daeremiros

[daeremiros]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 is a poetry series inspired by high fantasy, written in prophecy and pyre, where love is as ruinous as it is redemptive. For the ones who were promised to fire, to frost, to the faultlines of fate.

a tale in flame, still smoldering — coming soon → stay tuned

[daeremiros]

⋆｡˚✩ 𝐀 𝐏𝐎𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 ✩˚｡⋆ ⊹ personal excerpts & soft unravelings ⊹ 𓆩𖤓𓆪 musings inspired by various fandoms, daydreams & the ache of memory.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 ☁︎ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐞 ♡ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠.

✧ follow for ♡ poetic prose ♡ fandom-inspired musings ♡ a little heartbreak & a lot of heart

Join my community here.

[daeremiros]

#someone call Ser Criston to show him how it’s done GAME OF THRONES “The Winds of Winter” (2016) dir. Miguel Sapochnik.

[daeremiros]

𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 as 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇, 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄 as 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

“Together, they make no sense—ice and fire. But the world bends around them as if it was always meant to.”

[daeremiros]

[daeremiros]

So we ride for Meereen and after that we sail for Westeros. What then?

[daeremiros]

[daeremiros]

[daeremiros]

A QUIET FURY ROSE WITHIN HER in a tidal swell that lapped at the shores of her resolve. She felt his shame before he dared name it, thick as smoke after battle, bitter as ash from a pyre. It clung to him in ghostly tatters in a penance worn too long and too loud. As though love could ever be measured in coin; as though devotion had a ledger. Glass lived in her chest; shards, glittering, trembling with the stormlight of silent wrath. This ache in her ribs, this wordless rupture at the sight of him thinking himself small in the face of something as holy as their love; it had no name. “ Only a sellsword, “ she repeats at last, cold as obsidian, warm as blood. “ As though a crown were more sacred than loyalty freely given. “ The world narrows—collapses into a single breath, a single tremor, a single orbit: his. And then, she sinks; her spine remaining unbowed as her eyes blaze with a love so fierce it borders on rage. Fingers like flame trail the line of his jaw, her thumbs brushing through the salt of his sorrow. The hollow in his chest echoes in her own, a mirror cracked by the same grief; this notion that worth must be proven to be kept.

“ I have known kings with coffers full of gold and no honor in their bones. Lords cloaked in silk, who kissed my hand and plotted my ruin in the same breath. But what have they ever given me, Daario? What do they offer that I do not already possess in you? “ Her voice holds the ache of every night she had imagined a different future; one where she could be more than myth, more than a Queen with no equal. She had banished those hopes to shadow, thinking them childish, impossible. But here he was, real, and she was not afraid to want him anymore. She leans nearer, her brow resting against his own in a gesture more binding than any sigil or rite. “ I do not need a man with lands or titles. I need the one who would die for me. Who would live for me. “ Her hand, trembling, falls to his and brings it to the curve of her belly; the quiet miracle forming beneath her ribs. ( His child. Their child. ) A future no one had the right to deny her.  “ So rise, my love,” she whispers, her voice a caress, a command, a coronation all at once. “ As the man I choose. As the father of my child. As my husband. “ 

⊹⠀𒁍⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ @daeremiros — a continued story ❩

⠀⠀⠀WE WILL MARRY. The chamber tilts, darkens at the edges. The walls seem to press perilously near, forcing the air to thicken with something both stifling and intoxicating. He draws a sharp intake of breath, but it catches in his throat, smothered beneath the weight of her decree. The flagstone quakes under his boots, and Daario’s knees forsake him; a warrior felled not by blade or battle, but by the will of the woman he loves.

⠀⠀⠀Never had he anticipated to taste the reverie she spins into tangible existence. Never not even in the most fevered, delusional corners of his mind had he dared dream of this. He had contented himself with their stolen moments, with whispers of affection deep in the dark, with knowing her laughter, the heat of her, and the sweetness of her skin only in the shadows. Daario was no fool, he had long reconciled himself with the truth that he was no prince nor noble lord. He had steeled himself for the inevitability of watching her wed another — a man fit to stand beside a Queen. And yet, here she stood, shattering what expectations he had prepared himself for with nothing but the sharp steel of her voice. A jagged breath escapes him. Not only does she bear his child, but she had chosen him. Him.

⠀⠀⠀We will marry.

⠀⠀⠀Spoken as if it were the simplest matter. As if it were not an all-consuming, sacred thing that sent his heart to such thunderous gallop it threatened to cleave through his ribs. Daario reaches for her without thought, his fingers trembling as they brush the gossamer silk of her skirts, grasping as though she were the final morsel of light that remained to him. Carefully, gently, his forehead meets her stomach. Reverent. Breathless. His eyes press shut, bracing against a torrential surge of emotion.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Daenerys . . . ❜ He whispers, he pleas. His voice stripped bare, a violent clash of desires within him — he wishes for naught else but to take her as his wife, to see their child grow to know him as father. But he was forged for blades and blood, not to bear a crown. ❛ I have nothing to give you. ❜ his voice is thick, laden with the turmoil within; as though it shamed him to admit all that he lacked, as though she did not already know.

