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@eclipt1cs
# ECLIPT1CS: CAN YOU DO THAT? THE RABBIT IS BREATHLESS NOW. CAN YOU JUST SMOOTH A THING AWAY LIKE THAT AND EAT IT? IF YOU'RE HUNGRY ENOUGH, CONFIRMS THE FOX. IF YOU'RE HUNGRY ENOUGH YOU CAN STOP CARING ABOUT ANYTHING FOR AS LONG AS IT TAKES TO EAT IT ( ... ) PRINCESS VISERRA TARGARYEN & LADY AH-RIN HARLAW, CREATED FOR 103AC.
"hoped for nothing?" a small laugh slips past his lips, "my have you changed." of course she had. she had been but a teen girl when he last saw her and now she was a woman. grown and out of reach of him. daemian tries not to dwell on it for a moment longer after he realizes it. there was nothing personal about their relationship any longer, there had not been for many years, and if daemian's track record proved true, it would not get better with time. he was not a man that kept people close, not anymore — perhaps, truly not ever. so what does it matter? that she had grown up without him because he had left and never looked back. it did not, he tells himself this as his eyes draw away from her, to the crowd of westerosi mingling amongst themselves. her and daemian were not a strange pair — a targaryen and celtigar should have been assumed to mingle. but, if any of them had come closer, they would feel a palpable tension between them. something daemian was not helping in the slightest, not with clipped words and bitten remarks, "it had." violence comes to mind, flashes into his vision and stained red. a new home every season, never settling down for too long. too many people coming in and out of his life without every truly being apart of it. had it been splendid beyond the chance to get away from his home? no, he does not dwell, he cannot. "what is so bad about that? that i enjoyed where i had been, my home—" what home? the one under the the timber roof or the one in a cold stone keep or the one that smelled more of dirt than anything else. "away from all of the madness that—" a hand gestures to the great hall and to themselves, "this is."
❝ your home? ❞ the question, stunned, slides past her lips before she can stop it, before she can think twice about it. her goblet lingers near her mouth, forgotten. he calls essos his home, as if the concept could be metamorphosed whenever it was convenient, traded across seas, scattered between foreign cities — as if those left behind mattered not, and the past mattered even less. she does not wish to let it, but the awful sincerity in his tone burns in her chest, her features struggling to remain composed. you cannot look wounded, you cannot give him that. for a heartbeat, it seems like she is going to say more: teeth no longer gritted, voice stuck halfway up her throat, eyes narrowing. a reaction so visceral would only expose her more. instead, viserra takes in a breath and shakes her head, attempts to ignore the irritation and the rage. and she laughs, taking another sip of her wine, for this is what she knows best, this pantomime, these many secrets kept dearly in her ribcage. the sound, however, lacks the warmth she has spent years perfecting. she drinks again, the sweetness of the wine making her stomach turn. maybe, if she swallows enough of it, she will not choke on everything else. ❝ of course, how dreadful for you to be dragged back into all of this. ❞ she copies him, her free hand lifting slightly to gesture to the hall around them. there’s a noticeable tightness to her smile which worsens by the minute. ❝ the feasts, the spectacle, the people you abandoned. it must be utterly unbearable. ❞
the words are harsh and she does not mean them. no, that is a lie. of course she means them, each and every one of them, exactly as they are and unable to be taken back. jaw clenches in exasperation, ashamed at having lost a game only she knew she was playing. isn’t this ridiculous? she should not care so much about her childhood friend, should regard him as nothing else than a memory she has since outgrown, a boy who once knew the hidden corridors of dragonstone like the back of his hand, but now stands before her as a stranger with a familiar face. she should not care and yet she does care, feeling desperately young again. she is waiting for his return, for a letter, for a sign that he still lives and has not forgotten her. she is writing to him despite his silence, foolish and hopeful and naive, unable to let go, to accept she has been forsaken. viserra looks away, gaze settling on the dancers. ❝ i am happy to hear that you’ve enjoyed yourself all these years, ❞ only a fool would not see the true jealousy that brews beneath her notes. ❝ hopefully, this madness will be over soon and you shall be on your merry way once more. ❞
"will i? or will your lack of care for me melt me into a puddle upon this very floor? death by heart break shall be remembered as my body is laid in a pyre." it is being with her that makes him miss essos the most. the freedom he had there, the chance to be whoever he wished to be and not who his mother or father — even his sister — wanted him to be. a sword would lay heavy in his hand, blood crusted along the blade, and his eyes would light up in glee, maniacal laughter would slip from his lips at the feeling of taking a life and he craves it now more than ever. he craves the thrill and feeling it invoked within him. though, standing with ahrin harlaw had always proved to do just that. thrill shoots up his spine, a sensation he is all too familiar with when it came to many a thing and most of all her. "and what would be so wrong of that? do you not miss it too, my lady? we do share some exciting memories there, do we not?" the reminder of what had transpired across the narrow sea makes something warm pool in the pit of his stomach. he imagines a beautiful woman under him, tangled limbs and bitten skin, and it intensifies an ache he feels in his gums, wishing to pull her in and bite down on the junction between her shoulder and neck. marking something that was not his to mark. daemian is sure his eyes show it, violet morphing into something dark while the rest of the room fades into obscurity. the touch of her skin upon his own only feeds the flame within him, his fingers curling into the fabric of her silks and tightening. "you act as if i do not like the look of you covered in blood, my lady. i would assume you knew i desire it quite well?" daemian's tongue darts from his mouth to lick his lips, an involuntary action that depicts the thoughts flashing through his head. "or—" the word draws out as he speaks it, "we could find a way to get you out of those silks beforehand?"
