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hotdideasneverending · 2 years

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Poessive Gods

I had this idea from the Au I am doing on Ao3, it’s called Do You wish for This?, under Anon but it’s a Aemond/Lucerys fic. But it involves the gods of old Valyria being fucking creeps and...well...

Chapter 1?

The air was tense, so tense that a knife could cut through it and show the air beneath it.

And in an instant it shifted.

Queen Alicent had grabbed Ageon’s dagger from her husband and turned, intent on taking Lucerys Velaryon’s eyes before all the witnesses before them and the boy screamed.

But instead of his mother coming to stop her, someone else did.

A man dressed in robes of gleaming white and gold, hair purer than snow and eyes of burning amber locked arms with the queen. His fang teeth bared in warning as his clawed hands gripped her wrists.

“Do not…hurt him,” he hissed, everyone stepped back as the man had magically appeared.

“My queen!” Cole had called out, rushing to her aid before a similar man with forest green hair and bright red eyes stopped him, snarling right at him as a woman appeared, hair a fiery red and eyes a bright orange as she looked around before standing in front of Rhaenyra.

Protecting them.

“W…Who are you,’ Alicent demanded, gasping as she was pushed back into Ser Harrold’s grip and she finally got a good look at him.

His eyes were that akin to a Dragons and his skin was littered with patches of pearlescent white scales.

“...I am Arrax,” he grinned, Viserys making a choking noise but he ignored him, turning to look at Rhaenyra who stiffened under his gaze before it moved to her left.

To Lucerys.

And Arrax smiled.

“....My boy,” he breathed, striding forward and kneeling down as the green haired one released Cole and turned to the Blacks, looking for someone as well. “My Lucerys,” he cupped his face, smiling as the boy looked to his mother confused. “Finally for you to see me….”

“Jacaerys,” the other male smiled, kneeling down with a grin and arms open. “My boy! It is I! Vermax!”

“....L…Lord Vermax…” Rhaenyra was near the point of passing out as more appeared from the shadows, all adored with patches of scales and one with hair as dark as night coming to her father.

“...Sit. You need rest Viserys,” his voice was soft, deep, commanding and Viserys knew who it was in an instant.

“....Balerion…” he breathed in awe as those of Valyrian descent shifted away in fear from the god of death.

He seemed to not notice, offering a kind smile to the king who felt at ease around him.

“...Aye,” he nodded, pulling up a chair for the ill king who fell upon it in shock.

“....To what do we owe a visit from the gods of Valyria,’ Daemon asked, looking round with apprehension as he held Dark Sister in a tight grip.

“Down boy, nothing is to happen to you,” a man with flowing auburn locks snorted, coming beside him. “...But it’s what I like about you.”

“...Caraxes.”

“...In the flesh,” he smirked. “Vhagar! Get out here and see your bonded child,” he quipped, turning to the hidden alcove by the fireplace where a man was standing in the shadows.

He was sullen, eyes sunken in and his face was that of annoyance as he looked up to Caraxes with pure hatred before it went to Aemond.

“....No,” he rasped, looking away from the boy as Caraxes snorted.

“He has claimed the dragon Vhagar. Technically he is the boy you are to be bound to for the rest of his natural life-”

“I DON’T WANT HIM!”

Vhagar boomed, coming out with rage emanating from him as he stood next to a cowering Aemond.

“I don’t want him! Tesarion doesn’t want them, Gaelithox and Shrykos don’t want them. I wanted Rheana,’ he screamed, Arrax turning to him with a narrowed eye before snorting.

‘Then you should have devoured the fool when he tried,” he deadpanned, standing up with Luke in his grip, smiling as Vhagar sneered, stepping closer to the Blacks and ignoring Aemond.

“...Hmmm,” he huffed, coming to stand behind them all and keep an eye on the proceedings. “....Leana will always be better,” he grumbled, Daemon turning to him as he nodded, and looked away.

‘As to why we are here,'' Arrax began, handing Lucerys over to a woman with light pink hair and Targaryen eyes. “...I came to make balance,” he smiled, hands clasped behind him. “And with that…I must kill some of you.”

“....I see,” Viserys nodded, the gods shifting as Arrax nodded to Balerion who snapped his head to Cristion Cole, rounding on him in seconds and lifting him up by the throat.

“Cole,” Alicent screamed, the man choking as the god of death beheld him and sneered.

“...I’ve always hated you. Always bad mouthing. Calling the child of my bonded Targaryen a whore, loose woman…I will take great pleasure in this,” he whispered, squeezing his hand as Cole began to choke.

‘I beg of you please! Spare my sworn shield-”

``You are no Targaryen, you have born no Targaryen children, you have no say in this matter,” he snarled, Cole’s neck snapping in an instant and dropping him cold and dead on the floor before turning on her. “You have no say in any of what is going to happen tonight.”

“...I am a Targaryen,” Aemond spoke up, Balerion and Arrax turning to him with looks of displeasure on their faces.

“...Just because you have the looks, you claimed a dragon and are the son of the king…does not make you a Targaryen,” Balerion informed him, moving to Viserys who was scared, confused and unsure of what to do.

“The second who must die this night….I will do this myself,” Arrax nodded, the children quivering as he smiled at them before stalking right to Otto Hightower.

“Wh-NO,” Alicent screamed as Arrax grabbed the man’s shoulder and shoved his hand right through his chest, holding his heart as he whispered in his ear.

“Your treasonous actions cost me, Vermax and Tyraxes our children…but that ends tonight,” he murmured, ripping his arm back as Otto fell to the ground dead and Arrax turned around with a bright grin. In his hand was Otto’s heart that he held out to Rhaenyra, looking at her expectantly with a raised brow before she opened her mouth and took a bite.

Arrax smiled, nodding as he cupped her cheek and murmured that she did well; then moved one.

Arrax moved around to all of them; one by one: Daemon, Rhaenys, Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey and Viserys before he turned to the Hightower children.

He took a single stepforward before Helaena took a step forward herself to the God and took a bite, Arrax nodding as a woman with a veil grabbed her and moved her to the side of the blacks.

He turned to Daeron who grabbed his hand, seeing a way out of Old Town and took a bite, a man with singed clothes coming to hold his shoulder as he pushed him by Joffrey who had blood all over his mouth.

Aegon and Aemond remained, Arrax turning to Aegon who shifted and looked at Arrax like he handed him the world.

“...Eat this and become a dragon,” Arrax commanded them, devoured heart outstretched like an offering. “Don’t…and forget about being protected by us.”

“...” Aegon wasted little time as he downed a goblet of wine and took out a chunk of heart with a groan before a woman ushered him to Daemon’s side.

Aemond remained.

“...” Arrax kneeled down, looking the boy right in the eye as he placed the last piece of heart down. They kept their eyes locked as Arrax reached a hand out and placed it over his wounded eye and all was silent.

Then Aemond screamed.

“NO! NO! NO! NO! VHAGAR! VHAGAR! LISTEN TO ME! LISTEN TO ME! NO, VHAGAR NO!” he screamed in pure agony before Arrax released him and stood up.

Aemond seized in his seat, gasping as Alicent rushed over from her father’s corpse to her son who turned to her in horror and smacked her hands away.

“...A…A good thing….even though you…you,” he panted, blinking as he tried to keep the future away from the present.

Arrax had moved on, letting Aemond go through his madness without help as he took Lucerys back with a croon of adornment, kissing his hair as he caressed his face and Rhaenyra got the sense something was very WRONG.

Her sons were being coddled as if they were the most precious things in the world by the Gods of Old Valyria.

But the adults were no different.

Caraxes had Daemon caged in his arms, head nestled in the junction between his head and shoulder as he spoke of the poor souls lost at sea. Anytime Daemon made a move to leave, his arms tightened around him and God gave him a warning snarl.

