lyssapeake-blog

[lyssapeake-blog]

lcdyblackwood‌:

Clara was never much of a drinker. A glass of wine at dinner is the most she poured down her throat, even when her brothers would edge her on to take more. Ladies should never present themselves as the drunken fools that men are, she would reply haughtily to resounding laughter. Now, she saw the merits in it. The Dornish wine made her mind fuzzy and eased her thoughts in a pleasant way. She set her near empty goblet before her, her fingers idly brushing along the warm metal. 

“I don’t think I could take advantage of anyone.” She said with a small smile to her new friend. “Much less while I am on my fourth cup of wine.” She took another sip, her face scrunching slightly at the sharp taste of it. “I also don’t think I’ve ever drank this much. Is this what men are always going on about? Drinking themselves silly?”

Lyssa giggled again - it amused her hugely to see Clara’s cheeks flush and her eyes go bright, and she felt an odd rush of affection. The Dornish women were many things - some of them were even her friends, after this long - but they weren’t soft and gentle in the way women of the Reach and the Riverlands were. She settled further into her seat, tucking one foot up underneath her and letting her skirts settle, clutching her glass with both hands and smiling into the dark-sea redness.

“Men are different to this when they drink, as I’m sure you know,” Lyssa said wickedly, glancing up through her eyelashes. “If they are stupid when sober, imagine how stupid they are when drunk.” She swirled the last dregs of the wine contemplatively. “I think the problem with men and drinking is that they always have just one glass too many.”

Arnem used to do that, and fall into bed and sleep for hours without moving; but at Starpike, Lyssa had never had more than a cup of wine, it wouldn’t have been appropriate, and so perhaps it was just her intense sobriety in comparison that made him distasteful. When she was tipsy - or, more likely in the desert, incredibly drunk - the men she knew now were more amusing than irritating.

#✤ lyssa. ( thread. ) #✤ lyssa. ( clara. )

[lyssapeake-blog]

❛ don’t blame yourself. ❜

Lyssa swallowed hard before responding. She hadn’t expected such kindness from a Tyrell - and in truth, she did not trust it. She wanted to open up to Margaery, but her instinct was telling her to hold back; the woman had been Queen twice over, after-all, and you didn’t survive the Lannisters by just being sweet. Anyway - and above all else - Lyssa did blame herself for her betrayal. She had got on that horse of her own free will, fair and square. 

“You are very kind, your Grace,” she said quietly. “But I have to take responsibility for my actions.”

#highgardcnrose #✤ lyssa. ( prompts. ) #✤ lyssa. ( margaery. )

[lyssapeake-blog]

#✤ lyssa. ( gallery. ) #q

[lyssapeake-blog]

These hands had to let it go free And this love came back to me

#✤ lyssa. ( isms. )

[lyssapeake-blog]

@lcdyblackwood

“There’s plenty wrong with drinking more than our fair share.” She said, a small laugh leaving her lips as the pleasant feeling of drunkenness washed over her. It had been too long since she had did something like this, sitting around and drinking wine with someone that wouldn’t hurt her -or at least someone she didn’t fear would hurt her-. A small, content hum left her, filling the easy and comfortable silence. “But no,” She concluded, swirling her wine in her goblet before taking another, much needed sip. “There is nothing wrong with having a drink with friends.”

Lyssa couldn’t help but giggle. The warm Dornish wine she was drinking wouldn’t usually have gone so quickly to her head, but casting her mind back, she couldn’t remember drinking more than a glassful at dinner since the sea journey over to Dragonstone. The damned ship had made her so sick she could hardly think of it for weeks; perhaps that explained the heat in her throat and the drowsiness that made her eyes hooded and soft. In the desert she had got used to drinking like a soldier - the Dornish had wine to spare - but she had lost her grip on things now. She smiled at the thought of what the men would say if they saw her now, tipsy on half a bottle. Oh...three quarters of a bottle.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” she said honestly, then laughed at herself and shook her head. “Mostly because otherwise I fear you would take advantage of me in this state - don’t get your hopes up, I know no interesting secrets.”

