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The Vale adjusts to Visenya Targaryen as fertile land adjusts to seeds. A place as old and storied as the Arryn lands takes pride in swarming the newcomer, swallowing and burying what cannot stand tall.
Queen Visenya accepts no such fate.
She is an eruption, their new queen, with a dragon whose eyes glow green as new life bursting from black soil. The kingdom looks upon her with great interest—watching carefully to see how she spreads amongst them. The Valemen know they have been changed by this bloodless, eventless Conquest of them. Eyes follow their new Queen and all of them wonder: how have we been changed? Very well, whatever Aegon the Dragon would have of us, but let it be done soon that I may return to my land, and my pride.
As for Sharra’s life? Precious little has changed.
Long has she played the resplendent lady. Long has she been loyal, lovely, kept the rights of her father then her uncle the King then her husband then her own son. The nobility of the Vale know her well enough to follow her into this dragon's mouth. For even when her beauty began to fade, the words spoken behind her back morphing from charming to cunning, she has always kept faith with them.
She leads them into this new era of new Kings with her customary grace.
'Tis not the new King who makes the Vale his own, however.
They say that this Visenya is the cruelest of her siblings. Sharra has not seen this. They say she lacks the magnanimity of one, the friendliness of the other— Sharra cannot attest to these matters but she pays it little mind. Her Grace is courteous, intelligent. She is consistent if not predictable. Sharra knows that a quality needed in a monarch, yet more than that, she thinks, my son is safe. My people are at peace. Harvests are reaped while the quarry rings and the shipyards swell. The Vale of Arryn has lost nothing but a crown thanks to my design.
So Queen, no, Lady Sharra thinks. Until the day she sees Visenya Targaryen draw her sword for the first time, shed blood of lauded knights at leisure…
The new Queen looks to Sharra, noticing her. Sharra stands and wonders: Who of us is using who?
There are rooms made up and kept solely for her Grace when it becomes clear that these are needed. Sharra is accustomed to the comforts of her own bedchambers—giving them up once a fortnight or once a moon to abide by what courtesy demands turns exhausting, after a while.
Though as with most things, there is another reason.
A sensitive one. For Ronnel is at an age when, if he should find his mothers chambers barred to him after a nightmare, he is liable to sit flat upon the floor and begin weeping horrendously. (Not behavior fit for the Lord of the Eyrie! Sharra can imagine her old, dead husband snapping.)
So it was that she was in her nightgown and robe when Sharra found Queen Visenya with Ronnel upon her knee once again. Visenya had rubbed his back as Sharra apologized profusely for the disturbance but Visenya had not deigned to respond to those apologies. Together, they rocked Ronnie calm. Gods help me, Sharra had thought. Hot wet tears gathered in her eyes for reasons unbeknownst to her—the night was a reminder of her little boy's fragility, she supposed.
For what little relief it provided, the Queen had seemed equally awkward in the aftermath. She had looked back upon Sharra’s chambers that she was occupying with something of a grimace to her face.
The new rooms are much more suited to her Grace, Sharra decides. Close enough that the Targaryen’s nightly movement could not be kept clandestine from Sharra, but far enough that Ronnel would not awaken her wailing. That would not do. As a mother, Sharra suspects she could not bear to see such a sight again. The Queen bent on her knee, holding Ronnel fiercely, tenderly, as if shielding him from the world? The overwhelming waterfall of safety she’d been struck with, coming upon the two in the moonlit hallway—
Needless to say, Sharra does not wish to repeat the incident.
There comes a time when Sharra grows more accustomed to this new peace than she ever thought she could.
The Vale has been a lord’s seat for nigh on three years when it happens. Queen Visenya— just Visenya in privy chambers, the two of them often sharing a glass of wine in the evening to discuss various matters of politics, farm husbandry, trade, and so on— has spent what feels a majority of that time in the Sharra’s line of sight. Well, line of sight exaggerates the matter. The taller, sterner woman visited all over the mountains and went down to Runestone quite often. She had that monstrous dragon so of course her trips cost less effort than it would have cost Lady Sharra to do the same… but Sharra had ceased worrying at some point.
Perhaps because Visenya returned always, with new tales and puzzles for the two of them to plod on about. From her correspondences with the other ladies and lords, Sharra knew that Visenya spoke truth. That she did not squirrel away information for herself, which would undermine Sharra and therefore Ronnel by extension.
Peace becomes trust as trust becomes peace.
She has fallen in love with this homeland of mine, Sharra thinks only to herself—an odd pleasure, she finds. So there must be something of beauty’s spell still in her fingers, insofar as the Vale remains in her fingers. Sharra delights in having charmed Visenya Targaryen, sharply-edged and stern and utterly terrible when she’d had a goblet too many.
