Half Pint
Palindrome
Framing A Moose
LadyRunic
Jamesyco
MarshalSolgriev
ErsatzEmpress
Bingelly
ChronicleManCollab with @Ruby
The tournament ground was abuzz. In the bright light of mid-morning, the very day that the tournament was set to begin, the Blackfyres had arrived.
The call had carried through the assembled throng, passing from servant to servant, knight to knight, lord to lord. With fanfare to match the Targaryens from which their line drew, the sons and daughters of Daemon Blackfyre had arrived in force. His eldest twins had lead the way, garbed in the red plate that they had styled for some time, accomplished knights as they were in their own right, receiving no small share of the glory of adulation in their arrival.
Even that paled next to what was to come, a wave of anticipation that rippled through the throng of already gathering small-folk and attendants that suddenly crashed into life at the figure many had travelled great distance to see. The armour that clad his body was black, darker than night, contrasting with the flowing red of the tabard atop it. His features were concealed behind a helm, but it was instantly recognisable, the temples flaring into the wings of a dragon, which trailed into the rim of the visor, ending in two draconic mouths. The third head was formed in engravings on the crest of the helm, catching the light such that even with the darker colour, the visage was clear. The cheering begun before he was even in sight to most, the first cry of his name drifting to him as he spurred his steed into motion, from trot to canter, leaving behind the wheelhouses which brought the non-riders of his assembled retinue.
“DAEMON! DAEMON!”
It was a greeting the rivalled any of the house of the dragon, and to many, he was. A true blooded Valyrian Prince, born of a Princess and Prince-to-be-King. A monarch, if not for chance.
“DAEMON! DAEMON!”
The cries continued as he moved into the first clearing within the tent-city of the tourney grounds, riders, his sons among them, fanning out to create a cordone around their sire, Blackfyre banners unfurling in the morning glaze, the soft wind enough to stir them into life above the thunder of hooves. The cheering reached crescendo when the Blackfyre sire halted his steed and pulled his helm free, held under one arm. The same wind that caught the banners threw back the silver-gold hair which framed his royal features, violet eyes as deep as any Targaryen’s had been for generations sparkling with mirth at the well wishes of the crowd. Each individual those eyes passed over felt a momentary, personal, connection to Daemon. He had that ability, an easy, effortless, charisma which burned as brightly for the commoner as it did the high lord. In those moments, the strain of life faded away. The endless struggle for vindication. The love of the crowd didn’t discriminate between Targaryen and Blackfyre. But it was a fleeting love.
Then that gaze fell instead to the view of Summerhall, rising majestically over the camp and tournament grounds.
Reality came crashing back.
“I will go to the palace, announce us to our hosts.” Daemon spoke as the eldest of his son’s drew near, handing the lance he bore in his other hand to him as he did so. “Behave yourselves, the first lists are not long hence.” The comment was made with mirth and it brought a laugh from Aegon.
“As you say, Father.”
The mood was far quieter close to the palace, set back as it was from the nearest open space where the tournament could be struck. Still, the sound and smell of so much human activity reached here, passing over pristine gardens, bouncing from perfect artistic stone. There was nothing quite like Summerhall in the Seven Kingdoms. To many it represented everything that the Targaryen lineage had fallen to, that they wished Daemon to replace and rebuild, but he did not think so.
It was a dream of what could be, the kind that had taken Targaryens from lords in the sea to Kings of a continent.
He swung himself out of the saddle of his horse, handing the reigns to a particularly attentive page boy.
“Good, hard work builds strong knights, you’ll be a ser yet.” Daemon smiled to the lad, pressing a coin from his saddlebag to his palm. “Make sure you don’t lose her.” He jested, although the young man hadn’t quite recovered from registering just who’s steed he had collected. He was still standing in place when Daemon began his walk through the last of the gardens to reach the entryway to the pristine palace. He did not rush, drawing in the beauty of the gardens. Once could get lost for a lifetime here, and spent it all in idyll beauty. A thought for another lifetime, perhaps.
He stepped through the open doors, the atrium was cool, the palace built first to deal with the heat of Summer, as would suit a structure raised in the heart of the Reach. He imagined in winter’s a cold mist would settle on the land, great fires would have to be lit, but it would never be a harsh cold, not here.
Already he could hear the frantic muttering and scrabbling feet of servants, scurrying from him to inform someone important enough that the head of the black dragon had arrived. He did not mind the pause, it gave him some time to inspect the majestic atrium, with the roar of human activity a long way off.
