⸻ ( 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 )
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TWO YEARS LATER 113 AC
LYRA awoke to the warm caress of dawn as it bathed her skin in its golden, aureate glow. Her emerald eyes opened to the dark maroon drapes of the canopied bed as another dream lingered upon the hazy forefront of her mind. Forgotten whispers from faceless gods echoed in the silence. Since setting foot on Lys, she had been having many a strange dream of late. Each one as enigmatic as the last. She had dreamt that she was free, bounding across the snowfields of the north, the proud stone halls of her ancestral home towering in the near distance.
Then she had dreamt of the warm, sun-filled halls of the Red Keep. Midnight hair and violet eyes, honeyed laughter upon the breeze. Stranger yet were dreams of flying above Blackwater Bay, the scent of brimstone permeating through the air. Then she was soaring along the shores of the Disputed Lands with thunderheads above churning the dark waters. A pillar of ash and smoke could be seen upon the broken isles of the Stepstones and a low, piercing shriek filled her ears as flames rained down upon the shorelines.
Lyra remembered the tales that her Old Nan used to tell her. Stories that served to scare children into obedience but mesmerised all the same. In the North, they still lived and breathed the histories of the past. Of greenseers and skinchangers, wildlings and wights. Ill omens, she thought uneasily. The silken sheets slipped away from her body as she stood from the bed. Smoke rose from the incense burner and swirled in the air as Lyra combed through the knots in her sable hair. A knock resounded across the room before the ornate wooden door opened hesitantly.
A small, mousy-haired girl entered the room with a wooden box in her hands. Lyra watched from the reflection as she bowed low in greeting. Upon her cheek was a tattoo emblazoned with a red, fiery hand. "V-Voktysy Lyenne," ( "P-Priestess Lyenne," ) the girl called meekly in the silver melodious tongue of the Lyseni. "Īlony jiōragona bisi irudy isse aōha brōziye bisa ñāqatubisa." ( "We received this gift in your name this morning." )
Lyra placed the comb down on the tabletop and turned to look at the slave girl with pale astute eyes. "Qilōn ikso ziry hena?"( "Who is it from?" ) she questioned fluently as she took the gift from her small hands. A quiet resentment stirred in her heart to see the remnants of discoloured welts and bruises decorating the girl's bony wrists. She must have been one of the new girls that had came in a week ago.
