"I think so too," he agrees with a smile. “Honestly I think she does like being the pet of the family most of the time, or at least she did growing up. But it’s odd to think that at thirteen, I went away to Eton College, and now she’s at that age." A frown creases his forehead. He tries not to think of the kind of conversations the boys at Eton had had, whispering behind their hands during meals. Tries not to think of the things Joffrey had tried to coax him into when he was just thirteen, Lancel a little over a year older.
"Sorry," he says sheepishly, remembering himself. “I didn’t mean to zone out. We’re quite close, my sister and I. I guess I’m quite protective of her, and I guess it’s weird for me to see her growing up so fast."
Was that what it was like for Daenerys, growing up with two older brothers? Did they dote on her the same way he and Martyn, and Willem when he was still alive, were fond of Janei? Somehow he can’t imagine it. But perhaps what all older brothers had in common was a certain inability to view their younger siblings as something other than that — young; little.
He’s pulled out of his reverie again by her next question, and shakes his head in response. “Oh, no. I am the oldest. My brother is younger too, he’s seventeen." And doing things that Lancel can confidently say he wasn’t doing at that age. Maybe not even Joffrey. “Martyn. M as in middle," he adds with a soft laugh. The twins had always joked about that. M as in middle; W as the mirror image of M.
She smiled wistfully as he went on talking about his sister. She didn't have a problem with it, no, it was actually quite nice for her. To hear someone talk about something with such emotion and fondness. And have it be another person not some drape or fictus just brought out the smile more.
"You're her older brother, you're supposed to be that way." She stated as if the same went for her. Well, it did, it was just...very complicated, especially as of late. It disconcerted her a bit, just a bit, nothing to make her second guess anything about what either of her brothers do.
Daenerys pictured his sister as a little kid, not someone in their teens. It was just the way he spoke of her, and it reminded her startling of her own brother. Surely Viserys was the same way, back then. Though he was much younger, where the pet and protection definition were still well-meaning. And even still, they are for her own good. He was only trying to protect her. He was always trying to protect her. Though could he protect her from himself? The question prompted an immediate no from her subconscious, and she felt her smile fall as she berated herself.
It was complicated, was the only excuse she could provide with herself. It's not his fault, and if it was, it was just as much her's as well.
"M as in middle," She repeated with a smirk upon her lips. "Well, both of your siblings are sure to be very lucky. Just the way you speak of your little sister. You must care a lot for them." She said softly, taking another sip from her glass. While he practically bared his soul on the subject of siblings, Daenerys wasn't so sure it would be wise for her to do the same. Her family life was private, and no one understood completely, and then they didn't even want to understand.
She stood there, trying not to fold her arms protectively across her middle. That would be frowned upon. She suddenly wanted to excuse herself, but there was no proper reason for it. It wasn't dreadful conversation, only now it had halted. She couldn't go on about her brothers, and furthermore, her family.
Daenerys cleared her throat a bit and tightened her hold on her champagne glass. Her empty champagne glass. "Well, it was definitely nice to meet you, and I really enjoyed talking with you." She began, a bit timidly. Daenerys reached out, placing a light hand on his arm and dropped her voice a bit, "I think both of us are due for another round of mindless conversations though." Offering him an apologetic smile, she backed away slowly, receding into the crowd once more.
Lancel nods. He’s well aware of Cersei’s ties to both Rhaegar and Viserys, though what on earth possessed her to acquaint herself with the latter, he’ll never know. He also knows that years ago, before Robert Baratheon, she was engaged to Rhaegar Targaryen. Recently, they were at least on speaking terms again, from what he’s heard, but that’s nothing he can say he pays much attention to.
Lancel’s smile immediately brightens at the mention of his own siblings though, a topic he feels much more comfortable and relaxed talking about. “I do; I have a brother and a sister. They’re not here tonight though." Janei is at home, but he hasn’t got a clue where Martyn is. He has no idea about anything he does these days. He’s barely even seen him since they returned from Cheshire after the funerals. “My sister is only thirteen, and my brother is… sick," he ends vaguely, hoping that Daenerys will think nothing of the brief pause.
It feels wrong, only listing two siblings when in reality, he has three. But bringing up his dead brother in a conversation, especially with someone he’s only just met, doesn’t feel any more right either. Of course, if he asked Martyn, his brother probably would have a very different opinion on that.
Still, the topic puts him in a bit of a tough spot all the same, because now that she’s asked him about his siblings, is he supposed to ask her about hers? He doesn’t want to; after all, isn’t the golden rule that if you don’t have anything nice to say about someone, you shouldn’t say anything at all? And if Viserys came up, he definitely wouldn’t have anything nice to say about him. He doesn’t know her older brother at all, other than the basic facts everyone does. Once married, wife died. Two kids. Runs for prime minister. Definitely not friends with Jaime.
"You’re the youngest, right?" He asks instead, deciding on a slightly different direction. Safer. “I don’t think my sister likes being the youngest of the family much, though half of the time, she probably acts more mature than my brother and I combined," he adds with a lopsided grin. Not that it’s very hard, considering how freakishly juvenile Martyn acts he must be in the negatives on the maturity scale.
It's almost as if she can see the change in him with the shift of conversation. He enjoys his siblings, that much is true. The smile that comes to her lips next is not so much polite as it is genuine. The way he speaks about them not being here leaves her wondering if he thinks they should be.
Obviously not. His sister is very young, and while this is a good cause, she doesn't think a particularly proper place for her to be. She does catch his slip when he speaks of his brother, sick, he says. She can relate, her brother...Viserys, is sick too, in a way. She won't venture down that path though, talking of...their brothers.
She nods, "Yes, I am." The youngest by a lot, nearly eight or so years younger than Viserys, and well...She doesn't even think she knows how many years separate her and Rhaegar. At least two decades....at least.
