[ She can't help it. She makes a small noise, a nearly laugh. The thought of Jon Snow contriving to play allies with Baelish on the down-low is cute. ]
No doubt his reasons are important and noble.
[ She teases, but she hopes it doesn't run too deeply beyond an aversion to Kingslanding politics. Things are complicated enough as it is. ]
Have you met any others, from our world? I could enlighten you, if you like. But perhaps over champagne.
[ Because if Gwen shows up for drinks one day with Jaime Lannister as her date, Daenerys will lose her mind. ]
shopping happens first. shopping happens extensively, handing over credit cards without looking and spending hours sitting in a variety of boutiques where they are brought glasses of wine and various things in their size by ingratiating salespeople almost certainly working on commission. photos are taken of things they've tried on - dresses are swapped and swapped back and swapped again, indecisive as to whose colouring it suits better. gwen actually seems to walk better in heels the more wine she's had, and she's not struggling in them sober.
it's a very successful outing, and when they get back to dany's place it's laden down with bags of celebratory loot and with a case of the giggles over she can't actually remember what except it seemed so amazing to have announced loudly in the back of the cab they took. )
Oh my God,
( stepping out of her heels, )
--let's absolutely drink more, that's a great idea.
[ Daenerys is still wearing one of the items that she left with; a short, silver-sequinned dress that ends at the knee, with the sort of light-weight drapery that Westerosi women wound find scandalously sluttish, but have you seen some of Daenerys' dresses?
Her standards run more liberal.
She is already bare foot, herself, setting low-heeled shoes down with her bags, giving a laugh. She's slightly too full of champagne and spender's euphoria to feel visibly sad when she thinks that Gwen reminds her of Tyrion, in some ways, and the thought is tossed aside like she tosses her hair, en route to kitchen in her open plan apartment. ]
I promised champagne, [ she insists, as she opens the fridge and ducks to retrieve the bottle ] and gossip, I think.
You did, ( pointing at her with the hand still holding some of the bags, meandering optimistically for the nearest sofa she can collapse onto with them. she mostly remembers what she bought. some of it will end up being a pleasant surprise later on when she has absolutely no memory of picking it out or trying it on. )
About your, what's the word. "Westerosi"? Is that right?
[ Champagne, glasses, a pair captured in the tangle of her fingers as she heads back towards company, feet bare and dress glittery and hair down. With all the glass she's managing, Daenerys doesn't flop down, but does seem glad to be off her feet once she's sitting, setting things out on the low table between them.
Your very fine self. Ambassador Baelish. Jon Snow, who said there are others? ( it lilts up, like it's almost a question. ) I feel like he talked about relatives, it was a while ago. I do remember he said he wants to impress you.
( she takes this opportunity to bat her lashes at dany. is she impressed.
- it's not very impressive, but the level of comfort involved is in itself not an insignificant thing. possibly a bit premature, in fact; gwen attaches swiftly and sinks her claws in deep, by several layers of nature, and daenerys has not sufficiently discouraged this to avoid being treated with such ease. it's hard to do, to be fair, like you pet a cat once and suddenly the thing is headbutting you every time you go by.
cats don't come with champagne and couture, though, so there are perks to a version even with as smart a mouth as gwen's. )
[ The look that gets is long and cynical as Daenerys pours herself alcohol she does not need, but nevertheless picks up with her as she leans back, tucking her feet under her bum and pitching her mind towards Jon Snow. Squinting a little as she thinks, and drinks in a dainty sip. ]
The last name 'Snow' is what they give children born out of wedlock in the North, [ she says, after a moment. ] He's the illegitimate son of a man named Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North. He isn't here, but one of his daughters is. Sansa Stark. Young, [ she adds, ] but no one stays very young.
[ What she knows of Sansa is a loose collection of distanced information, and certainly not hers to give. ]
The Starks, [ she says, asserting the direction of the conversation ] are one of many noble families that make up the tapestry of Westeros. One of the grander, older ones, that which we call the Great Houses. And one of those that fought as rebels against my own House. Lord Eddard was among the main players of the War of the Usurper.
