( Most would rail against the realization that they are no one at all, Daenerys considers. They would feel it a curse, stripped of name or rank or destiny. Owed nothing, and beholden to nothing. She flinches against a pang of guilt, then, that she feels this anonymity such a blessing.
No face, and thus no name; the mask feels almost as if it must be bare, bereft of any telling features. Do her eyes and hair give her away? They must not - she can move here like a ghost, disturbing nothing, no one. Watching those who do have faces, false as they may be. Stags, lions, bats, doves, and worse birds - they all crowd together. Trapped here, or did they come by choice? Would she even care to wear a face, if given the chance?
No, she knows, delighting privately in this new curse. She can be, for however long this flustered dream lasts, no one. She can drift where she pleases, untended. Her curious gaze can do the same, unburdened by propriety. How lovely it is to be weightless, to be swept along and to matter as little as a fluttering, autumn leaf.
Through crowds seething, corrupt with sound and motion. Music, perhaps, though unlike anything she has known. Banquet tables laid for feasting, though who has earned such decadence, she cannot imagine. Velvet rooms breathless with what can only be carnal passion. Faceless, she feels she is permitted to peer in, thrilling at so many florid secrets revealed. Maybe there are no secrets in this place. So she wanders, collecting all she can, listening and glimpsing, tasked with nothing. )
❖ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖞
( The smell of blood is rank, and it is everywhere. Not a fleeting note in the air, something that could've been mistaken - it is somehow both sudden and decaying, fresh and ancient. She should be repulsed, withdrawing from it anywhere she can, knowing exactly what it means. Blood has only ever meant one thing, and it is no more palatable in dreams than in life.
Why can she not stop thinking about it, then? She is drawn down the long hall, following that terrible, tart scent like an animal hoping to taste it upon the tongue. She wants to taste it, if she's being honest - her tongue presses against the back of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, hungry and waiting. She wants to see blood spilling and pooling, liquid garnets in the moonlight.
She is not disappointed, and she wants to be horrified by what she stumbles upon. Violence, captured in some mad carnival of extravagance. A tourney, one might think, with bodies racing about and steel flashing and knives snatching the light. Blood, as she'd known there would be. She slinks along the windows, generously sharing their insidious light, and her gaze is cast from one inexplicable travesty to the next: the charging of men who cannot possibly be knights, astride mounts who are anything but noble. Axes spinning, a nearby shriek, and the prospect of blood making her feel horribly giddy.
A little writhing group has gathered around a game of knives, and she wants to raise her voice to speak what must obviously be spoken: Stop this. The words don't come - instead, she nudges forward, insistent, eyes aglow behind the gold-filigreed hare's mask. )
❖ 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌
( The hare's mask may be gone, but she wakes up a rabbit still - curled, quivering. Blinking eyes reveal what may still be a dream: drear light, the weight of heavy curtains, a quiet haze. An unfamiliar bed, with a dark blanket dragging against her skin as she pushes herself up onto an elbow. That chill again, a wintery breath across her shoulders and down her spine - immediately against her bones, it feels like, because not only is the mask gone, but so are the decadent trappings from last night. Skin against blanket, preyed upon by the prowling chill, as naked as the day she was born.
And not alone, she soon discovers, eyes meandering in lost wonder across the room. Over stone and drapery, through thinning shadow, sifting through the dusky light, returning to the bed in which she has awoken. This isn't her bed, but worse than waking up answerless and alone is discovering that the bed in fact belongs to someone else.
Who, she does not know; her eyes land upon a stranger's body, apparently having slept beside her, and she scrambles - gathering the indifferent blanket to her body, pressing a hand to her head as if to trap the nightmare there. Wake up again, open your eyes now, and you will find yourself where you need to be.
But there is only the helpless pounding of her heart, and a tired, tangled fury at having woken this way at all, the bed shifting beneath the body beside her as it begins to stir. )
❖ 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖉
( i'm easy, give me anything and i'll follow your lead c: pm's are always open! )
daenerys targaryen | a song of ice and fire
( Most would rail against the realization that they are no one at all, Daenerys considers. They would feel it a curse, stripped of name or rank or destiny. Owed nothing, and beholden to nothing. She flinches against a pang of guilt, then, that she feels this anonymity such a blessing.
