[ fire and water. there is something poetic to it all, silver thinks idly — a storm wrought by flames, a storm on the high seas, both are hungry things, taking and leaving nothing behind. how appropriate, then, that they'd run into each other in the woods; or perhaps it had been something beyond them, like water rising to meet the tide, or a flame turning in the wind.
it feels right, to stand here like this, close enough to touch, his fingers running over the ends of aemond's hair as he lets his hand fall, despite the urge to let it stay right there, to twine his fingers in the strands like they're the urca gold he'd had to let go once already. there is a peace to their closeness, as if his soul has settled in his chest, and yet the air around them feels like it might, after a thunderstorm, like lightning is dancing on his every nerve.
he wants to be closer, and if he truly lets himself look at the feeling, he can admit that it terrifies him just as much as it evidently does aemond, judging by the way he steps back, straightens to his full height, like the way he's seen so many men do when they try to appear larger, intimidating, commanding.
if only they knew that being liked is often as good as being feared, if not more so.
his smile doesn't waver. neither does his wry, amused tone. ]
Didn't you listen to them? It won't take, if it's one-sided. The bond. So whatever I may have done... you've evidently welcomed it.
[ he shrugs one shoulder casually. but then, as he looks back at aemond, there is some of that same wonder from the forest in his eyes, now — the same kind of look as there was when aemond spoke of vhagar, soft and bright. ]
No, they're not. One is a friend — a reliable one, I believe. The other is my neighbour. I suppose our proximity warranted the creation of an imprint. They're... comfortable. Friendly. Commoners, like me. Not wildfire and thunder.
[ he takes a small step closer, almost despite himself. and says, tone low, the words barely more than an exhale, ] But fire can't burn the sea.
[ and yes, he may be running with the poetic metaphor here — but he believes it, too. they were meant to meet, which means this was meant to happen... which means, whatever storm rages there, outside of them, perhaps that is why they are here, now, to weather it together. ]
( Aemond's jaw works for a flicker of a second as Silver reminds him of how the bonds are formed: a welcoming of one heart to another that has to be reciprocated in some way; it can't be forced, nor can it be artificially created, and it has to come from something real. It should irritate him that the other man is right, just as it should irritate him that he steps forwards into his space again— But there is only relief, and a slow unfurling of something within him that had tightened upon stepping away.
Closer is better. Closer is — right, for whatever this thing is that's happening between them, and this time Aemond doesn't try to stretch the space between them open again. Against his better judgement, he tilts closer. )
Our captors seem eager for us to share imprints with as many others as we can, but I cannot have more like this.
( It is concerning that there's an intensity to this one that Silver hasn't found elsewhere. It leaves Aemond feeling restless, his throat tight from the many and varied implications of what that might mean, and it's galling to find himself wanting to reach out and grasp at Silver's arm for some kind of stability. Just being in the man's presence has settled the firestorm in his chest — the Gods only know what might happen should they actually touch.
... Still. If Silver is telling the truth, then it's possible that any further imprints Aemond is a part of won't shake him to his core like this one. He closes his eye for a moment, pulls in a breath, and releases a frustrated sigh. Fire can't burn the sea, Silver says, but Aemond knows otherwise; has seen the waves rise into a veil of blistering mist as Vhagar terrorises the sea birds of Blackwater Bay. Aemond has it in him to boil the seas. He knows he does. He wonders if that's why Vhagar chose him. )
You should know that my uncle named me a plague. His reasons are rooted in blind vengeance, and yet ...
( It's possible that Daemon is correct. Aemond thinks of Lucerys, of how he had lost control of himself in the skies over Storm's End; thinks of the crazed way he had hunted Gojo through the sprawling park only a handful of days ago. The Natural Soul shivers within him as though purring its delight: it knows what he is too, and it revels in the carnage it might commit through him.