#✤ lyssa. ( thread. ) #✤ lyssa. ( clara. ) #THERE WE GO I made it pretty

[lyssapeake-blog]

❛ no. i will flee no more. ❜

The words made Lyssa’s heart drop. She was proud - oh, Clara was strong; she had survived more than Lyssa could even imagine - but that only brought into sharp contrast Lyssa’s own failings. She swallowed, aimlessly tracing the silk pattern on her dress. She looked up, eyes damp.

“That’s brave of you. I wish I could say the same - but if he said to run, I think I would still run.”

#lcdyblackwood #✤ lyssa. ( prompts. ) #✤ lyssa. ( clara. )

[lyssapeake-blog]

❛ come on, let me give you a taste of my life. ❜ (from lyarra)

It was no secret that the Reach had very different expectations for their women than those in the North. Oh, Lyssa had been taught to ride, and to write and to think, at least, but there were plenty who had not been so lucky. She had never come near a sword, at least not until she fled to Dorne, but she could dance and play the harp and the lute, and compose passable poetry, and walk with flowing grace, and fake an absolutely beautiful laugh at whatever bad joke a boring man was telling her. The thought of Lyarra submitting to such torment made her grin, a far more wicked one than her mother would have approved of.

She held out a book, a little threatening, and gestured for Lyarra to duck so she could balance it on the top of her dark head.

❛ come on, let me give you a taste of my life. ❜

#lycrra #✤ lyssa. ( prompts. ) #✤ lyssa. ( lyarra. ) #shjdsf I mean Lyarra probably WAS taught to be a lady BUT dramatic license?????

[lyssapeake-blog]

❛ i sense your pain. i see your fear. ❜ (from leonette)

[ @leonctte ] Lyssa swallowed hard. She had not expected such compassion from her cousin - from blood, that she had betrayed, if not directly then certainly in spirit. She had cut herself from all and everything she had loved in the Reach when she had got on her horse at Starpike, and had only dug her grave deeper when she fell into bed with the Darkstar (if one could term it such a thing), so the ground seemed to sway under her feet.

“I -” she stammered. She swallowed and shook her head; Leonette did not need to be burdened with her fears. 

“We are all afraid, are we not?”

#✤ lyssa. ( prompts. ) #✤ lyssa. ( leonette. ) #lycrra

[lyssapeake-blog]

❛ if i’m to die today, i wish to look smashing for the occasion. ❜

❛ if i’m to die today, i wish to look smashing for the occasion. ❜

Lyssa laughed at her own comment, at the inherent shallow nature of all she thought about on Dragonstone; her hair, her dresses - the weather, the cold, how poorly she had been sleeping - the Darkstar, and whether he was with Arianne, and if he would meet her in the library if she talked sweetly enough about the shadows behind the stacks - the roaring of the dragons and the rush of the sea melding into one. There was nothing else to do except think, but in front of the Lady Shireen, the joke seemed to fall flat. Her expression was always so serious, and in front of her Lyssa felt even more frivolous, a gilded golden leaf against the solidity and reliability of hardened oak.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I joke when I get frightened, and I think I’m beginning to get numb to fear, it’s around so often. Please, ignore me.”

#✤ lyssa. ( prompts. ) #✤ lyssa. ( shireen. ) #pls pls turn this into a thread I can't believe we don't have one !! #also I figured this was more something Lyssa would say lmaooo she's....a bimbo sorta #baratheonshireen

[lyssapeake-blog]

(     *     THE WITCHER 3 PROMPTS   !    

trigger warnings for murder / war.

