⠀ ⠀ ⠀He had been mid-tilt when the first fire took the supply tent, and the transition from sport to command had cost him only the time it took to drop a shattered lance. And oh, how the nobility came down into the dirt, dragged by the beasts who knew before the men did that the evening had turned, that sport had soured, that the fires on the hills were not bonfires lit for celebration. Laughter choked on its own sound, ale tossed blind into dance-softened marsh and mud. The horses knew before the men did; they stamped and tossed their heads, eyes wide and white. The tourney of the Marches had turned from men playing at fights and hitting each other with sticks, into chaos upon the arrival of mummed Blackfyre rebels assaulting walls, tents and merchants with flying fire.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The Prince of Dragonstone had crossed the field of dead celebration and drunkenness with soot on his jaw. Canvas above them bellied inward with each gust, the wind pressing the tent's skin, a hand testing the give of a wound, the pavilion smelled of woodsmoke, honey, and wet earth. The maester's fingers walked the ladder of Hardyng's ribs with the practised patience of a man reading braille in bruise, pressing here, pressing there, prodding at pride, gentling out reactions to find the harm from the fall. A basin of water near the maester's elbow had gone pink. The cloth draped across its rim was wrung but not clean, carrying the diluted evidence of the afternoon's sport into the evening's crisis. The maester had no look of concern, having fussed more for Baelor's broken nose. The prince had sent the man himself to ensure the honourable knight's well-being in a match that had almost been called a draw, as lances had become a rarity and the squires had bolted for more.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Hardyng fought as a storm fights, heart bare on the sleeve of him and every lance-strike a declaration writ in bruise and splinter, and it was this man, this storm-hearted fool who jousted as though the Warrior himself held the other end of the tilt, who had fallen, and falling, had dragged the afternoon's last pretense of sport into the mud alongside him, and briefly after, fear and fire had taken the stands. Baelor stood close by the maester, watchful as a father at a sickbed, though the man beneath those hands was neither kin nor sworn, and still Baelor watched, and still his attention did not waver. Torchlight flickered on his features, soft enough to be mistaken for youth at a distance, though closer the lines told their own accounting, the wearing-down of a man who has spent more nights reading by candlelight than sleeping by it, and who will be king, and who knows it. Dornish sun held warm in the skin of him, hair black as Dragonstone and greying now like ash at hearth's end, so unlike his blood, so unlike the silver lords who bore him. And the lines etched around his mouth and eyes mapped years of nights spent awake over scrolls and councils rather than dreams. Gauntlets now off, removed after the honest melee in favour of grasping papers of uneven ink with reports, and his hands were bare, the knuckles reddened from impact, a split along the fourth finger of his left hand. His own mending had settled with its patience on waiting.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ I hear you, Ser Humfrey. ❞ His voice is even, a horizon line drawn in voice. The hearing is genuine. It is the answer that will disappoint, and he gives the hearing first so the disappointment lands on ground that has been respected. ❝ But tell me -- what would you have me do? ❞
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Gaze low towards the flicker of a flame. There is a subtle cant to his head as Humfrey speaks, a gesture that suggests consideration. frustration becomes petition. A pyrrhic vigil, this, purchasing dawn at the price of every hour between. The prince sees the chivalry and the pride in the principles of a knight's honour in every sinew and vein of the man. It struck a note in Baelor that rang true against his own iron, and the prince stood a fraction straighter for it. If justice is denied, what role is left for the just knight?
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ❝ Sending you off, will have you dead to raiders. There is no honour in that. Ride now, and you ride blind. Into the dark you do not command, against raiders who have chosen it well. ❞ Baelor's nose scrunches as his lips form a thin line, and he looks, with those mismatched eyes, drilling into the man's armour. But his jaw tightens against pain of the bridge of his nose, where the bandage sat crooked over cartilage half-set and still tender, the afternoon's second-to-last gift from the lists. The prince indulges in the demand of restraint after days of tourney that proved him capable of the lack of it. The mud takes his boot as he moves closer.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ Not every wrong is answered with a blade. Some must be endured… lest they beget greater ones. The distinction offers me no comfort.
I expect you to curse my name and ride out beside me in the morning. ❞ He grants the burning hills but a heartbeat of attention before returning his gaze to those beside him. For a moment, Baelor spoke as if quoting scripture. A practice in patience that he has drawn into the very roots of his now grinding teeth. Humfrey's anger is clean. Baelor envies it. Clean anger rides out and meets the enemy and returns with blood or glory or a body carried on a shield.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ Pinpricks, Ser Hardyng. The Blackfyre remnants have learned the Stranger's patience. Small raids, scattered, a cut here and a burn there, each one a question asked in a different direction. They do not want our walls. They want our attention, and attention divided seven ways is attention rendered unto none. The Blackfyre cause feeds on haste. It always has. I will not nourish it tonight. Morning will name them. Morning will answer them. If you grant the dawn its due. ❞
❝ this is how silly men perish. ❞ / maekar to baelor
|| ⠀⸻ ⠀⧼ @praeludio ⧽
⠀ ⠀ ⠀What is a king if not the keeper of the stones upon which his house is built?