he mentions heartbreak and it earns him a look, one that is neither amused nor patronizing, but a perfect combination of both. it is the sort of expression she reserves for men with entirely too much confidence, and yet — when it comes to him, there is a certain tenderness blooming beneath, not quite sweet in its warmth and still so very different than what else she usually extends. essos has always been full of people like daemian celtigar. perhaps, that is what drew her to it in the first place: not the beautiful cities, or the bustling markets, or the endless horizons stretching beyond the leviathan’s bow. no, those affections had come later, after she’d fallen in love with spaces where rules cease to matter. where blood paid debts in more weight than gold, where survival belonged only to the ones willing to demand it. she had sailed away from ten towers to free herself from monotony, and she had succeeded, despite the challenges that came with it. she had found him, and he had found her, and she had seen something different in him, a spark that set him apart from the many she’d mistaken as similar. her scoff is dismissive, a brow arching. ❝ you and i both know death by heartbreak is the least likely fate awaiting you. stabbed? certainly. poisoned? perhaps. thrown from a balcony? i would not rule it out. ❞ against her unyielding mask, she lets out a smile, staring up at him in subtle mischief. ❝ but heartbroken? no, never. ❞
whatever he may be, daemian possesses the same thing she does: teeth, sharp and gleaming, required to thrive in their world. his question causes her eyes to roll out of habit, an old instinct taking over, born from hours spent together, during which he has irritated her aplenty. here he goes again, stirring up memories she’d rather keep dormant. wine filled evenings, foreign harbors, laughter and trouble, too much blood, too little regret. she has let him witness a side of her no one ever sees, and she loathes it every day. ❝ i do miss essos, of course. but unlike you, daemian, i understand there is a time and place for certain behaviours. ❞ her mood shifts, from playful to annoyed, in the blink of an eye. she refuses to acknowledge the way his gaze darkens, even if she is aware precisely of what images accompany it. she refuses to acknowledge that the feeling is mutual. as if summoned by her god, an attendant approaches, offering them wine, and though she accepts, the withering stare she gives the poor fool is enough to make him rush away. her hand tightens around her companion’s wrist, removing it from her back abruptly, any gentleness she may have harbored evaporated by now. ah-rin steps back, although she does not go far. ❝ if you are so desperate to see me out of these silks, you will have to wait until the end of the feast — if i find myself bored enough to entertain you, that is. ❞
located in the grand stairwell, on his way back from sitting like a guard dog at amaya arryn's bedside & fated for @ofaeth3r , @spuriuse , @balonstrong , @eclipt1cs & @woundedstatue.
the stench of impending death in the sick corridor had been overwhelming. it had been difficult, then, for jacks to take his leave, for fear that it was amaya for whom the gods had come to call. sickly sweet, like a flower decaying and shoved below your nose, he had endured it as long as he could, sat in dialogue with the old gods — his thoughts to their shift of the breeze coming in through the window he had thrown open mere seconds after his arrival. jorah would not die. that much jacks knew. he was too stubborn. too pompous. too full of himself, to die in a manner so unbecoming of a bolton lord. if there was not blood, his passage into death had not been properly paid for. for the lady arryn, it was not the same. as his path on the stairs becomes blocked by another, jacks reaches out to remove them instinctively, hands to their upper arms as he manoeuvers around them, roughly holding them in place. " pardon, " he mutters belatedly over his shoulder, an empty platitude that echoes.
like a shroud, the pestilence hangs over king’s landing. dark, suffocating, the stench of rot more prominent now than ever. everywhere she goes, people whisper: they speak of the sickness, of dying lords, of possible poison and even angry gods. they whisper about the ironborn, too. ah-rin can feel the coldness of their stares, the suspicion hiding behind their masterfully schooled expressions. none from the iron islands have succumbed to this affliction, after all, and while she understands the mistrust, she cares little for conjectures and lies. if westeros’ nobility possessed half the courage they claimed, they would simply act — instead they skulk through hallways like frightened rats, the easiest kind of prey to trap. ah-rin is walking down the stairs, determined to pay her vessel a most needed visit, when strong hands settle upon her arms, roughly moving her to the side. outrage floods her, fingers itching to reach for one of her weapons, every instinct honed across the sea flaring, burning. her gaze is steel as she regards the man in front of her. eyes narrow, glancing down at his fingers pointedly, then back up at him. ❝ i would take your hands off me if i were you, my lord. a simple request to step aside would have been sufficient enough. ❞
one could certainly argue that you could partake enough ( too much , even ! ) syrenna's mouth parting to take up the helm of what may have been a losing battle , but one necessary to fight all the same. she's got a long list of arguments queued up and just ready to go ⸻ a train of thought then all too easily stolen from her by the ruckus caused close by. on top of the already buzzing room , there's the sudden sound of crashing drinkware , followed closely by the half - delighted shrieks of surprise to see the results of their own unspooling judgments. jumping away from the noise , and nearly colliding into viserra's side in a desperation to get away , there's a near instinctual need to crawl completely into the solitude of her friend's warmth ; to maybe even tuck herself away entirely. not that it would work , but even the imagination was a welcome respite as they furthered the distance between them and the still growing chaos of spilt wine and spilling dignities. oh how she adored her friend , that was undeniable , but she had already surrendered to an endless night of being far more involved with its ongoings than her usual pace , and she was creeping closer to a point where her skeptical amusement over viserra's actions was nearing alarm.
❝ i am looking at you with the plea of your most desperate friend , vis. i have drank more , danced more ⸻ spoken more ! than i have ever before in a single night. how is it you refuse to tire ! ❞ it's an interesting mix of exasperation and fondness in her tone as she squeezed back in affirmation , in reassurance that she wasn't truly upset , that she perhaps did enjoy herself more than she'd imagined possible. still : she couldn't help but tug on those same fingers , a small sound of disbelief slipping forth at the other's claim of being ‘ the perfect example of royal behaviour ’. not that syrenna knew any better what that should look like , but she certainly knew that neither of them would be heralding themselves as the perfect example of anything in the room they currently occupied. perhaps examples of what not to do ? now that was a thought. ❝ what's wrong with sweetmeats ? they have honeycakes , vis ! and candied figs ! ❞ … and so what if those happened to be syrenna's favourite selections ? viserra would benefit from any kind of food in her stomach over another sip or plenty of wine. ❝ and you wound me , viserra. i would never suggest we waste so much time over embroidery , not when i have plenty of herbs in need of sorting. you could even weave a basket or three. ❞
in an overly dramatic gesture, viserra gasps, a palm settling over her heart, as though her friend has suggested the most outrageous form of entertainment in all the seven kingdoms. the horror painted on her features is so flawlessly crafted that it almost becomes believable. ❝ basket weaving? are you conspiring to bore me to death? ❞ were it any other night, she would be delighted to join syrenna for a few quiet hours, her endless lessons about anatomy and herbs soothing her mind in a way parties never could. but they are here, in king’s landing, surrounded by wolves and vipers alike, and she knows whatever fate awaits her is beyond her control; it makes sense, then, to spend their present in situations that distract. bright laughter erupts from her chest, threaded with affection. oh, how she adores her, honeycakes and candied figs and silly attempts at diversion included. she could never begrudge her such concern. however inconvenient, there is comfort in being known like this, in being seen, flaws and virtues both. viserra turns to face her fully, arms rising to hold syri’s hands and giving them a squeeze. some instinctive part of her wishes to pull her close, keep her there, forever safe, forever warm. or perhaps, she is the one in need of holding. ❝ i refuse to tire because one of us must provide entertainment, ❞ the princess declares, mirth in her voice despite the little frown upon her brow. ❝ without me, you would be tucked away in some gods forsaken corner, or worse — already escaped to the woods. which i am sure you would prefer. ❞
the words may be halfway to stern, yet her expression dissolves into soft compromise after she rolls her eyes. she glances towards the table of sweets. they are perfectly harmless, and lovely, and not what she truly desires. how offensive. ❝ alright, ❞ comes her concession, shoulders deflating. ❝ we can have some honeycakes. but only because you look so terribly desperate, syri. ❞ what would be the point in worrying her friend further? she can escape later, anyway, melt into shadows when nobody is looking, and syrenna is sound asleep. tugging at her, the two finally approach the desserts. her shoulder bumps briefly against her companion’s in a gesture meant to convey appreciation. ❝ i am really glad you’re here, did you know that? ❞
i never asked you to do any of that, she shouted. those eyes a tempest of darkness, striking lightning into you. you see him in the ripple of her anger, dragging you under the tide. she's sent you adrift, and drift you will. the water's abed in your lungs now, and before you realized it, you were seven again. your body was a dull ache, your palms burned from the ropes, and you'd had just enough bronze stars for a loaf of bread to split with your brother. you'd spent the whole day dragging fish buckets bigger than your own torso across the docks, but mou-mou was smiling, so the pain mattered little. all it took was a moment. you looked away to bargain with a fishmonger and when you looked back down, he was gone. your gut dropped. you spotted him halfway across the pier, crouching near a sick, mangy dog huddled between the crates. the beast was rib-thin and foaming at the mouth. panic took over your legs. you sprinted forward and yanked him back by the arm, catching him just before the teeth snapped shut. you pelted a rock at the beast to scare it off, turning on your brother in a blind rage. "what are you doing? are you stupid?" you screamed. his face crumpled. he was only five; he didn't understand what dying meant. he just thought his sister was being cruel to him. "shut up!" he yelled, throwing his tiny fists against your arm. "you never let me do anything! you're not my mum! piss off!" then lightning pierced your chest, as he shouted: "i wish you weren't my sister!"
the silence that followed is what stayed with you, sharper than the shouting. it hurt. you didn't say another word; you just grabbed his wrist and dragged him back to the orphanage. he kicked and complained and cursed you the whole way with all the rage a five-year-old could muster. neither of you apologized. neither said goodnight. when the other children fell asleep, you lay with your back to him. stubborn. hurt. angry. when you woke before dawn, the spot next to you was cold. the blanket was gone. the door was unlatched, hanging slightly ajar. you knew right away. your heart knew before your mind did. mou-mou. you almost reached the street before a septa caught your arm. you screamed and kicked. you told them he had escaped into the dark. they didn't care; you were a child, and they wouldn't let you leave. a man from the house took a lantern and went out instead, septa carolei ventured with him. hours dragged by. then more hours. when they came back, they didn't need to speak. you saw it on their faces. they had found him bleeding from a bite, burning with fever. by the second night, he was gone. the rot took him too fast, too soon. you sat by the cot until the end, holding his hand tight even when he looked right through you. later, when you'd run out of tears, you heard them muttering by the stairs. no money for a box. no room left in the dirt out back. what do we do? a voice answered flatly: there's always blackwater bay. you stepped out from the corner before they could finish and asked to come. "it's my brother." they hesitated, then gave in. you'll have to be quiet. you'll have to be good. promise it. "i promise."
i never asked you to do any of that. "i know," the words come quietly. "you never had to." you gulped it down and surrendered to silence, multicolored eyes falling to the ground. but as she laid her cowardice bare, a poisonous rancor found its home in you. a slender, slithery thing, coaxing a brittle laugh from your throat. "there it is. that is what this is really about." you look away toward the noise of the feast. inside, people are tearing each other apart for the very thing she is running from. "you think because we might lose, it's not worth trying." you shake your head, hands falling to your hips. "were you born a wimp or grown into one? the fuck is your problem?" you have learned it plain from what you'd seen growing up. people lose every day, especially those less fortunate. they lose their homes. their dignity. their agency. pieces of themselves, too, until they are hollow. and they still wake up the next morning. they still fight. your gaze snaps back to hers, your voice hardening. "i have never met a more selfish person." you take a couple of sharp steps until you're right in her face. you see a scar on her shoulder, tiny and seamless, but you remember how she got it. you were the one who carried her crying in your arms into the masters office. stout, she was, so your knees buckled all the way to the threshhold of maester mace, but you couldn't tell her no. now look at her, the monster of your making. a grimace takes over your face: "me. me. me. it's all about me! look at me, i'm viserra, the problem child. i was fed from silver spoons from a tender age and brought up in a household of love, and yet i rage and pout and cry." you mocked, tone high-pitched, until it found its gravity again: "you are not a child. you must grow up."
what envelops her next is not rage, but shock. pure and unfiltered, so intense that for a long, silent minute, all she can do is stare at maekara, her eyes wide, like she is speaking in riddles. the words settle one by one, heavy in the little space that remains between them. somehow, each stings more than the last, resonating in her mind until it’s all she can think about. wimp, selfish. you must grow up. these are thoughts she intimately knows, thoughts she has entertained for hours on end, and yet — they take her breath away. her sister has always been steady where she was volatile, has strived to understand her even in her darkest times, carving and seeking and caring, patching wounds, smoothing the disasters left behind. loving her despite the reasons not to. now, that same sister recoils, barely able to stand the sight before her. disappointment is clear in her features, clearer than it has ever been, and it hurts. it is ugly and it hurts. lips part, dry, yet no sound comes out. here it is, the thing you have been trying to run away from. when maekara imitates her so callously, so ruthlessly, she wants to scream. the astonishment fades rather quickly, replaced by the pounding in her ears, the blood rushing to her cheeks: the mask shattering and soon fallen, allowing a glimpse of the storm within. ❝ don’t you dare stand there and speak as though you know everything about me, ❞ she snarls. her voice breaks, sadness morphing into growing flames. hands clench into first at her sides, nails biting the skin of her palm in an old habit, meant to distract her from the ache, or the growing fury. or to hide the trembling that has not left her. ❝ perhaps i am the most selfish person you have ever met, but at least i don’t pretend to be something i am not! ❞
her gaze burns. she wants to curse these traitorous tears, childishly summoned when she has no use for them, an offering for her sister to realize just how much power she wields against her. the princess blinks repeatedly, refusing to let them fall. you cannot cry, not here, not tonight. one twisted laugh abandons her throat, the sound brittle. ❝ what do you want me to say? that i am sorry? that i am a failure? that every time our mothers look at me, i wonder if they would prefer i were more like you? like alysanne? ❞ you wish i was different? she wants to ask, and she wants to answer, to yell: so do i. threads unravel inside her chest and she needs to cease talking, but the confessions slip out faster than her regrets can stop them, honest and raw and far too revealing. ❝ i am perfectly aware of what people whisper about me. gods, maekara, do you truly think i have not heard all of this before? ❞ do you think i have not told myself all of this before? a finger rises, pointing at her, accusatory. ❝ do you think screaming and cursing at me will transform me? save me from my worst impulses? ❞ it won’t, because you refuse to be honest, you drown in a sea of sorrows, and burdens invisible, secrets you will not share, for it would mean admitting to your wrongness, your delicately hidden rot. it is far easier to put on a smile than it is to fall apart. she lifts her chin, pride guiding her movements, shielding her heart from what would surely be complete humiliation. her breathing, however, is uneven, ragged. ❝ if you despise me so much, then stop looking after me. ❞ she rues the cruel lie as soon as it falls from her mouth. ❝ i do not need that, and i do not need you. ❞
「 ⚔ 」 STATUS ﹕ semi - closed. 「 ⚔ 」 LOCATION ﹕ pestilence, the beginning. 「 ⚔ 」 WITH ﹕ @firedreamt, @valarrghulis, @balonstrong, @verithaunt, @hretiks, @woundedstatue, @eclipt1cs.