He continues on about his sister, after the comment about being the youngest. HIs sister isn't like herself at all from his description. Daenerys had quite enjoyed growing up the youngest, because there was really nothing else. She hadn't even had the privilege of growing up with two brothers, no, just the one. Always. So perhaps that's why she finds it so strange. "I think it's just the age. You two obviously get to do things she can't because she's still so young. Once she gets older, she won't feel as strongly." She shrugs absently, who is she to know though?
"That means you're the oldest, unless your brother is..." She purses her lips, knowing that he only had said how old his sister is.
Charity work seems predictable, and surely commendable, especially given the current situation in the aftermath of the attacks. After all, it’s what this very night is about. Rebuilding London, and helping those directly or indirectly affected by the terror that set the city ablaze less than two months ago.
But beyond goodwill, drawing attention to helping those who need it is important for reasons beyond the obvious; rebuilding London is as much tactical as it is charitable, if not more so. And his family is right in the middle of it, spinning a spiderweb of political connections.
Though respectable, he has trouble thinking of charity work as something beyond a hobby, something to do full-time the same way other people go to work, or engage in political campaigns. He’d rather bite his tongue off than tell that to Daenerys though.
Instead, he nods along with a polite smile. What he does understand, though, is her interest in politics because it is something that is central to her family. “That’s mainly why I’m studying what I am too," he confesses. “I mean, why wouldn’t I? Anything else would be useless if I’m to get involved with my family’s company." He clamps his mouth shut, unsure if perhaps he’s said too much, or been a little bit too candid with this virtual stranger.
Then again, she’s told him the same thing about herself, and there is something refreshing about talking to someone who, when it comes down to it, isn’t in a very much different position than he is.
"My cousin has her own charity," Lancel throws in. It’s not something he’s particularly involved – or interested – in, but it’s something she does on the side. “Cersei. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to meet her yet? The British Women Foundation, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it."
The way he speaks is rather blunt, but Daenerys understands. Better than she'd like to admit. Anything else would be pointless for her to attempt, and useless, like everyone in her family seems to think she is. And while she has no problem with that, initially, she still wants to make a mark of her own.
So she nods at him, giving him a bemused smile as if to let him know that his admission was alright. The more she thinks about it, the more she starts to relax, He probably knows better than her about proper edicate, or whatever it would be called. He would have grown up here, in the society, and while she does think herself a rather good fit, anyone can see she's a little at odds.
It's so easy for her to forget sometimes, like her posture. She's at an important function, for a good cause. She has to represent her family as much as Rhaegar is if not more. Is not more expected of her since she is relatively new to the scene, even still?
She doesn't like to think about it, so she raises her eyebrows at his comment. Cersei's name sticks out to her, but she realises she hadn't caught his name. The Lannister name sounding off like an alarm. It was something with an L, right? Lllllll..Lannister. Who would name their child something with the same first name as the last name. God help him if his middle name begins with an O.
That thought brings a smirk to her face, and she realises she's being rather rude, not completely listening to what he has to say. She shakes her head, "No, I haven't. I think my brothers are acquainted with her however."
And how strange was that? To refer to both brothers in an instant, as if they have anything in common.
"I think I've heard faint whispers of it, not exactly listening for anything of note, sorry." She smiles again, as polite as before, but she's relaxing into this conversation, like she has all the others. There's always the tense moments where pleasantries are exchanged, and then the silence which is usually reserved for smaller groups. Well, there are only two in this group, herself, and....Cersei's cousin.
"Do you have any siblings?" She asks, a bit of a gear shift from talking about themselves. Perhaps it isn't such a light subject, especially from her point of view. And surely he must have his own regards as to one if not both of her brothers.
"I suppose you’re right," he agrees with a half shrug. “I don’t mind the boring parts, as long as they pay off in the end. I’ve actually made the experience that the most tedious bits are those that are the most useful in the long run." They also require the hardest work, and he’s lost a lot of sleep to revising for them, but it pleased his father, and that was even more rewarding than passing his exams with flying colours.
It’s not very surprising that Daenerys is considering university, though perhaps what is, is that she might be considering not to. In his family, choosing not to attend Oxford or Cambrige is not an option, not to mention a grave insult to each of the two schools. Besides, what else would time be better spent on than obtaining a degree?
"I’m sure every university would love to have you," Lancel says with a smile. It’s true, too. Having the newly returned Targaryen daughter choose them for her studies would be the latest prize accomplishment of every school. “But with all doors open for you, you should have a lot of options to choose from to help you decide what you like. Is there any field in particular you might be interested in?"
It’s a little bit surprising that Daenerys seems to have the option of not knowing what she wants. He didn’t. The path he’s on has been paved for him long before he was even born; he doesn’t resent it, but he’s aware of it all the same. After Eton College, going on to study at Oxford (like Jaime) was almost a natural progression for him, and one he never thought to question (or, perhaps, dared to). At the core of it, PPE was as much his father’s choice as everything else in his academic career thus far. And once he’ll have his degree in his pocket, there will be a desk at Lannister Ltd. waiting for him.
"-or what you might want to do instead?" Lancel adds as an afterthought, honestly curious now.
She once again simply smiles at him, not really knowing what to say. Every school would love to have her? Sure, she beared the name Targaryen, but she could also bring shame to her family if she failed any of her studies. Her brother always thought her stupid, so it's natural for her to lessen her actual intelligence. It's not that she thinks she's as stupid as he thinks, but it does weigh on her.
Could she succeed at such a prestigious academy where she would just be a prize for her last name? They wouldn't actually fail her, would they? A paid sum from anyone in her family would allow her to pass. At least, that's what happens in America she's sure. She quirks her lips to the side, listening to him go on. he seems to know what's in store for her. Having all of the doors open for her, she could gain access to any school she wanted simply because of her family.
While that was invigorating, it was somehow also dampening. She wants to make her own way, but she cannot do so with the ball and chain of the Targaryen name. And it isn't that she hates her family, or her heritage, no; the trip to Wales with her niece proved where she stood in the line of that just fine. It was everyone else's views and expectations that had her foregoing a choice at this point. If she didn't attend this school, they would be insulted, but then she had to stick with family lines. In the end, she'd probably go to the same school her family's been going to for generations simply because she could.
