Work Text:
The breath catches. The step stumbles.
It’s your own womb you see as tireless hands–grief’s– peel him off, leaving the soft, vulnerable core exposed. It’s an invitation to sink in deeply with sharp teeth and sharpest claws. And then to pull, pull, pull…
You hear the rip.
The family is torn and the only thing that keeps it together is a shroud’s embroidery. Fine seams whose hold is flaking hour by hour until only stitches will remain.
You watch him and you’re paralyzed. There was a time when you held him, back in the past. You know his breath volume, the way his fingers grip yours. You could welcome him. You wish to. Do you want to?
I wanted someone to tell me they were sorry for what happened to me
You feel the weight of a let-go hand, but you don’t know how you could fill the void. It’s a foreign gesture. It is when it comes to him. Caresses turn to slaps once they get close to his face. He deserves them.
Your son, whom you despise. Whom you love.
Your stomach churns both with your certainties and failures: you’re a kid with an infant to soothe, you’re a queen with a throne to preserve; you’re a child of absent parents, you’re a mother of children to guide.
Your soul is torn, so much that even the Seven can’t hope to fix it with their points. They try to hold it inside the circle that unites them. You look for space to welcome him too.
The flames twist a face contorted by a suffering that makes you bleed. It’s your own face you see: the lips’ fold, the line of the nose on which tears leap. Tears you’d like to stop. Tenderness and disgust mix in a surge to erase them. If with kindness or with fury, you don’t know. The contrast holds you back. If you get close your actions won’t be yours anymore. You’ll have blonde locks to rip, recriminations to spit out.
You are the challenge! You are the challenge, Aegon. Simply by living and breathing
You quiver with the desire to interrupt the obsessive twisting of his ring. They’re not nails, but you feel the skin tearing. You feel the pain that doesn’t impede you –him – to rip it off even stronger.
You imagine knuckles intertwined and delicate consoling movements.
Tireless protection, ferocious care. It’s a relationship forged by fears and worries. It’s built on your own indulgence when you see him shirk from his duties because you know it isn’t him who should attend them.
You are bound by a primordial force but the cord that ties you is soiled by obscene acts that you can’t forgive. Except, you did, and it’s a shame you can’t wash away. You love him, regardless. It is beyond you to show him.
He makes it hard. He asks so openly and you don’t possess the easiness to give him the confirmations he seeks.
Do you love me?
You, imbecile
You have a pass to cross now. You can reach him.
You halt.
You examine his contracted features; you long to smooth them. You want to bring him back to the main road; the kingdom will benefit. You disclose your mouth and words push against the teeth in the attempt to sneak out. You squeeze them shut, a breath stuck in your throat.
The Brutes could scale the Wall with less effort than it takes for your legs to cross the floor that separates you from your son.
A father. A king without an heir.
The Gods are punishing you. The consequences have spread all over your family. A son for a son.
You turn, leaving him behind. You can’t stand to see your own sins weighing on him.
They crush you and you can’t escape.