Feels the oddest tug in her chest whenever Visenya leaves the Eyrie. A jump or a hop of that faithful organ.
“Off again, your Grace?”
Visenya barely turns to meet Sharra— she is staring outwards to mountains rising, which are unashamed as ever of how they shine in the sunlight. Spell-binding. Another thought Sharra holds between two ribs.
“I would think, my lady. Weather seems for it. I would see to the Mountains of the Moon. The farmers there.”
Oh yes. The farmers.
“I have had something made for you, Visenya.”
Now the other woman looks. Amusement teasing at the edges of her lips.
“How thoughtful. Is that it there?”
Indeed it is. A fine cloak woven of black with an inner lining of blue silk sways in Sharra’s hands. She unfolds it, shaking it open gracefully to reveal the embroidered wildflowers of the Vale set in the border. They form a regal riot of color which Sharra thinks altogether quite smart, fitting of the proud Queen who had chosen to set down some ties in this land, even if Sharra knew better than to believe Visenya thought of the Eyrie as home. It could grow so frosty in the Mountains, flying at such speeds too…
Visenya’s mouth quirks— that rare uneven smile growing on her face.
“You need not have, my Lady.”
“I wanted to,” Sharra insists, and moves to fix it around Visenya's shoulders. “You are often about in the cold fronts, Your Grace. This will be light enough to be worn in the warmth yet sturdy for the cold. It would not do for you to find a case of shivers.”
“The blood of the dragon—”
“Never gets ill. I have heard. That does not mean you do not shiver.”
Tying the last bit, Sharra brushes invisible dust from Visenya’s sharp shoulder. The Queen is strong where Sharra is soft, taller than her, but in this moment… movable, Sharra settles on. Steel takes shaping. Sharra does not meet the woman’s purple eyes, choosing to continue fussing about her arms and bare neck.
“I would be remiss if I did not thank you, my Lady. The flowers along here are quite pretty.”
“Oh, do you like them? I had hoped you would. It would be an awful thing if you spent such time in the region and did not enjoy those lovely sights.”
“Perhaps I am partial to the flowers of the mountains.” Visenya touches Sharra’s hands then, pulling them from her body. In one smooth movement she turns them such that she can lay a kiss of gratitude on each set of knuckles. Seemingly pleased, Visenya smiles again. “Thank you, Sharra. I will be off… and you should not hold your dining for my return. Young Ronnel must needs eat to grow large and strong.”
Sharra blinks. Ronnel is growing, yes. Growing independent and difficult— as boys would. However, his cousin the Lord Jonos kept it in his ears that he’d once been a king before becoming a lord, and dear Ronnie was finally coming to understand what that meant. Thankfully it did not change his behavior towards Queen Visenya, whom he had always fiercely admired and never seemed to fear.
Not the way Sharra feared her, anyway.
Then again, she had never shared a flight upon a dragon with Visenya, as Ronnie had. There were heights to which Sharra's eyes steadily remained closed.
Visenya pulls away but Sharra dares to pull her close and cup her shoulders once more. Leaving a gentle kiss of farewell upon the other woman’s cheek, Sharra pats her once before stepping away. “Should you miss supper, you may nonetheless visit my chambers for a glass of wine tonight. If you please. That we may discuss the mountains.”
The farms. The flowers.
Visenya nods briskly. She looks terribly striking in her new cloak, of course. Never any doubt. Sharra is also partial to flowers, ever since she was named the Flower of the Mountains in her youth and the Queen wears her once namesake brilliantly—
Yes, Sharra has grown accustomed to peace.
(How terribly unwise of you, the woman she was before Visenya would have happily told her.)
That peace trembles when a royal visit from the King and his other Queen comes upon the Eyrie.
It is not that Sharra expected Visenya to wear the cloak she’d been gifted in the presence of her lord husband or sweet sister, or while they flew their dragons together to the awe of the crowds gathered. Of course she would be clad in the black and red of her own House—the steel of light armor when she rode among knights. Of course she would greet her husband with a kiss upon the lips, hushed words passing between them that appeared mean to Sharra, though she could not hear. They two smiled at one another, however, so the whispers could not have been so sharp.
Of course Visenya’s youngest sister, pretty as pearls, would receive much tenderness from each of her siblings, a tenderness that Sharra aches to watch Visenya place upon the little faerie that shares her title of Queen. There is a youngling too, Aenys, a babe Visenya considers with some fascination.
Sharra holds Ronnel close despite his protests at being suffocated by his old mother— she is his Lady Regent still, and this is new territory for the both of them. They know Visenya. They do not know this Aegon, nor his favored Rhaenys.