She tries however not to notice the look of confusion on his face, but she can't say she doesn't understand. His whole life is probably already laid out for him, a careful process. Similar to her brother Rhaegar's upbringing, no doubt. She doesn't know what she wants because her whole life she's been told what she wants, and it's more than that. Nobody could care what she does, she's not the heir, not even a male, so hardly worth noticing, especially by her father.
"Politics, simply because of my brother...He's running this term." She looks into her glass once more, the golden liquid bubbling as she twists the bottom. "If not, I'd just be helping him with that, I'd like to be more knowledgeable....Seeing as I'm not really bringing anything to the table." She shrugs lightly, but his question sets her truly thinking. What else would she be doing? She thinks of the chaos of the attacks, and the havoc it's probably brought to less fortunate parts of London.
If all else, she'd like to help people, truly help them, and not for media appreciation, for her own joy. It probably wouldn't be best for him to know that, he will probably look at her like she is an idiot. Though in all actuality, she has status even over the prestigious Lannisters. He wouldn't dare to insult her, would he? "I'd like to help people. Charity work, but really help them." Times have been tough on all people of London, she knows, and she thinks she could really make people's lives better if given the chance.
"Or you’re just really lucky," Lancel laughs. He wishes he’d brought his drink over so he’d have an idea of what to do with his hands, instead of just standing there awkwardly with his hands in his pockets like a sullen teen. “I’ve never been to Connecticut. I’ve been to New York though a few years ago, I liked it."
What are you studying? It’s the question he gets asked the most, where he’s going to school and to study what. With Daenerys though, he’s set himself up for it, and he finds that he doesn’t mind it as much, coming from her. There’s an honest curiosity in her voice he isn’t used to from strangers, and perhaps that is what makes him forgo his standard reply of how much he’s enjoying his studies, and go with the truth for once.
"Philosophy, politics and economics." Lancel pauses, giving her a wry grin. “And I’m afraid it’s exactly as boring as it sounds. What about you? Are you planning to attend university while you’re here?"
She smiles kindly at him as he laughs for a moment. With her drink in her hand, she feels rather confident, and secure. All alone in the crowd, and she's doing quite well for herself. Still, that doesn't stop her from checking her posture and tilting her chil up a bit. As if her brother would round the corner at any moment and remind her. That wasn't going to happen, and if anything he wouldn't even take the time to look at her, only at the person beside her.
"Growing up there was lovely, although boring sometimes. I do find I rather miss it despite that." She stares into her glass, half full still with champagne. She nods at his liking of New York. It was a rather nice state, and the city was truly something to behold.
As he listed off his courses of study, she couldn't help but feel impressed. Politics are what interest her most, seeing as her family has always been a large part of it. It runs in her blood, she supposes. Philosophy is another good one, and as she looks at him a second time, she wouldn't have pegged him as one for the study. Economics seemed more his route. and although she hadn't known the man more than two minutes, it was clear from his name...Lannister, that they were good at acquiring money. That is what's in his blood.
"Quite the list there, and you assume I must find politics and philosophy boring, which sometimes they are. Like all things, right? One person simply can't enjoy their study all the time, unless they're exceedingly lucky." She nods her head and takes a drink from her glass.
"I might. Just the sound of it seems better and better every passing day. I wouldn't know if it was right for me though, and I definitely don't want to waste my time with it where it could be better spent." She scrunches up her face, and looks at him again, "I must sound rather arrogant, but I don't think I know exactly what I want yet." She knows they're talking about college and universities. Studies, but deep down, she knows she's talking about a lot more than that.
"It’s nice to see you too, Daenerys," he says as they both make their way through the crowd. He manages a smile in return. Hers had been passing, brief, polite.
It’s not out of propriety that he replies the way he does. Rhaegar means it. No matter how much he thought he found some familiar comfort in having the house back to himself for the past two weeks, he also found it trying at times. Especially after several days ago, when solitary isn’t what it had been and his mind becomes too clouded with lions.
Somewhere along the way, Rhaegar finds himself delving into desperation he didn’t know he had. He’s toyed with the idea of sending them all away again, privately — if he could avoid the media as much as he could; or what parasites lingered amongst them whose word could easily be bought with a few hundred pounds.
But what then?
Hide them all away. Keep them safe like that was enough to save Elia. It wasn’t.
And for all the ridiculousness and desperation of the idea, he immediately pushed the thought away, tells himself that it’s what Aerys would have done — what Aerys did — and never dared to think of it again.
He could do with a conversation about Wales, or about her instead - what she thinks about all of this. Dull, as he does?
Rhaegar places the champagne glass down on a tray before continuing on towards the dance floor, hand resting lightly at the small of Dany’s back as he guides her. “Would you like to dance with me?" he asks, offering his hand.
The time between their conversation, or lack thereof is rather unnerving for Daenerys. It's also awkward, and previously she hadn't thought too much about what her and her brother would need to talk about, if the chance ever came. He says that it's nice to see her too, and she nods, acknowledging that she heard him. She appreciates his presence, and that he more or less rescued her from desperate housewives, but she finds herself wondering...now what?
They walk a safe distance away from the ladies, in fact, from most of the grouped up people until they face a section of the floor where people are arm and arm, hand in hand, and dancing. It doesn't make her feel anything, until her brother offers to dance with her, or rather, asks to dance with her.
"I'd like that," She gives him a timid smile, and slowly takes his hand. Firmly grasping it, she walks alongside him to a spot on the dance floor. "Did Rhaenys tell you anything about our trip to Wales yet?" She asks with a shrug, wanting to talk about something and not just dance. it wasn't exactly weird, only...different.
