#thygraves

[petitsdieu]

🦪... to join them in the bathtub ... aemond targaryen, @thygraves

Water's lipping at her decolletage in her supine position ( by all definitions ) … her eyes refusing him in any manner of acknowledgement. She tells a little lie, silently, by keeping her eyes closed and pretending to be too relaxed to notice him. Or to care. Or unawake altogether to avoid participating in this at all. It should be easy ... she's been sleepwalking through her womanhood entirely ⸺ her heart has survival wounds from muscle strain alone ⸺ Instead, she's never felt as naked as she does now.

It is no means a proper way to address a husband-to-be. But what is she suppose to do? To live on a bated breath of a yesterday's passion still felt between her legs is to live in a halfway world. It's tortuous firmament. It's inelegant skinning. The new beatitudes for auld faiths ... spilled seeds, divine fruits. God's hands on amorous clay pieces. She might die if he doesn't touch her again. She might die if he does. There's nothing she can do about it.

She opens her eyes. She watches him undress. She feels the weight of their cozy-fit-together in the otherwise roomy soaking tub. Her legs have to split for him. It's biblical owe. It's her owe, personally. Some would call this bathing together. But what they're doing is more akin to anointing one another in bath oil ⸺ soaking in each other's filth. They're sliding into roles made for them.

She does not want/need to hate him. Some part of her yet to be recognized wants/needs to love him. He's not squeezing in effortlessly.

Wide-eyed, she looks up to him. He's close enough now to trace the scar on his face. She does. Her own scar pokes through the water's surface. Her's on her knee. A knife wound as well. Non-accidental. She thinks of a third scar not yet in view nor existence. Will he bleed ichor, too? Are they destined to be the unequal parts of an even split? She overturns his hand to look at his naked palm and knows the next time she'll see it with this measure of intent, it'll match her hand. She doesn't look long. Her gaze finds the natural drift back to his. A breathe quiver her lesser lip before anything else.

❛ ... Were you not informed that I took ill today? ❜

Believable ... Transitions ( by way of illustration of travel or other new life adjustments ) can breed ailments. She can recall handfuls of guests back home that needed a day or two to recovery for their journeys and attune to new air. But she's suffering a different kind of sickness, evidentially, and she's got so little air whenever he's near. Either way ... she has a face that tells on her too much. She was never good at lying. She just didn't think that could transverse between messengers. Or maybe, her ailments don't scare him like they should. His face is hard to read. His body, however, transcends languages and her body converses accordingly. They talk so much when they rub.

[cerynitiis]

kissing the swell of your lover's breast. - cregan.

SHE EXPECTED VERY LITTLE WHEN SHE CAME TO WINTERFELL. she knew she would likely find her new home strange and cold, and that it might take a while for her husband, the grieving widower, to warm to her. she had not expected there to be love. yet the castle was full of it now: the love she held for the north and its raw beauty, for sweet rickon, who had become the apple of her eye, and perhaps above all for cregan. she had come to adore his gravity and quiet demeanor, appreciate the care he held for each of his subjects, whether kin or lords or smallfolk, and admire his determination and courage. indeed, she dearly loved every facet of him, and though she did not dare assume it as fact, she frequently caught herself thinking he must have grown fond of her too, especially after their prolonged separation. they shared a bed every night at least, ( and sometimes in the mornings as well ). elia has long since stopped sleeping in her own quarters: it seemed a hassle to have to wander from her rooms to his bed and vice versa every time, and more importantly, she no longer desired to spend the night alone, much preferring to drift to sleep in the safe warmth of his arms.

she is startled from her reveries by the warmth of his touch. cregan kisses the swell of her breast, a tender gesture that never fails to stir something in her. she sweeps her fingers through his dark hair in response, and looks down at him with a thoughtful, soft gaze. it is a marvel he can make himself feel so light, when his broad frame and weight could easily crush her; it must require quite some effort on his part. " careful, " she says, a small smile finding her lips. she briefly wonders if he has already noticed; surely he must have realized that she hasn't bled in a while. she has suspected herself for some weeks, after she missed her first month, had felt herself tire easily, and the smell of stew had suddenly made her feel sick. it was only out of fear of being wrong that she has waited to tell him at all. " they feel more sensitive as of late. "

@thygraves for cregan

[cerynitiis]

kissing your lover lazily first thing in the morning. - cregan.

the cry of a rooster, morning light filtering through the slits of the wooden shutters. despite the heavy blankets and pelts she can feel the cold of the passing night nipping at her feet. elia utters a soft noise of protest, not quite ready to face the day yet. she buries her head back into her pillows, eyes shut firmly, cheek pressed hard against the fabric as she attempts to will herself back into sleep. she knows it is a lost battle. the household is already awake; she can hear the footsteps from servant girls as they go from room to room, lighting the hearths, hushed chattering of maids waiting outside their door to dress her, and the shouting of someone in the yard, as well as the wildly irritating rattle of wheelbarrows being rolled over the frozen, uneven ground.