[ silver steps closer, and aemond doesn't retreat — and if there is a way for the air between them to be both heavy with relief and charged with something electric, it must be so, for nothing else explains how he feels in that moment.
what even that doesn't explain is the way silver hisses when aemond speaks of having more like this — it's a low sound in his throat, and for a moment his light eyes seem almost lighter, pupils slit for but the blink of an eye. it's over as soon as it begins, and it leaves him reeling from the sudden crashing wave of — possessiveness, he supposes it is, little sense though it makes. but then, none of this natural souls business makes any sense to begin with. ]
Then you will be relieved to know it isn't... the same, every time. [ his voice is low, almost hoarse, like he has to remember how to speak for a moment there. but he means the words; there is no lie in his descriptions.
just as there seems to be no lie in the words aemond offers him: an explanation... a warning, too, of a sort. this, he says, like whatever they have here is impossible to define, and silver finds he agrees. he doesn't know what this is, either — only that it is something, a potential, a tether, a powerful force beyond either of them.
in that moment, he makes a decision. ]
Then... there is something you should know, too.
My name is John Silver, [ he says, an echo to their first meeting — only this time, his voice is even, steady, light with confidence. ] I am quartermaster to Captain Flint, the most feared pirate in the high seas. Currently, our crew is locked in a war against England, the largest Empire in the world. Every day, I stand next to a force of nature and offer him my counsel. Every day, I watch cities burn before his fury, and yet he's never once burned me.
[ he tilts his head, then, meets aemond's eye with a promise. ] As long as you and I remain connected... I don't care what others might have named you, nor do I care if this is easy or not.
[ he lifts his hand; and slowly, like placing it onto a burning pyre, he presses his palm against aemond's chest. he doesn't mean to aim it so, but it lands right below his heart. ]
( Aemond almost misses it — that split second in which Silver is at once himself and something else. There's a threatening chord in the lash of his hiss that resonates deep within his chest: it hooks in beneath his ribs, pulls down to his gut, and spreads an odd kind of liquid warmth right through to the very tips of his fingers and toes. Good, some feral part of him says; an internal mingling of his own voice and that of his dark passenger. Fight for me. Bleed for me. Do not allow anyone else to have me. His hair slips forwards again as he instinctively leans in to soothe whatever had surfaced in the other man—
And he is relieved. He is. He no longer wants to think about why.
There's a sinuous shift in the prince as his posture begins to loosen. Small increments at first, like easing into a scalding spring, but then all of a sudden Aemond no longer seems pulled taut and ready to snap at the barest hint of pressure. Silver speaks of pirates, war, and ruin — of a captain driving them all into the inferno — and he tilts his head, his violet-eyed gaze alive with possibility.)
... So you are a warring pirate.
( Finally, the barest hint of a smile touches the corners of Aemond's lips. )
Hm. I suppose that explains why you have the smile of a rogue — and the manner of one, too.
( It slots into place in a way that feels correct. An understanding, almost, of what they might be able to accomplish together in this place; and understanding that they have done terrible things and will do terrible things because every world can be a terrible place. Silver's gaze is steady and strong as he lifts his hand to slowly press against his chest, which will feel—
Warm. Unusually so, to the point where the sleek leather of Aemond's doublet seems suffused with pleasant heat. Silver asks him if he cares and he blinks once, those pale lashes catching the light, before raising his own hand and curling slender, sword-callused fingers around the palm against his chest.
The touch is like the moment before dragon-fire: the swelling roar, the heartbeat of silence, the whispered prayer for mercy before blackened flame pours from the Heavens. Vhagar may not be with Aemond in this place but she will always be a part of him, and standing before him, mere inches away, perhaps Silver will find himself realising as much. )
[ he doesn't know what brings on the shift, but between one breath and the next, aemond goes from being strung tight like a bow to melting like the first touch of spring after a night of frost. a smile hints at the corners of his mouth, tugs them up just a touch, and there is something mesmerizing in it, something that makes him lean a little closer, almost unconsciously so, gaze unblinking as it falls from aemond's amethyst-bright eye to his mouth and then drags itself back up again.
he huffs out a laugh at being called a rogue; but when the shoe fits... ]
I've kept that to myself, so far. Seemed a good idea, not advertising that if the Navy caught me, I'd be hanging the next day.
