#red hair is visenya- she’s not mine

[darlingofvalyria]

in hightower green | the children

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔫— 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫 𝔩𝔢𝔤𝔞𝔠𝔶 — 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔢, 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔍𝔞𝔠𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔰 ℑ 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔔𝔲𝔢𝔢𝔫 ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔯𝔱.

CONTAINS— canon divergence, canon targcest.

a/n— kind reminder that this is just for fun from a nudge request I got (thanks nudge request!! i was so happy when i got it!! any chance to flex my eager tumultous brain is welcome). some of these hcs might be upsetting to most, but eh, this is in my multiverse & that's the beauty of fanfiction. you can make up stories within a story. honestly, i had so much fun conceptualising and writing these that, as usual, i got a little crazy with it. lol. also moodboards. i fucking love moodboards. + i might update this as the main story (& its addendums) goes on.

LAST UPDATE: 10/05/23.

❝You may defy as you think are owed to, but I know what is mine birthright. I am King Jacaerys' firstborn. I am his heir. Know that I have survived a war as a child, and I will not step back from another. not as a woman grown, and not most as your Queen.❞

❈ Daenera was the firstborn child of the King Jacaerys and his Queen Consort. From an early age, her mother had made sure to educate her of all her current and future titles, rights, and duties as the preemptive Heir to the Iron Throne. ❈ It could be said that this contributed to how 'serene' the princess' personality was shaped. She understood noblesse oblige, and was told, time and again, that she must protect her birthright, and must treat her siblings like a sword; able to protect you when wielded correctly, but to also harm you once poisoned by an enemy.

"She was, as was sung, the best parts of the Queens before her. And most all, the best parts of the Sovereign Kings before her."

❈ Despite such a weighty upbringing, Daenera was said to be the epitome of a royal. She was polite, kind and obliging, but not one to be pushed about and manipulated. She spoke sincerely, rewarded allies, and punished when blood was due. She kept a small private counsel, pertaining her most closest advisors, a few of which, were her siblings. ❈ It is also said she oft found a steely resolve with her brother, Prince Gaemon, who was said to have called himself 'He Who Should Be King', and oft traded sharp and cloying barbs with him. One such sweet insult delivered by her brother had been her lack of a hatchling, for the princess' dragon egg did not hatch, nor two others presented to her before she fruitlessly made trips to Dragonmont. ❈ On the day of their mother's pyre, as she delivered the flames, the princess attempted to bond with Gaelithox (formerly known as The Cannibal), the Queen Consort's mount, but had been refused, suffering burns that lasted four moons. ❈ Instead, she bonded with her mount, Brightfyre, a moon after her mother's death. It is said that the dragon approached her while on her Tour. A pure white dragon with bloodred eyes, scales as if made of stone found in caverns. Sharp and Jagged. It is debated whether Brightfyre is indeed Dreamfyre's mount or Silverwing's. ❈ Daenera is said to have moon-spun silver hair and pale, watery blue eyes. She is said to have feminine features but lacked certain feminine charms (her lack of a voluptuous figure is said to have been the reason for her struggle with child-bearing, but several midwives have already laid false to this claim), but owned the sharp visage of the Warrior Queen, Visenya come alive. ❈ The Princess was said to prefer solid colours to her clothing of the usual House Targaryen style. She oft wore red, black, and white with intricate details, copying her grandmother and wearing her hair in braids. She was always found to be the picture of regality. She oft wore her mother's crowns in the daily, and her father's on important days.

"Thus called to witness that the King did not approve of the match, and had not spoken to his daughter for four moons, breaking her heart so. Yet the princess stood her ground. It is the only known conflict of the King and his Heir."

"Before the Queen passed, she had ensured her brother's loyalty to her daughter by many trials. Maestre Quitar speaks on good authority that it was not by trials, but by conversation that ran for three days. By the end, the Queen looked to be satisfied, and the prince worn and weary but victorious. They were betrothed in a day after."

❈ Her only bout of rebellion had been her marriage to her uncle, Prince Aemond Targaryen (soon whom followed the titles: King Consort and Protector of the Realm).

❝Don't you understand? I am her true protector. She bears the weight of the crown and I bear her shadow. It has always been my duty as the secondborn, and I will not fail again.❞

❈ As the secondborn child, Aemma had been set to be her sister's Spare and Shadow, but under her mother's tutelage, she had been tasked with a more powerful position: The Queen's Spider. Though her brother, the Prince Baelon is the Master of Whispers, Aemma controls the network that her mother started and that fulfilled the peaceful and prosperous reign of her father. ❈ Where Princess Daenera is serious and serene, Aemma had always been called a 'bright child'. She laughed loudly and expressed herself fully, oft was teasingly told to be the opposite of her namesake and named after, the Queen Aemma Arryn who upheld her duty with conducted manner. Though people oft remarked she was spoiled, as she is the Queen Rhaenyra's utmost favourite grandchild, and acted very freely, Aemma is Daenera's shield where Prince Aemond, the King Consort, had been called her sword.

"She pestered him until she couldn't pester him no more. But it is said that upon his wife's insistence, and his daughters' undeniable bond with the princess, it had softened him up enough that he acquiesce. They oft talked about dragons... and when the Rogue Prince passed, The Blood Wyrm took her as his rider." — Maestre Quitar.

❈ She was also said to be the closest to what was called 'The Blacks' side of the family, for her sweet and sunshine personality had won over even the Rogue Prince. It is said, she pestered the prince as a young child to take notice of her, as the Queen brought her almost everywhere. She was closest to her aunt, however, the Lady Baela Targaryen for after her death, Princess Aemma Velaryon was named Lady of Driftmark and Lady of the Tides in her absence of heir and despite the existence of the Lady Rhaena and her four children. ❈ She spent five years at Driftmark before she abruptly relinquished her position to the Lady Rhaena, after what is told to be called 'The Usurpation in the Shadows' had occurred. She remained in Kings Landing evermore, at her sister's side, as the Queen's Spider.

"Mother said that allies will stab you regardless, given enough reason. So why not treat everyone the same? It is also easier to dispatch eyes and ears in their houses when they freely open their doors. Windows are so stuffy."

❈ Though she oft paid mind to the sea, as her outreached as the Spider crossed vassals and neighbouring kingdoms (due, in turn, to her siblings' as well), she remained duly on her sister's side as her greatest counsel. It is also oft remarked that whilst the Queen remained a sovereign figure above all, the princess had made friends with allies and foes alike. ❈ After the death of the King Consort, the Princess is awarded the position of Lord Hand. ❈ Aemma was said to have golden white hair and the deepest violet eyes. It is said that she looked very much like her grandmother, the Queen Rhaenyra, thereafter the queen she was named after. ❈ The Princess wore cloth and threads of those from other cities, just like her mother in her younger years, oft found wearing Myrish lace and fashions more popular in Dorne and the Free Cities. Insignia of House Targaryen, Velaryon, andHightower are oft found in her visage, as well as a necklace her grandother, the Queen Dowager Alicent, had gifted her on her four and tenth nameday. ❈ The Princess married her brother, Prince Laenor Velaryon. ❈ Upon the death of her grandsire, Aemma bonded and rode Caraxes. It is oft talked that she enjoyed riding without a saddle.

❝I follow where she goes. I am her soul and she is my heart. How can I ever part from her thereafter?❞

❈ At the behest of the King, the thirdborn and first son of the couple had been named after Queen Rhaenyra's first husband and the King's father, the late Ser Laenor Velaryon. ❈ But unlike his twin brother for whom he looked very much alike to, their differences are stark; the Prince Laenor had been bigger in built from hours of training— a tourney favourite as well as practicing under various lords and swordmasters (a few to name, the Lord Borros Baratheon and Lord Cregan Stark) — and was knighted before his ten and fifth nameday. ❈ It is said that he is the King's favourite, as not only he was the firstborn son (a full thirty minutes before his twin was born), but that they enjoyed the same things, namely the art of sword, studying histories, and oft agreed on the same opinions of court and council. ❈ Laenor was said to have spoken scarcely, few of which had only been with people he cared about or respected. It became a wonder why he was betrothed to his sister, the bright Princess Aemma, under the guiding hand of their mother.

"It isn't that he hardly spoke, but he preferred to listen. He enjoyed the sound of his sister's voice, the tales his father spun. But oh, my sweet boy has the sweetest laugh if you come upon it! Whenever he laughs, the day gets as bright as noon day sun." — His Lady Mother, the Queen.

❈ The Queen oft called him her sweetest boy, and was oft seen in his mother's court as her Sworn Shield before his marriage to his Lady Wife. His first plate of armour had been a gift from her, made by the best blacksmithy in the Seven Kingdoms. ❈ Laenor is said to have his father's dark hair, strong, shapely jaw, and a knight's pure visage. It was with regard that Prince Laenor looked alike to his uncle, the Prince Lucerys.

"It is his legacy. I will not shame him."

❈ After the death of his aunt, the Lady Baela, Dark Sister was passed to his hands. When his Lady Wife and he came back to reside in Kings Landing, the Queen gave him control of the Gold Cloaks. Under his hand, with the same former owner as Dark Sister, he kept the streets— all the way to Flea Bottom, clean. ❈ Laenor's egg hatched in his cradle, an opalescent, cloudy blue scaled dragon named Kyrxos.

❝I jest, sister, surely you know that? What horrid quim of a brother covets his sister's crown?❞

❈ The second son and fourth born child of the couple took thirty minutes more of labour after his twin brother. According to the Queen and the maestres present, he had the loudest cry of all her children. ❈ Whilst his brother mirrored their father, it is said that the Prince Gaemon took to his mother's smarts and scheming, and took to his uncle, the Prince Aegon the Elder's indulgence of wine and pleasure. Even young, it was found that he enjoyed playing with his siblings' so, and oft made them quarrel until it is revealed that he played apart.

"One thing I will hate for you to do, nephew, is to break your mother's heart. She is our strength, but you, her children, are her weakness. Silence their noises all you like, but once your brother, Laenor, has told you halt. You halt." — His Uncle, Prince Aegon.

❈ The King and before him, his grandmother the Queen, oft scolded and found the prince's manner to be troubling and in poor taste. The King had taken a harder hand at the prince and he only seemed to bite back harder in retaliation. If there were people he listened to, it had been his mother, The Queen, his maternal grandmother, The Queen Dowager, and his triplet sisters. His uncle, the Prince Aegon, found his knave nature hilarious, but always cajoled him to watch his steps lest he upset his mother so. ❈ Gaemon was first 'hastily' married to Lyanna Tyrell, the youngest sister of Lord Lyonel Tyrell. He lived in Highgarden for a time, and his revelries at the Reach had became a widespread phonemena. During a feast he made in honour of his brother Laenor's engagement to their elder sister, Aemma, inviting all his siblings, and the then six moons reigning monarch, Queen Daenera, Prince Gaemon makes an odd comment that quiets the noisy feast. It is said that the Queen's dragon broke through the tiled roof in answer to what is said to be a 'poorly made jest' or 'an adamant declaration of war'. ❈ At the behest of his brother in a missive sent by his lady wife, Prince Gaemon travelled to Kings Landing to make amends with his sister. 'The Usurpation in the Shadows' is said to have begun. The Prince came back to the Reach, and a day after, Princess Consort Lyanna Tyrell died. In his grief, the prince said to have left in the night. Four moons after, the Red Keep is sent a missive that the Prince Gaemon had married a lady of a small house in Dorne. Three years later, another missive arrives in the Red Keep, pertaining the arrival of the prince back in the Reach, the death of his second wife, and his marriage to the Lord Tyrell's widowed mother, Lady Mara Tyrell.

"An absolute cur he may be, no one can deny that the Prince Gaemon is the prettiest of all the brothers. Say, even the princesses."

❈ It is said that though the twin princes were alike in their Velaryon liking, the Prince Gaemon has said to be of princely visage. He wore his hair wavy and lengthen to his nape, with long lashes and pouty, red lips. ❈ The prince is said to have favoured revealing clothing, lengthy and pure silk, reminiscent of cultures in Lys. When he was dubbed 'The Prince of Thorns', Gaemon is said to have enjoyed the title so much, he had jewellers make him thorns for necklaces, earrings, and a circlet. ❈ Prince Gaemon's egg hatched in his second name day, a pure violet scaled dragon, a wyrm with a long neck, and is said to have the night sky in its hard skin. ❈ The prince did not have trueborn children with any of his wives, but had fathered many a bastards.

❝Thread spinner... what a quaint title.❞

❈ Baelon is the first son of the King and Queen to have pure Valyrian colouring. So pure in fact, that it is said he is the most otherwordly of all the children. ❈ And though it is oft spoken that that both the princes, Laenor and Baelon, were quiet, Baelon held a more eerie character than his older brother. Rumours spoke that the prince had been an odd child, a quiet, white shadow who followed his siblings.

"He was like a breathing, living ghost. He stared at you, unblinking with his odd, snake-like eyes and pale lashes and snow-white skin. Once, a kitchen wench had found him in the Hour of Bat at the kitchens, eating uncooked meat."— Maestre Glysell.

❈ Despite odd and frightful rumours about the prince, Baelon was said to care less of the talk of others, once having stared at the Lord Lannister from an uncouth jest until the lord had gone uncomfortable and moved away. Even as his mother answered in fury at each new wagged tongue, going as far as banishing people from King's Landing. The ladies, Lady Maris Baratheon and Lady Anne Follard, among those she barred from the capital for six moons and a day. ❈ Despite the court's unease with him, the royal siblings adore their brother. Spoken of ease as a darling conversationalist, a clean swordsman, and had wonderful taste in fabrics and gifts. ❈ Words made in his defense spoke of the fact that the prince had been born alone. While the twin princes were made and were born to life together, the princesses were born months after another, as if chasing through life to be together. The Prince had no one, for the next children of his parents had been the triplet sisters. Then the two boys, though not twins were still thick as thieves. This is said to be the reason why he also indulged their youngest sibling, the Princess Daella, having born alone. ❈ Still, he continued to shadow his siblings, with his favourite to follow being his sister Daenera, his uncle, the Prince Aemond, his mother, and his grandmothers, Queen Rhaenyra and Queen Dowager Alicent. ❈ His quiet and inquisitive nature proved to be a boon, as well as his deep loyalty to his sister and her ascension, that Queen Daenera made him Master of Whispers.

"He was never far behind, her white shadow. The awful wagging tongues of court could say a lot about the relationship of the Queen and her Master of Whispers, but no one can deny the true loyalty of the prince to his queen.. and yes, even in the face of his marriage." —Maestre Kevan.

❈ It is rumoured that the only mistake the Queen Consort ever made was agreeing to the betrothal of the prince to his sister, Princess Helene. King Jacaerys had grown 'at odds' with Prince Baelon's 'skirt clinging' to the older women in his family, and had betrothed Baelon to his younger sister. ❈ The prince is said to look alike the most to his uncle, Prince Aemond, with a hard, elongated bone structure and wore his silver-moon hair long, past his lower back but is said to have his father's deep-set eyes, the colour a faint violet akin more to a snake's. He followed his oldest sister's choice in fashion with solid colours of black, red and green in leathers and intricately detailed. ❈ Just like his mother, a visit to Dragonstone proved fruitful for the prince on his tenthand one day as he bonded with the wild dragon, Sheepstealer.

