⸻ ( Daemon Targaryen )
She comes like rain, soft and gentle, upon his cheeks. The taste of summer snow and enduring love, like a declaration of war upon fate.
( house of the dragon ) • 2022
( editing in progress )
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
══════⊹⊱✷⋅⊰⊹══════
ESSOS greeted her with all the familiarity and nostalgia of a former lover. It was her third home, after all. The land of her husband's ancestry which birthed an enduring legacy for their children to carry on. Lyra had died and been reborn in those strange lands, steeped with unfathomable mysteries and magic that ran deep into its molten core.
The turquoise seas glimmered beneath the everlasting sun and Lyra had to squint her eyes as she looked out from the broken bow of the ship to Lys the Lovely. White stone embankments and tropical palm trees could be seen from the distance. The port city was a shining pearl in the vast mass of seafoam.
The previous night's events in the Stepstones had left Lyra shaken. It was her first taste of turmoil and strife, and it left her painfully aware of how mortal their lives were. She could still remember the cold embrace of death and the heavy sleep upon her eyes in the Red Temple of Volantis as if it had only just happened a fortnight ago.
She yearned for the clear skies of King's Landing and her children's laughter trailing alongside her. The lingering touch of her husband's hand on hers and the way his violet eyes would soften at the sight of her. Their small comforts kept her afloat so far away from her true home.
The briny, piscine scent of the waterfront stalls permeated the air as their battered ship docked within the harbour. Her knees wobbled as she stepped onto the landing stage of the pier. Lyra half expected Triarchy pirates to appear and surround them in that instance.
Mysaria took the crook of Lyra's arm and led her in the right direction of the port's square. The nearby buildings were teeming with patrons and the white washed stones shone iridescent underneath the sun. Lyra looked about, taking in the city's sights and sounds. The lyrical dialect of the Lyseni filled her ears and music sprung forth from around every corner of the city.
Lyra looked to her companion by her side. "How does it feel to return home?"
There was a hard glint in Mysaria's eyes as her gaze swept the square. "Lys is not my home," she replied, lips twisting sourly. "Not anymore."
A flicker of surprise and curiosity crossed Lyra's face. "Do you not have family?" she asked.
"They are dead to me."
Before Lyra could question her further, Ser Edgar finally rejoined them. He had shed his heavy steel armour at Mysaria's behest and donned simple clothes with a leather jerkin that left him looking as vulnerable as he must have felt. Lyra would have given a measure of sympathy to the man if it had not been so amusing. Still, the sword that he kept at his hip was a welcome companion.
As they searched for an available hathay, Lyra felt a prickle on the back of her neck. She threw a wary glance over her shoulder but could not discern anything unusual from the crowd around them. Then there was a tug on her sleeve and Lyra turned her gaze downwards.