Now here’s an answer he can honestly say he hasn’t expected, and Lancel is pretty sure he’s gaping at her for a beat or two before catching himself. At first he’s not sure if she’s making fun of him, but she’s grinning up at him, and she’s just being really, refreshingly honest, instead of hiding behind well-rehearsed, polite nothings people are wont to do at events like this.
Lancel lets out a laugh. He can feel some of the stiffness leave his shoulders as his posture relaxes. This is a conversation he definitely hasn’t had before, and even though reeling off the same answers time and time again should be easy, somehow this alternative Daenerys is offering seems a lot less stress-inducing. “No," he grins at her. “Probably not. You’re right, though. Not really a lot you can talk about with a stranger that you can come up with off the top of your head, aside from the weather or what their family is doing, I guess."
He shrugs, ducking his head down with a timid smile. It is easier, following protocol rather than going off it. How do you like England, do you miss America? Superficial, but effective. Well, unless you were actually trying to get to know someone.
"So, what haven’t you been asked about yet?" He gives her a curious look. There’s something about how direct she’s being, not hesitating to call out the stale topics of conversation at this thing, that really does make him want to find out more about her, and not just because Cersei told him to. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know where in America you used to live. I’ve only ever been there a few times on holiday, but I don’t think I could pack up and move to another country like that. Going away to university was weird enough, and Oxford is only about an hour an a half from here."
Daenerys straightens her posture when she finds that she's leaning more on one leg. Stupid. She looks at him, Lannister through and through with the obvious hair and eye combination. She wonders if she fits the description of her family, a Targaryen. She wasn't brash, like them, or ambitious, or...anything, she was meek, and quiet, and even though she is prone to bouts of pride and abrasive remarks, she doesn't feel as comfortable as the rest of her family is sure to feel.
"Surprisingly, no one has asked me about the weather. They must all think it way too dull." She smirks with a shrug in her shoulders and twists the glass in her hands. "We used to live in Connecticut, that's by New York, immediately across the pond as everyone says." She looks around her absently, wondering where her brother (Rhaegar) had gone off to. She hasn't seen hide nor hair of Viserys, perhaps that's for the best.
For now, at least.
"Oh, you're in Oxford? What are you studying?" She asks, curious about the whole university thing as it is. She's nearly twenty-one, but that doesn't mean higher education is closed off for her. At this rate, university might make her feel useful.
The first thing he notices when Daenerys turns to face him isn’t the brightness of her eyes, or the brief flutter of confusion crinkling her brow before smoothing out again, or the immediate, almost Pavlovian upturn of her full lips into a polite smile at being dragged into yet another conversation with yet another stranger. He’s taken aback by how petite she is. Somehow, looking at her from across the room, she seemed taller. He can’t hide the grin that splits his face when he notices that she didn’t attempt to add a few inches to her height like every other woman in the room had by wearing heels that could probably classify as murder weapons.
Relief lifts some of the pressure off his chest when Daenerys smiles up at him, politely, but not unkindly. He’s not sure what he thought she would do, but after his encounter with Viserys, he didn’t have very high expectations when it came to Targaryens and manners. They look alike, in a certain light, as siblings usually do, but probably not enough to make it obvious that they were related to someone who wasn’t already aware of the fact, or at least not in the same way the resemblance between members of his own family was immediately obvious.
There’s something almost coy in the way Daenerys responds to him. Not insecure, but definitely not arrogantly uppity like her brother. Perhaps getting to know her wouldn’t be nearly as bad as his mind made it out to be.
"Oh, very much," Lancel parrots the same reply he’s given everybody else in answer to the same question. “Very tasteful, and for a very good cause. Really, big compliments to the Martell family for organising such a splendid event." Truth be told, it lacks most of the ambiance he’s used to that this place is incapable of offering, not in the way Eaton Hall shines and adds a memorable atmosphere to the parties hosted by his family, but that aside, and in light of the political tension, he supposes the gala is quite a success.
"You’ve only moved back to England recently, haven’t you? How do you like it?" He pauses, pursing his lips. “I’m sorry," he continues with a wry smile. He tilts his head to the side, and reminds himself of what is expected of him. “You’ve probably already answered this question ad nauseam tonight. Not very original, is it?"
She's unsettled nearly immediately as he starts grinning like a maniac. She's curious as to what brought it on, but maintains her smile all the while. He answers her question with a practiced answer, which she can't fault him for. There are a lot of people here, and his status has probably garnered him a few unwanted conversations as well.
"Mhm, they've done quite a good job, haven't they?" She nods and brightens her smile, but can't help but want to roll her eyes as he says something that no doubt has been ingrained in him since birth. 'Compliments to the family,' it just sounds so ridiculous, to tell her that, or anyone other than the Martells themselves.
Shaking off the stiffness that laces her bones, she turns to face him more, and there it is, the million dollar question. How is she liking England? It's well nice and pleasant, but it's all but destroyed her relationship with her brother that she had built herself on and relied on for years growing up. For that she doesn't like it all that much, but it's both of their faults, she won't place the blame solely on herself; not this time.
Instead of letting him in on her insights of what she truly thinks of his country, she thinks to give him the same tired answer, but what would that accomplish? He's obviously sought her out politely enough, and he wasn't just some podunk governor with only a feigned sense of status. They were true leaders, the Dragons and the Lions, surely that begged common ground for at least some conversation. Perhaps she could break through that 'Gala' air that made everyone seem like they were trying way too hard to impress. Of course, the Targaryens will always be higher than the Lannisters, and least he and his family are on a bit of the same level as her.
"It's alright, really. I'd usually say it's nice, but that's just it. it's nice, I enjoy it here, though I do miss my home in America, if I'm being honest." She reels in her smile, giving a serious tone to her voice as she does really miss her home. Still calling it home, she guesses just strengthens her emotional attachment to America, and restricts one being formed in England."Besides, there isn't much to ask a relative stranger other than questions that should be banned from people's vocabulary for eternity." She smirks at him, hoping he doesn't think her opinions are too brash. She doesn't know what to expect from this Lannister.
