasp emerges from the Old Bear's throat, going wholly unacknowledged as she soars ; the leap is anything but graceful, and even less regal, her arms wrapping heartily around the cloaked neck. “This is no scheme, it cannot be! I would know you anywhere. It is you, Rhaegar, truly you . . . and you are here!” How utterly foolish and clumsy she must sound. It is no matter, not when joy rouses and bursts, summoning the first genuine smile quivering lips have formed in ages. She is like a wild, new thing. A stranger to feeling, those quaking fingers touching his features tentatively : stroking cheeks, fluttering over hair, brushing over ears. “How is this possible? Did you escape the Wall? How did you find me?”

[kaerinio]

@riorsworn approached her grace: “ why did you help me? ”

The burden is unimaginable, and yet, she quite literally took it upon her shoulders ; the satchel hanging at her side isn't hers ( hell, she doesn't even know what it contains ), but in the hall, just moments ago, beneath the scrutiny of a professor, it became her own. The feint had been so simple, so easy : a sheepish excuse, a pleasant parting of the lips, a slight widening of the eye. That was all it took for authority to relinquish its attention ( and, in the process, expose a soft underbelly ). Basgiath is a brutal place ; admittedly, the world beyond is crueler ( though kinder in some ways ). In its vastness, she found her first school. One of its most valuable lessons?

Not every battle can be won with sparks of steel and streams of fire and rivers of blood — — — ( ‘Do not play yourself. Remember your words. Your ancestors’ words,’ Drogon murmurs, earning himself a close-lidded roll of the eyes ). One may find triumph with the right twist of the tongue, with the skillful kneading of another's perception. They were victorious, escaping this one battle unscathed ; however, in the darkness of Xaden's gaze, all she sees is wariness. Another battle on the horizon?

One step, then another. Carefully, the bag slides from the peak of her shoulder, brushing over the imprint of a massive curving wing, to land in a delicate hand. “It was the right thing to do,” her answer is quiet, vigilantly so, when she reaches out, holding it between them in offering, in return. She tips back her head to look up at him. “He was preparing to search you. I could see the intent in his eyes,” she lifts the satchel slightly for emphasis, pale brows furrowing at its weight. For a split second, it captures her interest, conjuring a flicker of curiosity in the wild, bright, passionate conflagration of her eyes. “If there is one thing I despise, it's a bully. No matter the title or stature,” she reveals, the elegant curve of her jaw tensing. “If I stood by while he courted injustice, that would make me just as wretched as him, wouldn't it?”

[kaerinio]

@asestos approached her grace: i'm here to keep you company.

ㅤㅤㅤPerched perfectly atop a polished stool, she sits, ankles crossed regally at the ankle, eyes two violet stars burning with dreams. The bar before her is so much more than some shell of wood and metal, so much more than a mere building ; it is a living entity, pulsing and throbbing with energy imbued so devotedly by its patrons, an amalgamation of the dragon’s children and bloodhounds, who form its beating heart. Hips bumping into chairs, knuckles rhythmically rapping against tabletops, hands pounding upon backs in jovial camaraderie, and peals of laughter erupting from thrown back heads ; oh, what a delightful ( and infectious ) cacophony of rowdy goodwill — — — and belonging ! 

ㅤㅤㅤA slithering sense of yearning, dark and heavy and furtive, writhes, gathering her up in its cool grips, tempting her to become a part of it all. Yet she sits back, settling herself against the bar, her half-drunk glass of honey wine just a finger’s length away, content to watch the scenes unfold. Overjoyed, in fact, at the ease with which her people move. Safe, you shall all be safe here, her heart sighs as she watches one of her own, sweet Jhogo, gesture to the long braid hanging down his back, his fingers drawing a pack of bloodhounds’ attention to the tokens of triumph woven into it. Similar adornments, so very precious, twinkle in her own silvery gold strands, singing with each tilt and turn of her head. Symbols of survival . . . and now, perhaps, an easy conversation piece.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA victory in its own way, a serene smile accompanies the thought.

ㅤㅤㅤSensing a welcome presence at her side, she cannot help the amusement rising to illuminate her features ( nor the anticipation fluttering within ). “ Ever the gracious host, ” she teases, swiveling gracefully upon her seat to face Leander and settle her gaze upon his ; oh, how his eyes remind her of the shimmering surface of a summer sea, of dappled light filtering through reborn spring leaves, of the translucent glow of glittering jade, beautiful things all, framed by soft plum shadows. For as long as she has known him, those shadows have been permanent inhabitants of his face — — — as permanent as the scar kissing his left cheek. It is expected for leaders to suffer sleepless nights. How often has she resorted to counting the bumps and cracks in her bedchamber’s ceiling, or, upon concluding that task, sprawled upon her tiled terrace to count the stars ?

