BREAKSPEAR ,

❛  do not speak to me of when you are gone.  ❜ as it is, they had come far too close to that very scenario becoming a reality he would have been forced to inhabit, had the strength of his uncle's arm proved truer. and valarr, perhaps foolishly, had found himself entirely unprepared for the possibility, regardless of whatever readiness he had imagined himself to possess. it is one thing, to contemplate a life without one's father, many years from now, long since touched by age and the wisdom it imbues — it is another entirely to have one's father abruptly, violently, ripped from your hands. tongue loosened by fear, his words are a blade, cutting cleanly through the air stretched taut between them. so sharply, in fact, he nearly expects to see the lacerations on his father's skin as they find their mark, and they burn with a cold that steals the breath from even valarr himself. the heel of his palm digs harshly into his sternum, as though the pressure will coax his lungs into filling once more.

his mother had been the first to discover his tendency to become short of breath when overwhelmed by strong feeling, a creeping sense of dread stealing across his skin and leaving tremors in its wake. jena had found him curled up beneath his bed, that first time, eventually coaxing him out with soft voice and gentle hands — he wants nothing more than to be safely ensconced now. he wants his mother. he wants to sink into his father's arms and allow himself to be comforted, reassured, as he hasn't been since he was small. but valarr is used, by now, to denying himself that comfort; there is no place for weakness in a prince of the blood. on that much, at least, he can agree with his cousin. the bite of his nails sinking into the flesh of his palms as he curls his hands into fists, the ache of the strain in his knuckles, it is all a grounding pain, which brings the world back into sharp relief — he hadn't realised his vision had begun to soften and blur at the edges. there is a loathsomely breathless quality to his voice, when he finds it again, indignation having loosened its hold on his words at last. ❛  what it says is that my uncle is either unwilling or unable to take a firm hand with aerion, and certainly incapable of curbing his worst, most contemptible impulses.  ❜

he sights, resigned, at the mention of aerion. “ that was not what i meant. ” though that boy is a problem. he should have realized it before, and he does not relish in the knowledge it had slipped by him, but he knows it now. he needs maekar to put his household in order, and fix this problem, or he will need to get involved and he can already imagine the resentment that would breed. the last time him and his brother had argued on one of his children, they had not spoken for far too long afterwards — and his opinion of aemon had been flawless, compared to the one he holds on aerion now.

“ his cause was the same as all knights' ought to follow — he swore the same oaths you and i swore, when we received our knighthoods. ” the same daeron and aerion had sworn. how many men had knelt and been knighted, and then had not kept their oaths as they ought to ? ser duncan had not been wrong, no matter how law had tied his hands in what he could defend and dismiss, and the knowledge that no one else would ever had stood for what had been correct at their own risk feels almost as though it were burrowing in him. he can feel the dragonknight's presence still, though his great uncle had been dead and burnt by the time a kinsguard had knighted baelor. still, it was impossible to forget aemon targaryen, and more impossible still to ignore the question of what he would have made of the entire matter.

Court fashion part 1

@hammerthe :  ❛ you'd tell me if something was wrong, right? ❜  —  morbid curiosity prompts

       weary  and  deep  purple  eyes  shifted  from  maekar  and  aerys  with  their  tutor ,  to  baelor  who  was  now  at  his  side .  rhaegel  pressed  his  lips  together  firmly  as  his  eldest  brother  spoke ,  wondering  how  long  he  had  been  there  —  and  silently  praying  he  had  not  seen  too  much  of  his  longing .  rhaegel  did  not  often  wish  to  burden  his  eldest  brother ,  for  he  knew  he  had  a  great  many  more  things  to  learn  as  the  crown  prince .

❛ mm, yes, i suppose. ❜  there  was  a  long  pause  and  finally  a  breath ,  ❛ ser quentyn wishes to speak with me... and father. ❜

       his  eyes  immediately  shifted  from  baelor  towards  his  feet .  it  seemed  almost  easier  to  talk  to  baelor  if  he  pretended  he  wasn’t  there ;  it  could  almost  be  as  if  he  were  speaking  only  to  himself ,  and  not  burdening  his  eldest  brother .  the  leather  of  his  boots  wrinkled  as  he  tilted  his  feet  upwards  then  downwards  as  his  hands  found  the  seat  of  the  bench  and  gripped  it  tightly .  rhaegel  was  not  entirely  certain  if  he  was  holding  it  to  support  himself ,  or  if  he  simply  needed  something  tangible  to  hold  in  his  hands .

❛ it's been almost a year, and... i haven't gotten any better, at any of it. ❜  his  nails  dug  into  the  wood .  ❛ even maekar is better than me, and he's still only a page. ❜

“ does he ? ” he asks at the mention of ser quentyn, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he sets his sight on the knight for a moment. for all the doubts he carries about the man, from how close he seems to be at times with daemon and how he looks at father nowadays, he was one of the best knights he had ever met and had remained as such. there was nothing he could say on his instruction, to him or his brothers, so it was likely what he had to tell father was worth listening to, at least. he had been overseeing rhaegel's training for years, now, and if someone were to know about it, it would be him.

hasty swing.

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