[ As dusk falls, he's as good as his word. The solarium is warm and gloriously lit by the setting sun, golden light blazing in the glass windows and roof panes, casting long beams across the flagstone floor.
Armand has had the staff set up a small bistro-style table and a couple of chairs in the middle of the space, covered with a tablecloth. On this is arranged a dark bottle of wine, another unlabelled bottle, two glasses, a small cheeseboard arrangement, and a large flat box tied with a dark ribbon. Armand himself is just as immaculately turned out in layers of dark red, positioning himself in the tableau with an artist's eye to how the light falls on him from behind. He sits with his hands folded on the tabletop, displaying the fact that he's wearing both Daniel's engagement ring and Alicent's Christmas gift.
Despite the control in his pose, the expression he turns on Alicent as she arrives is soft and a touch fond. He rises from his seat as she approaches, moving around to pull her chair out for her. ]
[ Alicent arrives precisely on schedule, though she ascribes to the belief that a queen is never late. The outlay of finery sharpens the arch of her brows. Her skirts sway with the abruptness of her stop, pale blue gossamer that nearly shimmers in the dying light. She recalls her unease, meeting with Armand and Set in the library so many months ago — how Armand’s display of power assured her she was right to keep Homelander close. Much has shifted since then, and yet the performance continues. Set dressing and costumes in place. Two creatures of the court, returned to the stage. ]
Armand.
[ A gentle reproach, at the formality. She refused Set the use of her name before all, for the price of his games, but she did not ask it of Armand. Too much had passed between them by then — and even more so has now, with the terrible work of her shaking hands before her. She wept over Armand as she has for few others, unrestrained by duty or witness. To look upon him whole makes her heart stutter. She did not know he would return, when some never do. And she did not know if he would ever wish to see her again, if he did.
She reaches out, hand fluttering at the curve of his jaw, daring to cup his cheek. ]
What a performance, for one who has harmed you.
[ In more ways than one. Alicent knows little else. ]
[ Alicent's hand is warm on his skin, scented by her soaps and perfumes. It had felt so cold before, in the dark room where she had ended his life, her fingertips trailing icy shadows through his fever-hazed memories of those final moments. He's glad to find her restored to that gentle moral heat, and leans into her touch, looking up at her with gentle affection -- the movement revealing perhaps a little of the dark scar that rings his neck, beneath the red silk neckerchief he's knotted around it. ]
You are not alone in that, Alicent.
[ She would be third on the list, at least, and far from the worst. Louis and Lestat have both left their loving marks on his body and soul -- some requested, others not. But that is in the past; he has learned how to leave those things behind in order to move forward. They're alike in that, the two of them.
He lifts his own hand -- the one adorned with rings -- to touch her wrist, lightly. Not to ask her to stop touching him, but to return the gesture, tracing over the delicate tributaries of her veins. ]
You drank from him. He drank from me. And so we are connected. You have my blood within your body as well as on your hands. Blood of my blood. Blood of my child. Blood of my maker.
Edited (wait I can make it more insane) 2025-03-18 16:32 (UTC)
[ He leans in, despite where her hands have been — what they’ve wrought — too willing, as ones unused to kindness always are. Her wide eyes glimpse the evidence of her handiwork, and she feels a twisty, incoherent emotion. Revulsion (at her violence) and pride (at having marked the unmarkable, wounded the unwoundable, when all think her a simpering creature, the king’s whore).
For the first time, she understands why her son moons over Armand so, for the only men more obsessed with blood than vampires are Targaryens. Purifying it to the point of ruin. Looking upon her children with disgust for the crime of bleeding green and not black, when it gives them nothing but entitlement. Their dragons do not even truly obey them, else Vhagar would not have swallowed Lucerys like an errant fly.
The power of the vampire is harder to deny, particularly when she felt it herself. Exhilarating. Consumptive.
Her head tilts, the muscle in her jaw working. For him to claim her is both a violation and a laudation. It was her doing — her teeth — that tangled them further. She has no other blame, for seeking what was his first. ]
And you drink from my child. [ Her other hand curls into a fist, then relaxes, hanging loosely to the fabric tinting her collarbone blue. ] Blood of my blood. Blood of my womb.