❛  you always were an unruly child. i adored that about you. now fly.  ❜

❛  don’t blame yourself.  ❜

❛  you don’t know how it is. to see someone you love die. because of you, for you.  ❜

❛  who taught you to fight like this?  ❜

❛  hatred and prejudice will never be eradicated.  ❜

❛  to have a scapegoat — that’s the key.  ❜

❛  kings die, realms fall, but magic endures.  ❜

❛  i missed those awkward compliments of yours.  ❜

❛  it’s bound to come in handy. and, each time it does, you will think of me.  ❜

❛  do anything stupid, and i’ll kill you, too.  ❜

❛  kill me if you must. i’ve nothin’ to live for anyway.  ❜

❛  whisper to the wolves. tell them to stay away.  ❜

❛  i was attacked — had to defend myself.  ❜

❛  once i was free… i shall be free once more.  ❜

❛  come on, let me give you a taste of my life.  ❜

❛  well… some causes require a sacrifice.  ❜

❛  done my fair share of fighting. wouldn’t carry a sword if i didn’t know how to use it.  ❜

❛  have you killed humans?  ❜

❛  i want to see how you manage in a fight, if you can fight at all.  ❜

❛  nothing wrong with having a drink in good company.  ❜

❛  i merely know when to indulge my pride, and when i must swallow it.  ❜

❛  we can fight another time, in another place. where the walls have no ears.  ❜

❛  next time you wonder why i’m so bitter… well, there’s your answer.  ❜

❛  suddenly, i’ve an immense desire to drink.  ❜

❛  i trust you have an explanation for this. a very good one.  ❜

❛  i’ve had nothing but nightmares lately, pretty horrible.  ❜

❛  i was afraid you were dead.  ❜

❛  they’ll know where we’ve gone, they’ll know how to find me!  ❜

❛  if i’m to die today, i wish to look smashing for the occasion.  ❜

❛  women only ever beautify themselves for their own satisfaction.  ❜

❛  always believed attack was the best defense.  ❜

❛  don’t treat me like a child.  ❜

❛  i like it when you smile. come here. everything will be all right.  ❜

❛  i won’t let them take you, you know that?  ❜

❛  you gotta keep clear, stay out of trouble.  ❜

❛  i cannot hide forever. i must face them!  ❜

❛  you humans are so… impractical.  ❜

❛  i’ll remember your teachings always. and the sacrifice you made.  ❜

❛  we all knew what we were signing up for.  ❜

❛  no. i will flee no more.  ❜

❛  lying didn’t always come easily to you.  ❜

❛  we’ve done the hardest part. only got the pleasant bits now.  ❜

❛  you worry too much. what will be, will be.  ❜

❛  you were born to greatness.  ❜

❛  appearances can be deceiving.  ❜

❛  you’re so charming when you try to be funny.  ❜

❛  we may not survive this. in fact, our chances are slim.  ❜

❛  we’ve come a long way, and i’ll be damned if we’ve come to fail.  ❜

❛  i admire your optimism. wish i shared it.  ❜

❛  i wish to leave, go far away. and i’d like you to come with me.  ❜

❛  you know me. nothing i like more than breaking rules.  ❜

❛  what can you know about saving the world, silly?  ❜

❛  you know who i am. and why i’m here.  ❜

❛  how many have you already killed? how many more might you still?  ❜

❛  i sense your pain. i see your fear.  ❜

❛  i don’t feel a thing anymore.  ❜

#✤ lyssa. ( prompts. )

[lyssapeake-blog]

dcrkstcr‌:

As soon as he saw her kneel, dress obscuring the ground stones like a shroud, a Volantis carpet, something sacred & something he wished to dig his fingers into, Dayne’s fears smothered out. There are things in this world no night terrors can touch, he thought; surprised by how easy it was to have meant it. Lyssa looked the same as she did in his mind, the way he conjured her up like an apparition whenever they weren’t entwined. Though he was no poet, he knew time, journeys, the tides and cycles of a woman’s brood, must leave their mark on her, intermittently, less or more dents on each occasion. But they never translated to his eyes.

He reckoned, with a swordman’s sharpness, he could appraise her in those tangible terms of bargain and advantage — could say, for instance, she is young enough to be yelped a pup on, still. Not young enough to be out of risk, for that, but has ample hips on her, steady bones. And through them bones? The water of the reach, or the molten weapon shards common to Dornishwomen? But he never could commit to such inspection wholeheartedly. For him, he had been Lyssa even before he knew her name, a wineskin of laughter & amiable wit, within the boundaries of rightness, within the boundaries that help sustain this world, rather than slither through it, gnawing at its innards for a conquest. Lyssa, a wardrobe of dresses too bright, hair-rings and assorted laces, with the touch of a hand that erased Darkstar and remade him anew every time it graced him. A woman he would’ve sold his conscience to have met a lifetime earlier. But he supposed blessings would always arrive a trace too late, wasn’t that it?

