#greensight

[horizon-verizon]

Why is Daemon getting all this Old Gods magic thrown at him when... he's a Targaryen? He comes from a family with their own magic, not just dragon dreams but probably some sorcery that was conveniently lost after the Dance and/or Baelor, and even if it was more rumor than anything else, the writers had the power to make it more than rumor, AND a kind of magic that would make sense for the Targaryens AND help show what they would lose in the Dance. So why all the woods witch and old gods magic then? Am I missing something?

But probably some sorcery that was conveniently lost after the Dance and/or Baelor, and even if it was more rumor than anything else, the writers had the power to make it more than rumor.

Like they did with Aegon's Prophecy, which I think if it was "lost" amongst the Targs, it'd be when Maegor killed his nephew Aegon...bc Aenys would have told Aegon and Aegon the Uncrowned had no sons/declared heirs. Aegon I might not have told Maegor but maybe Visenya did. And even then Visenya died way before Jaehaerys took the throne so why would she tell Rhaena, Jaehaerys, Alysanne, or Alyssa Velaryon? Maegor likely didn't either.

Anyway, to your question. To "fix the toxic man" (superficial claim to feminist writing here & not bc men shouldn't grow but bec Daemon already showed loyalty to her & gave up chances to rule several times even in the show but they chose to fuck it all up) and give Daemon an arc this season. And to introduce Alys' magic/her role in the Riverlands/hype her up. Esp for Aemond's arrival and their own messed up relationship they know people are going to gag over. finally, bc they are in love with PARALLES-PARALLELS, in this case, Daemon's parallel to Rhaenyra's religiousity arc as well as juxtaposition to Aemond's own selfish rise to power.

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Bran III

He was desperately afraid.

“Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?” he heard his own voice saying, small and far away.

And his father’s voice replied to him. “That is the only time a man can be brave.”

Now, Bran, the crow urged. Choose. Fly or die.

Death reached for him, screaming.

Bran spread his arms and flew.

[blankfairy]

the fire spread throughout my bones and stayed

Summary: She knows. Larys never told her of his very first dream, but when his feet found the weirwood he found her, too, dark hair braided over her shoulder, cotton dress stained with smudges of grass and dirt. She’d smiled at him, the way an older sibling should, the way ten-year-old Harwin never did to his crippled nine-year-old brother, and offered to pray to the old gods with him.

Her very presence had been prayer enough.

Or, nine-year-old Larys Strong and his fourteen-year-old half-sister, Alys, have more in common than just a father.

Characters: Young Larys Strong, Young Alys Rivers.

Warnings: Internalized ableism, ableism, ableist language.

read on ao3!

The dreams come in the blackest nights, in a flash of fire and smoke and a spreading pain behind his eyes, thrumming in tandem with his tempest of a heartbeat.

A flash of marbled silver, and two dragons dancing above Gods Eye; Harrenhal consumed by flame. Choking ash and blood spilling blood and blood spilling blood —

When Larys wakes, his skin sheened with sweat, a black bird with three beady eyes bears down upon him, crooning to him in the crackling voice of the Stranger. The only breath that can fill his lungs is thick and dark and acrid.

He does not realize the dream has ended until he feels the grass beneath his bare feet, his cane sinking into the mud, and the bleeding eyes of the weirwood boring into him. The summer air is warm, but he shivers anyways, because the Old Gods have only ever looked through him, never at him.

I’m still dreaming, Larys thinks, but the words pass through him like wind through stalks of ghost grass. The pale light of the full moon filters through the weirwood’s amber leaves, rustling in the wind; their shadows dance upon the earth. He falls splay-kneed in front of the tree.

Alys is behind him.

The old gods tell him. In the muffled footfalls in dirt, in the sound of grass brushing at the hem of her dress. She treads carefully in the godswood; Larys can only think of his brute of a big brother crashing through the trees as if the very land was made for him to desecrate.

She slips beneath the gnarled branches of the weirwood and sits beside him, sparing him no peace. “It happened again, didn’t it?”

Larys glances at her. It must be the hour of the wolf, but Alys’ eyes are bright, as if she hasn’t been sleeping at all; she’s only fourteen, tall and lean, but seems so much older and wiser in the dark.

“No,” he answers in a quiet, low voice.. He gnaws at his lip, even though the maester and his father have told him off for it more times than he can count. He feels the tips of his ears fluster fire-hot.

She knows. Larys never told her of his very first dream, but when his feet found the weirwood he found her, too, dark hair braided over her shoulder, cotton dress stained with smudges of grass and dirt. She’d smiled at him, the way an older sibling should, the way ten-year-old Harwin never did to his crippled nine-year-old brother, and offered to pray to the old gods with him.

Her very presence had been prayer enough.

Alys kneads her fingers into the white roots protruding from the ground, tilting her head. She looks more like him than Harwin does, all bone and willow-thin limbs that seem too long for her body. If he didn’t know any better, if his father hadn’t clout him on the ear the first and only time he’d suggested Alys was his full-blooded sister, he could have believed they had the same mother.

“What did you see this time?”

Her voice pulls at the words lodged in his throat, willing them free, when all Larys wants to do is sit in silence and pretend he’s the normal, no-name second son of Lyonel Strong, who has no clubfoot and doesn’t dream of the future’s fires.

“Harrenhal was…” Larys frowns. If his dreams are true, past and future, as Alys once said, what kind of power does he grant them by speaking them aloud? He rolls his lip between his teeth, harder, and the taste of iron spreads across his tongue.

Alys watches, but doesn’t scold; she only smiles, like he imagines their mother would have, and takes his hand. “We’ll strike a deal. I’ll tell you of my last green dream. You tell me yours.”

