౨ৎ ˖° 𝐃𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐍 was unnaturally charming but not overwhelmingly so. Yet however charming the girl may be she was twice as odd. Whatever the nature of her strangeness, it seemed to haunt her with a lingering presence.
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WHAT A WASTE OF A GIRL, Dyane decided. Princesses were supposed to be closer to angelic deities than to men. They had curly, golden locks that flowed effortlessly from their tender faces. Their cheeks were full and rosy and oblivious to the horrors of man. They looked like their mothers and mastered the womanly arts with ease and grace.
Dyane looked leftward to her younger sister, Myrcella. Then forth once more, now with a sore look.
As she stood before the looking glass in only her cotton chemise it was more obvious than ever that, without her usual jewels and expensive satin decorating her rather severe form, she knew she was entirely plain looking. Despite what smallfolk sang in whimsical songs dedicated to her and the poetry embroidered beautifully onto handkerchiefs gifted to her. She brushed those long, silky strands of ink away from her sullen eyes in an attempt to search for what it is that inspired those who renounced her beauty, with no avail.
It certainly was of no aid when her mother poked and prodded her features. Her taut waist with the muscles that peeked through her underclothes. The arms that her mother deemed mannish from years of playing with a sword. Her father's nose that dared to take residence on her delicate face. It seemed her mother had a problem with entirely everything that belonged to her. Eventually so did she.
Dyane looked of all the tapestries her father had burned in his early siege. The littlest bit of violet in those grey eyes, her androgynous qualities, and of course that aquiline nose they shared. Some days King Robert could barely look at her, as if he were being haunted by Targaryens, endlessly reminded of the blood he had and shed.
"Tylla, bring forth a gown with loose sleeves." Cersei ordered the handmaiden at her right side, "However will we cover these..." the blonde queen mused as she held up her eldest daughter's rather heavy arms, yet her touch was not a mean one.
And as Queen Cersei tended to another matter, Dyane could hear the small snickers of her little sister beside her. Without even sparing her a glance she pushed her little self over.
"Laugh once your curves come in." Dyane advised Myrcella with the threatening wisdom of a mystic, "You are the image of the sword I swing."
Myrcella recovered gracefully, much to Dyane's chagrin, and sneered, "Mother says you have father's arms and will never wed!" The small blonde stuck her tongue out before running away from her sisters fury. Though Dyane was not as angered as little Myrcella had hoped. For the eldest Baratheon child detested the idea of marriage entirely and any comparison to her father was a virtue.
