misereres (misereres) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-10-30 17:48:00 |
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It was commonly said that Dornish blood ran the hottest of all the Seven Kingdoms, and on the last day of the Harrenhal tourney Elia Martell would attest to the truth of it: behind a mask of public courtesy, rage was white-hot and fuelled by a new pain. And so after her public due was done (the first to clap, the slightest smile her armour against pitying looks and smugness both), and her women dispersed, it was to the abandoned archery ranges that the princess went.
The maid waiting with a bow in the Dornish style -- plain but entirely familiar -- and a quiver withdrew as soon as her mistress arrived to claim them, and so aside from her guards Elia was alone. As much as she longed for company, to scream, to weep, clarity was required of her and the swiftest way to that was silence and focus.
Each arrow took her closer to the centre of the target, took her closer to clear thought.
The white cloak did not grant Jaime immunity from fascination -- his short time in service to Aerys and his family had done much to wipe clean whatever naive notions he still held about the duties and so called honour of serving as part of the Kingsguard, but his growing familiarity with the king’s depravities did not mean he knew the son. Barristan’s love for the prince bordered on the fanatical, but it was the brotherly relationship between Rhaegar and Jaime’s own mentor, Arthur Dayne, that softened the young Lannister’s opinion of a man who had come too close to inserting an insuperable barrier between him and his sister.
And the day’s events had merely sealed his gratitude for the failure of a merger between Houses Lannister and Targaryen. At least Cersei is spared this. But it was not his sister’s face he watched as the deathly silence held the crowd in its grip, but Rhaegar’s, the king’s, and then, finally, the Dornish princess’.
Many would say that Elia Martell was the image of courtly composure that day, but they did not know the things royal bodyguards did, could not see the telltale signs of emotion tightly bottled up and withstood. Smiles that held too firmly but failed to touch the eyes. Pale hands. Bloodless cheeks.
Later that day, the regular rhythm of the thwack of arrows as they met their target led Jaime to the all but abandoned range, where a nod of his head sent the household guards withdrawing by several feet. Watching Elia, he immediately understood what she was doing -- this was not shooting for the sake of shooting.
The presence of another was noted and set aside (a man and so not Ashara, white-clad and so not her brother, tall but not so tall as her uncle) as Elia emptied her quiver, four arrows clustered in the centre of the target painted on a straw boss. It took a long moment to return from where she had been, after which she dispassionately evaluated the placement of her ten arrows and stepped forward to pull them from the target, returning all but one (the dark wood split down the middle) to her quiver with meticulous care.
It was on her return that she greeted the knight, Jaime Lannister, her mother’s first choice of husband for her (the thought was amusing at any other time, now it was merely another reminder of the Tourney’s close). “Well met, Ser. You rode well today; do you also favour the bow?”
“My shooting has been called perfunctory at best,” came his reply, his hands linked together and coming to settle before him as he studied the princess’ appearance. Something of the gentle composure was gone -- good, came the vicious thought. No one here is as righteous as they’d like to be, and steel, not silk, will be what saves you.
“I am to watch you until you return to ready yourself for this evening’s closing feast. You may ignore me and carry on as you were.”
“Oh, may I?” The bite in her tone was not aimed at him, but rather at the good-father who had surely sent a white shadow to watch his daughter-in-law. “That is good to know.”
For some time it seemed as though that would be it, as she lifted her bow once more, checking for hairline fractures with clever, slender hands before taking stance to shoot. But as she lifted arrow to the bow Elia spoke, as if continuing an already begun conversation: “We collect our arrows barefoot in Dorne, even when the heat is great. There is a saying --” Elia paused to return to focus for long moments, her arrow striking the target within the gold but just short of the centre before lowering the bow and continuing. “There is a saying that the path between the archer and his aim is a strip of paradise.” She glanced over at the knight for a moment before selecting a second arrow. “But it is not practical here.”