Through the darkness Larys sees her eyes, the same shade as sage and pine needles, lined with something black. A streak runs down her lips. She’s staring the same way the weirwood does; the same way the three-eyed raven did each time Larys awoke.

Witch, they call her, the same way they call him Clubfoot, but in front of him he only sees his half-sister, not quite his flesh and blood, but more than a stranger. He and Harwin share parents, but with Alys, Larys shares dreams, and shouldn’t that mean more than having the same mother?

“Okay,” he says tentatively, sighing, trying to ease the weight pressing down upon his shoulders. His breath comes heavy and thick. “You first.”

Alys nearly grins, canine teeth poking into the flesh of her lower lip. “A prince.” The words come from her lips quicker than lightning. “Silver-haired, with sapphire eyes. His great dragon danced above the Gods Eye. Her shadow swallowed the Riverlands whole.”

“I saw our home burn,” Larys sputters, not allowing the air between them breath for a single second. “The flames rose so high they touched the clouds. And— And I saw your dragon, too. I think. There were two. One was red, and…”

“Harrenhal hasn’t burned since Aegon’s Conquest,” Alys cuts in sharply. “We see the past too sometimes, you know.”

“It wasn’t Balerion who burned it, it was…” Larys rubs his fingers together and feels soot between them, mixed with something sticky and wet. The flush spreads to his cheeks “It doesn’t matter. You don’t believe me.”

“I will always believe you, little brother. You saw the past, that’s all.” Alys squeezes his hand. Her smile quivers. He thinks some of the ash rubs off on to her, but when she draws her hands back, the only thing they’re stained with is smudges of dirt. “We must stick together, you and I.”

“I know, sister.” The word is cloyingly sweet on his tongue. Only here, in witness of the gods, are they allowed to share blood and bone and dreams.

“The world will fear us some day, as they did the greenseers of old. You and me and my silver dragon prince.”

Larys nods, but mouth is full of cotton and his eyes heavy. He can only bring himself to look up at the eyes of the weirwood, twisted and scorned, glaring into him. He wipes his hands on his tunic and heaves himself onto his feet without waiting for Alys. Night melts into dawn across the godswood, at the corner of his eye; he wonders if his father would even care if he was found missing from his bed. Alys could go disappear for a moon and no one would bat an eye. He leans on his cane, legs aching and back burning. He tells himself it’s from sitting improperly, but everything has begun hurting more and more as of late.

Alys stands after him, takes his free hand again, and wordlessly they begin the walk through the godswood, back to Harrenhal. Her nails dig into his skin.

If she feels the blood dripping from his palms, or smells the ash clinging to his frame, she says nothing of it.

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Greensight challenged Fogstar, so Fogstar ordered Ramleg, their mate, to punish them. Everyone got injured, and there's drama now

I would watch this play in a fancy theatre

[the-king-andthe-lionheart]

I find this highly interesting:

She hunkered down in the dark against a damp stone wall and listened for the pursuit, but the only sound was the beating of her own heart and a distant drip of water. Quiet as a shadow, she told herself. She wondered where she was. When they had first come to King's Landing, she used to have bad dreams about getting lost in the castle. Father said the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, but in her dreams it had been immense, an endless stone maze with walls that seemed to shift and change behind her. She would find herself wandering down gloomy halls past faded tapestries, descending endless circular stairs, darting through courtyards or over bridges, her shouts echoing unanswered. In some of the rooms the red stone walls would seem to drip blood, and nowhere could she find a window. Sometimes she would hear her father's voice, but always from a long way off, and no matter how hard she ran after it, it would grow fainter and fainter, until it faded to nothing and Arya was alone in the dark. - Arya III AGOT

Evenfall found them still trudging toward the Green Fork and Lord Frey's twin castles. I am almost there, Arya thought. She knew she ought to be excited, but her belly was all knotted up tight. Maybe that was just the fever she'd been fighting, but maybe not. Last night she'd had a bad dream, a terrible dream. She couldn't remember what she'd dreamed of now, but the feeling had lingered all day. If anything, it had only gotten stronger. Fear cuts deeper than swords. She had to be strong now, the way her father told her. There was nothing between her and her mother but a castle gate, a river, and an army . . . but it was Robb's army, so there was no real danger there. Was there? - Arya X ASOS

This could definitely be just a tactic of foreshadowing, but I do find it interesting how it’s Arya we see who seems to be having stressful dreams full of foreboding and symbolism right before the deaths of Ned and Catelyn and Robb.  Makes me wonder if Arya’s blood is even more magical (via the Warg King’s daughters) than we think.

[imaginarianisms]

the fact that. the show made the decision to make h.elaena uninterested in dragons & dragonriding & not fly despite literally contradicting grrm's words that she canonically loves flying & dreamfyre is mid. & the fact that they didnt even give her a sworn protector & she's the FUCKING QUEEN (its ok desmond jordayne ily). & she.. astral projects into daemon's psyche & tells daemon to kill her own brother….... her FAVORITE brother. & it seems that a.lys & h.elaena have been friends this entire time & they've been communicating telepathically & that h.elaena is a greenseer? which, if you think about it, it kind of Does make sense because, remember, the hightowers are mixed andal & first men. but it also felt like it came from outta the ass nowhere? especially bc she's doing this from a BALCONY not even in front of a godswood & can enter someone else's greensight vision, that's some really really really REALLY powerful shit, especially when she has no teachers like bloodraven or jojen reed to guide her. i've always interpreted her to be able to astral project & have psychic abilities, but h.elaena jumped from having vague visions that even she didn’t understand to knowing the date, time, & exact place of certain characters’ deaths & there was literally no buildup to this At All w/ her being a greenseer whatsoever... i. would love to see How that developed but unfortunately the writers don’t care about her beyond being a convenient plot point. h.elaena not interested in riding, h.elaena not wanting to do anything with her dreams & hyping her up & dreamfyre for the possibility of her riding out into battle & THEN her refusing to fight for her family let alone grieve her son helping & literally talking to d.aemon without ever mentioning b&c/j.aehaerys bc clearly j.aehaerys never mattered in the show whatsoever except for 2 episodes & THEN help the man who ORDERED HER SON'S BRUTAL MURDER TO BE BRUTALLY DECAPITATED IN FRONT OF HER TO KILL HER OWN BROTHER. that's. certainly a choice.