Meleys held Rhaenys close as she murmured to her sweetly about times long gone with Leanor and Laena, hands tightening as the Queen who Never Was tried to take her hands back. Her eyes flashed a bright pink in warning until she sat down with her Husband who knew naught what to say.

Viserys, her father, watched Aemond beside Balerion who held his shoulders with both his hands. Keeping him in his seat whenever he tried to move and eyeing him with a stern look when he went to argue. He began to massaged his shoulders to calm him down as Viserys relaxed into it, but kept his eyes trained on his daughter.

Rhaenyra herself felt the presence of Syrax, the god holding a goblet of wine in hand as he watched the proceedings beside her, smiling and grinning as he kept a hand around her waist and tightened his grip when she tried to move.

He gave her side eye every time, but cooed at the sight of Joffrey and Jacaerys.

“More hearts for budding Dragons like you,” he cheered, raising his goblet with a smile. “Perhaps that Cole fellow,” he grinned. ‘Eh, Tyraxes,” he asked eagerly, the goddess nodding as she bounced a scared Joffrey on her hip.

“Shall I get it?”

“...Oh look, he made his decision,” Syrax commented, Aemond stumbling over and looking right at Luke.

“...I-”

“Not a word,” Arrax commanded and all went silent. “...Now….shall I lay down the law,” he grinned, head cocking to the side.

And Rhaenyra felt as if everything was about to crumble all around them as Syrax held her tighter and shared a look with Caraxes.

Something very bad was about to happen.

#lucemond #aemond x lucerys #aegon x jacaerys #daeron x joffrey #house of the dragon #gods of valyria #balerion #possessive gods #lucerys x aemond #jacaerys x aegon

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amoratearte · 4 months

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The Valyrian Fourteen 🔥

Balerion 💀💎

God of death and riches. King of the underworld. One of the three main flames. Married to Meleys.

Based off: Hades

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aboutdragons · 1 year

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the thing about dragons - interlude one

in which death really is the next great adventure.

Interludes are effectively supplementary materials for ttad. They will expand on worldbuilding and the goings-on outside of Lyra’s scope. As of right now I’m not sure if the interludes will be only about Aemma in the afterlife and the worldbuilding relating to the gods, their past, and their reason for bringing Lyra to try to change the future, or if some will take place elsewhere.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43121373/chapters/108369012

Scribblehub: https://www.scribblehub.com/series/699684/the-thing-about-dragons/

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/331546036-the-thing-about-dragons

◄○○○►

Read the Summary, Tags & Warnings as linked on the page to know what to expect.

warnings: death, afterlife, religion, gods (as speaking characters), existential musings, child loss, mental health issues, eldritch fuckeryTM

wordcount: 7,673

Read the chapter under the cut.

“You’re plotting something,” is the first thing Shrykos says as they sit down on the bench next to him. Balerion looks at them out of the corner of his eye. “I know you. This is your plotting face.”

“You make it sound like I’m about to collapse a civilization.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time!”

Balerion huffs, amused, and looks at the fractured sky above them. “Aemma Arryn will die soon.”

“Oh. You were at the Waytree recently?”

“Yes. Tyraxes was there, whatever she was doing, so I figured I’d ask a few questions. Maybe she saw things,” he shudders. “She had. Predictably centered around Lyra, like the tree wants us to follow her future now.”

Shrykos turns to look at him, eyes sad. “Don’t overdo it. Meleys is still at our tails for bringing Lyra in. And don’t encourage Tyraxes to go there!”

“Meleys worries too much,” Balerion huffs. “Sometimes the knowledge of the future is necessary to divert the worst of it; and even if not, have you tried to stop Tyraxes?”

Shrykos face sours. They tried before. All of them tried before. They shake their head.

“But Aemma Arryn won’t be influencing that future anymore. So let me ask again; what are you plotting?”

“Damn, didn’t I knock you off the topic enough?”

“Never. Speak.”

Balerion sighs. “I’m going to meet her.”

“Personally?” Shrykos jolts up, turns to look at him. “But you—Meeting souls isn’t your job? You’re only supposed to make sure everything goes smoothly—”

“I’m going to ask her if she wants to come here,” Balerion says, cutting Shrykos off. Shrykos narrows their eyes at him. “What? It’s been done before!”

“Yes, and now Tyraxes has a minion. Do you want a minion too?”

“No! I just—I want her to be happy.”

“Happy, huh,” Shrykos says with a glint in their eyes. “Very well.”

Balerion shudders. “It’s not like that!”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. I’ll be saying ‘I told you so’ soon enough.”

“You will not!” he protests hotly, cheeks darkening.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

○

It’s peaceful when she opens her eyes, even though she doesn’t think it should be at all, let alone be peaceful. She gets up slowly, reveling in the newfound lightness of her body, in the lack of pain that comes with it—that she thinks should come with it. She looks at her hands, only to find them translucent and faintly aglow. A dress of misty, white gossamer hugs her body and flutters in the non-existent wind, melting into the blindingly white nothing all around her.

Like this the pain seems like a hazy, half-remembered nightmare fading by the second until she’s free of it, and free of the detached sort of painful weightlessness that was her goodbye from the world.

The bitterness at the back of her throat remains.

“Hello, Aemma.”

She whirls around, feeling as if she solidifies more with the motion, to find the source of the voice.

He materializes out of the shadows that aren’t there, red, slit-pupiled eyes looking at her from blackness first, framed with thick eyelashes. Then his face, pallid and marked with a spiderweb of black veins, uncannily perfect like that of a sculpted doll, dotted with scales at the ridges, crowned with wicked horns of charred bone, and framed with glossy black hair reaching past his waist. Then, the rest of him; broad-shouldered and clad in ceremonial Valyrian funerary robes, the kind nobody uses anymore since the Doom and Aemma only knows to recognize because Viserys raved about the traditional dress enough.

She thinks she can even read the runes etched on the collar in silver thread, knowledgeable enough in Valryian script as she is, but she has to crane her head up to a very uncomfortable angle to be able to even see them, let alone look the dragon-corpse-doll man in the eye. His eyelids and lips are painted black, she notices, and it only makes him look paler, adding to the haunted look.

She thinks she should be unsettled by his appearance, but she can’t find it in herself to be.

He’s beautiful. Too beautiful, yes, but in a way so mesmerizing it’s difficult to look away.

A long, scaly black tail catches her eye, swishing among the misty white fog covering their feet. If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was wagging.

Do dragons even wag their tails?

Do gods?

“Do I know you?” she asks, though she thinks she does. She knows of him, at least. The dragon-corpse-doll-man shakes his head, and crouches down so that they’re mostly on eye-level. It’s kind of him, Aemma thinks.

“You do not know me, but you do know of me. I am Balerion; Keeper of Death and Guide of Souls. And you, Aemma Arryn, are dead.”

She looks at her hands again, almost solid now but still somewhat translucent.

She knows she’s died, but can no longer recall a single detail of how, though she thinks she also remembers the events that led to it. It’s an odd kind of sense. The terror, betrayal, and pain that she ended with, though, escape her grasp firmly. She remembers Viserys ordering her cut open, and then nothing of substance.

She knows what happened after, but she can’t recall any of it if she tries.

It’s a memory she’s glad to lose.

The context, however—

“Viserys killed me,” she says and looks up at Balerion with newfound disbelief shining in her eyes, and she feels as if it only truly sinks then. “My own husband. He claimed to love me, and he killed me. Ordered me cut open, and he knew it would kill me—”

She’s shaking now, and she doesn’t know what she feels. Shock? Anger? Disgust?

Loathing, maybe, and then all of those too. She liked Viserys less and less with each pregnancy, because he saw it kill her little by little each time and insisted on trying again, and again, and again, and she loved him (she thought she loved him, because what else was she supposed to do?) so she agreed, all for his foolish little dream even though it ruined her body, brittled her bones, blackened her blood, sapped away her very life each and every single time—

Hand on her shoulder, grounding. She blinks the haze away, cranes her head up.