(And why is she the favored? The entire day, Sharra chases away her thoughts which are uncharitable or... or perhaps overly familiar.)
Much of the royal visit goes according to expectations, thankfully. Much of it happens to which Sharra can only helpless think: of course.
What Sharra does not expect is for Visenya to arrive at the opening ceremonials as provocatively as she does.
The Queen had always dressed properly for engagements. She was severe yet wonderful in gowns, Sharra had always been sure to compliment. A fearsome woman, Sharra found, and could not help but be curious as to where her particular sharp edges could be found— on this night, the edges are clear for all to see. Her sword belt is rendered of thick leather, boiled, black, and Dark Sister’s scabbard is no less. The ruby at the hilt of the sword is the only color other than black or silver upon her body— that simmering red a third eye blinking whenever Visenya walks.
Seated beside her husband the King who carries Blackfyre, the two of them appear seamless in a manner Sharra had not... expected them to. She would not claim to be any great expert on the finer matters of her Visenya’s marriage to that inscrutable Aegon, yet she did not expect the intimacy between them. She thought them content to be far. They are mirrors. They are magnets.
The sun and the moon, Sharra thinks, her wine washing away any sour taste. The smallest details of how the two interact speaks volumes. Sharra strains to look away.
Visenya does not come to Sharra’s room that eve so Sharra resolves to take a short walk once she is dressed for bed, to perhaps pass by a certain set of doors to ascertain if their usual charge is within them. Lady Arryn may be long widowed, but a woman remembers what it is to have a man. The door of Visenya’s small apothecary sits ajar. Sharra peeks in without knocking.
Only to find a different Queen than she expects.
“Goodness me,” the other— Rhaenys —chuckles. “There are so very many candles. Bit frightful, is it not? Though I suppose it meets the cold. Your castle is a wonder, my Lady. A grand candelabra scratching the sky!”
A touch rude. Yet who could grow angry with such a lovely face? Sharra knows the particular power of prettiness, abused it shamelessly as a girl. “There are quite a lot, are there not? The Queen has been receiving these candles from Lord Waxley of late, as they shared an appreciation for his lavender beeswax on a recent visit.” Pausing, Sharra looks around the room full of candles in assorted states of melting, and vials, and all sorts of ingredients. Never has she been within this room without Visenya’s presence beside her.
When she meets Rhaenys’s eyes again, the other Queen appears to be waiting to hear more.
“Lord Waxley is not a man know for moderation, your Grace.”
“No. I suppose not. There are worse sins than generosity.”
Rhaenys runs a hand along the edge of the oak bench, looking back towards Sharra over a shoulder. “Is there aught you need, my Lady? The hour grows late.”
“Oh. No, not at all, your Grace. ‘Tis only… her Grace and I oft share a fine goblet to end the day. Without our customary audience I found rest difficult, and thought to walk away the last of my energy.” Oddly flustered, she adds, “we discuss matters of state usually. That sort.”
“How invigorating. Shall I strive to entertain you in my sweet sister’s absence? It would do no good for you to lose beauty sleep, Lady Sharra. Let me ask you about a matter of state… or perhaps, it is the state of matters? For I have heard some awful rumors, my lady. Could it be that my lady wife has turned her own Vhagar onto a life of farming?”
Sharra’s lips part—she suddenly finds it difficult to breathe properly. “Your... lady wife?”
In the low light, Rhaenys’s eyes still twinkle. “That’s not right, is it? I have a lord husband… and he has a wife… but she is not my wife? Ah yes, that’s the way of it. She is my sister wife. And my sister, but not my wife. How odd!”
Swallowing, Sharra tries to smile. “Quite so. As for your question, there is some truth to it. Her Grace’s Vhagar is of great benefit for our mountain farmers. Visenya does not shy away from such tasks which are necessary.”
“Nor those which give her joy,” Rhaenys says lightly. “Not our Visenya.”
The other queen changes topics after that, asking questions about Ronnel. Sharra missteps and calls him Ronnie, which delights the woman, Lord Ronnie rolling easily from her lips thereafter. She makes innuendos, at least Sharra believes so, about certain maiden ladies who will come of age around the time Ronnie will... just then, another enters the room.
If she is surprised to see Lady Sharra or her sister, she does not show it.
“Sharra. Rhaenys.” Visenya greets. “The hour grows late.”
“Lady Sharra could not find sleep. I endeavored to entertain her… although perhaps you are more suited to such a task, sister? You are no doubt closer to her ladyship’s tastes.”
“Rhaenys,” Visenya warns softly.
“Yes, sister wife?”