His own hands, which a second ago had been wrought together into a steeple, now shifted into warmth. He cupped the side of her face, the elliptical roundness of her cheek. It was heated with warring emotions — fear and fortitude, excitement and pragmatism — while at the same time damp under the chills in the air. « He has proof enough. But it’s not overruling. If he couldn’t convince men who have more to lose from this than us — well, I’ll say it might be some months til we take up weapons against dead things. » The knight’s expression sobered up, as if candlelight had ceased its lure on him, and even as it stopped casting shapes on his features he’d already bent his body towards her. Firmly, stalwart, his hands lowered on the sidelines of her body and drew her up.

« If I trusted your imagination not to run into a gallop, I just might take you on that request. There’s hearsay, bird. Some arrows; some wildling women snarling at me when I asked them about the burning of the departed. Dregs in a river. » Even now, he realized he did not like to see her kneel. There was a time when he might’ve delighted in that — not with her, but with the generic idea of a woman, subdued by his will or his name, malleable at his feet like golden clay. Someone he did not have to woo or pleasure into obedience, but who would submit to him because that was his right. What nonsense it all seemed to him now. But if that is nonsense, what else can be deemed the same? How many of the things I’ve lived for, taken lives for? 

When they’d first met she had been blinded by fear and sand. She and Arnem had ridden for miles, crossing the Dornish border just after sunrise. To go to Dorne was more of a betrayal than going North; Lyssa had been raised to fear the Dornish almost more than fire, or sharpened steel. Everytime they passed what might have been a dwelling, she thought of the tales her old nurse had whispered - poisoned wells and the way the Gardeners had died of thirst and sickness in the great dunes while the Dornish soldiers laughed, eyes glinting cruelly. When they reached the camp, it was only Arnem’s information about the Tyrells’ that saved them. Sometimes Lyssa thought about that evening, her skin sunburned and her eyes dry of tears because she had none left to weep. If the Darkstar had been in Sunspear rather than gathering men; if he had had a little less sleep, or a little more wine, he would have laid her down and kissed the head off her neck with his sword.

As it was, she had learned to survive in the sands, and then, later, in his soldier’s tent. She had worn breeches and tied her long skirts up and kept her hair wrapped in the gauzy scarves the Dornish women liked, and he’d taught her exactly where to press her dagger in a man’s ribcage to kill him in one even stroke, and where to twist it to drag things out. She counted some Dornish women as friends, once they realised she wouldn’t flinch at their threats and taunts; there is no such thing as a whore in Dorne. Being from the Reach was far worse than sharing the Darkstar’s bed.

She missed the sight of the sky, here in Dragonstone; she turned her cheek into his palm with a faint sigh, blood rushing to the contact. She still flushed so easily; under the desert sun she had refused to tan, only burned until she freckled. She had eyed the long brown limbs of the Dornish women with furious jealousy; they could hide their emotions so easily. “Proof,” she murmured, her mouth brushing the bunched muscle at the base of his thumb, archer’s muscle. “I don’t think I want to see this ‘proof’ - I will take your word for it.” She swallowed against the tremble that threatened to overtake her and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, keeping his palm against her cheekbone as she turned her face proper, pressed a kiss to the centre where the deep lines interconnected. She let him tug her upwards and settled easily on his lap, hooking one foot over the arm of the chair, letting the other fall loose; she leant against him then and exhaled, and felt the tension leave her, easy as water running off feathers. With a possessive movement, she tugged his arm and settled it over one of her shoulders, hanging down past her collarbone so she could take his fingers and turn them over, tracing the nails, the knuckles with their rough scars.