[blossomhcir]

WHAT VERY SPECIFIC CHARACTER ARCHETYPE ARE YOU?                                        ❧       Life/Death/Life

A person who represents the mysteries and inner workings of the world's forces; a person who has destiny at their back, a person wielding their understanding like a weapon. A person who cycles through rebirths and deaths, growing ever more clever.

TAGGED: @dreamtfyres thank you so much ♡

TAGGED: @velcryons and anyone else who would like to do it!

[lysanalannister]

We are pleased to announce the arrival of { LADY LYSANA LANNISTER  } of { HOUSE LANNISTER } to King’s Landing! The { 27 } year-old { FEMALE } is whispered to be { NAIVE AND OVER-SENSITIVE } but in reality they are { KIND AND CARING }. They are also said to resemble { ELLIE BAMBER }.They are { NEUTRAL } a new treaty of peace and unity between House Targaryen and House Stark. Things, however, are not always quite what they seem, are they?

character  basics

NAME  :  Lysana Lannister.

NICKNAMES  :  Sana.

OCCUPATION    /  TITLE  : Lady of Stone Hedge.  

GENDER  :  Identifies  as  a  cis  woman  with  she  /  her  /  hers  pronouns.

ROMANTIC  &  SEXUAL  ORIENTATION  :  Heterosexual.  

AGE  :  Twenty seven  years  old,  currently.

BIRTHPLACE  :   Casterly Rock.

CURRENT  RESIDENCE  :  Casterly Rock.  

personality

POSITIVES  :  Kind, Caring.

NEUTRALS  :  Can easily space out.

NEGATIVES  :  Naïve, Over-Sensitive.

MORAL  ALIGNMENT  :  Neutral good.

MYERS-BRIGGS  TYPE  :  infp-t  —  the mediator.

affiliations

FAMILY  :   Steffon Lannister (elder brother), Loreon Lannister (elder brother), Tytos Lannister (younger brother).

PARTNER  :  n/a.

CHILDREN  :  n/a.

physical  details

PREFERRED  HAND  :  Left handed.

EYE  COLOR  :  Blue.

HAIR  COLOR  :  Blonde.

HAIR  STYLE  :  Down and Loose.  

COMPLEXION  :  Pale.

BUILD  :  Slender.

HEIGHT  :   5′6″.

CLOTHING  STYLE  :  Simple, practical clothing.  

NOTABLE  FEATURES  OR  SCARS  :  Rosy cheeks.  

PORTRAYED  BY  :  Ellie Bamber.

miscellaneous  details

RELIGION  :  The Faith of the Seven.

HOBBIES  :  Going on long walks, Drawing.

POSSESSIONS  /  HEIRLOOMS  :  A ring that belonged to her father.

MEDIA  /  CHARACTER  INSPIRATIONS  &  INFLUENCES  :  Frodo Baggins, Arwen, Galadriel, Jojen Reed, Luna Lovegood, Wanda Maximoff, Alice Kingsleigh.

more information

coming soon

[barrenclan]

"Oracles"

This issue is very lore-dense and exposition-heavy, so there's no shame in giving it a couple reads. Pure xenofiction worldbuilding.

Finally, here's the answer to what's going on between Pinepaw and Nightberry, and what the deal is with Pinepaw's visions and such! The magic powers are very much real, but as has been said before, there is no confirmed afterlife or source of the abilities, like Nightberry says in the issue. It does not mean that StarClan is real in this comic. It's a mystery.

I put a lot of my own ideas and thoughts into oracles, but there are some outside media sources that had a very strong influence I'd like to mention, which are the Eye's powers from The Magnus Archives, shining from The Shining, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, and greensight from A Song of Ice and Fire.

As a reminder, I've begun offering early previews of the next issue on my Patreon, under the $5+ tiers. Issue 42 will be posting there sometime next week, once I finish it.

Previous < > Next

[greenbloods]

fire and blood exists in this weird place for me where theres some storylines that are cool and all but it’s mainly interesting to me as the call and response for asoiaf. unlike dunk and egg which I think stands well on its own, i vibe with f&b like a warped mirror or an alt history of what could have been in the main series. what if ned stark (cregan) came south but with an army and this time he did everything right and was super OP at southron politics. what if cersei still had three bastard kids (and named one joffrey!!) but she had a dragon this time. and an ugly ass quartered sigil. what if littlefinger (larys) was asexual and had greensight this time (he still gets harrenhal though). what if catelyn had something freudian going on with robb and he becomes a king and rides off to war and she still isn’t able to save him and all her children die before her and she sees everything she loves crumble before her and still dies a husk of her former self. what if jaime had a dragon and killed himself

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Bran III

Finally he looked north.

He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal.

And his bastard brother Jon sleeping alone in a cold bed, his skin growing pale and hard as the memory of all warmth fled from him.

[feyhunter78]

The Dreadful Need in the Devotee Masterlist

Summary - During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival, a thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together.

Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion has decided you need a sworn sword.

I’ve messed with canon and aged everyone up, so we start our story off with y/n being fifteen and Jon being sixteen, then go from there!