I did say, [ she says, pointing past her glass ] about complicated.
( on the one hand, gwen's first, passing thought at the observation of sansa stark is no girl stays young, does she, but that isn't entirely the case. this twenty-four year old woman who'd never lived anywhere but school or with family until last year, whose father was paying the rent on that apartment and had veto power over where she chose to live, who's never had to work for a more compelling reason than disliking idleness before taking the position that had given daenerys such pause earlier. who's never not had the option of running home to daddy if everything goes tits up.
some girls actually get to be young for quite some fucking time, even as they age decades past their due in other ways. that's complicated, too, but mercifully it is less immediately relevant and she points back at daenerys with her own glass; ) You did say.
( ruminatively; ) I feel like I shouldn't tell Jon my parents weren't married. I've definitely come off the better of that arrangement. No one gave me a funny name.
It isn't my intention to gossip as to Jon Snow's birthright, or lack of it, [ Dany insists, gently. ] I know what it is, too, to not know your own mother.
[ A swig of champagne breaks up the moment. To give a skeletal structure to a friend of the myriads of tensions that divide the Westerosi, without bringing her anger into the conversation. To not blacken the afternoon, or have the champagne turn sour in their mouths.
If Tyrion were still here, he would have done a fine job. ]
But his father lived to be the Hand of the Usurper King, Robert Baratheon, until he was executed for treason against the Lannister House, married into the ruling family, participants too of the rebellion. Baratheon and his Lannister queen ruled over the Seven Kingdoms for as long as I was alive, while my brother and I lived across the ocean in exile. So, [ she says, like punctuation ] you'll have to forgive that many of those who come from my world will be enemies, until proven otherwise.
Jon has proven that, [ she says, ] and Lord Baelish, for all that our politics come with sharp edges. Sansa Stark is not her father, either.
Mothers are always complicated. ( a close-mouthed smile, and with it no desire to pursue the topic any further than offhand cracks. birthrights. it'd have gone a lot less well for her if she'd been born a few centuries earlier, that's all -
but they are still too sober for gwen to want to talk about anyone's mother.
enemies, though. not much safer territory, really - not always different territory, in her experience - but more pressingly relevant as the westerosi population grows and as gwen seems to insist on finding herself in their midst, intentionally or otherwise. best to know which way the wind blows, and who to avoid...
who from her world might come here, she wonders. somehow it doesn't feel like a promising notion. )
[ Speaking of enemies, proven otherwise. The last of Daenerys' champagne is knocked back, but she's not quick to refill, leaning to place her glass down and then sit back again, hands knitting together. ]
Jorah of House Mormont. A northern family, under the banner of the Starks, although Jorah himself is something of an outlier [ who shouldn't be counted ].
He is an exile of Westeros, but swore his sword to my brother, and then to me. In return, I promised to restore him to his House when I took back the Seven Kingdoms. Now, here, he works for Lord Baelish. Which perhaps accounts for my response, earlier, when you broke news of your employ.
[ If her gossip is just a touch restrained-- well, it is. There are details she'd rather keep from banter, complications that sound too, frankly, complicated to untangle here and now. ]
Not an enemy, but sodding off with all your people -
( the wine having flowed with freedom enough that Gwen doesn't think twice about casually slotting herself in there as Dany's people, yes; it isn't that she wouldn't think so, without it, it's just maybe she wouldn't have presumed to say so out loud. The problem with saying things like that out loud is that if you say them then people can tell you that you're wrong -
better to be secret with your friendships, so they can't say they aren't shared.
She tilts her glass, illustrative. )
It's strictly business. You're my favourite Westerosi, I just need...
( A deep sigh. )
Pretty things.
