heretherebemuses | Open post

[Audio message meant only for Sansa Stark; misfire]

Why does everyone keep asking if they can touch my hair?

A storm had raged above Dragonstone the night before, one like the storm that gave Daenerys her name, and in the morning the men had found Rhaenys washed ashore, along with the wreckage of a small rowboat. She was dressed plainly, with no signs of her station or House; the only hint to her identity, apart from her predominantly Dornish features, was a dagger tucked into her belt, though who was to say she hadn't stolen it?

No one dared to approach her at first, fearing that she was some sort of bad omen. It wasn't the first time for strange things to happen on the isle of dragons, after all.

Then she regained consciousness, coughing out water and curling up into a ball on her side.

The spotlight was not something Rhaegar Targaryen really wanted, but he loved music and couldn't part from it no matter how hard he tried. He'd had quite the career, though unfortunately tainted by his failed marriage to Elia Martell; still, the man had talent, and he continued to make music and hold performances even after his contemporaries had faded into obscurity. The media, of course, had chalked it up to his father, who might not have approved of his career and life choices but had refused to let him sink and tarnish their family name all the same.

He'd been invited to play in an event up north by his best friend, army captain Arthur Dayne, and he's finishing up his second set of the evening, playing a song he'd sung more than a hundred times over. A song about winter and roses, one of his all-time hits, written a long time ago for a young lady he'd met and had a bittersweet summer fling with.

Then he salutes and slips off the stage to grab a drink from the bar.

Lyanna has noticeably vanished from the feast, clearly upset over something more than just Robert Baratheon. She'd looked just a breath away from fighting Ned, in front of the royal delegation and everyone else gathered in Winterfell's great hall, though only her own son would've noticed that.

Jon will find her in the crypts, in front of her brother Brandon's statue.

"The South is no place for a Stark," she says when her son comes, her voice lined with steel yet also close to breaking. "Robert has asked Ned to be his Hand, and..." She shakes her head repeatedly, as if that would change her other brother's mind.

Selene gazes down at King's Landing from her perch on one of the Red Keep's towers, sitting dangerously on the ledge of one of the windows. She's snuck past her guards and has taken up watch in the dead of the night, hoping that her excursion would give her some peace and summon sleep. It's not her marriage that worries her. She'd been concerned for a time, yes, wondering if she should've just chosen the barbarian, but that had been before she'd met Jon. But it's the ghosts of her past that won't keep still, and some nights, in the emptiness of her room, she almost hears her dead brothers calling out to her.

I won't rest until you are avenged, her own voice echoes in her mind, reminding her of a promise she'd made on her mother's deathbed. But she's much too far away to enact any plans of revenge, and her betrothed has practically offered her a new beginning. And wasn't this everything she ever wanted, anyway? A crown she's always been meant to have, and someone she could love in the way her mother had loved her father?

It had been easy to keep the missives from Westeros under wraps. But the sight of a foreign ship approaching the docks one morning, well... the Crown had no other choice but to pretend to be surprised, and send a military detachment to greet their guests.

With her father needed in the palace for an emergency council meeting, Nausicaa had been given the assignment. While she wasn't a high-ranking officer by any means, she was the General's daughter, and the King's betrothed, which was high enough for a diplomatic encounter. That and she had her own dragon, a magnificent creature named Inanna. Even in the early morning light, her scales sparkled like rubies.

Partly out of curiosity, and partly for effect, she and Inanna circle the Westerosi vessel before flying back to shore. A few guards flank them while they wait, but Galenaea has deemed a single dragon and her rider more than enough for a welcome party.

"Your Grace." His name is Jon Snow, she'd been told. The King in the North. And he's come for their mines. "Welcome to Galena." She doesn't disembark, not just yet, but she smiles pleasantly enough.

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if you would pardon my icons—

now i'm just piling on you

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