[ it isn't an apology for lying so much as it's a reasonable explanation, with something of a request hidden there in the spaces between the words — don't tell anyone — but then his words stutter to a halt as the warmth of his chest sinks into his veins, builds in his chest, seeps down until he can't remember the cold, until all of him feels burning, if pleasantly so.
and then there is a hand around his own, and for a moment, silver imagines he hears it: the sound of a dragon's roar, the crackle of fire, building slowly in intensity. aemond is without his dragon, here, and yet not — or perhaps a part of him is the dragon, with the same kind of fire in his veins, the same kind of danger lurking inside him.
a sane man might step away. a sane man might pull his hand away and think twice.
silver doesn't think he's been very sane at all, for a while, now... if ever.
slowly, deliberately, he turns his hand around, entwines his fingers with aemond's. and slowly, deliberately, he lifts his other hand, the poetry book long forgotten there on the table, strokes his fingertips over aemond's hair that spills over his shoulder; down, then up, brushing against his neck.
he is a pirate, after all; and if he sees an opportunity... he will take it. ]
Good. [ now, the second question is — what else will he welcome?
(had there been a moment when he was terrified of this, their connection, what it might mean? the recollection of that is already hazy; his world has narrowed down to this little corner of the library, to their palms pressed together, to his fingertips against aemond's neck, then carding through his hair.) ]
( Don't worry, Silver, that's a piece of information Aemond can keep to himself. There's something more than a little exhilarating in learning the truth of his life beyond Karteria: Aemond's existence in King's Landing has been strictly sheltered in many ways, and he has always envied Daemon for his travels, his adventures, and for the web of connections he's managed to build for himself across the city. Aemond, on the other hand, has had no such opportunity to confer with anyone so far below his own station, and he isn't about to jeopardize the chance he has now.
It feels like breaking the rules. Aemond is finding he quite likes it. )
I dare say there are many here who would take such a revelation poorly.
( Native citizens and Augmented alike.
Still, those are considerations for another time. The library seems somehow dimmer around them, unimportant, because the library isn't Silver, and as fingertips slip against the line of his throat he feels something catch in his chest.
So few people have touched him like this. There had been Sylvi, of course, and then the reckless tryst in the woods that had been encouraged on by his Shift, but nothing that has come anywhere near close to stopping his very breath. Nothing so heavy and charged, and nothing that has threatened to ignite his blood into a new kind of firestorm, and there's a moment in which Aemond finds himself wondering what might happen if he were to simply ...
Give in. )
But I would not see you hanged.
( Aemond's thumb strokes the side of Silver's palm as his gaze dips to his mouth, lingers there for a moment, before flitting back up to his eyes. When he leans in it seems inevitable that their lips will meet — but he leaves a breath of space between them, just enough so that the kiss is in the warmth of his words instead. )
No. If you betray me, you will burn.
( And just like that, Aemond pulls back again, the soft curve of his smile and comfortable posture only a little at odds with the threat he hopes he won't have to act on. He squeezes Silver's hand minutely before wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue: )
... I have my answers. I should return to my quarters.
[ logic would dictate that a prince would not find anything good in an association with a pirate, an outlaw — and yet, not even a moment's hesitation occurs there, in the minute space between his decision and the words that reveal his identity. their hands remain a burning point of contact, and silver wonders at the certainty that he feels: that aemond will not mind his occupation, that he can trust him with that secret.
trust has never come easily to him, but in this space where only they exist, where it seems that the air itself might catch fire around them, there is no space for mistrust. ]
My thoughts exactly.
[ yes, there are those who would take it poorly indeed; but as long as aemond isn't one of them, silver can't muster up much energy to worry about a number of unnamed, faceless people, not in this moment. certainly not after aemond's thumb presses against his hand, deceptively gentle; not after there is only enough space for the threat to fall between them, close enough for him to feel the exhale of each word against his lips like a promise.
he doesn't know if what he feels after aemond pulls back is frustration or relief, or a strange amalgamation of both. you will burn, aemond says, but what he's failed to account for is that he's already burning, right here, right now, a fire strong enough that he needs a goddamn fucking ocean to douse it.
never let it be said that john silver is a weak man — a weak man would not meet aemond's gaze, a weak man would not take one deliberate step back, the metal of his leg a sharp clank in the silence of the room. with a cant of his head and an easy smile, he lets go of aemond, slides his hand away from under aemond's, draws back his other hand with one final drag of his fingernails against his throat.
