Qeya River do i wanna know?

his teeth grit, a muscle jumping in his jaw. she speaks of endurance, of survival, of duty—and he is sick of hearing it. sick of the way she frames herself as a woman who had no choices, when he knows that is not true.

his voice: a whetted blade, scraping up from his throat, fixed between pointed teeth that do not bare at her, but unveil with the shake of his jaw. he speaks and words are quiet, hushed, but voiced with an intensity that could make her furs curl.

you did not have to choose rhaegon. he does not look at her; looking at her now may illicit thoughts he long buried. you did not have to choose sun eater. words she surely did not want to hear, but would anyways.

something sharp cuts through his chest, a feeling he thought long buried. anger, resentment, the ugly shadow of what once had been. she had not waited. she had never even considered waiting. not for him. of course not—and hadn’t he told himself, time and time again, that he did not want her? that whatever had existed between them had been scorched away, burned beneath his rage?

was that why he disliked sun eater so? petty jealousy? the thought spurned even him. stirred questions—against his own self—in his mind. pulling his honor into question. when had he ever been the victim of envy? when had he ever allowed it to cloud his judgement so severely? and yet... he could not shove it aside.

but here she is, standing before him, speaking of what she has suffered, of what she has endured. and he sees her, truly sees her, and knows—she has done this to herself.

his teeth click: look at yourself.

steel in his words, in his voice. gurgling in his throat upon the emotion he suffers. i know that you could do nothing against your court. i know you could do nothing against your husband.

but this—this life she has chosen, this cycle she has willingly subjected herself to again—this is different.

his final lash: are you not tired?