They lock eyes for a time, speaking their own language in that way— Aegon and Visenya are mirrors, Sharra had thought. Rhaenys and Visenya are... quite different. They are familiar, however. They know how to fit into one another.
Finally, Visenya sighs. “Come here, Rhaenys.”
Sharra feels like a ghost, watching the younger Queen flit over in her gown loosened. Sharra feels like a seed— desperate to burst but stuck, still as mud, small and invisible. Visenya only touches Rhaenys’s hair, however, light things that dance along her cherubic cheeks. Aegon’s Queens.
“Where is Aegon?”
“Aegon is doing as Aegon is pleasing.” Humming, Rhaenys quirks her head. “No, that is not right. I am doing as I am pleasing. Aegon is… Gods only know what he is doing. Why do you ask? Would it please you to see to our lord husband’s safety this night?”
“He has his guards, surely.”
“Yet we remain our brother’s most loyal.”
Gods. Sharra makes a choking noise, which serves to remind the other two that she exists in the slightest. Visenya steps away, reaching for her sleeve—
Sharra brings her hands together. “I shall take my leave, your Graces.”
“I shall escort you.”
“No, no need, no need at all. Please, stay.”
“Sharra—”
“Good eve,” she nods, whisking away and down the hall once more. In her rooms, she breathes heavily against the door, before attacking her wine to calm herself down. It is nothing, they are but sisters. ‘Twas together they made their names. They share blood and a man between them… why not even more? Sharra wonders. Truly. Why not?
Sharra is one who must see things to know whether or not she can bear them. So she steals back quieter than the first time, unable to believe her own audacity. Peeking into the apothecary once more, she should be shocked by the sight… but she quietly creeped here half expecting to see this.
The expectation does not dull the sight, however. Far from. It seals the spell— the sight of bare legs, Rhaenys silenced by Visenya’s hand over her mouth, pinned by Visenya’s body between her spread thighs. The flickering candlelight dances with a dozen shadows entwined. Even the oak table scrapes against stones as Visenya’s body thrusts between her sister’s, power in her quivering arse and naked upper thighs, hips moving rough and hard.
Absurdly, Sharra wonders at what is hidden from her. If Visenya wears a wooden cock or if she is using her fingers, if Rhaenys is truly in such ecstasy as she appears to be from her whines, her spread growing wider with her small feet now up on the desk to allow her freedom of her pleasure. Is she truly being so well loved that the hand over her mouth is necessary—or if Visenya merely enjoys controlling her lover in that manner?
Rhaenys, Visenya breathes out when they buckle over the table.
The two Queens tremble together. Sharra’s peace trembles as well, the edges of fever coming upon her. Feverish, she feels, hot and disoriented… with no idea as to what to do about it. Any another day Sharra would approach this very room, shelves full of tinctures and tonics, all of Visenya’s tinkerings which seem to heal any ailment.
Normally, she would approach Visenya. Sweetsleep puts Sharra to bed—but it does not put her at ease.
Peace shatters when Rhaenys Targaryen dies.
Peace shatters with Balerion’s sudden appearance, scales black as the face of his master is streaked pale white. With an awful scream from the Apothecary, agony of a hundred haunted souls ringing out in one primal wail.
Go to your rooms and remain there, Ronnie, Sharra orders, before racing to the scene— scenes she will never forget so long as she lives.
She will never forget the shards of glass vials violently rent from their places. Heavy objects strewn like corpses around the room, a dead harvest, the way Visenya hunches as though in physical pain. The fury in her eyes… Sharra has never seen aught like it. Not in the way her Visenya’s body is tensed nor in the way she spits venom at the King, at Aegon, at her little brother.
“You promised, Aegon! Fire and fucking blood you said, you swore!”
Senya, is all the man says in response.
A breath later, she is upon him—her jeweled dagger yanked to make moons in the air as she swings it blindly, fluid as a mountain cat prowling, bloodthirsty as a beast. Sharra does not know of what has occurred yet but when Aegon manages to seize her wrists in their perverse dance—when he pins her to the oak table and pleads, calling her Senya—
When they breathe hard until he slides down her body, broad shoulders shaking, Visenya following with none of her usual grace to grab bunches of his hair in her hands? Sharra knows then.
When they clutch at one another, Sharra thinks, Gods help us all.
They will weep today... and tomorrow, they will make mountains crumble.
For two years, Lady Sharra hardly sees Visenya Targaryen.
