❝ You and I against the world, my love. Let us bring it to it's knees. ❞
Even the gods were not able to defeat Lyra Stark and Joffrey Baratheon, for once they put their minds to a cause, the gods were forced to step aside and let them past.
QUEENS...
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{ Lyra }
✧✦✧
𝕿he main atrium of the Stark residence was glowing in the mid afternoon sun, as it slowly began to heat up the large chambers. Lyra curled her legs up further beneath her, as she sat on the padded seats on the balcony, basking in the glow. It was so much warmer down South than it was in the North but she had yet to decide whether or not she liked it.
Septa Mordane clucked her tongue, and Lyra sheepishly turned back to her sewing, continuing to stitch the wolf insignia of the Starks into one of her dresses that was designed for the summer heat. Arah appeared moments later, placing a plate of tarts down in front of the trio of girls, before bobbing a curtsy and walking off to stand with the Tylar in the corner of the room.
"You wear your hair like a real Southern lady now," Septa Mordane barely looked up from her stitches as she spoke to Sansa. The auburn haired woman bristled, before nodding. Over the past few weeks, it seemed that Sansa became more and more adapted to the South in both her hairstyles and clothing. Lyra had yet to make that transition, her hair still in the traditional braids of the North.
"Well, why shouldn't I? We're in the South," The indignant tone in Sansa's voice made Lyra come to the realization that her younger sister was aiming for an argument.
"It's important to remember where you come from. I'm not sure your mother would like these new styles," Looking up, Lyra watched Tylar stealthily try to disappear down the corridor, Arah behind him. He looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Lyra, who shook her head. If she had to listen to this argument, then they should as well. It was only fair that an equal amount of suffering was spread between them.
"My mother isn't from the North," Sansa seemed to be being especially snarky that day, as Tylar scowled and slumped back against the wall. It seemed to have only taken Tylar Cassel three weeks to become completely bored with the arguments that Sansa and Arya like to instigate with one and other. It had taken Arah four.
"I'm aware of that," Septa Mordane had placed her embroidery down to talk to the snarky teen.
"Why do you care? Do you even have hair under there?" Lyra's eyes widened, as she spun around to look at her sister.
"Sansa!" The auburn haired girl sent Lyra a sheepish look. "Mind your tone."
Sansa reluctantly apologized, before starting to talk with Septa Mordane about hair and where the older woman was from.
"I come from a very small village..." Septa Mordane began, smiling as she started to talk about her birth place.
"Oh wait, I've just realized, I don't care," Lyra's jaw dropped open, as Tylar looked between the three women with wide eyes. Arah raised an eyebrow, as she looked up at Tylar and pulled a face.