That word -- practical -- was ludicrous enough in the context of the dynasty that held the throne of Westeros. Though he felt the beginnings of a smile itching to set itself upon his lips, Jaime waited until the next thwack of an arrow finding its mark before replying, the usual hint of mocking laughter that danced in his voice when it came to conversing with his twin in public now muted in favour of something altogether more genuine. “The first lesson, and often the hardest. I hope you didn’t come here, princess, expecting practicality. You’re better off with a good pair of shoes.”
“And perhaps a heavier coat,” Elia quipped as she selected another arrow, the feather fletching dyed deepest red. To add thickness to a Southern skin, she might have added, but that was not right in the fullest sense -- Elia Martell had been the near the centre of storms of rumour since birth, and knew how to withstand them well. This pain was as much betrayal as the gaze of the Kingdoms. But as son of Tywin Lannister, and youngest member of the Kingsguard for decades, she thought that Jaime Lannister might understand that quite well, all things considered.
“I came here for the tournaments, of course.”
“As did I.” The fashion was to effuse over the elegance of the prince’s hands, but Jaime’s gaze was now drawn to Elia’s -- slender, yes, and darker than the standard set by the southron packs of simpering well-bred women (and Cersei’s), but their easy handling of the bow and arrows did nothing to diminish their grace. Instead, to his trained eye, their skill merely emphasized it. “You shot well,” he added, returning the earlier compliment. “Do you imagine the faces of your enemies when you take aim?”
“You are kind.” She took her moment to shoot, before making reply. “On occasion. I try not to, though -- the bards’ songs about us are all lies; emotion ruins the truest aim. Passion will carry you far, but it is serenity that takes an archer closest to perfection.” A smile then, small and true and fleeting, the first since the beginning of morning (which seemed to her so long ago). “I used to imagine I shot dragons when small, if you believe it.” Today I might again.
“Ser Arthur would agree with you. Our weapons should be extensions of ourselves -- do we move our arms only when spurred on by happiness?” A pause, then, as her latter words invoked the image of the colossal skeletons that inhabited the Red Keep, each one named, each one beloved, each one a familiar entity that Aerys warmly greeted as he led his youngest son by them. No more dragons to kill, only mad men. “I hope you are not inclined towards prophecy, princess.”
“Just so. Though perhaps I am more romantic than your brother, I do believe that the soul is involved. But not emotions, not properly.” Her quiver empty, Elia turned to him fully for the first time after she had returned to shooting. “Prophecy? I am far too mundane Ser, ask anyone you like.”
As she set off to reclaim her arrows (a better set than the last, another step closer to full control), she called low back over her shoulder: “But the day is yet young.”
The thin hint of a smile was the closest he would get to a laugh whilst officially on duty. “Far from mundane, I think is what you meant, princess. Ask anyone you like.” Especially after today -- but that did not need to pollute the air.
Her arrows retrieved, she gazed at him for a long moment with the eye of an archer, not a princess or a woman. “You might try a recurve from the Summer Isles; hardly traditional, but then neither are you. It would raise you above perfunctory at any rate, should you wish it. I see why the longbow does not suit, and nor would our composites.”
She took aim with five arrows before picking up the strand of their conversation once more, the ebb and flow of their talk almost as calming as the arrows now (a surprise, that, but not unpleasant). “I hear it is quite unpleasant to be shot in the shoulder.”
Jaime had gotten used to interminable stretches of silence -- they were welcome things when the alternative was a volatile king’s rages -- where thoughts of his twin kept his mind sharp and his limbs loose. But the gentle pattern of his conversation with Elia was pleasant, and slipping back out of wordlessness was not so difficult. “I wouldn’t know,” was his reply. “I have never been shot in the shoulder, nor do I care to be. As for shooting...” A shrug. The fingers of his dominant hand itched. “I’ll take it under advisement. Recurve. As a rule, a lance is the most distance I want between my opponent and myself.”