it started with ice throughout her body. then, a burning fever unlike any fire she had ever felt. a pounding in her skull like rats were gnawing their way out, a fatigue that wore alysanne targaryen down to the bone. and yet, she fought it. the young dragon had always been a fighter, and who would she call upon in her time of need ? the lannisters, after intimidating poor rosamund upon the steps of the red keep ? the boltons, after giving jacks a taste of his own medicine ? medicine. gods, she needed medicine. the sickness was driving her to insanity, and she stumbled through the winding corridors that should have been familiar but, instead, opened up into an endless and labyrinthine chamber. she was one of the first afflicted, the first to feel that thick and strange feeling in her throat ; it did not matter to which house the body belonged that she crashed into, only that they would hold her up before she fell. “i feel … i feel … ” there were no words for it. was this what it was like to die ? sweat glittered upon her forehead, and her eyes were milky lavender. “help me.”
the body that crashes into hers is familiar, and burning, even through the fabric of her clothes. the sickening warmth is the first thing she understands: before the face comes into view, before the voice resonates in her ears, before awareness invades her mind. hands lift by instinct, quick to stabilize the person stumbling against her. then, she sees. she recognizes. alysanne, alone and drenched in sweat, a feverish plea barely crossing her lips. at first, she looks at her sister with brows furrowed, unable to make sense of the picture she paints — but inevitably, it dawns on her that perhaps she is trying to outrun this malady, to fight this foe unseen, so swift and suddenly monstrous. viserra feels rather small, the initial relief that had come from remaining untouched had soon twisted into pain, into worry, into despair. she is again a child, presented with a terrifying situation to face. ❝ aly, what are you doing here? ❞ her voice is unlike her usual notes, too thin, breathless, so she clears her throat in an attempt to dispel the knot in her chest, swallowing the panic and hiding it behind her ribcage in favor of fragile composure. she wraps her arms around her sister, determined to keep her upright. ❝ i have you. you are going to be alright, i promise. ❞ though she cannot ensure the veracity of her words, she pronounces them anyway, spinning them into a comfort meant to soothe them both. is there any other possibility? her sister is strong, and she is brave. nothing bad will happen to her. she ignores the way fear claws at her heart, brushing a strand of damp hair away from alysanne’s brow. ❝ you should be resting, ❞ the princess murmurs, gently beginning to move. ❝ come, let me take you to your bed. ❞
daemian is not bothered by the looks he receives when approaching her nor the looks that stay as he sidles next to her. he assumes they look out of fear, watching the bloody pearl — a man known for ruthlessness and cruelty — stand next to a lady of ten towers, known equally for what he is. it matters naught to him however, daemian's attention is solely focused upon the lady next to him as it usually was in her presence. for someone who did not get attached to things, there was certainly a pull that kept the two of them coming back to one another. though now, in the midst of westerosi nobles chattering their way to good graces, their attempts to reach the throne through them, has him wishing their reunion had been back across the narrow sea where they had been for the last six years. "sentimental with you? how i could not be?" there is a smirk curling up the corner of his lips, a wisp of something devilish traveling down his spine as he speaks in jests, "is this you saying you do not feel the same for me? i am shattered, ari." her name falling off of his tongue like a rolling wave, his thumb beginning a back and forth motion against the fabric of the dress she wears. "i am sure my misery would cause you delight, would it not?" the smirk gets wider, more cruel as he pulls her just a hair closer to him, nothing that would make others notice, but enough to have their bodies touching more than they should be in a room full of people. "watching me plunge a sword through the chest of these wretched men, their blood pooling on the stone floors of the royal family's keep. how bright would that make your eyes, my lady?" his tone drops, just enough to where only ahrin can hear him, "would it be enough to be deserving of more silk?"
if asked, she would be reluctant to admit how she is instantly aware of his touch, still electrified by the sheer pull he imposes. the motion of his thumb is distracting in the most irritating of ways. six years it has been, six years of this: crossing paths in foreign ports, finding one another amidst chaos even when she would’ve rather kept his memory far away, disappearing before whatever lingered between them could turn perilous. six years, and she hates how her body recognizes him so eagerly. whatever remains should have grown boring already. she should have put a stop to it long ago — while far from sentimental, something strange keeps drawing her back in, hungry for more. now, he stands close, closer than what would be considered decorous in such a public event, and she cannot bite back the smirk that adorns her lips, feral in its fullest bloom. ❝ please, ❞ her voice a low purr, her frame leaning toward him. it delights her, playing his little game, breaking the rules of propriety again and again. of course, her derision remains. one brow arches as she studies his cruel grin. wickedness suits him, settles comfortably above his skin, calling to her like the sea. ❝ you will survive the disappointment, i believe. although it may require a tremendous amount of effort. ❞
there is the threat of laughter, born deep inside her chest, trying to crawl up her throat. what comes out is only a snort. and a roll of the eyes, however to those familiar, the real fondness of the gesture could not be more clear. coaxing genuine smiles out of her has never been a simple task, yet daemian has managed to do it on many rare occasions. ❝ listen to yourself. with all this talk of slaughter, people will think you desperately miss essos. ❞ his words paint violence. her tone, vicious glee at the mere idea of this ridiculous feast turning bloody. that would be a sight to behold! she might suddenly confess to yearning for the continent across the narrow sea, too: the freedom of her ship and her crew, the sound of crashing waves, the versions of them that belong to no one but themselves. but that, she reasons, would be overly emotional, so instead she guides her hand to wrap around his wrist, keeping him close, keeping his fingers still. ❝ murder does make nights interesting, but i am not certain this dress will look alluring while covered in someone else’s entrails. and the stains will be a nightmare to get rid of. ❞
sisters... were a war harder fought than a raid against an enemy with thrice the power and the gods bent to their will. she was a decade older than seora and in some ways, the youngest felt like her first baby. a lady at ten, knowing the responsibility that'd one day sit on her shoulders, along with the self inflicted loads of pressure, yerin had once hoped ah-rin would share in the burden, filial piety and all that. except the middle harlaw had always been called to the sea, in ways not even yerin could claim. to be on the open water was to bite into freedom and tear a shred of it for yourself. she'd forsaken that freedom for duty, for a dream of the future, and more times than not it felt as if her sisters spat in that sacrifice, loathed her restrictions and rules when those were the very principles that allowed both sisters to shrink responsibilities and roam the oceans blue as they pleased. "you? predictable? to think that would be to bet against the sun raising in the morn."