For someone who looks like a haunted corpse, Balerion’s hand is very warm.

“He won’t trouble you anymore,” he says with a finality that helps Aemma calm down. He is the God of Death, after all, and the afterlife is his domain. If he says she’s free of Viserys, then it must be true. He’s the only one who can make it true. “Walk with me?”

She nods, and in a blink the vast nothingness around morphs into a forest of crystal trees and little glowing stars frozen all around them. Ocean ripples above their heads, warm sand under their feet, everything bathed in dusk.

Balerion stands up again, towering over her, and the fact that she doesn’t even reach his elbow with the top of her head makes her a little annoyed. His touch lingers, and Aemma doesn’t mind. It surprises her a little; she most often feels uncomfortable with it.

She thinks she should be feeling something stronger about this whole situation, but all she feels is peace and relief that she’s finally free, and some weightless numbness. Stronger emotions elude her in favor of a calm sense of acceptance. It must be a death thing, she decides. Makes it easier to think rationally and accept that her mortal harrowing is finally over.

Gods, she wasn’t even thirty.

But her emotions aren't gone, and they grow stronger with every passing moment. The bitter taste at the back of her throat magnifies when she remembers names and faces of those who pushed her into the role of a wife much too soon, and then shunned her for her body being too young to become a mother.

“Is this the afterlife?” she asks as she looks around. It's pretty, but in a barely-tangible, dreamlike way. For a life after life, it's rather lacking.

“No,” Balerion says. “This is the space in-between life and death, dreams and reality. Here go dreamers in-between dreams and waking world, and here go souls in-between life and passing on. Here mortals can meet the divine. We just call it Crossroads.”

“Oh. It’s… very pretty here, even with the ocean over my head. Which is a little scary. And, now that you mention dreams… I think I remember being here before.”

A woman in red who would come to her at her lowest, soothe and comfort her when nobody else would. Warm hands in her hair and soothing words in her ears as she wailed at her fate, because she wasn’t permitted to let her true feelings slip in the waking world.

It’ll be over soon.

Red eyes, slit pupils, scales on her face—

She looks at Balerion a little startled but the memory fades faster than it came.

“People typically don’t remember coming here. Though sometimes one of us will call someone here, for whatever reason.”

Balerion looks at her. He looks a little like the dream, she thinks, but with those red, slit-pupiled eyes, it feels much more like looking at Viserys’ dragon, when he still lived, but somehow—more. Different. Much smaller and shaped almost like a man, but there’s a kind of power emanating from Balerion that Aemma has never felt before. It feels like the ocean on a sunny day; calm, soothing, and seemingly infinite on the surface, and wholly capable of drowning all life underneath.

And who knows what the darkness under its surface hides at all?

This is no dragon, and this certainly is no mere man; the only thing Aemma thinks he can be, is a god.

Of this she is certain like she’s never been certain of anything else before.

Aemma thinks she should be more awed or at least surprised to find him actually real, instead of the calm acceptance she feels. She did genuinely worship the Flames, and Balerion was one of the most important out of the Fourteen with his domain over death, next to Meleys and her blood magic, Vermithor and his riches, and Gaelithox and her fire.

And yet here she is. Not very awed, and mostly annoyed at his height, if a little put off by his ghastly appearance, though she’s getting used to it rapidly.

She thinks she rather likes this sort of casual acceptance.

“Do you visit every soul that comes here?” she asks, because she has a feeling that this is a bit of a special situation.

“No,” Balerion says, confirming her suspicions. “Almost none, in fact. They go directly to the afterlife, and I may greet them there, or I may not.”

“Then why are you here with me?”

“Because I have a proposition for you.”

She cranes her neck to look up at him again. “Which is?”

“You can move on to the afterlife, as you were meant to,” he says. “Or, you can come with me to the realm of the gods, to watch over what remains of the Valyrian bloodline. Only few are ever given this chance.”

Aemma wrings her hands together, considers it.

It is a very tempting offer. Moving on means potentially meeting the souls of other people—people she’s certain she doesn’t want to meet. Chiefly among them her father, Rodrik Arryn, who married her off to Viserys at two-and-ten just after her first blood, and Jaehaerys and Alysanne who orchestrated her misery in the first place, and Baelon who scorned her for not giving his son a male heir, blind to how it slowly killed her, miscarriage after miscarriage, running her body and soul.

Not even the prospect of meeting her mother, who died bringing her into this world, could truly tempt her into going. Not under the threat of meeting any of the architects of her suffering.

Still—

“Why me? I’m… No-one special.”

Balerion stutters a bit, looks away, around. It’s—kind of endearing, actually. His tail is thumping at the sand; he doesn’t seem to notice. She giggles before she can stop herself, and his cheeks darken. It makes him look almost alive.

“You are!” he insists with almost childish fervour. “And even if you deny it—I, you—you deserve better, and that’s that.”

She stops herself from giggling anymore, but she can’t deny she’s still amused at his fumbling. It’s… Oddly ordinary, this situation, even though she’s dead, he’s a god, and they’re somewhere unspecified and magical. Cute, almost, if he wasn’t so tall and corpse-like and rather intimidating for it, but Aemma finds herself wary of him less with each passing moment as he keeps acting so personable.

More normal than most lords she’s met, in fact, and isn’t that a realization.

“Of course, should you dislike it, sending you to the afterlife anyway won’t be difficult, it’s not permanent or anything—”

“Alright.”

“And you can—Alright?”

“Yes. I… There are dead people I do not want to seat all if I can help it. I fear things might get violent if I had. There is… a lot of anger in me, I realize, because I could’ve been spared so much misery if they made better choices. I think I would punch someone. Or strangle someone, really. Several people in fact. Can the dead even hurt each other?”

Balerion cocks his head. “There are ways but it’s complicated, since souls aren’t corporeal.”

“Shame. And I do wish to watch over those who yet live. Rhaenyra, Daelyra, Daemon—I wish I could be there with them, but cheering them on from here will have to do.”

But not Viserys, who she carefully leaves out of her words. He caused her too much hurt, and she doesn’t want to darken her thoughts with him anymore. Death was meant to set her free of him, and she will see that through. Balerion will aid her in seeing that through.

And there is a certain sense of giddiness here too, that she gets to do this. Maybe because she was scarcely ever allowed to make her own choices before, and certainly none so big. She was always strung along by her family and her duty. Her wedding, her pregnancies, her life; even her dresses and hair were orchestrated by others most of the time. Even her hobbies were dictated by what Viserys wanted to do, which was build his city miniature and delve into Valyrian books

(What did she like to do? She wasn’t sure she knew.)

Balerion nods and extends his hand to her, and she takes it without hesitation. His hand is big, dwarfing hers easily, and his claws are long and sharp but she’s not very bothered by it. She’s more fascinated by just how dark the veins in his wrists are against the pallor, and the slight scaly texture to his skin that she notices; almost like a snake she saw once in a garden when she was maybe nine. It only serves to set him apart from humans further.

(She was never allowed to be fascinated by these things. Never allowed to even try for a dragon of her own. It doesn’t mean she never wanted.)

○

It feels like she’s forgetting something.

No matter.

○

The doorway leads them to a gloomy corridor made of black basalt, with pillars etched with Valyrian runes and floor of cracked diorite filled in with gold and polished so much Aemma can see herself as if in a mirror when she looks down.

It’s cold, she realizes.

Or, it should be cold. She doesn’t quite notice how she only feels it when she realizes she should.

Her feet, though not fully materialized, are bare and cold, and for a moment, she imagines them in her favorite rabbit-fur slippers, soft and warm—

And then they’re there, blue ribbons and all.