❝The oldest sea and dragonfire exists in my veins, and you thought you would be enough to face me? I say your face must be thicker than my scales.❞

TBA.

❝Just because I am kind, does not mean I allow misgivings. An ant hardly has a quarrel with a boot. Nor a sheep to a dragon, milord.❞

TBA.

❝Sacrifices must be made. Duty is all... If I do not live by these teachings, then what is for the existence of monarchy?❞

TBA.

❝Hardly a thing to boast, my good pirate. I'm more pauper than a conqueror!❞

TBA.

❝If I am not a brother then I fear I am lost.❞

TBA.

❝Wondrous a thing is, the wagging tongue of court. You'd think they'd learn better after Driftmark was put into question. All of us are trained in the sword... I just do it better.❞

TBA.

No photo is mine. I am not even halfway through and this nearly killed me. For now I'll TBA the rest. I'm also still musing about their backstories hehe.

[chromiumagellanic06]

Just Me and You

Aegon I Targaryen x Visenya Targaryen

Summary: Aegon betrayed Visenya when he wed Rhaenys; She finds a way to do something about it. Pre-conquest.

Warnings: some NSFW, Incest, (vague) sex, Blood Magic, Sibling Incest, Jealous rage, alcohol, etc.

Disclaimer: All rights for the characters belong to GRRM and company. img credits to Pinterest.

Word Count: 4.4k

"Don't look so glum," Visenya told her brother, kicking his leg, "You're frowning like a man sent to the gallows." They lay on the garden grass, behind a curtain of wild roses none ventured into, a place they had made their own. 

The setting sun shone red and blushed orange in the sky as night tugged at the other end of the horizon, and the autumnal lights, the day's golden sun, made Aegon's face glow admirably. 

He laughed through his nose, "I lose my boyhood on the morrow, do show some mercy, dear sister." She laughed at his jab, and propped herself up on the grass to gaze at his face. 

His silver hair fell tardily across his brow, his lilac eyes watching her, touched with jest but drowned in hesitation. 

“I lose mine girlhood on the morrow also, brother,” she smirked, though she was unsure of herself, “I do not imagine it to be so dull myself.” Then she leaned close, trying her best to conceal the tremor in her frame, the hesitancy in herself. 

He sighed, reached for her lips, and her fear burned away, their noses brushing, and for a moment there was only silence in the garden, quiet and the smell of pine and rose and steel. 

When she laid back on the grass, both their faces were red, his more so than hers, but it was he who crept a lone hand to his side to hold hers. 

“You are right,” he tutted when his breathing levelled, “as usual—”  

She kicked his leg again, her words sharp despite his pained laughter, “Do not jest now.”

He quieted a second later, his hand tightening around hers, and she felt relieved instantly. He was there—he had been there, for as long as she could remember. Aegon and Visenya, meant to be wed, meant to be one, by the old ways of their homeland that was lost. 

They were their legacy, silver hair and lilac eyes. They were meant to wed since the day Aegon was born.

“It was all leading up to this, I know,” he sat up this time, “Our lives lead up to tomorrow, I just know it, Visenya,” and then, he leaned over Visenya's face, noses again touching, eyes again fixed. She smiled, eyes sparkling despite herself.

“We were always meant to be together, Aegon,” she whispered, arms wrapping around his neck.

Aegon smiled, “Just me and you,” brother and sister, husband and wife, lord and lady. 

He kissed her, tongues dancing, eyes flickering close, breaths mingling, and when he laid back down on the green grass, he said, “It shall be divine indeed, dear wife.” Dear sister, dear wife. She chuckled.

The fire was lit on the volcanic coast of Dragonstone, the company had gathered—people of their ancestry, an array of white hair and lilac eyes—Targaryens, Velaryons, Celtigars, even the occasional Volantian, all wrapped in dark tones, for only Aegon and Visenya wore white. Orys Baratheon stood alone with a head of dark hair, smiling throughout the ceremony, ignorant of the whispers that rang among the people of his paternity.

Aeron’s bastard son, they rumoured, before the rituals began.

A priest of the old faith stood presiding. He read hymns in the tongue of the dragon, declarations of purity, of love, of spiritual binding.

They cut the other’s lip with a shard of black dragonglass, stained the other’s forehead with a drop of their blood. Bled into a cup as dark as Valyrian Steel, drank from it, and swore allegiance to the other.

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

Sēpar ao se nyke, Visenya.

Just you and me, Visenya against the world of the West. Ambition shall be our only limit, he promised.

Visenya soared through the skies on Vhagar’s back, holding onto the reins and saddle of her friend, urging her to gain speed. She had no wish to remain in her home that night.

She wore silks, a gown of black and red, rubies to match—as had Aegon, she recalled. Even after all this treachery, he was the other half of her soul. He wore ash black, his cloak as red as blood on the inside, the picture of their union—black and red, fire and blood, even as he took Rhaenys to wife.

Rhaenys. White wrapped and adorned in flowers. A disgrace to the dragon.

Rhaenys. Her tit-flashing, whoring little sister. Sister.

Visenya scoffed at the winds, felt her hair whip behind her, delighted in the world’s cold embrace which served to quell the fire within her. She should have known that her sister wouldn’t leave anything for her—her Queen that was her beauty had slain Visenya’s bishops, her rook, nearly all her pawns. It was horrid enough that every man or woman who visited the isle preferred her company to Visenya’s, that songs were sung of her art and beauty, her glory, rather than Visenya’s skill with the sword, but this had been too far.

She had taken her Aegon.

She had taken her husband.

She had taken her soul.

She should have known, Visenya chastised herself, shaking her head against the sky and the clouds, feeling the rush of flight, the risk of the moment. With every low curtsy, with every loud laugh at his less than funny remarks, with every zealous stare of her sister’s as Aegon returned to Visenya’s chambers every night, she should have known of her scheme—a net to entrap her knights, a trap to make her yield.

She should have known that Aegon was weak—weak to his dreams, but weaker still to his desires.

She should have known that he would fall to their brazen slut of a sister, rather than keep his vows to her.

Just you and me, the liar had promised three turns ago, and she, the fool, had believed him. She was wrothful of her tears, but held them regardless.

Visenya was a warrior. She wouldn’t weep over lost love.

When clouds came, and night fell, Vhagar plummeted from the skies, the flapping of her wings near silent, as was her general call. She landed in a forest, of all places, shoving her rider into a low-lying branch.

Visenya fell to the ground, brushing leaves out of her braid when she realised that the familiar heft at her waist was lost. She had left Dark Sister in her fury. Vhagar had made herself comfortable, and looked ready for slumber, curling into a canopy’s shadow till only her reptilian eyes blinked ominously in the darkness.

She crooned, growled. Hungry.

Visenya sighed, mindful that she had fetched her friend before the eve’s meal and had indeed forced her to miss her luncheon of cows and goats—she had been insistent, in her brooding rage before the wedding rituals, to smell only of fire and brimstone. If she couldn’t scream her ire, she’d make it be known in another way.

Visenya trailed out of the woods, finding a large village nearby. She recognised the grassy fields, the edge of forest, the dusty streets well enough. She was near the Dothraki Seas. As she treaded the village’s main pathway, passing homes lit with candles, happy families chattering within, Visenya nearly forgot her anger. It was dusty, even in the night’s darkness, and only a few walked the village at the hour. Most of them gathered around a well near the centre of the village. It had caught her attention by then.

She stopped at the periphery, watching the scene. Men, women, children, whole families, dropped gold, silver, jewels into the well, and joined their hands, bowed their heads and left. She followed suit, staring into the dark well. It was new, lined and well spent on, but jewels and ceremonial sacrifices floated on the surface. Jewels floated.

Visenya roped up a bucket of the water, and examined it. Salty. She cupped a handful and drank it.

She spat it out instantly. Inanely salty. The well had gone brackish when it was grounded. She threw the bucket back into the dark well, continuing her search.

So much for her interests. Unfaithful brothers and brackish wells.

She had walked to the outskirts of the village before she found any sheep. A whole herd, white and large, being handled by a boy too young to have gathered it all alone. He led the flock from a field to a pen beside a small, compact hut.

“You there,” Visenya called, and the boy shut the pen’s door firmly before greeting her. She must have looked odd, she realised. A white-haired woman in a black and red gown, gracing his doorstep an hour past sundown.

“I wish to have a half dozen of your sheep—”

“Not mine, lady…” he glanced at the hut. Just then, the door to the hut slammed open. Out of it hobbled an old woman, wrinkled and hunched, a shrivelled soul in a black tokar with a head of hair as silver as hers.

“Do as the lady says, boy, get six sheep,” the old woman ordered.

Strange…Visenya shook her suspicions away. Things were different this far east, she reminded herself.

“How do I pay you?” She asked the old woman as she took the reins for six sheep from the helper boy. “I have some gold, I believe.”

“A drop of your blood shall do.” Her voice was scratchy, her green eyes twinkled strangely.

“My blood?” Visenya raised a brow, unsure.

“Valyrian blood has power; this shall do a world of good for this village,” the old woman struggled towards her hut, returning with a discoloured glass vial. “Come you from across the Narrow Sea?” Visenya considered the exchange. Her heritage was guessable, a young face with silver hair, her lilac eyes, would give away her bloodline easily. Why blood? She had heard tales of maegi sorcerers who used blood to regain youth, used flesh to cure illness.

“Volantis,” Visenya lied, sure that her silken robes would let her pass for one of those worthless diluted slavers. “The Walled City.” She unsheathed a dagger, iron, not steel, to not give herself away, and struck a gash across her palm.

“Now, now,” the old woman smiled, her face wrinkling further, yellow, broken teeth glimmering in the dark evening, and gathered the blood in her vial. “You need not lie to me, Lady Visenya.”

Lady Visenya.

Visenya tightened a grip on her blade, cursing herself for having left Dark Sister behind on Dragonstone. Levelling her voice to dampen her alarm, she asked, “How do you know who I am?”

The woman corked her vial with an old piece of resin-laden wood, and waddled back into the hut, throwing the words behind her as she walked, trapping the door to her home open, “I see much that others may not.”

She took the sheep, convincing herself against seeking the old woman out further, and retraced her steps to the woods. She found Vhagar exactly as she had left her, and even after she roasted the sheep with a spell of flame, chewed on their flesh and spat out the bones, she wouldn’t budge.

“Soves, Vhagar!” She struggled atop her saddle, trying in vain to coax her beast to take flight. Vhagar only grumbled in her throat, shaking her rider off with a flick of her tail. Visenya rolled on the ground as she fell, unhurt but distraught.

“Fine,” she said, insulted and angered, and walked to the edge of the clearing. She laid down on the patch of moss there, gasping from the fall still and frustrated by Vhagar’s antics. She didn’t quite catch her sleep taking her.

She dreamt of flames, and scales. A dragon’s egg, in her grasp, warm from the embers she had found it in, the gash in her hand bleeding, bleeding, bleeding over ash and dragon scales, a mangled wyrmling in the distance—its scales and wings torn and bloody, twisted and knotted like some horrendous image from her sister’s poor childhood sketches come to life.

When she awoke, Visenya was grateful to the strange woman. However strange she had been, she had distracted the warrior enough for her rage to cool. But now, she knew not where to place her efforts.

“You are a pain, I hope you know that!” She screamed at Vhagar, who remained in the shadow of the woods’ canopy, slumbering in peace, unaffected by her rider’s rage, unresponsive at her attempts to force her beast to fly, for fuck’s sake, fly! She stumbled back to the village, dusty streets filled with people now, young children chasing each other through the fields.

She passed the ill well from the previous eve, raised an eyebrow at the people who huddled around it. A hoard of women chattered aloud, Westerosi mixed with lower Valyrian, some dialects of Dothraki and Pentoshi tossed around in the hubbub. They were filling water from the well, large barrels and wooden buckets laid out in rows.

“You there,” she beckoned to a young girl, barely ten, with pigtails and an ugly yellow dress, “The well had gone brackish,” she did not ask.

The girl shrugged her shoulders, “The priests have done rites for a sennight past. It worked.” Visenya needed to hear no more. She followed the cluttered houses and long alleys to the home of the old woman. Blood had power.

She found the desolate hut again, but no helper boy and no swine nearby. Climbing the three clayed steps to the closed door, she knocked—three raps with her fist, and the door swung open.

She took a careful step inside.

The woman’s hut only smelled of honey and metal, sickly sweet and bloody, though Visenya wasn’t sure if it was her gashed hand that stank of blood, for it had started bleeding again and profusely. The home was comfortable, with a familiar stench of old wine and everything inside the low-lying hut was warm and red and brown, lit by gold candles as the windows were curtained with dark, heavy velvet.

The old woman was no where to be seen.

In front of the flames, however, sat a young, rather beautiful lady, clad in red and gold silk. Her ebony hair was braided with intricacy, piled atop her head in the classical sense of the Ghiscari. Visenya recognised her robes to be resembling a tokar, and found her eyes to be a familiar green.

No.

A chilled breeze crept through the open door, leaving Visenya with a wave of shivers.

“Cold outside, isn’t it?” the beautiful woman read her mind, staring at Visenya with a crystal-clear interest through her shimmering green eyes. She waved a hand at the fireplace. Bizzare as it was, and quite shockingly also, a flame spluttered alive amidst the wood. Visenya backed away from the flames, turning to the door to find it shuttered close.

She turned back with trepidation, dagger in hand, “You’re a witch.”

“Yes,” the young woman stood, smiled in a way so dazzling that she’d put Rhaenys to shame, “I must thank you for yesterday. The villagers much appreciate your kindness.” Valyrian blood has power. “As do I, as you must concur,” she curtsied, her tokar catching orange in the light of the flame. She had used her blood for the gift of youth? The witch inched towards Visenya, “But you are not here for gratitude.”

Visenya considered the woman, the meaning of all this. Would he return to her? In one fluid motion, she sheathed her blade and addressed the witch, “No.”

“No,” she smiled, lips morphing red, teeth glinting white. It reminded Visenya of the old woman—same woman, she reminded herself. “No, you want knowledge,” she turned on her heel, her silk robe brushing against Visenya’s red and black gown. “It would be my pleasure to reteach the craft to one of your kind.”

“Reteach?” She followed the woman through a door, short and cramped such that they both had to bow to miss the head, into a poorly lit room with cabinets upon cabinets filled with jars and herbs and strange, browned fluids. Visenya saw the vial that had contained her own blood, empty save for a thin sheen left on the glass, next to old yellowed parchment with strange writings.

“Your people were the inception of sorcery, Lady Visenya,” the witch told her, standing far too close for Visenya to find agreeable, “But the craft has been lost to your people, as has your home.” Valyria’s gone. They belonged nowhere, Aegon had reminded her constantly.

She placed a candelabra on a rickety wooden table, clicking her pale, slender fingers to light the wicks, and asked for Visenya’s hand. Visenya watched, with bated breath, as her hand was held atop the flame. It didn’t burn, fire doesn’t burn a dragon, but her blood sizzled in the golden glow.

Aegon. She closed her eyes, brow scrunching, resolve hardening. They were meant to be together. Just them. Aegon and Visenya. A tale written in stone.

“You know what it is that I desire.” She harshened her voice.

“Yes,” the witch handed her a tome, old and wrinkled, the pages blanched and yellowed. “I return the knowledge of your ancestors to you, Visenya Targaryen.”

