Chapter Text
i (I loved you before I was born. It doesn't make sense, I know.)
There is no iciness of the air, no fresh grass moving under her feet. There is nothing that reminds her of her home, of its cold yet warm landscapes and snowflakes drifting in the winter’s daze on the broad daylight. If the North was a desolate kingdom, full of magnificent coldness which she gladly accepted as part of her bloodstream, the South was a blazing inferno of dust and hot stickiness clinging to her body.
The heat barely manageable creeps upon her from every side as she ventures towards the looming steps of the Red Keep. The yellow stone in which it is built, shines like a wheat on a spring field in the unforgiving sun, blinding her eyes while she squints to admire the architectonic monster before her - it's truly dreadful, too big and too lavish.
Nothing like the wooden keeps of her family land.
‘One would think they shit in gold,’ one of banner men behind her snorts, gaining a hearty laughter coming from different sides of the entourage. A quick glance behind her shoulder and the joy evaporates from their tired faces. It must be done, she muses as she averts her eyes and clenches the hem of her long sleeves. If a disrespect were to be found within their group - she fears that her presence would be a rather sour reminder, and she wouldn’t have that.
Her uncle, rarely emotional and large in his grand persona, was reluctant to let her go, to let her enter the dragon’s den while being a lone wolf. A one that instead of fangs had moth’s fragile wings that could be snapped in a twitch of a wrist, if anyone dared. Indeed, what was better than to pretend to be a thing her family banner stands for, rather than cover behind her own foolish fear and never lasting dreams. She often thinks that if she hadn’t possessed any of her uncle’s strength nor her brother’s sharp as knife wit, she must have gathered characteristics of her mother.
Thinking about her made Lyrra hurt - her heart would squeeze in the small cage of her bones, and something would break inside her with a thundering sound of cries and pleas. No one spoke about her mother, not even a gust of wind - she was laid in the stone, forever uncaring in her perpetual state of nothingness. So, Lyrra carried on, her whole life tainted by the death she has caused, like a stigma planted on her before she could even breathe.
‘Lady Stark, I presume?’ A grating voice slashes the space which has consumed her inner thoughts. A large, handsome man in a glittering armor stands before her, his sword trapped under his gloved hand. His brown, intelligent eyes stop at her clan folks and if she had to guess - he had probably already counted how many of them hover behind her back.
She catches her dress and curtsy with a slight smile on her lips. ‘The road was a long one, but I’m here on the Queen’s command,’ Lyrra’s posture flatters when he steps down and makes her a way towards the brownish door.
His baritone breaks another silence that occurs in the courtyard. ‘I shall lead the way. The Queen is waiting,’ before she can muster an acknowledgment his cloak swirls on the floor, long strands of his hair falling from its place. She casts an assessing look to her guards and follows through the stone hall of misery she knows lays somewhere deep inside it.
ii (I saw your eyes before I had eyes to see)
After a quick talk with the Queen Alicent her duties are laid before her, a greatly important ones, the Queen says with a playful smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
She’s beautiful, the woman in front of her. But beneath that loveliness Lyrra sees something broken, scarred - a flicker of hidden emotions arrive at the mask of royalty only to disparate when another information sweeps past through her redden lips.
She listens and nods - not so much talking on her part, and what is to believe a necessary trait for a princess's lady in waiting. Her fingers tremble under the grayish sleeve when the Queen’s stare turns into a calculating one. Assessing her person must have been the first thing she had wanted - the most sought one, of course, her being a pivotal wager that holds her kin’s interest in that side of the coin. The faces of war she has witnessed were only feather like memories of flour and mud slapped against her cheeks while running through kitchens of Winterfell along with her brother. Never has she thought that she will be standing here, in the Red Keep, as a token of war - not the most important one, but one nevertheless.