“Quiet.” He breathed to himself, enjoying the moment.
The page that found her was white, and out of breath. She didn’t let him finish, the moment he got the name and location out she had turned and was walking, but the pace wasn’t unusual. Casual, her face a pleasant thing of secret smile and beauty. There was no surprise, there was no stress. In a way, it was the strangest happy feeling she had ever felt. Like some relief that’s unimaginable, until it was here.
And it was here: it was time to begin. Finally.
A gown of pale purple sandsilk that draped over her shoulders in wide straps, dragon fire embroidered around the sleeves and bodice in gold thread. Golden dyed sandals were on her feet, strapping up her leg, disappearing under the bottom hem of the dress. Her Valyrian hair fell behind her shoulders, artful tumbles with no hard curl, shining like she was a princess afforded the ability to take great care of her appearance.
The scent of her would’ve hit him before her voice came up from behind him as he looked about the atrium: like lavender, but sweeter, and fainter. “Hello, Daemon.”
The tone of voice behind the greeting was soft, but not out of sweetness or the dictums of manners. This was a deeper softness, the profound nostalgia of a heart greeting something it had been sadly waiting for. The affectionate melancholy was there in her eyes and on her eyes, behind a small wisp of a smile and purple eyes that had seen Daemon before.
“Princess,” It was a more formal greeting than her own, but it held no less warmth, spoken a little too quickly after her own to be a reaction to her words, but instead to the felt presence of her, both the air of the scent that dance from her, and the motion of her approach. He turned his head, but made no effort to address the direction of his form, no need to address the proximity of her unless he should turn to do so. He allowed that state to linger for some time, before he did act, turning to face her, and dipping his head in a proper, courtly, greeting. Still, he stood close, closer than the dictats of royal respect should allow.
She was very much like the breeze that danced about these halls, drifting in and out of the life others lived. His life, a fleeting glimpse of her. He wondered, in a moment of artistic indulgence, if she lived as others did when not observed, or was she some fae creature to ever skirt the mortal world? If that could be true, it would be in her.
“I am sorry to have arrived unannounced, but there were delays on the journey, I thought it best to make myself known sooner, given the time of the tourney draws close. I cannot say I am too dismayed, however, that it is you here to greet me, and not your uncle.” It would be a stretch to say Daemon hated any of the Targaryens in truth, for all that his cause set him against them, but of all of them, the least complicated of feelings was with Maekar. There was little warmth there. “It has been a long while, and this cooling sun shines a little brighter for your company.”
“…no, you’re not,” she said it in a whisper; a secret between just them that she, beyond all his natural doubt, knew. “Although that answer’s the question of if you’d like me to fetch the Prince of Summerhall for you.”
No. No he would not. It didn’t matter. She knew it didn’t matter. She waited, waited for the surprise, waited for the bits of it all that she couldn’t see. Like words on a book’s page that were ink-blotted or blurred by stain. Or as she described it to Aelor: like trying to see when a drop of rain has hit your eye. Squint, and you’d see enough, but some of the details were all but impossible to make out.
What did he want? Why was he here? Why was it important that she was?...what did he want from her?
The realisation cut without pain, a shock, but not one that disarmed, instead confirming some of what he came to seek. A recognition between them that cut away, rather than add to, the barriers between two souls.
“I am told you still dream, that you study our past as you always have.” It wasn’t so much a surprise he would still have knowledge of what occurred within Summerhall and the Red Keep, not least from his mother, who despite her want to roam freely, was still a fixture at one royal court or another. In the years of his half brother’s reign he had seen less and less of the twins, fleeting glimpses. The familiarity should not have been there, but it wafted freely from her, as gently as the folds of the silks she was clad in, bringing yet further truth to the validity of his suspicions.
“Our house has been shackled by a fear of what we were, or a lack of understanding. Magic, dragons, dreams, those were the true three heads.” His voice was low, not so much as to be conspiratorial, but quiet enough to be clear they were for her, and not the benefit of wider listeners who were no doubt about at all times in such places. “Show me.” He spoke those final words without demand or desperation, an understanding that they were matters of her understanding, and not his own, no matter the stock he already placed in them.
“Some nights I dream only of a door in snow. Then it grows dark, I feel a cold that has cruel intent, and all I see is falling snow…but I belong there. I’ve been there before; I will be there again. In the dark, with that cold, in that snow.”