⠀⠀⠀❛ There is nothing to my name but a sword and a paltry pouch of coin. Do not mistake me, Gods, please, do not— ❜ his breath trembles, fingers tightening against the fabric of her dress, and he dares raise his eyes, dares gaze upon her as he speaks madness — questioning the dream she offers to realise, ❛ I am yours, Dany. Entirely. What man would not leap at the chance to wed the woman who sets his very blood aflame? What man would not be undone at the thought of hearing his child call him father? But I bring your reign no advantage. I am only a sellsword. ❜

[daeremiros]

⊹⠀⚔︎⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐎 ❩

❛ Breakbones was said to be the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms in his day. He was described as being massive and redoubtable — gentle and fierce. ❜

Introducing an independent, canon-divergent portrayal of Harwin Strong from George R.R. Martin’s Fire & Blood. This interpretation is shaped by the book and HBO's House of the Dragon, as well as personal headcanons and AU elements. Mature themes ahead. 21+, minors do not interact. Written by Lyra.

promo credit. 

[daeremiros]

⊹⠀𒁍⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒 ❩

𝐈. Oaths of Fire (originated on x.) An original Daario x Daenerys AU crafted with @daeremiros. 𓆱 My Sword is Yours. My Life is Yours. My Heart is Yours. 𓆱 Va Moriot Aōhon 𓆱 The Sweetest Ruin 𓆱 In Defiance of the Gods 𓆱 Warmth Beneath Cold Stone

[daeremiros]

THE QUESTION IS A DAGGER, offered like a gift, laid bare between them in the hush of breath and the hush of hearts. Daenerys feels it as it slices violently through the silken illusion of calm they’ve wrapped around themselves. She had felt it long before it is spoken; nested within the way his fingers circle the tender swell of her belly, within the way his eyes seek hers with supplication. And though she has braved infernos and outlived betrayals, though she has walked through cities turned to ash and smiled as kingdoms crumbled beneath her feet, it is this that truly unmoors her. For in it lies the sum of him; his rogue’s bravado stripped away, leaving only the ache of a man who would tear his own ribcage open just to show her the chambers of his heart. Her gaze settles on the place where their hands meet; his palm spread reverently across the slight rise of her abdomen, a fragile, nascent star. ( A child. Their child. ) Still, it feels impossibly delicate, conjured from a dream too beautiful to survive the waking world.

And even so, it is real. Fate, that cruel architect, has folded upon itself to allow this. ( To allow him. ) She lets her hand drift deliberately over his own, pressing it more firmly into the warmth of her skin; there is a weight to that gesture. A declaration written in the dialect of touch. She swallows thickly; the sound brittle in the quiet.

Regret.

The word dripped of poison and prophecy alike. She has lived a thousand lives where regret ruled her bones; where decisions came with blood-prices, where love was bartered for war, where trust crumbled like sand beneath her feet. Her path has been etched in the remnants of fallen cities, in the bones of men who dared to love her and failed to survive the fire that came after. ( But this? Him? ) There are no flames here.

Only warmth. A slow burn that coaxes her heart out of hiding. A softness she never knew she was allowed to want. Her lips part, but speech eludes her. ( Love's tongue foreign still. ) “ Do you think I am so foolish, " she breathes, lashes trembling like wind-swept reeds, “ as to entrust my future to a man I do not love? To one I regret? " It is not a rebuke; it is not pride. It is longing, unspooled. ( It is truth, undressed of its armor. ) " As to bear his child and still wonder if I would choose him again? " She leans into him then, consuming the final inch of distance between their foreheads; her breath brushing his skin like the ghost of a vow. " . . . Spare me of such nonsense. "

⊹⠀𒁍⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ @daeremiros — a continued story ❩

⠀⠀⠀HE FEELS THE QUESTION before she weaves it into existence; in her continuous caress against his skin, as though fearful he might vanish, in the gentle tremor beneath her breath, a whisper carved from the quiet tempest raging in her soul. His arms tighten around her, anchoring her against the restless tide of her thoughts. She is a force to be reckoned with, a Queen of fire and blood, a formidable thing forged in dragonflame. Yet here, in the hush of night, she is simply Daenerys. His Daenerys. And there is nothing, no power, no crown, no riches, nothing more worthy of reverence than that.