❝ Then let us try not to be silly, brother. ❞
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ His nostrils flared when he huffed out a muttered chuckle. He sat with spine aligned, shoulders neither stiff nor slack, but when he stood, a faint droop hinted at the weight of the day, tempered by training and self-restraint, with no attempt to hide it before his dear brother. Baelor's mismatched eyes of sky lavender and honeyed brown lingered long and patiently. The prayer had been longer today, and he knew how impatient Maekar could grow with him. He could hear the clenched teeth and set jaw of his baby brother that stood there in Winter's white royal blood where his own was touched by sun and tinged by septon despite the shared mother.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Heat pooled near the fire. Baelor's eyelids lowered and rose again, as though the world required a moment’s dimming before he allowed it back in. His thumb pressed lightly against the ridge of his own knuckle as his hands once more interlaced in the ever-present habit of worrying the ring upon his fingers. The heir of the realm stood as if something invisible pressed to the hollow between his shoulder blades and left the muscle of his neck and shoulder no momentary rest. Alas, he carried himself as though the crown had already tested the shape of his spine and found it sufficient. His frame is outlined in the flicker of candles, fire and golden warmth licking on silhouettes. Salt from the sea pressed against the windows, faint and mineral. The banners along the stone walls stirred in slow breaths, heavy with the memory of older wars. Baelor's fondness for the histories, legends and stories heard as green-knighted boys hung in tapestries upon arched walls where gutters and wooden beams bent towards rows of books and scrolls.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ Men perish from pride as often as from folly. I would avoid both, if I can. ❞ His mouth settled into a thin line at the pride of his own dry humour. His eyes settled upon the man as one might study a page of scripture, patient, thorough, as though he feared to miss a single word written there. And he sees his little brother so eager to do what he has proven to reign in. Baelor knew that twitch at Maekar’s temple. It had preceded every broken practice sword, every bloodied lip in the yard. And here Maekar can see that face again upon his brother's, where words could be said, words unbecoming of the prince of Dragonstone, humour unlike the measured prince, and he could almost hear them in his head, but they are not spoken aloud because one thinks better of it.
❝ It is a folly, one that I will not ask you to share. But I admit I find myself in more comfort, if you would agree. Gods know the stories spoken of our family, we try to quell. And quell them we will not with whips and dragon fire as our ancestors preferred to. ❞ The prince gave his brother a crooked smile that belied an heir and showed more of a boy with a wooden sword.
❝ Surely hunting an unknown beast that plagues our lands is a risk, but no death sentence. Not every hunt these days requires an excuse of war, does it? Perhaps we could indulge? Like in olden days. ❞ How unmeasured of him to ask such a thing. An older brother wants to be indulged. And yet his demand was such an outlandish, ridiculous thing for an heir, a prince to play foot soldier.
❛ i will be addressed as the honor of my blood demands it.❜ ( daemon to otto )
|| ⠀⸻ ⠀⧼ @withpcnache ⧽
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Not all the water in the rough rude sea / Can wash the balm from an anointed king. (- Richard II ) There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out.
The arrogance of legitimacy through conquest and right.
❝ Quieten yourself, Prince, lest you wake our sick queen, whom we all pray for. ❞
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The corridors outside the queen’s chambers had taken on the hush of a mausoleum not yet declared. Boiled linen and vinegar hung in the air, sharp enough to sting the throat. Somewhere beyond the doors, a woman laboured against her own body. The patriarch of Hightowers concerned himself with comportment while the realm’s future bled quietly behind a closed door. A faint pressure moved along his jaw, a private correction before words were permitted to pass. A measured inhale flared his nostrils for the briefest moment. Rather than advance, he shifted a half-step to the side, forcing Daemon to choose whether to follow or concede the space.
❝ Blood grants you a name, Prince. Conduct grants you honour. As our King Viserys says. Then conduct yourself in a manner that does not require correction. ❞
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ Your blood is ancient, yes. ❞ Otto mutters low, even under his breath, where it was on a line of it being addressed at Daemon and half not. ❝ Though antiquity does not guarantee refinement. ❞ He smoothed the edge of his sleeve with two careful fingers. His head inclined by a degree, if only to have an excuse that, surely, if anyone doubts, he had offered the correct respectful bow, and he could make excuses when demanded.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate. For a flicker of a heartbeat, Otto regarded him as one might regard a pack of strays: loud, teeth-baring, directionless. The thought passed without expression. The hand of the king watched the flicker of torchlight along the stone instead, as though the flames were the more civilised company. He had long ago learned that disgust, when unvoiced, was more effective.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.
