[ has anyone ever, in life, felt reassured to see him? maybe ash during their years deployed in carpathia as tensions turned into a war, just because seeing him meant embry hadn't gotten himself recklessly killed yet despite the abundance of opportunity. embry is typically the one disappointing the ones he loves, watching their faces twist into magnanimous suffering as he pulls away, never one to stay put for too long despite making his homes in people instead of places. his life is sacrificial, secondary to ash's grandeur. it's a choice he made, and any bitterness he holds is his personal fucking business — and fuck, is he bitter. not towards ash, not really, because he loves him too much to hate him like he wants to. but he has enough bitterness to feed the entire breakfast table and more.
but he is a politician, and he's spent years honing his vice president voice. he's not the same wild idiot he was at twenty-one, falling obsessively in love with another man under the crushing weight of don't ask, don't tell. the smile with which he greets alicent is equal parts adoring and mischievous, the smile that's earned him his rightful place as the most eligible bachelor in politics, a man that's known to have a new woman on his arm every night while spending his days standing loyally by the president's — his best friend ("friend") — side.
it's a marvelous sight first thing in the morning to see alicent's exposed back. especially since he'd spent the night in torment thinking of ash and greer and all the dirty things they might have been up to without him. ]
Morning, sunshine.
[ embry looks like he's stepped out of the pages of a magazine in pale trousers and a baby blue sweater that matches his eyes, his dark hair doing a perfect regency flop over his forehead. as a professional in his misery, it's undetectable that he was up half the night drowning his sorrows in a bottle of gin. with the practiced ease of a man who's helped many a woman into — and out of — a fancy dress, he begins zipping alicent closed before running into the obstruction of her enormous mane of hair. ]
How's your arm feeling this morning?
[ he asks the question only half because he cares; he is intensely distracted by the color of her hair, glorious, deep copper set in waves that rival the goddamn ocean. it's nearly the same shade as greer's cousin, abilene, and when embry lifts a gentle handful to sweep over her shoulder to clear a path for the zipper, all of last night's gin threatens to come back up as stale bile burning his throat.
he swallows swiftly and yanks the zipper the rest of the way up, setting his hands on her bare shoulders as he twirls her around to face him. ]
Green's a great color on you.
cw mentions of sexual assault, grooming (they’re fine)
[ has anyone ever thought of her as sunshine? it’s laughable, death-touched as she is. ser criston might have felt that way once, when he thought her as pure as the maiden in girlhood, as chaste as the mother as a woman grown, but she’d lost her footing when she allowed him inside her chambers. now, he doesn’t look at her at all. a relief, in truth.
she doesn’t think embry has the same expectations, with his boldness. but does he anticipate the reverse? her favour for his assistance, as larys once offered her. her breath hitches, at the thought of all she may already owe — and the brush of embry’s fingers against her fevered skin. so few touch her anymore. even less are invited willingly. and the wanting that cracked open, when her lord husband died, has yawned ever wider since the party. it feels cavernous, as though she might never fill it. ]
[ lightly — ] It seems to be healing, like anything else.
[ the symptoms that followed that night have only worsened. she hasn’t had anyone to discuss it with, isolated as she is, and knows not where to begin. only embry’s physical presence calls her out of her reverie, grip firm on her bare shoulders. she ought to be scandalised by his informality, but she can’t help but wonder at the softness of his hands. all of the men she’s known have been calloused, made rough by battle. ]
Mm. [ her mouth quirks, at the flattery. is there sincerity in him? she supposes it doesn’t matter. all men want for more than they have. ] The Hightower beacon glows green, when we call our banners to war. [ diplomatic dressing, inflammatory edition. her delicate fingers catch his wrist, barely slipping under his sleeve. concern tightens her features. ] What of your injury?
[ he's already made several poor decisions that he can attribute to the wolf, though he rarely needs incentive for his choices — he's as committed as a loyal husband to chasing the worst possible ends at all times, wracking up his guilt to pore over once the moon wheels its way into the sky. but it's a sunny morning (he assumes; who knows if that sky is real?), and nighttime is hours and hours away, and so is his guilt.
it's better when she faces him. unlike alicent, abilene is pretty on the outside but wretchedly devoid of feeling on the inside, and it shows in her every mechanically calculated movement, utterly unalive, like an automaton. she would never, in any lifetime, ask embry about a scratch on his arm — which is fair, because he dreams about her accidentally (on purpose?) falling down the stairs on a fairly regular basis these days. ]
Are you saying you're calling for a war with that dress? I'm not ready to be called back into active duty.
[ he turns his palm over so she has easier access to fuss with his sleeve, tugging the expensive fabric up to reveal an angry, barely-healed scar looping down the inside of his arm. he has another at his shoulder, a deeper wound still bandaged, near an old gunshot scar from his time in carpathia. ]
It's getting better.