the sudden emptiness that follows is staggering, just like the overwhelming need to reach for him again. and yet, silver's expression doesn't waver even a little; his hands remain unclenched at his sides, at least until he lifts one, waves it with a little flourish towards the door. ]
As you wish. [ for him leaving, or for the threat? both, perhaps. he doesn't specify. ] Good night... Your Highness.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
it feels right, to stand here like this, close enough to touch, his fingers running over the ends of aemond's hair as he lets his hand fall, despite the urge to let it stay right there, to twine his fingers in the strands like they're the urca gold he'd had to let go once already. there is a peace to their closeness, as if his soul has settled in his chest, and yet the air around them feels like it might, after a thunderstorm, like lightning is dancing on his every nerve.
he wants to be closer, and if he truly lets himself look at the feeling, he can admit that it terrifies him just as much as it evidently does aemond, judging by the way he steps back, straightens to his full height, like the way he's seen so many men do when they try to appear larger, intimidating, commanding.
if only they knew that being liked is often as good as being feared, if not more so.
his smile doesn't waver. neither does his wry, amused tone. ]
Didn't you listen to them? It won't take, if it's one-sided. The bond. So whatever I may have done... you've evidently welcomed it.
[ he shrugs one shoulder casually. but then, as he looks back at aemond, there is some of that same wonder from the forest in his eyes, now — the same kind of look as there was when aemond spoke of vhagar, soft and bright. ]
No, they're not. One is a friend — a reliable one, I believe. The other is my neighbour. I suppose our proximity warranted the creation of an imprint. They're... comfortable. Friendly. Commoners, like me. Not wildfire and thunder.
[ he takes a small step closer, almost despite himself. and says, tone low, the words barely more than an exhale, ] But fire can't burn the sea.
[ and yes, he may be running with the poetic metaphor here — but he believes it, too. they were meant to meet, which means this was meant to happen... which means, whatever storm rages there, outside of them, perhaps that is why they are here, now, to weather it together. ]
no subject
( Aemond's jaw works for a flicker of a second as Silver reminds him of how the bonds are formed: a welcoming of one heart to another that has to be reciprocated in some way; it can't be forced, nor can it be artificially created, and it has to come from something real. It should irritate him that the other man is right, just as it should irritate him that he steps forwards into his space again— But there is only relief, and a slow unfurling of something within him that had tightened upon stepping away.
Closer is better. Closer is — right, for whatever this thing is that's happening between them, and this time Aemond doesn't try to stretch the space between them open again. Against his better judgement, he tilts closer. )
Our captors seem eager for us to share imprints with as many others as we can, but I cannot have more like this.
( It is concerning that there's an intensity to this one that Silver hasn't found elsewhere. It leaves Aemond feeling restless, his throat tight from the many and varied implications of what that might mean, and it's galling to find himself wanting to reach out and grasp at Silver's arm for some kind of stability. Just being in the man's presence has settled the firestorm in his chest — the Gods only know what might happen should they actually touch.
... Still. If Silver is telling the truth, then it's possible that any further imprints Aemond is a part of won't shake him to his core like this one. He closes his eye for a moment, pulls in a breath, and releases a frustrated sigh. Fire can't burn the sea, Silver says, but Aemond knows otherwise; has seen the waves rise into a veil of blistering mist as Vhagar terrorises the sea birds of Blackwater Bay. Aemond has it in him to boil the seas. He knows he does. He wonders if that's why Vhagar chose him. )
You should know that my uncle named me a plague. His reasons are rooted in blind vengeance, and yet ...
( It's possible that Daemon is correct. Aemond thinks of Lucerys, of how he had lost control of himself in the skies over Storm's End; thinks of the crazed way he had hunted Gojo through the sprawling park only a handful of days ago. The Natural Soul shivers within him as though purring its delight: it knows what he is too, and it revels in the carnage it might commit through him.
With him. )
This will not be an easy thing.
