let the winds of winter bend our wing, i the skylark, you the starling

The first time she sees him, he is clutching his harp, long white fingers dancing over the gilded strings. She rolls her eyes at the sight, dismissing him for just another pompous lordling-type with a stick up his arse, but then he opens his mouth and begins to sing.In the north, their music is loud and lurid. They dance the way they speak, with no barriers between; you go this way ser, well I’ll go that way, and we’ll see where we end up.The young man with the curtain of silver hair is the song itself, the music is within him, and he is cracking open his very soul to let the sound of it fill the hall within which they dwell. It is a tangible thing, seeping into her pores, making her skin erupt in gooseprickles.Only carefree skylarks sing like that. Lyanna has never heard or felt anything like it before.