She stops, lifts her skirt up a little, and raises her leg, to look at her slippers in amazement. But those are her slippers; the very same ones Rhaenyra accidentally knocked into the fireplace last year.

“Just how—?”

“It’s one of the things you can do now,” Balerion tells her, sounding rather amused. There’s a small smile on his lips, too. She doesn’t pout at him, but she does huff. “I’ll explain in a moment, let’s get out of the Crossroads first. We get the most traffic here.”

“Very well, lead the way.”

He offers her his arm, and she takes it, and he matches his pace to hers, which is definitely quite nice. With how long his legs are, he could easily move at twice her pace.

Outside—

Aemma has no words to describe it other than utterly breathtaking. She lets go of Balerion’s arm and rushes forward like an overly eager girlchild, head whipping around and her hair with it as she tries to take in all the sights, and colors, and sounds.

In front of her is a sprawling valley surrounded by a wall of mountain ranges, towers of stone jutting out of them at an equal distance from each other, seemingly merged with the mountains at their bases; when she counts, there’s fourteen of them. Inside the valley there is a sprawling lake fed by multiple rivers running from the mountain ranges, dotted by patches of trees. That, in itself, is somewhat ordinary for someone who lived in the Vale of Arryn, like Aemma.

However, the multitude of fractured islands swaying above the lake is not ordinary at all, opalescent crystals jutting from the jagged bedrock underside, glowing and twinkling as if containing stars, with runic arrays encircling them, and oily tar-like roots wrapped around them.

It’s keeping the islands afloat, Aemma thinks, with fluffy pastel clouds floating lazily about the bedrock. Waterfalls drop from them, islands and clouds both, seemingly endless and feeding into the lake, and she can see forests and castles of ivory and colored glass on the islands; the grass is all blue and purple, little of it green.

On the biggest, middlemost island, with smaller, fractured islets floating about it, there is a tree; with black bark inlaid with sparkling amethyst veins, splintering into thousands of branches reaching high into the dark sky, crown of pallid, flowerlike pearlescent-lilac leaves upon it. The trunk of the tree is split in half, jagged, with an opalescent gem floating within the gap, tendrils of bright light originating from the gem bridging the gap in the tree like silver threads or spidersilk.

Underneath the tree, a half-exposed core of magma surrounded by the dark oily roots jutted out of the bedrock of the biggest island, pulsing as if it was a heart.

Above it all, in the place of sun, a massive, fractured crystal, its parts orbiting around themselves, all in the color of kaleidoscope and ice, floating suspended in the sky. Directly from its center, arms of shining auroras sprawl all over the vale underneath the vast star-glittering darkness of the firmament above.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes. “Though, knowing what I know of Valyria… Not what I expected.”

“It was a joint effort, and only a refurbishment besides,” Balerion says as he comes to a stop next to her. “We call this realm home but it is not our own. We are but interlopers here, waiting for the inevitable conclusion to our story. It was kind enough to let us have our domains here.”

“What was?” Aemma says as they sail closer.

“The Waytree, which grows at the centermost island above Hallowed Vale.”

It’s the first time she hears of it, and it sounds important. Why was it left out of their mythology? She looks at the tree on the middlemost island again; blinks, once, twice. It looks… Less, like a tree, this time. Different. More sprawling, more complex, as if it shifted in the few short moments she looked to Balerion instead. It swims and sways in color she cannot describe, less perceivable the more she tries to focus on it. There’s a whispering ringing in her ears and she turns away. Relief is immediate, as she presses the heel of her palm to her eye. “What was that? Is this the Waytree?” she asks, and points vaguely at it without looking.

“Yes,” Balerion says, voice a little worried. “Are you alright? I forgot it does that to people who aren’t used to its presence.”

“Why did it shift?” Aemma asks. “I—It hurts to look at it. Why?”

“It’s a little complicated, so I’ll tell you about it later.”

Aemma huffs. “Define later, because this seems a little important.”

“When you’ve settled in, maybe over tea? First we need to find Meleys and find you a place.”

She almost says she could stay with him, since he brought her here and she knows him, and finds a sense of comfort in his company, but that’d probably sound rude. They’ve known each other for maybe an hour now, and she shouldn’t impose.

“Alright,” she says instead. “Lead the way. Can it be away from the tree?”

“Of course! Nobody lives near it, it would be too dangerous in the long run, even for us.”

○

He leads her to a small dock on a cliffside, with a small gilded ship docked next to it. That in itself wouldn’t be too odd, except for the fact that there is no water in the immediate proximity, and the ship is swaying in the air. It has sails for oars that make it look like a bird.

“I hope you have no fear of heights,” Balerion says as he helps her in the boat. The seats are padded and comfortable, and there are railings she can cling to if necessary, but Aemma isn’t very bothered by the height. In fact, she feels quite at home, as she always has. Towers and cliffsides always made her feel at ease; the higher and windier, the better.

“I’m an Arryn,” she tells him as if it explains everything. For her, it does. Balerion smiles.

“One with Targaryen blood, too,” he agrees. “Both meant for the sky.”

He’s not wrong, but it makes Aemma feel a pang of—something. It’s not quite jealousy, but she knows she should have had a dragon. Her mother was a Targaryen, and so was her husband; even if she was an Arryn by name, it was her birthright all the same.

She chases those thoughts away. No point dwelling on them anymore.

The boat sways comfortably as a translucent, robed shape appears at the steer, and then they’re sailing through the sky. Aemma grips the side and leans over ever so slightly, mindful of the height but excited with it all the same, and she notices Balerion shift ever so closer, ready to catch her should she lean over too far, but she doesn’t mind. With the wind in her hair, nostalgic enough to bring tears to her eyes with a memory of a better time, she feels as if she could fly on her own wings.

“Careful,” Balerion chides. “The fall down would be rather unpleasant.”

“I’ll be fine,” she insists. “It’s not like I can die. I’ve done that already.”

Balerion levels her with a flat look and sighs.

“Your soul is precious, don’t fray it,” he tells her instead. His eyes widen as he does, and he immediately turns his head away and coughs into his hand. “I meant, be careful. The impact would be very unpleasant… And detrimental to your overall experience…”

She thinks she glimpses a dusting of pink on his cheeks before he turns fully, but it very well might’ve been the light. Given his bashful tone and stumbling over words, though, it likely wasn’t.

Still, she chuckles, and can’t help but tease a little; “Do you warn everyone of that?”

“...no,” Balerion says, pointy ears only coloring deeper. “Just you.”

Aemma smiles. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll be careful.”

○

“Is there something on your mind?”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

“Something less… Kind.”

“I can be many things. An old, expected friend, or the greatest enemy. A bringer of respite, or a herald of tragedy. Ultimately, it hinges entirely on the one who dies, how they perceive me. I’ve been cursed and spat at and sometimes even attacked by many who I greeted. Especially in the wake of Doom. What am I to you?”

“Escape. Relief, from the role I was pushed against my will… Oh.”

Balerion nods. There’s something sad in those red, slit-pupiled eyes when he looks at her. Aemma supposes that’s fair.

○

They get off the boat on one of the shattered isles, lush with a garden full of fruits and vegetables and mostly devoid of flowers. They walk a path fenced on each side with an orchard of trees heavy with nearly-ripe fruit, and Aemma knows most of these fruits. There’s apples and oranges and lemons, but she can’t help being drawn to a tree with serrated bark and spiky leaves, full of fruit that look like flame, pink at the core and yellow at the tips.

“What is this? I have never seen a tree like this before.”

“It’s dragonfruit,” Balerion tells her. “They grow in much warmer climates than where you lived.”

“Is—Is it actually called dragonfruit?” Aemma looks at him, confused. Surely, he’s pulling her leg?

“Yes,” he chuckles. “You want one? They’re ripe.”