beneath the grief for a son loss, there's the tragedy in a friendship gone as well. torwyn could commiserate in the equal weight to be sword and shield in the family name, defend legacy, bear the brunt of parental disappointment and impossible expectations. because here her dear sister was, someone yerin so desperately wish she could lean on while her heart ached and mind labored over the insistent need to stay in control, ah-rin continued to poke and prod. she was tired, and she'd rather conserve her energy for a fight with the greyjoys than against her own blood.
"ari. what is it that you want?" whether her younger sister believed her or not, there was nothing yerin could do to prove that truly in her heart of hearts, it was always to provide their family and house their greatest desires, the greatest advantage. "i know you'd rather be sailing on the leviathan than docked on land. so please let us speak plainly for my sake."
ah-rin almost laughs. not because anything about this conversation is particularly comical, or particularly entertaining, but because this is not the first time her sister has asked questions she already knows the answer to. despite the self-imposed distance between her and her family, they are of the same blood. they have known each other, in brief moments and visits stolen, long enough for the both of them to understand — she has never enjoyed obedience, has never desired stupid things, like peace, love, happiness. no, it is freedom she lusts after, and power, whatever shape that may take. and perhaps she could recognize a certain resentment, aimed at her and seora’s neglect, but she was not made to shrink small in order to fit another’s vision. dark gaze drifts, away from her sister and again toward the window. outside, the sun shines and the wind blows: the weather is perfect for sailing, which only adds to her growing irritation. ❝ speaking plainly hardly sounds like us, now does it? ❞ the irreverent younger sister is a role she could never quite escape, not even after moons at sea and hours spent separated.
in the other’s low notes she hears the exhaustion brought upon by loss, by grief, and where other hearts may soften, hers remains steel. one hand idly toys with the coral ring adorning her finger, turning it once, twice, three times, all while she considers her next words. ❝ i want the same thing you do, ❞ what had previously been a voice full of mockery twists into quiet reluctance, lips pursing as she looks at yerin once more. her body moves, legs uncrossing, elbows coming to rest above her thighs, head tilting to the side. ❝ the iron islands, ripped from the greyjoy’s hands. our family receiving the justice it is owed. ❞ justice or revenge, the distinction does not truly matter, not to her. a blood debt must always be paid. that glimpse of empathy vanishes as quickly as it had arrived, replaced with a smirk, tugging at the corners of her mouth. ❝ tell me, yerin — what is it that worries you so? ❞
his words are certainly a gamble in propriety , and yet one that proves to pay off. depending solely on the leniency of the woman who stands before him , he banks on the memories of a night shared , and clearly unforgotten. for even if he stood on little to no decorum when compared to the southern lieges that surrounded them , something about her laughter only further proves his theory true ⸻ the princess had no need for pomp and politeness , and further more , neither did she seem to want for it. they might have shared between them but a single night , but what delicious insights the night had provided. at the time , he had thought her to be nothing more than a reluctant to admit to pleasure , but now : now she was turning out to be rather unfairly captivating in his sight. stealing his attentions with but a laugh , the corners of his own lips twitched in return ; only evening out with a raise of his brows at her unwitting challenge. ❝ shall we test your theory , your highness ? it would certainly please me , to test your resistance. ❞ there was little to be said in defence of his behaviour , but with the princess before him the only one he'd actually bother to answer to , jorah was almost smug in his certainty that it wouldn't be much of a problem at all.
❝ i'm certain that this princess you speak of could handle herself just fine. i've the marks to prove it , you see. ❞ wetting his lips , subtle , there was an accompanying roll of his shoulders as if to remind them both of the scratch marks that lined the skin below his shirts. still fresh , still pleasantly stinging ; a constant reminder of the night they'd shared , and they both continued to allude to. for if she refused to shy away from its mention , was this not an invitation to prompt them to another ? ❝ you would have me forget the moments we've already shared ? ❞ taking the offered hand within his own , jorah held onto it for a moment longer than appropriate , a small hum under his breath as if contemplating his next words , his next actions. finally deciding upon bringing it closer to his lips , he made sure their eyes remained locked together before bending his neck in the slightest. placing a tender kiss upon the skin of her knuckles , he let his lips whisper over bejeweled fingers , another reminder of their spoken - unspoken night. ❝ i shall take your name with thanks , princess viserra , but i will keep our memories together as well. jorah bolton , at your service. ❞ happily , even , for a targaryen princess. as long as those services meant they were offered within the boundaries of a bed.
her hand remains caught in his, and that is her first mistake. the second one is that she does not immediately pull away. it may be the still present surprise that keeps her rooted to her spot, or the evergrowing amusement, or the pleasant little spark of heat which blooms when his mouth brushes against her knuckles. the gesture is tender, his breath whispering across her skin — it makes her bite the inside of her cheek, unseen to the world and to him, until the fog clears. until she can concentrate on his words rather than the shape his lips make when he speaks. had he simply been simply crude, had he leaned fully into arrogance, into mockery, she might have shaken her head and stepped back, thinking herself the victor of an unspoken competition. but he does none of that, and he reminds her: hazel eyes follow the roll of his shoulders, wickedly aware of the marks beneath his clothing, caused by the drag of her nails, witness and proof of a night she had intended to forget before any light could expose it. careful, a voice hisses. she ignores it. how is she supposed to behave otherwise, if he continues to look at her like that, if he holds on to her for far longer than it is proper, warmth piercing skin and sinking into sinew and bone? viserra’s smirk does not falter, it widens, uncovering her delight, her pulse betraying her in a foolish leap. he keeps her hand and she lets him, pretends that she is the one permitting such an indulgence and not simply falling prey to it. ❝ how sentimental of you, jorah bolton. ❞ she pronounces the name like an impudent prayer, a profane oath, fingers tightening around his own.
