( survival is a funny thing, isn't it? it comes in so many shapes, from a ferocity of a blade to a ferocity of a lie and anything in between (is accepting duty itself not a form of survival, too?) more than that, this experience is proving time and time again that powerlessness is no feeling rhaenyra wishes to hold. that it serves to ignite a fire inherent to her very blood and inspires her to stand steadfast. it might be easier — or rather simpler — to shake free of the bonds with which she comes here. the necessity of power, the interplay of politics, all gone.
but the truth is just as simple — it is all she has known. and in some ways, unlike alicent who had been shaped and bound by duty at the cost of herself, rhaenyra knows who she is. strip away the crown, the title and the inheritance and she is still fire and blood. she is still that which can bare her teeth and sink them in if she has to, despite the uncertainty with which she has grappled with in her time here.
if she has spent less time arming herself with words that couldn't be used against her, careful of being too direct else it might be yet another slight for otto hightower and alicent to levy against her within the consistency of their rivalry, she would be less hesitant of speaking openly here and now.
she's careful, to watch the other woman's face — the polite smile (the sort of polite that reserved for distance, the sort practiced in courts and wielded akin to swords) — and how it shifts to something else.
rhaenyra's posture remains stock-straight, but there's curiosity in how she watches yennefer, with a light tilt of a chin, in how she follows her movements and how there's unabated surprise that crosses her expression when she speaks.
it had been a long time since she felt hope; or rather, it had felt like an eternity, since princess rhaenys announced her father's death, had proclaimed an usurper had stolen her throne. rhaenyra does not feel whole, half a person and half an ember, the rest of her still scattered (between worlds, now). back with her father (did they burn him, like a proper targaryen?), back with her beautiful visenya (ashes in the wind), back with her boys sent away into the horizon towards an unknowable end and even back with daemon, all vicious madness and fire.
so when hope flourishes in her chest, in shallows her breathing. the hardness of her gaze softens, just a little. it would be foolish to trust so readily, and so blindly, so she knows she will tread carefully — and yet her directness is received with just the same. common ground is much closer than you think, and the footing does not feel so impossibly slippery. ) I am relieved to hear you say so, Lady Yennefer, ( a quiet admittance, before she can build the pieces back up. she swallows, as the other woman approaches. ) I'd — spent more time in court than out of it. Directness is often misconstrued. ( is supplied, for small context that might have been obvious enough without.
whatever perfumed oils are in yennefer's hair, it's a distinctly delicate scent that settles around her senses — like lilacs and gooseberries. rhaenyra nods. ) — Of course. Thank you.
no subject
but the truth is just as simple — it is all she has known. and in some ways, unlike alicent who had been shaped and bound by duty at the cost of herself, rhaenyra knows who she is. strip away the crown, the title and the inheritance and she is still fire and blood. she is still that which can bare her teeth and sink them in if she has to, despite the uncertainty with which she has grappled with in her time here.
if she has spent less time arming herself with words that couldn't be used against her, careful of being too direct else it might be yet another slight for otto hightower and alicent to levy against her within the consistency of their rivalry, she would be less hesitant of speaking openly here and now.
she's careful, to watch the other woman's face — the polite smile (the sort of polite that reserved for distance, the sort practiced in courts and wielded akin to swords) — and how it shifts to something else.
rhaenyra's posture remains stock-straight, but there's curiosity in how she watches yennefer, with a light tilt of a chin, in how she follows her movements and how there's unabated surprise that crosses her expression when she speaks.
it had been a long time since she felt hope; or rather, it had felt like an eternity, since princess rhaenys announced her father's death, had proclaimed an usurper had stolen her throne. rhaenyra does not feel whole, half a person and half an ember, the rest of her still scattered (between worlds, now). back with her father (did they burn him, like a proper targaryen?), back with her beautiful visenya (ashes in the wind), back with her boys sent away into the horizon towards an unknowable end and even back with daemon, all vicious madness and fire.
so when hope flourishes in her chest, in shallows her breathing. the hardness of her gaze softens, just a little. it would be foolish to trust so readily, and so blindly, so she knows she will tread carefully — and yet her directness is received with just the same. common ground is much closer than you think, and the footing does not feel so impossibly slippery. ) I am relieved to hear you say so, Lady Yennefer, ( a quiet admittance, before she can build the pieces back up. she swallows, as the other woman approaches. ) I'd — spent more time in court than out of it. Directness is often misconstrued. ( is supplied, for small context that might have been obvious enough without.
whatever perfumed oils are in yennefer's hair, it's a distinctly delicate scent that settles around her senses — like lilacs and gooseberries. rhaenyra nods. ) — Of course. Thank you.