#messanique

A quiet shake of the head ; even her tresses do not sing, for they have been bound, braided, and wrapped in sleeping silks. So lost in thought, she cannot even remember how long it's been since she dismissed her handmaids, urging them to partake in the festivities raging on in the audience chamber below. ‘Leave me and go enjoy yourselves. I shall expect the most riveting tales from all of you come morning,’ she had said, pressing sweet kisses to their cheeks, returning their girlish grins with a tight smile of her own. She ought to be celebrating, as well, lamenting aching feet and wine-stained fingers — — — and delivering the most elegant of toasts to the legendary Joso's Cock.

Rhaella won't lie and say that Dany's birth was a happy, peaceful day -- it was a wild April storm deep in the southern countryside, in a half-abandoned mansion with no one around except for eight-year-old Viserys, Willem Darry, and Father Bonifer, none of whom knew anything about giving birth (you see, Daenerys was just early enough to throw a wrench into Rhaella's birthing plans, but not early enough to be overly worried about the fact -- though with her history, Rhaella did, in fact, worry a lot). The storm lasted as long as Rhaella's labor did, and afterward? Oh afterward, Rhaella doesn't remember ever feeling that peaceful; just from holding her, Rhaella could tell that Dany was different from Shaena, from Daeron, from Aegon, and from Jaehaerys -- she was built from the same stern stuff as Rhaegar, and Rhaella knew this baby of hers would live, and not even be sick as Viserys was as a toddler. It was nighttime by the time Dany was born and they both were cleaned up -- still raining, though not enough to be classified as a storm still. Darry kept Viserys occupied by making peach cobbler and lemonade from the fruits that fell off the trees outside, and they feasted on that to celebrate Daenerys Hope coming into the world. (There might be other desserts and traditions through the years, but Rhaella always has lemonade and peach cobbler made for Dany's birthday).

But truthfully, Dany's half-birthday is the most special day to Rhaella. This day, more or less, coincides with when Rhaella discovered she was pregnant in the first place. Whatever else might have surrounded Dany's conception, the news of her existence lit a spark in Rhaella. It was the first time she was pregnant since Viserys, and she was determined for this one to live, too. To ensure that, she knew she had to get away from Aerys. And she did it; Dany's way of sparking rebellion, enacting change, ensuring people's freedom began first with her own mother. That shift in her, that newfound hope and desire for life, is not something Rhaella will ever forget, so she has to celebrate it. When early October comes around, Rhaella puts together a brunch that will last until supper (ideally just mother and daughter, but Rhaegar and Rhaenys are welcomed too) and will give Dany personal gifts (an old locket that was once Nana Betha's; Rhaella's favorite book from her childhood, worn and yellowed; Granny Shaera's old diary; things of that sort) while they talk, and laugh, and cry, and finish an entire bottle of champagne between them. While Dany's birthday is an event with shopping and trips and events galore, her half-birthday is meant to be intimate, just the two of them, so Rhaella can pass on how important having a daughter, having Daenerys, is to her.

day to day, kara tends to dress quite simply, preferring to be comfortable and able to freely go about her business without being too precious about her clothing, and there is often an undoneness to her manner of dress. mostly she will wear a wool dress (though admittedly very fine wool), or sometimes linen, with little adornment — some embroidery or woven trim or simple jewellery. and while she has several of varying designs, her favourite cloak is made from a thick, modestly trimmed heather red wool. her colour palette is broad, though she gravitates towards more muted shades and colours that compliment her hair, and is exceedingly fond of green, as well as mauve. she also likes her shoes to have a pointed toe, which is more a personal quirk than anything else. at court and as queen she does wear much finer dresses of imported silk with much more decoration, even owning several items if gold and silver cloth. however, even these she has a way of wearing with little pretension, and it's rare that she uses her clothing to make some greater statement.

she does have occasion to wear clothes of rougher quality, particularly in her exile and when aiding pagan refugees in camelot, so as not to draw attention to herself. in these times she tends to choose skirts that are easy to gather up out of the way and cloaks that let her conceal her face, often of darker colours, though she still has her favourites. she also wears a leather belt on which she will carry her dagger and purse.

SENTENCE  STARTERS:  THE  BEAR  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE  BY KATHERINE  ARDEN

@messanique ASKED I saw a shadow, and it had teeth   (RHAEGAR)

"The gods have eyes, you know." She said, tucking her hands around her shins as she pulled them close. "they cannot see as they once did, but we are still within their view."

Where has her mind gone? A trap, it could be a trap set to ensnare a lonely soul ; and, gods above, wouldn’t this be the perfect moment? Where the Sorrowful Man had failed, evident in the manticore's grotesque, smeared remains ( its nearly human face, somehow intact, stares up at her, unseeing . . . venom stings her throat ), a Faceless Man could surely complete the task. So many enemies, she collects them like an enchanting lady collects favors from lovers. Ser Jorah must be thinking the same, the way he extends a powerful arm to shield her, his shining sword braced in the other. However, it is futile, for there is nothing that can stop her advance, and with ease, she shoves past, dodging the staying hand, ignoring gruff barks of protest.

That voice, it is . . . it is — — — a song : a song she dances toward with reckless abandon, conducted by the indigo of his eyes and the silvery-gold of his hair and the stunning angles of his face. His is a face she ought not recognize ( despite how, in his visage, she finds her own ). He'd been banished, exiled to the cold ends of the earth before her mortal wails shook Dragonstone and ripped their mother from this world. In visions, she has seen him, stares locking as he murmured over a lovely Princess and precious babe. In dreams, why, she has embodied him, driven by some perennial closeness ( always imagined, now made real ), adorned in armor glittering with rubies. “I am who you know me to be,” she whispers, eyes swimming in tears imbued with inquiry, with wishes. Hands lift, not to banish those descending drops, but to cup his cheeks in affectionate wonder.

This may be no more than some sweet mirage, but she does not care. If she is doomed to die here by an assassin’s blade, let it be her cherished brother’s face that guides her to the night lands ( into the embrace of her sun-and-stars and the darling son who never drew breath, who would never know his namesake ; sorrow flickers, a dim candle in the darkest spot of her heart, and is promptly extinguished by resolve ). To look upon him, to hear him, to lay, even, a hand against him . . . It will have been worth it. Worth it, indeed, to gaze unflinchingly at fate and choose temptation.

The Last Unicorn (1982) starters.

@messanique ASKED ❛  In my heart I carry such a heavy load.  ❜ (RHAEGAR)

She had kicked Brandon in the shin when he wouldn't dance with her. She had kicked him again as hard as she could just as Ned said he would dance in Brandon's stead. He kept the peace. If she kept them near her then Robert couldn't ask, and as the night progressed he'd become too drunk to anyway.

She had laughed while she danced and had very little attention to being led throughout the dance-- Ned knew her well enough to let her lead when she wished to, lest he be at risk of his toes being stomped on.

She was all smiles and laughter throughout the night. How could she be anything less when the festivities begged for such a mood?

It was the harp that made her cry. The melody and harmonies within the echo of each note sang a moving story that begged for some emotion to say it had been properly heard. There was no music like that up in Winterfell where the gods had eyes to see who walked there. She had never heard a song like that.

She could not help but be moved.

Her hands had been folded in prayer around her cup as she sat there with tears flowing down her cheeks. When Benjen moved to jest at those tears, the prayer in her hands broke to empty the contents of her holy cup upon his head.

She should have dried her hands, but they still held drops of wine like it was blood on the outside of her body. She was only sent to wash those hands and think about what manners of a noble lady were meant to be.

emily i am turning this around @ you: