#and rafi is like 'hmmm well the hig.htowers are annoying so agreed. fuck them.' lol

[biiscione]

(  FROM HERE  ).  @reynlrunnr

"We don't."

The words echoed from her lips softly, almost inaudibly had it not been for the fact the two were locked in an embrace. Lilac eyes fell upon his dark ones and she reached for his face, gently caressing it before sighing deeply.

"I long for home, too."

Home. Years ago, the crimson colored castle had been her home. She had spent her childhood in bliss within its thick walls, playing and running wild with her siblings. Yet now it felt alien to her - distant and unknown. All traces of the old king and his dozen of children were gone. A new King sat on the throne, a new royal family, a new Princess of Dragonstone lived in what was once her home. And she was little more than a relic of the past, the daughter of a former king and only aunt to the current one.

With each year that passed, her proximity to what had once been home and her station vanished. At times, she felt the cruel hand of time move sharply against her. Though there were times, like these, where she was thankful for its sting. Thankful to be removed from the court and its politics, from the leeches that had descended on her nephew upon her niece's death.

Oh, how much things had truly changed.

"But it is our duty to be here for the King and this... Lady Hightower." There was little she could do to hide her distaste of his soon to be wife. No, there was contempt for the woman in her heart that went back years - back to the reign of her father. And the years had done little to qualm it. Her voice did, however, soften when she spoke of the king. "We must be here for him. If not as the proud Lord and Lady Rowan of Goldengrove, then as his sweet aunt and dear uncle. For Baelon and Alyssa, too. And Daella, and her darling Aemma."

Another deep sigh left her. So many had left her already. Time was cruel.

She forced herself to smile - the same uneasy smile she offered him when she tried to hide her true feelings - and she reached for his hands to hold. "And for the Princess of Dragonstone, too. She is still a babe, my love. Only nine. We shall remain for them and then fly home."

      Lady Rowan need not say a word, lilac hues spell out all the grief and loss that lays heavily on her heart. Rafi takes her hands in his own, thumbs distractedly running along her knuckles. It is unfortunate, in his age, that he has become so accustomed to the sanctuary that he and his princess made in Goldengrove         he forgot the politics of the court. Lord Rowan forgot how inordinate Hightower ambition was; he saw much of it when he was a young lord in the Southmarch. In truth, he is more than untrusting of any dealings with his southern cousins.      Rafi bends, pressing kisses to the knuckles of each hand before stepping from Rhaenyra. Yes, the air here weighs heavily upon one’s shoulders. It was once warm and bright, first dimming with Daella’s passing and more with Alyssa’s, and quieting with Baelon’s. It was with the Conciliator’s death that something sinister tinged the air, and then Aemma         the only torch for Viserys to hold in order to navigate the suffocating dark. Princess Rhaenyra is but a refined candle in the darkness, fighting alone against it. Does the king see it? See her?      What now lays in store for their nephew? His light of a daughter? Lord Rowan didn’t know               Grief exacerbated by duty, he thinks, pacing the stone floor of their chambers. A terrible thing. Guilt lengthens his features as he muses on not knowing the loss, grateful to have a healthy wife and four healthy daughters. He made sure of it, took his maester’s counsel, expressed his concerns with his princess, his wife, the mother of his children. Four daughters were well enough for him, the satisfied father and husband he was. Perhaps he, too, in his grief, would seek counsel from the likes of a Otto Hightower. Perhaps not. No, the Ladies of House Rowan would allow no such thing.        Neither would the Princess of Dragonstone with the king, he wagers, but she is, like Lady Rowan says, but a wee girl. Who will champion for her?       “Hmm,” the ever-musing Lord hums, cutting through the thickness of the air. “I presumed my uneasiness was unjustified, unshared.” Lips part, the following words lingering on his tongue as he keeps his back facing his wife. “Perhaps I put too much stake into sentiments. Perhaps I am getting too old.” He laughs, loud and genuine, like his young self would. “Perhaps I miss the gardens, all of our daughters together, laughing, playing, arguing      ” Lord Rowan faces his wife now, in the patterned shadows of the window’s shutters. “I want to hold them, all four of them, in my arms at once...       Oh Rhaenyra, lover. In my woesome reminiscing, i have neglected you.” Large hands delicately cup her cheeks, thumbs rhythmically running along the length of high cheekbones. “Indeed, our presence is owed to no one but the king and princess. I only wish we could offer more than our courtesies and silent support.” Hands lead her head forward, a kiss being pressed tenderly to the bridge of her nose when it is close enough. “The Princess Rhaenyra shall not be a dragon alone.” What a cruel fate that would be.