Ch 1: The Little Lion Ch 2: The Bastard Son Ch 3: Cyvassse Ch 4: Greensight Ch 5: The Tourney of the Hand Ch 6: The Chamber of the Little Lion Ch 7: Within Lannister Grasp Ch 8: Secrets Revealed Ch 9: Enter Stage Left: House Tyrell🔥 Ch 10: Aftermath Ch 11: Roseroad Ch 12: Weirwood Ch 13: The Queen's Nameday Ch 14: The Son of the Morning Ch 15: Duality of a Lioness Ch 16: The Young Wolf Ch 17: Northern War Camp Ch 18: The Fall of the Lannisters Ch 19: Post War Revelry Ch 20: The Lion and the Star Ch 21: As Time Unfurls

[rainwingmarvel7]

Once again, thank you so much @murmel-malt for another incredible commission!!! 💕

This is Nadya and Jon’s second child and eldest daughter, Princess Talisa Stark Tully. She is the wife of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey’s eldest son (the one born in the show), Edmund Tully, and as such, the Lady of Riverrun. She is also a warg and gifted with greensight, and thus she was chosen by Bran to be the next Three-Eyed Raven. Talisa is also a gifted swordswoman, better than even most men.

I absolutely love this! From the expression on her face to her absolutely stunning outfit, it’s all so amazing!!!

[blckfyres]

can i request #41 with aemond thank you!!!

btw i’m so excited about this and if you’re up for it im so down to send you more requests but i don’t want to overwhelm you 🖤

i'm alive! life got in the way but your dear author managed to get a big job! this is my first time writing smut so i’m not super happy with it, but please enjoy take on a blackwood!reader's reaction to aemond returning from storm's end with some slowburn gratuitous smut. our aemond is a tough nut to crack.

request a song prompt!

The Bloody Post

Warnings: smut, slightly sub!aemond dom!reader, choking, murder, kinslaying aftermath

WC: 4586 (i wish i were sorry)

Prompt 41: "Love will save you from misery, and tie you to the bloody post" - Love Will Save You, Swans

The palace halls were filled with a turgid emptiness tonight. Smoke hung heavy on the cold stone walls, flame from the torch sconces stuttering death rattles in the biting cold. You pulled your thick robe closer to you as you hurried, leaving a trail of hushed condensation behind you as you breathed like dragon smoke. 

It was desolate nights like these that made you miss home, where your mother kept all of the hearths lit, ready for your return from the barren gardens of Raventree Hall. You would often sit at the dead weirwood, even as a girl, chattering to the Old Gods and petitioning your dreams on the necroding white bark. You did not need a reply to know they heard you – you could always feel it in the sprawling coil of the white roots, more familiar to you than your own blood. 

Targaryens had their occasional dreamers, but the blood of the First Men ran thick with greensight – you, who could hear the whispers of long-forgotten gods, and things yet to come to pass. You were a long way away from home, but you could still feel that magic in your bones – thrumming, cold, knowing.

It’s how you were jolted awake tonight – dreams of a dragon’s jaws at your throat, and a mother’s screams in your ears. It’s why you scrambled out of your room before your legs had even registered moving, and how you could always feel him before you saw him. When it came to your love for eachother, neither of you had ever needed eyes.   

Your feet traversed the freezing flagstones bare – you had been too hurried to find your sandals, hearing the roar of Vhagar’s return from the east wing as soon as you crossed the threshold into the hall. 

Something in that roar made you sure it belonged to Aemond rather than his mount, and your already-freezing blood ran colder. You had awoken for a reason, then. You could feel him more strongly now – the sensation of cold rain spittle on his neck was keeping him anchored. Outside.

You didn’t think twice about the sudden turn you made towards the palace gates. You felt talons of broken stones slashing the skin of your soles as you walked outside, and thanked the blood you would leave in your wake. My debt for the warning, paid in full. Paid to the Old Gods in blood. 

The downpour became heavier the closer you got to the palace walls, and you searched for your lover desperately through the thick, mummer’s drape of a storm.

Your legs became victim to the biting cold, as numb as his resolve felt to you. You needed to find him before his family did. He needs me. You thought, as your wet shift slithered against your legs. He won’t be able to wash the blood from his hands by himself. 

Out of both breath and heat, you surveyed the grounds again. Lightning struck two leagues north of the castle, illuminating the grounds and the tall figure you suddenly noticed stalking towards you. You watched Aemond lurch closer, you – a phantom in his path. He could walk right through me, you thought. And I would let him. 

You had barely registered the distance he had closed before you felt Aemond’s freezing hands grip the hair closest to your scalp– desperate, stinging, a shipwrecked sailor clinging to dissolving driftwood. The little breath you had left was crushed against him like a paltry sacrifice. 

Your voice was little more than a guttural choke as you grabbed his shoulders. You hoped your grip was iron – you couldn’t feel your hands.

 “What is it, what’s happened?” 

Aemond stared at you, and his silence was as telling to you as the whispers of your gods. But you needed to hear it, gods, you needed to hear him say it. You needed to know what to fix - for him to tell you where to sew his flesh, even though you could see the gaping wound. 

Aemond watched you implore him with your eyes, unable to do much else than bask in the overwhelming comfort of your presence as he gripped you, the same way he used to imagine gripping dragon reins as a boy. You were two rusted anchors clinging to each other for dear life so you wouldn’t fall apart. You were sure that your nails had pierced through his leathers by now, how could they not have? 

Another bolt of lightning illuminated the tableaux in front of you again, and this time you could see the state of of the prince clearly. His naked eye was half-crazed, his silver hair a matted ash, and arms trembling as they held his hands to your head. You had never seen him panicked before, not like this. 

Aemond’s arms dropped from your hair - gone was the strength he had to hold them up. They tumbled down your body, and his hands gripped whatever of you they could find to keep afloat, drowning you as he held you. He didn’t know what he needed, he just needed. 