Taking another sip from her glass, a very small sip mind, she shakes her head. "So, do you think we should continue in the direction of questions that we've already been asked?" She doesn't know why she's being so direct, or whatever..she's being right now, but she finds that she doesn't exactly care...Though she probably should. In this environment, impressions were everything.
there's a sun about to rise out in the distance | september 15th (daenerys and lancel)
There is a certain irony to the fact that the brunette who gave him the confidence he now possesses around members of the opposite sex is not the brunette he is now approaching thanks to it. He can still feel the ghost of Cersei’s nails digging into the flesh at the base of his neck, soft as a caress, sharp as a knife. He stood at the bar, rolling his glass in his hand, while his eyes followed Daenerys Targaryen moving through the crowd.
Watching her, Lancel catalogued everything he knew about her. Youngest child of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen. Spent most of her life off the radar and across the pond with her brother Viserys. Were they close? He’d not seen them anywhere near each other all night. No, the dreadful weasel was glued to his cousin’s side like a leech, but Daenerys had mingled with the crowd, talking to people here and there, always delightful, always with a lovely smile on her face.
He tries to remember what he’s heard about the reasons behind her and her brother’s return to England, but he’s drawing a blank. Well, he supposes the timing is awfully convenient, the picture — albeit flawed — of a reunited, supportive family in light of the election coming up and Rhaegar Targaryen’s candidacy. But while her brother was preoccupied assaulting prostitutes and pursuing minors, what was Daenerys doing? She had to be around Lancel’s age; was she going to attend university come October?
He’d not found out much about her from Cersei, but he supposes that was the whole point of it. He would have to get to know her himself. Well, he’ll have to do a lot more than that, if he were to listen to Cersei, but he won’t compromise his relationship with Ami. He won’t. Cersei’s dismissal stung, yet he can’t say that he’s very much surprised. And deep down, he knows that she’s right; a Frey is no match for a Lannister. But Ami makes him happier than he remembers being in a long time, did that really not count for anything?
He watches Daenerys disengage herself from a conversation with a matronly lady she’s been locked in for the better part of half an hour, with an air of effortless grace that is nothing short of impressive. Daenerys hasn’t grown up here with the rest of them, yet she fits in so smoothly, no one would think to question her place among their circle. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Lancel stops next to her.
"Hi," he says, donning a smile. “We haven’t had a chance to meet yet. You’re Daenerys Targaryen, right? I’m Lancel Lannister."
There was something about the Martell Gala that just made her feel exhausted. Between the countless people coming up to her and introducing themselves and the constant movement of the crowd, she often found herself looking for a chair. Though at that last moment, someone else would walk up to her, extend a hand; rinse and repeat.
She supposes it's part of being related to the Martells, through her brother's marriage if nothing else, but even the familial relationship wasn't enough to hide her contempt with this entire evening. It is for a good cause, and so are these shoes, thanking herself that she had switched out heels for flats. Daenerys often liked being looked down upon, it made her smaller, compared to her brother who usually towered over her in any matter. She was already small, but she liked keeping it that way.
So she flitted through the crowd, a careful smile here and a soft laugh there, her brown hair tousling with every movement she made. She wonders through her tour of the floor where her brothers are, but she had seen Rhaegar earlier in the night. Viserys had to be here somewhere, but she holds back on a search, remembering that it's so changed between them now, he'd probably not welcome her at all.
Daenerys tells herself she can't care, and she doesn't, not at all. She holds a flute of champagne in her hand, the same one that she had been presented with upon her arrival. She's taken a few sips, but other than that, it hangs in her hands like the bracelets upon so many wrists.
Exiting from another impromptu conversation with a woman named Doris, she sighs and takes a drink from her glass. It's all the same, every conversation. How she's liking England, all ending up on her brother Rhaegar. The women usually stray away from Viserys, either they've seen some sort of magazine or report, but it isn't like common folk to understand someone like her brother.
Still, it isn't long after she moves away from Doris, that she is presented with another opportunity to chat about absolutely nothing. She feels someone next to her, and looks to the side, seeing that it's not another stately woman, but a man, or even a young boy. She's not so much relieved as curious as he introduces himself. We haven't had a chance to meet yet he says, and that confuses her. There are many people here, but is this boy...man, guy, someone she should have met already? Lannister he says, and she totally doesn't hear his first name. It does somewhat bother her that he knows who she is, but out of Lannisters, she only knows of few.
"Oh," Don't stutter, she tells herself, "Hello....yes, I'm Daenerys," She looks down at the floor for no other reason than habit. Looking back up at him, she gives him a bright smile. Since he's doing the same already. "How are you enjoying the Gala?" She reverts to how every other conversation she has encountered has started.
oh don't you find it strange? only thing we share is one last name | rhaegar & daenerys [september 15, martell gala]
They come like flocks of birds — vultures, rather; ready to jab and peck him with questions, much too interested in everything he says. He’s been in too many of these sorts of events to know the exact sort of small talk people eventually bring up. So, he smiles, tells them a thing or two about this and that (never really anything in particular), and always manages to draw the conversation as far away from Targaryen (his father, his brother) as he can. Charisma can only go so far and he tries to hold a conversation for no more than he needs to before he steals himself away from the crowd, until another finds him.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
He rubs his thumb against the cooling glass of champagne in one hand as he fidgets with his lighter inside one of his pocket. Nod. Grin. A witty quip here and there — he wonders how much longer can he keep it up till the grey haired shapely woman who no doubt had a cigarette or two not long ago finally finished with a droning tale of one summer in Provence. He skims through the crowd, tries to find a quick exit route, and fails. He’d lost Cersei somewhere earlier and had no intention of finding her any time soon.
(It’s hardly escaping when it came to Cersei, anyway)
Arthur must be around. Or Jon. Maybe, both. If he finds them, he could ask both to join him outside. Have a smoke. Share one bottle of champagne among the three of them. And maybe, for a second, things would be as it had been twenty-something years ago, back in Summerhall where Rhaella had hosted one of her parties.