( That isn't all. That isn't even all she gets out of working for Baelish - she's good at what she does, likes it - but, you know, they are currently surrounded by the fruits of her labor. It feels terribly meaningful. She wonders about Jorah, about did he. and the way she necked that glass, but if she were Daenerys, she wouldn't want to be asked. )
[ Gwen needn't say more. Daenerys has been spoiled enough today that she smiles her knowing acceptance, the initial pang of disappointment and vague trepidation for even more potential complication to worry about now doused in complementary champagne. She doesn't even think it's just the pretty things either, and that's perfectly alright too.
Fortunately, she isn't drinking when Gwen asks this next thing, but does give her a long look -- or maybe through her. ]
I would propose we have more to drink, on that note, but I think that might be a terrible idea.
( The next involuntary reaction is, in a way, an unconscious reassurance: don't worry, Gwen couldn't lie to save her goddamn life. She chokes on the champagne, managing to at least swallow it before she starts coughing, recovering poorly-- ) Shit, really?
( Look, she didn't see that one coming. At this point, though, she maybe should have. )
[ They certainly must have entered uncertain territory, because Daenerys' half-smile at Gwen's response is more muted than it would have been a moment ago.
Still-- ]
Viserys Targaryen. Senior to me by a few years, although now we are almost of a like age -- he was taken from four years prior to the time from when I was taken.
Relatively recently arrived. I was as surprised as you are.
( It isn't what she says; it's how she says it. It's what she doesn't say. It's that it came up this way, and not another--
Gwen wonders what she'd do if Marc came here. Have a conniption fit, probably. Lock him in her attic until she figured out how to deal with him. Maybe see if someone with memory-suppressing powers could make him forget what he read in his own file about his powers.
But, you know, she'd be glad, as well. A bit. Her displeasure would be both genuine but also ostentatious and performed for an audience - she would expect them to live together, tell him her secrets. Keep his. )
[ She can pick up the appropriate cues, in tone, in blank space. ]
He hurt me deeply-- had hurt me, in ways I hadn't understood for a long time. But I hurt him back. [ Maybe a little more champagne. She leans to fill her glass to a modest height. ] We've decided on a peace between us.
[ She decided, dragging Viserys over the line by sheer force of will, more like.
Which is in her tone too, but also means she has cause not to dig up all the grisly details. Just enough to empower Gwen with context, should she require it, for both of their benefits. ]
We are the last two, you see. Targaryens. The throne might have been his, in another life.
( An understanding hum; all of those unsaid things, yes, but the grapple for position, too. A young man who might have been King is a dangerous thing. The memory that echoes back is none of that, though, it's sitting tired beside her father's bathtub, making herself smile, tilting his face and talking to him to keep him awake, exhausted and angry and thinking you're only my brother, you're not his son about a young man who is one thing when it suits him and another when it doesn't.
It isn't fair, of course; if he wanted it, she wouldn't share, and Emeric wouldn't ask it. But she had been so tired. )
I don't think men should have thrones, ( critically. ) I don't think historically that has ended well. I wouldn't trust my brother with a patch of garden, much less a kingdom.
( Better, worse, or just the high octane Tarantino sequel to Mean Girls that if pushed, they would probably both disclaim 'just an observation' as opposed to having any particular dislike of the man who is conveniently for the purposes of a segue Not Viserys Targaryen?
Gwen laughs. )
Sort of. He talked to me when I was, um, handling myself and my entrance into this world with all the grace and decorum it merited.
[ Dany has honestly very little against the man either. She circled him on the network, once, particularly after witnessing Jorah take the time to anonymously sass him, so really she isn't the most immature one wrt Theon Greyjoy in her cast.
Just the one that's been drinking, currently, and she suppresses a sillier grin in echo of Gwen's, just. ]
He... [ She thinks, then, to what she knows of him in her world, which is a slight dash of cooler water on her mirth. A broken man, then. Less so, now. ] Well, I don't envy him. Most of what I know of him concerns the histories of others, but it's fair to say he is no friend of the Starks any longer, but was raised by them as a child as a hostage of war. His House is no friend to the Mormonts, either.