Time is running away from Sharra, as the beauty of her maidenhood once did. Ronnel races towards the age of ten and six, whereupon the castle will be his to administer. He will take a Stark wife (the ghost of Rhaenys Targaryen’s fancy in that match) and Sharra will be the faded Flower in completion. There are futures for her of course. A councilor— the Valemen would not deny her that. Nor would Ronnie deny her another marriage made for companionship's sake. He is soft of heart and he loves his mother dearly. Sharra has made sure of the latter, even as she is worried by the former.
Visenya will not return as she once did, though. Not once Ronnie is fully installed. Not when Sharra is no longer the Lady of the castle.
Not when her husband the King needs a Queen by his side.
It is not fair, Sharra allows herself to think in the privacy of her rooms. She had been the one to keep and care for Visenya before, when this King had not an urgent need of her. When the King kept his Rhaenys who perhaps Visenya would have liked to keep for herself and only gave up so that the younger women might pup and secure their fledgling rule. Well enough, Sharra knows the rules of that game. The rules are unfair, however. It is not fair at all that Aegon should have Visenya now... not when she should be with me. Sharra shivers at this thought—she is no Conqueror, no King. Visenya is certainly not hers to demand back.
What was a black and blue cloak embroidered with wildflowers in the face of Seven Kingdoms? A dead sister, or a dynasty?
A thing easily discarded.
'Twas no claim at all.
…that is, until Visenya Targaryen comes storming back into the Eyrie on a day clear as Jonquil’s blessed pool.
Her face is twisted in wrath, thinner and harder than it was before.
Sharra has kept abreast of the war efforts, of course. They have been frustrating to say the least, Gulltown reporting to her the difficulties of trade with Dorne these days, the inconsistency of demand and damage to existing merchant relationships. Credit lines have woefully reached their ends. There is also the matter of ships which travel from Gulltown to Planky Town— a different sort of good. Warriors of the Vale who seek glory in battle.
Lady Sharra has allowed only a limited amount of fighting men this privilege to ease off the hot tempers, and each of those has had to pay a tax that his work in the harvest might be supplanted by a laborer. A temporary measure. The war must end, Sharra knows. There must be terms drafted and agreed upon.
Visenya... disagrees.
The King contemplates peace while the Queen refuses it, is the rumor which spreads— Visenya flew far to dismiss any notion that she is an accomplice to this end. Dorne will not bow, Jonos whispers to Ronnel, who upon sight of his childhood hero, had immediately sworn himself to agree with her every position. So it must be made to bow, d'you not think? My lord.
Knights and lords gather to Visenya to adopt her views. Sharra is unsettled by this. Oh yes, she is viciously personally pleased to have Visenya back, black rage or not. War however cannot be fought, forever. Certainly it will not be fought in her halls.
“It is one thing to bring another to their knees. It is another to hold them, to bind them to yourselves,” Sharra says, holding her goblet to ease any shakes. “Forgive me this presumption, your Grace. I speak as your own humble regent for the Vale of Arryn, Warden of the East and loyal servant. This very hall is full of those who have warred with the mountain clans for centuries, subdued them countless times—yet we have never conquered them. Is that not true?” She looks around the hall and names each. To a man, they nod begrudgingly… although she notes in whose eyes sparks of lust appear. “Indeed. The mountain clans are a people too accustomed to their ways and freedoms. The cost of bringing them to the rightness of our ways, or even merely to justice for their crimes would be one of madness. ‘Tis for the same reason that the North has never tasted the light of the Seven though we warred with them for generations.”
Placing her wine down, Sharra rises, opposite from Visenya. “Peace is as difficult as war. At times harder. Yet it must be had, your Grace. There are surely some conditions under which we may once again live together.”
For a beat, Sharra believes she has touched this warrior Queen. Visenya looks upon her coolly, then speaks in an iron tone.
“No peace without submission.”
Ah, Sharra thinks. So be it.
“The Visenya Targaryen I once knew gave me a very different choice. Perhaps that woman is no longer.” With that, Sharra sweeps from the room with her head held high. Her absence will say more than her words can—and Visenya’s cold denial had struck her as hard as a punch.
Even if her Visenya is no longer, Sharra still feels the need to try once more.
Try to make her see sense in her quest for vengeance. Try to find the woman weeping beneath the warrior raging.
It has been a long while since Sharra has bothered with all that she does now; the routine which includes a bath full of lavender scent and wildflowers, oils in hidden places, soft creams delicately applied beyond merely her face and hands. Sweet smelling perfume is dotted at the nape of her neck before Sharra dons the delicate lace of her most virginal nightgown—a humor can be found in that. Or perhaps it is the white of sacrifice she wears? Of surrender?
Visenya requires a white flag to be waved. Sharra will endeavor to be that for her. She had once been a flower that bloomed with the sun, she could now be one which bloomed with the moon. As Rhaenys had once reached Visenya’s innermost tenderness… no, she will never be that. Nonetheless Sharra would do as much as she could to revive one dead heart to beating.