It’s wishful thinking — and one he’s quick to push back and continue looking through the crowd.
Daenerys is on the other side of the room chatting with a small group. His sister. His saviour, for now. Rhaegar is quick to excuse himself, and start making his way towards her. “Excuse me," he says softly, interjecting midway a conversation, before turning to Daenerys. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting but if I could um — speak to you, Daenerys. For a moment. Is that alright?"
When Daenerys Targaryen had heard about the Gala, the first thing she felt was excitement. It was in her niece's family's name, to benefit the city of London. She had done her part, supporting a London-based gown shop. She wore the garment rather proudly, and was confident when she left the large Targaryen house. Though arriving tonight, she felt rather lost.
She doesn't have her brother standing by her side, making sure her back is straight and her chin up. Though she still walks in, head high, even if she is alone. Daenerys didn't feel the need to bring anybody, nor did she have anyone to bring. She would've asked her niece, but that sounded a bit too desperate. It was at that time when Daenerys realized that she hadn't many acquaintances in the city.
All she has is family.
And that's how it's always been, hasn't it? Not much has changed since her arrival to london. Perhaps a bit in the way of dynamic. Her brother leaving for one. She won't let it harbour her thoughts down however. She is alone, but she is powerful in her own rights. Wales taught her that.
Soon after arriving, she is bombarded with people who she had never met, nor heard about. They talk about nonsense things, such as gardening plans for next year, or new silk curtains. Daenerys nods and smiles as she was taught, but it's a bore. She's glad she wasn't brought up in this, the parties, the endless smiling and courtesies. Though she as a Targaryen couldn't have expected to evade it forever. There are, responsibilities. Her brother would call them honours, that she was lucky to even be invited.
Still, did it have to be so dull? One could only preen for compliments from their new indoor azaleas for so long. She excuses herself from the first group to only be caught in another. At least she can distract herself with her newly acquired champagne glass.
It isn't long before the tone of this woman's laugh, sets Daenerys' teeth grating. She can feel her smile become strained, but tries to contribute some positive air to the conversation. There's not much, and just when it seems like a lost cause, someone interjects.
Realizing it is her other brother, Rhaegar, Daenerys looks around the circle of women, for someone to go forward. Surely he is looking for...No, he would be looking for her. She smiles at her brother, the act somehow still foreign. "Of course, you wouldn't mind ladies, would you?" She looks wide-eyed around the circle, receiving nods and smiles all. "Excuse me." She excuses herself and walks toward her brother before they depart from the group altogether.
"It's nice to see you here, Rhaegar." She looks up at him for a second, giving him another smile, brief and fleeting.
growing up in some strange storm | daenerys and quentyn [september 13]
After coming home from Wales, Daenerys didn't feel much like unpacking. Even though the trip back seemed longer, it wasn't. Just the same way back, but maybe it wasn't that. Perhaps she was a bit reluctant to leave, to return home. Summerhall was a home for her, wasn't it? It should have been, even if she felt more tied to the house with the red door in America. This was where she hailed from, where centuries and centuries of Targaryens before her had lived and died; had conquered.
She fell asleep quite easily, and woke up a few hours later with a fire in her soul. It did not last for long, quelling to her normal, meekness as she packed her things away. Then her phone notified her of...well, something. A message, perhaps. Daenerys' first thought was her brother, Viserys. She should've known better. He wouldn't be like to contact her, no it had to always be the other way around. And even if Daenerys felt herself content with her brother not around to stalk her steps, she did feel the absence of it rather striking.
Upon checking her phone, she received a rather formal looking text, from Quentyn Martell. Martells were her niece's family, not her's though. She hadn't married one of them as her brother had. Though perhaps she should feel a bit more connection to them. She wondered vaguely, why it took this long for them to reach out to her. She had been in London for months now. Maybe that was just her Targaryen pride saying everyone should come to her, and she shouldn't do the same; she shouldn't reach out on her own.
And she didn't, she didn't find much use to it, but after spending a whole week or so away with her niece, perhaps it would be nice to meet that side to which Daenerys herself wasn't beholden to. She accepted Quentyn's invitation and finished packing, saying she would be over a bit later in the day. She hoped it didn't sound too rude, or anything of the like and proceeded sorting her things out.
Once finished, she called the driver forward, and made her way over to the Martell's residence. The car was starkly empty, she felt the expanse of the seat stretched out before her, a place where her brother would be, but isn't. Stop, she told herself, and remembered her dream. If I look back I am lost. And it was her brother's choice, not hers; to leave.
She arrived at the large house minutes later, and opened the door for herself, not bothering to trouble the driver. Daenerys grabbed her small purse and proceeded up the stairs, to where the vipers lived. Surely she had nothing to fear from them. As she drew up to the final step, and pressed the bell, she knew that she was right, even if she was in their domain, she was the more potent, more powerful. She smiled uneasily as she straightened her stance, and waited for the door to open.
The stone and mortar of Summerhall seemed to be an incubator. She felt warm, and safe in it’s embrace.The walls glowed as she walked down the hall, tracing her hands along the history she’d had no contact with previously. It was as if she could see them all, running through the house. Her brothers, however different they were, here, perhaps they’d been at peace.
She can imagine a much younger, much less damaged Rhaegar chasing a child, her other brother Viserys. It is difficult, for her to think of her brother as a child, even though he was eight. He had been eight, and yet he looked after her, when no one else had.
Though times had changed, and her brother was hardly the young weedy boy he’d once been. He’d once been the one to keep the nightmares away, but in return, life had cast him as the one nightmare she could never escape. She was not strong enough.
You’re weak, a fool, she could hear him yell, but she would not believe it. You don’t want to wake the dragon, and she wished she had been brave enough to challenge back. I am a dragon too, brother. And she was, was she not? She was not some half-born lackwit, she was a Targaryen like her brothers, and like her father. Like her mother.
