~Yes, desire is so different when God bore you hungry. I could have devoured anything and still have been starving~
"While dragon dreams affect only those with the blood of the dragon, the dreams that plague the disciples of the Church of Starry Wis...
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"And, in my darkest fantasies, I am the picture of passivity"
111 AC
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Naerys stood at the threshold of her sister's chambers, an unmoving shadow in the dimly lit corridor. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of myrrh and crushed roses, mingling with the faint trace of warmed beeswax from the many taper candles illuminating the chamber. The maids fluttered around Rhaenyra like moths to a flame, as they prepared her for the looming coronation.
One laced up the back of her elaborate gown, pulling the fabric taut to fit the princess's frame, while another dabbed ground alabaster onto her skin with careful strokes, painting her into the very image of a queen. Red ochre was pressed to her lips, turning her mouth into a blooming scarlet rose, and from her place by the window, Alicent Hightower observed in silence, her hands folded demurely in her lap.
Rhaenyra's ladies-in-waiting also occupied the chamber with familiar ease, each one settled into their respective roles. Lady Beatrice Arryn hovered closest, in that affectionate manner that was wholly hers, her fingers deftly working a bejewelled comb through the princess's pale tresses. An elaborately embroidered headdress lay on the vanity before them, waiting to crown the newly arranged locks. Behind them, Lavinia Strong and Edith Celtigar occupied the great bed, engrossed in a game of cards. Lavinia lounged carelessly, one leg bent over the other, recounting some bawdy tale she had overheard from the servants belowstairs. Edith, by contrast, sat with her spine perfectly straight, her lips pursed in a manner that betrayed both concentration and disapproval, her dark brows drawn together as she pondered her next move.
Lady Elinda Massey was with them too, content to drink in the atmosphere as a spectator, her back resting against Edith's in a display of ease, while Edith, for all her usual rigidity, made no move to shift away.
The scene was a tapestry of companionship, woven with threads of duty and devotion. It should not have felt cozy, not with the sombre air of the occasion or the tragedy of the days past lingering like a spectre at the edge of their merriment. And yet, there was something comforting about their presence as they filled the chamber with the hum of laughter, dulling the edge of grief momentarily.
"You won't believe what I heard in the kitchens this morning," Lavinia was saying conspiratorially. "Apparently, the head cook caught the new scullion girl in the pantry with Ser Roger Waters—and his squire!"
Edith gasped, scandalized. "Lavinia!"
"Oh, hush, Edith. It's a good story." The brunette Strong waved a dismissive hand before dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. "There she was, skirts hitched up to her thighs, pressed up against the salted pork, and the squire—get this—was helping hold her steady."
