#kepyrys

The  Iron  Throne  was  hers  at  last.  Rhaenyra  sat  upon  it  because  she  had  to,  not  because  there  was  any  joy  left  in  the  victory.  The  swords  bit  through  her  gown  as  they  always  had,  cold  and  sharp  beneath  her  weight.  Lords  knelt.  Oaths  were  sworn.  Servants  hurried  through  halls  that  had  once  belonged  to  her  enemies.  King's  Landing  had  opened  its  gates,  and  the  banners  of  the  dragon  flew  above  the  Red  Keep  once  more.  None  of  it  had  brought  Jace  back.  The  thought  came  without  warning,  as  it  always  did.  Jacaerys  should  have  been  here.  He  should  have  stood  at  her  right  hand,  speaking  with  lords  twice  his  age  as  though  he  had  been  born  for  it.  Luke  should  have  been  beside  him,  restless  and  smiling,  impatient  with  ceremony.

her eyes had been glued to the books before her. she'd gotten help placing the books on the table earlier, but had been on her own for the most part otherwise. rhaena had intended to teach herself high valyrian. for a while she'd read the books in her spare time and hoped to get good enough for herself. in the back of her mind she heard her mother's encouragement. it definitely kept her going when she felt down about her actions. her sister had wanted to help, but rhaena insisted on doing this by herself. maybe once she felt ready and more comfortable she'd seek out her twin's help.

at  times  it  seems  that  what  was  left  to  her  in  this  world  was  merely  moondancer  ─  whose  pale-green  scales  shone  in  the  glittering  sunlight.  brilliant  in  repose,  head  curled  atop  outstretched  legs,  tail  sweeping  the  scorched  earth.  they  take  to  the  skies  with  great  flourish,  at  the  behest  of  the  queen's  will,  and  being  glad  to  do  so  has  no  baring  on  that  achy  empty  feeling  that  settles  deep  within  her  chest.  she  is  completely  alone,  her  betrothed  gone,  siblings  scattered  to  the  wind  ...  why  could  not  rhaena  be  here?  hadn't  they  been  parted  from  one  another  long  enough?  had  she  had  not  sent  her  own  sister  off  with  a  watery  assuring  smile  and  steady  hands?

Daemon Targaryen wishes things be his way without the having to defer to their Queen. The Rogue Prince — he is called as such with apt reason. Would Daemon have his way, Astarion believes he would compel him to take to dragonback and burn King's Landing to the ground.

Another moment watching the Targaryen prince ponder over pieces on a table, and Astarion abandons the comfort of the wall, hand guiding his descent down into the chamber, ❝ otāpagon hen aōha hembar nābēmagon, kēpus? ( planning your next attack, uncle? ) ❞ He uses the family relation in jest, his mouth curling into a snide smirk. Boots call his approach, and when he at last hits the bottom step, the lordling stands with his hands behind his back. ❝ emagon pōnta ȳdragon naejot ao? ( have [the pieces] spoken to you? ) ❞ Valyrian dances on his tongue — a song of their forgotten homeland and a testament to their ancient blood.

@kepyrys asked: do not fear me … everybody else fears me .

Violet   tainted   eyes   look   back   at   the   man   before   her.   That or   glimpses   of   it   are   rare   with   him,   Laena   appreciates   them   for   what   they   are,   as   she   appreciates   being   the   bare   witness   of   the   layers   under   passionate   eyes   and   a   grip   of   a   sword.   "If   I   had   feared   you   ,   I   would   had   not   approached   you,   Daemon."   His   name   rolls   with   ease   in   her   tongue.   Never   once   she   feared   him,   though   she   had   been   cautious   and   perhaps   always   will   be.

@kepyrys asked: Laena. Forgive me for what I said. I don’t want other women; I want you. What do you want from me?

Laena's  expression  softened  the  moment  the  words  left  his  mouth.  The  hurt  was  still  there;  she  could  not  pretend  otherwise.  Yet  hearing  Daemon  ask  for  forgiveness  instead  of  offering  another  excuse  eased  something  inside  her.  She  stepped  closer,  her  eyes  lingering  on  his  face  as  though  searching  for  the  truth  of  him  there.  "You  are  a  fool,"  she  said  quietly,  though  there  was  no  real  bite  behind  the  words.  "A  stubborn,  impossible  fool."  A  small  smile  touched  her  lips  before  fading.  "Do  you  know  what  angered  me  most?  Not  the  thought  of  other  women.  It  was  the  thought  that  you  did  not  understand  why  it  hurt.  That  after  all  these  years,  after  our  daughters,  after  every  road  we  have  traveled  together,  you  could  still  think  I  would  be  content  with  only  part  of  your  heart."

