12 Works by SilverSatella
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“You’ve grown just as much, Jace!” the King continued, oblivious to how cold the courtyard had suddenly turned at the mention of Lady Arryn. “You’re the spitting image of your father, boy. It’s as if I’m looking right at him, and the only way I can tell you apart is the hair. The Gods were kind to give you the Arryn look,” he added—yet another blow the King struck without even realizing it. Aegon had to stifle a laugh with a nervous cough, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. “They knew in all their wisdom that I’d never be able to tell the two of you apart if they’d given you silver hair.”
And just like that, the Dragonstone Targaryens had arrived—at least in part—at King’s Landing.
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—¡Tú también has crecido tanto como Visenya, Jace! —seguía diciendo el Rey, ajeno a lo helado que de pronto se había vuelto el patio ante la mera mención que le había hecho a Visenya sobre Lady Arryn —. Te pareces a tu padre, muchacho. Me parece estarlo viendo ahora mismo en ti, y solo soy capaz de diferenciarlos por el color de cabello. Benditos fueran los Dioses por hacer que lo sacaras a los Arryn —ahí iba otro golpe más del que Rey no se daba cuenta. Y Aegon tuvo que ocultar una risa con una tos nerviosa mientras apretaba los ojos con una mayor fuerza —. Ellos sabían en toda su sabiduría que yo sería incapaz de distinguirlos si te hubiera dado un tono plateado.
Y así, sin más, habían llegado —aunque solo en parte— a Desembarco del Rey los Targaryen de Rocadragón.
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It was the new year and the beginning of what appeared to be spring when the invitation to visit the enigmatic Rocadragón reached the Royal Family. And in the eyes of the intrigued Court, no one celebret more news, and publicly at that, than King Viserys Targaryen, The Pacific.
The invitation came from Princess Rhaenyra herself. The Disinherited. The Silent One. The famously absent one. The invitation came from the very princess whom Aemond had never met in all his years of life. For although he knew she was his half-sister, to Aemond she seemed more like a myth. A story and a warning to scare him before bedtime. But now, on the night before leaving for the domains of that same princess, he paused to reflect deeply on her in the privacy of his small, neat solar.
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Corría el nuevo año y el inicio de una aparente estación primaveral, cuando la invitación para hacer una visita a la enigmática Rocadragón llegó a manos de la Familia Real. Y a ojos de la intrigada Corte, nadie celebró más la noticia, y de forma pública además, que el Rey Viserys Targaryen; El Pacifico.
La invitación venía de la parte de la mismísima princesa Rhaenyra. La Desheredada. La silenciosa. La célebremente ausente. La invitación venía de parte de la misma princesa a la que Aemond nunca, en todos sus años de vida, había conocido. Pues si bien sabía que era su medio hermana, a Aemond se le antojaba más un mito. Un cuento y una advertencia para asustarlo antes de ir a dormir. Pero ahora, la noche antes de partir a los dominios de esa misma princesa, se detuvo a reflexionar a profundidad sobre ella en la privacidad de su pequeño y aseado solar.
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«No es posible» se dice a sí misma, mientras sobrevuela el mar de la tormenta a lomos de Syrax, que gruñe, resopla y parece gritar a viva voz bajo su cuerpo menudo y destrozado por el parto del que todavía no se ha recuperado.
Por la pérdida.
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—Chupa —le ordenó Aemond, con la voz más ronca que nunca, mientras le introducía sin contemplaciones el dedo índice en la boca. En ese momento, ella podía percibir su grueso acento valyrio, perfeccionado a través de años y años de esfuerzo de intentar ser tan digno como el resto de la familia de su padre, de la cultura y dinastía a la que pertenecían por derecho de nacimiento —. Chupa con fuerza.
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He encourages her as she pursues his release on her knee, her fingers and all of him, undulating her hips as she pushes him into the darkness. He only has eyes for her, proud to see her pursue her own pleasure as her priority. She takes what she wants, twists it between her slender fingers like clay, molds it to her convenience and her whim, for she is the Queen. She is the definition of authority, of affection, of a safe place. She scratches her back, bites her jaw, lips and cheeks. She scratches and grabs and tears it off as she pleases, but he doesn't hurt her, because she is Rhaenyra, because she has promised him that she will never hurt him. And he believes her.
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And he is alone, in a room too large, drinking expensive wine that does not belong to him.
He turns and glances around, forgetting the burning of his hand, where the blade of the Throne has pierced. He turns and looks at the old room that has housed great monarchs.
"It is not mine" he thinks spitefully, and drinks some more to appease his bitterness.
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"At last" the midwife's eyes seem to say. And she hates it too.
He feels a prick at the back of his head. A brief feeling of loyalty to Queen Aemma, who died in childbirth, who lost as many children as she had, but it goes as quickly as it comes, because Rhaenyra would not allow it if she knew.
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"That smile" Queen Alicent scorns, at a royal event, when she thinks they can't hear him "That stupid smirk, it's an identical copy of his" she complains, and it's the highest compliment anyone has ever given her.
"It's only natural," says Otto wearily at the courtesies and obeisances he's had to present to the whore standing in his way to the throne. "He raised him, and I almost feel sorry for the bastard, because judging by how he behaves, will be his clone one day"
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Three kisses between Rhaenyra and Daemon, and what they mean to him.
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"No" is the first word that comes from his mother, when she catches him looking at Helaena more than necessary, in one of their many and endless dinners. It's hard not to look at her, though, because she's as alluring and present as the sun.