Theon was taken from an earlier time, and so doesn't know me, but I know him, a little. He and his sister struck an allegiance with me -- ships, for independence. He was different, then, than he is here.
( Lazily, like a cat batting something with her paw; ) Less of a little tit?
( --which is more or less what she is, not any more malicious than that. Not particularly nice, either, but she's never pretended to be a nice girl. Or at least not with any real conviction. Plus, it made Daenerys laugh. She'll always circle a winning play a few times, though she catches the softening. )
It's all so ... it's very archaic, to me. From where I sit. But it's not even, in my world, so far -
( She thinks about Keir. She hasn't thought about Keir and his stupid castle and his stupid books and his huge fucking guns in a while, but she thinks of him. The floodlights. The security measures. The last. Elsewhere, Koschei who is not Koschei, and his sharp, terrible sorrows.
[ There's a-- no, 'tolerant' isn't the right word for the smile she gives Gwen, because it isn't like just anyone implying that her world is quaint, but certainly a knowing smile, small and hidden, partially, in her next sip of wine. ]
I've been here long enough to sense how different it is, to speak of these things. Not simply the clash between cultures, the perception of time, but-- well, to speak of one hundred ships to carry my armies across an ocean is a different concern than learning how to drive a hovercar. It isn't the subject for casual conversation.
I'm sure all of us have a bit of that, of course, [ she adds. ] But it is nice to be able to speak of it all, now and then.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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No doubt his reasons are important and noble.
[ She teases, but she hopes it doesn't run too deeply beyond an aversion to Kingslanding politics. Things are complicated enough as it is. ]
Have you met any others, from our world? I could enlighten you, if you like. But perhaps over champagne.
[ Because if Gwen shows up for drinks one day with Jaime Lannister as her date, Daenerys will lose her mind. ]
action.
shopping happens first. shopping happens extensively, handing over credit cards without looking and spending hours sitting in a variety of boutiques where they are brought glasses of wine and various things in their size by ingratiating salespeople almost certainly working on commission. photos are taken of things they've tried on - dresses are swapped and swapped back and swapped again, indecisive as to whose colouring it suits better. gwen actually seems to walk better in heels the more wine she's had, and she's not struggling in them sober.
it's a very successful outing, and when they get back to dany's place it's laden down with bags of celebratory loot and with a case of the giggles over she can't actually remember what except it seemed so amazing to have announced loudly in the back of the cab they took. )
Oh my God,
( stepping out of her heels, )
--let's absolutely drink more, that's a great idea.
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Her standards run more liberal.
She is already bare foot, herself, setting low-heeled shoes down with her bags, giving a laugh. She's slightly too full of champagne and spender's euphoria to feel visibly sad when she thinks that Gwen reminds her of Tyrion, in some ways, and the thought is tossed aside like she tosses her hair, en route to kitchen in her open plan apartment. ]
I promised champagne, [ she insists, as she opens the fridge and ducks to retrieve the bottle ] and gossip, I think.
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About your, what's the word. "Westerosi"? Is that right?
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[ Champagne, glasses, a pair captured in the tangle of her fingers as she heads back towards company, feet bare and dress glittery and hair down. With all the glass she's managing, Daenerys doesn't flop down, but does seem glad to be off her feet once she's sitting, setting things out on the low table between them.
Clink, clink. ]
Who all have you run into?
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( she takes this opportunity to bat her lashes at dany. is she impressed.
- it's not very impressive, but the level of comfort involved is in itself not an insignificant thing. possibly a bit premature, in fact; gwen attaches swiftly and sinks her claws in deep, by several layers of nature, and daenerys has not sufficiently discouraged this to avoid being treated with such ease. it's hard to do, to be fair, like you pet a cat once and suddenly the thing is headbutting you every time you go by.
cats don't come with champagne and couture, though, so there are perks to a version even with as smart a mouth as gwen's. )
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The last name 'Snow' is what they give children born out of wedlock in the North, [ she says, after a moment. ] He's the illegitimate son of a man named Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North. He isn't here, but one of his daughters is. Sansa Stark. Young, [ she adds, ] but no one stays very young.