the second groan of protest turns into a soft laugh when she feels her husband stir, then move closer elia cranks one eye open, groans again and halfheartedly tries to roll away when she realizes he is already fully awake, always is before her. no sooner has she turned around, however, or she is dragged back into cregan's warm embrace. she peers over her shoulder at him ( his gentle, beautiful face ), feigning indignation when they both know how much she enjoys this game — they play it near every morning. " mhmm, " is all she utters. he kisses her then, before she can wish him a good morning, a kiss that is warm, and lazy, and still tastes of sleep. she leans, no, melts into it, half - turned in his arms, hips pushed back against him. only after a minute does she pull away. by then mirth dances in green eyes. she grins as she splays a hand over his face. " tsk. don't get me started before the day has even begun. there's about a thousand matters that require our attention, petitions from some of the smallfolk in winter town, the counting and distribution of grain, household administration ... "

@thygraves for cregan

[cerynitiis]

[   KNEEL   ]     ,     sender  gets  down  on  one  knee. - cregan.

WHAT POWER BUT LOVE is capable of bringing a lord to his knees ? cregan stark lowers himself to her level, a tree bending to the wind, a wolf bowing to the lamb. his tall, broad frame sinks to wooden floors as though in worship, as though she is his queen rather than lady, the object of his prayers instead of a mere mortal. she watches and trembles. the gesture is so reverent, so loving that she does not know what to do with herself. after a sweet moment's hesitation, gentle hands come to cup his cheeks, lifting his face so that their gazes meet. the orange of the flickering fire is reflected in his eyes, grey as the winter skies outside, grey as the storm clouds that gather. the warm glow of the hearth lights his skin too, breathing life into otherwise pale cheeks, crowning his dark hair. her heart gives a fragile thrum. she arches forward, curtain of chestnut hair falling over her shoulders, shielding both of them from the world, nose affectionately brushing his. there is but a brief pause before she closes the distance between them and kisses him, deeply, desire on the tip of her tongue.

forehead remains tipped to his when lips finally part. she nudges her nose against his once more. " my lord. " it has become an affectionate nickname. another kiss follows, more chaste this time, succeeded by a small smile. " and what have i done, to deserve such affection from you this night ? "

@thygraves for cregan

[cerynitiis]

a kiss while being reunited after a long time. - cregan.

winter fell softly. snowflakes flurry down, dusting the damp ground with their white like a silk cover. it was silent, absent the sound of feet scuffing the snow to keep warm, AS THOUGH THE WHOLE NORTH HELD ITS BREATH IN ANTICIPATION OF ITS LORD'S RETURN. elia casts an anxious glance at the heavy grey sky, instinctively holding little rickon closer to her, hand rubbing his back to warm him. though they had been told numerous times by the steward to wait inside where it was more pleasant, cold seemed a rather small price to pay to see cregan again. any fault she may have found with her husband before has been long forgotten, replaced instead with a deep yearning and affection. she had dreamt of him nightly, read his letters with rapt attention, wept unashamedly on those evenings when no raven came. countless hours were spent writing back with news of winterfell and his son, letters written by faint candlelight in his rooms — she refused to sleep in her own bed, preferring instead to lay her head on his pillows.

the long - awaited noise of horses nickering in the cold, the sound of their hooves dragging through slurry snow. there is a thick swallow when she catches sight of him at last, set upon his steed like a prince. the sinking sense of relief almost breaks her. she clings onto those last strands of decorum and sets rickon down gently, kneels next to him, caring not that her velvet dress drags through the mud. " go on, " she whispers encouragingly in his ear. " greet your father. "

fingers fidget. she waits as her station demands, poised and proud and tall, lovely and pale as the snow itself. flakes have made their home in her hair, woven like pearls in the chestnut, glistening where they have begun to melt. " my lord, " she starts when he approaches, meaning to curtsy, to lower her eyes, to inform him on the state of his home, but all sense is lost to her when she meets his gaze. what good are manners, what use old customs ? a sudden, gasped sob wrangles itself from her lips. she picks up her heavy skirts and strides towards him, collides with his broad frame and closes the final distance between their lips. his are cold but pliant, and taste of the salt of her own tears. she pulls away again and again to ensure he truly is there, trembling hands touching his face and shoulders and chest; she has dreamt of this moment so often it seems a mirage. there are a thousand things she could say, a thousand things she wishes to ask him. but the moment finds her wordless entirely; instead she draws in a shuddering breath and nudges her nose against his. she will kill the man who tears him from her now. " i have missed you terribly, " she manages finally, her voice low enough that only he may hear.

