#inspireswar

"Your bastard's mother. You never told me what she looked like." "Nor will I."

Hvitserk never thought he would see the land of Westero. He had only heard of it 5 years ago when Lyanna visited but since then he hadn't heard about it or her. He did wonder what happen to her. Had she married? Had she had children? The answer was most likely.

But now he was here, feet on their soil to finish this agreement off. He did not want to be the one to go truthfully but he was the only brother that didn't have anything keeping him at Kattagat. No wife, no children. He hadn't made a name for himself so Bjorn made him go to represent them with specific instructions that he was not allowed to drink. Having just coming off a bender.

As they reach Kings Landing, he eyed up the stone built city. This was nothing like Kattagat that was for sure.

He was met by the Kings hand and taken through the town, his men following closely behind. He could feel the stares from the residents. Their clothing was vastly different and some of the warriors were covered in tattoos something these people did not have.

"I   hope   you   did   not   take   my   actions   as   an   insult,   Lady   Lyanna."   A   crown   of   winter   roses,   meant   for   the   Queen   of   Love   and   Beauty   in   the   tournament.   The   boldness   that   overtook   him   to   pass   down   his   wife   and   lay   said   crown   on   Lyanna   Stark's   lap,   and   he   was   aware   of   the   deadly   silence   that   had   fallen   then.   It's   rare   to   find   her   on   her   own,   without   the   guarding   stare   of   her   two   brothers   and   Rhaegar   seizes   his   chance   to   speak   to   her,   dark   indigo   eyes   looking   into   those   grey   ones.

  The   dragon   must   have   three   heads,   he   hears   in   his   head,   and   he   wonders,   if   he   heard   that   because   Lyanna   was   meant   to   help   him.   To   take   his   hand   and   guide   him   through   the   last   part   of   it   all.   "I   did   not   mean   it   as   a   such.   I'm   hardly   the   first   prince   who   gives   another   a   crown.   But   if   I   must   face   the   wrath   of   the   She-Wolf   of   Winterfell,   then   I   shall   take   it   as   it   comes."   The   man   speaks,   a   smile   gracing   now   his   features.

@inspireswar asked:

❝ i’m getting away from you. you’re trouble, that’s what you are. ❞

Daemon looked at the Stark with a raised eyebrow. He could not but wonder why they had come to him but he could not do anything to help her.

Shireen slipped out from the bed she had been sharing with her mother, careful not to wake Selyse from her rest. The older woman, while she seemed to have come to terms with some decisions she had made of recent, was still frail, still needed rest and quiet... Together, the mother and daughter worked to stave off each other’s nightmares, and make sleep a safe cradle for them both and not a barbed trap waiting for them to close their eyes.

Still, slumber could prove elusive for the young princess.

Stepping out into the dim corridor, the door closing soundlessly behind her, the girl made her way into the dark. Perhaps, in an hour or so, she would feel ready to return to her mother’s hold; but, now, she felt far too restless to simply lay in bed, and pacing the room itself was certain to disturb the remaining sleeper within it. Padding across the stone, letting her feet lead her, Shireen ventured through the halls of Castle Black. 

Considering the lateness of the hour, the tired girl did not really expect to meet anyone other than perhaps the odd soldier patrolling on their shift. However, she was soon proven wrong in that assumption... Blinking up at the woman in her path- a hand going to rub a weary eye as the other clutched her poor, charred, little stag- she managed a polite smile and half-curtsy once she had gathered herself. 

“Good evening, My Lady.”  

@inspireswar

Even while muddied with filth, matted by weather, and worn to fit the place, the golden haired fair shape of this otherwise mortal man is a standout amidst a field of vibrant flowers. Prophetic visions and sights of future were not the proclivity of this dark shape, but minds so awash with turmoil, burned and embroiled in darkness... Such a worthwhile battlefield to wage war against the free minds of men.

They could fight, swing their swords, or bludgeon with their clubs all they wished-- But within the solace of their minds they often found peace, none wielded weapons to defend against such a grand will to dominate all life. The voice does not match the fair face. It is a deep unpleasant rasp, one not befit such pristine features.

"Such beauty in this place. Yet by the look upon your face, there is much misery impeding your thoughts--"

The whispering hisses of doubt sing on the air, this unassuming thing giving off the aura of pure dread by merely existing. Making no effort to hide more than the visible form. A flower plucked, its petals flourish against the strangers nose. A gentle inhale taken of its lovely fragrance. This near elven form of this beautiful bringer of such divine gifts, has settled comfortably amidst the bushels of red flowers.

Abrogail raises her eyebrows as she actually gives the question some thought, and Lady Lyanna looks curious. There's differences between Luke and Daeron, of course, but truly, it comes down to a few simple facts. "Well, Daeron, of course, because Daeron wants to fuck me, and Luke doesn't. Do you need more detail than that?"

Serves her right for such a question.

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