She said, stifling a yawn, “I should like to meet the wildlings, though. Is it true that they are half bear?” Tilting her head back to smile at him, she let it fall back against his shoulder and rest there, eyes alternately on the sharp lines of his jaw, his nose, then to the ceiling with its high rafters, then closing, her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. She said, “I shouldn’t like you to fight dead men. Live men I still quarrel about, but I’m used to them. What shall I have to do if there is no blood to wash off you?”

#✤ lyssa. ( thread. ) #✤ lyssa. ( darkstar. ) #this is SO long shfdshjfds but u know me n my weirdness #anyway...T ! H ! E ! Y ! #invented love and murdering for each other

[lyssapeake-blog]

|  TASK  ONE  ||  WORD ASSOCIATION  |

ROUGH voice

HIDE lover

FOOLISH girl

SAD child

HATE family

LIGHT sand

DARK hair

MOTHER apple

FATHER rough

CHILD mine

MARRIAGE death

LOVE safety

SOFT fur

PET bird

DREAM star

DIVORCE endings

WATER river

LOUD voice

ANNOUNCEMENT fear

POWER fire

FIGHT live

SMACK slap

WHITE walker

SICK bed

KISS me

HUB starpike

HURT free

HAPPY laughter

#rev.task #✤ lyssa. ( muse. )

[lyssapeake-blog]

Hair Appreciation Post: Lucrezia Borgia | 2x10 - “The Confession” (The Borgias, 2011)

#✤ lyssa. ( gallery. ) #her HAIR THOUGH

[lyssapeake-blog]

sweetdclights‌:

many had forgotten the roslin frey before the red wedding. the one who nobody had seen, but had heard rumor she was the only daughter of the frey family that was worth any army for. of course, such harsh words for a man who had over twenty children, and that is only including the trueborn ones. yet, she was the most beautiful of them all, the fairest, and the kindest. everyone could hear her music from miles away, and all thought it was the call of the sirens or the forest nymphs no one could deny. one the greatest would receive this treasure of a daughter, and it was to occur. Robb Stark wedding the enigma that was Roslin Frey was the plan. Yet, everything went down hill the moment Robb realized his duty was to the war, to his soldiers, to doing the right thing.

yet, it didn’t matter who the old roslin was. what mattered was who she was today, who she was now. roslin didn’t even know who she was, who she should pledge her loyalty to, if she even wanted to be a part of the political scene anymore. she only knew one thing, and that was that music would forever be in her life to calm her, ease her. now, it would help her with social interactions she couldn’t quite get if she dared even tried. 

so to see this woman before her, one she didn’t recognize and someone who didn’t recognize her, was like a fresh breath of air to the young woman. “why, thank you.” she replied, a smile on her face as she motioned for the woman to come closer. “there is a seat if, if you would like.” she responded, hoping that perhaps she would make a friend in this instance. a friend, how pleasant that sounded. though, how can a friendship begin if one hardly knows the name of the other? such naivety, roslin. 

“As long as you’re sure I’m not disturbing you,” Lyssa said again, feeling some awkwardness. She didn’t want to inflict her presence on anyone, especially not a girl who seemed as sweet and friendly as this one - the last thing she needed was to be accused of corrupting the youth or something else a priest was likely to say. She couldn’t help it, though, the bench was so tempting and the thought of exchanging small-talk with a stranger overwhelmed her with its simplicity. She had been taught from a young age how to do it, and  - unlike many of her peers - found the mindless chatter that populated parlours and privy chambers across Westeros soothing rather than irritating. She found that women especially shared more than they intended in their gossip - after all, the stories that you tell show more about you than the subject. She wondered if Jon Snow knew that.

“Your playing was beautiful,” she said, settling her skirts neatly. It was a pleasantry, but she truly meant it. “It’s so nice to hear something gentle around here - I’m sure the natives of Dragonstone bash flint against walls and call it music.” She laughed a little at her own joke, casting her gaze around the windswept grounds. They were protected under the awning, but the wind was still cold and brisk and Lyssa was glad for her heavy cloak. She was reluctant to introduce herself, afraid that her name had been spread in whispers already; it could hardly be missed by the servants that she and Darkstar spent little time apart, and he was so Dornish in these things, showing absolutely no concern if anyone saw him leaving her rooms in the early mornings. In Dorne to have a mistress was expected - and perhaps it was elsewhere in Westeros, too. The difference was that to be a mistress was part and parcel of life and love in Dorne for women; no one questioned Princess Arianne’s bedfellows, that was for certain sure, but in the Reach...well. Lyssa knew what they thought of her there, bedding a viper. This soft-eyed girl looked to be too kind to drive away immediately. Lyssa tucked an escaping curl of blonde hair under her hood.