though her words may seem lovely, a note of perplexed aggravation swims beneath, cleverly hidden as the princess often prefers, caged by her teeth. she draws her hand from his grasp. there, control reclaimed, mischief returned. ❝ if you wish to test my resistance, ❞ as a child, she’d been scolded more than once for speaking loudly, and tonight is no exception to this less than polite habit: she cares little for whoever might hear, for whatever they might think of her. ❝ you are either very brave or very stupid. perhaps, you are both. ❞ a pause follows, during which she lets her gaze roam over him again. she should go. she should leave now, prevent this from becoming yet another terrible decision concealed as entertainment, but the celebration glows around her, both boring and unbearable, and he stands here, ruinous salvation. ❝ do not misunderstand me, my lord. i am not asking you to forget. i would be loathe to rob you of what has evidently become one of your greatest accomplishments. but i do find myself in a bit of a quandary. you see — my memories of that night are not as clear as yours seem to be. ❞ she laughs, leaning forward ever so slightly. the obvious lie tastes sweet. ❝ i may, in the future, need a reminder. ❞
your silence stretches so long it becomes its own answer. regardless, viserra continues to speak, displaying a gross amount of nerve and mischief you have always secretly envied. leechteeth, you would call her in jest, named for the wild dragon that legends claim still traverses the skies, hidden away in some secret cavern where no one can tame it. and though rather admirable, to you, her indomitable spirit had always felt misguided. so you stand there, arms crossed over your chest, leaning against the doorframe, and you listen and you try to be fair and you try to understand. when she jests about the stars, you scoff softly under your breath. when she insists she can protect herself as she vanishes into the night, your expression hardens further. and when she finally confesses where she intended to wander, you slowly step aside from the doorway and point back toward the hall. "no," you decide. "go back inside." and it is as though you are both younger than your years. she is so much like mou-mou, always demanding why, never settling for a simple answer. had he survived past childhood, you know his character would have developed as stubborn as hers. rare are the moments you summon the ghost of your baby brother, though it usually only happens when your eyes lock into viserra's.
you find yourself wanting to trap her in your arms, a tight crushing embrace. she is terrified, you tell yourself. but frustration claws at your wrists and pulls you down into a bitter reality. so am i, the selfish part of you whispers. so are the others. to even think she could opt out of this, the nerve she has. deep down, you know, this isn't about the feast, nor is it about the kingsmoot, not even that your sister longs for stronger ale— which you could have agreed on, another time. you mother have always feared this. the three of you fighting, pulling apart like she had from her own brother. you know how important it is for her that you get along, and so you try to. gods, you do. you bite your tongue, and you forgive and you love and love and love. but is it ever enough? "i am serious, viserra." you shake your head slowly, and you can hear the sheer exhaustion in every word. "you know— i've spent years cleaning up your messes. rescuing you from harm. fixing things before our mothers could even notice. taking the fall for things that were completely your fault. lying through my teeth for you when you sneak out in the middle of the night chasing whatever stupid urge hits you next."
your jaw tightens. "and i did it gladly, because i know you. because i…" the words just stop in your throat and you gulp them down. where has softness led you thus far? "but this is not about you." there you have it. now, how do you stop a tidal wave from looming? "this is not about how brave you are. or how fucked up. or... wild. the whole world knows by now it cannot put a leash on you, what it has yet to learn is whether you'll ever stop running in circles. i am sick and tired of you acting like you are the lone exception to every responsibility the rest of us carry." you laugh once under your breath, humorless and bitter. "isn't it nice? having warm food. silk on your back. a roof over your head. a name that protects you. i think it's nice too. but it comes at a cost." your hand gestures back toward the feast. "our mothers are bleeding for us in there, even if they hide it. alysanne is fighting. i am fighting. every godsdamned hour i am fighting for this family." your eyes lock onto hers. almond brown, just like his. "so why can't you? once."
her immediate response is just deafening silence. it’s the kind of stillness that follows the stopping of a frenzied heart, a savage quietude lacking in calmness, but making up for it in storms. for once, viserra targaryen has no answer, and it is a rare thing, an unbearable one. she stares at her older sister, lips parted to let out a laughing retort that never comes: it should’ve been a clever remark, a petty cruelty disguised as humor, but it wilts in the space behind her teeth, leaving a rancid aftertaste. hard she tries, and still nothing comes — because maekara has never said words like these, not before, not in such a manner, and while she had assumed possible anger ( or exhaustion ) at her antics, she would have never expected a confrontation, least of all tonight. a roll of the eyes and a snap of the tongue is what she would have received in past occasions, and yet her sister has carried all of this quietly, for years, only now choosing it to lay it between them, scalding, impossible to ignore. suddenly, shame envelops her. she feels foolish, childishly so, standing beneath the moon in her pretty gown, attempting to escape what her family bravely wishes to face, and she chastises herself: say something, giggle, snort, shrug, do not stand there like she has found the weakest part of you and pressed it with a knife. one ugly impulse writhes across her skin, begging her to gaze down at the ground. instead, her jaw tightens, her mask returning out of habit, too late and too sheer to be convincing.