‘My daughter is quite peculiar,’ Alicent’s face twists, and she can spot a motherly concern shining underneath the Queen’s armor. ‘But as meek as she is, she is my blood and I wish her to be well taken care of,’ her palm rests under her chin when the green dress explodes in its color as the rays of sun slip through the window. ‘I trust you with my most treasured child,’ there is a vulnerability in her voice, a tether of love so pure and strong that Lyrra almost tastes its power on her tongue.
She nods, silently and obediently. ‘I shall keep princess’s happiness and content at the most regard,’ the room basks in the sunlight, but the heat is slowly driving her mad. The beads of sweat travel down her spine, woolen clothes drinking its liquid like a sponge.
Alicent’s gaze returns to her eyes as if she was looking for some treacherous attempt at flattery, probing and testing her with prolonged silence.
‘I trust you will accommodate rather quickly. You look like a smart girl,’ a knowing spark passes between them, and Lyrra nods.
The pawn has been placed on the chessboard.
iii (And I've lived longing for your ever look ever since)
Lyrra doesn’t count days. Each one, warm and tedious, wanes in contrast to the nights during which she stares at the unmoving landscape of her gilded prison. For what the fancy dresses and beautiful chambers are - but nothing like a prison that holds her with the contempt of changing the tides of power. She supposes that maybe her aloof demeanor is what the Queen was after, maybe her silence accompanied princess Helaena well.
As for the princess, Lyrra is content - her silver haired companion is nothing but a lovely lady. She’s as sweet as lemon cakes and winter sugar drops. Her words tumble out of her in incoherent sentences, but the sheer joy Lyrra feels whenever the older girl smiles at her makes up for all the longing she harbors inside of her heart. If anyone saw them, they would have thought that both her and princess were inseparable friends since their childhood - that’s how close they became during her time here.
They usually spend days on walking through the gardens, sitting under the trees and watching insects crawling down the bark - the princess presenting her facts about these little friends with a blushing face and wild grin on her pale face. She likes those moments, when the worry vanishes from her body and mind. When she can pretend that she’s back in the North under the red leaves of her home.
The court is oddly silent, but to her dismay, it won’t be long before it erupts in a political blizzard.
iv (that longing entered time as this body)
The first time she sees Helaena’s husband is also the first time she is met with the second prince.
They are oddities, she thinks as she looks between the brothers - one sharp as an arrow, the other one almost lifeless in his boredom. While trying to pinpoint the differences, her mind stops as an inward and pompous idea clouds her judgment. As far as her knowledge of beauty goes, the second prince reminds her of the icy wilderness of the northern lands - his hair white as the snowflakes dancing on the cold air, his one eye lavender like the sunsets under Weirwood tree. Standing in the shadows of the princess’s chamber, she listens to his voice, a softness of snow under her feet resonating in the bones of her small body. An oddity, for sure - that a prince of flames could look like the ice cravings of the old northern tales.
‘Does the North see summer?’ The question startles her, and with a dip she moves towards the table and sets the tea before the Targaryen siblings. The crown prince stares at her with disinterest, but an uneasy feeling circles under her ribs when he awaits for her answer.
‘Not the warmest one, I say, my prince,’ her fingers shake when she pours the tea into his white cup. ‘It’s mostly cold,’ she adds, moving to the second prince’s side. He smells of leather and sandalwood, his eye watching her even though she is far beyond his peripheral vision. Averting her own eyes, she spots scars traveling across his hands, deeper ones disappearing between his knuckles.
A short snort stops her movements. ‘They say winter cunts are as cold as the landscape. It seems ‘twas truth,’ her spine prickles with a heat of embarrassment. She quickly puts a luxurious piece of tart on the princess’s plate and goes back to the shadows of her solitude. She could stand and engage in the conversation with them, her status allowed her so, but the terror she feels next to Aegon makes up her mind.
There is something twisted in his eyes when he probes the surrounding her darkness. A wicked sort of cruelty shines in the violet of his irises as he sips the tea she poured.
The other eye that watches her - burns.
v (the longing will outlive this body)
‘Do you wish to see your brother train?’ Lyrra’s hands are full of Helaena’s silver hair, an attempt at a braid on the top of her small head. She squirms a little, holding a centipede on her tiny finger with a soft smile ghosting on her full lips.