She didn’t stay long enough to ask why.

Three links of silver, blood drawn from iron and fire—Visenya reached for Aegon’s Dagger, taken from his solar without his notice, and she balanced the light, sharp blade on her lap as she read on, A circlet of ash, an object of desire, bound by a hymn that Meleys shall answer.

Dragon’s blood had power, but a god’s had more.

Visenya sat on the floor of her chambers, the hour of the bat bringing strange whispers with the ocean winds, whispers that rang strangely along her windowpanes, undrowned by the crackling blaze in the fireplace. Her legs ached from the harsh marble against them, and her chest heaved rampantly under her thin white shift.

Visenya sliced her thumb on the sharp edge of the dagger, staining the jagged curve with her blood, the blood of the dragon, then traced the dripping red across the three silver links in front of her. Visenya took a deep breath, shuddered, and sang a song, the likes of which had not been sung within the Keep of Dragonstone for years long passed.

“Oh, Meleys, jaesa hen jorrāela,” Oh, Meleys, goddess of love, she began, and voiced a testament to her power, against her own nature. She was Vhagar, the goddess of war, but all was in love also.

She threw the links in the flames, and sang the song again, her words echoing through the stone halls of the Keep to ring pure and melodious in the ears of Aegon, stark awake as he was at the balcony of Rhaenys’ chambers, eyes fixed westwards.

Queen takes queen.

A knock at her door—and Visenya stumbled towards the doors she had bolted shut. Her hand had been liberal in the pouring of wine. She sat alone, as she had every night since her return from Essos. Three nights spent alone—suppers missed, mornings lost, only flames and blood and spells and Vhagar in her days. Anything to allay herself of the pain of seeing Rhaenys and Aegon, the latter all but drooling over her tits at every stupid remark she made.

Gods, how foolish she felt, running from them, hearing her sister’s ugly lies of destiny and love. Grab any man by the cock that hard and he’ll dream himself a love story.

She opened the door a fraction, surprised to find her brother outside. Pawn forward? He looked the same, and it hurt her. The same silver hair, the same posture, the same expression on his face as whenever he treaded close to her—calm, calm, eternal calm, for they were one soul, so what had he to fear or reproach? Visenya ventured back inside, and he followed, bolted the door shut as though the rooms were still his. Ha. She supposed that he had never renounced her aloud.

“Quite soon of you to bore of the woman who warms your bed,” she remarked, gulping down wine from a silver goblet, caution thrown to the wind as anger surged through her again. She would not take the name of the woman she had once called sister, not to him. “Took you three years to bore of me, thought she’d last longer.”

That angered him, just as she knew that it would. His jaw tightened, eyebrows cross, “What are you implying, Visenya?”

Implying. Poets and dramatists implied. They twisted their words to reflect pesky things like sentiment and beauty. She was no beauty, preaching the arts. She was war.

 “I am implying nothing, brother. I am not a frolicking maid to dance around the truth, forever oblivious of how foolish she seems. Why the fuck are you here?” She threw the chalice in his general direction, missing by a considerable edge.

She expected him to rage after her, to scream, to argue, to order her to submit, ha, to fall to her knees in reverence of her lord husband—he did so adore the western ways.

He did not.

And it was then, that she wondered, whether the spell had indeed worked. Aegon embraced her, as drunk and writhing as she was, held her close, black and red—ash and rubies—fire and blood, and she lost her breath.

“You ran from me, Visenya,” Aegon whispered in her ear, his hands holding her tight, “Left me alone to face the day.”

Visenya laughed, bitter, mocking, more sobful than amused, “I left you?” She wished she could push away, keep her dignity, denounce his impish desire for both her and Rhaenys. She couldn’t. Between the nights he spent away and the atrocities she committed to regain him, she could not push him away, even if he burned her pride and turned her to ash.

“Did you not see me wear our colours for you?” En Passant. He wounded in passing, intention drowned by sheer will of might.

He kissed her, and she clenched her eyes shut to stop her tears from flowing. Red and Black. Targaryen colours, not their colours, but, yes, he had defied tradition. He had not worn cream or white to meet Rhaenys, had not claimed to be hers alone. But he had taken her still.

“I saw you wed our sister,” and she cringed at how high her voice sounded. Shrill and broken. A helpless damsel weeping for her losses. That she will not be. Visenya pushed Aegon away, turned away, walking to the gallery, gazing at the ocean and the night, unable to face him, to show him her weakness.

She heard him breath, heard him approach her, unsure, hesitant as he had been that sunlit eve in the gardens.

She scoffed, anger and confidence filling her again, “Was it all a lie, brother? All your proclamations? All your love?” He snaked his arms around her waist, wet lips touching her shoulder, her ear, her cheek. Visenya threw her head down, struggled out of his reach, refusing to let him have the final word, refusing to let him win her over that easily.

I am war.

“Was it funny for you?” She asked, “To flirt with her half our lives and come fuck me when night fell? Did it please you to use me?” Fool, she was. The greatest fool. Convinced that Aegon would be immune to her sister’s wiles, convinced that he’d put her first.

“I cannot say that I do not love her,” he admitted, and she watched the stars, blurry eyed, not trusting herself to speak and not weep. “You and I are one soul, Visenya,” he sounded wistful, as broken as she was, “When you ache this way,” he turned her forcefully, caught her face in his hands, though only inches below him she stood in stature, and she could see his eyes glisten, “I wish to bring the skies down to see you smile.”

To be as they once were—one heart, one soul, one flesh, one life. Dragons meant to be one for eternity. Balerion and Vhagar. Aegon and Visenya. His vision since boyhood broken in the face of another’s beauty.

“Then renounce her,” she confessed her wish, her voice loud and clear despite the treachery in her words, “Be mine, Aegon,” she buried her face in him, “Just you and me.” For eternity.

Aegon sighed, eyes again caught onto the horizon. Aegon gazed across the Blackwater, to the land ripe for conquest, his dreams returning to him. Dream of ice, dreams of blood. He told her, “I cannot.”

Visenya laughed, broken forever, and banged her fist against his chest in sync with her sobs that had finally broken free. He held her, his older sister, more torn apart by his fault than he had ever seen her before—and the thought crushed him.

What have I done? He dared ask, but he couldn’t—Rhaenys, Rhaenys, Rhaenys. Music for laughter and blossoms for smiles. He couldn’t let her go.

When her tears ceased, her eyes were red. She left his embrace, left him cold, and turned the bottle of Arbor Red over her mouth. She gulped the sour wine more out of necessity than desire, unable to face her failure or the fact that he wished to amend their bond. Knights defend.

When the glass bottle emptied its last drop on her tongue, she fell on her bed, dizzy, warm, hot, burning. Her final move, in this game of chess against Rhaenys, where Aegon was both prize and puppet.

“Come here,” she beckoned to her brother. Aegon followed her words, stood beside her bed, took her hand and let her lead it to her heart. She told him, in drunken ecstasy, her eyes unfocused and words slurred, “I am not her, Aegon—but I am still yours,” and she heard her own heart’s beat, its thrum, its drum within her as frantic as her thoughts’ run. Oh Meleys, grant him lust. Her eyes closed.

She remembered screaming, but not out of pain, remembered him promise to honour their vow also. She felt his skin against hers, the heft of his flesh moving, shifting, rhyming with hers. She remembered little, other than the warmth of his lips on her breast, the shivering feel of his seed dripping out of her cunt, oh, so familiar.

When she awoke, she found her voice almost entirely lost. Her head ached, worse than it had in a long time. She recalled no dreams, found her bed empty—but her skin littered with bruises and bites, a milky mess between her legs.

Visenya fell back on her bed, relishing in the feel of that moment—pained, tainted, claimed.

Checkmate.

[thesilverlady]

I have to say that although Matt Smith is the perfect Daemon for me (book!canon wise too), the combination of Holliday Grainger (who is perfect for Rhaenyra! Both young and older versions (she is 35 so the older version is the one she could realistically play) and Sam Reid has me swooning. It's a thing I like about fancasting that sometimes the actors are actually good for the role and could fit together.

I am curious, do you have any fancast for Viserys I ? Mine is Amza Pellea, he is a great actor and really gives me the vibes of Viserys (when he has the moustache and grey hair is when he resembles more what I imagine Viserys looked like).

And have you ever imagined any particular jewels or dresses for Rhaenyra? ( I am obsessed with fashion, so to imagine the clothes and accessories for a character like Rhaenyra who was said to dress richly is very very entertaining). Or for any clothes for Daemon? ( The fashion for men is worth discussing too I think).

Anyways thank you, and I really like your blog even if we don't share every opinion you are always very nice.💖💖

I'll admit Matt Smith didn't work as Daemon for me, but then again I can count with my fingers only 3 actors who I genuinely enjoyed in the show and think they match the characters they were given to play despite the writing.

I fell in love with Sam Reid when I saw him acting in the iwtv. His performance as Lestat gave me so many book daemon vibes. The way he portrayed the obsessed, intelligent manipulative, short tempered lover? Simple chef's kiss.

I truly wish I was telented enough to find some way to edit him more as book daemon

As for Viserys I, I loved your fancast! I'll admit I haven't thought of Viserys much so my only fancast so far had been Clive Wood (for older Viserys obviously).

Now ✨ fashion ✨

I'm definitely not an expert but I have imagination. Daemon can be prideful and vain so he definitely cares about his appearance and understand the power an image can have.

I picture him wearing expensive fabrics and leathers with lots of embroidered doublets. Later in life i can imagine he might have adopted some of Rhaneyra's coloring into his as a power move and to show his support.

Meanwhile for Rhaenyra we know from the book that she dressed richly, favoring purple and maroon velvets, golden Myrish lace in intricate patterns, and her bodice often glittered with pearls and diamonds. So safe to say, the woman knew how to steal a show.

For her riding clothes I imagine something similar to dany but with the targaryens colorings of red and black, like this one below. Tight fitting and practical but not void of drama.

She was a big girl, so I imagine she boldly chooses cuts that compliment her shoulders and chest

Otherwise if everything had to be covered, she'd make up with interesting and patterns, embodiment. I imagine her skirts would be long and the sleeves either long and wide or slashed

As for her hair, i know she canonically wore them long and braided similarly to Visenya but I always pictured she was experimenting with it in a similar fashion as she did with her clothing. I think she'd play around with braiding her hair, wearing them sometimes in half or full updo

I'm not good with jewelry but multiple rings on her fingers is a must and her crown was probably something beautiful like this one:

sidenote: this is the shipper in me doing the thinking but given the amount of extravagant gifts daemon sent her. I can totally imagine him sending her Myrish lace that rhaenyra could either make it blend in her clothing or wear it as a veil like this:

ps: thank you for your kind words 🥺 and of course I'd love to also read your ideas if you feel like sharing. ♥

[integra1127grimmreaper]

His Warrior Princess - Part thirteen

Series Masterlist

Part 12

Warning: brief mention of sexual activity (Harwin and Visenya fools around a bit sometimes when no one's watching).

“When shall Rhaenyra be returning?” Harwin enquired as the two of you laid in the Red Keep’s godwood under the weirwood heart tree.

“She still has two months of touring for a husband” you respond while drawing invisible circles into the palm of his hand.

“She better have made a choice when returning...” you grumble out at the end.

Harwin chuckles at your remark.

“Why so bitter, My Love?”

“You know precisely why” you scowl at him.

“The longer it takes her to choose a husband, the longer we must wait to wed.”

Harwin gently cups your face in the palms of his hands, softly pressing a kiss to your forehead then.

“We shall be married soon enough, My Love...”

“I just want to be yours...” you sigh in frustration.

Harwin smirks, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Are you not mine already?”

“You know what I am referring to...” you wine out, pressing a kiss into the palm that still rested against your cheek.

“Vi...” Harwin sighs out, tilting your face to look into his eyes.

“You know that such things do not matter to me.”

You scoff, frowning at him then.

“So, you do not wish to fuck me then?!”

Realizing you were about to get up, Harwin hastily grabs your arm, causing you to yelp out softly as you landed in his lap.

“I wish for nothing more than to burying my cock inside your tight, warm cunt...” he softly growled into your ear, emphasizing it by grinding his crotch into your bottom.

“H-Harwin...” you whimpered out softly as he held you tightly in his lap.

Harwin raspily whispers into your ear.

“What is it, My-Love...?”

“What do you need...?”

“I-I... need-you-to-touch-me...” you murmur out, biting into your lower lip.

“Where...?” Harwin breaths out against your cheek.

Taking hold of Harwin’s hand, you place it between your legs then.

Harwin firmly grips at your mound for a second.

“You need me to touch your cunt?”, releasing it instantly, thereafter, causing you to groan in frustration.

“I would love to feel your cunt squeezing my fingers right now, but we are in a very public area” Harwin states, pressing a kiss against your cheek.

“We best go inside, before anyone sees us like this.”

“What does it matter?” you shrug.

“We are already betrothed.”

“That we are, My Love...” Harwin states matter-of-factly.

“Though no one else but our families know so. To the rest of the court, we are merely courting.”

“I shall repeat my statement of before... what-does-it-matter...?” you nonchalantly respond.

“It matters to me” Harwin sternly replies.

“I shall not have your reputation tarnished by mindless rumours.”

You reluctantly agree, grumbling under your breath while getting up from his lap.

Heavily concentrated on your movements as you sparred with Harwin; the both of you needed a means to work off the sexual frustration, you suddenly stopped when hearing a very familiar dragon’s cry.

“Impossible...” you mutter out, staring up as Caraxes flew pass.

Shielding his eyes against the sun, Harwin looks up as well.

“Is that?”

“My uncle Daemon has returned...” you utter out in surprise.

“Is he not still at war with the Triarchy?” Harwin remarks in confusion.

“Mayhaps, he has finally come for assistance?”

“No” you shake your head.

“Daemon is too stubborn for that. He would not even accept my help.”

A smile then breaks across your face when realization hits.

“He has won the war; I am certain of it. Come, let us go find out!”

Harwin chuckles out loudly then at your childlike manner as you drag him by the arm to go and find out.

Standing to the side of the throne, you watched as your father mentally prepared himself to receive your uncle in front of the royal court. Harwin was stood in the nearby corner, keeping a watchful eye on you as always since your betrothal.

When your eyes meet, Harwin sends you a silent wink and you broadly smile at him. The moment is cut short when people begin to file into the throne room; everyone eager to see the show that was about to play out.

Returning your focus back to your father; your brows furrow in concern when seeing the look of surprised confusion cross his face.

Staring into the crowd to see what had caused his expression, you were caught off-guard when seeing your sister amongst them.

She has returned?

Rhaenyra was back two months ahead of her scheduled return. Hopefully that meant that she had found a suitable husband.

You could barely contain the excitement at the possibility, it meant that soon Harwin and you could finally wed.

Everyone takes their places, and the room goes deathly silent, and then as if out of a play, Daemon appears in front of the doors.

His once long hair was now cut short, a crown that looked to be made of bone and driftwood rested upon his head as he playfully tossed a war hammer in his hands.

This shall be quite entertaining... you smirk at seeing the look of irritation upon Otto’s face.

The court stared with bated breath as Daemon slowly made his way toward your father, Rhaenyra slowly following his steps from within the crowd. Ser Harrold and the rest of the King’s Guard draws their swords upon Daemon once he reached the base of the throne. Your uncle, ever the dramatic; steps straight against the tip of Harrold’s sword, staring nonchalantly down at it.

