[ aemond is dressed as though he's facing a great blizzard. he's never experienced the cold of winter all his young life, given how weather progresses in westeros - years could go between winters, and summer could last for decades on. as it is so, aemond is bundled up and tucked into thick wool and cotton. his nose barely peeks out of the scarf he's wrapped around his shoulders.
despite the weather and the shorn length of his hair, however, the green and black of lauralae's given braid is clearly worn on his lefthand side, where it might brush against his scar.
it's the little things that say the most, sometimes, as his whole being warms at the sight of his dragoness standing before him. ]
Lauralae. Zaldrizives, my little dragon. [ he reaches out to her to adjust the chain from where his ring hangs. he cannot see the ring, but he imagines it against her skin; his cheeks flush in colour at the thought. ] How fares my lady?
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despite the weather and the shorn length of his hair, however, the green and black of lauralae's given braid is clearly worn on his lefthand side, where it might brush against his scar.
it's the little things that say the most, sometimes, as his whole being warms at the sight of his dragoness standing before him. ]
Lauralae. Zaldrizives, my little dragon. [ he reaches out to her to adjust the chain from where his ring hangs. he cannot see the ring, but he imagines it against her skin; his cheeks flush in colour at the thought. ] How fares my lady?