you are walking down a corridor. then a room—
the door splits open, and inside, a young man looks up. the room is familiar, of course, though it is distant enough that it only touches at the edges of recognition. of course, for its occupier, the young man – nay, the prince – looks at ease amidst this barely-recognised chamber; the expanse of it, the darkened stones of it that blurs from a faded memory into the old stones that makes harrenhall. he is surrounded with books and scrolls, this prince, and he is reading one of it when he meets your eye, not at all surprised by this entrance.
in fact, it as though he has well anticipated it. in the pool of his violet eyes, the young prince seems to only raise an eyebrow, like he is bemused by the spectacle that he is witnessing. what now ? it almost says, although with none of his father's impatience, merely the concealed delight of one who has often dealt with these confrontations, with these abrupt interventions.
❛⠀do you have need of me, then ? ❜ the prince asks, effectively shutting the tome on his hands shut. he stands, and he is slender but a bit stout. like someone you know. when he smiles, the softness mirrors whatever gentle expressions you and your siblings could have had harboured, if your grandsire had not first haunted it. ❛⠀— or i'd imagine you wouldn't have have sprung across the room like the end of your coattail is on fire. ❜
the spectre smiles, the amusement is as clear as the water that drips down this old castle each time it rains.
the young prince steps closer, squinting now, as though time itself shakes loose; it gives this prince a new knowledge to toy with, to consider. recognition warms his violet eyes. ❛⠀oh, aemond, you've grown, haven't you ? ❜
for @vhgr : you know what's happening. a haunting viserys.