Lifting the war hammer, Daemon looks to your father.

“Add it to the chair...” ceremoniously dropping it in front of the throne.

Your father silently studies him for a moment as Harrold sheathes his sword and bends down to pick up the hammer.

“You wear a crown...” your father finally speaks up.

“Do you also call yourself King?”

“Once we smashed the Triarchy, they named me King of the Narrow Sea...” Daemon responds.

Your father silently squints at his remark as the court softly whispered amongst themselves in disbelief.

Daemon remarks then.

“But I know that there is only one true King, your Grace...”, kneeling in front of your father then.

Your father turns to look at Otto, the weasel silently eyes your uncle with suspicion; making you want to gouge his eyes out.

“My crown and the Stepstones are yours...” Daemon states, removing the crown from his head.

Your father faintly smiles at him, looking toward the doors then.

“Where is Lord Corlys?”

“He sailed home to Driftwood” your uncle replies.

“Who holds the Stepstones?” your father enquires.

“The tides, the crabs, and 2000 dead Triarchy corsairs; staked to the sand to warn those that might follow...” Daemon answers.

Your father silently steps toward him then, Otto following behind as you watched his every move with hawkeyed precision.

Daemon hands his crown to your father, looking to the side at Otta as your father silently studied the crown in his hand.

Handing the crown to a King’s Guard, your father turns back to Daemon as everyone waited to see what was to come.

“Rise...” your father commands Daemon.

Raising to his feet, Daemon and your father stare at one another silently for a moment, your father places a hand onto his shoulder then, patting it affectionately.

Deamon steps closer to him, silently resting his head onto your father’s chest as the court began clapping while the two brothers embraced.

You proudly stood smiling and clapping along with the rest of the court as your father and uncle walked out of the throne room together. 

Part 14

Tag:  @missusnora@alexandra-001@green-lxght@stitchattacks@evyiione@squidscottjeans

[genz420]

The Fire That Burns With Us - Chapter 29: Dīnilūks

Pervious Part - Next Part

136 - Red Keep (Two Months Later)

Visenya skips her way to the courtyard.  She had seen House Tully banners making their way to the castle; Robert and his men are some of the last men to arrive, with the wedding tomorrow.   Visenya is nervous about her wedding, her mind jumping to unlikely things that might happen or Aemond deciding last minute that he doesn’t want to marry her.  

The past two months have been amazing.  No drama.  Days filled with Dragon riding, training, and planning.   The Queen had helped Visenya the most with making plans for the wedding, and the two had put aside the past and got along pretty well with each other.  

Visenya enters the courtyard at the same time Robert gets off his horse.  The two make eye contact with one another and rush to each other.  They forget about their status and what is proper, and they wrap their arms around one another—squeezing tight.  Visenya and Robert haven’t seen one another since the death of Rob's father, so they are happy to be together again, with only one person missing from their group. 

Robert hasn’t changed much during his time as Lord of Riverrun.  His dark red hair is still cut short, but now he has a beard that Ben will no doubt make fun of the man for growing.  

“It seems that our deal of marrying one another will never happen now,” Rob jokes as the two pull apart.  

“It seems so,” Visenya says in a sad mocking tone.  She punches Rob's arm as she says. “But you will always have Ben,”

“I don’t think I am his type, nor is he mine,” Rob tells Visenya. Rob grabs ahold of Visenyas arms.  “By the gods, I hope Aemond knows how lucky he is.  And if he doesn’t, you always can fall back on me,”

“How considerate of you,” Visenya says, slightly laughing at his words. 

“I know, having you as a wife would be the worst thing in the world, but you have some features that would make up for your terrible personality and loud mouth,” Rob jokes, and Visenya pretends to be offended at his words.  She pulls her arms out of his hold and jokingly puts her hands over her heart.

“I can have your tongue for that,” Visenya tells him, and Rob backs up with his hands raised.   

“If you can catch me,” Robs says as he moves away from Visenya.  

“Oh, it's on you, little bitch,” Visenya tells him as she moves toward Rob.  The two act the same as two siblings would, happy that they can act like they don’t hold the titles they do.  

Rob smiles before running; Visenya chases after him, and the two laugh as they run.  Rob runs into the castle, hoping to escape Visenya and find Ben to join their game.  The two run past different Lords and Ladies in the hallway and Visenya smiles as she gains on Rob. The armour that she is wearing is lighter than his heavy metal armour.  Visenya grabs the back of Rob's chest plate and pulls him back towards her, him falling to the ground, and Rob takes Visenya down with him.   

The two laugh as they lay on the ground, but it stops when Rob is pulled off the ground by two Kingsguards, and Visenya stands.  Visenya straightens out her clothes and smiles at the Kingsguards.  

“Please let go of Lord Tully. We were just playing a game,” Visenya tells them, and they do as she says.  Bowning their heads towards Visenya before they leave the two.  

“I was about to shit myself,” Rob whispers to Visenya, who snorts at his words. 

“That would have made this day perfect,” She tells him as she offers him her arm.  The link arms and Visenya pull him towards Ben and the rest of his family.  “Getting to see you and then you humiliating yourself,” 

“Where is our darling Ben?” Rob asks Visenya.  

“The Godswoods with his family and Lord Stark,” Visenya tells him as they walk.  She knew that Ben would be the next person that Rob would want to see.  

“You think that I can scare him?” Rob asks, and Visenya smiles at him and nods her head.

“No, but I think you should try,” She answers, and Rob smiles at how happy Visenya looks.

– – 

Once Visenya and Rob enter the Godwood, Rob removes his arm from Visenya and makes his way to their friend.  The plan to scare Ben flies out the window when Ben sees Rob, and the two crash together into a hug.  Visenya smiles at Alysanne and Cregan as she makes her way over. The two starks had arrived a week before the wedding week.  

“We missed you at the feast yesterday,” Ben tells Rob as they pull apart. 

“Anyone die?” Rob asks.  He knows that the Targayerns love to have drama and that attending the wedding. 

“No, but Visenya did try and fight Cregan after her sixth glass of wine,”

“I was very confident I would have won,” Visenya tells Rob as she looks at Cregan.  It was true that she had tried to fight Cregan, but Ben and Alysanne had to talk her out of trying to steal a man's sword.   

“I could win with my arms tied behind my back,” Cregan confidentially says

“I’ll take you up on that,” 

“Perhaps after the wedding,” Alysanne intervenes.   “I amuse that the Riverland mead will ensure we have an eventful night,”

The banter between them is interrupted as a dragon flys over the godswood.  Everyone except Visenya and Ben jumps at the harsh winds the dragon makes as it passes them.  Visenya looks to the dragon to see who it belongs to.  The dragon is a dark cobalt colour with claws, crest, and belly scales the colour of bright beaten copper.  No dragons on her side of the family are that shade of blue, meaning that it is from Aemond side.  But every dragon rider but one is already in the city with their dragons resting in the dragon pit.   Visenya snaps out of her thoughts when someone asks who is flying the dragon so close to the castle grounds.   

“I don’t know,” Visenya answers.  “I think it may be Aemonds brother, Daeron,”

– – 

Aemond walks his way toward Visenya's room.  It's the night before the wedding, and he is filled with nerves and excitement for the day.  Outside of Visenyas room stands two Kingsguards, mostly likely commanded by the Queen to stand post outside of the princess room for the night.    

“I wish to the Princess,” Aemond tells the two Kingsguards, but they don’t move to open the door.  

“We are under stick orders of the Queen to not allow anyone to enter the room,” One of them speak up.  The Queen had been very clear about Aemond not being alone with Visenya. 

 “Then have her come out; we can talk in the hallway where you can see us,” Aemond reasons with the Kingsguards, but when they don’t seem to be budging, Aemond pulls a different card. “I just want to see My Love,” 

 The Kingsguards look at each other, knowing that if they can see the two, then nothing could happen between the two.   One of the Kingsguards knocks on Visenya's door, and when she doesn’t open it right away, Aemond worries that she might have found a way out of her room.  Aemond calms down when Visenya opens the door, a robe wrapped around her and her hair tied back.  Visenya smiles at Aemond and takes his extended hand; he pulls her to the other side of the hallway.  

“What are you doing here? You should be sleeping. Tomorrow will be a busy day,” Visenya asks, and Aemond leans closer to her.  

“Dīnagon nyke?” Aemond asks Visenya, and she lightly laughs at his question. 

Marry Me?  

“Nyke kȳvanon va doing bona hemtubis,” She answers him, not understanding why Aemond is asking her such silly questions.  Aemond takes hold of her other hand, and he looks her in the eyes. 

I plan on doing that tomorrow. 

“Sir, isse se ñuhoso hen īlva lentor,” Aemond tells her.  He knows that Visenya wanted to marry in the tradition of old Valyria but chose to have a wedding in the faith of the seven for him and his family.   “Kosti emagon se dīnilūks hemtubis yn dīnagon nyke sir”

Now, in the way of the of our house.  We can have the wedding tomorrow but marry me now.  

Visenyas turns her attention away from Aemond and to the kingsguards outside her door.  The queen was smart enough to know that the two might sneak away to see one another before the wedding.  

“Nyke ȳdra daor pendagon kesan sagon able naejot henujagon ñuha tistālion,” Visenya tells him, and he smiles at her, a smile that tells her that he has a plan to get her out.  If it were up to him, he would take her away now, but then the Queen and the rest of the family would know what they are up to.  

I don’t think that they will allow me to leave my room.  

“Eminna somone māzigon se jiōragon ao.  Īlon'll emagon ziry isse se zaldrīzesripo,” Aemond tells Visenya as one of the Kingsgaurds clear their throat, meaning that Visenya needs to get back into her room.  

I will have someone come and get you.  We'll have it in the Dragonpit 

Visenya nods yes to Aemonds request, and Aemond kisses her hands before he walks back to her door.  Visenya smiles to herself when she closes the door. She sits at the table and waits for the person Aemond is sending to get her.  

 Rhaenyra fiddles with the rings on her fingers as she walks up to Visenya's room.  She hopes that what Aemond plans goes smoothly to spare tomorrow from drama.  The Kingsguards stand tall as Rhaenyra walks up to them. She hopes they will listen to her and disobey the Queen's command.  

“My daughter and I have some wedding traditions that we need to do tonight,” Rhaenyra tells the Kingsguards, and the two men look at each other. “Leave,”

 The Kingsguards bow their heads down to Rhaenyra and leave their post outside Visenya's room.  Rhaenyra enters Visenyas room and smiles when she sees how nervous Visenya looks.  Rhaenyra closes the door, places traditional clothing on the table, and pulls Visenya into a hug. She is happy that Aemond has chosen to do this.  

 “Do you know?” Visenya asks as the mother and daughter pull apart.  

Rhaenyra nods, and Visenya looks at the items she brought for her.  The robes are a cream colour with red colouring at the bottom, cuffs, and shoulders.  Visenya had seen the robes before; she knew that her mother and Daemon had worn the same style when they had wed each other.  

“Aemond came to Daemon and me a while back asking for our help.  I must say that I was surprised when he did.” Rhaenyra tells Visenya, and she pulls her attention back to her.  Rhaenyra pushes Visenya's hair out of her face and holds her daughter's face.   “The headdress is the same one I wore when I married Daemon.  We should hurry. I don’t know how long the Kingsguards will return,”

Rhaenyra helps her daughter get ready, feeling happy for her daughter.  She wasn’t sure about Aemond marrying Visenya, but it was now clear how much they cared for one another.  

– – 

136 - The Dragonpit

Rhaenyra and Visenya remove their cloaks as they arrive at the dragonpit.   Daemon stands outside the doors, making sure that no one enters, and he straightens as the two get close.  Rhaenyra kisses him on his cheek before entering the dragonpit. Daemon and Visenya stand there looking at each other.  Visenya has made an effort to be friendly with Daemon but the few times they have been alone with one another were always awkward.   

Visenya's hair is down in big curls without braids in it.  Daemon walks up to his daughter and tucks some of her behind her ears as he puts the traditional headdress on her head.  Daemon fluffs her hair around the headdress, and Visenya smiles at his actions.  

“You look so much like your mother,” Daemon whispers, leaning down and kissing her forehead—a nice moment between the father and daughter.  Visenya doesn’t think she will ever be able to call Daemon her father. Still, he knows that the relationship between them is working towards Visenya not being so hostile and accepting of the truth.  

“I’m sorry that you will not be escorting me tomorrow. I would have liked for you too,” Visenya tells him, and Daemon offers her a smile.  

“I get to be here for you tonight.  A year ago, I thought I would never get to see you get married,” Daemon tells her.  “You have made me the happiest man here,”

“I would argue that Aemond is quite happy, or at least I hope he is,” Visenya jokes, and Daemon puts his arm out for her to take.  Visenya links their arms together and starts walking into the dragonpit.  

The dragonpit is warmer than usual because of the number of dragons taken home under it.  The wedding brought together almost all of the dragons in House Tarygern and all the dragons of House Velayron. A few of the younger dragons have stayed on Dragonstone.  

The dragonpit is dimly lit, with torches lining a pathway and the platform.  Visenya can see a line of people, but since their backs are turned towards her, she doesn’t know who Aemond has invited to the wedding.   The only three people that she knows for sure are Helaena and Daeron, whose white hair sticks out in the dime light. Visenya also can tell one of the people is Rob; his firey red hair looks like flames in the fire lighting.  As she and Daemon get closer, she knows the other three people are Ben, Jace and Luke.  Visenya must admit she is a little surprised to see her younger brother.  

 Rhaenyra stands on top of the small platform with Aemond standing on her left.  He wears the same traditional out that she does, and she can see that he, too, is unarmed.  Visenya smiles as she sees that he isn’t wearing his eyepatch, finding that he looks like a pirate with it on.  

 Aemond is fiddling with his fingers as he waits for Visenya.  He knows that she wants to have a Valyrian wedding, and he just hopes she is happy with his choice.  Aemond keeps his eyes on the ground, slightly scared about Visenya seeing his face. He knows she prefers him without the eye patch, but it feels weird not to have it on in front of many people.  He sees her feet and knows he has to look at her. As he does, Aemond feels his heart skip a beat.  

 He doesn’t know what he has done to deserve Visenya.  The smile on her face makes him smile as well.  Aemond has his hair tied back like usual, but to Visenya, he is breathtaking. The sapphire gem in his eye reflects the fire from the torches.  The two smile at each other, wanting to touch one another, but they wait.  

Rhaenyra clears her throat, and the two look at her.  In the Valyria traditions, anyone can officiate a wedding, and Aemond thought it best that Rhaenyra was the one to do so.   

 “Hen lantoti Ānogar,” Rhaenyra says, and Aemond brings the arrowhead to Visenyas's lip.  He takes a second before cutting it, letting the blood build up before he collects it on his thumb. He uses the blood to draw the Valyrian symbol for fire in between Visenya's eyebrows.  Aemond hands the arrowhead to her, and Visenya is less hesitant about cutting Aemonds lip, doing the same actions as him but drawing the symbol for blood on his forehead.  

Blood of two.

“Va syndroti vaedroma,” Rhaenyra says, and Visenya cuts the palm of her hand.  Aemond repeats her actions, and the two put their hands together Rhaenyra wraps their joined hands with a black cloth with a gold embroidered dragon around their hands.   