Should she not be as a dragon too? She imagined herself high above Summerhall, with wings at her back, big, and wide, and black, keeping her in the sky. Everything was so small, when looked upon high. This is how they see the world, her father, and Viserys. They liken themselves to dragons, but they are just men.
She had always been small, ill-considered, looked down upon. Though with her new eyes she saw the heights above Summerhall, and the shadows stirring in the distance. Faces blurred in the din, emeralds shined, and gold blazed. Dragons there were too, though one seemed to be trying to swallow itself, it’s tail in it’s mouth, a continuous devouring circle. The other one tried to fan the shadows with it’s wings, but she saw it engulf it, and her heart went out to dragonkin. Flames rose out of the shadows, silhouettes backdropped by cascading torrents of seawater.
It was chaos, it was not her’s to witness, it was her’s to prevent. Shedding her scales, and wings for her bones, she returned to the safety of Summerhall’s walls. The pile of skin lay in a heap, as a robe, easy to slip back on again.
Though she couldn’t help but notice a coldness stretching throughout the corridors. Torches were lit only to be snuffed out as darkness consumed the halls. Icicles crept up the walls, freezing her to her bones as her own warmth was snuffed out. A howling wind blew with such intensity from down the hall that she had to brace herself against it. She walked closer, towards the sound of the bellowing gale, only to have it stop when she came into the room. She had not seen any room such as this in Summerhall before.
It was empty, aside from a throne, much like a King or Queen would sit upon. Though the time for Kings and Queens was long gone. Upon the singular chair sat a crown, gilded, dark, and a white gold that surpassed anything she’d seen before. It called out to her, and she reached a timid hand for it.
This is yours to wear. The voices said, whispering across the ages. Though she shook her head, it was not. She looked behind her, for her brother Rhaegar, or anyone, even her father. No one was there, she was alone truly, and the crown was calling itself hers.
You’re the chosen one, But she cannot know what that meant. It was impossible, but she grasped the metal, and it was warm to her touch, as if it had sucked all of the warmth out of the dragon’s fire only to imbue it in the carefully crafted circlet.
There’s no turning back. A sense of finality came upon her, and she felt her bones become imbued with fire, a coursing flame lacing through her veins It churned and burned, but she did not hurt, she did not wince, nor flinch. She was a dragon, and fire cannot kill a dragon.
There is no turning back, she thought to herself. If I look back, I am lost.
Rhaenys’ breath catches in her throat at Dany’s turn, her smile as she twists the word allows into something disdainful, something beneath a Targaryen within their own walls. My mother was prideful, her aunt says, and Rhaenys sees it flicker in her eyes as well.
She hesitates for a moment, waiting to see if Daenerys will lead, but starts down one of the halls. The East Hall, the maintainer had called it, and the restoration here is well done. Tapestries line the walls every ten or so feet, some with Targaryen imagery, some with intricate knots, some with religious imagery.
“Ghosts?” Rhaenys raises an eyebrow, a teasing smile on her lips, “To be sure. I bet they’re just hiding in the walls, waiting for nightfall.” There had been a faint rumor that a long ago Targaryen had proclaimed that he possessed dragon skulls. Most likely it was an exaggeration, or perhaps dug up fossils that puzzled everyone, but Rhaenys rather liked her ancestor’s brazenness. “Perhaps a dragon will wake.”
The hard floor beneath their feet makes their steps echo. It's a welcome sound, as if every step is being mirrored by an ancestor. Daenerys walks down the hall with her back straight, musing on what it must've been like to live here in this great house, all those years ago.
On the walls, the tapestries show all sorts of scenes, but the ones that stick out the most to Daenerys are the ones featuring dragons. Ever since she was little, she found interest in the fabled creatures, enthralled with her family's stories of Targaryen Kings and Queens with winged allies securing their power. Of course none of that is true, dragons aren't and weren't ever real, but Daenerys feels rightful in her belief in them, even if it was childish.
Even the Targaryens themselves were likened to the fiery beasts. She wonders what people will say about her father, or her mother. The fair dragon, seems an apt name, while her father will most likely inherit the mad dragon. What will be her dragon when she is gone?
Daenerys gives Rhaenys a laugh in return to her answer, "Good, nightfall we will go on a ghost hunt then." Of course, she's simply joking, or is she? A ghost hunt would be indulging in these fantasies far too much, but at this moment, Daenerys doesn't bring herself to care. Her brother isn't her to chastise her over it; she's free.
"Let's hope. Could you imagine the looks on our father's faces? On Viserys' face?" She jokes lightly, giving her niece a wry smile.
Viserys glances impatiently at his sister, sneering as he mutters, “I’m sure he has enough secretaries already, Dany.” His sister wouldn’t be any more suited to an office than she would be to a podium; even secretarial work required some backbone. Taking calls, making calls, organizing and arranging - Daenerys would be lost amidst all that. Better to have her in a mailroom, or - better yet - safe at home.
Rhaegar’s offer is reassuring, at least; despite his brother’s earlier misstep - children in a schoolyard? - Viserys’ shoulders are starting to ease. This is closer to what he’d expected. A real position, a place of honor, given to him because he deserves it. He imagines himself as a trophy they’re now dusting off the shelf, admiring with a new eye, and placing in the open for all the world to see.
“Of course,” he repeats, his smile and tone stiff enough to ensure Rhaegar knows he’s not easily placated. His brother is much ruder than he’d remembered. “I’d expected as much.” Viserys takes another sip of wine and sets the glass down, turning the stem in his fingers as he frowns. “I’d like to see the office tomorrow. You can introduce me to your… friends, associates…” He waves his hand vaguely. “Naturally they’ll remember who I am once we’re introduced.”