maekara’s reaction should come as no surprise. after all, has she not stretched her patience thin, has she not pulled from the string of her tolerance until it was bound to snap? it should come as no surprise, yet it does, the tide threatening to pull her under, to demolish the walls she has worked so hard to construct. ❝ well, had i realized we were making speeches tonight, i would have come prepared. ❞ her voice is harsh, inadequate. fury is easier than sorrow. fury is easier than admitting to any wrongdoings, than letting her sister see how precarious her control truly is, slipping through her fingers with alarming speed. ( empires rise and empires fall, all written underneath your tongue. you do not want to lie, but you also don’t want to spill your truth, for how can you begin to close such gaping wounds when they’ve been left bleeding, unattended for years? you are desperately searching for the perfect words to explain your reluctance, but the perfect words never come. here lies all you’ve lost and all you’ve gained, scattered behind your veil and your new names. ) ❝ i do not need you to clean up after me, or lie for me to our mothers, maekara. i never asked you to do any of that. ❞ the accusation is weak and she hates it, she hates how ungrateful she sounds, how low notes tremble, as if she were once again a child. she hates that maekara is right: that she has managed to reach beneath fabric and silk, touching the rot within. she hates that everyone is right when they are disappointed in her. finally, laughter falls from dry lips, short and devoid of any real humor. ❝ and why should i be fighting? what is there to bleed for? that crown will not be ours, no matter what you do, no matter how fiercely you fight. ❞ she realizes that her hands are quivering now and hides them behind her back, and she covers it with anger, always anger. ❝ you know i have little interest in this kingsmoot, beyond the food and drink the festivities have to offer. we shall all be happier if you just let me be. ❞
i love taking things too far. best distance to take anything to be honest
flippantly, vaiora smiles, "some mirth can only do us well this evening, your highness." as that was her talent. a smoothing ease, filling the gaps for her brother in the way that mela would not, and makoa could not. court was not a chore for vaiora in the way others seemed to act that it was, finding it an enjoyable challenge. they were each cyvasse tiles come to life, moving in patterns as predictable as time. a dragon before her now, but they were no king. "of course, we would not think to come empty-handed. i know how king's landing loves arbor gold." after all, she had spent so much of her youth pouring pitchers of it for the master of ships. the redwynes were integral to the current iteration of the small council — their influence more present than the dragonstone targaryens. although the rafter's still hung dragon banners, the guard would change soon. "what do the dornish know?" vaiora answers, her cheeks beginning to ache with her smile. "they are not here to complain. no need to suffer their opinon."
she hums, amused and thoughtful all at once. almost as if she has been presented with something genuinely worthy of consideration. her eyes linger on the other woman ( a redwyne, she has deduced, though it would not take the brightest of minds to come to such a conclusion ), watching the easy twist of her smile, the effortless manner in which she navigates this event, embracing king’s landing and letting the city welcome her in return. court suits her, perhaps she even enjoys it. what a terrifying trait. she cannot imagine the scrutiny that would come with a life in the capital, and not for the first time, she thanks the fates for keeping her in dragonstone since birth, away from all this rot. ❝ you are right, ❞ viserra says, the smirk on her lips dimming yet not completely disappearing. ❝ if the dornish truly wished to argue the superiority of their wine, they should have bothered attending. although they might be the cleverest of us all for not doing so. ❞ another sip of arbor gold follows, slow, languid. her gaze settles on the banners still hanging proudly over head, red dragons on fields of black — symbols of a brittle dynasty, soon to collapse under the weight of greed. everyone here is waiting for its fall, and the thought should sour her mood, but she finds herself craving the freedom it would provide, if only assured they could walk away with their lives intact. no throne and no crown: it means no impossible expectations carried on her shoulders, like a heavy knapsack, one that has already left marks on her back. ❝ are you enjoying yourself, my lady? ❞ since she refuses to let bitterness linger, lest it swallow her whole, she forces the darkness to pass quickly, seeking a distraction. a wicked little grin she offers, voice lower. ❝ it is far too early for anything of interest to happen, but i’m certain we will have plenty to gossip about come morning light. ❞
the night had certainly been full of suprises for the bolton lord thus far , and yet none so as shocking as the heralding of what remained of a royal family in nothing but name. with eyes constantly surveying the room around him , taking note of which houses showed , and better yet ⸻ those that did not , he had readily awaited for the showing of the remaining targaryens ; abandoned by the fates , and now with next to no means to reclaim their power by fire and blood. it was the showing of a sick dog , ready to be put out of its misery , and instead to be paraded around before them with one last show of finery. a humiliation ritual , more than anything , and yet they so proudly chose to do so. was it pity , that held jorah so intrigued ? or even a touch of admiration that at least they could do so in the face of such shame ? whatever it was , it had jorah glancing at each targaryen with a careful , appraising eye , sizing up the clear contenders in their losing game , and suddenly ⸻ slammed into the realization of just how familiar one of the princesses had stood.
a taste of stronger liqueurs , and the softness of the skin beneath his lips ; his memories of that night were surprisingly clear in comparison to the amount he'd partaken. the coiling scent of vanilla and finer florals , alongside a smile that invited the roughness of his touch ⸻ he couldn't forget her if he tried. not that he had bothered to , when he had assumed her something closer to a spoiled daughter , more merchant than titled , and never in his wildest dreams a princess of the seven kingdoms , for however long that status remained. it had tempted him , for much of the night , whether to approach or lord over , or perhaps to avoid her entirely for the headache she was bound to further become. for as good as he had given , she had been just as eager to take. the clawing of her nails down his back , the bite of her teeth into the slope of his shoulders. an unforgettable night , perhaps , but one to keep as a satisfying memory , and not as the political entanglement she was shaping up to be. ❝ ... have you come crawling back for more , your highness ? ❞ the title curled strangely upon his tongue , an accusation softened by the clear bemusement in his tone. well , if the princess chose to close the distance herself , who was he but a humble servant , with little choice but to comply. ❝ do you pride yourself a hypocrite then ? ❞
it is bewildering, truly, how instantly his words pull laughter from her throat, tugging it past her lips without her permission. the sound is genuine, or at least, as genuine as she allows it to be, here, in this nest of vipers eagerly seeking her family’s downfall. surprise flickers across her expression, threaded through with something akin to delight. she cannot quite believe the audacity he extends, but instead of offense, instead of recoil, she offers him mirth in return, warm and wicked and riveting. oh, this one promises trouble. viserra can see it in the way he stands, in the smirk he gives her, in the depth of his — that particular train of thought is vanquished the moment it blooms, alongside the memories of their shared night, all disappearing behind lock and key, deep in the corners of her mind. what happened once cannot happen again, that has always been her rule, and she has not often forsaken it. still, her gaze studies him, hazel sparkling beneath the feast’s golden torches, as if she were remembering every second she’d spent with him. there is a shift that she mislikes, from stranger to nobleman. a part of her almost wishes they could return to being nobodies, unknown to one another, shedding their masks and their names in favor of fascinating company.