“I—Uh, is it okay?” she asks, a little startled.

“Of course. She won’t mind,” Balerion says and reaches to pluck one of the fruits.

“She?”

“Meleys,” Balerion says as he digs his claws in the fruit, splits it in two. “Oh, it’s the white one!”

Aemma takes one half, and then blinks. “Meleys?”

“Don’t worry about it. If anything, just blame me. She never stayed mad at me for long,” Balerion says with a cheeky smile and Aemma can’t help but huff out a laugh. She looks down at the fruit in her hands, at the white flesh dotted with black seeds. Looks back at Balerion, who flips his half inside out to eat it, and tries to copy him, if clumsily. It’s good, the fruit. Sweet but mild, with an interesting texture. She thinks she quite likes it.

○

They find her on her knees in the dirt, elbow deep in rows of bushes full of heart-shaped red fruit Aemma doesn’t recognize. She doesn’t seem to notice them at all at first, but as they approach closer, she slowly rises to her feet, and turns to face them.

Her eyes are blood-red, though deeper and darker than Balerion’s, whose shine almost sinisterly. Hers are darker, slit-pupiled still, a little tired and a little warm. Her hair is in messy waves and just as red, held in a high bun with gilded sticks and ribbon, and on her head, a crown of short and straight creamy-white horns. Her skin is tanned, like that of someone who spends most of their time outside in the sun, with a healthy flush on her cheeks.

She’s quite stocky, with a considerable bosom and more than a head shorter than Balerion. Her clothes are quite casual, though still embroidered with gold and patterned with silk.

Still, she looks—ordinary. High-class, and not really unassuming, but ordinary. The way Aemma knew Valyrian women often would in the Freehold. There are wrinkles on her face, and some hairs are sticking out of the bun. Aemma thinks she knows her.

“And here I thought it would be Shrykos or Morhgul causing trouble. Or Tessarion, like the last time. But you?” the woman says, quiring and eyebrow. Balerion smiles, more than a little strained.

“I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m causing trouble, you know,” he says, playing with the cuffs of his robe. It looks subconscious, but also a little nervous.

“Well, at least you brought a familiar face with you. It’s good to see you in person, Aemma.”

Aemma smiles. “Likewise, Meleys.”

Balerion holds a hand up, closed save for his index finger. Looks at Meleys, then at Aemma, then at Meleys again. “You know eachother?”

“We’ve met on occasion,” Aemma says with a small smile. She feels a little smug at his confusion. “I’ve been to the Crossroads before. With Meleys.”

“Oh,” Balerion says, and pouts a little.

It’s cute.

“Don’t be a baby,” Meleys chides, and turns to Aemma. “Now, I assume you’ll be staying here for the foreseeable future?”

“I—yes. Yes, I intend to.”

“Good, good. You’ll have a place by the end of the day.”

Quick, Aemma muses. But this is no longer the mortal world governed by the mortal rules.

“What would you like?”

“Somewhere pretty high up,” she says. Fidgets with her sleeves a little. “And with a garden. And small enough I can reasonably take care of it myself.”

“No servants, even at the start?”

Aemma remembers their pitying eyes and honeyed words, their blatant disobedience in favor of Viserys, even though she was their master. She was the queen.

“No,” she says firmly. “No I don’t need help, unless—”

“Unless?”

Aemma freezes. What was she about to say?

She looks around, confused. She’s missing something. She’s forgetting something.

“Aemma? What’s wrong?” Balerion asks, and she looks at him. God of Death. Because she’s dead. Because she died, and she died—

“Did the child survive?” she asks, and her voice sounds distant. There’s a feeling of foreboding creeping up on her the longer she looks at the gods. Balerion, especially. Aemma really doesn’t like his expression, because there’s really only one way to interpret it.

“Aemma—” Meleys says gently, reaching out.

“No,” Balerion tells her, curt and honest.

“Balerion!” Meleys snaps. “That’s too much!”

“She deserves to know. Better now than later!”

“That’s cruel!”

Aemma giggles, and it sounds distant and hysterical to her. “It’s kinder than I’ve been afforded before,” she tells Meleys, because it’s the truth. Others would beat around the bush constantly and tire her out. Try to make her believe things that weren’t true, run circles around her. Balerion’s honesty, though harsh, was welcome.

She sits down on the grass, a fair bit more forcefully than she intended to as her legs give way and fold under her, knees suddenly made of cotton. The bitter taste is back in full force, and it’s all she feels, rather than a small nagging feeling at the back of her throat.

More than that, however, her chest burns from within. It’s actually glowing, an angry orange shining through her ribs and skin, beating in tandem with her heart.

“I died for nothing,” she says, and doesn’t quite recognize her voice, and when she looks at her hands, now again fading, for a moment they don’t look like her hands at all. “He killed me in the worst way, he ordered me cut open, he who said he loved me—and it was for nothing?!”

She screams. Fuck propriety, fuck the rules. Fuck that ladies of her station don’t curse and scream. Fuck the world that used and abused her, and when she was no longer useful, threw her away like yesterday’s garbage. Fuck Viserys, most of all, that selfish, cruel, wicked creature that ruined her for his own enjoyment and greed, claiming to love her every step he pushed her closer towards her doom.

She can’t hear anything past her heartbeat and breath. She can’t see past the blur. She thinks there’s a rustle as something looms over her, a displacement of grass, warm hands around hers—

Red eyes, slit-pupiled and sinisterly bright, so full of concern.

When he pulls her into his chest, she goes without resistance. Digs her fingers into the silk robe, presses her eyes against the crook of his neck, and just—wails, and wails, until the bitterness on her tongue is a bit easier to bear, and she feels a little more real. Until grief gives way to fury, until the bitterness at the back of her throat becomes nigh-unbearable fire again.

And she seethes.

“If it’s any consolation,” Balerion says somewhere above her, close, voice reverberating through the chest she still clings to like a lifeline, “Viserys will die a slow and painful death, rotting from inside, having achieved nothing and having ruined almost everything.”

It sounds like a promise and a fact both at once. It sounds like a tiny bit of justice.

“Good,” Aemma spits out. “It’s what he deserves. For me, and for all my children.”

○

“Thank you for telling me,” she tells him later, when she’s calmed down a little more. Meleys has gone back to her cottage to bring them some tea and refreshments, leaving them alone to gather their bearings. Aemma doesn’t even have the energy to care that she’s still effectively in Balerion’s lap, glued to his chest. She needs that comfort, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Hurtful or no, you should know.”

“But… If the child died, where are they?” she asks as Balerion shifts, putting her back on the grass. Even as he sits shoulder-to-shoulder with her, she misses the touch. It made her feel more solid.

“Returned to Soulstream.”

“Soulstream?”

He points up, to the aurora radiating above them. “It’s life energy flowing through the worlds. All souls come from it, and all souls eventually return to it.”

“But I’m here.”

“And here you’ll stay, until you’re ready to go.”

“How long?”

“It varies between souls. Your child isn’t here, because newborns don’t have souls.”

Aemma blinks. “What?”

“Everyone is born with a potential to have a soul,” he says and raises his hand. A tendril of green energy curls around his fingers, forms into a ball. Flickers, and darts off up, into the aurora. “But not an actual soul. This needs forming of self-awareness, and then needs to be settled with self-actualization. Baseline is, the more of a person you are, the more of a soul you have. Your soul is, effectively, everything that makes you, you, that isn’t your physical body. Which is why some souls have enough staying power for millenia, and some fade after a few years. But souls are also a form of energy, so the body and mind both need to be strong enough to handle proper formation of one. Typically around six to eight years of age. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later—sometimes never.”

“But my child… They didn’t suffer, did they?”

“No.”

“Then I’m glad for that, at least.”