“That’s an answer in itself, then.” Selecting her favoured arrow from the set (its flight the sweetest, and its arrowhead the sharpest), she took another shot at the target, her aim this time roughly the shoulder area of a man. “Owch.”
“Well, if you must shoot, there it is. As for lances, I’m afraid my interest is waning in them somewhat; I’d rather see a horse raced than see a man tilt on one. The sword and spear I appreciate, however. There is an intimacy there.”
In the context of today’s mishap, putting a face and a name to the invisible person whose shoulder Elia so deftly aimed for was not difficult. “Any man who fights for a living and says he does not appreciate the intimacy of a kill is lying to you,” was matter-of-fact through his still thin smile. This applies to many of the men in your life, Elia Martell. “I believe an arrow through the buttocks is as painful and comes with the added agony of humiliation.”
“Ah, but the shoulder is almost permissible; I am but a woman, and was aiming for a bird.” The slant of Elia’s lips belied her words; if not mundane, then certainly not a woman to be discounted in such a way either. But Aerys’ court brought out caution in the boldest and the middle Martell child (the sun to her brothers’ spear and land) had a growing inclination towards it, since her marriage. Mournfully, now: “There is no such excuse for piercing a buttock.”
She ran the edge of her thumb along the edge of an arrowhead, no broadhead for war but deadly nonetheless; beautiful in its simplicity. “Do you think me so deceived?” Not my mistake, that, though I have made many.
But a woman? Despite his tendency to control every inch of emotion that lay manifest on his face, Jaime felt his smile loosen and widen into something more genuine. “You are the Princess Elia. No one will believe you were aiming for a bird.” Which meant: no one will believe you missed a shot you set out to hit.
As for her question, her first words that cut to the matter that weighed so heavily upon her: “I think you have finally opened your eyes to the temerity of dragons, your royal highness.”
She accepted the implied compliment with a nod, an almost-laugh. “The double-edged blade of reputation strikes again.”
Her gaze moved away from Jaime then, towards the targets and then further out again, past all signs of the Tourney (pennants and pavilions) towards the Gods’ Eye -- a shimmer of blue on the horizon. “The heart believes what it wants to believe until there is irrefutable proof otherwise.” I will never again forget that I share my bed with a dragon, am the dragon’s wife and chose (in as much as I had the power) to be so. I walk down a path of my own making now.
“And so I must choose to shine blinding bright -- ” the word burn had been on her lips, but those within the circle closest to Aerys had long since stopped using that word lightly “-- or eclipse. What say you, Ser?”
I say I am glad that my sister was dismissed as a suitable match. But you do not deserve the fate she was spared from. Such words, however, would not touch the air through his lips. “I say you must learn to turn yourself to stone.” Perhaps that was the more damning response? Stone does not burn.
“Wise words.” It was a long time before her eyes met his once more, the only sign of emotion there a hint of self-deprecation in her eyes, touching the corner of her mouth. “When has natural inclination stopped a person becoming something when they put their mind to it? I shall think granite, sandstone, marble each night before bed, devoutly.” She left unsaid the rest -- the petrification of the queen’s soul, the recurring desires to ride away from King’s Landing to the deserts and the sea beyond even before this, the killing power of stone. It was not needed.
A short bow of his head. “A serviceable chant, no doubt, and sandstone will surely not be too difficult for you to recall. When he speaks of Dorne, my sworn brother Lewyn would have us all believe that sand is his lifeblood. For me, it is sea-spray.” No need to add that Aerys’ beloved green flames could consume both stone and sea. Unnatural.
“Sand and the juice of oranges, yes. Though I can understand the appeal of your sea-spray.” Sunspear had its own salt-heavy air and cooling waters, though it was not at all like that of Casterly Rock. “We are all made of such things.”
Elia smiled then, a fleeting smile that spoke not of stone but of things far more human before she turned back towards the towering pile of stones that was Harrenhal castle. “I will return now. I am grateful for your company and your counsel on this day, Jaime Lannister. Truly.”