Your lover’s sudden cold touch pulled you back to the present, your mind suddenly sobered – you needed to know what you had to prepare for. 

“Aemond.”  You barked, ripping his hands off of your form. 

The panic in you rose like bile, shrouded in your demand. You weren’t sure if the roaring in your ears was Vhagar’s or your own.

Aemond took a deep breath through his clamped teeth, breathing between his teeth as he yanked you towards him once more, gripping you even tighter than before. 

He shook his head like a child in denial, and dread gripped your lungs like a tourniquet. You struggled against the steely muscles of his arms, looking up desperately to read his face.

“Storm’s End,” He searched your eyes for a wisdom that evaded you. “Luke.”

It was the first time he had called his nephew by the name used by the boy’s mother. A mother’s love, transfigured to an uncle’s guilt. And that’s when you knew. Perhaps, If you were honest with yourself, you knew the moment you awoke - your gods have never deceived you. Denial. You thought. A pretty, pretty thing.

The prince began to scramble at your silence, though brusquely, justifying it to himself just as much as you under the bluntness of his tone.

“It was an accident. I only meant to scare the boy, and Vhagar –”

Only. You gripped his leathers again, like you were trying to tear at his skin. You wanted to howl at him, rend his flesh like a wild animal, to peck at his eye like the ravens on your weirwood – rage. Rage at his arrogance, his stupidity, his pain, his projection.

But all you could do was sob, move your attention up to hold his weathered face in your hands, and hate yourself for the gentleness of your touch. 

He needed you, and you would carry him as you would his sins, paint yourself with the same brush and blood-red paint. He would not be alone. Tonight, you would fix him, and tomorrow, you would break him down again – repaired, reborn. 

This is what love is, you supposed. Getting blood on your own hands because you can’t help holding theirs. 

Aemond pressed his forehead to yours in desperation, as if to meld into you to make you see, understand. You would never forgive it, but he knew you would face the seven hells with him, hand in hand. 

You caressed his face through your tears, and pressed your lips to his suddenly, needing comfort in him just as much as he needed you. You forgot your own hatred for vulnerability when it came to Aemond. Aemond, who would raze kingdoms and caress your cheeks with gentle thumbs in the same breath.  Love. You thought. All it is is your blood on the line and your head on the block. 

You caressed your lover’s eyebrow with your free thumb as you kissed him slowly, and you felt the tension in his body dissipate at your tenderness, your acceptance of him despite his sins. But the tenderness was little match for the violent need you both felt.

Your lips danced against his in their usual battle, and he clutched at the soaking underclothes that clung to your body. You felt him fight tears of his own, his despondency turn into desire. Aemond pulled you against him tighter, like he wanted to dissolve into you, consume you. He got like this sometimes – all gnashing canines breaching lips, and moans more violent than dragonsong. But you couldn’t let him succumb yet. Not here. 

You stopped him with a flat palm to his chest, an action that usually made him crack a smile. Dohaeris, you would whisper wickedly, before he pushed you down to devour you from under your skirts.

He didn’t stop kissing you this time, a man too starved to serve. But you needed time with him – away from the tumult of war councils and the retribution the gods might strike down on him, a kinslayer.

“They’ll be looking for you,” You murmured against persistent pecks against your lips, letting his fervent kisses wash that ugly word away, if only for tonight. 

You looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to steer you through the hidden tunnels of the castle to his chambers. He ignored you, lips harsh against yours once again, hands rending the robe from your shoulders with a snarl as if its mere existence offended him. You did your best not to arch into his touch – it was liquid wildfire.

You knew that he would fuck you right here if you allowed it, and your core clenched at the thought. He grunted in victory when he noticed your reaction, and moved his attention to your collarbone and neck – he bit and kissed languidly, in the way he knew made you writhe.

You fought the urge to yank his head back and claim his mouth with your tongue, your body was beginning to betray your sound mind – you weren’t sure if the wetness between your legs was the rain or your own.

“Aemond.” you said weakly, tugging at his hair to try and reveal his face to you.

Aemond grunted against the valley of your neck, licking a hot trail up to your ear to distract you. He needed your hands on him now – he would break apart without them, crumble to ash.

“Aemond.” you commanded, nails digging into the scruff of his neck to get his attention.

He pried himself away from you with a hiss, tenderness rearing its head at the familiar, steely stubbornness of your gaze. He could never deny you, not really. 

“Unless you want the entire palace to see me bare,” you challenged, eyebrow raised.

You stepped closer to him, hand on his chest once more. You reached up to caress his neck, lips against his ears in a whisper that you were surprised was not lost in the storm. “Or am I not yours?”

Aemond stared at you for a moment, your heaving breasts and wild eyes, the way the rain hung from your lips. He knew exactly what you were doing, yet he never had the strength to resist you. You, his conniving, feral love.

Aemond hummed without a word, taking your wrist and pulling you with him towards the unsuspecting wooden door you would often use.

If it were any other time, you’d have the strength to smile. You could always rely on your lover’s jealousy, if nothing else.

The walk to your chambers was a short one through the passageways, though this time you made the journey in complete darkness. Something about his unusual lack of restraint had you wetter than ever before, and now you were the one dragging him behind you, his hand protectively on your waist as if you’d disappear if he ever let go.

You weren’t certain about how you got so close to your bed  – it was all a flurry of tongues, teeth, and desperation. You had never felt him move this fast before, save in his sparring matches. The prince’s need was palpable, a forest fire raging in the blood, forcing him to burn and lick like flame. 

Faster than you could register, Aemond moved behind you and gripped your back against him, hard.

His pale palm was firm against your throat and clear in its instruction. You sighed at it, arching your neck back against his shoulder - bare and willing against the jaws of the dragon. 