○

“You know, in retrospect, you were incredibly lucky Lyra’s body actually survived through her awakening,” Meleys says conversationally as she steps back into the living area. Aemma is fast asleep in the guest room behind, recovering after the revelations.

“You heard us talking about souls, I take it,” Balerion sighs.

“Yes. If she weren’t a homunculus, she’d be dead.”

“Uh. Thanks… For making her extra durable? I guess?”

Meleys chuckles. “You’re welcome. Was seven years your limit?”

“Yes. You know well how limited our powers in the mortal realm are. Her true soul was bleeding in from the very start. Without my interference, the dam would have broken in half the time—”

“Seven is an ominous number,” Meleys says, and Balerion closes his mouth with a click, eyes narrow.

“Do you think it’s an omen, then? Of—that thing?”

“I hope not. But its awakening approaches more rapidly than ever, and doom with it.”

Balerion bites his lip, puts a hand on his chest, over his heart. Feels the steady thrum under his fingers, staccato almost natural enough to fool him into thinking there’s a heart there. He knows better than to fall for it. “We won’t fail this time,” he hisses, clenches his hand into a fist, the silk of his robes with it. “I swear. The future the Waytree showed us—It will not come to pass. I won’t let it.”

“You already haven’t,” Meleys says gently, and takes his hand into her own. Unfurls his fingers, whispers away the black blood and the wounds he dug with his nails. “Your and Shrykos’ insane plan is working. Have more faith in Lyra. She’s one driven creature of chaos, especially now, with that wicked dragon of hers. She will fulfill her mission splendidly, I know it. And even still, this isn’t just your disaster to stop. We’re all here, all fourteen of us, all that is left, exactly for that. None of us stands alone.”

Balerion chuckles, and it sounds a little wet. “Thank you. For looking out for me. For us. You don’t have to. Mother is—”

“Pah, I know! But even if I didn’t promise her to take care of you kids, I still would. It’s what I do.”

Balerion smiles. There’s comfort in that; that despite everything, despite all they’ve been through, Meleys remains the same. Even though she lost more than most, she still finds it in her to hold her head up high, and to lift others up.

And he? He failed to even die properly.

But if they managed to turn the tide, even his failure would have served them. He’d hold onto that hope.

○

Aemma isn’t sure what possessed her to ask for her new dwelling to look like Meleys’ courtyard the very last moment she could, but she did, and so it now stood before her; an imposing wall with blue shingled roof and a gate in the middle, pale blue wood with Arryn crest on the double door and chimes hanging from the supports.

She thought the gods would be offended for her not including targaryen sigils anywhere, but nobody seemed to mind, or even remark about it.

It’s smaller than Meleys’, of course, as per her wishes. The courtyard is accessible immediately behind the gate, fresh soil to be worked. The main building is adjacent to the gate, flanked by two smaller ones on either side. It’s pretty small; enough for one person to reasonably manage, though not so small that few guests would overcrowd it.

Rural Valyrian Courtyard, Meleys has called it. After the Doom, Valyrians from rural areas fled to Yi Ti, taking the style with them, and it’s been used there since, in common houses and grand estates.

She can barely see Waytree from here. It’s for the best.

“Do you like it?” Meleys asks as she comes to a stop next to her.

“Yes,” Aemma says, taking a deep breath. This is her home now.

Hers.

Not her fathers, not her husbands, not nobody else’s—her own, with which she can do whatever she pleases, free of rules she doesn’t herself make and influence of others she doesn’t welcome.

She’ll need a moment for it to skink in.

“Are you certain you don’t want an attendant for the first few weeks?” Balerion asks as he comes to a stop next to her. “You’re making a pretty big shift from being waited on hand and foot to living completely alone.”

“I’m certain,” Aemma insists. “I want to try, at least. I’ll tell you if I can’t make it. But I’m healthy now, and I’m sure I can keep myself fed and clothed in a clean home by myself.”

Because her servants always answered to everyone but her. Because she was never strong enough to do anything for herself, stuck between being pregnant and recovering from it.

“I will leave you to it,” Meleys says, her duty done.

“Yes, thank you so much!”

“Don’t mention it. And you should go rest.”

She’s right, of course. Despite her nap, Aemma still feels rather exhausted under all that excitement. She shakes her head.

“Soon.”

“If you’d rather rest, I can come tomorrow,” Balerion says as they both watch Meleys leave.

“I’d love to rest, but I’d like to learn more about this place,” she says. “I, uh… I’d offer you tea, but I’m… I’ve never made any.”

“I can teach you,” he says with a small smile.

“Wouldn’t it be a bother?”

“Not at all! I’m not a master at it, but I know my way around a kettle at least.”

“Then if you’d be so kind.”

○

They sit in the kitchen with their tea and some snacks from the thankfully-stocked pantry.

“What is the Waytree?”

Balerion sighs. “Starting with the heavy ones, huh?”

“When I looked at it, it felt like… Like it was burning my very mind to ashes. Why is it here? Is it dangerous?”

“Yes, it does that,” he says and shakes his head. “It’s been here forever. It predates us. Its roots keep the isles afloat, and its branches stretch endlessly into the sky, each reaching for a different future, and its leaves anchor and sift through the Soulstream. We… Ah, we don’t really understand it. It’s been here before us, and it will be here long after we’re gone.”

Aemma mulls it over for a moment. “So you don’t know anything about it?”

“Just that it’s ancient and powerful, and either responsible for the cycle of life of the world, or feeding on it. It’s a coin toss, really.”

“That’s… Not reassuring.”

Balerion shrugs. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about it. We don't even know how to begin describing it. Once, Tyraxes tried to channel its power. It… Changed her.”

“The Flower Maiden?”

“Yes. She—has gone completely insane. Hungry, unpredictable, violent. Grew a third eye on her forehead, and I still can’t decide if she’s creepier in a haze, or when lucid. But she’s the only one who can decipher the Waytree to any degree.”

“And what needs deciphering there?”

“Possibilities,” he says. “Future, and how to alter it.”

Aemma looks at him. “And have you?”

He nods. “For the first time, we succeeded. Tyraxes said the futures she’s been seeing these days are vastly different than before. Typically, very little changed no matter what we did.”

“And… What exactly did you do?”

Balerion smiles, half-terse and half-mischievous. “Brought a soul from another world into this one.”

“I—What? How??”

“It’s really simple,” he says. “We, Shrykos and I, I mean, opened a pathway to another world, and let a soul from there come here. Since it came from a fundamentally Other place, it didn’t join and assimilate into the Soulstream, which allowed us to instead put it into a new body from the get-go.”

“But you said that everyone forms their own soul. Wouldn’t—If you put another soul into somebody, wouldn’t that cause problems?”

“If they had a soul, yes,” he agrees. “But it’s fairly common that when a woman conceives, the child is not granted any soul energy at all. In that case, she’ll simply miscarry before she even knows she’s pregnant, and nobody is any wiser. We used one such case to house our otherworldly soul, so that this is the only soul in the body.”

“If the soul is fully formed, how does that work then?”

“Well, in this case, and in this case only because we’ve done it exactly once, the soul lay dormant with some slight bleeding of memories until it awoke, all memories of past life recovered. Sadly due to the nature of the soul, that includes the way they died in perfect clarity.”

Aemma shudders. She barely remembers flashes and that’s bad enough.

“Who is it?” she asks, curious. “I mean—You don’t have to tell me if it’s a secret, or something!”

“It’s not, not really,” Balerion shrugs. “Everybody here knows. It’s Daelyra Targaryen.”

Lyra? Daemon’s Lyra?

This—

“You said she remembered her past life?”

“Yes.”

“At… Around seven years old?”

“Yes…?”

“This… Explains a lot about her, actually. How are you planning to have her alter the future?”

“Just existing, really.”

“But past that. What is she here for?”

Balerion shifts, a little uncomfortable. “We need her to prevent the mass-dying of dragons.”