The apothecary is covered in dust but Visenya’s rooms remain where they once were, Sharra stealing into them with ease.
“...Lady Sharra,” Visenya greets her, when she appears before her— sharp brow knitted in confusion.
Visenya did not expect guests. She is bare breasted. She wears only the bloomers of her smallclothes which, as they should, slit in the middle. No move is made to don a dressing gown. Rather, she waits for Sharra to explain herself.
“Your Grace,” Sharra bows hastily. “My impertinence surely astounds you. I will throw myself at your feet and beg your forgiveness… if you would only hear me for a moment prior. I find I must ask this boon of you. What we spoke of in the hall, it was amongst many and we were not able to find the intimacy we once shared—”
The book in Visenya’s hand snaps shut.
The silence rings like an executioner’s blade.
“Ah. You’ve come to convince me, have you? Or is it to seduce me?”
Sharra balks when Visenya steps forward. She had not—she would not presume to be wanted, in that manner.
“No no, do not shy away. We have shared intimacy, as you say.”
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Visenya snaps harshly. “I know what you are doing. Why else does a lady slip into another’s chambers at night, dressed so beguilingly?” The taller woman comes closer still and sniffs the air. “Smelling so lovely? You think me this simple, this malleable—”
“I do not, Visenya!” I must not entertain accusations, to the detriment of my argument. “I only… you have been at war. Sleeping in camps, among soldiers. I thought, perhaps, you would appreciate some softness. Some pleasantries.”
“... pleasantries.”
“You were fond of my pleasantries, once.” For how many nights did they spend in one another’s company? Words rolling and unfurling in the air, the heat of her gaze on Sharra’s lips, or shoulders, or hands? That cannot be conjured. A woman knows.
“Fond, yes. Of your pleasantries.”
Her eyes are hard as Alyssa Arryn’s must have been once, those eyes which shed no tears. There is a brief moment in which Sharra trembles... but Visenya’s touch is softer than even air when it curls around Sharra’s waist to pull her close. When her hand tilts Sharra’s face up, rough yet secure, Sharra remembers the way Visenya had once touched her little sister’s face. “Go on. Speak what you came to speak, my lady.”
Swallowing, Sharra forces herself to relax. “Your Grace, I would humbly besee— mmph!” Visenya kisses her in the middle of her word. Her mouth takes command of Sharra’s easily, a wet smacking of their lips lasting a moment, before she pulls back.
“Go on.”
“My Queen,” Sharra flutters helplessly. “I would— oh —if you would thi— ah! Mmh —there are other— mm-mm —hostages and tra— AH! Visenya! I cannot speak like— mmmmmph-mmm!”
“What’s that?” Visenya chuckles hoarsely. “You cannot speak? I suppose that would be a flaw in this seduction gambit.”
“You are being unchari— ahhmmm-oh.”
Pulling away, there is no trace of the amusement Sharra hoped to find on Visenya’s face. “Go on.”
Frustrated, Sharra frowns. She attempts to make space between them but her efforts are to no avail. Visenya is so much stronger… battle-hardened. It is nothing for her to trample upon an entire meadow, much less one single bloom beyond her glory. Her voice turns small, at that. “I see. I have done you a grievous insult. Taken terrible liberty. Your Grace, I will—”
“No.” One word— spoken as so, it could strike a field black and barren. “No, let us see this out. Seduce me, Lady Sharra. Let me despoil you, and perhaps I shall listen to your treaties.”
You shall not. Already, Sharra understands that her mad folly has not only missed her target, but struck another one. A terrible one. Beyond that, what is there left to despoil? She is by all agreement though of as an old prune now. All the honor that was once zealously applauded as being stored between her legs? 'Tis a currency long since harvested.
Nonetheless, Sharra allows herself be led towards the grand bed.
Not for this reason did she come. There is always another reason though, is there not? And it has been so long since anyone last touched her. Perhaps if there is even a moment of tender affection in this ordeal, if Visenya would even once say my name with some sweetness… then there will be a sort of victory in that. Not for sake of peace or for Dorne.
For Sharra Arryn alone.
Visenya pushes her onto the bed roughly, upon which Sharra falls with a cry. There’s no time to dwell on that, though, not when she’s ushered up to the pillows with a steady firm hand, a light smack to the back of her thighs when she dawdles. The grip on her hip that pins her down is torturous from the moment Sharra feels it—not so hard as to break skin, yet inescapable. Visenya’s teeth grazing her clothed shoulder distract Sharra from the sensation of her nightgown being scrunched up in the other woman’s hand.