His eyes slide back to his sister and narrow. “We can even take her along, if you’d like. Do you think you could do that?” he asks Daenerys, arching an eyebrow pointedly. “You’ll have to clean yourself up.” He tips up her chin with a flick of his finger. “Put on some makeup, wear something… nice. Tasteful. And I don’t want these men thinking I’ve raised a mouse, you’ll have to speak as well…”
Had she not spoken up at all, Rhaegar would have missed her presence in the room. By which, Rhaegar can’t fault her for it at all. Viserys demands his attention with muttered remarks that only mirrors what he’s heard his father say before, and unrelenting as he prods him with questions about his own campaign as if Viserys even had the slightest idea what that meant. It would be amusing, if it didn’t irritate him so much.
“And you — ” he turns to look at Daenerys. It takes him by surprise, but he smiles at the mention of the three headed dragon. It’s the first the whole night that he didn’t have to force himself to smile kindly, as though he was spending dinner with acquaintances and not family. The suggestion is ideal with the three of them working together; but reality hits harder, especially when they’re barely surviving a meal together.
(Besides, it’s not what Aerys wants. Daenerys says she’ll help out wherever and however she can and Rhaegar’s grateful for that. But he hardly trusts Viserys. The three of them working together is too risky. And if they fail, Aerys would put the blame on him. Because, at the end of the day, he should know better.)
“You,” He clears his throat before drinking some wine. Not a secretary, he thinks. You’re a Targaryen. You deserve better. “Of course you’ll join us tomorrow, Daenerys. I’d love to um,” he looks down, cutting the meat into smaller pieces. “I’d love to know what you know about myths. I’m quite fond of Welsh mythology myself.”
He looks at Viserys and adds, “And meet my associates, of course.” Not friends. Friends he had little (Jon, Arthur). Associates he had more.
She almost falters when her brother has trouble speaking of her, to her, Daenerys doesn't know. All she does know is that he takes quite a while to decide. She nods at her other brother, at Viserys, and stiffens as he raises her chin.
Viserys always had a habit of scrutinizing her for her appearance. She knows what to do, and what not to do, so she happily nods, "Of course, Viserys." Though she brings out a smile, merely because her elder brother agrees that she go along. Either because he wants to make a good impression, or simply so Daenerys thinks she's being useful, she doesn't care.
"That would be wonderful." She feels a small victory, because unlike Viserys, Rhaegar seems rather...pleased about his decision to bring her along. Viserys usually treats her like extra luggage, so it's nice to hear a pleasant tone in his voice instead of a terse, and degrading one. "Rhaenys and I always loved learning about the stories, it made us feel connected to our family while we were growing up." Her smile dims, but it's still there, small, but showing extreme fondness from her memories. Looking away from her brother, and not wanting to push things, she busies herself with her plate.
The immediately rejection of her chosen dress stung a little less than Leonette had expected. Perhaps it was because, in truth, she had been a little bit surprised. Leonette had classified Daenerys Targaryen as the kind of girl that went along with orders and didn’t say ‘no’ to anything unless she was utterly against it. She had faced customers like that before, the indecisive ones that wanted to try on everything and walked out with nothing in the end, because they still couldn’t find something they liked. “You should try them on, just to check.” she said lightly, hoping to ease her frown back into a smile.
Following the Targaryen girl obligingly, she weaved through the racks, pausing every once in a while to straighten out something that didn’t need to be fix, just so it didn’t seem like she was going to smother Daenerys with her attention. “Oh…” Her eyes were drawn to the dress that Daenerys held up, a small smile tugging at her lips in approval. It was rather beautiful, simple yet it held a sort of grace to it that seemed to fit. Leonette wasn’t sure why she didn’t think of that in the first place.
“It looks lovely, not too long either.” she said softly, nodding when Daenerys said that she should try it on, her thoughts already on shoes and purses and earrings. Leonette didn’t know if that was what the Targaryen girl liked, but it didn’t hurt to try. Still, she hoped Daenerys would come out in the dress, just so Leonette could see how it fitted and if it needed to be shortened or lengthened.
Daenerys smiled at Leonette, she would try them on, curious more than anything to see how they looked. Things often looked very different on her than on the rack, most times for the worse. Or maybe it was a self-conscious thing, ground into the very fibres of her being that if she didn't look exactly the way a Targaryen woman should she'd do a disservice to her family, to her brother.
Though her brother wasn't present and most likely wouldn't be for a while. And that did worry her, Daenerys assumed she'd always worry about her brother, there were times where it just wasn't needed. Like now. She didn't need her big brother to go with her to the dress shop. If she really did, she would've asked Rhaegar. She smirked to herself, just the thought of that would be mildly entertaining. She'd more than likely come off as a childish little girl needing a guiding hand through something as arbitrary as a dress shop.
"I agree. Is it alright to try all of these on at once, then?" She asked, edging back towards the dressing rooms. Daenerys couldn't help but be thankful for the emptiness of the store. She'd feel quite terrible for hogging an associate all to herself for a considerable length of time. Though the store was still rather empty, and she took her dresses with her into the room at Leonette's ok.
She wanted to try on the pale dress first, her instincts telling her that it would be 'the one', and it looked rather nice on the hanger, quite nice that she was somehow timid about putting it on. Shaking her head, she rid herself of her street clothes and pushed the dress of the hanger. Sliding it up her legs, and putting her arms through the holes, she reached up and back, zipping it quite easily.
Facing back against the mirror, Daenerys inhaled before turning around, and grinned when she met her reflection. It was as nice on the hanger as it was on her, if not a bit better. It didn't define her curves too much, but the flourish of the skirt did hint at her hips. She smoothed down the fabric, twisting and turning this way and that, seeing it from all angles, before remembering the polite attendant outside. She'd want to see.
Daenerys cracked open the door to the dressing room, and stepped out, thin socks covering her tiny feet on the floor. She kept her head low, not wanting to seem too excited just to be disappointed that it wasn't as good as she thought it was. Though Leonette was here for her wasn't she? Sure, she was just a dress shop keeper, but it was her job to make sure that her customers felt comfortable. "I really like this one," She began, looking up with half a smile, but it turned into a faint frown, "But I'm not too sure..."
blakekathryn
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