Lavender eyes had faded from his as her words dove into the depths of dreams, seeing what she had only dreamed as if it was just over there beyond him. When her words ran out, she went silent, though her eyes stayed there for moments longer. Watching that snow fall. It broke when her eyes fluttered under full lashes and darted down, to the stone floor, before sweeping right, then left, head turning to even peek behind her, before she found the tips of her toes in those leather sandals, bringing her mouth closer to his ear before she revealed a whisper more hushed and quieter than most desperate secrets.
“The water wizards and the dragon lords, the longest shadow the world has ever seen looming in the east…wait.”
She was gone with impressive speed, all but running out of the space and through an arched doorway, disappearing like a silk wraith around a corner. For the near run, the soft sound of her footsteps against the stone floor would have announced her return as she slowed to walk around the corner and back out the arched doorway. Her skin touched with a little flushness, a little color, as her scent was twice as strong after the sudden, quick, quest.
She drew close and slowed even more, holding the item in her hands: a precious thing, a personal treasure without any doubt from the way she held it so tightly with both hands, looking at it, at him, back to it, and finally back to him. A small book bound in light brown leather. If he were to flip through it, he’d find a book of mostly filled pages. Scribbles, sketches, and a collection of her own private notes, from dreams to obsessions to mysteries in between the two. The writing was in elegant, thin, strokes of ink.
She held it out the foot or so between them, and nodded a reassurance, more to herself than to him. Show me, he had said to her. “A taste.”
He had not followed her, the pace at which she had flown from the room, that might have been concerning, seeming natural to him in the moment, an inkling, as if passively drawn from her, of the ability she had to see beyond what was freely offered.
His hands pressed gently around what was offered, not being so undiscerning as to open it before her, with an unspoken knowledge of what it would contain. His touch was as cautious as if she had handed him the crown itself, if not more so.
“Thank you, Princess, it will be returned to you.” He gave a smile of reassurance, that in contrast, very much was meant for her, and lacked no honesty. No matter what his ends or means, he would do so. The the smile became more courtly, and his words took on the volume that those royal conversations, made for everyone else in the room, seemed to have.
“Look for me in the lists, without your father present, I will have want for a challenge.” Even with the pretence of royal personality adopted, it was not arrogance. The two men were matched in their prime, and even still, that victory had been so shocking as to earn the man his nomer. Without the other to test skill against, one could crown the other the victor at the start and be done with it. He did not bow his head low, and his vision lingered upon her, but there was no disrespect. Only the promise of the future.
Questions, Answers, Dreams
The Day Of The Tourney
The tournament ground was abuzz. In the bright light of mid-morning, the very day that the tournament was set to begin, the Blackfyres had arrived.
The call had carried through the assembled throng, passing from servant to servant, knight to knight, lord to lord. With fanfare to match the Targaryens from which their line drew, the sons and daughters of Daemon Blackfyre had arrived in force. His eldest twins had lead the way, garbed in the red plate that they had styled for some time, accomplished knights as they were in their own right, receiving no small share of the glory of adulation in their arrival.
Even that paled next to what was to come, a wave of anticipation that rippled through the throng of already gathering small-folk and attendants that suddenly crashed into life at the figure many had travelled great distance to see. The armour that clad his body was black, darker than night, contrasting with the flowing red of the tabard atop it. His features were concealed behind a helm, but it was instantly recognisable, the temples flaring into the wings of a dragon, which trailed into the rim of the visor, ending in two draconic mouths. The third head was formed in engravings on the crest of the helm, catching the light such that even with the darker colour, the visage was clear. The cheering begun before he was even in sight to most, the first cry of his name drifting to him as he spurred his steed into motion, from trot to canter, leaving behind the wheelhouses which brought the non-riders of his assembled retinue.
“DAEMON! DAEMON!”
It was a greeting the rivalled any of the house of the dragon, and to many, he was. A true blooded Valyrian Prince, born of a Princess and Prince-to-be-King. A monarch, if not for chance.
“DAEMON! DAEMON!”
The cries continued as he moved into the first clearing within the tent-city of the tourney grounds, riders, his sons among them, fanning out to create a cordone around their sire, Blackfyre banners unfurling in the morning glaze, the soft wind enough to stir them into life above the thunder of hooves. The cheering reached crescendo when the Blackfyre sire halted his steed and pulled his helm free, held under one arm. The same wind that caught the banners threw back the silver-gold hair which framed his royal features, violet eyes as deep as any Targaryen’s had been for generations sparkling with mirth at the well wishes of the crowd. Each individual those eyes passed over felt a momentary, personal, connection to Daemon. He had that ability, an easy, effortless, charisma which burned as brightly for the commoner as it did the high lord. In those moments, the strain of life faded away. The endless struggle for vindication. The love of the crowd didn’t discriminate between Targaryen and Blackfyre. But it was a fleeting love.