Joined as one. 

“Mero perzot gihoti,” Rhaenyra says, and she holds a cup under their hands and lets the blood flow into it.  Both Aemond and Visenya watch as it goes into the cup.  

Ghostly flame. 

  “Eledroma iarza sir,” Rhaenyra says as she hands the cup to Visenya.  Visenya takes it and brings it up to her lips; Ben and Rob look as they realize what she is about to do. She takes a sip.  As she pulls the cup away, her lips are redder than before.  

And song of shadows

“Izuli ampa perzi,” Rhaenyra says and Visenya hands the cup to Aemond.  

Two hearts as embers. 

“Prumi lanti seteksi.  Hen jeny mazilarion.” Rhaenyra says Aemond takes a sip of the blood and grimaces at the copper taste.   “Qelossa Ozundesi.  Syndroro ono jedo.  Ry kivia mazvestraksi,” 

Forged in fourteen fires.  A future promised in glass.  The stars stand witness.  The vow spoken through time.  Of darkness and light.

 Visenya and Aemond look to Rhaenyra, who takes the cup away from Aemond. The two waits and Rhaenyra nods to them.  They look back at each other, each stepping closer, and their still-wrapped hands press against their chest.  They both use their free hands to grab ahold of the other face and pull each other closer together.  Their lips brush against them, and the cuts on their lips reopen as they press together.  

 The kiss is more passionate than it should be, with Aemond deepening it, and Visenya is the one to pull away from him.  As much as she would love to make out with Aemond, she would not want to make her family and friends watch.  

 Ben and Rob make a whooping sound when the two newlyweds kiss, but they are both quiet when Daemon gives them a stern look.  The rest of the Targeryens/Strongs clap their hands together as the down pull apart.  Visenya licks the cut on her lip and presses her forehead against Aemonds. Aemond doesn’t care about the rest of the people there, and he smiles the biggest smile he has ever done as their foreheads rest against each other. 

[samieree]

Born in Flames || Game of Thrones

OC x ?😏

-> Chapter IV "Flames"

Chapter V ''I'll take what is mine''

"What are you going to do about it now, Maegelle?" Selaria asked Visenya.

The girl was moved to another chamber until the effects of the fire will be removed in her previous one. She was just sitting on the bed, on which the dragon was moving clumsily. She was staring at him - or her? She had no idea - smiling. She felt as if she had been given new hope.

"This "thing" has a name." she replied, stretching out her hand to the dragon, and it immediately climbed on it, cuddling to her. "Maelia." she added after a moment's thought. "Similar to your mother's name." Vis nodded, still paying attention to the dragon. True, she decided to name him, or her - Guess she'll just assume it's her - after her mother, but she had no intention of lamenting her fate and the fact that she never got to know her parents for the rest of her life.

In recent years she was very... Depressed. She preferred to submit rather than try to fight what happened to her.

Everyone can be broken.

Fact. But she herself contributed to being broken.

She still remembered that day. She had just had a lesson with Septa, she was an eleven-year-old girl at the time, but she wasn't stupid. She still caused a little trouble, and the septa shouted at her more than once for it.

She told her to name the Great Houses of Westeros, and still called her that insufferable name "Maegelle"...

As usual, she decided to spite her. As soon as the septa pointed to King's Landing, she beautifully recited: "House Targaryen. Sigil: A red, three-headed dragon on a black background. Words: Fire and Blood."

She didn't even have to look at the septa to see that she was very angry. What word did she love to use? Oh yes, irreformable.

A short but unpleasant dialogue quickly broke out between them.

"Wrong. House Baratheon of King's Landing. Tell the rest." the girl remained silent, her eyes focused on the table with the map. "I'm talking to you, Maegelle!"

"But you shouldn't! My name is not Maegelle, but Visenya! Visenya of House Targaryen, princess of the Seven Kingdoms and...!" she didn't finish because the woman hit her in the face with a thin stick that she had previously used to show her places on the map. "How dare you...!" she was hit the second time.

"Everything wrong. You are Maegelle. Courtesy of Lord Tywin, you are alive and living in Casterly Rock. And thanks to this same kindness, you will get married someday."

"What kind of kindness is that? You murdered my mother, father and siblings! You make me dye my hair and call me some strange name that I don't even like! It's a prison, not kindness!" Septa hit her again, only this time not with a stick, but with an open hand in the face.

Visenya already knew that the idea to get rid of the septa, which had been in her head for some time, had a chance of succeeding.

She took a knife from the kitchen from the pocket she had sewn into her dress. Slowly and carefully, so that the woman wouldn't notice, she ran the blade across her hand and part of her forearm, under the sleeve of her dress.

"Repeat, Maegelle..." this time it was Vis who had had enough. She didn't even let the septa finish that sentence, she just spat at her.

And then the tide changed. The septa hit her so hard that the girl fell off the bench and onto the ground. At that moment, she decided it was time to try and implement her plan to get rid of the annoying teacher.

"Help, she wants to kill me! King Robert sent her to get rid of me!" she started screaming and crying, moving away from the septa, still on the ground.

"You little..." the woman only then realized how wrong she was doing by hitting her. "What have you got there?" she saw a knife in the girl's hand, which she quickly snatched away. She wanted to leave quickly and report Visenya's behavior, maybe even to Lord Tywin himself, who ordered her to study, but she didn't have time.

Vis knew full well that someone would hear her screams. She even suspected who.

She noticed that Ser Jaime was currently in the keep. He was supposed to leave back to King's Landing in a few days, but he was still here.

He had already defended her from Robert himself once, when, unaware of the king's visit to Casterly Rock, she wanted to go down to the courtyard. It's true that he simply covered her and took her out of there, but still - he defended her.

Now she was counting on the same thing and she didn't miscalculate.

Additionally, on her side, her cheek was red from the blows of the Septa, and blood from a fresh wound was still flowing down her hand. A self-inflicted wound from the knife the septa was currently holding.

So when Jaime burst into the chamber, alerted by Visenya's screams, the situation was clear to him. Septa was holding a knife, standing over a defenseless girl, crying, with blood all over her hand.

It was obvious how he would react. He didn't even let the septa explain herself, he just drew his sword and killed her.

He had to admit, he had always had a soft spot for that poor girl. She reminded him a bit of his brother, in how lonely she was. She didn't really have anyone to support her, so... Guess he wanted to become that kind of person, a support for her. To be the same person he was to his brother, except... Well, it worked a little differently. They weren't family.

Visenya was then convinced that she could get away with everything. That she has already managed to manipulate the situation to her advantage once, so she will be able to do it in the future, also successfully.

But...

Well, Tywin Lannister didn't have the same approach to the situation as his eldest son. He guessed that it was Visenya who provoked this situation. Deep down, he admired that such a young girl was able to turn everything to her advantage so well, even hurting herself on purpose to achieve it.

Of course he never said it out loud.

Instead, he treated Vis very harshly, punishing her severely. Over time, she pushed most of these memories from her mind, but still not all of them. Whenever she thought about that period of her life, she shuddered. From that moment on, she was afraid to disobey, afraid of what Tywin Lannister might do.

Besides, Jaime himself was also upset that he was stupid enough to be manipulated by a child. But coming back... she won't recall those terrible memories anymore when they still chill her blood.

"We can't stay here, not now." she turned to Selaria again, this time looking in her direction.

"What choice do we have? Nobody will let us leave." here she had to admit Selaria was right, but she had no intention of giving up.

If life already gave her hope, in the form of this little being in her arms, she had to take it. She couldn't give up, she needed to reach deep inside herself again and find the Visenya who was not afraid to act, who was not easily broken. Who remembered who she was, thanks to Selaria's stories about her family.

"Maybe we can escape, with a little help..." an idea began to form in her head.

"Ser Barristan?"

"I'm afraid he took advantage of all the turmoil during the attack on the capital and then left... But maybe we could write to him and ask him to arrange a ship for us?" she asked. They won't forbid them to do that, send a letter, will they?

"Even so, how will we get to it? We can't leave the castle on our own, there's always at least one guard with us." true, it could have been a small problem... Although... Maybe not.

"Don't worry, I already have an idea." and she'll need Ser Jaime for this... If he really has any feelings for her, this could be the moment to use them. No matter how cruel it is to play with someone's feelings.

They were much crueler towards her and her family. Is wanting to escape and live on her own terms such a crime? Is it so much that she wants this little dragon in her arms to be safe? Selaria, looking at the silver-haired woman, regretted very much that her old friend and the woman she had previously served couldn't see how her daughter had grown up. Maybe she inherited her appearance entirely from the Targaryens, but she saw in her the unbreakable spirit of the Martells. Maybe over the years she seemed to have lost all fighting spirit, maybe she had been obedient for most of her life... But they didn't break her, not completely.

She remembered the times when Visenya was not yet born, she remembered the time spent with Elia... She may have been her servant, but she was also her close friend. She was always with her, holding her hand during difficult labors. She perfectly remembered the Maester's words after the birth of Aegon - Vis's younger, long-dead brother - that Elia would most likely never have children again due to her health condition.

But less than a year after that announcement, Elia was pregnant again.

This was the third and last birth she helped with with her presence. Visenya's birth.

She even remembered why the girl was named "Visenya". As she was born during the siege of the capital, this name after the warrior queen, sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror, not only had a good connotation, but also gave a certain... Hope.

Although the girl seemed weak from birth and was sick a lot during her childhood, Selaria saw her take her first steps and learn to speak.

Every day, as she looked at this little girl - now a woman - she thanked the gods for listening to her prayers and thanked her brother for using the magic he had sworn to turn away from and saved her from death.

What she didn't know was that this magic also had an influence on the girl to this day. Something had changed in her, she was different.

She lived like in slavery, without power and without family, but she lived. Everything could still be rebuilt.

She taught her everything they didn't want to tell her. She talked about her family, about who she really was, and secretly brought books that the little girl had asked for so that she could learn High Valyrian - she had wanted it ever since she heard that this language was learned in her family.

"You are very much like your parents, Visenya." she said to her in a whisper, sitting down next to her and grabbing her hand. "Not just in appearance. Even now, when you're living the best you can... They would definitely be proud of you." in that short moment of silence, when Vis felt moved by these words of her maid, her friend, another thought came to her mind.

"Maybe... Dorne could help us somehow? After all, I am Oberyn and Doran's niece."

"You think they never tried? I had heard about it, rumors were spreading quickly around Casterly Rock." she sighed quietly, shifting her gaze to the dragon in Visenya's arms. "Lord Tywin always found some reason to keep you."

"But if I manage to escape from here, and maybe one day even try to claim the throne... They would support me, right?" Selaria looked straight into Visenya's purple eyes, squeezing her hand a little tighter.

"Certainly." ~

-> Chapter VI "Letter" -> general masterlist -> Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon masterlist

[waitingforwinterwinds]

A Clash of Kings - 12 DAENERYS I (pages 170-184)

Dany rides through the desert on a horse with no name, finds an abandoned city, and unlocks Jorah's backstory. Jhogo makes contact with Qarth.

-

"Why should I fear Pono?" Dany objected. "He was Drogo's ko, and always spoke me gently." "Ko Pono spoke you gently," Ser Jorah Mormont said. "Khal Pono will kill you. He was the first to abandon Drogo. Ten thosuand warriors went with him. You have a hundred." No, Dany thought, I have four. The rest are women, old sick men, and boys whose hair had never been braided.

He was nice when you were his boss's wife, now you're just some lady who once tried to steal away his right to rape and slave as he liked. He's not even a bloodrider duty bound to see you safely to the dosh khaleen.

"They are mine," she said fiercely. They had been born from her faith and her need, given life by the deaths of her husband and unborn son and the maegi Mirri Maz Duur.

hmmmm... *reassesses theory on "the souls of the sacrifices used to wake the dragons being recycled into dragon souls" now with the idea that one of the dragons is ensouled by Mirri directly and not by Viserys.*

(Like, thematically and by naming convention it would make sense to be Viserys' soul, but on the other hand, he's been dead for donkey's yonks by this point.)

Her hair had all burned away in Drogo's pyre, so her handmaidens garbed her in the skin of the hrakkar Drogo had slain, the white lion of the Dothraki sea. Its fearsome head made a hood to cover her naked scalp, its pelt a cloak that flowed across her shoulders and down her back.

*gasp* Kimba! No!!! We were robbed by the show.

Their mounts subsisted on the tough brown devilgrass that grew in clumps at the base of rocks and dead trees. Dany sent outriders ranging ahead of the column but they found neither wells nor springs, only bitters pools, shallow and stagnant, shrinking in the hot sun.

yeah, sounds you are in 'dig for potable water' territory now. If you had cloth to filter it, you could filter the stagnant water, and use the dead trees to boil it clean, but in a desert like that, surface water is not what you want to be holding out hope for. You gotta dig.

"Aegon's dragons were named for the gods of Old Valyria," she told her bloodriders one morning after a long night's journey. "Visenya's dragon Vhagar, Rhaenys had Meraxes, and Aegon rode Balerion, the Black Dread. -"

Huh, neat. So named after as in those were the same names, or named after like Drogon after Drogo, with small changes?

... RIP Doreah.

Dany went to Ser Jorah one morning as they made camp amidst a jumble of black wind-scoured stones. "Are we lost?" she asked him. "Does this waste have no end to it?"

I imagine traveling exclusively by night makes navigating by stars easier, but there's no mention of it, are they legit just following the comet? How long is it going to be in the sky for? How long has it been there already?

Dany looked at the horizon with despair. they had lost a third of their number, and still the waste stretched before them, bleak and red and endless.

Not gonna lie, that's actually a better survival rate than I was expecting.

How long the city had been deserted she could not know, but the white walls, so beautiful from afar, were cracked and crumbling when seen up close. Inside was a maze of narrow, crooked alleys. The buildings were pressed close, their facades blank, chalky, windowless. Everything was white, as if the people who lived here had known nothing of color.

It would be interesting to know if the building were always only white because it reflects the light and heat, or if there was coloured paints and pigments on the walls long ago which have been long sun-bleached to whiteness, or if the Dothraki who once invaded stole everything of colour.

"What shall we seek, Khaleesi?" asked Jhogo. "Whatever there is," Dany answered. "Seek for other cities, living or dead. Seek for caravans and people. Seek for rivers and lakes and the great salt sea. Find how far this waste extends before us, and what lies on the other side. When I leave this place, I do not mean to strike out blind again. I will know where I am bound, and how best to get there."

Good girl, now that you've had the chance to stop and think you're thinking smart.

Rakharo was back first. ... Dany gave him charge of a dozen of her strongest men, and set them to pulling up the plaza to get to the earth beneath. If devilgrass could grow between the paving stones, other grasses would grow when the stones were gone. They had wells enough, no lack of water. Given seed, they could make the plaza bloom. Aggo was back next. ... Dany thanked him and told him to repair the gates. If enemies had crossed the waste to destroy these cities in ancient days, they might well come again. "If so we might be ready," she declared.

Somewhere in the multiverse, Dany and her khalasar stayed there, in their city of bones and grew into a small but prosperous little community. And no one hurt or betrayed or enslaved them ever again.

"ugly humped creatures that dwarfed any horse." CAMELS!

