Lyanna Stark, Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar Targaryen
Rhaegar faceclaim stolen from @jacaeryspilled x
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Lyanna had seen them both at the opening feast—wept, even, to the prince’s sad song—but up close they were almost otherworldly. Ser Arthur’s enameled steel armor was the color of milk, chased with gold, and from his shoulders trailed the snowfield cloak of the Kingsguard. The only spot of color on him was a lavender jade clasp inlaid with a white sword crossing over a falling star. Above his back rose the pale hilt of Dawn. The knight was tall, just as tall as the prince, but he was thicker about the chest and broader at the shoulders. His short-cropped hair was black as a raven’s coat, his strong jaw darkened by the shadow of a new beard. A slight crook to his nose was his sole scar; the quiet mark of a man who had bled and risen still.
The Warrior come to life, her mind whispered. Benjen will be green with envy to learn that I have seen the knight he so worships, and from so near.
At his side, the crown prince was almost Ser Arthur’s inverted twin. Where his knight donned white, the prince wore black. He was in the colors of his royal house: a black velvet doublet with a scarlet half cape draped across one shoulder, clasped with a silver three-headed dragon brooch with little rubies for eyes. The Targaryen dragon also adorned his crown, rearing fiercely along the slender gold circlet above his brow. Beneath it spilled a long wave of silver-pale hair. The face it framed was exceedingly handsome: beautiful, almost, with his straight nose and fine cheekbones that told a tale of golden blood. But it was his eyes that spoke the loudest. They were cousins to Ser Arthur's, a solemn pool of indigo just a shade deeper than his knight's spirited violet. And so... melancholy.
I wonder why he is so sad, thought Lyanna. He is the crown prince, yet he looks as if he has scarcely known a scrap of joy...
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Descriptions from A Crown of False Spring.
there are old valyria velaryons everywhere to those with eyes that are willing to see
Más dibujos sin terminar porque ya no me importa nada
[#plantober2024] Thyme ║ [#goretober] Sharp Objects ║ [#spooktober] Hunt
Apothecaries regularly engage in gardening or trade in order to procure their ingredients. However, when a recipe calls for special consideration, a call to action goes out to hunters to gather along the lit areas of the sunless lands.
On his way back, Jon swung wide of the column's line of march and took a shorter path through the thick of the wood. The sounds of man and horse diminished, swallowed up by the wet green wild, and soon enough he could hear only the steady wash of rain against leaf and tree and rock. It was midafternoon, yet the forest seemed as dark as dusk. Jon wove a path between rocks and puddles, past great oaks, grey-green sentinels, and black-barked ironwoods. In places the branches wove a canopy overhead and he was given a moment's respite from the drumming of the rain against his head. As he rode past a lightning-blasted chestnut tree overgrown with wild white roses, he heard something rustling in the underbrush. "Ghost," he called out. "Ghost, to me."
But it was Dywen who emerged from the greenery, forking a shaggy grey garron with Grenn ahorse beside him. The Old Bear had deployed outriders to either side of the main column, to screen their march and warn of the approach of any enemies, and even there he took no chances, sending the men out in pairs.