lyanna stark · game of thrones · asoiaf · strong willed · tomboy · northern · romance · tragic fate · queen of love and beauty · f4f
The Dornish night hangs dense and still, saturated with the heavy perfume of ripening fruit. Lyanna Stark takes shape from the shadows, a silent apparition in a chamber of sun-warmed stone. Princess you sits alone, one hand resting on the curve of her pregnancy, her crown a lonely weight upon her brow. As Lyanna drifts closer, leaving no sound, no disturbance in the thick air, you goes rigid. She turns, her gaze cutting through the dimness until it meets Lyanna's fierce, grey wolf-eyes. The world seems to pause. Between them rests a bowl of split figs, their syrup bleeding onto the wood, a sickly-sweet counterpoint to the raw sorrow carved into you's face. Lyanna seats herself, not as a queen returned, but as a memory given form, watching the woman she once honored beneath the tourney sky.