[ What she knows of Sansa is a loose collection of distanced information, and certainly not hers to give. ]
The Starks, [ she says, asserting the direction of the conversation ] are one of many noble families that make up the tapestry of Westeros. One of the grander, older ones, that which we call the Great Houses. And one of those that fought as rebels against my own House. Lord Eddard was among the main players of the War of the Usurper.
I did say, [ she says, pointing past her glass ] about complicated.
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some girls actually get to be young for quite some fucking time, even as they age decades past their due in other ways. that's complicated, too, but mercifully it is less immediately relevant and she points back at daenerys with her own glass; ) You did say.
( ruminatively; ) I feel like I shouldn't tell Jon my parents weren't married. I've definitely come off the better of that arrangement. No one gave me a funny name.
( did they not, gwenaëlle clothilde. )
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[ A swig of champagne breaks up the moment. To give a skeletal structure to a friend of the myriads of tensions that divide the Westerosi, without bringing her anger into the conversation. To not blacken the afternoon, or have the champagne turn sour in their mouths.
If Tyrion were still here, he would have done a fine job. ]
But his father lived to be the Hand of the Usurper King, Robert Baratheon, until he was executed for treason against the Lannister House, married into the ruling family, participants too of the rebellion. Baratheon and his Lannister queen ruled over the Seven Kingdoms for as long as I was alive, while my brother and I lived across the ocean in exile. So, [ she says, like punctuation ] you'll have to forgive that many of those who come from my world will be enemies, until proven otherwise.
Jon has proven that, [ she says, ] and Lord Baelish, for all that our politics come with sharp edges. Sansa Stark is not her father, either.
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but they are still too sober for gwen to want to talk about anyone's mother.
enemies, though. not much safer territory, really - not always different territory, in her experience - but more pressingly relevant as the westerosi population grows and as gwen seems to insist on finding herself in their midst, intentionally or otherwise. best to know which way the wind blows, and who to avoid...
who from her world might come here, she wonders. somehow it doesn't feel like a promising notion. )
Jon mentioned a Jorah Mormont, as well?
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[ Speaking of enemies, proven otherwise. The last of Daenerys' champagne is knocked back, but she's not quick to refill, leaning to place her glass down and then sit back again, hands knitting together. ]
Jorah of House Mormont. A northern family, under the banner of the Starks, although Jorah himself is something of an outlier [ who shouldn't be counted ].
He is an exile of Westeros, but swore his sword to my brother, and then to me. In return, I promised to restore him to his House when I took back the Seven Kingdoms. Now, here, he works for Lord Baelish. Which perhaps accounts for my response, earlier, when you broke news of your employ.
[ If her gossip is just a touch restrained-- well, it is. There are details she'd rather keep from banter, complications that sound too, frankly, complicated to untangle here and now. ]
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( the wine having flowed with freedom enough that Gwen doesn't think twice about casually slotting herself in there as Dany's people, yes; it isn't that she wouldn't think so, without it, it's just maybe she wouldn't have presumed to say so out loud. The problem with saying things like that out loud is that if you say them then people can tell you that you're wrong -
better to be secret with your friendships, so they can't say they aren't shared.
She tilts her glass, illustrative. )
It's strictly business. You're my favourite Westerosi, I just need...
( A deep sigh. )
Pretty things.
( That isn't all. That isn't even all she gets out of working for Baelish - she's good at what she does, likes it - but, you know, they are currently surrounded by the fruits of her labor. It feels terribly meaningful. She wonders about Jorah, about did he. and the way she necked that glass, but if she were Daenerys, she wouldn't want to be asked. )
Is your brother here, too?
