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ESSOI NIGHTS WERE LITTLE DIFFERENT FROM THE DAY.
Wild, frenzied, it didn't even look like night. Only the little hours in the morning, the hour of the owl and wolf in Westerosi time, were the stars left to their devices. The moon enjoyed it all, of course the greedy goddess did. The night was lit, and even more responsibility shorn from her delicate shoulders.
How she must hate Westeros.
Westeros, bleak. Westeros, unimaginative.
Not like Essos, where sleep was mythical.
The little hours could ward off as many as they wanted, but they were Rhaella's favorite. The silence, the ability to release, with only the stars as her companions, and yes even the vain moon was just fine.
As always during the parties, and toasts, she waited for it. Listening for the absence of her dragons, for somehow they could sleep like a petrified egg during the fire-lit and cryful nights. They knew to rest, for not only their Targaryen, but if their hosts fancied seeing one in flight. There were few dignities her father had left them, but such demands were not among them. The Targaryens slaved to the people they had yoked not three centuries earlier, whilst only to get drunk on the feasts and false lavishing praise.
Entertainers for Entertainers.
A never ending show, she thought, tilting her head to where Vhagar and Caraxes slept. If she focused well enough, she could see the tip of the queen of dragons wing over the dull stone walls. Unlike her dragons, you could never lose Vhagar. Her breathing made the very air tremble, and the ground struggled underneath her. A true queen, Rhaella sighed, eyes fluttering down to where her hand played with the silver chains lacing up her arms. She fiddled with them, wanting her dragons more than anything.
Moondancers show always began with the feasts. Baela had chosen well, Rhaella reflected, running her tongue over the lasting stain of the sweet wine on her teeth. Too sweet for her. The beautiful blue dragon, as deep and pure as the sky after sunset, preened and snapped playfully at every drunk guests attempt to pet her. Barely the size of a warhorse, Moondancer and her Targaryen, were at the center of the merriment. Baella sat glorious and pretty in new silks a shade lighter than her dragon, smiling wider than the worm, batting her lashes as playful as her dragon and trading insults with anyone who dared.
Aptly, her dragon and her were always most appreciated when the sun fell, and they could dance in the light of the moon.
Rhaella scoffed a little, moving on to find the idiot who insisted his 7 year old daughter perform like this.
The hurt had dulled long ago, but the ache still beat determinedly. Rhaella scrambled for her glass, and had it filled by the time she found the idiot's wife.
