KINSLAYER | aemond targaryen x oc
𝙆𝙄𝙉𝙎𝙇𝘼𝙔𝙀𝙍 :
[Noun.] kinslayer (plural kinslayers) (rare, mostly in fantasy fiction) One who slays his or her own kin; a parricide
THE STORY WHERE A TARGARYEN PRINCE FALLS IN LOVE WITH A STARK GIRL, HIS SWOR...
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CHAPTER FIVE
A FEW DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE THEIR meeting in the training yard, and they had not spoken a word to each other.
Aemond had thrown himself into his books, and his training, trying his hardest to ignore the thoughts of the auburn haired girl which tried to taint his mind.
Lyarra had been preoccupied with the queen, who had taken quite fond of her since the feast that first night. Alicent had sent various dresses to her chambers, each of them a different shade of green.
Her father had thought the Queen's affections to be a good thing, so he encouraged his daughter to go along with it. He was still yet to inform her of what they had spoken of during his meeting with the Queen and the Hand.
Her afternoons were filled by walks throughout the palace gardens, and tea with some of the other highborn ladies.
The quiet gossip they shared amongst themselves didn't interest her much, but she knew she had to maintain appearances, so she laughed along with them, smiling as they seeped their venom into the ears of one another.
The only one of the highborn ladies Lyarra actually liked was the princess Helaena, a gentle girl who took more of an interest in her bugs and creatures than she did in foolish gossips.
Lyarra felt a peace when she was around the princess, her quiet murmuring to herself didn't affect Lyarra like it did the other ladies. Many of them thought Helaena mad, as she would mutter what seemed to he nonsense beneath her breath from time to time.
The two girls were sitting below the weirwood tree in the God's Wood when Cregan found them, his dark hair blowing gently in the soft breeze.
Lyarra looked to her father, a small smile slipped onto her lips. The capital had been kind to him, his heavy cloak had long been discarded, leaving him in his armoured tunic and leather breeches, his undershirt sleeves were rolled up, which showed of various scars he had gathered during different battles he'd fought.
Though he had removed his cloak, her father still looked out of place, in his dark clothing, which was more suited for the cold of Winterfell, than for the heat of King's Landing.
The man approached them, Lyarra had returned to helping the princess with her needlework, a thread weaven spider was beginning to take form on her piece of cloth.
"Lyarra, Might I speak with you?" Her father asked as he loomed over them. The girl looked to him, nodding, "Of course, father."
She turned to her companion, smiling softly as she saw Helaena studying her embroidery, "I won't be a moment, princess."
The silver haired girl looked to her friend, and smiled, her violet eyes shining in the sunlight. The girl quietly resumed her needlework, as Lyarra stood, following closely after her father.