The pale man with the blue lips replied in guttural Dothraki, (...) The bald man with the jewels in his nose answered in the Valyrian of the Free Cities, (...) The woman in the lacquered wooden mask said in the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, (...)

That's interesting* each of the three speaking to Dany in a different language, like they're trying to appeal to a certain aspect of her through their use of the languages they share with her.

*New drinking game, y'all take a sip anytime the Reader says "that's interesting" XD

[mercurygray]

'Things you said' prompt....#12 … 'where everyone could hear'...Media property - Thrones...Character/s - dealer's choice 🥰

Oh, thank you thank you thank you. This gave me an opportunity to do some more worldbuilding that I really enjoyed. House of the Dragon has a lot of timeskips to fill in, and since Jace is maybe six or seven in the show after the ten year jump, I'm going with a timeline where the first three years of Rhaenyra's marriage are very...unfruitful.

--

The Red Keep was full of strange faces.

She'd known it would be like this, after three years away in Driftmark - knew that new courtiers would come and go. That was the risk they took, her and Laenor, but it had been her decision to make and she stood by it, from that day to this. Three years to weep, to mourn, to gather up the pieces from their shattered wedding and try to make something of their marriage. Three years was a long time to be away, the way the court ran - but her father's ravens would not let them stay away any longer. Your father misses his daughter, the messages said. Come to King's Landing, where I can see your face and your sweet smile, and hear your voice.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, pushing the bitter parts of her back down, knowing what he really said. Come to the castle where you can see my lady wife fat with child again and guilt you into answering why you don't have one of your own, more like. Three years, and nothing to show for it.

We took our vows over a pool of blood, Father. Did you expect we would be happy?

An eternal optimist, her father - thinking that she would be happy in her marriage, that the realm would take her as she was, that she and Alicent would somehow be freinds again, after all that had passed between them. Hardly likely. But she would come, as she was bid, and smile and caper with the rest of them, and take her father's questions as they came. Three years away had given her good opportunity to master her face and its emotions. They had been away for too long - the gossip was catching up, and now she needed to catch up, too.

But who to ask, in this sea of strangers? None of House Hightower's people would dare to speak to her.

Finally - a face she knew, dropping a curtsey - or else at least a sigil. She wore a gold dress, but Rhaenyra would recognize those blue flowers anywhere, though the woman who wore them was older now, and no longer wore her hair loose. "Lady Elin, what a pleasure."

The woman who'd once been Elin Florent rose regally up, smoothing her skirts and her smile to make herself presentable. "Princess Rhaenyra - and the pleasure is all mine, to welcome you home."

"It seems a long time since I've seen you." When would that have been? You missed my wedding - a blessing, I think.

Elin smiled, remembering. "Your half-brother's nameday, in the Kingswood, if memory serves. You spoke sharply to Lady Redwyne about service to the realm, and…" She paused, her smile getting sharper. "And when you came back to camp after killing that boar, Jason Lannister said you looked twice as bloody as Visenya and half as pretty."

Gods, he had said that, hadn't he. Criston had threatened to gouge out his eyes afterwards. Criston! Ah, that was long ago, indeed. "I understand you married his brother," Rhaenyra replied, watching the woman's face for some sign of what she thought of that reply.

A thin smile - the kind a woman shares with other women she shares kinship with. "Ser Jason tried for me, too. We have that in common." See, her eyes said. We are sisters. "I roundly refused him," she added, for good measure.

Rhaenyra allowed herself a smile back. "We have that in common, too." She gestured towards the corridor and the garden beyond. "Will you walk with me? I should like to have the news of the court, since I've been away in Driftmark."

"Where should I start, your grace?"

"Your husband sits on the small council, I think - Let us start there."

The lady stopped, her eyes looking carefully around the corridor as her voice dropped lower. "May I ask a second question, your grace?"

"If you must."

Elin stepped closer, her eyes level with Rhaenyra's. "Why trust what I have to say in this, knowing what and who my husband is - who I am?" Born of a high house of the Reach, from whence the Hightowers and the Queen. Married to a Lannister of Casterly Rock who owes his office to that family and that name.

Why, indeed. "You taught me to see this game, once, because you said girls should learn to play it - to master the board before it mastered them. You said it believing I would be a queen someday. No one apart from my father ever did that. In truth I do not know if I can trust you - but I would like you for my ally, all the same. I know I do not need you as my enemy."

Another smile - a real one, for certain. "My lady is too kind," Elin said, quickly and loudly, with a laugh. "I'll send my seamstress at once, if it's a new gown you need. Taking things out at the seams never seems to end well for me. Do you and Ser Laenor intend to stay long in the city?"

Come, play the game with me, her smile said. Give the gossips what they want - grist for the mill that already wonders why you are not with child. No wayward daughter, ordered home by a petulant father. Rather an expecting mother, desirous that her babe be born where there are eyes to see.

Rhaenyra smiled and fixed on her face, radiant with expectation. "Plans do change, my lady. We shall see."

[yuxaru]

our party’s evil stepdad and rebellious daughter

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 7: Nightwraiths and Impulsive Decisions

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 6,260

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡

“Two rooms please,” The man working behind the bar moves his gaze to Visenya, an oily grin snaking its way onto his face. He’s a short, chubby man with beady brown eyes that focus on her too intently, lingering on her chest area.. His mousy brown hair is greasy and slicked back, an unsuccessful attempt to hide his bald patches, it would seem. The longer he looks at her, his grin creeps wider and wider until Visenya can see his teeth, the ones still in his mouth at least. Majority are blackened while the whitest of them are yellow and the stench of something rotting hits her nose.

He pulls out a heavy book from behind the counter, slamming it on the bar, faintly humming as he thumbs through the pages. With each page turn, he makes a show of licking his fingers, eye raking up and down Visenya as he does before moving his eyes down to the page.

“Looks like we only got one,” he says. His eyes peer up at Visenya, a grin sleazier than the last, if possible. “However, I’m sure I could arrange for somewhere else...like my room perhaps. Free of charge of course,” Visenya’s jaw tightens as she rolls her eyes, slamming a few pieces of gold on the counter with more force than necessary. The rat of a man jumps a bit in surprise, sliding the coins towards him with shaky hands.

Men are the same no matter where you go.

“I’ll just take the room, along with some drinks for me and my friend,” Visenya says, nodding her head towards Jaskier, who’s sitting at a table nervously fumbling with his lute. The man grumbles under his breath while putting away the room ledger, replacing it with an old rusty key. She grabs it and moves towards Jaskier, taking a seat across from him.

“Oh, there you are! Any luck?” Jaskier says upon noticing her. In response she throws the rusty key on the table, untrapping the sheath of her blade and resting it beside her. “Just one?”

“It was all they had,” she says. A barmaid approaches their table, two drinks in hand. She sets them on the table and quickly scurries away before either of them could so much as glance at her. As soon as the drinks touch the table, Visenya grabs one of the cups and takes a large gulp, the ale leaving behind a slight numbing sensation as it flows down her throat. It’s not the smoothest ale she’s had, but also not piss poor swill.  

“Well, I’m sure we can make it work,” Jaskier says.

Visenya just grunts in response, throwing her ale back and finishing it off. She holds a hand up to gain the attention of a barmaid that is currently bustling around the tavern like a rat. A moment later she swings back to their table, wiping her hands onto her dingy and stained apron.

“Another ale for me,” Visenya says. The woman nods and rushes off, yelling Visenya’s order at the man behind the bar, returning a moment later with a full mug of ale. She places it in front of Visenya and turns to leave, however before she can, Visenya slips a gold coin in one of her deep pockets. 

“Ah, I knew you had a heart somewhere in there, Jane,” Jaskier says. His tone is light and teasing as he places his lute in the chair beside him. He takes a drink from his ale and promptly begins to sputter and cough, putting it down as quickly as he picked it up.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She hides her smirk behind her mug as she slowly sips her drink. Amusement dances in her amber eyes as Jaskier continues to cough for the next few seconds. 

“Don-- don’t think, I didn’t see you slip that coin into her pocket,” Jaskier says, smacking his hand against his chest a few times before his breathing returned to normal. He sighs in relief and pulls out his water skin, taking a large gulp from it.

“So? It wasn’t like it was mine,” she says, raising a single eyebrow at Jaskier. His brows furrow and he purses his lips, before suddenly his eyes widen and he frantically begins to pat his pockets. 

“You took my coin pouch!” he yells, pointing his finger accusingly at her. “I can’t believe you would do that to me, what if we were to get separated and I needed to get food so I don’t starve to death? What would you do then, Jane? Hmm. Bet you didn’t think about that!”

Visenya turns her attention away from Jaskier’s ranting, scanning the current occupants in the bar. There’s the usual hunters and rangers, people traveling from one place to another, and then the workers. Her attention is captured however, when someone new enters the inn. Long snow-white hair, a bulky stature that could intimidate a giant, and two swords strapped to his back. 

Geralt.

He approaches the bar, giving his order to the rat behind the counter, and she imagines him using a harsh tone, his words clipped and cold. He sits down on a bar stool, folding on himself as he lowers his elbows onto the counter. His position is the perfect spot, allowing everyone in the room to be visible to him, while staying hidden in the shadows himself. 

Visenya's eyes lock onto him and as his eyes move through the room, their gazes meet. The bartender timidly places Geralt’s drink in front of him before scurrying off to the other end. She offers him a sly smirk, raising a single eyebrow at him, daring him to come over. 

And he does not disappoint. 

With an ale in one hand, he stands from the bar and starts to walk towards Visenya and Jaskier's table. The crowds part for him, granting the intimidating Witcher a wide berth. And for a second, the thought of traveling with Geralt and never having to deal with people’s bullshit crosses Visenya’s mind. But then her eyes rest on Jaskier - who is still ranting about his coin pouch - and in that moment she knows she couldn't leave him. This idiot wouldn’t last a day without her.

“Geralt!” Visenya says. Jaskier stops mid rant, moving his gaze to the approaching Witcher. 

“Oh yes! This is perfect, brilliant even.” Jaskier says, his tone bursting with excitement. “Whatever grand quest Geralt is about to complete is going to make a fantastic song!”

 “Jaskier, do me a favor.” Visenya says, eyes not moving an inch from Geralt.

“Of course, anything My Lady.”

“Shut up,” Visenya says just in time for Geralt to reach their table. “If I didn’t know any better, Geralt of Rivia, I’d think you were following me,” she says, granting him a sly smile, a stark contrast to the frosty glare she wore moments ago. Geralt grunts in response, a hint of a smile hidden under his stony facade, and pulls out the chair beside Visenya.

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, nodding his head towards the bard. Something glinting in the light gains Visenya’s attention, her eyes drawn to one of Geralt’s swords. Resting on the hilt of it is a familiar broach, with a sword cutting through the middle of it, surrounded in gems. 

Renfri’s broach. 

Her smile dims a touch, the mischievous expression turning bleak and hollow. She hasn’t thought of Renfri since Blaviken, unwilling to think about any of it. Visenya managed to tuck thoughts of Renfri in the same box she kept all of her memories of Westeros, locked deep enough away to continue on with her life. But seeing the broach that belonged to her - something so intricately tied with Renfri and her history - is like the box being thrown open and it’s contents spilling to the ground. 

“You kept it,” Visenya says, voice barely above a whisper. Geralt looks at the broach then back at Visenya. Neither of them say anything, not that Visenya trusts herself to form a coherent sentence.

“The broach? Should I know about this broach, it seems like a big deal. Jane I didn’t know you liked jewelry?” Jaskier interrupts, pulling Visenya from her reverie, firing off his questions like a hyperactive rabbit.

And just like that the box is locked again, it’s contents neatly folded inside.

“It’s nothing.” Visenya quickly answers with a stiff tone, turning back to her drink and taking an even larger swig than before. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem like nothing.” Jaskier rebuttals and Visenya glowers at him, not ready to deal with anything that involves Blaviken.

 “Leave it, Jaskier.” Geralt says, leveling a firm glare at him, eyes demanding for him to drop it. 

“Fine, Fine I know a touchy subject when I see it. But how did you two meet anyway? Back during the whole Filavandrel situation you two seemed well acquainted.” Jaskier asks, taking a small drink of his ale, and it brings a twinge of amusement to Visenya to see him struggling to swallow it.

 “You’d think by now this one -” he points over at Visenya, “would tell me but no, I’m not worthy of her tales. Haven’t even gotten her last name.” 

“Blaviken,” Visenya answers, managing to make her voice even and strong, laced with her usual ice. “And I do have a last name, you’re just not privy to that information,”

“Truly, Blaviken? Wasn’t half the town burnt to a crisp? Were you present when it happened? Do you know what caused the explosion? How could you leave the details of this riveting tragedy from me!?” He exclaims, enthralled by the story he already weaved in his mind.

“No, I wasn’t there,”

Her eyes glaze over, grip tightening on the mug in her hand. Images of people burning in a building flash before her eyes, their screams echoing in her head. The smell of burning flesh - the stench still lingering in the depths of her mind - causes her stomach to turn. And she swears that her mug starts to heat up, the ale coming to a vicious boil the longer and longer her mind wanders. Physically she is there, but mentally she’s miles away, until Geralt snaps her back to her body.

“I see you took your own advice about hair oils.” Geralt says, noticing the tight grip on her cup and the haunted look in her eyes. He knows it well, he’s seen it painted on other people’s faces many times. His eyes are locked on Visenya’s hair, braided in an intricate fashion, securely out of her face. It’s still that same disgusting brown, but not nearly as much of a state as before, the ends much more manageable. A playful smile appears on Visenya’s face, the ghosts of Blaviken disappearing from her mind, and she lightly smacks him on his broad shoulder, not worried about actually hurting the giant of a man.

“Shut up and drink your ale,” she says, gesturing towards the drink the barmaid slipped him earlier. “Why are you here anyway?” she asks as he drinks his ale. 

“A Nightwraith,” he answers, “There’s been one lurking nearby.” 

“Well, I doubt it’s in this inn, so why are you here?” Visenya asks. 

“Nightwraiths only come out at night, so I’m getting a drink.” Geralt says, gesturing to his mug.

“And that you might’ve possibly heard we were here,” Jaskier said, forcing himself into the conversation. “A few men in the town were getting too comfortable and Jane set them straight,” Visenya levels a glare at Jaskier, not liking the implications in his eyes, the accusing words dripping from his smiling lips. He instantly flushes, beginning to nervously play with his sleeves, the confidence there only moments ago nowhere to be seen. 

“What are you implying, Jaskier,” Visenya asks, a thinly veiled threat laced in her words, promises of reintroducing him to her fist if he isn’t careful.

“I’m just saying, this is what… the third time you’ve run into each other and the two of you seem very familiar with each other” he mutters. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt says, utilizing the same tone as Visenya. And she doesn’t doubt that Geralt’s probably already hit the bard too. 

“I didn’t say a word,” His expression is similar to a cat that got the cream, smug with a satisfied glint in his eyes. His eyes slowly move from Geralt to Visenya, back to Geralt then Visenya, before landing on his lute. He picks up the instrument and begins mindlessly strumming it, humming different lyrics quietly as he does.

Geralt rolls his eyes, while Visenya fidgets with one of her daggers.

Stupid bard.

They idly sit there for a few more minutes and once Geralt finishes his drink, he stands up to leave. 

“Wait Geralt,” Visenya said, grabbing onto his arm, causing him to look down at her. “Let me help you fight the wraith.”

