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[ he nods to her, then gently leads her out into the hall where the grand stairs are. it's a bit of a walk to reach the residential floors, and aemond fills the time to ask lauralae about her day — who has she spent it with? what sorts of things has been entertained by? is there anything interesting to mention?

it is the height of poor manners to make a lady wait out in the hall, when they reach aemond's door, but he means to be quick. he enters, picks up the small basket he'd prepared before leaving for the dining hall, and returns to lauralae's side.

he's seized with a brief moment of awkwardness. ]

I thought we might look to the stars and... talk.

[ in his defence, he hadn't thought so far as to what they'll talk about. ]

[ There is little that she might say: she speaks of the herbs in the forest, her enjoyment of a book she had found, and the quiet she had settled with as she had tried to visit Shadowheart - though she has been trying not to steal too often into Astarion's rooms, now he has a guest in his suite. It seems more appropriate, so she does not disturb him and his friendships.

She does adore the chicken, however.

Lauralae does not seem to care much for the awkwardness nor the delay, reaching to take his arm again and letting her fingers brush gently over his wrist, his palm, hesitating for a moment. He is warm, despite her gloves. Dragonfire in his blood, perhaps. ]

Do you know much of the stars? There are many stories to them.

[ That is an agreement, of course. ]

I have been learning. They have names for the stars here, and I've lost myself a few times to the texts, trying to learn each one that I could find.

[ the library being closed had been a surprisingly difficult change to aemond's habits here with the balfours. he could while away the hours easily within, reading to his heart's delight; there are days when his melancholy overtakes his better sense, and he comforts himself with tales of knights and dragons and princesses, even if the dragons are so oft the villains in their stories.

they fear the dragons here, in this england. some of the stories point to dragons having flown in their skies; perhaps that is why he'd seen the one he had come upon. hunted to near-extinction - now only the stories remain.

the walk to the gardens is at least peaceful. no one accosts them along the way, though they do meet some familiar guests and give polite greeting as they pass. when he thinks no one is looking, aemond brings lauralae's hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. ]

Should we try the benches, the open swings, or lay out on the grass?

I wonder if the names are similar to the ones that I was taught.

[ They walk, easy and without concern, and Lauralae finds herself at peace. Aemond is taller than her, and it means that sometimes she can flick up her eyes to look at him and enjoy the shape of his face, the sharpness of his jaw, the way she would enjoy painting him. Charcoal would not suit him well, she thinks, but it is the best medium that she has.

Her mind wanders, quiet as she considers what she might offer, if she can recall all the names of the flickering lights in the sky, when her hand is drawn and his mouth is there, against her fingertips.

It makes her blush. ]

I believe the swings would be... Fun?

[ As if fun itself is strange to her. ]

[ what is fun? aemond's closest approximation to it is flying with vhagar, but it isn't an activity for his pleasure alone. he flies as a prince to enforce law and order, or raise fear among the smallfolk; in this aspect, flying has the faint poison of duty lacing through it.

he's willing to try something new for her, at the least. ]

The swings it is, then.

[ they're a different kind of swing — more two seats facing each other on a metal carriage, with a racked floor raised inches above the ground. the swings would mean sitting across from each other, but perhaps that's for the best in terms of propriety. aemond doesn't think his hands would wander, but he has a want for her touch, and he can be greedy.

he leads her up to the swings, steadying the frame so she wouldn't be thrown off her balance, then slips after her and takes the opposite bench from her. the cold isn't so heavy that the hinges are frozen over, but it is cold enough that the sky is clear, the moon luminous as it waxes overhead.

he points out a constellation to her, once he sights it. ]

There. That one, with five stars forming a letter. Do you see it? They call it the Cassiopeia. She is said to be a maiden of legend, do you know it?

Edited 2024-12-07 17:29 (UTC)

[ It is so easy to move with Aemond, to settle down in the swing and make herself comfortable. There’s a chill in the air, but she is warm enough and flushed from the contact that she does not feel it. It’s quiet enough that her focus can be entirely on him, her gaze lifting to gaze at the stars, to drink them in.

They’re unfamiliar, some of them, from what she knew. The stars are more important to some than others - sailors, wizards, those that require the night for their magics, but that was never her role. The night was her companion, the night was a friend to her, because it was safer.

Does she feel safe here? She’s not sure, but she feels safe with Aemond. ]

I do not know her. It is familiar to the Ice Snake in my realm.

[ Looking over, her smile softens, settled on him. ]

Will you tell me the tale?

Hers is a Greek tale, from what I recall.

[ a story about a mother proud of her daughter and the gifts she had inherited of her, so much so that her pride had offended the daughters of another, greater house. and so cassiopeia's mother andromeda was compelled to sacrifice her beloved child to appease a more powerful man. it is all in vain in the end; her daughter is stolen from her grasp by a different man, and herself banished to the skies to watch her daughter grow into her years. cassiopeia outlives her child, and she will never be free to touch the earth again.

in hindsight, a terrible story for a light evening out. he looks to lauralae with some sheepishness. ]

Perhaps I should look for a kinder star-shape.

I could tell you the tale of mine, in replacement of it.

[ Lifting her hand, she traces the shape of where she thinks it might have been in the sky here. ]

Auroth was the mount of a goddess, Auril. When there was a battle between the Gods of the realm, he sacrificed himself to protect her and ascended to the sky as a reward for his selflessness. It is said people born under his star are cold, but dangerous in their rage.