ㅤㅤㅤDo you ever sleep ? she muses, fingers tingling with the desire to brush away such worrisome shadows. Would he share such a burden with her ? Certainly not before the gathered eyes and ears of the Wick. A gentle hand reaches out to touch his arm. “ Tell me, does this company come with a private viewing of one of your highly coveted shows ? ” 

[kaerinio]

@riorsworn approached her grace: [ 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 ] ― sender and receiver lock eyes across the room

       You must be ready, all of you. You will be, the vow is her anchor while she watches one of her first years sink ; he’s on his back for what feels like the thousandth time. It’s almost formulaic, the way this scene plays out : stand, circle, strike, stumble, mat. Again, again again, and her Flame Section leader hasn’t even broken a sweat. He stands firm now, brutal hand extended mercifully to the first year, murmuring stern guidance ( but the defeated boy stalls, breath streaming slowly from flared nostrils, and eyes, oh, his eyes, they scream of the misery that comes with broken resolve ). 

That simply will not do.

She sweeps forward, black boots scuffing against the mat with each powerful step, her fingers delivering a word onto Jhogo’s arm in passing ; understanding transpires, clear in the respectful bow of the head, the withdrawal to the edge of their little arena. The first year scrambles up onto his elbows, his face wrought with horror when she comes to a stop before him, casting him in the veil of her mighty shadow. His throat bobs. His fingers tremble, and it is those shaking fingers which so effectively pluck at the gentle strings in her heart ; she once lay in his exact position, fearing her own Wingleader's ire ( and years before that . . . her own brother, her only blood, roaring and expelling his wroth for years and years after all the joy had burned out of him ). Cruelty is a weapon of the weak and the cowardly, and Daenerys Targaryen, if anything, is neither.

“Jhogo is harsh — — — and strikes like a viper,” a fond smile tugs at her lips as she offers her hand to the fallen warrior. “Most cannot withstand more than a few rounds with him, and yet, you’ve persisted. You’ve a strong will, of which you should be proud, for that, my dear rider, is half the battle.” She leans forward, insistence lifting pale brows. “Heed my words if you wish to fortify the other half : do not run at Jhogo with brute force, he will only use it against you. Think of him as a wall. Search for weaknesses. Strike where he is crumbling and make him fall.” With that, she grasps the first year’s proffered hand and heaves, tugging him up. To her delight, he brightens, once again enlivened with determination, and turns to Jhogo, surveying the third year's every move as he once again takes his place on the mat. The two nod at each other.

A sufficient confirmation. “Ready yourselves,” voice lifts in command. With that, she glides back to her original place, her loose braid, adorned by three lustrous bands of silver, swinging heavily down to her waist. Overhead, mage lights shine, catching in the silvery-gold locks, their brilliance shifting along the glossy surface when she reaches to pull the braid over a slender shoulder. An assessing glance scours the sparring gym : all around, pairs exchange ruthless blows and vicious taunts and the occasional heartening word. And soon, her riders will make their own contributions to this ferocious symphony.

Plush lips part, the command lingering at the very tip of her tongue. But . . . something overcomes her, bringing everything to a complete halt. This sensation, it is crooning ( and intoxicating, all the same ), like the callused pad of a finger dragging deliberately slow down a bare, awaiting spine ; it is beckoning, like teeth grazing a whisper-warm ear ; it is ushering, like a sure hand cupping a jaw and turning — — — those eyes. 

Infinite and vast and beautiful : how they remind her of a hearth whose fire has raged and settled, its flame-brushed embers swaying, glowing and darkening and glowing again, of those shimmering spots of sun visible only from beneath the depths of a fathomless sea, of a night ruled by a penumbral moon, black and rolling and kissed by a glory of aureate stars. They are an eclipse, blotting out the atmosphere, and so heavenly, they've the power to pull her into orbit. They are her beacons when she is soaring, roaring, gasping, and grasping ; her guiding lights which catch her in the freefall.

And, gods, she is falling now.

With a swift nod, the order is given. The riders launch into their dangerous dance. All the while, that contact remains unbroken, her gaze utterly entangled with Xaden's. Blood pounds, thundering through her, heating every bit of flesh. ‘Are you planning on inviting me onto the mat, or shall we continue our little staring game?’ she mouths, a teasing glint blazing in her eye to match her daring smile.