misereres (misereres) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-07-10 21:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! house targaryen, aerys targaryen, rhaella targaryen |
aerys & rhaella
who: aerys & rhaella targaryen
where: the red keep, king's landing
when: a few years post-duskendale
what: aerys has a breakthrough with wildfire, but rhaella isn't so sure...
Rhaella’s progress through the corridors between the king’s chambers and her own had been swift, the white-cloaked knight who followed in her wake entirely ignored. The quiet of her own rooms (airy, and perfumed throughout by the lavender grown upon the terrace) did little to settle the disquiet that grew tight in her chest; the unnatural green of the pyromancers' wildfire and the edge to her brother-husband’s thrilled smile were not easy things to set aside.
The words that she had not spoken at the pyromancers’ display (my love, this is not the heat you seek) were perhaps not ones to speak at all; the wildfire would surely fail to hold Aerys’ attention and warm him, just as all previous attempts had failed. And yet --
With a heavy sigh, Rhaella accepted the goblet of sweet Arbor wine proffered by an attending maid, taking out it with her into the cool of the evening.
Green was not a Targaryen colour. Crimson, yes, the crimson of blood kept pure, blood that ran into the black that was the ink of their device. No Targaryen was naturally drawn to green, and yet when the alchemists, on the command of a king grown desperate for a heat he had yet to find, plied their trade, Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name and long plagued by a chill that refused to be shaken from his bones, found a kindred spirit in those lurid emerald flames.
It had been a long time since he'd walked the halls of his own keep without the weight of furs upon furs piled upon his slender frame. Tonight, the furs remained where he'd dropped them, pale arms exposed to the evening air as he pushed his sleeves right up above his elbows.
How sweet it was to be refreshed by the breeze that kept Rhaella's chambers temperate even in the hottest of King's Landing's summers.
"What did you think?"
Her reply was slow, delivered as she turned about to the sound of his voice. “I think that the guild-men know their trade well, and showmanship besides.” Aerys’ lack of furs, and apparent comfort (something that she had not seen for longer than she cared to think on) was jarring, and Rhaella’s lips pursed slightly as she continued. “Their flames did nothing to move me, nor to warm me in ways that an ordinary fire laid in a hearth could not.”
“However.” She offered the slightest of smiles. “You are pleased, and that pleases me.”
“Showmanship?” A shake of his head, a characteristically sharp movement that displaced a strand of silvery-blond hair as he reached out for Rhaella’s hand. Her fingers were spread across the milky skin that lay just beneath the gaping collar of his shirt. “Warmth. Warm. No showmanship. Real.”
“Warm, yes, and real. For now.” A minute passed, as she felt his chest rise and fall beneath her fingers, and the undeniable heat of his skin. “They have no idea how long it will continue to warm you, only empty words and guesswork. I am glad you feel well my love, truly glad, but I remain somewhat sceptical.”
Aerys answered her with silence, eyes making a study of his sister’s face and revealing little of his thoughts even as the candles that burned within the room behind them glinted across the pale purple of his gaze. Somewhat sceptical -- no, he realized, she didn’t understand. Not yet.
A loosening of his fingers and he dropped her hand; his voice remained benign. “You have that luxury. I wish I did, but I am not so lucky as that. The wildfire will have to do, Rhaella. For now, at least. For as long as it does continue to warm me.”
“As you wish, of course.” Rhaella let her hand fall to her side, taking a sip from the goblet as she made her own study of his face. Aerys had never been easy to read when he did not wish it, even as a brightly shining young man; though her own mask was a strong one it was not of the same kind.
“Only you can know what truly warms you. If you say wildfire, let it be wildfire, in moderation.”
“Wildfire, then.” Aerys would not deny the thrill that ran up his spine, tripping along the depressions between each vertebra, filling him with -- relief. Thank the Seven, for there was an answer to his prayers. He would be cold no longer. He could return to who he was before they had made a cold and crippled king out of him.
“-- in moderation.” A smile, then, easier than it had been in months, and angled only for Rhaella. “Sister. My defender. Things will change. We can... continue.”
Rhaella dipped her head. “Yes, I fervently hope they will.” The idea of a return to the Aerys of long before was one she did not entirely know what to do with, but though her disquiet had not passed, his resolve (combined with the new warmth of his skin) drew a truer smile from her in reply to his own.
Continuance, of their line and the strength of rule that had preceded them, was a vital duty left too neglected in recent years. Not a pleasant thought for Rhaella (for all their son was the light of her days) but one which nevertheless required attention. “And yes, my brother, we will continue when you are recovered.”
Turning, Aerys extended his arm and let his hand sweep across the lavender that grew thick and sweet on the Queen’s balcony. “I am recovered now.” For how long? -- the treacherous whisper in the darkest recesses of his mind went ignored. “Even in moderation, wildfire -- a tonic.”
“Indeed, yes. But surely we should safeguard your strength, Aerys.” She took the hand not swept wide within her own as the smell of lavender intensified, the quality of its heat (for Aerys often burned despite the unshakable cold inside of him) still something of a marvel. Rhaella hid the surprise behind another smile, as she squeezed his fingers gently. “I would not have it fade away again, however potent and effective this tonic.”
Surprise rose in kind within Aerys’ chest, sparked by the touch of her fingers. “How is it that you remain so cool, Rhaella?” His thumb slid into the hollow between two knuckles, pressing firmly down as though to seek and draw out the warmth he suspected had absconded.
A pause. Then: “Dragons do not burn.”
“Why, my fire is tempered within me brother. I never grow cold, though I am cool.” She raised a brow at the pressure against her hand, Aerys appearing to wish to bring forth heat from her skin at a touch. “True, dragons do not burn. And I am simply a different kind of dragon; I am not chill, I assure you.”
“Are you not?” Aerys did not sound convinced by this explanation; suspicion suddenly coated his words as an unbidden thought rose up. “This is my doing. The cold. Duskendale. You were not like this before.” The pressure dealt by this thumb lessened, only to be replaced by the press of his hand as he wrapped it around his sister’s delicate wrist. She was his, she was his birthright, and now that he could think clearly (for the first time in a long time), the possibility of having given Rhaella the disease that plagued him loomed near and dangerous. “There is a cure for this.”
Her eyes fixed on his grip upon her wrist (just on the edge of discomfort; even when unwell Aerys’ grip had had a certain sharp strength to it) for a long moment before they met his own once more. “I cannot remember anything other than this, Aerys, and I feel quite well.” The cold is not infectious; it is only your blood that freezes, not mine.
“What would you have of me?”
As ever, your support and love. Trust. Heirs. Obedience. The twin of the smile that Rhaella had witnessed (and was so disturbed by) during the pyromancers’ presentation now inched across the sharp angles of his face.
“Heat.”
Rhaella’s expression did not falter, despite the edge to his smile which caused a knot of unease high in the queen’s chest. But I am not cold, I do not freeze. I am temperate in all that I can be, and the body follows the nature. “How, Aerys? What proof of heat?”
His gaze held hers a moment longer before it flicked down; his hand followed, exchanging its grip around Rhaella’s wrist for the stiff, sharp line of her bodice.
“As I said: I am recovered.”
Twisting slightly in his grip to set her goblet down upon the ledge of a lavender box, Rhaella paused to close her eyes for the briefest of moments, before turning back with a mild expression, one of simple acceptance (no warmer than before, though no colder). “As you wish, then. Shall we retire?”