Then that gaze fell instead to the view of Summerhall, rising majestically over the camp and tournament grounds.
Reality came crashing back.
“I will go to the palace, announce us to our hosts.” Daemon spoke as the eldest of his son’s drew near, handing the lance he bore in his other hand to him as he did so. “Behave yourselves, the first lists are not long hence.” The comment was made with mirth and it brought a laugh from Aegon.
“As you say, Father.”
The mood was far quieter close to the palace, set back as it was from the nearest open space where the tournament could be struck. Still, the sound and smell of so much human activity reached here, passing over pristine gardens, bouncing from perfect artistic stone. There was nothing quite like Summerhall in the Seven Kingdoms. To many it represented everything that the Targaryen lineage had fallen to, that they wished Daemon to replace and rebuild, but he did not think so.
It was a dream of what could be, the kind that had taken Targaryens from lords in the sea to Kings of a continent.
He swung himself out of the saddle of his horse, handing the reigns to a particularly attentive page boy.
“Good, hard work builds strong knights, you’ll be a ser yet.” Daemon smiled to the lad, pressing a coin from his saddlebag to his palm. “Make sure you don’t lose her.” He jested, although the young man hadn’t quite recovered from registering just who’s steed he had collected. He was still standing in place when Daemon began his walk through the last of the gardens to reach the entryway to the pristine palace. He did not rush, drawing in the beauty of the gardens. Once could get lost for a lifetime here, and spent it all in idyll beauty. A thought for another lifetime, perhaps.
He stepped through the open doors, the atrium was cool, the palace built first to deal with the heat of Summer, as would suit a structure raised in the heart of the Reach. He imagined in winter’s a cold mist would settle on the land, great fires would have to be lit, but it would never be a harsh cold, not here.
Already he could hear the frantic muttering and scrabbling feet of servants, scurrying from him to inform someone important enough that the head of the black dragon had arrived. He did not mind the pause, it gave him some time to inspect the majestic atrium, with the roar of human activity a long way off.
“Quiet.” He breathed to himself, enjoying the moment.
The page that found her was white, and out of breath. She didn’t let him finish, the moment he got the name and location out she had turned and was walking, but the pace wasn’t unusual. Casual, her face a pleasant thing of secret smile and beauty. There was no surprise, there was no stress. In a way, it was the strangest happy feeling she had ever felt. Like some relief that’s unimaginable, until it was here.
And it was here: it was time to begin. Finally.
A gown of pale purple sandsilk that draped over her shoulders in wide straps, dragon fire embroidered around the sleeves and bodice in gold thread. Golden dyed sandals were on her feet, strapping up her leg, disappearing under the bottom hem of the dress. Her Valyrian hair fell behind her shoulders, artful tumbles with no hard curl, shining like she was a princess afforded the ability to take great care of her appearance.
The scent of her would’ve hit him before her voice came up from behind him as he looked about the atrium: like lavender, but sweeter, and fainter. “Hello, Daemon.”
The tone of voice behind the greeting was soft, but not out of sweetness or the dictums of manners. This was a deeper softness, the profound nostalgia of a heart greeting something it had been sadly waiting for. The affectionate melancholy was there in her eyes and on her eyes, behind a small wisp of a smile and purple eyes that had seen Daemon before.
“Princess,” It was a more formal greeting than her own, but it held no less warmth, spoken a little too quickly after her own to be a reaction to her words, but instead to the felt presence of her, both the air of the scent that dance from her, and the motion of her approach. He turned his head, but made no effort to address the direction of his form, no need to address the proximity of her unless he should turn to do so. He allowed that state to linger for some time, before he did act, turning to face her, and dipping his head in a proper, courtly, greeting. Still, he stood close, closer than the dictats of royal respect should allow.
She was very much like the breeze that danced about these halls, drifting in and out of the life others lived. His life, a fleeting glimpse of her. He wondered, in a moment of artistic indulgence, if she lived as others did when not observed, or was she some fae creature to ever skirt the mortal world? If that could be true, it would be in her.
“I am sorry to have arrived unannounced, but there were delays on the journey, I thought it best to make myself known sooner, given the time of the tourney draws close. I cannot say I am too dismayed, however, that it is you here to greet me, and not your uncle.” It would be a stretch to say Daemon hated any of the Targaryens in truth, for all that his cause set him against them, but of all of them, the least complicated of feelings was with Maekar. There was little warmth there. “It has been a long while, and this cooling sun shines a little brighter for your company.”
