𝚃𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝙻𝚈𝚂 .

N : I hope you see that our relationship goes no further than this, and that… you won’t expect to continue. In that case I can guarantee your success upon the stage.

Natalia Vodianova for Guerlain’s Shalimar parfum

smile  falters  at  recognition  of  failure.  there  was  self-hatred  blossoming  within  the  river  lord  because  if  he  could  not  get  rosemund  out  of  their  father's  last  action,  what  fool  was  he  then?  what  kind  of  ruling  lord,  leader  of  vassals  and  head  of  a  family  would  he  if  he  could  not  break  her  free  from  the  chain  forged  by  a  dying  man  and  dragon?  a  hand  falls  upon  sisters  shoulder,  and  the  hurt  he  tries  to  hide  so  heavily  from  her  escapes,  if  only  for  a  moment.  he  would  do  his  utmost  to  get  her  out,  to  set  her  free  from  the  chains  so  she  once  more  could  be  a  forest  nymph.

"i  would  like  nothing  more  than  to  go  back  home,"  a  gentle  push  is  given  to  slender  sister  to  move  as  this  conversation  should  be  kept  between  them.  the  river  within  his  sister  was  strong,  the  waterfall  unrelenting  and  her  words  could  perhaps  become  her  grave  one  day.  "we  keep  to  ourselves  and  I-"  he  wanted  to  tell  her  he  could  break  her  free,  but  as  of  right  now  he  held  nothing  in  his  hands  which  the  dragons  wanted  more  than  her.  "this  is  not  a  conversation  amongst  people,  let  us  venture  back."

"though i suppose you must find me exaggerating my own size," and my import, "to find the capitol of the realm too small." a concession, than, this next question. a thing much like the feel of his hand patting atop her own: but a small kindness.

"is it different from the skies, my lord?"

gratitude  tints  his  concern,  equal  in  parts  for  her  honesty  and  the  trust  that  allowed  it.    ❝    i  would  never  ask  you  to  conceal  the  truth  of  your  feelings,    ❞    aeryn  murmurs.  a  pretty  platitude  masquerading  as  a  promise,  though  there  were  times  it  never  even  occurred  to  him  to  lie⸻clumsy  missteps,  childhood  reprimands  to  say  nothing  if  he  could  only  manage  what  they  called  meanness.  even  today  he  cannot  quite  make  the  distinction  between  fact  and  supposed  cruelty,  and  so  he  has  always  been  tempted  to  silence.    ❝    there  are  places  in  the  red  keep  that  might  give  you  the  solitude  you  seek,  but  i  suppose  open  air  too  is  a  fairly  high  priority  ...    ❞

even  the  mere  mention  of  starfyre  is  enough  to  bring  a  giddy,  boyish  grin  to  his  lips.  true  interest  sparks  a  glimmer  in  his  eye,  rumbles  in  his  chest  like  his  lady's  fire  and  spews  forth  from  his  throat  just  as  uncontrollably.    ❝    there  is  nothing  quite  like  riding  on  dragonback,  lady  rosemund.  i've  heard  some  try  to  compare  it  to  being  on  the  high  seas,  but  there's  a  weightlessness  to  it  that  just  cannot  be  replicated.  although,  i  suppose  my  technique⸻more  of  a  crouch,  not  astride  like  one would  ride  a  horse⸻lends  itself  to  the  sensation.  there  is  nothing  holding  me  to  the  dragon  save  her  reins  and  some  straps  clipped  to  my  boots,  you  see.  others  will  bridle  their  dragons  if  they  can,  slip  a  saddle  over  their  spines  to  the  poor  animal's  discomfort,  but  this  is  the  best  position  for  both  her  and  me,  my  qēloszys.    ❞

oh,  he's  spoken  too  much.  stupid,  foolish  boy.  no  one  wants  to  hear  this.  no  one  wants  to  hear  you.  eye  averted,  the  prince  finds  a  new  audience  in  his  shoes.    ❝    forgive  the  tangent.  sometimes  i  forget  to  let  myself  breathe.    ❞

