Closed starter || @dreamsang
░▒▌╳▐ s ɪ ʟ ᴠ ᴇ ʀ ᴘ ʀ ɪ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ
ON OCASSIONS such as this one, where smiles and pleasantries accompany the sound of music filling the great hall, his mind more oft wanders to a rather contrasting scene. What if he had not been the victor that day? What if the sense of DOOM that ever lingers in him was to be answered with his death by the stag's warhammer? What would have become of his family? His father was no more, his mother died birthing his youngest sibling, a sister now a babe younger than even his ( bastard ) child north in Winterfell. Though his victory cemented the hold of the dragons on the Iron Throne, it also exposed the wounds that have been festering in the Seven Kingdoms, which now he ( as king ) is to mend. So fragile a thing peace is when it's standing on stumbling foundations but now, a year after the failed rebellion ended ( in part, consequences of his own actions ), a celebration might yet serve to remind those who have forgotten that Rhaegar Targaryen, First of his Name, is not his father.
It was the fourth name day of his eldest, his precious princess, Rhaenys; and the entire nobility was invited to attend. The great lords, ladies and their families were not the only ones however, so were the smallfolk of the crown city. A bold thing, he'd been told it was but one that might just prove to on the right path for the restoration of peace not only with the great families but with the people of the realm as well. After all, a king's duty is to his people, a practice he applied when he was still a prince—he has no intention of changing now that he sits the throne. More so when he was one of those responsible for all the blood shed only a year ago. Yet, this is not only for the sake of peace or stability but it's for his family as well; hopefully, it's the first step to healing their wounds also. The GUILT he knowingly and willingly carries for their pain almost constantly gnaws at him, regardless if his was a necessary cause. It was for the sake of the world itself, there must be a third and now there is, and when the Long Night comes it is them who will bring the dawn. Or at least, that much he's certain about the prophecy that has dictated most of his life—it was his burden alone to carry and now that his role is fulfilled, then it will eventually fall upon his children ( as much as he would want to shield them from it ).
It's the sound of a new melody, a lively one, that pulls the dragon king from his thoughts—and the tug of small hands on his sleeve. His eyes meet those of his daughter, a wide and excited smile adorning her innocent features as he asks to dance with him. Unable to resist ( not that he would even be able of denying her ), Rhaegar stands and brings her up into his arms for a playful twirl in the air which has the little girl giggling happily, before lowering her down once more, his small hand in his larger one. As any dancers would, they stand in front of each other and curtsy, the father bending closer to her level whilst he offers his hand that she takes. They dance and soon, a few other children join in. The beautiful smile on Rhaenys' face lights up the entire hall—so much like her mother's. His and Elia's relation has drifted since he left to the tower, something that was to be expected but what was not is the way he now wants to mend it. A naive thing to want, or selfish, because the man does not think himself deserving of forgiveness so easily ( if any at all ). For their children however, they aren both equally willing to put aside their somewhat enstranged sentiments and for that, he is grateful. His wife has not only cared so well for Rhaenys and Aegon but now she has taken to raising his baby sister Daenerys and his brother Viserys—and that only adds to the guilt he carries and fuels his determination to somehow restore at least some of what was once there between them.
When the music fades, it is replaced with a more melodious one, a softer symphony that beckons for a more intimate dance. Pressing a kiss to his daughter's forehead, the Targaryen's indigo gaze seeks his wife and queen and then he approaches her. The crimson cloak draped over his left shoulder moves with his steps; small rubies and golden embroidery decorated his night black tunic, making a stark contrast with his silver hair styled in a loose braid with a simple circlet similar to the one Aegon the Conqueror wore sitting atop. Bowing his head for a moment, the king lifts and offers his hand ( with the bronze ring she'd gifted him ) for her to take, an almost indiscernible smile subtly curving the edges of his lips.
❝ May I have this dance, my queen? ❞