“You are a discreet woman,” Visenya says, emotionless.
“M...discreet?”
“I lived here for several years, and knew nothing of your lovers.”
“I—your Grace? I have had no lovers.”
“No? You have stolen into no other’s chambers?” Visenya taunts. She grabs Sharra’s thigh as well, kneading the bare flesh now that her nightgown is bunched at the waist, and uses the hardness of her body to force Sharra still. “How can I believe you? Now that you have come to me.”
“You were always with me, my—my Queen. You came to my rooms each night and… and Ronnie…”
“I came to speak. That is what you allowed me. Never was I offered this.”
Sharra feels bewildered, intoxicated by how exposed she is. Visenya’s breath is hot upon her neck and when she tries to turn, it is all she can do to cup Visenya’s sloping breast with a gentle clawing movement. “You wished to be offered this?”
I would have given you anything you asked for, had I known the language of your desires! Sharra nearly cries, head spinning. The fear that she will not be believed stills her tongue.
Visenya does not answer. Instead, she tugs at Sharra’s fine white gown. “Take this off.”
“I am… not a young woman, your Grace.”
“No. Yet you did not bring a young woman to my bed, did you? You brought your own self. Show me, then. Let me see all that you are.”
Quickly, Sharra divests herself of all clothing except her stockings blue as the sky. She may not be as she once was, but what is there to do about that now? Time is a waterfall which cannot flow backwards.
Lying naked, Sharra attempts to—discreetly — arrange her thick hair nicely beneath her. ‘Tis a ridiculous gesture, in a ridiculous situation, there is grey amongst the brown, yet Sharra cannot find it within her to laugh. Visenya’s gaze upon her, her callused hands running over her chest and nipples and stomach… the woman’s anger seems somewhat abated however, such that Sharra gasps in surprise when a hand tugs her thatch of hair. It’s sharp and sour as sensations go yet it excites Sharra. This land was once fertile. Mayhaps it can no longer bear fruit, but that does not mean it cannot be cultivated at all.
Just as quickly as it comes, Visenya’s hand is upon Sharra’s throat instead. Cupping it on the edge of comfort—Sharra swallows with some difficulty.
This, this she knows. A beautiful girl married a King who taught her how to lie back and be fucked. Is there any other way for such a story to go? Being underneath her old dead husband… she tries to imagine it but it is Visenya who looms over her now, nude and crackling at the edges, and all thoughts of the last man to die as King Arryn flee her mind. A blankness replaces it.
What else is there to do in the face of an Angel of Death but lie frozen? Still, still as a sheet of ice, melting fast against furs and linen sheets? Visenya’s knee parts Sharra’s weak legs—the whimper that falls from her cannot he helped. Inhuman little sound. Like a swallow’s song.
It meets the force of Visenya’s chokehold upon Sharra, whose cheeks are surely going red by now. Visenya’s cheeks are flushed as well. Red against pale, shadowed by darkness. A Hunter’s Moon. When the very last harvest is planted.
“Is this how you hoped to sway me?”
Sharra stays quiet—she has no notion that any words she might say would be of consequence. Caressing Visenya’s tense back, her motherly palm still gently cupping what it can of her breast… her silence is justified when Visenya dips down for another kiss. Only this kiss is harder and longer than all the rest combined. They press into one another shamelessly even as Visenya’s hand dips down. When two fingers breach Sharra all at once, Sharra gasps. Surprised, yes… but also in gratitude that her body has made itself prepared for this task. Soft from her creams, and wet from Visenya’s kisses.
Oh, Gods, Sharra thinks. Yes, fine. Perhaps Visenya is right about Sharra. That deep down, what she wants is to be fucked.
“My flower,” Visenya murmurs. Sharra moans, eyes fluttering shut. “My poison bloom.”
She attempts to protest. “No— ah!” Visenya’s fingers thrust in faster, more forcefully. They curl as well until Sharra gasps in a breath that is not there for her to take, making her body ripple taut.
“Yes. Clever Sharra, so beautiful. So conniving. All that time, treated me like I was your husband. Yet I was only your toy.”
“No!” Sharra cries again. She makes battle with the hand at her throat which only seems to spur Visenya on, the women fucking Sharra slick with renewed fervor and bared teeth. Husband, Sharra hears among her heart’s fluttering, dancing witlessly the way a cloak would in the wind. Black weaving chased with blue silk to match Sharra’s stockings, wildflowers dancing up and down it, some of them poisonous indeed…
“My husband,” she struggles to bubble out. “You—Visenya, you are —”
“Hush,” the woman sneers. The bones of her hips dig into Sharra’s skin as she moves her body, a great wave that crashes and crashes and crashes against this pale shore. “Husband. Is that why you seek to manipulate me? The way Rhaenys did Aegon? A kingdom united under a cunt.”
