[ He delivers the message subdued, but with such frankness. Helaena stills.
It is news, yet it is not. They have all been waiting for this day, every one of them, when the other shoe dropped and King Viserys perished. A waiting game, so much suffering in the process. His death was a reprieve. It must have been.
She feels confident he is happier with the Stranger than he was in life.
Still. It is difficult to truly grasp. That the man that hovered and determined all of their lives is now gone. The man she called Kepa, then Father. Memories trickle through her mind, a ghost of grief.
She blinks, slowly, uncertainty writ across her dreamy features — if starlight could be living flesh, it would be the soft curves of her face. Then, a mute somberness overcomes her, drawing her mouth.
She begins to understand. Truly understand. ]
I am sorry, too.
[ She doesn't know what for. Helaena lingers, momentarily disconnected from the world, before she comes to. She looks at his outstretched hands, a ring on one of them with the Targaryen insignia. And she takes them, her smaller fingers folded into his, and lowers herself into a curtsy in front of him.
She did not want this for him, she does not, but it has begun.
King. Aemond is king now. She keeps her eyes on him as she bows, some shade of unsure, morose, but accepting. ]
( It doesn't feel real until Helaena curtsies to him and then he realizes that even this relationship, this secret and cherished relationship, will change too. It has already changed. In the matter of one breath to the next he has changed from brother to king and there is a gulf between them that will never be spanned again.
He doesn't want that. He wants what they had before Mother sent her away from him. Aemond hadn't been good enough for Helaena, too dangerous for her more likely considering he's a confirmed kinslayer once and there are rumors about Aegon even if his mother and father had tried to quell them all. He motions his hand impatiently. )
Not that. Not from you. In public, yes, but not when we're alone. We're the same, Helaena. We're no different than before.
[ Much is different. They aren't the same, either of them, at least not as they were when she was young, barely a woman, and he not yet a man.
She might have said these things, another time. Not now. She lifts out of her curtsy, hands drawing to her side. Her gaze rests on him, evaluating.
Briefly, she shifts her weight, not sure what to say, what to do with herself.
But then.
Then, with a sharp intake of air, Helaena takes the initiative — she spans the difference, that gulf — and wraps her arms around him. Lightly at first, then grasping. Almost too hard, too close to violence for one that looks so gentle and insubstantial herself.
It's the first hug she's given in many moons, probably her last to Daeron on one of his visits. She avoids touch much of the time. Preference, some latent disgust of having another's skin on hers. Even as a small child, she often tried to navigate away from their grasping mother. Queen Alicent always tried to get so close. She seemed jealous of every interaction between her middle children, her favorite of the four, eager to separate them as they aged, ventured too close to adulthood and further from her.
Her face presses into his jerkin, the ebony jacket that covers it. He smells just as he used to, beneath the musk of adulthood. Dragon, sweat. Baby brother. So dear to her.
She closes her eyes. If he holds her in kind, her face will rest into the warm crook of his neck. ]
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no subject
It is news, yet it is not. They have all been waiting for this day, every one of them, when the other shoe dropped and King Viserys perished. A waiting game, so much suffering in the process. His death was a reprieve. It must have been.
She feels confident he is happier with the Stranger than he was in life.
Still. It is difficult to truly grasp. That the man that hovered and determined all of their lives is now gone. The man she called Kepa, then Father. Memories trickle through her mind, a ghost of grief.
She blinks, slowly, uncertainty writ across her dreamy features — if starlight could be living flesh, it would be the soft curves of her face. Then, a mute somberness overcomes her, drawing her mouth.
She begins to understand. Truly understand. ]
I am sorry, too.
[ She doesn't know what for. Helaena lingers, momentarily disconnected from the world, before she comes to. She looks at his outstretched hands, a ring on one of them with the Targaryen insignia. And she takes them, her smaller fingers folded into his, and lowers herself into a curtsy in front of him.
She did not want this for him, she does not, but it has begun.
King. Aemond is king now. She keeps her eyes on him as she bows, some shade of unsure, morose, but accepting. ]
Your Grace.
no subject
He doesn't want that. He wants what they had before Mother sent her away from him. Aemond hadn't been good enough for Helaena, too dangerous for her more likely considering he's a confirmed kinslayer once and there are rumors about Aegon even if his mother and father had tried to quell them all. He motions his hand impatiently. )
Not that. Not from you. In public, yes, but not when we're alone. We're the same, Helaena. We're no different than before.
no subject
She might have said these things, another time. Not now. She lifts out of her curtsy, hands drawing to her side. Her gaze rests on him, evaluating.
Briefly, she shifts her weight, not sure what to say, what to do with herself.
But then.
Then, with a sharp intake of air, Helaena takes the initiative — she spans the difference, that gulf — and wraps her arms around him. Lightly at first, then grasping. Almost too hard, too close to violence for one that looks so gentle and insubstantial herself.
It's the first hug she's given in many moons, probably her last to Daeron on one of his visits. She avoids touch much of the time. Preference, some latent disgust of having another's skin on hers. Even as a small child, she often tried to navigate away from their grasping mother. Queen Alicent always tried to get so close. She seemed jealous of every interaction between her middle children, her favorite of the four, eager to separate them as they aged, ventured too close to adulthood and further from her.
Her face presses into his jerkin, the ebony jacket that covers it. He smells just as he used to, beneath the musk of adulthood. Dragon, sweat. Baby brother. So dear to her.
She closes her eyes. If he holds her in kind, her face will rest into the warm crook of his neck. ]
Will you stay long?