“I was going to try and guess where you are from,” she said, with a playful smile - perhaps if they dragged it out into guessing, they could avoid the inevitable for a little longer. “At first I thought the North, but you are far too pretty to be one of those terrifying she-bears.”

#✤ lyssa. ( thread. ) #✤ lyssa. ( roslin. ) #she calls them she-bears but what she means is I WANT TO BE LYARRA #also I'm sorry sometimes she's SUCH a bitchy courtier #she should've been born in the regency era so she could properly ruin people's lives w her gossip

[lyssapeake-blog]

A collection of known Reach houses (requested by tyrion-lanister-the-half-man)

#✤ lyssa. ( muse. ) #absolutely savage completely ignoring rowan AND peake #guess I can't blame them

[lyssapeake-blog]

dcrkstcr‌:

He cast his eyes to the side, somewhere among the smouldering embers which still made this abode bearable. Darkstar’s chest rose and fall in tandem with the sparks. He exhaled, sharply, grated by his own sightlessness, and when he spoke the words too fell in rhythm with the crackling. « Nay; they wouldn’t have called us here simply to weight the cost of fighting. War is never appraised in the marketplace, is it? Or else no people across all course of time would have gone to battle. If something is to stop the fighting…. », the knight’s sentence ran off. He hardly knew which way to lead that phrase, what web to weave with it. For all intents and purposes, he was as benighted as his paramour, as gracelessly hungry for answers. Well, & what of it? They never did yearn for grace, either of them, nor could they keep steadfast to such a thing.

On the edge of the seat, stuck flat to his thigh, his palm opened in a wordless gesture, something inarticulate but easily understood, calling her back to him. He couldn’t bring to mind a time when they not been thus attuned to one another; each small alternation read out, every mannerism, a slight hitching in one’s gulp of air. When he had time to give it due thought, it unsettled him. Perhaps it was some grand blessing neither he nor Lyssa ever squandered their hours together ( or ever would be granted the luxury of more ).

Cloyingly, as if thoughts were resin, treacle, heavy and indistinguishable, his head rounded back to her. Dayne brought his other wrist at level with this temples in order to lean upon it. « It might be nothing to it, sunlight. The bastard says he’s seen the undead rising. Now, tell me, is that something to guide an army by? Does that sound like any more of a possibility than a ploy, a lad green behind the ears pawing at power? »

She regretted her impulsive move immediately. Without physical contact she felt adrift; but then again, his comment had set her adrift anyway, and she felt as though the flagstones beneath them were rocking like a ship’s deck, just as frightening, just as unstable. Her anger at him had fled as quickly as it had come, and left behind nothing but a sharp void of fear, cold deep in her chest, that she swallowed hard against and attempted to hide. He had enough to think of, to plan for, to worry about without needing to comfort her; she would not be some weedling thing adding extra burdens to his shoulders, that was not their way.

Perhaps he was right - that no man would go to battle if they were to talk first - but Lyssa had always thought that war was like a marketplace, if only on the day when the cattle were brought in for the selling. The cries of terror from the beasts and the mournful lowing of the mothers seeking their calves; that was wartime, for certain sure. Still, she licked her dry lips and took a quick shuddering breath and said, “men should talk, then, if that’s the case. If men crowded ‘round central fountains like women did to hash out their problems over the morning’s laundry, there would be no fighting, and then...”