[ What claim does any man have to parenthood, when it is the mother who gives of her flesh? Aemond is born of her rib, her rage, with nothing of Viserys but his silver hair. ]
[ For a few significant moments, Armand allows himself to feel the urge to clutch at her wrist and bring it to his mouth, to swallow down whatever faint remains of Daniel linger in her blood. He would drink and drink until he was full and she was empty, taking her memories for his own, her fragile strength and her resolve and her broken heart. She would live on in him and he would have a little more of the part of himself he's lost, the part that Daniel took with him, leaving Armand fractured and incomplete.
But he doesn't do it. Instead, he lowers his hand back to his lap, lets her hold his jaw like a benediction and looks up into her eyes. With deliberate intention, he turns his face in her hand so he can brush his lips over the heel of her palm before speaking again. ]
Then we are equals, Alicent.
[ Would she be as happy to descend to him as she might be to draw him up to her? That remains to be seen. ]
[ As much as anything can satisfy one made hollow, Armand’s answer (and supplication) does so. It isn’t necessarily true, no more than Larys’ claim to friendship and servitude had been in her girlhood, but it’s something, isn’t it? To be considered worth the pretending. The men of the court stopped bothering with such pretences once her son become a viable candidate for the throne.
Her eyes glisten (too wide, too vulnerable, too sad) as his lips brush her unmarked skin. She nods to herself and lets her hand fall aside. ]
The mind wonders at what you consider an appropriate gift. [ She sweeps her skirts aside to take her seat. ] For a killing.
[ A dry thing, composure returned to her. She thinks of Larys again, with his whispery devotionals. The queen makes a wish. ]
For mercy. [ A gentle correction, delivered with a look that suggests he hasn't missed the way her heart constricts over the memory, and is grateful for it. Still, there's a lingering twist to his mouth, almost rueful. Willing to be self-deprecating about it in response to her dry humor. ]
Compassion for a wretched, dying creature, from the hand of a queen. More than poor Amadeo could ever have asked for. Nevertheless -- [ He waves his hand; the ribbon on the box on the table in front of Alicent unties itself and unspools, the lid sliding to one side. Showing off his restored power. Hopelessly melodramatic. Daniel would have rolled his eyes.
In the box, small treasures: a grey button-down shirt; a soft cotton Guns 'N' Roses t-shirt, rescued from the maids before they could wash it, that still carries a faint scent of sweat and cigarette smoke and blood. And, most precious of all, a notebook full of Daniel's spiky handwriting -- mostly observations on the manor, speculation about the nature of the Balfours, and occasional notes to remember. Little personal details, the efforts of his hands. Nothing of Armand himself, or Louis and Lestat. Some secrets are still theirs.
Armand's expression is troubled, complex, distress telling in the way he fiddles his thumbnail under the nails of his fingers. This is more than he's offered anyone, even Louis, who had loved Daniel too. But not in the way Alicent seemed to have loved him. Uncomplicated, innocent of conspiracy or vampiric entanglements.
Jaw working, Armand swallows, reaching for a glass. ]
[ For mercy, he says, and Alicent stills, for no one — not even Rhaenyra — has afforded her such grace. All her cruelties have been deemed innate to her being, the fact of a cold nature, an ambitious heart, when she never wanted for any of it. She wants to ask why, to catch her nail on the edge of the wound he names Amadeo — but his magician’s flourish draws her attention to the prestige.
And her heart stutters, expression broken open. She recognises the belongings as Daniel’s immediately, unable to fight the girlish urge to reach for them, a reverent brush of fingertips that her father would have slapped away. More dignified than bringing them to her face and gasping her grief, still. ]
Armand. [ eyes glistening, wide with wonder and uncertainty. Alicent has rarely been given a gift without paying a hefty price, but she cannot imagine what Armand would ask of her for this, when he already could demand retribution.
She plucks the notebook from the box, opening it to a random page, and recalls how she drew her ridiculous family tree for his benefit, clarifying the names inherited and numbered with her delicate hand. Because he wanted to understand her where others have never tried (and perhaps they have never even imagined that she might possess an interiority worth studying). ]
Oh, Armand. [ It’s too much, she nearly says, the instinct to make herself small and insignificant ever present, but she couldn’t bear to part with these gifts, clutching them tighter at the mere thought of returning them. Selfish and cruel, as they say. ]
[ voice thick, ] Thank you.