⠀⠀⠀❛ My sole regret is that my path did not cross yours sooner. ❜ His voice is low and steady, laced with naught but conviction. His fingers rise to brush the rose-dusted skin upon her cheek, urging her gaze to lock with his. Only then does Daario's tone lighten, his lips curving into a rogue’s smile, ❛ the eastern sun was a jealous lover—clung to me like a damning fever, never let go. I thought I'd miss it, but it turns out I don’t mind smelling less like a sweating horse and more like some perfumed lordling. Shocking, I know. ❜ He muses before pressing his lips against her temple. It is a kiss both warm and lingering, imbued with every morsel of affection he possesses. As if driven by sheer instinct, his palm drifts downward, settling upon the ever so faint swell of her stomach — where life stirs, where fate has defied itself. A child. Theirs. His fingers trace slow circles, devotion laced in every touch. Daario’s heart lurches in his chest, and for a moment the realm stills, narrowing to naught but the three of them.

⠀⠀⠀He imagines it, this small and inevitably fierce babe born of them, with her glorious amethyst gaze, tinged by his mischief, with her breathtaking smile, with his unruly hair. A son, perhaps. Or a daughter, bold and unbreakable — just like her. His chest tightens, his breath stills, caught in the undertow of a reverie that is no longer only such. When he finally looks back to her, his gaze is unguarded; veneration, trust, love, all woven into something everlasting. The question lingers upon his own tongue now, hesitation suspending it for but a moment; a seldom fear he does not often name — is he worthy of all this?

⠀⠀⠀❛ Do you regret it? ❜ The words fall quieter, ❛ for choosing a mercenary with nothing but a sword to his name as your consort? ❜

[daeremiros]

A LAUGH CURVES BENEATH HER BREASTBONE; it hovers there, born of him, of his insolence dressed in reverence, his worship spun through with mischief. He is all contradictions, a kiss like benediction, tongue like sin, and gods help her, but she wants both served on a silver platter. The sheets cling like waves to her skin, soft with the imprint of his devotion, as if within his arms she has been re-scribed; one of heat and hunger and holy, maddening ache. Still glinting with praise and honeyfingers, she indulges wordlessly as his lips pull a smirk so ravish she could curse him. Or crown him. ( Or both, depending on the hour. ) Her fingers drift to his jaw, delicate as a secret, trailing along the sharp line of him like moonlight fingering the edge of a blade. There is mischief in the touch—possession dressed in lace—a bandit’s caress that knows it’s already won. " . . . Is this how you seduce your queens, then? " she breathes, lashes casting shadows like veils. " With pastry and poetry? I ought to send word to the others. It seems they have been sorely deprived. "

Her caress finds its way to the back of his neck, threading through sweat-damp curls with the slow reverence of one memorizing scripture. She tilts her chin, lets her mouth hover just shy of his, a breath’s width from sin, from sanctuary, from that ruinous sweetness he so readily offers. She does not wait for his rebuttal before she presses her lips to his with intent. Her tongue teases the seam of his mouth, coaxing, coaxing — until he parts for her and she takes. Slow and decadent and wild, she maps the shape of him with her mouth, learns the way his moan curls in his throat when she nips at his bottom lip, the way his heart thrums when she drags her nails along his nape. When she finally ceases, her lips are flushed, swollen with reverie; her shallow breaths caught somewhere between a gasp and a grin. For so long, her touch had been laced with purpose, her breath rationed between war rooms and whispers, her heart locked behind doors sealed with prophecy and pain. But in the still warmth of him, Daenerys feels none of its burden. " I love you, " She inhales, the scent of him mingling with sweat and spice and the lingering musk of spent desire. " Truly. "

⊹⠀𒁍⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ @daeremiros — a continued story ❩

⠀⠀⠀AWE BLOSSOMS WITHIN HIS CHEST, a surge of warmth spreading from his heart to every edge of his being. Daario can scarcely comprehend how she, an ethereal dream, lies within his embrace, entrusting him with pieces of her soul that no other has seen. He is swept by a reverence that humbles him, a gratitude that strikes without abandon. His thumb captures a wayward tear from her eye — a precious pearl he vows to keep safe until his dying breath. And as the High Valyrian word trickles from her tongue in hushed tones, he feels the enormity of her love; the raw, incandescent light of her soul spilling over him, an all-consuming sense of bliss.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Gevie, ❜ he echoes, and in the stillness that follows he settles his hand above hers, pressing it gently over his heart. The steady beat that greets her fingertips serves the truest testament of the depth of affection that binds him to her. If she asked, he would leap to build realms for her, tear them down if that was her wish. For her, for this, he’d defy the Gods themselves.