The prince’s other hand held your lower half flush to his clothed cock, and began to rock you against him. The friction was all-consuming, and you suddenly understood how the clash of battle could be glorious. You cursed his leathers for the distance they put between the two of you, and began to blindly move your hands behind you to free him from them.  

Aemond snarled at the feeling of you trying to weave your way through his grip. Insolent. He readjusted his grip with a hiss, moving the source of his pressure to your clit as he continued to grind. He needed you still, to tame something, someone — he fumbled for control as if he were holding water with open fingers.

The dual friction ended what little control you had over your hands. Your eyes rolled back as they would during your visions, but the only god you saw this time was a dragon, devouring what little restraint you had left stored in your neck and shoulders. 

Aemond groaned at the feeling of you jolting against his cock, sharply lapping at your ears and neck and biting what resistance your muscles dared present into submission. You fought to keep your head clear, grappling for a tether in a thick fog of pure want.

As your mind cleared, you began to feel the tremble in his hands, how his eye refused to open, his unwillingness to remove his leathers. A struggle for control.

You felt your resolve strengthen against his blunt bites to your temple. No. You thought. Not this time. Not like this. He needs me. 

You took a deep breath, a final bolster before you tore yourself from his grip and whipped around at a speed that mirrored his own.

The dragon may have strength, but the raven has cunning and speed.

You watched his pale face balk in shock, lips parted and eye wide and heavy. Before he could revert back to his scrambled dominance against you, you brought your soft, uncalloused fingers to the sliver of scar tissue that peeked out from his eyepatch.

You stroked the raised, pale flesh with your thumb softly, and feeling the muscles jump, unused to contact. His eye began to flicker closed slightly, nostrils flaring. You watched him fight against his reflexes, unravelling like a half-tamed serpent.

When you replaced your lone thumb with two fingers, Aemond’s breathing stilled entirely, and for a moment you worried you had gone too far. The candlelight of your room was suddenly oppressive, seeking the reflecting glint of the sapphire underneath the eye patch.

You fought to remain eye contact, and swallowed at the intimacy of the gesture – somehow you felt like the one laid bare, as if the jaws of the dragon were stilled and coiled to strike. The metallic scent of danger did little but strengthen your resolve, and you pressed your lips to his, still parted in shock.

You caressed him as you always did, lulling him into the familiarity of your embrace to calm him. The kiss did little to dampen the fire between you, try as you might – there was always something within the both of you yearning for the other, like fire and blood.

“Ñuhon,” You whispered into his mouth, your rudimentary Valyrian holding a rustic beauty he had yet to find in even the libraries of Oldtown. “Ñuhon se sȳz.” Mine. Mine and good.

Aemond growled under the praise, and tried his best to mask his desperate, preening sob with a low grunt. Your core clenched at his response, fighting the urge to guide his fingers into you.

You shook the thought from your core. Not tonight.

You continued to caress his scar as you kissed him, paying little mind to the tense coil of his balled fists and thrumming heartbeat. You could feel him slowly softening into your languid ministrations, a low pant forming at the apex of his burning lungs as you continued to touch his scar.

You moved your other hand to massage his scalp in encouragement. Your movements were repetitive, deliberate – it was as if you felt afraid to frighten a stray cat. You felt his neck erupt in gooseflesh when your tongue grazed his bottom lip, the tension in his muscles stark against his involuntary preening. 

Still fighting me.

Your kisses were plush and languid with the promise of wildfire. When you opened your eyes to meet his, he simply stared at you. Your eyes were probing, imploring in a way that made him fight the urge to panic. 

You sighed as you ran your hands along whatever lands you could reach: chest, fangs, fingers, lips, talons.

“Ivestragī nyke,” you whispered, thumb soothing the sharp contours of his eye. Let me.  

There was a long pause before you saw him nod, almost imperceptibly.

You pulled him to you once again, and this time, his hands moulded against your curves in silent submission. You sighed as you felt his tension dissolve in a way that made you want to sob. 

You began to move him against you, wings in the wind, and he moulded himself around you like a wave to the moon.

His forehead slowly dropped to rest against yours heavily, exhausted, as you began to unbutton the stiff leather of his doublet. You would burn it in the morning.

You rubbed your nose against his in comfort, your heart straining at the relieved huff he let out.

You struggled slightly against the latching of his leathers, hands still freezing from the storm. But he was patient, eye closed and almost serene.

His skin looked more pallid than usual in the candlelight, and you observed the stark contrast of skin between the two of you as your hand found his bare chest. You imagined this was how he felt taming Vhagar as a boy — raw muscle, the touch of the untouchable.

You felt Aemond’s abdominal muscles tense at your cold touch, and then relax slightly at the feeling of your full lips on his chest.

Aemond felt your tongue against his flesh, a violent gentleness that took his breath away. It felt like the old gods rather than the seven – primordial, familiar, scorching. Devastating, but gentle nevertheless — as gentle as wildfire could be.

You marked your territory slowly, kissing and licking whatever bare, scarred skin you could find in front of you until you felt Aemond’s muscles begin to tremble in earnest.

You lost yourself in the act and in his warmth, whispering whatever broken Valyrian you could remember under your breath as you mapped the contours of his flesh: Dohaeris. Serve. Nuhon. Mine. Rapa. Soft. Gevie. Beautiful. You suddenly knew how Aegon the Conqueror felt when he looked out on his lands. 

You tore your lips from him with great effort, finally looking up at his face when you felt him let out a long-held breath.

You felt the slick from your mouth leave a trail connecting your lips to him, and your stomach jolted when you saw the way he looked at you.

