━ in which; the game of thrones was a harsh game with unyielding rules and far too many scheming players. though it might just seem that ned stark might just of been hiding one of the most valuable pieces, lyarra snow. though remains yet to be s...
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Hot air and the smell of blood, a biting iron and rotting, half-roasted rose petals. Sounds she could not quite recognise passed by her ears, a mumbling and a clashing and cacophony occuring in a place she could neither see nor hear. A sharp, incessant sound, high, like a wail in the back of her mind, buzzing, aching, pounding. Who was crying? Was it her?
Lyarra Snow awoke with a gasp; sharp as her little body shot up from her bed. Her chest heaved and she tugged the blanket up, over her shoulders. That noise, wailing, crying, screaming was her. It had been her. The cry of a babe screeching for her mother. It was a dream she had often, despite being only three namedays old. Her whet-nurse had explained away as a memory, rather than the nightmare she had thought it had been. A memory. Her first one.
Lyarra Snow's earliest memory was that of a pair of tired grey eyes, framed by long, thick eyelashes. The grey was unlike that of her father's stone and stormy sky, lighter, rather like the reflection of an overcast day on the surface of water. Light grey eyes, staring down at her with so many emotions swirling behind them. Lyarra would feel the warmth and pray one of those emotions was love.
What made up a memory? Dreams of the past flashing before her in her minds eye like snow on the wind. Why could they be defined as clear first or second or third? Why were certain scenes distinct, like the acts of a play performed by a bard with little puppets, like the visiting bard named Torren had sung for them the other day. Lyarra chewed her lip.
Her second memory was of her father's face, her father's face, sunburnt, wind-burnt and dirty looking down at her, sand stuck to his clothes and sweltering heat. The third was of Korra singing her a lullaby. It had been a year ago. The song was a simple melody, a regionally famous tune entitled the dragon's den. It was something about a dragon, a treasure horde and a girl who had tamed the beast. All the whilst, both of them stood in awe on a balcony, as snowflakes fell from the heavens for the first time in their lives.
Korra had hugged her close, yet Lyarra remembered she had not been shivering. The Dornish woman, however, had shaken like a leaf in the wind. "'Tis not fair, to be so warm, little dragon." She had muttered, pulling Lyarra higher on her hip. As snow drifted down around them like tiny kisses of the nameless gods of the winter lands. Korra made a tutting sound, "A fire always burning.."
Lyarra had giggled, - Korra had always called her little dragon for as far back as her memory extended, it was sweet, though she would not call her such before her father, then, she would only be Lyarra, or Lyra. - it was cold, freezing even and she had only just been learning to walk, yet after slipping one too many times and the oncoming threat of tears, Korra had taken her to look at the snow. Together, they had caught snow on their tongues and caught the pretty little patterns in their palms. It was cold, yet Lyarra remembered laughing, staring at the multitude of patterns she had captured before they melted away in her hands.