He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The backhanded question that demanded so many things: grief, protection, a father's softness, an answer to the question: AM I EXPENDABLE TO YOU? He rehearses bereavement in advance, domesticating it into something no longer sharp. He prepares for loss by converting it into narrative: honour, duty, sacrifice. His hands wring behind his back. In circles, those fingers tug at rings in an incessant reminder of bracing himself for pain and punishment. His thumb turns the signet once, twice, testing whether the gold still fits while he breathes even, slow and calm, but falsely deep. What a sin it was to be a father. What hubris, to believe one could be both architect of a dynasty and guardian of a child. What a cruelty he is perceived with.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ Then you will meet it as a Hightower.❞ As though the word itself were a bastion and not merely a stone. A statement only carrying so little comfort as a wet slap in harsh winds. How does a Hightower meet anything these days? Were it be ... a Stark? A Targaryen? The statement would carry an actionable image. His nostrils flare because how dare his boy be right in kicking him in the metaphorical shins. Green eyes linger long. Lips part. Lips close. Jaw sets once more with muscles twisting under skin.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ❝ If you fear death, you are not a fool.❞ That rough hand of gnarly veins and sinew comes to grab the back of the boy's head, cradling it and tipping it with a strength. Familiar red-blonde hair tangle. The boy is much like him. He looks softer in golden morrow light.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ I would rather it were me. But it is not. So you must endure. ❞ His spine lengthens, vertebra by vertebra, until he stands as rigid as a tower. Otto speaks in a firm, low and through gritted teeth, belying the panic rising in his throat that quiets any of the confidence.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
⠀ ⠀ ⠀But I have promises to keep,
⠀ ⠀ ⠀And miles to go before I sleep… — Robert Frostext
⠀ ⠀ ⠀She had waited, and he knew she did. The lines in his face are deeper, making him appear older, tired. A wind swept in from the west, gale and sharp, carrying with it the scent of oncoming rain. Maekar reins in his horse as he comes to a halt by the weirwood tree. His hair wild, the wind to be blamed for the strands out of place. His gauntlets grasp the reins tighter before relenting. Blood is still spattered over the dark metal. He swings down from the saddle with the stiff precision of a man who has ridden too far without rest. The weirwood’s pale roots are stained darker where the earth has been torn open. One drop of blood falls from his gauntlet and vanishes into the soil. His sharp iron gaze flicked to the face in the wood as if expecting the creepy thing to move. There is not much care in him for this sacred ground.
Maekar scoffs in a suppressed half-bark half-chuckle that has the jaw-tension bordering on a scowl. ❝ Cats drag carrion. I fucking walked. And you will find me largely unmauled. ❞ That snarl settles back on his face as he takes slow steps in boots that had touched mud. When the prickly prince spots the uncleanliness unfit of his attire, that prideful glint of an annoyed prince fires in his eyes and he grunts and scoffs to step it off.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Men shaped their own fates — provided the chisel was steady and the stone cooperative.
Between the idea / And the reality
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The stretches of a day linger long in the shadows of hollows between arched windows. The wind sweeps the salty sea between the balconies. For a fleeting moment, her defiance stirred something almost fond in him, as Alicent does, the bright stubbornness of youth. It was swiftly categorised, like an indulgence best rationed.
⠀ ❝ Where are your guards and servants, do they not do as you request? ❞
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Otto’s strategy with Rhaenyra is never open hostility. Behold, if he did, Viserys would have his hands and head faster than his apology could be muttered in that pretentious piousness and respect of his. He had long ago learned that opposition was wasteful. A door slammed invites rebellion; a door gently redirected invites compliance. Moves her words into predictable channels where he has influence and can watch from the sidelines to judge that exasperating cleverness that runs ahead of her.
⠀ ❝ As the named heir, your words deserve consideration. As Hand, it is my duty to ensure they deserve execution. As you wish, Princess. I shall advise the king of your request. ❞
⠀ ⠀ ⠀He redirects. It is not her authority but that of the king. He does not hide the condescension in that way. Between Rhaenyra’s idea and the king’s decree, he would insert himself -- the necessary shadow.
