@princetigelaar : 🌿🍒 ( send “🌿🍒” (or "mistletoe") for my muse's reaction to standing under the mistletoe with your muse )
fresh flowers had been plucked for the occassion, cut carefully, with weaving clear in mind; poinsettia, amaryllis, holly, hydrangea, rose and daffodil - woven with an expert's hand with bundles of ivy, and evergreen and bound and suspended to stretch across pillars, held fast with a shining silver clasp etched with the three headed dragon of her house, adorned with cranberries spread out in what looked like beads of blood from this distance ( the princess had been responsible for bringing them, she had flown over twice in the proceeding turn of moon to measure, to be certain that she had gathered just enough of them ) not too many, the sum needed to span the length of the display set up for her father's courtiers and other guests, and no further, for she did not want any to go to waste, in this. in the entryways, upon the thin overhang opposing the sills of the still open windows that were meant to aid in ventilation, upon the small passageway of greenery that separated the castle garden cobblestone from the smooth brick that lay without, visible due to the brightness radiating from the wide propped open double doors of the feast hall - mistletoe was strung.
it was tradition, after all. the exchange of a kiss for the promise of good fortune should any chance under it with another. though she had spotted a few, she had not seen where all of them had been hung — out of view, high above, she would guess. to make the game more fun. golden gilt candleholders lay incrementally along tables of polished dark oak, set with cloth, cup, plate and utensil, in between each interval, as well topped with a lit beeswax candle - the throne room was lit with the fires of dozen of little flames, warmed, too, to the point the bite was taken out of the evening air that seeped, at times, blew, in others, a long winter's night that had grown gradually worse, of late. t'was a chill that crept clawed fingers up the length of her spinal cord, and dug deep down into bone everytime she considered the uncertainty of it. she disliked things that were not certain, things that were stretched out gradually ( when she did not know when a thing might happen, if it would happen ) things that could not be assured, so that she might begin to plan - to discover how she would react to the happening, so she might control it. contain it, so she would react, yes, but in a manner in which there could be no critique.
she had been looking for them, while seated. hoping that she was not being too obvious in it, to at least know, where. quick, casual glances at an angle that would have placed it well within the princess' periphery — and had seen naught, since. and it had been then that she had felt at ease enough to rise without fear of a surprise. and it could well be in other corridors, beyond this one. outer and inner, hung from the space where the two of them met, in antechambers, too.there was the possibility that rhaenyra had not missed, anything. and he was here, now.. and it was only polite, after all, to move to greet him, to strike up conversation for a time. and so up the princess rose in a rustle of silk skirts ( she should have settled on the velvet gown, she thinks. she had known it then and now - the maroon one with a tighter inner sleeve that provided more warmth then the one she had worn; a pale silvery blue that was far more silver then blue, embroidered in gold thread with curling vines. it had been warmer, yes, but the velvet gown had been... she knew, unremarkable, in comparison. it would not have been the one anyone would have wanted to see )
the movement helped, however. and as soon as she had reached him, the corners of her lips began to curl upward, near unbidden — familiarity, and fondness, and the sudden stirred embers of delight, and the slight raise of the princess' chin so that she could look him in the eyes as she spoke, " you came after all, " with the cadence of an observation, and yet, the pitch of her words has risen, slightly. genuine happiness seeping through rhaenyra's attempt to remain courteous, a bit distant - perhaps, but welcoming, all the same. her voice softens, then, as she speaks, " i shall consider it a holiday blessing, fiyero, " it is accentuated with the momentary lower of her chin. though it is still odd, to her, to use the prince's given name. much less to do so in any sort of public environ, and yet he had insisted, and so she had swore to try, at the least, " now, the two of us can keep each other's company, " if he wished, of course. and so doing perhaps feel at the least a little less alone then they might have, surrounded by so many people, " and perhaps — "
a bundle of leaves tied at its stem with a small red ribbon suspended, little white berries. her lips purse. white brows knitting, and smoothing, knitting the slightest bit once more, and smoothing. would he think that she had known, that that was there ? she had not. she had thought she had seen all of them in the hall. amethyst and pale cornflower eyes flick back to his face, " do they have mistletoe, in oz ? ... and the traditions, surrounding ?" voice the slightest bit faint, distracted, she glances above them with a little jerk of her chin, " it would appear that we've found ourselves under it. though 'tis is not one we need take part in. we can say it was my own choice, and have that be the end of it. "
and have it have been her whom it was said had refused to play along with a thing so simple - lighthearted, a game that ought to be played by those willing to play it, and not anything in which he might have even begun to feel as though he had any sort of obligation in any sort of way to perhaps save her from the embarrassment of being spurned, in this. it was better that she take blame, that she be the one that was considered not sporting, too serious to the point of being wearisome. they would blame her anyway, and even if they would not, if that were the price, she would pay it, freely.