“Hm… Makes sense,” she says, and decides not to press, even though his reaction begs to ask many more questions.

She yawns. It startles her, and she covers her mouth quickly. Balerion chuckles.

“I won’t keep you any longer,” he says, and finishes his tea in one big gulp. “We will have plenty of time to talk later once you’ve settled properly. How do you find afterlife so far?”

“Very nice,” Aemma says. “Everyone is friendly and I’m not in pain, or in much danger. I don’t have to see people I don’t want to see… And I don’t have to follow strict etiquette. And uh… I meant to say it earlier, but I apologize for crying on your silk robes earlier.”

Balerion pats his chest and chuckles. “Don’t worry about it! You needed help, and that’s that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What do you plan to do now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t. You answered my questions after all,” Aemma says, “For now, I should think I would enjoy some solitude. Learn to live, by myself, for myself. Find some interests that are my own. But firstly, go to sleep.”

“Very reasonable.”

“Of course, you’re most welcome to visit whenever you’d like!” she says hastily, and her cheeks color a bit. “Should you like that, of course. And—And Meleys, too,” she adds a bit lamely.

Balerion chuckles again. “I will visit soon, don’t worry. I enjoyed our conversation, and your company. But for now, you really look like you could use some sleep.”

“I did too. And yes, I will, don’t worry. Thank you again, for… Everything. Leading me here, and—”

“Don’t mention it.”

Aemma doesn’t, she just smiles at him instead. It might be a little too wide a smile to be polite, but it’s real and she thinks that’s what matters the most.

She waves after him as he retreats, and he waves back, and then he’s gone. Aemma tries to not miss his company too much.

#ttad #the thing about dragons #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aemma arryn #balerion (god)#meleys (god)#shrykos (god)

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fluff-and-such · 9 months

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Since 2023 is a wrap, here's some of the art I made each month. Really popped off from June to September! And barely drew anything October-November-December lol. Work was kicking my ass.

#Art #art summary 2023 #Fluff Art #lets see #we have #Two Liliths #Two and a half Inarius #Three Rathma's (altho one is just a crotch shot with a conveniently placed Mazel for decency)#A Mewtwo #Three Malthaels #of various shape and origin #Macabrecabra's Sin God #One Balerion + bitty Syrax #Arti #+ Zee's rump #oh and a mini-Trag'Oul #not bad eh #doodles

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raventrigonsdaughter · 10 months

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Thinking about how daenerys is called daughter of death and child of three and how that's great for a AU fanfic where the Valyrian god of death, Balerion, is her father but don't mind me...

#balerion god of death #daenerys targaryen #child of three #daughter of death #book dany specifically is out of this world when it comes to magic despite her going as far as being fire proof in the show #its crazy #someone write this im beggin

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visenyaism · 2 months

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tyrannical king maegor dashboard simulator

🐉queen-visenya--outlives

Dowager Queen Visenya Targaryen has outlived her nephew the King Aenys I Targaryen. Her son King Maegor I Targaryen has returned to the capital to claim his father’s throne.

💫 sevensent Follow

crusty incest king died. FLOP!

💫 sevensent Follow

wait MAEGOR?

🥔 bowlofbrown

this job fucking sucks. finished my shift and i cant even clock out because i got lost underneath the site.

#dark as shit down here #never working construction again

💌 maidens-smile Follow

i literally cannot believe how many supporters of m*egor i see on my dashboard every day when he is literally flaying and torturing so many seven-blessed poor fellows just for practicing their religion and saying incest is bad??? he’s literally outside my city waiting to burn us all to death DNI if you support him

🪨 dragonstoner Follow

🐉 queen-visenya--outlives

Dowager Queen Visenya Targaryen has outlived the High Septon. He previously denounced King Maegor and his wives as “the abomination and his whores,” and passed shortly after Dowager Queen Visenya and King Maegor flew their dragons to the gates of Oldtown and threatened to burn the Starry Sept.

🪽 maegors-wins Follow

i for one think “the cruel” is a bit unfair given how he has done so much to uplift women’s voices and free us from religious tyranny like. named the first female heir in westerosi history? improving the infrastructure in king’s landing? decentralizing the power of the faith? he literally loves gay people so much he married three of them?

🦓 zorse-deactivated7849

op what does that eleven inch necromantic targaryen dick feel like because if you keep riding that hard I’m pretty sure it’ll rot off

🔮 tyanna

in seven days you will begin to cough

#twelve. btw

🐉 queen-visenya--outlives

Dowager Queen Visenya Targaryen has outlived her great-nephew Aegon Targaryen, henceforth to be known as “The Uncrowned.” Her son King Maegor I Targaryen has slain him and his dragon Quicksilver over the gods’ eye for trying to usurp his throne.

🌞 ullerihardlyknowher Follow

why is this always how i find out how do you know this before even cravings moste popular

#also what the fuck is going on up there

🪰 florian-and-jonquil-on-nymerias-ship Follow

guys the oversexualization of king maegor is so problematic and insane considering he’s not only shy and married as a 13 year old but also is literally neurodivergent (has CTE)

🤲 aegonfort-top

lost my left hand for posting this

#it was kind of hot though

🗣️ towerstower Follow

was not into targaryen rule at all but if we are going to do it it’s kind of fun that we are being ruled by a super powered animated blood corpse and his circle of freaky bisexual witches and also his mommy instead of like. a normie who also fucks his sister

🫀 imasharpknife Follow

seven hells you people would fuck a k*nslayer if they had valyrian silver hair

🐦‍⬛ raventooth Follow

during these trying times when our king is accused of depravity and tyrannies abound throughout the land we must remember the most important truth: the brackens are still a people spawned from the lowest of the seven hells

🐎 brackennation

KILL YOURSELF. Lord Gonzo Tully himself AS YOU KNOW literallyyyyyy gave us the right to move the boundary stones over the tributary. but i wouldn’t expect a blackwood to acknowledge basic laws and rights you’re just too busy doing blood sacrifices to your nasty heathen tree god.

🐦‍⬛ raventooth Follow

as soon as i figure out why balerion is overhead rn im coming over to kill you. btw

🐎 brackennation

wait looks like he’s headed towards harrentown

🐦‍⬛ raventooth Follow

oh cool. KILL YOURSELF

💐 floriansfool36 Follow

hi guys!!! sorry i’m a sennight late posting this, my brother got killed and then one of my other brothers got tortured to death and then my great-aunt died and i ended up having to flee dragonstone for storm’s end and it was kind of scary lol. anyways here’s the update as promised!!!

🌟 maidensgrace Follow

i wish Balerion did get you RPF is literally soooooo problematic. look to your sins op

#daenys the dreamer and nymeria weren’t even alive at the same time????

❤️ lanadelrhaena

i think you did a great job. glad you’re safe xx

💐 floriansfool36 Follow

YOU HAVE INTERNET IN THE KEEP???? HIIIII

#asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #rhaena’s only public comment during her time in the keep is telling her baby sister she wrote good rpf

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asumi2020202 · 2 months

Text

You and I.. We were Born to Die

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Princess Y/n, The Foreseer and Princess Rhaenys, The Queen who never was, were chosen to fly to Rook's Rest.

A/n: It's just a different ending than the one they actually presented in the show. I just wanted to write something for Aemond. Anyways, Thank you for reading!

Note:

Reader is Rhaenys' granddaughter.

Reader's dragon is Moonfyre The Nightdream. She was one of the last eggs of Balerion and Dreamfyre. She is only 9 years old during the Dance of the Dragons.

Reader can Foresee glimpses of the future.

__________________ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ_______________

Cole and his army were marching towards Rook's Rest. The council was in distress in the absence of the Queen.

The lords argued with themselves and the Heir to the Throne. Pointing out their views on the matter. Y/n stood beside her brother and Princess Rhaenys.

