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𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 boots tapped against the adamant stone floor, each step being an echo in everyone's auditory perception.
Every tread was filled with her blood red down, one that fell down her shoulders and onto the floor, dripping like a fountain of ichor.
The room was preternaturally quiet, eerie in it's substance, faint in noise. It was the usual character of the large room, lined to the brim with skulls of dragons from previous lives. Every strode she took she walked past the many craniums, eyeing the bone material of them, their structure and installation drawing her irises to studying their size and shape, the teeth that even in the dead abyss still seemed to bar at her.
It was all a distraction from the actual reason why she was in the throne room, one she particularly wasn't sure of. Her head rose up, potraying a valorous display on her countenance. The girl puffed the skin on her chest, the usual sensuality and poised frame gracing her body.
The confidence she potrayed had showed something she didn't feel, as in fact the pure torment her father desplayed had her ditressed much more then she let on.
King Aerys' appearance had dwindled in these past scrutinous years. His hair had become longer, more disheveled, mattening in certain spots. His hands exhibited a certain lenght to the nails, one that was too long to be considered gracious. He became unkempt and scruffy, bedraggled and straggly mien.
The girl barely recognised her own father. His face laced and notable lines of luminescence was instead replaced by a horrid being. Aerys lost any self assurance that he used to hold even in the smallest amounts.
Drhaella closed the skin of her eyes for a moment, taking a deeper breath than before as she scan through the room, the frames of few casting a gleam of doubt in her eyes.
There were two that stood at the foot of the large stairs leading to the iron throne, the first shadow cast by her father fell down to the Kingsguard member and commander, Ser Gerold Hightower and then penumbra fell on the master of ships who in these recent moons seemed more like the Hand of the King than anything.
"Princess." The Velaryon's voice echoed prominantly in the abyss of the room. "Next year you will reach an age well suited for marriage."
Drhaella could sense where this was leading, nodding her head for him to continue.
"A choice was needed to be made from the many postulants that put their hands forth." He mused, a smile gleaming from his features ever present, even through the thick hairs of his beard. "And we belive we have made an unmitigated solution."
"Prince Rhaegar?" She questioned but felt as though she knew the answer to that.
Lucerys bitterly chuckled, and instead of his voice it was the King himself who spoke.
