☃ My muse gives yours their (jacket) CLOAK in the cold.
caerella had never considered the thought that dorne could be cold. it was not the north but still, the chill that rolled off the sea was enough to send shivers down her spine. it is then that she is engulfed in sudden warmth, a cloak draped upon her shoulders. startled by the sensation, caerella turns quickly and is met with eyes similar to her own but with skin more sunkissed and hair like raven feathers. she must be a bastard, no true descendant of valyria had such features. caerella knew of no targaryen bastards and didn’t see her father as the type but then again, most noblemen weren’t so noble. she had heard whispers of a mass slaughter of velaryon bastards, though they had never been confirmed. still, was this an unlikely escapee?
“thank you…” caerella cautiously replies. did the young woman have ulterior motives in her approach? most did and caerella was often especially ( albeit unfairly ) suspicious of bastards. who wouldn’t want to rise above such circumstances? still, her curiosity is peaked. head tilted ever so slightly she continues, “i don’t believe we’ve ever met.. what is your name? what is it that brings you to dorne?” her gaze is intense as she awaits an answer.
