( See, she thinks she's kidding. )
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Fortunately, she isn't drinking when Gwen asks this next thing, but does give her a long look -- or maybe through her. ]
I would propose we have more to drink, on that note, but I think that might be a terrible idea.
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( Look, she didn't see that one coming. At this point, though, she maybe should have. )
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[ They certainly must have entered uncertain territory, because Daenerys' half-smile at Gwen's response is more muted than it would have been a moment ago.
Still-- ]
Viserys Targaryen. Senior to me by a few years, although now we are almost of a like age -- he was taken from four years prior to the time from when I was taken.
Relatively recently arrived. I was as surprised as you are.
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( It isn't what she says; it's how she says it. It's what she doesn't say. It's that it came up this way, and not another--
Gwen wonders what she'd do if Marc came here. Have a conniption fit, probably. Lock him in her attic until she figured out how to deal with him. Maybe see if someone with memory-suppressing powers could make him forget what he read in his own file about his powers.
But, you know, she'd be glad, as well. A bit. Her displeasure would be both genuine but also ostentatious and performed for an audience - she would expect them to live together, tell him her secrets. Keep his. )
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[ She can pick up the appropriate cues, in tone, in blank space. ]
He hurt me deeply-- had hurt me, in ways I hadn't understood for a long time. But I hurt him back. [ Maybe a little more champagne. She leans to fill her glass to a modest height. ] We've decided on a peace between us.
[ She decided, dragging Viserys over the line by sheer force of will, more like.
Which is in her tone too, but also means she has cause not to dig up all the grisly details. Just enough to empower Gwen with context, should she require it, for both of their benefits. ]
We are the last two, you see. Targaryens. The throne might have been his, in another life.
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It isn't fair, of course; if he wanted it, she wouldn't share, and Emeric wouldn't ask it. But she had been so tired. )
I don't think men should have thrones, ( critically. ) I don't think historically that has ended well. I wouldn't trust my brother with a patch of garden, much less a kingdom.
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My brother would hope to continue my father's legacy, bloodthirsty and ruinous though it was. I have every hope of improving upon it.
[ After a bloodthirsty, ruinous war, no doubt. Details. ]
Theon, [ she says, suddenly, with a point. ] Greyjoy.
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Gwen laughs. )
Sort of. He talked to me when I was, um, handling myself and my entrance into this world with all the grace and decorum it merited.
( So none. )
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Just the one that's been drinking, currently, and she suppresses a sillier grin in echo of Gwen's, just. ]
He... [ She thinks, then, to what she knows of him in her world, which is a slight dash of cooler water on her mirth. A broken man, then. Less so, now. ] Well, I don't envy him. Most of what I know of him concerns the histories of others, but it's fair to say he is no friend of the Starks any longer, but was raised by them as a child as a hostage of war. His House is no friend to the Mormonts, either.
Theon was taken from an earlier time, and so doesn't know me, but I know him, a little. He and his sister struck an allegiance with me -- ships, for independence. He was different, then, than he is here.
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( --which is more or less what she is, not any more malicious than that. Not particularly nice, either, but she's never pretended to be a nice girl. Or at least not with any real conviction. Plus, it made Daenerys laugh. She'll always circle a winning play a few times, though she catches the softening. )
It's all so ... it's very archaic, to me. From where I sit. But it's not even, in my world, so far -
( She thinks about Keir. She hasn't thought about Keir and his stupid castle and his stupid books and his huge fucking guns in a while, but she thinks of him. The floodlights. The security measures. The last. Elsewhere, Koschei who is not Koschei, and his sharp, terrible sorrows.
Stories for another day. )
I just have to learn to keep up.
( At home, too. )
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I've been here long enough to sense how different it is, to speak of these things. Not simply the clash between cultures, the perception of time, but-- well, to speak of one hundred ships to carry my armies across an ocean is a different concern than learning how to drive a hovercar. It isn't the subject for casual conversation.
I'm sure all of us have a bit of that, of course, [ she adds. ] But it is nice to be able to speak of it all, now and then.
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