@bawdybadger LIKED FOR A THING.
EARLY EVENING: MAEGOR'S HOLDFAST, THE RED KEEP.
'tis with an effort near herculean that the queen's grip does not tighten around the map ( a long ago drawn thing in, she would gather, the early days of the reign of the conciliator, with ink near entirely faded in some places, and yet what remains of it is more then enough for the present purpose ) frayed far past brittle, to the point that to bend a corner would mean to break a section; the mere thought alone has the queen taking in another breath through her nose, loosing it in a near inaudible hiss through lips that part briefly, words lingering half formed upon her tongue that dissipate as they press tight.
it had been an odd feeling, realizing that she no longer knew precisely where to go to find it. she could recall the going, visiting the place with her father from her own written word and yet she could not recall the last time. she had not written of it as the last, and perhaps that was the point. no one knew when it would be the last moment, and how, in truth, could they ? she and her father reached their last moments long before he had passed. she could not remember how long it had been since the two of them had done anything for the sake of it; the last true instance he had spent with her and her children, wholly absent the presence of politics.
he had ensured as much with their exile — broken only a single time, and lifted with his death, and yet. rhaenyra targaryen did regret. she regretted how she had handled the incident that had resulted in her little brother losing an eye; even knowing she would do no different, she regretted his pain. she regretted her absence in the lives of her siblings before, and since. she regretted not spending more time with her father when she could. she regretted much and more that would remain unspoken, for such remorse now, now, was both futile and hollow. an insult, surely, to all who did not remember a time before.
there was no justifiable reason to dwell upon then, no point in wondering what had been the last moment, for no one truly knows. no one makes note of when potential begins to wilt and wither, no one sees when the petals fall discarded and shriveled upon the earth, no one notices when the branches are stripped clean and there's nothing left but an empty foundation. a near barren landscape, but it is only a passing winter, and when spring comes the leaves will return and so too will the flowers, one by one.
she has little idea why he wants to join a house riddled with such detrimental fissuring, the cracks that ran so deep the walls were sure to crumble at the slightest exertion of pressure at a particularly sensitive point — why he might wish to regularly walk upon floors that no longer feel sturdy beneath her feet, to join a family well on their way to self slaughter. perhaps his own legitimacy meant more to him then that, perhaps it was the subsequent status that the name might bring... she could not fault him if it was either. regardless, it was hardly a boon she would deny if they could prove the claim of his paternity ( though she had wondered, worried if it did - if it could, if her father had gone through his father's things, if he had seen anything that could prove it and tossed it to conceal what he might well have deemed a slight on the princess alyssa's memory ) if there was any to be found, any at all that remained within her grandsire's belongings, she would find it.
if there was none... all she could do was promise to help him find the needed proof of his sire, whether it led to prince baelon the brave or not. if it was legitimacy he desired, she would grant it - but there were steps they needed take to do so as it needed be done and this was the first. her spine straightens, shoulders flattening. perhaps she could ask him, if they should find it. but that did not guarantee he would tell her. he seemed much the open book, but then, so did she herself at times. though there were others that the queen felt far, far more a looking glass then she did flesh and bone and blood,
far more translucent then a book, for there was a solidity to even open books that she did not possess. a book had a reflection. it was not the reflection itself, "this floor is devoted in it's entirety to the current lord of the seven kingdoms, " the words are quiet, the slightest bit distant, still half caught in the snare of her own thoughts, " the way the stories tell it, the halls and the walls surrounding are all in the shape of many curled dragon tails, and all curled around the same - well, it changes in the telling. some say it is gold, while others claim it a single egg; all agreeing to the notion that they are wrapped in eternal dispute, over a prize the realm has forgotten. though I do not know if I have ever believed that. “
she shook her head, sparing a glance in his direction that lingered as she spoke ( there were traces of her father in his features, a commonality that she could well believe had come from a shared sire; for the resemblance was strong enough..... so immediately visible that it would be evident to anyone who had so much as even met viserys even once ) " but i did not bring you here to discuss such blatant triviliaties, " the queen continued, her voice a little louder, present in a way that it had not been mere moments ago, " much less those that do not at all concern the matter at hand. what does, is the hall of paintings. "
there was an antechamber before the pair, at the end of which branched the opening of two halls that were indeed, from what she could glean — constructed in a loose arch. she glanced down. holding the map carefully in between both hands, she studied the space. the left of which, at the end of the hall of high arched windows branched again; leading to a sharper curve that opened to another antechamber that, at the heart of lay the tall double doors made of thick oak with their iron handles - the door to the king's apartments, concealed amongst the great confusion of twisting halls settling around it.
the right, a hall of dragons, one and all, them and them alone; painted and hung at parallel intervals along both walls. more then a few of the miniature rectangles that had signified had begun to fade - as well as the one set before the downward staircase, yet. she could see the path they needed to take now.the queen’s head lifted, and she started to walk, speaking as she did, “ tell me, what are the stories you have heard of balerion ? “ the words were light, kept carefully even, a clear if not subtle shift in tone.