[ Her words fail her, and so she reaches out to compensate for their inadequacy, a shaky hand covering one of his own. ]
I cannot say what this means to me — but perhaps you already know.
[ The sight of her breaking is almost enough to break Armand, cracking him open all along the fault lines so recently excised in his heart and soul. His hand trembles as he lifts his glass to his mouth with one hand, trying to drown the feeling in bland lukewarm blood. It doesn't work; when he looks back up at her, at her hands clutching Daniel's notebook, his eyes glitter and swim with bloodied tears.
Her fingers are warm on his cold skin. He turns his hand underneath hers to take them, gently, the sympathetic grip of a marble statue, of a creature who shouldn't know grief or heartbreak.
He blinks, eyelashes wet. A pinkish tear rolls down his cheek. In her mind, in his own heart, he remembers Daniel. ]
It's not enough. [ The truth that they both know. Nothing will be enough. But they must hold on to what they're given, the two of them. He takes a small breath and looks down at their joined hands. ]
He loved you very much. You made him feel.. young. Normal. A man, loving a woman.
text - after mermand week
no subject
We do.
And yet I first must ask: Are you yourself?
[ or another creature entirely? ]
no subject
Will you meet me?
no subject
[ and that does mean something, when a queen usually holds an audience rather than attending one. ]
Do you still favour the solarium?
no subject
[ As dusk falls, he's as good as his word. The solarium is warm and gloriously lit by the setting sun, golden light blazing in the glass windows and roof panes, casting long beams across the flagstone floor.
Armand has had the staff set up a small bistro-style table and a couple of chairs in the middle of the space, covered with a tablecloth. On this is arranged a dark bottle of wine, another unlabelled bottle, two glasses, a small cheeseboard arrangement, and a large flat box tied with a dark ribbon. Armand himself is just as immaculately turned out in layers of dark red, positioning himself in the tableau with an artist's eye to how the light falls on him from behind. He sits with his hands folded on the tabletop, displaying the fact that he's wearing both Daniel's engagement ring and Alicent's Christmas gift.
Despite the control in his pose, the expression he turns on Alicent as she arrives is soft and a touch fond. He rises from his seat as she approaches, moving around to pull her chair out for her. ]
My queen.
no subject
Armand.
[ A gentle reproach, at the formality. She refused Set the use of her name before all, for the price of his games, but she did not ask it of Armand. Too much had passed between them by then — and even more so has now, with the terrible work of her shaking hands before her. She wept over Armand as she has for few others, unrestrained by duty or witness. To look upon him whole makes her heart stutter. She did not know he would return, when some never do. And she did not know if he would ever wish to see her again, if he did.
She reaches out, hand fluttering at the curve of his jaw, daring to cup his cheek. ]
What a performance, for one who has harmed you.
[ In more ways than one. Alicent knows little else. ]
cw: domestic violence mention
You are not alone in that, Alicent.
[ She would be third on the list, at least, and far from the worst. Louis and Lestat have both left their loving marks on his body and soul -- some requested, others not. But that is in the past; he has learned how to leave those things behind in order to move forward. They're alike in that, the two of them.
He lifts his own hand -- the one adorned with rings -- to touch her wrist, lightly. Not to ask her to stop touching him, but to return the gesture, tracing over the delicate tributaries of her veins. ]
You drank from him. He drank from me. And so we are connected. You have my blood within your body as well as on your hands. Blood of my blood. Blood of my child. Blood of my maker.
cw: pregnancy, refs to incest, misogyny
For the first time, she understands why her son moons over Armand so, for the only men more obsessed with blood than vampires are Targaryens. Purifying it to the point of ruin. Looking upon her children with disgust for the crime of bleeding green and not black, when it gives them nothing but entitlement. Their dragons do not even truly obey them, else Vhagar would not have swallowed Lucerys like an errant fly.
The power of the vampire is harder to deny, particularly when she felt it herself. Exhilarating. Consumptive.