@thygraves for cregan

[cerynitiis]

"you hate me. i tolerate you. it will suffice." - nuada <3

it has been three weeks since their wedding. they have seen little of each other outside of their bedroom, spoken even less. any hope by their families that they may become fond of each other after that first night has been quickly snuffed out. to outsiders it would seem the marriage is doomed to fail. the truth of the matter is more complicated. for reasons unbeknownst to either of them, the two proud lovers are drawn to each other almost every night. the visits are not borne from love: they share no tenderness, no deep conversation, not even a gentle touch. rather there rages an almost furious, insatiable desire that frightens her to her core. it is as though the more he ignores her by day, the worse she yearns for him at night; equally as though every passing glower or glare from her stirs something deep within him.

she rolls out of his bed, immediately reaches for the linen shift on the floor. as ever, she refuses to look at him, as ever, she feels ashamed that she came to his door, and as ever, she says, " i should not have come. " though usually silence reigns thick between them, nuada replies this time. you hate me. i tolerate you. it will suffice.

she starts at the sound of his voice and turns around. eyes linger on him, sprawled in his kingly bed, the sheets, a wrinkled mess from their lovemaking ( if one could call it that ), barely covering him. she dislikes how seeing him like that makes her feel. " i do not hate you, " is all she returns. she picks up her heavy velvet nightgown, pulls it around her slight frame. " but you are right. it will suffice. "

[cerynitiis]

❛ pick a god and pray to it. ❜ - nuada <3

knelt beside their marriage bed, head bent in deference to the seven who are one, lips moving silently. the curtain of her chestnut hair, already unpinned, shields her from her husband's glower. despite his command ( pick a god and pray to it ), spoken out of annoyance or impatience or perhaps even nervousness, hands remain clasped in patient prayer. GENUINE DEVOTION, or possibly a way to delay the inevitable. " i pray to the crone for guidance, " she finally says, lifting her head. she looks upon nuada, eyes lingering on his silverlance features: the almost blue violet of his eyes, the pearl - like color of his hair, the markings that blight his young face. " to the maiden to thank her for this marriage. " brief pause ... neither of them believe that. " to the mother that we may conceive a child tonight. " i pray i can still grow to love you, she thinks. i pray our sons will look like you but inherit my heart. i pray our daughters look like me but inherit your fearlessness. she imagines what may happen if she bears him an andal son with dark hair and green eyes; if they will despise him as much as they appear to despise her. she knows such an heir will not be enough.

she stands and brushes the dust off her linen shift. slow and reluctant are the steps she takes towards him, nervous breath taken in through her nose. she can hear her heart pound in her ears. a small part of her wishes to touch his cheek, to comfort and caress, make an offering of peace perhaps; another side still wishes to run away home and never look back. she does neither. instead fingers reach for the ribbon that holds the neck of his shift together. she tugs a little too roughly, so that it almost pulls him forward. head tilts up to meet his gaze. suddenly she recalls the words spoken to her some days ago ( when the time comes i will do my duty ... i have never failed it before ), and determination seizes hold of her, a rare sort of courage that has previously deserted her; she knows that pride and challenge, despite her previous intentions, shine in her eyes once more. " i'm ready. do your duty, if you can. "

@thygraves for nuada

[cerynitiis]

"smile. they are watching." - nuada <3

she is no stranger to attention. songs have been sung in praise of her beauty and charm. seldom a feast went by where she was not invited to dance. there was no place in highgarden where curious eyes and whispers did not follow her. even the thick hedges and green canopy of the sweet - smelling gardens provided little privacy; always there was a maiden or servant or gardener around a corner, listening in on conversations, gazes burning in her back. BUT NEVER HAS ELIA FELT AS SCRUTINIZED AS TODAY. the great hall of house silverlance is filled with the merry noise of music ( lyre and flute and drums ) and chatter of those gathered to celebrate their union, the air thick with the scent of good wine and roast and quickly melting wax of the candles. most guests are drawn in conversation with each other, laughing, drinking, undoubtedly glad to have a feast, but it is hard not to notice the way they occasionally look at her. the women's gazes are filled with some pity, the men's are unusually bold, raking over her face and frame unashamedly, looking at her untouched plate and cup, followed every time by some remark to whomever they have drawn in conversation. she tries to read their lips, catches only bits and pieces. andal ... money ... ruin ...

smile. elia starts at the sound of her husband's steely voice. she drops her silver fork and looks at him, amber - green eyes comically wide. such a command may have been despised and ignored mere hours ago, but she found some comfort in it now. she knows not this family, not these people nor their customs, not as well as he did. he is her husband now. though he cannot not warm her heart and rather inspires fear, there is the strangest seed of trust nonetheless. she will need him to survive here.

the command is clear. she belongs to house silverlance now, and they must show no discord, no vulnerability. there are preying eyes and sharp tongues in this hall, eagerly trying to ascertain if this unusual marriage could be a sign of weakness, depleting funds or ill health. together hey must present a strong, united front, must pretend that are overjoyed with this union. it is an act she will be remarkably good at; ALL HER LIFE HAS BEEN A STAGE OF SMILES AND BLUSHES AND PLEASANT CONVERSATION, though admittedly it came naturally to her in the familiar halls of home.

a fragile and forced smile flickers around rose - red lips, taking a moment to bloom into something more genuine. hand is placed over his on the dinner table, gentle palm over rough knuckles, a pretension at fondness visible for all to see. she leans in close as a happy new bride might, and whispers, smile softer now but still present, against the shell of his ear, " thank you. " she chooses to linger close, nose briefly brushing his cheek. it is not unpleasant. " i know you mislike me. i know neither of us wanted this match. but i will try my best to do my duty by you. "

@thygraves for nuada