Well, and then there would be so many still living. Her husband, for one, and she would be safely ensconced at Starpike, perhaps with a baby at her breast and another circling her feet, not with the sharp violet eyes of the Daynes but the casual homeliness of the Peakes, and what would she feel then? Would she know what she had lost, simply by not looking? It was a pointless thought to unravel, but still she picked at it, as she often did, a wound she kept reopening. Would she have been content to love Arnem for the rest of her life, never really laughing, never feeling that lurch of desire that anger brought? Could she sacrifice thousands, hundreds of thousands of lives, even in her imagination, just to bring herself here, to him by the fireside? It was not something she knew the answer to, and just the fact that she did not recoil from such a sacrifice of unknown scores made her damned, she was certain.

She went to him, then, drawn by his aborted gesture and by the fear that refused to be banished; she knelt by his chair, and the flagstones were cold against her knees, and she took his hand and untwisted the concerned fingers and pressed them to her forehead, her mouth. “If the undead rise, then they rise,” she pointed out practically, her night-robe pooling on the floor around her. “Surely he must have brought proof, or he would not have so disturbed you. You aren’t someone to be unsettled by some lad’s fairy-stories, no matter how much of a Stark he is. What was the proof? Tell me quickly, though,” she added, with a faint smile, “so that I can have all the details and not fill in the gaps with imagination. I promise you, what I am thinking of is worse than the reality, whatever it is.”

#✤ lyssa. ( thread. ) #✤ lyssa. ( darkstar. ) #THEY!!!!!!

[lyssapeake-blog]

lycrra‌:

her horse was seemingly as mistrustful as it’s owner of strangers. lyarra tuts at the beast as it backs away from her hands, causing the buckle to her saddle to once more slip through her fingers. night terrors had once again caused sleep to evade her and left the noblewoman predictably weary, stealing away whatever ounce of patience she might usually possess. with a huff, the woman firmly grasps the bridle and fixes the buckle into place. the satisfactory smile that steals over her is brief as she remembers the new visitor. “i spied a pair over by the black stallion at the end. placed on the gate hinge. perhaps these were the ones you sought.” a pointed nod is sent in the direction of the evasive gloves, barely giving the woman a second look until her attention is called again.

skirts swirl about her feet as she sidesteps her horse gracefully to address the woman better. insightful gaze finally takes her in, and notes the gentle flush to her skin and soft eyes surrounded by a halo of golden hair. unless her mother happened to have strong genes, the woman was most definitely of the south. perhaps it was her lack of sleep, but they always tended to exhaust her. “haven’t you heard? i possess the one steed in all of westeros capable of swimming across the narrow sea.” her slow drawl implies anything but honesty. “twas a jest, my lady. the stars are bright and sleep is impossible to find. i intended to go for a ride.”

“Oh, thank you.”

She meant it, though the effusion and relief that coated her tone would perhaps seem odd to a stranger; she had carried those gloves from the gardens of Starpike to the sand dunes of Dorne, and then further on the horrendous sea journey to this rocky outcrop. She could not recall who had gifted them to her, but they were one of the only remnants of her old life that she had retained. Picking her way cautiously through the shadowed aisle towards the furthest stall, she gathered the soft kidskin gloves into her hands with a sigh of reunion. She eyed the Darkstar’s black stallion with mistrust, and he eyed her right back and snorted derisively. “I have had these for years,” she said, feeling the urge to explain, so she would not be seen as silly and shallow (though perhaps she was). “They even outlived a husband; what other gloves can claim such fame?”

The joke was a little dark, and she regretted it instantly, turning, flushing, back to the other woman, but it seemed she was not the only one to joke about such things and her shoulders relaxed, just a little. Northern women intimidated her about as much as horses did, but they also made her just as uncomfortable. “Of course,” she said, with a light laugh. “Of course you were joking - I apologise, it’s late and I do not sleep well here. The weather, and the -”

Well, and the obvious: the politics. The way that Darkstar would not stop pacing in the early hours when the fire was burning down. The cold of her chamber when he was not there, and the salt that encrusted her hair and made it curl in tangled ringlets, impossible to style to her satisfaction. She searched for some kind of summary and came up short, so simply made a helpless gesture, as if to encompass Dragonstone. “I am used to Dorne,” she finished, simply.

#✤ lyssa. ( thread. ) #✤ lyssa. ( lyarra. ) #I love these two morbid weirdos