𝖠𝖫𝖨𝖠𝖭𝖣𝖱𝖠.

she could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. it was the taste of [home]. the taste of innocence. the taste of dreams.

Aemond’s expression shifts, the faintest trace of amusement threading through his otherwise composed face. “Ah,” he says at last, voice smooth as glass, “so the lady of Dorne admits she’s indispensable. How shocking. ↷

Aemond’s lips twitch — not quite a smile, but something that suggests he finds her defiance far more intriguing than her diplomacy. He leans one shoulder against the doorway, a picture of quiet composure, the faint sheen of his signet ring catching the soft light. ↷

⠀⠀𝕭𝗔𝗡𝗚! 𝑡he 𝗍͟𝖺͟𝗋͟𝗀͟𝖾͟𝗍͟ is ... 𝓮𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅.

"Sail west, not east. Leave the little queen to her olives and seat Prince Aegon upon the Iron Throne. The boy has stones, give him that."

She makes it sound poetic, flying’s the only kind of freedom he ever really known. two-time, yes. Third one … not this year sadly perhaps next year — third on the list but few more races to go who knows *hopefully the odds continue to favor him and the team.

one in the crowd, hm? He lost the feeling of watching from a far he used to watched when he was a little. see you at the finish line, then. He’ll make sure it’s worth the wait.