❝    ñuhyz  laehossa  tista  issi.  ziry  jorraelan,  yn  ...  kōz  trēsy  iksan,  daor  ?    ❞    there  were  prying  ears,  aeryn  knew.  their  cousins  were  no  stranger  to  their  shared  heritage,  a  common  tongue  practiced  within  the  blood  and  to  the  beasts  joined  with  them  on  the  hilltop.  but  the confession was not their father's to hear,  and  perhaps  that  was  the  most  important  part  for  aeryn.   starfyre  chuffed  behind  him,  a  sound  almost  like  a  laugh  to  match  the  ill-suited  smile  that  curved  her  rider's  lips.  perhaps  it  was  for  the  best  that  sgaeyl  had  lit  the  shroud.  aeryn  loved  his  old  girl,  but  to  be  frank,  she  was  liable  to  snap  the  late  princess up  between  her  jaws  and  swallow  her whole.  wouldn't  that  be  a  fitting  end  for  a  targaryen,  lost  in  the  guts  of  a  dragon  ?  a  laugh  bubbled  in  the  pit  of  his  throat,  forced  back  down  by  a  bowed  head.

a  wicked  son  indeed. the flames seemed to crackle in agreement. smoke rose in pillars⸻from his mother's lips to the gods' ears.

domeric  could  recall  days  when  he  had  clung  to  ros's  skirts  with  the  pudgy,  sweaty  hands  of  a  child  — when he could pinpoint her head in a crowd as if sharing the same hair gave him supernatural powers of location when it came to only her. now, those memories festered between them. all of his childlike devotion and all of her protectiveness had sat, for years, rotting. now they were left with a silence that was only broken when they wished to prod at the other's misgivings, using words as arrows that always found their targets, no matter how concealed they were. and yet the feelings of kinship come so easily, rushing back in, forced to the forefront of his mind by the vestiges of the boy he'd been born. he who existed before they'd lost their mother and he'd slipped silently beneath the surface remained the steadfast keeper of his love for all of his siblings  — not solely rosemund. now, dark eyes find dark hair, and the shade is as familiar a sight as ever. “ ros. ” no matter the distance, the nickname finds its way from his tongue easily. “ do you not have duties ? of the mourning sort. ” he was her brother, he knew of her stance towards her betrothal, and yet he asked anyway. drew blood where it was not needed. the leech. he looks at her with a bored expression, chin tilted down and gaze aimed upwards.

"brother." the younger, the one who had at one point most bared her image ⸻ not that familiar hair but the trace of her shadow, the mark of her protection on his breast. sweet dom, as much her's as anyone's. even now, furred in his outgrown curls and the thick bark of muscle as if to hide, she knows him. her heart brags at the sight: a refrain of love and vexation. "of which do you speak ⸻ the tearing of gown or beating of breasts?" hands tucked into the jade silk of her sleeves, rosemund's stride is slow, weighted with the purpose of one who knows her path. "i can perform them now if my impiety displeases you, dom."

no seer as her cousin, yet visaera beckons the future before it arrives: splitting for the lord reyne's side she sidles toward the crest of the street, the crust where stalls line like so many boughs of weeds, her gait slow. she moves like a spill of quicksilver over ice, the preternatural grace of something poisonous to the tongue. the white line of her drawn by some lovedrunk artist, the rattle of her adorned dress the sound of the seven rolling dice: i bet that there is no other like her.

lady rosemund brings a pleasant atmosphere to the swamp witch’s impulsive adventure.   with all that has happened and with all that will happen,    it is a much needed distraction.    “   do you enjoy cooking,   lady tully? “   a genuine question for she herself is not a good cook.    nor a decent one. 

when the trout  stops near her hips and swims still in its place,   she makes a move.  hand reaches under the surface,   quick as a whip,   aims for the fish’s gills for the most secure grasp  —   it seems  the events have taken a deeper toll on her as her fingers merely brush against the scales.   disappointment finds its place in her voice, not yet surrender. 

cheerfully:   “ let me try again just for you,   my lady. “