(123-01-01) Tempers Kept
Tempers Kept
Summary: So to speak.
Date: 01/01/2016
Related: Awkward Sauna
Players:
Vhaerys..Vhaegor..

From the Citadel to the Dragon Door Manse Princess Vhaerys of House Targaryen returns in state, late on a balmy summer afternoon, trailing guardsmen and handmaidens as blonde as she who were chosen all to match.

As she crosses the threshold the cloak of finest, sheerest pale violet linen which protected her from any real or imagined dust in Oldtown's city streets is unfastened from her shoulders by the hands of a dragonseed girl, to reveal a gown of pale golden silk with skirts divided for riding. Gleaming golden chains hang low against her strong, pale arms; a golden belt in a similar style marks, amidst these Valyrian draperies, the latitude of her slender hips. Her customary braids are coiled together high upon the back of her proud head, their arrangement somehow as pristine now as at the beginning of the day, when she embarked in search of answers and returned — as so often happens — with a new set of still more compelling questions.

Her retainers, for whom the day has been the incarnation of tedium, fan out about her as she glides through the manse's almost empty hall, uttering a sidelong remark in a tongue not unlike High Valyrian to… the girl carrying her cloak? The watchful young man following most closely at her heels?

"Cousin."

The word is clipped, dripping with anger, resentment, and a bit of mocking ettiquette. Before the speaker is even visible, Vhaegor's tone of voice likely makes it all too obvious who stands in a doorway just a few steps further along, calling out to the returning Vhaerys. "You return to grace us with your presence once again, I see," he remarks coldly, his lips turned down in an angry line. His gaze passes through those lackeys that follow in Vhaerys' steps as he steps from the doorway to block their collective path, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't even seem to truly register their presence as his eyes swiftly find Vhaerys again, ignoring all others save his target. "I'm going to make this quick and simple. Try to pay attention, would you? Uninteresting as I am, I'm sure you'll be tempted to let your focus slip, but I'd really rather not have to explain this a second time." He takes a step forward, a single, slow, careful step, "I will have an apology from you, Cousin." 'Cousin' is practically spit out, as if the very idea of being related was an insult he was forced to shoulder. "You degrade me, insult me, judge me, and discard me as something unworthy of your notice, but you were in that pavilion. Not once did I sweat." Another slow step, taking him ever closer to Vhaerys, "You will not treat me as an inferior any longer. I have the blood of the Dragon and the Stag in my veins, so do not test me. Do not push me, thinking that I am simply some joke for your amusement. For if you do, I may just lose my temper." One more step and his voice drops as his gaze seek out hers, dark and angry searching to lock in place those damned, violet eyes.

"I do not want to lose my temper."

The damned violet eyes are awaiting his — and they have frozen over.

Waylaid by this irate relation's appearance directly in her path, Princess Vhaerys comes to a halt framed by well-armed guards standing shoulder to shoulder with her and the empty place so often left at her side, and dragonseed handmaidens with downcast eyes flanking the guards in turn. The rest of her retinue forms a second row behind, as though they were pieces upon a cyvasse board — with the dragon in pride of place amongst them.

"Nor would I care to lose mine," she utters, folding her arms beneath her breasts, golden chains clinging about pale muscles in an elegant echo of armour, "but I may yet, Vhaegor, if you don't keep up." Her tone of voice implies that she is hanging on to patience with her manicured fingernails. "Are you so unaccustomed to being treated as what you are that you don't know it when you see it? Is it for giving you the same kick up the backside I'd offer to any nephew or cousin of mine who was failing to live up to his blood, that you would have me apologise? Would you prefer me to return to patting you on the head for your loyal service and offering no challenge to your complacency — as is the custom amongst the others of our house, and as I've no doubt you find more congenial? Choose now. I will not ask again."

The guards, no doubt more loyal to Vhaerys than they are necessarily to the House in general, don't seem to concern Vhaegor for the moment. "Then consider this exactly what you asked of me, Vhaerys," he responds instantly, disdain dripping from every syllable, "You want me to be more like a Targaryen? What is more Targaryen than demanding the unreasonable and expecting utterly to recieve it?" At this, he finally smirks, but it's one devoid of any real mirth, "This is what you wanted, Cousin. For me to behave like a spoiled child, because you think that's power. You think simply demanding what I want is the true path to greatness. Patience is beneath you, after all. Why wait? Why bide my time? I am the Blood of Dragons, and I will get what I want, when I want it." He throws out his arms as he speaks, taking a step back as his voice rises again. "I am a Targaryen," he announces to her retainers and the otherwise empty room with a tone so sarcastic he's practically drowning in it, "I have no betters. Bestow upon me all that I desire or bathe in the flame of dragons." His eyes turn back to Vhaerys and he continues, the sarcasm dropping away instantly; "I care not for your advice, Cousin. Will you give me what I want, or won't you?"

For perhaps the first time on record the princess is regarding him with a measure of curiosity, as he declaims his ignorance and his pain and his conflicting desires to the very woman whose advice he… doesn't care for? She murmurs something beneath his words, a thought only half-voiced; her eyes don't leave him, nor does her proud stance yield an inch either to his disdain for her personally or his rage against all she represents.

"Is that what you think of your kin? Is that what you think it is to be the true Blood of the Dragon?" she inquires of him coolly. "Such theories might at any rate explain why, after devoting such long years to a quest to be accepted amongst us, you've decided at the last you don't care for it… I don't think you know what you want, cousin," and with a shake of her head and a glance exchanged with the empty air at her side she recommences her progress toward the staircase, her retainers moving with her after half a breath; "and I'm certainly sorry if I expected too much of you, but, as you say, I'm not the one with whom you ought to be taking up the matter of your life and what it has come to and why. Try Rhaegor. Try a mirror."

"'Not' then," Vhaegor breathes out, making no move to impede Vhaerys' progress or that of her retainers as they continue along. Everything else is ignored. Every word and every movement. "Not," he repeats, his face almost… relieved. Only for a moment, however, for slowly, as he turns away from the much larger group, his hand resting calmly on the hilt of the sword ever present at his hip, he smiles with dark amusement. He lingers still, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade, then releasing, only to return a moment later and repeat the cycle roughly five times. Finally, he takes a step forward, and proceeds along his own way, opposite of Vhaerys, still smiling just at the corners of his mouth.

"Very well… dragon flames it is…"

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