[ the concern on her face feels unearned when the ghost of her fingertips sends a heated rush skittering across his skin. it would be easy to assume familiarity, to push closer and see what she might allow, but he still feels shaken, off center, so he pulls away with a smile and goes to her closet instead, assuming a different kind of familiarity when he looks over the collection of available shoes provided by the house. ]
What'll it be? Clearly, you have to wear gold. [ he finds a shimmering kitten heel with a tiny ankle strap. ] This looks just annoying enough that you wouldn't want to put it on yourself. Shall I?
[ embry slips away before she can plumb the depths of his pain. his mark appears worse than her own, enflamed where her gash merely simmers. had it been deeper from the start, or have they diverged in their treatment? she files that question and the matter of his duties in war away for later (does that make him a warrior? a knight, before he served his government through their council?)
at his offer, surprise flickers across her features before they settle and still. she should demur, saying it’s too bold an ask — and unbecoming, besides, for a man of his standing to lower himself on her behalf. instead, her mind recalls all larys has asked of her, in the dark of her chambers. this isn’t the same. it’s the obverse, helping her don armour rather than stripping her of it. the cloying heat tells her it matters not, as long as he stays close. ]
Just enough. [ annoyance, to warrant his gallantry, or boldness, for her to stomach it. amusement glints in her eyes, and she flourishes her hand in acquiescence. ] You may.
[ with practiced elegance, she lifts her skirts halfway up her calf, exposing sheer stockings, trimmed with lace (a matching set with her smallclothes). as modest as the manor saw fit to supply — that is to say, a meagre improvement on bare skin. alicent’s watchful eyes follow the sweep of his hair, bracing against the brightness of his gaze. ]
[ softly, ] Does the wolf’s mark burn your flesh? [ something to say — to offer — as her opposing hand finds his shoulder, gently balancing her weight. she thinks of her son’s flesh, cooking in the aftermath of dragonfire, and her smile falters. the memory cools any untoward desires, at least. ] Perhaps that’s the wrong word. [ She purses her mouth, considering. ] Heat might better suit.
[ it's a victory, being able to kneel at her feet, her stockinged foot resting on his knee as he fiddles with the metal clasp to loosen the ankle strap. there are times when he gets the strangest sense of déjà vu for a life he knows he's never lived, when he looks up from his familiar place on his knees between ash's feet and thinks he's looking at a king, the d.c. sunset haloing him like a crown, the light limning his nobility and inherent goodness. he gets that now, like he's a knight staring up at a queen, made to serve the unspoken desires that burn her very soul.
he flinches when her hand settles at his shoulder, the pressure of her fingertips pressing down against the wolf's claw marks sending heat rocketing through him and nearly taking him off balance — only nearly, though. the shoe drops but he stays upright, his hand clenched around her ankle with an unforgiving grip as he draws in a sharp breath, his face hot. heat might better suit, indeed. ]
You burn my flesh.
[ he catches her wrist and keeps her hand in place before she can draw her touch away, his accusatory tone light, one corner of his mouth quirking. the pain that sweeps through him is all too familiar, an injury he can't help but prod at because he likes to suffer, an itch he intentionally does not scratch because it feels sweeter to let it build and build and build. ]
The wolf got me there, too. I thought about telling you, but it's more fun to let you discover these things on your own.
[ his grip finally loosens around her ankle, her pale skin red and patterned with the latticework of her lace stockings. the smile he gives her is a return to his well-mannered charm, but with a creak of an open door; he's comfortable here on the floor, maybe too comfortable to be on time for breakfast.
he picks up the shoe, slipping her foot inside and working the leather strap around her ankle with tender care, his head bent in concentration, leaning with familiar ease against her thigh. when he breathes in he's transported again — she smells like lilies, like rosemary, fusing with the juniper on his breath as he exhales against her green dress. ]
Do you like the shoe? [ finished with one, he slides his hand upwards to rest at her calf in tandem with his lifted gaze, his eyes meeting hers. he cups the inside of her knee, gently but liberally lifting her leg so she can admire the shimmering gold in the room's light. ] Should I do the other?