“No,” he said, his tone flat, not even allowing a second to consider the offer.

“Why not?” Visenya presses, refusing to accept no without a reason, her pride rearing its ugly head. Does he think she’s incapable of holding her own in battle, like she’s some damsel in distress?

“It’s too dangerous,” he simply says, pulling his arm free from her grasp and leaving the inn. Visenya huffs in frustration, reaching across the table and swiping Jaskier’s full mug of ale.

When was the last time she got to hit something that could give her a real fight?

“Hey! That’s mine,” Jaskier exclaims, but makes no move to try and take it back. 

“Well I need a drink and I got tired of you sipping on it like it’s some high class wine,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. Jaskier huffs, but says nothing else. He leans back in his chair and Visenya finishes off his mug. There’s silence surrounding them for a moment, blocking out the intruding tavern ambience

“You really are something else, Jane,” Jaskier says, bringing Visenya’s attention back to him. His eyes are intently watching her, lacking the lightheartedness he usually possesses. Her smile slowly vanishes, meeting Jaskier’s gaze, and not for the first time, Jaskier proves himself more perceptive than most people give him credit for. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, averting her eyes to her hands, tracing the details of the small ring on her finger.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what you said to Filavandrel,” he says. Visenya’s eyes snap towards Jaskier. She opens her mouth to reply, but Jaskier cuts her off. “But, I won’t push it. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” 

Visenya’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she tries to form a proper sentence. 

“ I- Thank you,” she finally says. Finishing off the rest of her ale, she grabs the key from the table and stands up, Jaskier mirroring her actions.

Silently, they move across the room towards the stairs to get to the second level. 

“So who’s getting the bed?” Jaskier asks, a hair too close.

“Me,”.

“Or we could share…?” Jaskier suggests.

“Or you can sleep outside in the cold.”

                                                  o0o0o0o

The soft grass gives out underneath the weight of Visenya’s footsteps, leaving behind a trail of her tracks as she quietly moves through the meadow. There’s no sun to guide her, the darkness only allowing for faint shadows and delusions of monsters at every corner. There’s a chill in the air, an ominous feeling creeping up her spine that nearly makes her heave up her dinner. She’s not sure what possessed her to do something this stupid; it could be pride or the need to prove a point. Either way, it’ll probably get her killed one day. 

The townsfolk were more than willing to tell her everything they knew about the wraith plaguing their home, even giving a general location. It’s a few hours past sundown and approximately ten minutes after she saw Geralt exit the town. Armed with a sword and donning her leather armor, the sinking feeling that she’s in over her head sets in, a pit forming in the depths of her stomach. 

But it’s too late to turn back now.  

It’s silent, so much so that Visenya can hear her breathing, the deep inhale and exhale seemingly as loud as a Dothraki screamer. The air is ice cold, so cold it could make Winterfell feel like Dorne. Each breath is clearly visible in the air, the condensation nearly freezing it into small icicles on sight. Her heart speeds up, the ominous feeling that previously felt more like a nagging sensation in the back of her mind is at full power. There’s a tickle in her left ear, the feeling of someone a breath away from her skin. She whirls to the left, and there’s nothing but empty air, and just as she turns away--.

A screech rings in the still air, so piercing Visneya has to cover her ears in fear of losing that ability to hear. She whips her head to the left, keen eyes trying to see through the inky darkness surrounding her, and then she sees it- a glint of silver in the distance, flashing so quickly, it could only be the dangerous dance of one person, Geralt.

Without allowing a moment of hesitation, Visenya draws her blade and charges. There’s a sliver of fear in the back of her mind that she forces away. She’s never fought a wraith - or any monster of any kind, but there’s no turning back now.

The closer she gets, the clearer the noises becomes. She hears the sound of metal clanging together, heavy breathing similar to a snarling wolf, and another scream - this one not as loud as the first one. About 20 feet away, a spectral figure comes into sight, wearing a torn up nightgown, the once pristine white fabric stained red and black. A blackened tongue oozing with dark ichor hangs from its mouth, nearly reaching its spectral feet. A shimmering purple barrier surrounds it as Geralt hacks away at it, moving as if he’s made to fight.

She grabs one of her silver daggers - the first weapon she bought here, still charging at full speed. It leaves her hand, cutting through the air, landing where its heart would be. A clean shot, just like Jon taught her all those years ago, hidden in the Godswood. 

Geralt’s head whips towards Visenya, the distraction allowing for the wraith to drag it’s razor sharp claws across his chest, the leather armor taking the brunt of the damage. He staggers backward, but tosses a vial at the wraith. It explodes on contact and leaves behind a luminous glow in the area. The creature screeches in pain as it flies towards Geralt. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Jane?” Geralt yells, anger evident in his tone as he dodges an incoming attack.

“Helping you!” she replies. She brings her blade up and slices into the creature. The sword passes through it, leaving the wraith unharmed.

“Your sword won’t do anything!” he yells, hitting the wraith with his sword, a line of flames following the swing. “It’s steel, only silver kills monsters.”

“Well fuck me then!” Visenya tosses the sword away, pulling out a second dagger, this one also forged from silver. It leaves her hand and lands in the center of the creature’s forehead, falling to the ground as the shimmering circle around them disappears. The wraith becomes incorporeal again and swipes one of its hands towards Visenya, scratching along her chest.

 A howl of pain echoes from her mouth, a burning sensation lights her body on fire, but not the type of fire she’s familiar with. This one is darker and twisted, making her toes curl inwards as it feels like her life essence is being drained. Visenya staggers backward and attempts to gain her footing. However, before she has a chance to recover, it swipes at her again with its other hand, scratching across her chest again, creating an X. With another cry of pain, Visenya falls backward. 

The wraith glides towards her, its scream making her ears bleed. She attempts to stand but doesn’t have the strength, it feels like her body weighs a ton. The closer the wraith gets to her, the faster her heart speeds up, the feeling of impending doom growing stronger. And as it draws closer, on instinct she throws her arm up, an attempt to shield her body from the creature. And as she screams, pain flaring in her body from the simple action, a flash of fire follows her movements. It smacks against the wraith, burning away the rags it wears and the black ichor dripping from it. The creature recoils and shrieks once again, however, before it continues its advance, a sword pierces it from behind. With a final scream, the wraith disappears, leaving a sticky substance behind in its place, that too dissipates after a moment, only leaving behind burning injuries in its wake. 

Silently, Geralt steps in front of Visenya with a hand outstretched towards her. She takes it, his hand is surprisingly cool to touch, a startling contrast to her burning skin. He slings her arm over his shoulder and the two of them begin the trek back to town. On their way past it, Geralt bends down to grab her sword from the ground. 

The walk back to the inn is completely silent, Geralt saying nothing and Visenya wanting to speak, but not knowing what to say. It isn’t until they’re in Geralt’s room, the door firmly shut behind them, that he says anything, or even looks at her.

“You shouldn’t have come.” Geralt says, his voice holding the usual coldness, keeping everyone at arm's length, but contained under his words is a burning anger. He grabs a medicine kit from his pack and walks over to Visenya, a poultice in one hand and bandages in the other. “Take off your shirt.” 

“But I did come,” she says as she took off her leather tunic, leaving on her breast band. Her vision is slightly fuzzy around the edges, but much clearer than it had been in the field. The burning sensation isn’t nearly as intense, but that doesn’t mean it’s healing, in fact the wound looks worse.  It’s like when you cut your finger on parchment, the pain doesn’t go away, instead it lingers in the back of your mind, until it finally leaves entirely.

“Yeah and you almost got killed!” he says, aggressively cleaning the deep claw marks that mar her skin, adding to the collection of scars covering her body. She hisses in pain at the contact but does nothing to stop him. She watches his eyes, a storm brewing in them. His mouth is pulled in a tight line with his jaw tightly clenched. His hands held the rag so tightly she could see his veins popping out on his arm. 

“Like that’s the worst thing that could happen! Not that it matters, because I didn’t die but the wraith did. End of story.” She shouldn’t have said that, and she knows it. The second the words fly from her mouth she regrets them, but it’s too late. Her pride is wounded, hurting as much as the claw marks on her chest. 

“Like hell that’s the end of the story. Do you not realize how stupid what you did was?” he snarls, throwing the rag in his hand to the ground, pure unbridled rage in his eyes.

“Who cares, I clearly don’t! Can’t you say thank you and move one,” Visenya exclaims, over this argument the moment it started, but unable to concede and admit fault. She’s too stubborn for that.

And he laughs.

Not a full belly laugh that makes your stomach twist into knots, or the type of laugh that is like the first spring air touching your skin after a year of winter. No, this one is cold and sarcastic and cruel. 

“You want me to thank you? Is that it?” he asks, his eyes wild and crazy, his mouth twisting into a mocking grin. 

“Would that be so bad?” She stands from the bed, pain immediately rearing its hateful head at her, but the anger coursing through her bones overpowers it, blocking out her senses and common sense. 

“Enlighten me then Jane. Why should I thank you, hmm? What did you do in that fight other than distract me,” he asks, raising his eyebrows at her, his eyes egging her on, demanding a response. 

“I helped you, you fucking idiot!” she replies, shoving him with all the strength she could muster. He staggers back just a hair, quickly gaining his footing back.

“And if you died? Would that be helping me? When they had to bury--” 

Smack.

She brings her hand up, cracking it across his face with a clean smack, the noise reverberating around them. And it’s silent, beyond their heavy breathing and the crackling fire. From the force of the blow, Geralt’s head turned left and stays that way for a moment, his left cheek bright red. The shock on his face disappears, like fire melting ice, while Visenya stares at him, unsure of what to do next. Her hand thrums with pain, his face harder than she’d anticipated. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she mutters after a moment of silence. Flashes of Walder Frey and his soldiers, Robb falling dead to the ground, and Visenya’s knees meeting the dirt, only able to cry as bolts pierced her skin. 

They maintain eye contact for a moment, Visenya lost in her thoughts and Geralt trying to digest what she said. And then like the first snow of winter, the broken dam that lets the river flow freely, Geralt breaks the silence.

“Sit down, I still need to wrap your wound.”

In a daze, Visenya sits down as Geralt starts spreading a foul smelling poultice on her wounds, yet she can’t even bring herself to grimace at the smell, too lost in her head. Visenya stares at the wall ahead of her, lost in her own thoughts. A sigh escapes her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Visenya says nervously, biting her bottom lip. “I shouldn’t have come, I don’t know anything about monsters and charged headfirst into a fight without a proper weapon.” A chuckle escapes her throat, the tone self-deprecating and sardonic. 

“I’ve noticed you don’t think too much before acting,” he said, his tone lighter than the anger in it only seconds ago, her apology calming his rage. Visenya snorts, remembering all the times she’d been scolded for her hot-headedness by the Starks - mainly Catelyn and on occasion Jon too. 

“So I’ve been told,” she says. Geralt begins applying the bandages over her wounds to protect them from getting infected. He doesn’t say anything else, but Visenya can hear the questions swirling in his mind. 

“Go on. Ask away all the questions I know you have.” Visenya says. Geralt pauses his actions but continues nonetheless.

“I do have questions, but I know if you wanted me to know the answers, you’d tell me.” Geralt replies. He finishes dressing her wounds and steps away from her. He begins gathering the remaining supplies and places them back into his pack.

“Do you miss her?” Visenya asks, watching Geralt intently. He doesn’t pause his actions, but he does throw her a quick glance. “I mean, you still have her broach. She must’ve meant something.” Visenya ponders aloud. Geralt throws his pack across the room onto a chair.  He quickly removes his leather jerkin, expertly undoing on the ties and clasps that keep it in place. He’s left wearing a simple tunic and his sturdy leather pants. He then sits beside Visenya on the bed. 

“I will admit, she had an impact on me.” Geralt says, handing her a water skin. She takes a large drink from it, the cool water refreshing against her dry throat, then Visenya passes the water back to him, wiping at her mouth. 

“I feel like every time I close my eyes to sleep, she’s there. A faint whisper in my dreams that never leaves.” Visenya says, her voice barely above a whisper. Geralt doesn’t reply but continues to watch her, his expression is unreadable. 

“I was gonna leave with her, did ya know?” Visenya says, softly laughing after, tracing the grain in the floorboards. “We were going to take the world by storm, no one safe from our chaos.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt mutters.

“Don’t be, she was determined to burn down the world. Nothing we could’ve done,” Visenya replies, trying to convince herself more than anything. Her need to destroy those who’ve wronged her led to her downfall, a moral point of no return. It reminds Visenya how fickle someone’s state of sanity is. One wrong move and everything snaps. 

That could’ve been Visenya if not for the Starks.

It could still be her.

And that thought terrifies her.

“How long did you know her?” Geralt asks. 

“Not much longer than you,” Visenya says, snorting obnoxiously. “It seems stupid, being so torn up about the death of someone you’ve only known for three days.” 

“People have done crazier.” Geralt replies. Apprehensively he puts a hand on Visenya’s shoulder as an attempt to comfort her. She accepts it and leans against his touch. Forming a small smile on her face, she looks up at him.

“Like charge into a fight against a wraith unprepared.” she quips.

“Some might say that,” he says. He moves his hand so his arm is wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her closer to his side. 

“Would it surprise you to know I’ve done far stupider?” Visenya asks, her eyes shifting to his wolf medallion, tracing and retracing it. 

“Would you be offended if I say I’m not.” Geralt says. She can feel his gaze on her, so intense it might burn a hole through her.

“I can’t be offended about anything after the stunt I just pulled,” Visenya says. She pulls a centimeter away from Geralt, sitting up to be eye level with him.

Easier said than done, considering how tall he is. 

She rests her hands on top of his shoulders, attempting to balance herself. His eyes follow her every move but he does nothing to stop her. Her eyes trace his face, taking the moment to memorize each curve and scar. His face is angular and sharp, faint white lines dancing across his face. His lips - soft and full, an intoxicating contrast to the sharpness on the rest of his face. From the moment she saw him, Visenya knew that Geralt was attractive. But being this close to him, with his eyes looking at her like they are, now she knows how attractive he is.

“Everyone always told me I was too impulsive,” Visenya says, leaning her weight against Geralt as she swings one of her legs around him, straddling his lap.

“Hmm. And where would they get that idea?” Geralt replies, moving his arms to coil around her waist like a snake tightening around its prey. 

“I have no idea,” Visenya says, moving her face closer to Geralt’s. He doesn’t move towards her, but he doesn’t move away either. His grip around her does tighten, however. She continues until their faces are barely a centimeter apart. They’re so close she can feel his breath fanning on her face as her eyelashes delicately tickle against his skin. The two of them continue to stare at each other, daring the other person to make a move. Her eyes search his - unsure of what she’s looking for, but searching nonetheless. 

There’s a little distance between them.

Until there isn’t.  

Geralt closes the gap between them, pressing his lips against her, like a starving beast that finally found a meal after days of searching. It’s all teeth and tongue, desperation clawing at both of them. His lips are slightly chapped from the biting wind outside, but still so soft. It’s like the first time Visenya wore a dress from silks, drowning in the soft fabric that felt like a million gentle caresses. 

Gods, his lips are softer than they have the right to be.