Laena  reached  for  his  hand  and  threaded  her  fingers  through  his.  "I  do  not  want  grand  gestures  from  you,  Daemon.  I  do  not  need  jewels  or  castles  or  songs  sung  in  my  honor."  Her  thumb  brushed  across  his  knuckles.  "I  want  your  honesty,  even  when  it  is  ugly.  I  want  you  beside  me  when  the  days  are  difficult.  I  want  your  hand  reaching  for  mine  without  thinking.  I  would  never  shun  you  for  speaking  your  desires  and  wishes.  I  only  wish  to  be  let  know  of  them,  if  they  ever  cross  your  mind."  She  does  not  think  of  him  as  a  man  who  would  father  bastards,  or  prance  around  with  a  mistress.  For  all  of  Daemon's  faults,  Laena  admired  his  loyalty  and  dedication  to  family.  It  was  one  of  the  things  that  had  drawn  her  to  him.  For  a  moment  she  simply  held  his  gaze,  affection  and  frustration  tangled  together  in  equal  measure.  That  had  always  been  the  way  of  them.

@kepyrys asked: Do not mistake my resolve for wanton cruelty. I do what must be done.

A  flicker  of  amusement  crossed  Laena's  face,  though  it  never  quite  reached  her  eyes.  She  had  heard  men  justify  harsh  deeds  often  enough,  lords  and  princes  alike  wrapping  necessity  around  their  choices  as  though  it  could  soften  the  weight  of  them.  Yet  she  knew  Daemon  better  than  most.  Better  than  those  who  whispered  of  him  in  halls  and  judged  him  from  a  safe  distance.  "Nor  do  I  mistake  you  for  a  cruel  man,"  she  said  evenly.  "Cruelty  delights  in  suffering.  It  seeks  it.  That  has  never  been  your  way."  Laena  rested  one  hand  upon  the  carved  railing  beside  her,  her  gaze  lingering  on  him.  There  was  steel  in  Daemon,  enough  to  frighten  wiser  men  than  either  of  them  cared  to  admit,  but  steel  alone  did  not  make  a  monster.

There was a time that Rhaenyra thought she was going to be the heir... mostly because that is what her father said many times over, even going so far as to name her his heir after stripping it from Daemon. But she should have known that to be too good to be true. A woman as heir? How foolish was she to believe that when all her life her father talked about needing a son to be his heir, and how the council wanted a man to sit on the throne after Viserys passed or grew too old to continue to rule.

Still, she believed him... because what reason was there to not belive in her own father? She believed every promise her father made and allowed herself to imagine a future where those promises might actually become something. And a future where she might prove every man on his council wrong about her ability to rule.

Her father, for one reason or another, took everything he has told her and promised back on his deathbed and named her uncle, Daemon, as the heir again instead. She learned about it during her final sitting with her father before he passed, along with the reminder that she was to be wed to Laenor as planned.

Which wasn't terrible, being married to Laenor. He was a kind man despite their inability to consummate their marriage, and she held no hatred toward him for any of it. But it still felt as though her life had been neatly decided for her and she had no control over anything. The crown was given to Daemon, while Rhaenyra was given a husband and expected to be grateful that she was not left with nothing.

“If you've summoned me to boast some more,” Rhaenyra spoke in that higher-than-thou tone she often used when upset and trying not to show it as she entered the throne room, her violet eyes landing on her Uncle where he sat on the Iron Throne. “Then today is not a good day for it, Kēpus.”

It hasn't been a bad day, by any means, but she has been purposely trying to avoid seeing Daemon. She didn't trust her own tongue on what she might say to him if they were left alone together, if it would be hurt or anger that showed first when forced to confront him.

Where she might have once looked at him with awe and devotion when she was younger, her view of him was now soured, and with very good reason in her mind. Every childish part of her that once believed Daemon understood her better than anyone else now felt painfully foolish...like most things in her life has been feeling as of late.

He knew what that crown meant to her. And he absolutely knew what it meant to have it taken away.