Targaryens are known to have queer costumes, an unusual tradition in which the brother and sister wed each other in order to secure the line of succession as pure as possible. Well, it is not always the Targaryens that have such habits, who says tha...
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~129 A.C~
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
(No silent readers. Thx)
OLDTOWN The morning sun poured gently into the dining hall of the Hightower, casting golden streaks across the long oaken table where the family gathered for breakfast. The aroma of baked bread, honeyed apples, and crisp bacon filled the air. Lyonel and Garmund, clad in fitted green tunics embroidered with the Hightower's sigil, were already halfway through their meal, laughing uproariously at something Lyonel had said — something about a lady with dimples he swore smiled only at him during sept service.
"—She practically threw the lavender at me!" Lyonel bragged, smirking into his goblet of watered wine.
"She was aiming for the altar, fool," Garmund countered, still laughing.
Prince Daeron, seated beside them, remained mostly quiet, chewing thoughtfully on his bread and watching the early light play on his silver ring. His mind was still drifting to the letter, to the image of her face. To Vellena.
Just then, the door opened, and Alayne entered.
She wore a soft yellow gown the color of pale sunshine, cinched delicately at the waist with a sash of ivory silk. The long skirts whispered as she walked, and the sleeves draped elegantly at her wrists. Her fiery red curls had been braided to the crown of her head and pinned with small golden clips, the rest falling in gentle waves down her back. She looked like springtime incarnate, timid yet radiant.
"Good morning," she said sweetly, first kissing her mother Samantha's cheek, then her father Ormund's. She took the empty seat next to her mother, directly across from Daeron, and offered him a polite nod, her cheeks already tinged pink.
Lord Ormund cleared his throat, placing down his cup. "Lord Desmond should be here by midday. I shall hope you two get along. You will take a walk in the gardens, and the next day in the evening we shall dine together."
Alayne, blinking, gave a small nod, cutting a piece of fruit. "Yes, Father."
Daeron paused mid-bite, frowning. "Wait... who is Desmond?"
Lyonel leaned in with a mischievous grin, "Our little sister's betrothed."
Alayne's hand froze on her fork.
Lyonel continued, voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "Betrothed for five moons now. She's never met him."
Alayne let out a sharp scoff and lobbed a piece of her bread square at her brother's chest.