The council's bickering halted as the Queen suddenly walked in.

Jacaerys, your brother, looked very dissatisfied with your mother, the Queen. They argued as to who would go to Rook's Rest.

Your mother volunteered herself which made Jace rage up.

"Send me" Jacaerys said with confidence.

"No" Rhaenyra replied with a sarcastic laugh.

"I will go to Rook's Rest and wipe Cole's line and return-"

"You lack the experience." Rhaenyra stopped Jace's argument.

"You must send me. Meleys is the second largest dragon you have." Rhaenys intervened, to which Rhaenyra felt speechless.

Rhaenys gave Corlys a smile before leaving the room. A vision flashed before your eyes as your body stilled.

Meleys getting killed.

Rhaenys falling to her death.

There were..... two dragons.

One was Sunfyre you thought you saw... But you couldn't recognise the other.

Your mother's calling snapped you out of your vision. You looked panicked. Your mother and brother sensed something wrong.

"Y/n-" Jace reached for you before you said

"Send me as well"

"That cannot be done sweet girl." Rhaenyra said.

"It must be! Rhaenys- .... I saw her. And Meleys! They were ambushed. There were two dragons! Aegon will come! She cannot go alone! She Will Die!"

Rhaenyra looked shocked at your outburst. She pondered for a while before agreeing.

Moonfyre and Meleys were the largest dragons of the blacks. Rhaenyra trusted her daughter's judgement.

_________________________________________

As you walked to the Dragon Pit, you saw no one. No one dared to come closer to your child. They feared their lives.

Rhaenys had left early. You left an hour after she had left. You doubted if you could catch upto her. Meleys was the fastest dragon.

Moonfyre let out a groan as she flew through the clouds to Rook's Rest.

Your memories flashed before you. The first time you rode a dragon was with your father. It was Seasmoke.

"Kepa! Soo high! Hehe" little y/n threw her arms up in the air as Seasmoke flew through the clouds, huffing proudly.

"Yes. Do you like it? Being here atop the clouds?" Laenor asked his daughter who only giggled and said.

"Yes kepa" laenor smiled and said "If you like, we can fly on Seasmoke every now and then. Just don't tell your mother or i won't hear the end of it."

You smiled at the memory. Those times perished very quickly, right infront of your eyes.

You could only look ahead now, not behind. You may not even make it out alive today. But you'll die knowing that you tried.

_________________________________________

Meleys tackled Sunfyre in the sky as the roar of another dragon was heard. Larger wings taking off in the sky.

Vhagar had arrived.

"Thank the gods!" Aegon exclaimed before his face turned to horror upon realisation of what was to come.

"Dracarys!" Aemond said

"No! Noo!" Aegon screamed trying to take cover of his dragon. Meleys fled the moment Vhagar breathed fire.

Meleys was away from Vhagar and Sunfyre. Rhaenys felt no hope returning back home. She would fight. She would fight here and die. She closed her eyes and opened them slowly before saying

"Angōs Meleys.."

Meleys turned back to the fight, she gave a look to Rhaenys which she reciprocated. Rhaenys tightened her strap, and held tighter to the saddle.

Vhagar and Meleys were flying towards each other, when suddenly...

A loud roar could be heard...

Moonfyre came out of the clouds. Her size a close match to Vhagar.

She was one of the unhatched egg of Balerion and Dreamfyre before Balerion passed.

"Dracarys!"

All eyes went on the White dragon and her rider as she breathed fire. Vhagar flew away from the fire before she could collide with Meleys.

Rhaenys watched as Moonfyre the 9 year old dragon chased after Vhagar the 180 year old dragon. Both almost equal in size.

"Angōs Moonfyre!" Y/n shouted to her dragon.

Aemond looked back once. He didn't anticipate that another dragon, let alone the dragon of his once betrothed, would be coming to Rook's Rest.

He didn't turn away and flee. Vhagar turned back and charged towards the Nightdream.

The largest dragons collided with each other. Moonfyre clawed at Vhagar's wing as the Queen of the Dragons let out a loud wail.

Rhaenys got rid of any of the remaining green soldiers before joining Y/n in her battle.

Y/n grunted as Moonfyre flew away just in time to dodge Vhagar's attack.

Meleys came in and clawed at Vhagar's right wing. Tearing away some flesh from her wing.

Aemond, knowing he couldn't win and fled from Rook's Rest.

Yet amongst all, two were completely forgotten.....

Aegon the Usurper and Sunfyre the Golden....

Meleys told y/n that the last she saw them was when Sunfyre crashed near the woods.

Nodding at her grandmother's word, Y/n took off towards the direction of the woods along with Rhaenys.

_________________________________________

Moonfyre and Meleys were just a few feet away.

As you walked through the woods with Rhaenys, she drew out her sword for protection.

The two of you saw smoke coming out. Upon a closer look, the two of you saw Aegon and Sunfyre.

Aegon's body partly burned and bent. While Sunfyre's one wing was almost torn.

Rhaenys and you shared a look before deciding that you both would take Aegon back to Dragonstone.

Sunfyre was smaller than Moonfyre so she could carry the Gold dragon with her feet.

_________________________________________

"Your grace you must calm down-" Corlys tried to reason.

"How can I possibly calm down?! I don't know if my girl would return safely! I cannot lose another child!" Rhaenyra said, her voice raising.

All became silent....

A loud roar was heard. Rhaenyra and the rest ran outside. There they were...

Moonfyre and Meleys.

Rhaenyra squinted her eyes which widened when she saw what came with the dragon riders.

Moonfyre dropped Sunfyre's body a bit far before landing on the beach.

Y/n came down from Moonfyre as Rhaenys came down from Meleys, taking Aegon down with her.

Guards took Aegon's body away. He would be dealt with afterwards.

Rhaenyra ran and hugged her daughter. She offered Rhaenys a smile and thanked her for protecting her daughter.

Baela ran and hugged y/n as she hid her face in y/n's neck.

_________________________________________

When night came over Driftmark, you stood near the balcony. A letter in your right hand. You turned back to your trusted maid and gave her the letter.

She nodded and quickly left from to room. She was to deliver that letter to the one eyed prince or rather..... The Kinslayer..

You gently took the letter you had received from him that evening in your arms, reading it again.

You look up at the sky, closing your eyes as Moonfyre soared above the sky, your white hair flowing away from your face due to the wind.

The letter which you had received made you question everything. You do love that man even though he killed your brother..

Dear y/n,

I didn't expect to see you today. I realised after today that this war is neither yours nor mine to fight yet we both find ourselves tangled in it.

I wished for the throne because my brother is unfit for it. But I realise now that... I wish for you more. That I need you more than any throne, any power.

Aegon will die and so will the other Greens. I know that you would not believe me but I am willing to leave my grudges and be with you.

I need you not some Baratheon girl.

I have realised that you.. and i... We were born to die... together....

That was what the letter stated. You stilled as a vision flashed in your eyes.

Your little brother..... Was it Aegon or was it Viserys? Who ever it was.. looked quite grown up...

He was getting coronated....by Aemond..

You stood beside him, and on the opposite side stood Lord Cregan Stark...

You panted as your vision ended, eyes regaining their color.

Maybe everything was going to okay after the war ends.. You and Aemond lived.. your brother sat on the throne..you could only hope the rest of the family was okay.

You felt relieved a bit by the vision, thinking about the letter you had sent.

It stated that he must accept Rhaenyra as the queen and pledge loyalty to her. If he doesn't, there isn't any thing you can do. He already took your brother, your mother won't let go of that easily but he could try.

The last line was one of the same lines he wrote to you.....

"You and I .... We were born to Die...."

-Lillian

#fanfiction #game of thrones #got #hotd #house of the dragon #x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #prince aemond #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #dance of the dragons #x y/n #x yn

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