She is Daemon's daughter but she wants nothing from him, rides a dragon and doesn't shy away from a fight. She also hides a dangerous secret and has her own reasons for coming to King's Landing.
Aemond wonders if he can tame her.
✧...
warnings: attempted assault (mentions of blood, yet again), profanity.
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The idea she has is irrational but Lia can't get it out of her head — she keeps coming back to the evening in the tavern, and every time she feels worry that only grows stronger. She gives in to it on the way from the Dragonpit and makes a harsh turn, ever-so determined. Lia takes the route she remembers vividly, looking over her shoulder for any unwelcome faces; she sees none. The sought building is rather shabby and reeks of wine from afar. She walks in to find it completely empty at this time of day, and the woman she saw before is leisurely wiping the tables, her face brooding, gaze bearing a tinge of melancholy. She is also seemingly unharmed, and it puts Lia's mind at ease.
The woman notices her while moving to the next table — and almost drops the cloth, her big brown eyes rounding in surprise as she gasps.
"My fearless lass!" she cheers, throwing up her hands. "You alright?" she hurries closer, her duties forgotten. "How's your shoulder? Are you in pain? Those dimwits!" she's concerned and annoyed and joyful at once. She examines her arm — it's naive to think she can see the damage that the clothes cover, but her every touch is filled with care, genuine and gentle, and it feels so foreign to Lia, it's almost arduous to tolerate. The woman senses it, toning down her ardor.
"You fancy a cup of wine? We've got hold of the Dornish red, and it's so spicy, you have to try it!"
"I have no taste for wine, I'm afraid," Lia doesn't know how to accept hospitality she won't have to pay for but the woman only gives it freely.
"Maybe good ol' black beer? Got it stashed in the backyard," she blithely chatters, and the joyfulness rejuvenates her, and it's hard not to succumb to her kindness.
"I think it's too early for drinks of that kind."
"Pomegranate juice will do, then," the woman doesn't wait for her answer, fussing around to get a cup, to give it a good wipe, to pull out a flagon filled to the neck.
"Go on, take a pew," she scooches two chairs over the nearest table. "I prefer the juice too, doesn't leave my head all wanky," she cackles and empties her cup in a blink, and it feels like the liquid goes straight into her cheeks, leaving them pink-tinted.
She chatters some more — about wine, weather, presumptuous lords, and she generously tops Lia's cup, and her enthusiasm is quite irrepressible. The place she works at seems hardly suitable for her, too rustic and dull, but she's the type of person to try and make the best of things.
"Oh, the ale!" she exclaims midsentence. "Should've offered you sooner, my manners need some improvement," — they don't, Lia thinks — "You must try it, at least a sip! We have a whole cask, let me fetch you some," she grins and then quickens her step to go to the back room.
Lia hears the squeaking of what she assumes is the cellar door, and then the silence falls across the room. It's hard to deny the peacefulness it brings — there is no bustling, no pretending, no one wants anything from her nor is she in pursuit of anyone. It's a rare feeling, deemed unaffordable and hence long forgotten. She lets herself enjoy it for just a minute.