( Whatever 'this' is. )
no subject
what even that doesn't explain is the way silver hisses when aemond speaks of having more like this — it's a low sound in his throat, and for a moment his light eyes seem almost lighter, pupils slit for but the blink of an eye. it's over as soon as it begins, and it leaves him reeling from the sudden crashing wave of — possessiveness, he supposes it is, little sense though it makes. but then, none of this natural souls business makes any sense to begin with. ]
Then you will be relieved to know it isn't... the same, every time. [ his voice is low, almost hoarse, like he has to remember how to speak for a moment there. but he means the words; there is no lie in his descriptions.
just as there seems to be no lie in the words aemond offers him: an explanation... a warning, too, of a sort. this, he says, like whatever they have here is impossible to define, and silver finds he agrees. he doesn't know what this is, either — only that it is something, a potential, a tether, a powerful force beyond either of them.
in that moment, he makes a decision. ]
Then... there is something you should know, too.
My name is John Silver, [ he says, an echo to their first meeting — only this time, his voice is even, steady, light with confidence. ] I am quartermaster to Captain Flint, the most feared pirate in the high seas. Currently, our crew is locked in a war against England, the largest Empire in the world. Every day, I stand next to a force of nature and offer him my counsel. Every day, I watch cities burn before his fury, and yet he's never once burned me.
[ he tilts his head, then, meets aemond's eye with a promise. ] As long as you and I remain connected... I don't care what others might have named you, nor do I care if this is easy or not.
[ he lifts his hand; and slowly, like placing it onto a burning pyre, he presses his palm against aemond's chest. he doesn't mean to aim it so, but it lands right below his heart. ]
The question is, I suppose... do you care?
no subject
( Aemond almost misses it — that split second in which Silver is at once himself and something else. There's a threatening chord in the lash of his hiss that resonates deep within his chest: it hooks in beneath his ribs, pulls down to his gut, and spreads an odd kind of liquid warmth right through to the very tips of his fingers and toes. Good, some feral part of him says; an internal mingling of his own voice and that of his dark passenger. Fight for me. Bleed for me. Do not allow anyone else to have me. His hair slips forwards again as he instinctively leans in to soothe whatever had surfaced in the other man—
And he is relieved. He is. He no longer wants to think about why.
There's a sinuous shift in the prince as his posture begins to loosen. Small increments at first, like easing into a scalding spring, but then all of a sudden Aemond no longer seems pulled taut and ready to snap at the barest hint of pressure. Silver speaks of pirates, war, and ruin — of a captain driving them all into the inferno — and he tilts his head, his violet-eyed gaze alive with possibility. )
... So you are a warring pirate.
( Finally, the barest hint of a smile touches the corners of Aemond's lips. )
Hm. I suppose that explains why you have the smile of a rogue — and the manner of one, too.
( It slots into place in a way that feels correct. An understanding, almost, of what they might be able to accomplish together in this place; and understanding that they have done terrible things and will do terrible things because every world can be a terrible place. Silver's gaze is steady and strong as he lifts his hand to slowly press against his chest, which will feel—
Warm. Unusually so, to the point where the sleek leather of Aemond's doublet seems suffused with pleasant heat. Silver asks him if he cares and he blinks once, those pale lashes catching the light, before raising his own hand and curling slender, sword-callused fingers around the palm against his chest.
The touch is like the moment before dragon-fire: the swelling roar, the heartbeat of silence, the whispered prayer for mercy before blackened flame pours from the Heavens. Vhagar may not be with Aemond in this place but she will always be a part of him, and standing before him, mere inches away, perhaps Silver will find himself realising as much. )
I welcome it.
no subject
he huffs out a laugh at being called a rogue; but when the shoe fits... ]
I've kept that to myself, so far. Seemed a good idea, not advertising that if the Navy caught me, I'd be hanging the next day.
