HELAENA TARGARYEN.

Red streaks across the curve of pale cheeks && she bows her head, to lean into inquisitive fingers. ❝I like green. Green and blue. It reminds me of the sweetest lady I’ve ever met.❞

𝓗e draws back, to 𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓷 her—a marionette’s puppeteer pulling strings. He 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 in her splendour, and he cannot look away. ❝𝓘’𝓶 afraid, I will find it hard to share you with a 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞 soul.❞

❝𝓣here will be 𝐧͟𝐨͟ dread of the night for you, my lady,❞ he almost 𝓹𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓼 with a lazy drawl, ardent 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 in their dance—with no song save for the beat, 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 of his heart thudding in his cranium. ❝I must confess, you must have been a beautiful bride.❞

𝓐n 𝔞doring hand with safety promised, curls into hers—feet falling into a 𝒻𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓇 pattern, a shuffle here and there. Another hand 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬 on her hip, forehead finding hers. ❝Has anyone told you how 𝐝͟𝐢͟𝐯͟𝐢͟𝐧͟𝐞͟ you look today, sweet Helaena?❞

𝐇͟𝐄͟ ͟𝐃͟𝐑͟𝐎͟𝐖͟𝐍͟𝐒͟ ͟𝐈͟𝐍͟ ͟𝐇͟𝐄͟𝐑͟ ͟𝐆͟𝐋͟𝐀͟𝐃͟𝐋͟𝐘͟, gladness discovered in her ardour. He is glad to be 𝐰𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧 into her spidery web of newfound 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 and nurtured worship. Hip to hip, feet to feet and he draws back. ❝Shall we dance?❞

𝐒͟𝐡͟𝐞͟ 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞. He indulges himself in a truth 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 sought—he has found divinity in her quaint 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬: as this quiet passion 𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙨. Nails gently scrape against her cheek, fingertips ghosting.

𝕳idden 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 sinks into lovely eyes as a bard sings their tale, strumming at a lute. Her lips 𝓉͟𝑒͟𝒶͟𝓈͟𝑒͟, brushing far too close to his. He 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐬 them, lips colliding with hers.