[ Her eyes flick back. ]

It is a sweet tale.

[ auroth, auril, and a battle between gods. it's familiar in a strange way, how some stories seem universal. every world has its gods and its conflicts. aemond wonders if these gods are the same ones across the universes - taking for themselves new names and faces, like a child might pick up a new shiny pebble or button as keepsake. ]

Perhaps he is my patron, were I born in your world. I would share in his rage, I should think.

[ aemond reaches for lauralae's hand where it's held out to the sky, bringing her fingertips to his mouth to press kisses to her knuckles. ]

What sort of mount was he?

It is an easy thing to do. There is much to find rage in, in all realms.

[ To not be chosen, to be cast aside, to be hurt and harmed, to be stung by those that you once thought you loved - idle things that register in her mind, that burn inside her. A high price paid, but she will have her vengeance.

Drawn back to herself, her eyes flicker gently at the press of a mouth to knuckle, and she permits her fingers to brush gently over the shape of his, to seek out a touch to his jaw. She had told Alia how fond she was of the shape of him, and it remains so. ]

It is said he was an ice snake. They called him Icefang, the Swallower, and the Lightning Bolt.

An ice snake, ascending to join the stars.

[ something like a drake, then, if he be large enough to mount? aemond lets his imagination paint the image of a silver-blue dragon flying across the sky, wings where clawed limbs may be, eating lightning and drinking thunder as it courses through the twilight sky.

what a pretty picture it makes, and what a pretty maiden lauralae is before him. aemond can't help but smile against her fingers. ]

Does that make you my Auril? Would you allow it, when you have a greater power in your hands than I?

I am no goddess.

[ It makes her smile all the same, a flickering of it on her features. There’s warmth to her around him, those soft affections bubbling inside of her and making her want all the more of his time. She is want to be greedy, she thinks, as has been her downfall before - to want more and more and more until there is little else to grasp.

Tempering herself is the harder of the battles. ]

And I would not have you die for me, sweet Aemond. But we might protect one another in this strange place.

I would think dragons are their own gods, Lauralae. Perhaps, if gods would not regard us worthy of them, then we do not likewise need them.

[ aemond learned ambition at an early age, claimed for himself vhagar when he took his lesson in it. was it the will of gods that he claimed her, only to lose his eye? did the gods guide lucerys's hand that night? that would give the gods too much credit, he thinks.

no, they have little need for gods, especially in a place like this. he has his family, and he has lauralae. though he desires vhagar to be with him, he still finds himself pleased to have what he has here. gods didn't give him this abundance, after all - he brought this to life with his own efforts and lauralae's assent. ]

I would like to protect you too, if it pleases, however I might perform that duty. You are dear to me, I'm afraid.

[ he's not going anywhere now. ]

There are Gods that take the form of dragons, but they do not all do so. Each deity has an animal or a form most preferred, and that might differ from one realm to the other.

[ Lauralae could not consider herself an expert, not in all the Gods, but she learned enough to know the names of the most paramount and important of them. If she thought him truly a man who wanted to know them all, she would share it - but as it stands, she thinks it best to keep it to herself.

The stars above them are sparkling, bright lights in the sky, but it does not seem as bright as his attention on her, the way that her smile curls ever so softly. ]

You say it as though I would find it a punishment. You are dear to me, as well. Truly so.

[ he mentions fear only because he doesn't know what this kind of affection might look like. he adores her, perhaps more than adores her, and she gives her affections to him willingly. it's terrifying in its own way — what should he do with it? rare is the time that someone gives him their fondness willingly. aemond can't even remember the last time it happened back home. ]

I might become sharp in your hands, in time. Would you still think it of me? That I am dear to you.

[ is he inviting his own heartbreak this way? who knows. aemond hasn't learned in his time at home, and he's not learned here either: how do you love someone gently? but it discredits lauralae to think she can't handle him. after all, she has fire in her blood, contained in her hands; she knows herself better. aemond need trust her in this, too. ]

If you could choose a different shape for yourself, which one would you prefer?

[ his own answer is likely obvious, but it doesn't mean he would not hear other answers to the same question. to be outside the mortal shape of a man is a known power in westeros, after all — wargers, shape-changers, children of the forest, even the draconic children and giants of old. ]

Edited 2025-01-20 08:13 (UTC)

[ It is a strange thing to her, to even have affection directed to her. The more she is in this place, the more she is around the friends she has come to call her own, the more comfortable she is and the more she recognises the good in herself. It means that she is more able to accept what Aemond offers her, the gentleness that is in his hands, despite his rage, despite the danger he might present. ]

You know what I am. What I have done. Am I not sharp as well? Am I not equally dangerous? Would you change your thoughts of me?

[ To love is to be violent, in her experience. Her parents had been cruel with her, demanding, shunning her when she had chosen a different path? Is she not a monster? Is she not a beast? Had she not done such horrible things?

The urge to hold him is overpowering, but she tempers herself. In this, she can be patient. ]

I think... I find most pleasure in being a wolf. It feels as though it fits my form, as though I breathe best when I shift to it. I have not practised with other creatures often, however.

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sweats... ignore the time stamp...

i do not percieve

we close our eyes (figuratively)

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