‘Yes,’ she wiggles her palm and the insect crawls onto the wooden surface of the vanity. ‘I long to be in the open space,’ the princess pats Lyrra’s wrist with an encouragement.
Sometimes Helaena surprises her. Not only with riddles she waves into simple conversations, but also with her unyielding love and support for her scarred brother. If she talks about her childhood, it’s only prince Aemond present in all these stories, and if anything the way she presents those tales make him sound like a knight of dreams every young woman held onto in some time of her naive period of romantic influence.
‘Then we should scurry before the training ends,’ the younger girl whispers with a sly smirk.
A shrill laughter erupts from Helaena’s mouth before she runs towards the training grounds, Lyrra a few steps behind her. Her loose hair trailing behind her, golden-brown tresses shining in the sunlight like a banner of her heart.
In these moments, she forgets about the place she’s in, she forgets the scorching heat bearing down upon her and all the sounds of raging dragons flying above her head. She forgets about the burden of her presence at the court and wishes these fleeting seconds of freedom and happiness would last longer than drawing one’s breath.
She stumbles behind Heleana, her arms going up to her shoulders to steady herself - the older woman giggles at the disarray of not lady like behavior. Both of them seem to need a breather after their spontaneous run, a joy written on their flushed faces.
‘I’m afraid your hairdo is lost and gone somewhere in the corridors,’ Lyrra smiles, watching princess shake her head to tumble her hair forward. ‘You don’t like it plaited, do you?’ She asks, knowing the answer.
‘It’s dreadful,’ the lavender hue of her eyes sparkle in the day’s warmth. A small crease arrives at her beautiful face, leaning forward on the stone balustrade the princess quickly grips Lyrra’s hand. Their feet tap the stairs so fast that their skirts barely leave any traces of their mischief.
There is a small circle surrounding two men fighting, a lot of screeching and yelling coming from the crowd, but what catches Lyrra’s attention is the silver of hair flying inside that brawl.
‘Aemond is a great swordsman,’ his sister provides, elbowing through the young boys. ‘We should watch,’ her voice is soft but Lyrra hears it anyway. When they finally stop in the closer ring of the watchers, her view expands and to her utter astonishment, the second prince is stripped of his shirt. His pale body moves like a wild serpent, gleaming in sweat that drops from his tall frame - the beads looking like diamonds under the blazing sun. He is swift with his sword, as if he was a part of it somehow. A unity of agility and precision, sharp as the needle.
The beauty of the duel stuns her, the sounds escaping him echo through her with an unknown to her feeling - a warmth, spreading under her skin, one not related to the heat of the King's Landing. Her throat quivers, a soft sound escaping her mouth when the prince disarms his opponent, the tip of his weapon aimed at the vein on the fellow’s neck.
‘By now you would have been dead,’ his silky voice is deadly, an underlying iron edging on the border of insanity sweeps through his lips. ‘One strike,’ he adds with a theatrical shove.
When the people start to clap, Lyrra finds her unable to tear her gaze away from the expanse of his almost white skin. His muscles working and twisting, tendons stretching without difficulty. It’s as fascinating as it is dangerous. He is, she muses.
‘And why would two ladies find themselves here?’ She’s sure that he hadn’t looked in their direction at all. He couldn’t have done that with just one eye, at least. It’s primal, some sort of emotion that tears at her chest when she slowly exhales.
‘The one who maims the wolf, loses his hand,’ Helaena’s cryptic sentence brings Lyrra back to the training yard, and with a whirlwind of feelings she slowly touches her princess. ‘A debt almost paid,’ her lips are barely moving, eyes wide open staring at the blue sky unblinkingly. ‘The beast will make the fire rain upon us,’ then she slumps against her, silver locks twisted from the heat and exhaustion.
‘We shall return to the chambers, my princess,’ cooing to her, Lyrra catches Aemond’s stare.
She doesn’t know if the sun burns her more or if it’s his eye.