[ it isn't an apology for lying so much as it's a reasonable explanation, with something of a request hidden there in the spaces between the words — don't tell anyone — but then his words stutter to a halt as the warmth of his chest sinks into his veins, builds in his chest, seeps down until he can't remember the cold, until all of him feels burning, if pleasantly so.
and then there is a hand around his own, and for a moment, silver imagines he hears it: the sound of a dragon's roar, the crackle of fire, building slowly in intensity. aemond is without his dragon, here, and yet not — or perhaps a part of him is the dragon, with the same kind of fire in his veins, the same kind of danger lurking inside him.
a sane man might step away. a sane man might pull his hand away and think twice.
silver doesn't think he's been very sane at all, for a while, now... if ever.
slowly, deliberately, he turns his hand around, entwines his fingers with aemond's. and slowly, deliberately, he lifts his other hand, the poetry book long forgotten there on the table, strokes his fingertips over aemond's hair that spills over his shoulder; down, then up, brushing against his neck.
he is a pirate, after all; and if he sees an opportunity... he will take it. ]
Good. [ now, the second question is — what else will he welcome?
(had there been a moment when he was terrified of this, their connection, what it might mean? the recollection of that is already hazy; his world has narrowed down to this little corner of the library, to their palms pressed together, to his fingertips against aemond's neck, then carding through his hair.) ]
no subject
( Don't worry, Silver, that's a piece of information Aemond can keep to himself. There's something more than a little exhilarating in learning the truth of his life beyond Karteria: Aemond's existence in King's Landing has been strictly sheltered in many ways, and he has always envied Daemon for his travels, his adventures, and for the web of connections he's managed to build for himself across the city. Aemond, on the other hand, has had no such opportunity to confer with anyone so far below his own station, and he isn't about to jeopardize the chance he has now.
It feels like breaking the rules. Aemond is finding he quite likes it. )
I dare say there are many here who would take such a revelation poorly.
( Native citizens and Augmented alike.
Still, those are considerations for another time. The library seems somehow dimmer around them, unimportant, because the library isn't Silver, and as fingertips slip against the line of his throat he feels something catch in his chest.
So few people have touched him like this. There had been Sylvi, of course, and then the reckless tryst in the woods that had been encouraged on by his Shift, but nothing that has come anywhere near close to stopping his very breath. Nothing so heavy and charged, and nothing that has threatened to ignite his blood into a new kind of firestorm, and there's a moment in which Aemond finds himself wondering what might happen if he were to simply ...
Give in. )
But I would not see you hanged.
( Aemond's thumb strokes the side of Silver's palm as his gaze dips to his mouth, lingers there for a moment, before flitting back up to his eyes. When he leans in it seems inevitable that their lips will meet — but he leaves a breath of space between them, just enough so that the kiss is in the warmth of his words instead. )
No. If you betray me, you will burn.
( And just like that, Aemond pulls back again, the soft curve of his smile and comfortable posture only a little at odds with the threat he hopes he won't have to act on. He squeezes Silver's hand minutely before wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue: )
... I have my answers. I should return to my quarters.
no subject
trust has never come easily to him, but in this space where only they exist, where it seems that the air itself might catch fire around them, there is no space for mistrust. ]
My thoughts exactly.
[ yes, there are those who would take it poorly indeed; but as long as aemond isn't one of them, silver can't muster up much energy to worry about a number of unnamed, faceless people, not in this moment. certainly not after aemond's thumb presses against his hand, deceptively gentle; not after there is only enough space for the threat to fall between them, close enough for him to feel the exhale of each word against his lips like a promise.
he doesn't know if what he feels after aemond pulls back is frustration or relief, or a strange amalgamation of both. you will burn, aemond says, but what he's failed to account for is that he's already burning, right here, right now, a fire strong enough that he needs a goddamn fucking ocean to douse it.
never let it be said that john silver is a weak man — a weak man would not meet aemond's gaze, a weak man would not take one deliberate step back, the metal of his leg a sharp clank in the silence of the room. with a cant of his head and an easy smile, he lets go of aemond, slides his hand away from under aemond's, draws back his other hand with one final drag of his fingernails against his throat.
the sudden emptiness that follows is staggering, just like the overwhelming need to reach for him again. and yet, silver's expression doesn't waver even a little; his hands remain unclenched at his sides, at least until he lifts one, waves it with a little flourish towards the door. ]
As you wish. [ for him leaving, or for the threat? both, perhaps. he doesn't specify. ] Good night... Your Highness.