Her head tilts, the muscle in her jaw working. For him to claim her is both a violation and a laudation. It was her doing — her teeth — that tangled them further. She has no other blame, for seeking what was his first. ]
And you drink from my child. [ Her other hand curls into a fist, then relaxes, hanging loosely to the fabric tinting her collarbone blue. ] Blood of my blood. Blood of my womb.
[ What claim does any man have to parenthood, when it is the mother who gives of her flesh? Aemond is born of her rib, her rage, with nothing of Viserys but his silver hair. ]
Perhaps that makes us equals.
no subject
But he doesn't do it. Instead, he lowers his hand back to his lap, lets her hold his jaw like a benediction and looks up into her eyes. With deliberate intention, he turns his face in her hand so he can brush his lips over the heel of her palm before speaking again. ]
Then we are equals, Alicent.
[ Would she be as happy to descend to him as she might be to draw him up to her? That remains to be seen. ]
Please, be seated. I have a gift for you.
no subject
Her eyes glisten (too wide, too vulnerable, too sad) as his lips brush her unmarked skin. She nods to herself and lets her hand fall aside. ]
The mind wonders at what you consider an appropriate gift. [ She sweeps her skirts aside to take her seat. ] For a killing.
[ A dry thing, composure returned to her. She thinks of Larys again, with his whispery devotionals. The queen makes a wish. ]
no subject
Compassion for a wretched, dying creature, from the hand of a queen. More than poor Amadeo could ever have asked for. Nevertheless -- [ He waves his hand; the ribbon on the box on the table in front of Alicent unties itself and unspools, the lid sliding to one side. Showing off his restored power. Hopelessly melodramatic. Daniel would have rolled his eyes.
In the box, small treasures: a grey button-down shirt; a soft cotton Guns 'N' Roses t-shirt, rescued from the maids before they could wash it, that still carries a faint scent of sweat and cigarette smoke and blood. And, most precious of all, a notebook full of Daniel's spiky handwriting -- mostly observations on the manor, speculation about the nature of the Balfours, and occasional notes to remember. Little personal details, the efforts of his hands. Nothing of Armand himself, or Louis and Lestat. Some secrets are still theirs.
Armand's expression is troubled, complex, distress telling in the way he fiddles his thumbnail under the nails of his fingers. This is more than he's offered anyone, even Louis, who had loved Daniel too. But not in the way Alicent seemed to have loved him. Uncomplicated, innocent of conspiracy or vampiric entanglements.
Jaw working, Armand swallows, reaching for a glass. ]
He would have wanted you to have something.
no subject
And her heart stutters, expression broken open. She recognises the belongings as Daniel’s immediately, unable to fight the girlish urge to reach for them, a reverent brush of fingertips that her father would have slapped away. More dignified than bringing them to her face and gasping her grief, still. ]
Armand. [ eyes glistening, wide with wonder and uncertainty. Alicent has rarely been given a gift without paying a hefty price, but she cannot imagine what Armand would ask of her for this, when he already could demand retribution.
She plucks the notebook from the box, opening it to a random page, and recalls how she drew her ridiculous family tree for his benefit, clarifying the names inherited and numbered with her delicate hand. Because he wanted to understand her where others have never tried (and perhaps they have never even imagined that she might possess an interiority worth studying). ]
Oh, Armand. [ It’s too much, she nearly says, the instinct to make herself small and insignificant ever present, but she couldn’t bear to part with these gifts, clutching them tighter at the mere thought of returning them. Selfish and cruel, as they say. ]
[ voice thick, ] Thank you.
[ Her words fail her, and so she reaches out to compensate for their inadequacy, a shaky hand covering one of his own. ]
I cannot say what this means to me — but perhaps you already know.
[ Having loved him first. ]
no subject
Her fingers are warm on his cold skin. He turns his hand underneath hers to take them, gently, the sympathetic grip of a marble statue, of a creature who shouldn't know grief or heartbreak.
He blinks, eyelashes wet. A pinkish tear rolls down his cheek. In her mind, in his own heart, he remembers Daniel. ]
It's not enough. [ The truth that they both know. Nothing will be enough. But they must hold on to what they're given, the two of them. He takes a small breath and looks down at their joined hands. ]
He loved you very much. You made him feel.. young. Normal. A man, loving a woman.