No face, and thus no name; the mask feels almost as if it must be bare, bereft of any telling features. Do her eyes and hair give her away? They must not - she can move here like a ghost, disturbing nothing, no one. Watching those who do have faces, false as they may be. Stags, lions, bats, doves, and worse birds - they all crowd together. Trapped here, or did they come by choice? Would she even care to wear a face, if given the chance?
No, she knows, delighting privately in this new curse. She can be, for however long this flustered dream lasts, no one. She can drift where she pleases, untended. Her curious gaze can do the same, unburdened by propriety. How lovely it is to be weightless, to be swept along and to matter as little as a fluttering, autumn leaf.
Through crowds seething, corrupt with sound and motion. Music, perhaps, though unlike anything she has known. Banquet tables laid for feasting, though who has earned such decadence, she cannot imagine. Velvet rooms breathless with what can only be carnal passion. Faceless, she feels she is permitted to peer in, thrilling at so many florid secrets revealed. Maybe there are no secrets in this place. So she wanders, collecting all she can, listening and glimpsing, tasked with nothing. )
❖ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖌𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖞
( The smell of blood is rank, and it is everywhere. Not a fleeting note in the air, something that could've been mistaken - it is somehow both sudden and decaying, fresh and ancient. She should be repulsed, withdrawing from it anywhere she can, knowing exactly what it means. Blood has only ever meant one thing, and it is no more palatable in dreams than in life.
Why can she not stop thinking about it, then? She is drawn down the long hall, following that terrible, tart scent like an animal hoping to taste it upon the tongue. She wants to taste it, if she's being honest - her tongue presses against the back of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, hungry and waiting. She wants to see blood spilling and pooling, liquid garnets in the moonlight.
She is not disappointed, and she wants to be horrified by what she stumbles upon. Violence, captured in some mad carnival of extravagance. A tourney, one might think, with bodies racing about and steel flashing and knives snatching the light. Blood, as she'd known there would be. She slinks along the windows, generously sharing their insidious light, and her gaze is cast from one inexplicable travesty to the next: the charging of men who cannot possibly be knights, astride mounts who are anything but noble. Axes spinning, a nearby shriek, and the prospect of blood making her feel horribly giddy.
A little writhing group has gathered around a game of knives, and she wants to raise her voice to speak what must obviously be spoken: Stop this. The words don't come - instead, she nudges forward, insistent, eyes aglow behind the gold-filigreed hare's mask. )
❖ 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌
( The hare's mask may be gone, but she wakes up a rabbit still - curled, quivering. Blinking eyes reveal what may still be a dream: drear light, the weight of heavy curtains, a quiet haze. An unfamiliar bed, with a dark blanket dragging against her skin as she pushes herself up onto an elbow. That chill again, a wintery breath across her shoulders and down her spine - immediately against her bones, it feels like, because not only is the mask gone, but so are the decadent trappings from last night. Skin against blanket, preyed upon by the prowling chill, as naked as the day she was born.
And not alone, she soon discovers, eyes meandering in lost wonder across the room. Over stone and drapery, through thinning shadow, sifting through the dusky light, returning to the bed in which she has awoken. This isn't her bed, but worse than waking up answerless and alone is discovering that the bed in fact belongs to someone else.
Who, she does not know; her eyes land upon a stranger's body, apparently having slept beside her, and she scrambles - gathering the indifferent blanket to her body, pressing a hand to her head as if to trap the nightmare there. Wake up again, open your eyes now, and you will find yourself where you need to be.
But there is only the helpless pounding of her heart, and a tired, tangled fury at having woken this way at all, the bed shifting beneath the body beside her as it begins to stir. )
❖ 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖉
( i'm easy, give me anything and i'll follow your lead c: pm's are always open! )