#13y3

"well, can't you have friends despite being betrothed?" the she-wolf frowns, turning around to walk backward as she regards the prince. the hem of her skirt is discolored with dirt, but it is masked enough by the dark blue color, and no one shall be able to tell unless they look too closely. "you should perhaps spend time with your betrothed, however." lyanna concedes the point and turns around so she is walking side by side with aemond again. it is strange, being in the capital as a ward of the crown while her brother rules the north. she resents being sent away, having to live and adapt in such a foreign place with none of her friends or the familiarity of home around her. the only good thing about the arrangement is how she's able to bribe a squire to give her sword-fighting lessons.

stark-gray eyes flit to watch the prince beside her. she wonders what talk people have been having, and if it has anything to do with her septa insisting her lessons be prolonged as of late. lyanna doesn't know how to tell the woman her dismal embroidery is already the best it can be, and is not bound to get better. still, aemond is a far superior swordsman than the squire she's recruited, and the she-wolf is hoping to persuade him to give her some lessons. besides, helaena is often with aegon now, and lyanna is uncomfortable around him.

"tell me about her. what is she like?" eyebrow raised, genuinely curious. there is a pang of anxiety in her chest that comes unbidden, and lyanna imagines aemond spending more time with his lady than with her. suppose she'll simply have to find something else to fill her time and discover ways to spend it with helaena when her prince husband isn't around. perhaps, this friendship (if it can be called that at all) is a strange thing in these parts, but in winterfell, lyanna acquainted (and played with, when she was younger) with both girls and boys, at times more of the latter as there is simply more of them around. "i wonder when i'm to be married," she muses, her pace slowing down, shallow crease appearing between her brows. "i'm not sure i quite like the idea."

@13y3 asked: I cannot stop a dragon from abiding where it pleases.

Doreah  gave  a  short  laugh  at  that,  though  there  was  little  amusement  in  it.  Her  eyes  drifted  past  Aemond  for  a  moment,  toward  the  distant  shape  of  the  dragon  that  had  made  itself  comfortable  where  it  had  no  business  being.  Men  spoke  of  dragons  as  weapons,  as  symbols,  as  creatures  to  be  commanded.  Yet  every  tale  she  had  ever  heard  suggested  otherwise.  But  she  is  not  there  to  give  opinions,  unless  she  is  asked.  So  she  pours  wine  into  the  goblet,  something  that  cannot  be  found  everywhere  else.  "Nor  can  anyone  else,"  she  said.  "That  seems  to  be  the  trouble  with  dragons.  They  listen  when  it  suits  them  and  ignore  the  rest."  Once  done  ,  she  looked  back  at  him  then. 

fingertips  graze  along  ancient  cobblestone,  feeling  the  spill  of  magic  pooling  in  palms  center  ⸺  feathering  outward,  luminously  bright  and  singing  in  veins.  had  those  who  mounted  winged  beasts  forgot  their  true  power?  she  keens  amid  such  pleasant  scorching,  feels  knobby  bones  of  elbows  unhinge,  thin  hand  dropping  against  apron.  etched  with  a  fine  pattern  of  leaves  from  harrenhal's  beloved  weirwood,  it  carries  along  the  bodice,  throat  bobbing  into  an  amused  chortle.  deferential  curtsy  anticipatory  ⸺  where  one  targaryen  cared  little  for  pretense  another  bled  that  word.  such  gesture  was  mere  mockery,  if  one-eye  cares  for  well  bred  then  best  look  elsewhere.     ❝     i'm  no  riddle  tae  solve,  ma  prince.     ❞     skims  past,  surefooted,  unbothered,  tattered  ends  of  a  dress  now  caught  in  fist.  how  many  have  died  this  eve?  how  many  more  should  follow?

the  demand  dissolves  on  her  tongue  ⸺  eyes  of  moss  skimming  along  familiar  fine-boned  features.  valyrian-blooded  are  cut  sharp,  colorless  angles  and  wiry  frames,  impressive  ego's  leaving  room  for  little  else.

starter call 💜 @13y3

"Your   mind   is   elsewhere,   My   Prince."   Doreah's   voice   sounds   through   the   room   as   she   leaves   the   bottle   of   wine   and   the   cups   on   the   side,   eyes   looking   at   the   prince   with   curiosity.   "It   is   a   strange   place   to   come   and   think   if   quietness   is   what   you   desire."   She   jest   a   little,   as   she   keeps   herself   occupied   pouring   the   wine   for   him.   The   room   is   still   one   of   the   best   and   private   enough   but   one   could   hear   the   giggles   of   the   younger   girls   scattering   around   when   Doreah   made   contact   with   the   wall   and   simply   pushed   the   curtain   to   cover   up.  

｡  °    ★            𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮   ,       @13y3​​​​​    as    aemond  :           03﹕ sender  places  their  legs  in  receiver's  lap .

lyanna cannot remember the last time she was sick. it must have been when she was a child; too daring, too stubborn to stay indoors. she has vague recollections of her lady mother dabbing damp, warm cloth all over her body, whispering scolding and soothing words in turn. she remembers being submerged in hot water to stave off the chill, and the frustrating feeling of being too unwell to leave her bed. in any case, it has been years, and whatever her recollections are, the real thing is worse.

she tries to bear it, hopes for it to go away on its own accord, but then she nearly collapses at supper, which isn't part of the plan. the she-wolf barely feels it when prince aemond lifts her up and carries her over to her bed chambers. she barely registers him tucking her in, except for that final moment when she's suddenly terrified of being left alone. lyanna calls out to him, mumbles the words she long suspected she feels but never dared give a voice to. whatever mortification she harbors is swallowed by the sickness, but disappointment rears its ugly head when he leaves anyway.

the succeeding moments are a blur. a maester comes, gives her something for the fever. a female servant helps her into her nightgown and dabs damp cloth all over her like her mother used to do. she must have fallen asleep, because now she is waking up, and watery rays of sunlight fall across her bedroom floor. lyanna groans, head heavy and limbs sore. she hears the door creak open, and tries her best to sit up when her visitor comes into view.