she should move away, and yet she stays. if anything, she drifts closer, invading his space in her brazen ease, eyes finding his hands for a moment, before they settle on his features again. gods, she recalls what his hands had felt like annoyingly well. ❝ one night together and suddenly you are convinced i cannot resist you? how charming. ❞ though her grin has diminished, the words remain bright, letting him see how she relishes in this situation. at his second accusation she raises her brows. hypocrite, he calls her, and he might expect outrage, or denial, or some vain attempt at preserving her dignity, but she has never much cared for decorum. the princess laughs again, speaking without an ounce of shame. ❝ no, i am not a hypocrite. i was simply being cautious. after all, who knows what could happen to a princess of house targaryen, were she to be found wandering the streets of king’s landing so late in the night? ❞ in her tone, and in the morphing of smile into smirk, she makes it clear that her safety was never a concern, that she is no damsel in distress, no fragile thing to be underestimated. against her better judgement ( which screams at her to leave ) she sticks out her hand, knuckles upward, a benefaction and token of her good faith. ❝ perhaps we ought to start over, ❞ she says, playful. ❝ viserra, my lord. it is a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance. ❞
closed starter to: viserra targaryen (@eclipt1cs) location: the red keep
the rowdy feast hides the silhouettes escaping into the dark, but you never lose sight of your sister. viserra is too reckless to hide her tracks, and the sight of her leaving makes your blood run cold. seven hells, not tonight. you give it a moment, then slip out after her, your boots silent against the stone floor. you pursue her through the quiet, dark halls until the fresh night air hits your face. as soon as she steps out under the moon, your shadow falls over her. "skoriot jāria?" where are you going? your voice cuts the silence near the rustling hedges. clad in black silk, you watch her from the doorway with folded arms. a deep fatigue weighs down your anger because the pattern is always the same. a gambling table, a hidden cellar, a handsome mistake. in the past you would have let her run, secretly loving her bright flame. but the realm is starving for targaryen blood today. there are knives hidden in every shadow of the palace, but viserra continues to dance with danger as if it could never bite back. you hate the exhaustion of being the fortress, but you will stand until you collapse. your jaw tightens. "oktion mērī geron kesā daor." you must not walk the city alone. softer now, though no less firm. "mirros quba aot massigoz..." something bad could happen to you.... you leave the worst of it unsaid, too vile to name. you breathe out sharply. "so. either you tell me what ridiculous thing you were planning, or i follow you there myself."
the realization that she has been caught settles in her chest, cold and oppressive. of course it is maekara who stands behind her, of course it is her older sister, perceptive as usual — the irritation that crawls up her throat is so intense that she sighs aloud before she can stop herself. gods, she had almost made it! she had almost escaped the overwhelming atmosphere of the feast, the endless eyes watching them, watching her, the vultures desperate to feed on their remains. it is terribly tedious, monotonous even, and thinking, knowing, that she will be trapped behind the walls of the red keep for days on end while the nobles tear each other apart for the throne makes her anxious. naturally, her chosen solution had been not to think at all: steal away from the feast, find a lively tavern with fun music, further explore what entertainment king’s landing had to offer. but she stands here now, shrouded in the moonlight, discovered, still for a second before she turns on her heels. the expression on her face is unrepentant. ❝ ao ōdrio nyke, mandia. ❞ you wound me, sister. high valyrian falls from her lips comfortably, the words tinged with languid amusement despite the annoyance in her loins. it occurs to her that maekara must be growing quite tired of her antics, as must the rest of their family, and guilt threatens to spill beyond the confines she has kept it hidden in, but she crushes it swiftly. ❝ i was simply going for a walk. the stars are beautiful tonight, wouldn’t you agree? ❞ viserra stares at her sister, unable to maintain the lie with a straight face, the smile on her lips quivering as she tries not to laugh. this is futile, in any case. she will not get away, not anymore, must wait until later, when the halls are empty and the castle sleeps sound. the softness in maekara’s voice wounds her more than anger ever could. something bad could happen to you, she says. something bad already has, she nearly answers, instead choosing to roll her eyes. ❝ please, do not make me sound so fragile. i know how to defend myself. ❞ a pause and she’s yielding, for she knows there is no way out, lifting her hands in a gesture of surrender. ❝ fine, you win. i meant to find a tavern in the city that would offer something stronger than the arbor the redwynes have brought. are you satisfied? ❞
❛ 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 : the harvest feast . . ↳ ⸻ syrenna &. viserra ( @eclipt1cs ) .
her voice is near pleading in its breathlessness when she finally finds the opportunity to speak , all traces of her usual serenity nowhere to be found in the face of her best friend's arguably indomitable will. while syrenna herself was no stranger to differing levels of stubbornness depending on her opponent of choice , surely she knew this was one fight she would not win. ❝ viserra ⸻ vis , my nearest and dearest , i am begging you. ❞ digging her heels in momentarily with the hopes of slowing their traction , she did little more than stumble over her own footing before recentering her pace to fall in line with the princess ; tugging back at the arm that pulled insistently upon her own. where viserra was getting her strength , syrenna couldn't say for certain , but it was as if proximity to her prize alone was enough to power her through. ( the prize in question , of course , being the endless flows of wine from the reach ). overly sweet on syrenna's own tongue , but like liquid gold to the other. a dangerous combination on any given eve , but especially so , considering the events of the night. she'd give anything to be back in her previous corner , quietly tucked away with a plate of cheese and biscuits , but somehow here she was , dragged far too into the perceivable eye. ❝ have we not partaken enough for the night ⸻ look ! what about some sweetmeats instead of more wine , yes ? ❞
❝ syrenna, please. one can never partake enough! ❞ the words escape her in a breath light as air itself, intertwined with both exasperation and tenderness. her friend has always had the talent to turn her evening brighter: even if she’s had to drag her around to dance, to gossip, to sneak away, she has enjoyed every moment of it. now, she does not stop walking despite the way in which syrenna digs her heels in, tugging at her arm in a vain attempt to get her to pause — where she is going, the princess cannot quite tell. the feast is crowded ( far too crowded for her friend’s taste ) and the music is loud, the chatter a constant buzzing in their background. somewhere nearby, a noble drops a goblet of wine onto the floor, and it makes her giggle. after what feels like minutes, she finally comes to a halt near a table overflowing with beverages, turning to face the other. ❝ you do not need to look at me like that, ❞ her grin, wide at the sight of the silly distress written across syrenna’s features, dims to something gentler, the fingers around her hand squeezing affectionately. ❝ i promise you, i am fine. have i not been the perfect example of royal behaviour so far tonight? ❞ at this she laughs, because she knows it to be a lie, yet seems unconcerned by the acknowledgement of her failures. should she not be mourning more visibly? should she not feel guilty for having her fun while the realm teeters on the edge of a fight for succession? perhaps she should, but instead she searches, desperate, for distractions raucous enough to drown out the tension coiled underneath her ribs. if you stand still, you might actually have to think about what comes next, about the future and the past and what shall remain. ❝ sweetmeats? ❞ viserra asks after a beat, nose crinkling in distaste, as if she has only just realized what her friend tried to distract her with. her voice is dramatically scandalized. ❝ next you will suggest i retire early to spend the remainder of the evening embroidering. ❞
