Qeya River do i wanna know?

she huffs—sharp, dismissive—though it is not anger that fuels it. something more tired, more wounded. the sound of a woman who has bitten back too much for too long.
his question cuts deeper than he likely intends. or perhaps he knows exactly what he is doing. blackfell always had a cruel sort of precision, even when he thought himself gentle.
her eyes flicker down to her belly—full, heavy with sun eater’s claim. the future of his bloodline carved into her body like an oath she could never undo.
what have i done that was not expected of me? her voice is low, hoarse with bitterness, though her hands do not falter from his wound.
i was alone, blackfell—alone! her breath sharpens, a ragged edge to the otherwise smooth veneer. the wound beneath her paws seems suddenly so small compared to the one inside her.
i was made queen because it was expected. i bore rhaegon’s sons because it was expected. i bled for them—buried them—because i was expected to endure it. i stood before the gods and took sun eater as husband because what else was there?
her throat tightens. she exhales sharply, willing herself not to crack.
i chose him. i survived. endured what very tested to kill me.
she dares to meet his eyes then—cold starlight clashing with crimson.
what am i to have when you black march boys leave?