His eye was heavy with something you didn’t recognise, and his cheeks flushed. You licked your already-wet lips and felt your own face grow as hot as your core – he had been watching you the entire time, with a religious reverence and a hard cock. 

The sight of him more wrecked than you had ever seen him, his scarred, bare chest and straining leathers ignited something deep within you – perhaps that dominance, that aggression that your parents had tried so hard to cull.

You stared at him through heavy lashes, pushing his shoulders down with a nod of your head. Aemond heeded your instruction without argument, sitting at the edge of your ornate, mahogany bed without his eye leaving yours. 

There was something deeply erotic about the way he was looking up at you, and you both knew it. Your chest was heaving under your damp shift, now eye level with your lover as you stood over him. You wanted to break him, and then make him again, like a god. There was a pulsating power in the air, and it belonged to you. Is this how dragons feel?

You observed the way his lips parted in need – had it been any other night, he would have pulled you flush and taken your nipple into his mouth with a desperate urgency. But this time, he simply waited for instruction, single blue eye begging as violent need consumed him from the inside out. 

Your fingers weaved their way into Aemond’s scalp as you kissed him with a sudden ferocity that you had little strength to fight, relishing in his grunt as you climbed and straddled his lap. You didn’t wait to remove his trousers, swallowing his groans of relief as you loosened the ties to relieve the tension. 

He could have sobbed when he finally felt your hand make contact with his strained cock. He could already feel the tip weeping, and could do little to stop the flow of precum that escaped when you began to lick at his ear and neck as you pumped him. 

“Ñuhon,” You repeated in unison with his strangled grunts. “Aōhon.” Mine. Yours.

He did not need to hear anything else but that broken phrase for the rest of his life. 

He clutched you like he did Vhagar’s scales when he claimed her when you began to remove his eyepatch. Your hand never faltered on his cock as you stared at him, pupils dilating when you revealed the sapphire nestled deep within sensitive scar tissue. 

You felt all that he did, he knew. He could see it in the way your pupils swallowed your irises whenever you would swipe a thumb over his tip.

Those eyes will be my undoing, he vowed, finally closing his open eye and letting it roll back into the blackness where the Stranger no doubt waited for him.

You relished his hiss of ecstasy when your free hand yanked at the hair close to his scalp, punctuating the pull with the squeeze of your hand on the tip of his cock. Aemond finally let out a strangled moan, all grunting restraint forgotten.

“Ivestragī jikagon,” Let go. You commanded, feeling yourself gush onto his drenched leathers at sight beneath you. You couldn’t stop yourself from rutting against his thigh, joining his moans to create a symphony that sounded closer to dragonsong.

You felt something ignite in you when you remembered his eyepatch in your hand. Spurred on by the prince desperately fucking himself into your hand beneath you, you quickly placed it over your lover’s head and guided it to sit around his neck. Pretty, you thought.

Aemond’s eye snapped open at the sudden sensation, eyes darkening as you slowly started to pull the leather tight. The pleasure that shot through Aemond almost winded him, his groans built from the pit of his stomach as you began to choke him. 

“Kessa,”  Yes. He repeated it like a prayer, though it still sounded too much like a command for your liking.

You couldn’t look away from each other as you began to fasten your pace on his cock and wind the strap tighter. Aemond’s pupils were blown and his teeth bared, your instruction forgotten as he began to desperately tug your core over to his cock.

You felt his entire body tremble and his cockhead darken even more – he would not last long, judging by his desperate need to sheath himself in you. You ignored the agony between your legs, that desperate ache to ride him – your work was not done.

You nipped at his shoulder in reprimand at his attempt to put you off of your strategy, punctuating the bite with another tug at his neck. You relished at his flared nostrils and his wrecked gaze. His eyes were pleading, desperate, adoring. If you didn’t know better, you could see tears begin to form. 

“Ivestragī jikagon, Aemond.” Let go, Aemond. 

He growled at that, defiant until you shifted your weight to hover your core over his cock. The sound the prince let out was more dragon than human, and it made you tighten your leash and hold his gaze — daring him to disobey you and fuck up into your warmth.

Gods. You groaned at his heady glare. You would need to be quick, your own resolve was becoming little more than dornish sand.  

You weaved both hands into your lover’s silver hair and you straddled him, carefully holding your weight. You lowered yourself slightly and slowly with a hiss, until his cockhead barely breached you, nestled in the very opening of your walls. 

The prince cursed within a groan. Aemond’s grip on your hips was bruising – the wetness between your legs did nothing to put out his fire. He groaned at the heat, legs shaking at being held over the edge like this.

He almost toppled over as he felt your tongue on his scar and your core clenched around his tip. 

“Kessa ao ivestragī jikagon hen bisa?”  Your words were a honeyed, panted command. Will you finally let go of this? 

It was all too much for him. Your wanton acceptance of the ugliest part of him, the way you fit perfectly into his hold. He found himself nodding slightly, begging, and the overwhelming feeling of acceptance wormed its way through his core.

Something about the ease of it after all of these years was infuriating. He could do little else other than adore you, and beg for his destruction at your soft hands.

“Yes, yes I –” He shuddered as you began to let more of him in, the scorching warmth of you enveloping his cock until you were fully seated. 

“Fuck,” You whimpered, feeling him completely fill your walls, everything you had.

You threw your head back as you began to ride him, sobs escaping you at the sheer feeling of fullness and the sound of him begging, babbling in Valyrian.

He watched you, enraptured as your hips began their familiar, snake-like dance against him. In his haze, he wondered how you, his anchor, had your palms anchored onto his chest. 

You smiled at him slyly, something unspoken resolved during the whole affair – it felt lighter. He felt lighter. “Would you like to be released, my prince?” 

You punctuated the address with a swivel of your hips, a clench of your core, and a caress of his balls behind you. 