“…no, you’re not,” she said it in a whisper; a secret between just them that she, beyond all his natural doubt, knew. “Although that answer’s the question of if you’d like me to fetch the Prince of Summerhall for you.”
No. No he would not. It didn’t matter. She knew it didn’t matter. She waited, waited for the surprise, waited for the bits of it all that she couldn’t see. Like words on a book’s page that were ink-blotted or blurred by stain. Or as she described it to Aelor: like trying to see when a drop of rain has hit your eye. Squint, and you’d see enough, but some of the details were all but impossible to make out.
What did he want? Why was he here? Why was it important that she was?...what did he want from her?
The realisation cut without pain, a shock, but not one that disarmed, instead confirming some of what he came to seek. A recognition between them that cut away, rather than add to, the barriers between two souls.
“I am told you still dream, that you study our past as you always have.” It wasn’t so much a surprise he would still have knowledge of what occurred within Summerhall and the Red Keep, not least from his mother, who despite her want to roam freely, was still a fixture at one royal court or another. In the years of his half brother’s reign he had seen less and less of the twins, fleeting glimpses. The familiarity should not have been there, but it wafted freely from her, as gently as the folds of the silks she was clad in, bringing yet further truth to the validity of his suspicions.
“Our house has been shackled by a fear of what we were, or a lack of understanding. Magic, dragons, dreams, those were the true three heads.” His voice was low, not so much as to be conspiratorial, but quiet enough to be clear they were for her, and not the benefit of wider listeners who were no doubt about at all times in such places. “Show me.” He spoke those final words without demand or desperation, an understanding that they were matters of her understanding, and not his own, no matter the stock he already placed in them.
“Some nights I dream only of a door in snow. Then it grows dark, I feel a cold that has cruel intent, and all I see is falling snow…but I belong there. I’ve been there before; I will be there again. In the dark, with that cold, in that snow.”
Lavender eyes had faded from his as her words dove into the depths of dreams, seeing what she had only dreamed as if it was just over there beyond him. When her words ran out, she went silent, though her eyes stayed there for moments longer. Watching that snow fall. It broke when her eyes fluttered under full lashes and darted down, to the stone floor, before sweeping right, then left, head turning to even peek behind her, before she found the tips of her toes in those leather sandals, bringing her mouth closer to his ear before she revealed a whisper more hushed and quieter than most desperate secrets.
“The water wizards and the dragon lords, the longest shadow the world has ever seen looming in the east…wait.”
She was gone with impressive speed, all but running out of the space and through an arched doorway, disappearing like a silk wraith around a corner. For the near run, the soft sound of her footsteps against the stone floor would have announced her return as she slowed to walk around the corner and back out the arched doorway. Her skin touched with a little flushness, a little color, as her scent was twice as strong after the sudden, quick, quest.
She drew close and slowed even more, holding the item in her hands: a precious thing, a personal treasure without any doubt from the way she held it so tightly with both hands, looking at it, at him, back to it, and finally back to him. A small book bound in light brown leather. If he were to flip through it, he’d find a book of mostly filled pages. Scribbles, sketches, and a collection of her own private notes, from dreams to obsessions to mysteries in between the two. The writing was in elegant, thin, strokes of ink.
She held it out the foot or so between them, and nodded a reassurance, more to herself than to him. Show me, he had said to her. “A taste.”
He had not followed her, the pace at which she had flown from the room, that might have been concerning, seeming natural to him in the moment, an inkling, as if passively drawn from her, of the ability she had to see beyond what was freely offered.
His hands pressed gently around what was offered, not being so undiscerning as to open it before her, with an unspoken knowledge of what it would contain. His touch was as cautious as if she had handed him the crown itself, if not more so.
“Thank you, Princess, it will be returned to you.” He gave a smile of reassurance, that in contrast, very much was meant for her, and lacked no honesty. No matter what his ends or means, he would do so. The the smile became more courtly, and his words took on the volume that those royal conversations, made for everyone else in the room, seemed to have.
“Look for me in the lists, without your father present, I will have want for a challenge.” Even with the pretence of royal personality adopted, it was not arrogance. The two men were matched in their prime, and even still, that victory had been so shocking as to earn the man his nomer. Without the other to test skill against, one could crown the other the victor at the start and be done with it. He did not bow his head low, and his vision lingered upon her, but there was no disrespect. Only the promise of the future.