“No!”
Finally, finally, Sharra finds her strength again. In ripping Visenya’s hand from her throat she finds air to breathe, as well as space to prop herself up to the other woman’s chest. Hearts beating hard in the between. Visenya stiffens for a moment which Sharra seizes, embracing Visenya, before all is lost.
“No, I could never… be to you as Rhaenys was to Aegon. For Aegon loved his Rhaenys.”
A hiss falls from Visenya’s lips yet Sharra plows forward. “He loved her—and so did you, Visenya. So did you. This war… all this about submission… it’s all for her, is it not? You make battle for her.”
Even as she says, she knows she is correct.
Another battle— smaller but no less vicious— is being fought on Visenya’s chiseled face. Sharra heart breaks to see it. Her heart is a mother and a lover, it guides her such that she reaches out to thread her hands into Visenya’s scalp.
“I know, my love. I know.”
Looking lost as a newborn calf, Visenya’s jaw trembles. “I would make war for my siblings,” she insists. “I fight for them. With them. I always have.”
“I know. I know you feel... with her. And you always will. Even, even after. Even then. Peace is not betrayal!”
No, Visenya mouths— wet eyes shining brilliant as stars. A calm settles over them when Visenya gives into her own uncertainty. All this time spent fighting over the blame, the punishment— never for once letting herself free.
Quietly, for she does not wish to shatter the moment, Sharra makes it so Visenya’s braid comes loose beneath her deft hands. For no reason beyond she has always wished to, and she does not think Visenya would allow simply anybody such a pleasure. This is a glory Aegon the Conqueror may not even have. Sharra blows a cool breath onto Visenya’s neck, shooing the loose strands away. Visenya stares at her the whole while with her knuckles flexing against Sharra’s gently pouched stomach.
And then they are kissing again but it’s soft as seagrass for once, mouths pressed tenderly together like they’ve always known each other— a return, this is. A homecoming Sharra has yearned to offer Visenya for what feels longer than time itself. Or perhaps the feeling is simply so large that stretched to it's greatness thinness, it could cover all that is and ever was.
When Visenya’s mouth wanders to Sharra’s neck, Sharra can finally concentrate on the feel of Visenya’s silken hair spreading beneath her fingers. The damp where she’s begun to sweat from all the candles lit in the room. Sharra never rid these rooms of anything, did she? All perfectly preserved for Visenya’s return. Waiting—as Sharra herself had.
“You are my wife,” Visenya moans through the massage, her voice scraping against itself. “You—you must…”
“I will,” Sharra promises. “My lord husband.”
Sharra presses her wet cunt against Visenya’s thigh at her own rhythm now, unable to think, or make a noise not a moan. Feels alive. Lovemaking is a language and suddenly, they cannot help but speak. They scramble over one another in a frantic, clumsy pleasure until Visenya arranges them with Sharra’s one thigh pressed high to her chest (she shall answer for such daring in the morn), Visenya atop her at an angle where she can press down to rub.
That would be about when Sharra screams for the first time— once she starts, she cannot stop.
“Visenya,” she purrs, when the blooming sensations begin, petals prying apart.
“Visenya!” she whines when their bodies fall apart, the delicious friction lost for a moment due to how eager and wet the two of them are together.
“Visenya,” she gasps when she finds her mountaintop. An avalanche of pleasure flooding her that Visenya, no, her husband holds and pushes her through all the way to a place of nothing but numbness, left barren of all but a shapeless ringing in her ears…
Thus, they find their pleasure.
Heights, which conquered, feel like nothing to fear. Truly, why had they ever?
“Sharra,” Visenya moans to her throat—sliding down in exhaustion, her silver head finds sanctuary on Sharra’s breasts. “Skoros sēter iksos bisa?”
Sharra does not answer. She does not know Visenya’s other tongue… only her tongue of flesh and sharp love. It is all she needs to know.
The world falls away from her. Curled up as she is in Visenya’s arms, the two of them touching and kissing still, the outside feels lighter than air and farther than memories, until Visenya speaks once more.
“I make war for my siblings,” she says. Sharra, engulfed in the silent symphony of skin on skin, merely nods. “You— you are my peace.”
“Yours,” Sharra says, simply.
Conquered at last, Sharra thinks to herself with wry humor. There was life before Visenya, there will be life after she leaves once more… yet in one night they have lived lifetimes together, longer than all those others. Joy erupts in her exhausted body. A wild field of flowers, blooming in the light of the moon.