[ impossible not to think of the last man who knelt before her and hoisted her skirts — arms corded with muscle, head bowed in worship. the same dark hair falling in his face. everyone wants for something, even the most gallant of knights. but what could this man, in particular, possibly want for, when she has no power here, no standing, no son on the throne or on dragonback.
only embry’s hissed breath and tight grip pull her from her reverie. she looses a sharp inhale, big eyes searching for the source of his pain. if not for his hand clasping her wrist, she would have tugged it away. instead, his hold pulls everything taut between them. you burn my flesh on a recursive loop in her skull. alicent has back-handed cole for less, but she relaxes her arm in embry’s grip, fingers splaying wider over the curve of his shoulder. what sort of man lets someone plunge their fluttering hand into his wound? ]
You must have had quite the close call. [ with the wolf. it seems less like fun to downplay his hurt and more like the red beds of her nails, a self-inflicted punishment. still, he smiles up at her, as though he can think of no better place to suffer. warmth blossoms in her chest, unaided by the searing ache in her arm.
her handmaidens haven’t dressed her in weeks. when they did, it never felt as intimate as this (as draping the white cloak over cole’s broad shoulders). that he asks for her opinion on how to proceed is nothing short of a wonder. an offer of escape and an invitation to continue, unmistakable even to her untrained eyes. her lashes lower as his palm slides higher. ]
[ finally, the slightest quirk of her mouth, ] It’s a bold choice. [ the shoe, gold and glittering. and his touch at the back of her knee. she lifts her free hand to reward him for it, pushing a stray hair from his eyes and carding it back into its elegant sweep. ] You ought to see it through.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw for potential mentions of rape
but he is a politician, and he's spent years honing his vice president voice. he's not the same wild idiot he was at twenty-one, falling obsessively in love with another man under the crushing weight of don't ask, don't tell. the smile with which he greets alicent is equal parts adoring and mischievous, the smile that's earned him his rightful place as the most eligible bachelor in politics, a man that's known to have a new woman on his arm every night while spending his days standing loyally by the president's — his best friend ("friend") — side.
it's a marvelous sight first thing in the morning to see alicent's exposed back. especially since he'd spent the night in torment thinking of ash and greer and all the dirty things they might have been up to without him. ]
Morning, sunshine.
[ embry looks like he's stepped out of the pages of a magazine in pale trousers and a baby blue sweater that matches his eyes, his dark hair doing a perfect regency flop over his forehead. as a professional in his misery, it's undetectable that he was up half the night drowning his sorrows in a bottle of gin. with the practiced ease of a man who's helped many a woman into — and out of — a fancy dress, he begins zipping alicent closed before running into the obstruction of her enormous mane of hair. ]
How's your arm feeling this morning?
[ he asks the question only half because he cares; he is intensely distracted by the color of her hair, glorious, deep copper set in waves that rival the goddamn ocean. it's nearly the same shade as greer's cousin, abilene, and when embry lifts a gentle handful to sweep over her shoulder to clear a path for the zipper, all of last night's gin threatens to come back up as stale bile burning his throat.
he swallows swiftly and yanks the zipper the rest of the way up, setting his hands on her bare shoulders as he twirls her around to face him. ]
Green's a great color on you.
cw mentions of sexual assault, grooming (they’re fine)
she doesn’t think embry has the same expectations, with his boldness. but does he anticipate the reverse? her favour for his assistance, as larys once offered her. her breath hitches, at the thought of all she may already owe — and the brush of embry’s fingers against her fevered skin. so few touch her anymore. even less are invited willingly. and the wanting that cracked open, when her lord husband died, has yawned ever wider since the party. it feels cavernous, as though she might never fill it. ]
[ lightly — ] It seems to be healing, like anything else.
[ the symptoms that followed that night have only worsened. she hasn’t had anyone to discuss it with, isolated as she is, and knows not where to begin. only embry’s physical presence calls her out of her reverie, grip firm on her bare shoulders. she ought to be scandalised by his informality, but she can’t help but wonder at the softness of his hands. all of the men she’s known have been calloused, made rough by battle. ]
Mm. [ her mouth quirks, at the flattery. is there sincerity in him? she supposes it doesn’t matter. all men want for more than they have. ] The Hightower beacon glows green, when we call our banners to war. [ diplomatic dressing, inflammatory edition. her delicate fingers catch his wrist, barely slipping under his sleeve. concern tightens her features. ] What of your injury?
no subject
it's better when she faces him. unlike alicent, abilene is pretty on the outside but wretchedly devoid of feeling on the inside, and it shows in her every mechanically calculated movement, utterly unalive, like an automaton. she would never, in any lifetime, ask embry about a scratch on his arm — which is fair, because he dreams about her accidentally (on purpose?) falling down the stairs on a fairly regular basis these days. ]
Are you saying you're calling for a war with that dress? I'm not ready to be called back into active duty.
[ he turns his palm over so she has easier access to fuss with his sleeve, tugging the expensive fabric up to reveal an angry, barely-healed scar looping down the inside of his arm. he has another at his shoulder, a deeper wound still bandaged, near an old gunshot scar from his time in carpathia. ]
It's getting better.
