A Midsummer Night's Dream Prompt: "And though she be but little, she is fierce."
Preteen Auri and Aeri. ^^ So this rp could fall anywhere between 200 AC (9) to 203 (12) for our cousin twins, haha.
By this time, Aerion's mother had long been gone. Festives, hell the world itself, lost their color without her striking energy. Still, his father insisted on holding them, if only to maintain the barest appearance. Even then, his father seemed preoccupied with being a shadow under Uncle Baelor.
Aerion was a bit of a busybody either roaming with Daeron, pestering his younger siblings rather than tending to them, or chatting other children and adults with eyes they hadn't kept to themselves.
Presently he was mindnumbingly bored by the boys chattering around him about the usual trivialities. Aerion feigned interest only to appear the better of them but of course his attention already slipped elsewhere.
Aerion's lilac eyes sharpened with curiosity when he noticed Auriel being courted by some hapless novice who clearly had no idea how his darling cousin operated. Aerion would brush off, snark, or tease the boys comments idly, to continue his feigned role.
Ooh. He knew precisely how this would end. The novice cast as the perpetrator and Auriel the innocent damsel. Humans were forever forgetting she was made of fire. Just utterly ridiculous. Aerion was far from the emotional type, so he found their torment amusing.
A smirk remained twitching at the corner of his mouth waiting for it to happen, pretending to remain engaged in his current affairs. The inevitable disaster bound to go up in flames.
// @ask-aerion-brightflame
midsummer nights dream | accepting! | @ask-aerion-brightflame / @rapturok | oops this turned into a mini drabble sorry not sorry. read more due to length.
Though Prince Baelor’s only daughter had celebrated her twelfth name day scarcely a few weeks past, suitors had already begun to gather like flies around honey, each one eager to try his hand at wooing the technically now eligible princess. And Auriel wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of them.
She found the entire matter offensive. Not frightening, not flattering, not even particularly interesting, simply offensive. It was as though the moment the bells had rung for her name day celebrations, she had ceased being herself and become some prize to be inspected, praised, bargained for, and eventually claimed. Men who had paid her no mind when she was eleven now bowed just a hair deeper than before. Their fathers smiled too warmly at Prince Baelor and their mothers took careful measure of her gowns, her posture, and her manners; calculating what sort of wife she might one day make. Auriel hated it.
The feasts had grown worse for it. Once, she had loved the ambiance of court. The lovely silk banners of Targaryen red and black, the gleam of candlelight on polished cups, the music spilling from the gallery, the laughter rising and falling like waves at Blackwater Bay. Now every dance seemed to come with a hand offered by some lordling who imagined himself gallant. Every cup of watered wine arrived with a compliment. Every quiet corner became a trap.
They bored her. Worse, they offended her. Some were ugly in the face, with soft, wet mouths and eyes that wandered upon her too freely. Some were twice her age and looked upon her as though she were the finest dish to be served at that evening’s feast. Others were handsome enough in the way painted shields were handsome, bright and polished but entirely hollow beneath. And then there were the ones who might have been tolerable, had they not opened their mouths and proved their souls far uglier than their features. She found them all horrid in one fashion or another, and with each passing day, her patience frayed thinner.
On occasion, she managed to escape them.
She had become rather skilled at it, quite frankly. A neat curtsy with a sweet smile when she was feeling particularly kind. She would claim she had promised a dance to Valarr, or that Matarys had called for her, or that her cousin had been searching for her all evening. Sometimes she invoked her mother, which worked best of all; few men were brave enough to contradict a princess when she claimed a maternal summons. Then, before they could protest or attempt to follow, Auriel would slip away between courtiers and silks and jeweled sleeves like a silver dragon hatchling vanishing into the smokey air.
Most times, however, they ended like this.
With some puffed-up lordling standing before her, droning on and on with all the confidence of a man who had never once been told he was dull. He was not the worst of them, she supposed, though that was hardly a compliment. He was young enough not to disgust her on sight, but old enough to think himself terribly impressive. His doublet was a deep green velvet embroidered with gold thread, no doubt chosen to make his eyes look brighter. It did not. His hair had been oiled and combed with great care, though one curl kept falling across his brow, and he flicked it back each time as though the motion might charm her. It did not.
Auriel stood before him with her hands folded neatly in front of her, posture perfect, chin lifted, expression composed into the precise look expected of a princess. The picture of courtesy. Inside, she was imagining pushing him into the nearest fountain and laughing cruelly as his ugly clothing got soaked.
He spoke of beauty first, because they always did. Then dragons, because they all thought that terribly clever when speaking to a Targaryen. Then stars, then songs, then some tedious comparison between her eyes and amethysts that made her want to roll them so harshly it gave her a headache. He had clearly borrowed most of the sentiment from better men’s poetry and arranged it poorly, like a child stacking their wooden blocks too high and expecting applause from everyone around them as they fell down from poor construction.
Around them, the feast continued on in careless motion. Music drifted down from the gallery. Servants moved between tables with flagons of wine. Somewhere nearby, a group of ladies laughed behind their sleeves, though whether at Auriel’s trapped expression or the lordling’s performance, she could not tell. A few older lords watched with open interest, likely weighing the exchange for signs of favor. That only irritated her further. When at last the lordling finished, no doubt expecting her to blush, simper, or praise him for his efforts, Auriel merely tilted her head. For one long, terrible moment, she said nothing at all, letting the silence stretched until it was uncomfortable for them both and his smile faltered.
“Hm,” Auriel said at last. “You speak with the confidence of a much taller man.”
The lordling blinked as someone nearby choked softly into their cup. Auriel’s smile was small, pretty, and completely merciless.
“Go back to your little castle and tell your lord father that you failed. I have heard court jesters recite better poetry than that, and at least they possess the decency to know when they are being ridiculous.”
Color flooded his face, first pink, then red, then a blotchy, ugly shade that clashed horribly with his green velvet. His mouth opened, then shut again. For all his many, many words only a moment before, he seemed to have misplaced every last one of them. Good. Auriel did not wait for a response.
Without so much as another glance, she turned on her heel and walked away, her skirts swishing across the floor behind her. The movement was graceful and unhurried. A princess did not flee, of course. A princess withdrew and left the destruction politely in her wake.
She could feel eyes following her as she crossed the hall. Some amused, some scandalized, some disapproving. Let them stare. She was a Targaryen, they always stared. They had stared when she was too quiet, when she was too loud, when she laughed, when she scowled, when she danced with her brothers instead of strangers. Court made a feast of everything.
Across the room, deep violet eyes caught upon a familiar shade of lilac, and finally she felt relief. Her cousin was leaning near one of the carved pillars, looking far too entertained for her liking nearby some group of boys. He had clearly seen the entire exchange. Better, judging by the curve of his mouth, he had enjoyed it. Auriel made her way to him with the air of someone returning from a very tiresome battle, her chin still lifted, though now there was something distinctly smug in the set of her mouth.
“And though she be but little, she is fierce,” he remarked.
Auriel smirked and leaned against his side as though she had not just publicly flayed a lordling with nothing more than a few pretty words. Near him, at least, she did not have to pretend quite so hard. She could let her shoulders loosen, could allow the sharpness in her eyes to become mischief rather than mere defense.
“He wished to toy with the dragon,” she said lightly, smoothing one hand over the front of her gown. “One must assume they may get burned in the process.”