⠀⠀⠀The sellsword’s breath falters, and his arms tighten around her frame, pulling her as near as he might, revelling in her warm, silken skin against his. ❛ You are my life, Daenerys. If I had known such bliss could exist, I would have spent every day before our meeting in search for you. ❜ Daario murmurs, lips sowing his love against her brow before he draws back ever a touch, just enough to drown in amethyst. There is quiet fire in his gaze, unyielding, yet softened by emotions he is certain there were no words for. A smile paints his lips, and with a tender caress along her spine, he speaks again,

⠀⠀⠀❛ Hungry, my Queen? The hour may be late, but no kitchen maid would fault you for gaining an appetite after such . . . vigorous activity. I saw a tray of honeyfingers earlier — from my homeland. ❜ He drawls with a roguish glint, weaving humour into their sweet cocoon of intimacy. Then, in one deft motion, Daario's arm tightens around her waist and he shifts them, pinning her against the soft bedding while he hovers nary a breath away, ❛ Delectable little things, though between you and me, not nearly as sweet as what I’ve tasted tonight. ❜ On the heel of his brazen declaration, he dips down — claiming her mouth for his own.

[daeremiros]

SHE SHOULD HAVE BURNED at the edges of his vow, turned to ash beneath the solemn flame of it, but instead, Daenerys felt herself become. A tremor of want, a bloom of ache, a pulse within flesh that had long since taught itself to be steel. His words wrapped around her wrists like garlands, thorned and wild, and she welcomed the bite. For what was devotion, if not the soft fury of surrender? What was loyalty, if not the thrill of being seen and still chosen? The silence he left in his wake was holy. It throbbed against her ribcage like a second heart, blooming petals of pain and pleasure alike in the cavern of her chest. Her limbs turned pliant beneath the weightless gravity of belonging; her eyes fluttering shut, lashes dusting high cheekbones like wings folding into prayer. She steps nearer, almost unwillingly, gravity realigning itself to draw her into his orbit. Her hand drifting to the place where his warmth lingers against her brow. ( It scorches. It blesses. It binds. ) A constellation quietly sewn across the firmament of her chest. How cruel, she thinks, to have gone so long without this. How cruel that it should feel so foreign, to be cherished without question, to be worshipped without agenda, to be loved without demand. A silence takes root between them, and within it, she nearly falters.

She touches his face as though he were a dream trembling on the cusp of waking, a figment spun of perilous longing; her fingertips quaking with the fragile ache of yearning. As if he might dissolve into mist beneath her hand—or worse, stay. Stay, and become the ruin of all her certainties. Stay, and shift the axis of her world with naught but the promise of his breath upon her skin. " I have had men bend the knee, " she breathes, " but never like this. " A truth too potent to whisper, and too ruinous to ignore. She lifts her face, bridging the breath between them until her exhale tangles with the ghost of his mouth—a near-kiss, a threat, a prayer left half-uttered. She does not claim. She dares. " Then show me. Show me how you would walk through the fire. "

⊹⠀𒁍⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ @daeremiros — a continued story ❩

⠀⠀⠀BEHIND HER ENTHRALLING GAZE he beholds true, unadulterated trust, spun by inseverable thread. The reality of something so deeply precious bestowed to him imprisons air within his lungs and floods him with emotion so overwhelming that it threatens to stagger. The sight unravels the last of the tight knots within his chest, welcoming waves of warm relief to swell his depths, swathing him in a sensation so blissful that it renders him weightless. There is, too, a fierce instinct to protect not only her, but what had flourished between them.

⠀⠀⠀Daario is no fool; he recognises his place. He knows he harbours no substantial coin, nor does he power. He cannot offer her the advantage she requires as she claims what is rightfully hers. All he has is his love — and it is his most valued possession. Bared, he eagerly places it at her feet. There was naught more he desired than for her to see the truth that wove his heart, the purity of his feelings, hidden beneath a lowborn’s roughened exterior and hands soiled by blood. He was indeed hers; wholly, eternally.

⠀⠀⠀❛ I swear myself and all that I am to you, ❜ he whispers, expression softened neath the sweet weight of affection. The air crackles with delicious sparks; carefully, the sellsword consumes what meagre distance remains between them, sealing his vow with a lingering kiss to her forehead. Ensconced in sacred intimacy, Daario stays there a moment, his eyes falling shut as he revels in the warmth of her within his grasp; her skin as soft as the finest Myrish silk, her scent as intoxicating as the richest, rarest of wine. In the stillness of their hidden sanctum, his lips curve into a content smile.

⠀⠀⠀❛ . . . thousandfold I will walk into your fire, there I will make my home. For you, my Queen, you are worth the savage lick of every flame. ❜

[daeremiros]

Dany went to her window and looked out wistfully on the waters of the bay. The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. Dany could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no feast to attend at Khal Drogo’s manse.

[daeremiros]

[daeremiros]

⊹⠀𒁍⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐎 ❩

❛ 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒍 . . . 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒚. ❜

Introducing an independent, canon-divergent portrayal of Daario Naharis from George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. This interpretation is shaped by the books and HBO's Game of Thrones, as well as personal headcanons and AU elements. Mature themes ahead. 21+, minors do not interact. Written by Lyra.

promo credit.