she is of the north, made of ice and steel, everything that daenerys stormborn is not, though there is a bitter irony to that very notion. worlds apart, midnight locks contrasts with strands of silver. and yet, there is a semblance of home, some slither of familiarity. of all the stories that viserys had told her, the princess of dragonstone could scarcely tell the difference between true and false. viserys had been but a child himself. older than daenerys, though living off of dreams and fantasies. her brother had needed something to believe in, for he could not believe in himself.
lilacs falter for a short moment, raining upon the wolves cloak that sits atop of winters shoulders, though soon, they find lyanna's eyes once more. and in that moment, daenerys realises, this might be the closest that she has ever come to the truth. a different account to what barristan selmy can tell her, a side to the story that her eyes had not yet been opened to. ❝ forgive me, lady lyanna. was he kind to you, my brother rhaegar? ❞
@willfulbeauty.