[ the concern on her face feels unearned when the ghost of her fingertips sends a heated rush skittering across his skin. it would be easy to assume familiarity, to push closer and see what she might allow, but he still feels shaken, off center, so he pulls away with a smile and goes to her closet instead, assuming a different kind of familiarity when he looks over the collection of available shoes provided by the house. ]
What'll it be? Clearly, you have to wear gold. [ he finds a shimmering kitten heel with a tiny ankle strap. ] This looks just annoying enough that you wouldn't want to put it on yourself. Shall I?
no subject
at his offer, surprise flickers across her features before they settle and still. she should demur, saying it’s too bold an ask — and unbecoming, besides, for a man of his standing to lower himself on her behalf. instead, her mind recalls all larys has asked of her, in the dark of her chambers. this isn’t the same. it’s the obverse, helping her don armour rather than stripping her of it. the cloying heat tells her it matters not, as long as he stays close. ]
Just enough. [ annoyance, to warrant his gallantry, or boldness, for her to stomach it. amusement glints in her eyes, and she flourishes her hand in acquiescence. ] You may.
[ with practiced elegance, she lifts her skirts halfway up her calf, exposing sheer stockings, trimmed with lace (a matching set with her smallclothes). as modest as the manor saw fit to supply — that is to say, a meagre improvement on bare skin. alicent’s watchful eyes follow the sweep of his hair, bracing against the brightness of his gaze. ]
[ softly, ] Does the wolf’s mark burn your flesh? [ something to say — to offer — as her opposing hand finds his shoulder, gently balancing her weight. she thinks of her son’s flesh, cooking in the aftermath of dragonfire, and her smile falters. the memory cools any untoward desires, at least. ] Perhaps that’s the wrong word. [ She purses her mouth, considering. ] Heat might better suit.
no subject
he flinches when her hand settles at his shoulder, the pressure of her fingertips pressing down against the wolf's claw marks sending heat rocketing through him and nearly taking him off balance — only nearly, though. the shoe drops but he stays upright, his hand clenched around her ankle with an unforgiving grip as he draws in a sharp breath, his face hot. heat might better suit, indeed. ]
You burn my flesh.
[ he catches her wrist and keeps her hand in place before she can draw her touch away, his accusatory tone light, one corner of his mouth quirking. the pain that sweeps through him is all too familiar, an injury he can't help but prod at because he likes to suffer, an itch he intentionally does not scratch because it feels sweeter to let it build and build and build. ]
The wolf got me there, too. I thought about telling you, but it's more fun to let you discover these things on your own.
[ his grip finally loosens around her ankle, her pale skin red and patterned with the latticework of her lace stockings. the smile he gives her is a return to his well-mannered charm, but with a creak of an open door; he's comfortable here on the floor, maybe too comfortable to be on time for breakfast.
he picks up the shoe, slipping her foot inside and working the leather strap around her ankle with tender care, his head bent in concentration, leaning with familiar ease against her thigh. when he breathes in he's transported again — she smells like lilies, like rosemary, fusing with the juniper on his breath as he exhales against her green dress. ]
Do you like the shoe? [ finished with one, he slides his hand upwards to rest at her calf in tandem with his lifted gaze, his eyes meeting hers. he cups the inside of her knee, gently but liberally lifting her leg so she can admire the shimmering gold in the room's light. ] Should I do the other?
no subject
only embry’s hissed breath and tight grip pull her from her reverie. she looses a sharp inhale, big eyes searching for the source of his pain. if not for his hand clasping her wrist, she would have tugged it away. instead, his hold pulls everything taut between them. you burn my flesh on a recursive loop in her skull. alicent has back-handed cole for less, but she relaxes her arm in embry’s grip, fingers splaying wider over the curve of his shoulder. what sort of man lets someone plunge their fluttering hand into his wound? ]
You must have had quite the close call. [ with the wolf. it seems less like fun to downplay his hurt and more like the red beds of her nails, a self-inflicted punishment. still, he smiles up at her, as though he can think of no better place to suffer. warmth blossoms in her chest, unaided by the searing ache in her arm.
her handmaidens haven’t dressed her in weeks. when they did, it never felt as intimate as this (as draping the white cloak over cole’s broad shoulders). that he asks for her opinion on how to proceed is nothing short of a wonder. an offer of escape and an invitation to continue, unmistakable even to her untrained eyes. her lashes lower as his palm slides higher. ]
[ finally, the slightest quirk of her mouth, ] It’s a bold choice. [ the shoe, gold and glittering. and his touch at the back of her knee. she lifts her free hand to reward him for it, pushing a stray hair from his eyes and carding it back into its elegant sweep. ] You ought to see it through.