“Wretched woman.” He groaned weakly, gripping you for dear life as he tried to ward off his release. Impossible. “You save me from misery and tie me to the bloody post.” 

His words did little more than spur you on. You lay flat against him, your chest on his as you began to ride him faster. The fire in your core was stronger than it had ever been, punctuated by your squelching wetness as you rode him. You let your lover adjust you so he could hit that sweet spot within you – he needed to please you, he always did. You allowed it, arching to allow his fingers to resume their familiar, circular position on your clit. 

Your vision behind your eyes was bright white, brighter than the heavens as you felt your release chase after you. You weren’t certain your body would be here when you awoke, you were on fire. You would both be little more than ash when you awoke, and you would love each other more for it. 

You felt the coil tighten past human comprehension for the both of you, an ouroboros of pleasure as you fed eachother. You saw your tears before you felt them, falling onto the prince under you like flutterings of volcanic ash. 

“Let go, Aemond.” 

Your final command was weak, but he followed it anyway, his eyes black and his throat hoarse as he released into you with a series of sobs and bites.

You stroked his scar as he came, barely registering the action past the involuntary shakes of your own release – white hot, powerful, older than time itself. Aemond watched you as you came, a creature, the goddess Syrax herself. Made for him, whatever he was now. Kinslayer. Made for you. 

Aemond held you flush against him in the quiet aftermath, your head nestled into his shoulder. You continued to ride him slightly, slowly, wanting to drain him fully and feel it deep within you. He groaned softly as you did, attempting to get his shaking muscles under control before his grandfather came to find him. His eye felt sharper, his head clearer, and his heart lighter. Something had shifted. 

You lifted your head with great effort, noting the long tear tracks on his cheeks. You have never seen Aemond cry, and you never would. But this was close enough. He met your thoughtful gaze with a serious look, searching. Almost as if he expected a recoil from him after the lustful haze. He found none, hoping his eye conveyed his gratitude — it was a weight his tongue couldn’t possibly manage.

Instead, you did as you always did. Unmake him and whatever wisdom he thought he had, while you gripped his hand in yours. 

“You cannot control a dragon.”

He huffed.

“You control me well enough, my love.”

[worldsokayestmagicalgirl]

Ok so, I have an insane amount of GoT brainrot for someone who has spent the last decade actively avoiding this whole franchise. But I have listened to enough video essays that I may as well have read & watched the whole thing.

I have no idea when in the timeline this would take place or how they would even manage to fucking meet with where I placed them, but this is my fun little AU that I've put just a little too much time into. Everything lined up just a little too well based on our character backstories, & it was kinda fun to put them in a more serious setting/art style.

Diana would be an apprentice at the House of Black & White in Braavos training to be a Faceless Man. (I still find it so funny that the best place to drop her agnostic ass was in a religious death cult) The one place where being partially blind would have her at an advantage.

Amoré would be a Hightower in Oldtown, at the center of politics between The Faith of the Seven & the Citadel most likely secretly having weird dablings in ancient magic.

Sylphi as a Crannogman in The Neck, blessed with Greensight.

I will absolutely have to draw our good Bluestone Bois because I'd definitely place them in Dorne. I am both excited & dreading my attempt to draw the Water Gardens 🫠

As always, Diana : @wolfy1298

[lysanalannister]

We are pleased to announce the arrival of { LADY LYSANA BRACKEN  } of { HOUSE BRACKEN } to King’s Landing! The { 25 } year-old { FEMALE } is whispered to be { NAIVE AND OVER-SENSITIVE } but in reality they are { KIND AND CARING }. They are also said to resemble { ELLIE BAMBER }.They are { NEUTRAL } a new treaty of peace and unity between House Targaryen and House Stark. Things, however, are not always quite what they seem, are they?

character  basics

NAME  :  Lysana Bracken.

NICKNAMES  :  Lysana the Greenseer.

OCCUPATION    /  TITLE  : Lady of Stone Hedge.  

GENDER  :  Identifies  as  a  cis  woman  with  she  /  her  /  hers  pronouns.

ROMANTIC  &  SEXUAL  ORIENTATION  :  Heterosexual.  

AGE  :  Twenty five  years  old,  currently.

BIRTHPLACE  :   Stone Hedge.

CURRENT  RESIDENCE  :  Stone Hedge.  

personality

POSITIVES  :  Kind, Caring.

NEUTRALS  :  Can easily space out.

NEGATIVES  :  Naïve, Over-Sensitive.

MORAL  ALIGNMENT  :  Neutral good.

MYERS-BRIGGS  TYPE  :  infp-t  —  the mediator.

affiliations

FAMILY  :   n/a.

PARTNER  :  Betrothed to Abraxas Blackwood.

CHILDREN  :  n/a.

physical  details

PREFERRED  HAND  :  Left handed.

EYE  COLOR  :  Blue.

HAIR  COLOR  :  Blonde.

HAIR  STYLE  :  Down and Loose.  

COMPLEXION  :  Pale.

BUILD  :  Slender.

HEIGHT  :   5′6″.

CLOTHING  STYLE  :  Simple, practical clothing.  

NOTABLE  FEATURES  OR  SCARS  :  Rosy cheeks.  

PORTRAYED  BY  :  Ellie Bamber.

miscellaneous  details

RELIGION  :  The Faith of the Seven.

HOBBIES  :  Going on long walks, Drawing.

POSSESSIONS  /  HEIRLOOMS  :  A ring that belonged to her father.

MEDIA  /  CHARACTER  INSPIRATIONS  &  INFLUENCES  :  Frodo Baggins, Arwen, Galadriel, Jojen Reed, Luna Lovegood, Wanda Maximoff, Alice Kingsleigh.

more information

coming soon - to be updated