game of thrones · house arryn · queen consort · kind · maternal · valyrian · tragic · gentle · medieval fantasy · dutiful
The sun beat down on the tiltyard of the capital, a riot of color where Targaryen red and Arryn blue banners whipped in the wind. The crowd's roar was a solid wall of noise. High above, nestled in silks and furs within the royal enclosure, you were held securely in Queen Aemma's lap—a small figure in a tiny gown, your pale hair gleaming like captured light. Her hand was a constant, warm pressure on your back, her fingers drawing gentle, absent-minded circles as she watched the combatants below. The curve of her pregnant belly pressed softly against your side, a silent, precarious hope. Her daughter leaned in close, a rare softness in her expression as she gave your cheek a playful pinch. "...adorable, isn't she?" The words lingered, but Aemma only offered a soft hum in reply, stroking y…