⠀ ❝ However, Such ambitious petitions, Princess, require refinement. Precision is the language of governance; ambiguity is the refuge of servants. ❞ His mouth flattened for a heartbeat, then eased, as though the thought had been filed away for later use. His fingers laced together, neat as sealed parchment, before flattening against the cold, rough surface of the balcony carved stone.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Another excuse and redirection so he does not have to lower himself to helping a girl who is not entirely his concern, but scratches at his periphery. Then again, he cannot let her slip his mind. Too much of Viserys lingers in her goodness and her passions for the people. Where the king's streak of mischievous humour had simmered to something low in the hearth, it was she who took the full brunt of it like a torch handed over. Otto could indulge her now and again, if only it were granted to her to prepare for her future in any way. His gaze dipped, reviewing figures in his mind, adjusting columns until they balanced. Keeping hedges in an imaginary garden in line and trimmed. He mistook her brightness for something that could be guided, trimmed, shaped. He did not yet recognise that some flames, once crowned, do not consent to lantern glass.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.
Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀A gust of aggressive wind sent a shudder through the castle's wooden beams and gutters. A faint tang of beeswax mixed with the resinous stick of incense. The chamber trembled under the soft, dancing glow of candlelight, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Rays lingered in dust-laden air where the hearth spread its rays. He inclined his head and shoulders forward, giving the illusion of yielding space. A low chuckle dares to escape from him, and with his head lowered, the gaze keeps on her, looking at her through his lashes. The jaw is set tight, betraying a fraying smile that is not condescending but amused at the implication being thrown at him. The heir's gaze settled on her, unwavering, as though the rest of the room had ceased to matter. Hands turn together, fingers playing at the edges of his signet rings.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ I have walked battlefields slick with blood and stood beside men who thought themselves damned. If uncleanliness were contagious, I would have perished long ago. ❞ Still so amused, Baelor pushes back the chair with a creak and stands, the spine straight as the heaviness of the to-be-crown demands.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀There was no worry in those eyes that might indicate he worried about any soil or cleanliness on her person. The man recognises the curve of her heavy shoulders to the cramps of her hands holding weapons. His form is framed by the arch of windows like a halo. Mismatched eyes of brown fire and violet-blue dream glance from the top of her head, down the line of her body.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀A subtle line formed between his brows, the quiet mark of a man. How oft he gets told not to touch, not to dare, to keep his sanctity, his cleanliness, his purity intact, for he is heir-prince of the realm, that shall stay as holy as the septa's pure gold-white demands where the only honour granted of touch upon him be the sun's rays. And he chokes down the laden scoff in his throat before any of the castle walls might betray him to some whispering guard or servant that finds him lacking in just a breath.
⠀ ⠀❝ Each of us is guilty before everyone, for everyone and everything. Stories, tales and histories make us predict what a single moment might escalate to in our anxieties. Our doubts are traitors, Byanka, ❞ His voice dropped half a register, always so soft-spoken it turns infuriating, and a hand swept once through dark hair, restoring order where only he sensed disorder.
❝ and make us lose the good we oft might win. ❞
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The marrow of my torment feeds your cunning, and I am but the bone.
Otto’s power move is moral superiority. ❝ Torture, Your Grace, is such a generous word. ❞ A faint crease formed between his brows, as though the world had failed to meet a reasonable expectation. The ink-stained scent of the parchment and sea from outside rose to him, mingling with the faint leather tang of a desk long polished by hands like his.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀Aegon is managed. A project. A vice is closing around him to tighten more by the morrow. Otto rubs his temple with gnarly fingers where veins show on the back of his hands. Books, papers, scrolls and maps scatter the pompous desk, suspiciously expensive and handcrafted for a man such as Otto. His grandfather folded his hands atop the table, thumbs brushing once in quiet thought. A finger nudges his signet ring back into place.
⠀ ⠀ ❝ If I had revelled in your suffering, Your Grace, I would have allowed you to continue as you were. ❞ His voice is gentle, bored, perhaps, yet the words land alike a slap. His fingers start tapping the table, a constant metronome. The hand of the king was a slow-acting poison of pressure on the mind. His fingertips traced the gilt edge of the parchment, a rhythm only he could hear, the smallest pulse of impatience bleeding through his otherwise pretentiously immaculate composure.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀It was his own fault, really; He had anticipated missteps, of course, but not such… oversights. The boy had been prepared for obedience, not the weight of choice. The calculus of error gnawed at him even now, each gap demanding correction before it festered. A memory of his own missteps whispered along the edges of his mind. His gaze flicks to Aegon. He stands there so innocently. His grandfather seems to stare for a long time. Lingering before softening. He could not transfer his failures onto the boy, yet each misstep was a mirror of his own hubris. Aegon, angelic and unaware, drew the net of Otto’s anxieties tighter with every quiet breath. The disappointment stayed the same. When he spoke, it was with the tired patience of a man explaining something to children.
⠀ ⠀ ❝ I clearly went too easy on you, have failed in your education and cradled you too much, so consider this as me fixing a slight of mine. I allowed you leeway, my boy, because I assumed you understood things naturally as the son of a king. Evidently, there are lessons to be taught yet. ❞
