he couldn’t remember her face. a puzzle he would never be able to finish, for he didn’t even have the pieces. they were long gone, and none had been spared for the boy left abandoned at The Wall.
would his father have trained him with a sword? taught him the histories? regaled stories of the battlefields of swords and song? or would the silver prince have still abandoned them all in favor of a blue, winter rose, just like the one daemon always saw in his dreams?
the dreams where his mother’s smile was as false as the face he prescribed her?
did his aunt look like his mother? did his uncle look like his father? could he be greedy and have just one glance at who his parents might have been?
he feared he looked nothing like any of them
a thank you for all the stunning work @anonymousgothic has done, I just wanted to attempt to make something so lovely to show my gratitude. Idk how you manage to do these so well and so quickly cause holy fuck was this hard. I hope I’ve done you some justice tho since I can’t update the fic *quite yet*. so here’s some angst for your fav boy, my friend :)