 Her hands move from his shoulders and weave themselves into his hair, lightly tugging as she does. He pulls her closer to his body, the heat radiating from Visenya hotter than any fire. The adrenaline from the fight with wraith returns tenfold, a roaring fire burning away the pain lingering in her chest until there’s nothing but a dull ache left. Visenya can feel herself getting addicted to the sensation of his lips, desperately craving more and chasing his mouth during those few seconds they pull away for air.

On pure instinct, she begins to grind against him in the same rhythm of her ragged breathing, desperate for some sort of friction. His hands that were previously around her waist slide down until he’s gripping both sides of her hips. He starts to guide her movements, clearly well practiced in this department. The sensation elicits soft moans from Visenya that Geralt swallows. 

Geralt breaks the kiss, moving his mouth to her neck, leaving marks wherever his teeth touch. Visenya gasps at the feeling, tugging on his hair harder than before. Geralt growls and continues his assault. A warm feeling inside her continues to grow the longer they stay like this until it’s nearly unbearable. One of her hands untangles itself from his hair, moving to grip his chin. 

She forces his head away from her neck to face her head-on. A predatory grin forms on Visenya's face, the control she holds over him in the moment exhilarating. Usually, Geralt maintains control of a situation, both in combat and in conversation, he’s holding the reins. But in this moment, with his eyes practically begging for her to do something - anything as he tightens his grip on her hips, he’s as helpless as the damsels in Sansa’s stories. His amber eyes appear nearly feral, wild and blown out. His hair is a tangled mess from where Visenya brushed her hands through it, his lips are bruised and swollen, evidence of what just happened between them. 

She continues to grind against him while maintaining her grip on his chin. A series of low grunts escapes his mouth, the sound spurring Visenya on. She quickens her pace and with her hand still in Geralt’s hair, she pulls harder and forces his head upwards to expose his neck. His jaw is clenched, veins in his neck popping out. She leans her face forward, burying her face in his pulse point, leaving trails of phantom kisses leading up to his jawline. She begins to nibble at his jaw, slowly moving towards his lips. She moves her hands onto the tops of his shoulders, leaning most of her weight against him. Geralt leans forward, attempting to connect their lips, but Visenya pulls back. Far enough that he doesn’t reach her, but still close enough that her breath tickles his lips. A low grunt of annoyance leaves his mouth, but he does nothing else.

“Nuh uh uh. Not yet,” she tells him, giving him a grin that shows all her teeth. “You’ve gotta earn it.” His grip on her hips is so tight, Visenya’s sure it’s gonna leave marks. His movements become jerkier and rougher as he guides her hips against his crotch. A pit grows in Visenya’s stomach as she grinds harder against him. A slew of curses leave Geralt’s mouth, but he maintains eye contact with Visenya like he’s entranced. 

“Fuck, Geralt. There you go, that’s right.” Visenya moans, closing her eyes and fully enjoying the sensations. “If it’s this good when you’ve got your clothes on, I can only imagine when you’re not.” she says, fluidly moving with the pace he set. 

“Why don’t you find out,” he grunts, his breathing unsteady. Visenya simply laughs at him, opening her eyes and leaning into him. 

“Not yet, this is only the third time we’ve met. A girl has to maintain some propriety,” She presses her lips against his, slipping her tongue in his mouth, but pulls away before he gets a chance to react. 

“You’re a fucking tease,” Geralt says, attempting to chase her mouth. 

“The door’s over there, I’m sure there’s a nearby brothel that could help you out.” Visenya says. However, before Geralt gets a chance to respond, she digs her fingers into his shoulders. She rubs against him with rigid backward and forward motions, chasing the high that she instinctively knows is so close. She clenches her legs tighter against him as a tingle fills her body, starting from her head down to her toes. Almost simultaneously, a throaty groan leaves Geralt's mouth and he presses his face into the crook of her neck. The two of them slow their movements until neither of them are moving. 

They stay like that for a while, neither of them saying a word. Visenya eventually manages to catch her breath and steady her heart. The adrenaline previously pumping through her diminishes as she gains control of her brain. 

“Stay.” Geralt asks - no demands. His eyes meet hers with the same intensity his gaze always holds, but something softer is mingled with it. 

“Jaskier will know if I don’t come back to the room.” Visenya reminds him. “And I really don’t want to deal with that.” 

“To hell with the bard.” Geralt argues, tightening his grip around Visenya and pulling her closer. 

“You said it, not me.” Visenya quips, leaning forward to meet Geralt's lips again. 

                                              o0o0o0o

Tags: If you’re name is crossed out, it means Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you. 

 @sunlithours | @1967-chevy-impala-called-roscoe​ | @historicallydysfunctional​ | @stuckupstucky​ | @aknerdchick​ |  @ayamenimthiriel​​ | 

[onthesandsofdreams]

The Dragon Wants

Fandom: ASoIaF Pairing: Aegon/Fem!Torrhen Rating: M Summary: He shouldn’t want her. But he does. Words: 1136 Notes: Prompt fill for ValarMoreKinks. You can find the request in the Round 12, page 21.

Read @ AO3

Torrhia Stark, the former Queen in the North was on his mind, quite a lot and frequently.

It had begun little by little. At first, he had readily enough blamed his interest in curiosity. No one could really blame him on that aspect. She alone, of all the Kings and Regents or Heiresses, had relinquished her crown easily enough.

It had surprised him, Torrhia Stark had the same pride and power as the rest, she could have easily fought him, oppose him as much as she could. And she would have died.

“What good does me,” She had said, a brow raised and her lips quirked upward. “Being Queen of ashes?”

That had been her response when he had asked, after all, relinquishing a crown was not something many were willing to do. Argella had been a prime example. “You could have fought.” He’d told her.

“Yes,” she sounded both amused and exasperated. “And then what? Seeing my name and legacy die? Seeing my people turn into ashes? Seeing the forests of the North turn into cinders? No, Aegon,” she’d shaken her head and addressed him by his name, as his request. “I give my crown so my children live, so I can see them grow and have their own, so that my people live, so that the North remains. I’m still the Lady of Winterfell, almost nothing changed, only my crown and title.”

He’d inclined his head, she’d seen what many didn’t. “Well then Lady Stark, here’s to you and your wisdom.”

She’d laughed at that. He’d liked the sound of her laughter.

They made quite an interesting friendship from then on, aside Visenya, Rhaenys and Orys, it was Torrhia whom he spoke most frequently. He learned to trust her judgment. He’d taken to visit the North  and Winterfell as often as he could. And somewhere along the lines, between letters, between visits filled with ale, food, snows and dark gray landscape, he began to crave her. Even if he denied it heavily during his waking hours.

The death of Rhaenys was a heavy blow, Torrhia had offered her sympathy, “Loosing a partner is never easy,” she’d told him. “Best you can do, is concentrate on your son, Visenya and your kingdom. You can’t let grief drag you down.”

He was able to push his attraction and desire aside, for a time. At least while he mourned for Rhaenys. But once he began to feel better, his desire for Torrhia came back with a vengeance. The nights became longer on an empty bed, no Rhaenys to distract him and see to his passion. His relationship with Visenya was deteriorating quickly, so he only visited her chambers every so often. But those nights alone? His mind drifted, it drifted north, to a land of ice and snow and to its lady, who seemed to be made of ice and snow herself.

Torrhia Stark was attractive, he’d always known. Tall, taller than the normal woman, she was neither willowy nor the same curvaceous form that Visenya had, she was somewhere in the middle. Her hair, a dark chocolate brown, that in some lights, it almost looked black. Fair, unstained skin that seemed to have the color of peaches (he’d often wonder if it would have the same softness). Generous mouth, dark gray eyes that seemed too sharp, eyes that enticed him and called to him.

Would she yield to his touch? Would she be soft and gentle in bed, or would her pride demand command? Would her kisses be soft and full of promise, or would they be made of fire? Would she be the same ice and snow that her land was, or would underneath that, behind close door lay a fire for him to discover? Would she be as playful as Rhaenys was in bed, or would she, like Visenya, follow him to bed out of a misguided duty?

His hands itched, they itched to slide her dresses off her and see her nude. To tangle his fingers in her hair, somehow, he’d knew that it would be soft. To roam over her bare body, to cup her breasts. He ached for a taste, a taste of her mouth, of her skin, of her core. He wanted. He wanted her nude in his bed, over his own red and black silk sheets, over her own furs. He wanted to have her under and atop of him. He wanted to spend himself on her, to know that it was his seed between her tights. He wanted to hear the moans she’d make, would she be quiet or loud in her passion? He wanted to discover that one side of hers that he’d still didn’t know.

Visenya noticed, of course she did. “Just go North and fuck her, do what you must. I don’t care.”

He knew she lied, Visenya cared. “She doe not want me, take heart in that.” He’d told her, even if all his being raged at the thought of being unwanted by the woman he wanted. And a small part of him hated it, hated that another woman not Rhaenys had awaken such want, such lust inside him.

Visenya had given him a stern glare, eyebrow arched and a sardonic smile. “You fool, if she doesn’t want you, then she’s a fool.”

He’d ignored that jab and carried on, pretending he didn’t want Torrhia Stark. And he did mostly a good job, at least during his days, the nights were a different matter. He craved and wanted, and he knew himself that he would not be happy until he either had her, or was soundly rejected.

It took him four moon turns to find the courage to visit her again. She’d welcomed him with an easy smile, and hot wine, winter had come earlier. “Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace,” she was formal on public. “It is yours.”

‘Are you mine?’ he ached to say. “Thank you, Lady Stark.”

He spent a week before he could approach her, but as luck would have it, they were able to be left alone in her solar. “Tell me, Aegon, what really brought you here?”

He could deny any reason, he could tell her any story and he almost did, he’d nearly said, ‘time away from Visenya’. Instead, he opted for truth, he’s the Dragon, rider of Balerion and King of the Seven Kingdoms. “You. Because I wanted to see you.”

Silence greeted his answer. Then, much to her surprise, Torrhia laughed, “Well, that’s nice to know.” Then she stood, “Come, Aegon, there are more comfortable and private places were could,” she looked at him, a sultry look. “Talk.”

He stood, a feral grin on his face. He followed her back to her chamber, he could barely restrain himself until the door was closed and locked.

Finally.

[madefantasy]

who: princess joanna stark & anyone! when: the celebration for king edric stark’s coronation, day one  where: the terrace, right off of the great hall, winterfell

joanna scarcely slept a wink the night before. despite the grief that weighed heavy on her chest, despite the preparations that had plagued her hours and scarcely gave her a moment to breathe, let alone do the things she loved, she was terribly excited. the morning exploits meant she could disappear to ride about the woods for a few hours and then after that everyone would begin arriving — imagine it! dragons and krakens, blazing suns and roses, trouts and falcons, and all the rest, all within winterfell. it would be glorious.

joanna returned after her morning exploits in the woods an hour before the nobles and royals were meant to arrive. sneaking back into her quarters, she kicked her riding boots off, and was met by her handmaids who (thankfully) didn’t comment on the state of their lady. they were more than used to seeing their princess in all a manner of disarray. a few twigs caught in her hair, a scrap on her arm —  that was nothing. her ladies bathed her, combed and braided her hair, doused her skin with sweet-smelling oils, and joanna traded her tunic and breeches for a sapphire-colored dress of fine silk.

some hours later, after celebrating with nobles and royals alike in the great hall, joanna slipped away from the merriment, and stood near a terrace that overlooked the north. she’d spent her entire life looking ahead, to the horizon. it was so close. she could almost touch it, if she tried hard enough. she loved the north, but she had always yearned for the world beyond. joanna envisioned seeing, truly seeing this great continent beyond her books: to read ancient tomes in the citadel of oldtown, walk among visenya’s hill in kings landing, wander the lush orchards of the reach, traverse the mines of casterly rock, trek the red mountains of dorne. she took a breathe, and let the cold air fill her lungs - it tasted like promise.

but someone had pulled her from her musings, seeking to join her. she called out to them “if you’ve come for a moment of quiet from the festivities indoors, i’m quite sorry to say that I came here first.” she flashed a sunny smile, her tone in mock-seriousness. “though if you’d like we can stand shoulder to shoulder and look out at the frozen surroundings and be completely silent all the while. it will be terribly solemn, i promise.”

[daenerys-targaryen-moved]

viserys manipulated and abused book!dany and show!dany so either way he deserved his fate and the fact that she still named HER DRAGON after him and said ''he will do what my brother could not'' like..........how is that madness??? she had every right to say ''fuck you viserys i will never mourn for you or think of you again'' but she didn't because she is so compassionate and forgiving. she could've let the world forget him. i love dany so sorry for this ramble

She definitely mourned him. 

Here is the scene you’re talking about in A Clash of Kings

Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick, yet it was her dragons she feared for. Her father had been slain before she was born, and her splendid brother Rhaegar as well. Her mother had died bringing her into the world while the storm screamed outside. Gentle Ser Willem Darry, who must have loved her after a fashion, had been taken by a wasting sickness when she was very young. Her brother Viserys, Khal Drogo who was her sun-and-stars, even her unborn son, the gods had claimed them all. They will not have my dragons, Dany vowed. They will not.

[....]   

“Aegon’s dragons were named for the gods of Old Valyria,” she told her bloodriders one morning after a long night’s journey. “Visenya’s dragon was Vhagar, Rhaenys had Meraxes, and Aegon rode Balerion, the Black Dread. It was said that Vhagar’s breath was so hot that it could melt a knight’s armor and cook the man inside, that Meraxes swallowed horses whole, and Balerion . . . his fire was as black as his scales, his wings so vast that whole towns were swallowed up in their shadow when he passed overhead.” The Dothraki looked at her hatchlings uneasily. The largest of her three was shiny black, his scales slashed with streaks of vivid scarlet to match his wings and horns. “Khaleesi,” Aggo murmured, “there sits Balerion, come again.” “It may be as you say, blood of my blood,” Dany replied gravely, “but he shall have a new name for this new life. I would name them all for those the gods have taken. The green 102 one shall be Rhaegal, for my valiant brother who died on the green banks of the Trident. The cream-and-gold I call Viserion. Viserys was cruel and weak and frightened, yet he was my brother still. His dragon will do what he could not.” - Daenerys ACOK

“We should rest here until we are stronger,” the knight urged. “The red lands are not kind to the weak.”

“My handmaids say there are ghosts here.”

“There are ghosts everywhere,” Ser Jorah said softly. “We carry them with us wherever we go.”

Yes, she thought. Viserys, Khal Drogo, my son Rhaego, they are with me always.

Viserys’ name is mentioned a total of 23 times in A Clash of Kings, 41 times in A Storm of Swords, 6 times in A Feast for Crows, and 29 times in A Dance with Dragons. More times that not, it’s Daenerys remembering when he was a good brother to her, when he would tell her stories or when they would sneak out in the dead of night, or when she’s thinking about how he died, or when she’s thinking about how he would react to certain situations. Here is a converstaion between Tyrion and Illyrio;

The fat man grew pensive. “Daenerys was half a child when she came to me, yet fairer even than my second wife, so lovely I was tempted to claim her for myself. Such a fearful, furtive thing, however, I knew I should get no joy from coupling with her. Instead I summoned a bedwarmer and fucked her vigorously until the madness passed. If truth be told, I did not think Daenerys would survive for long amongst the horselords.”

“That did not stop you selling her to Khal Drogo …”

“Dothraki neither buy nor sell. Say rather that her brother Viserys gave her to Drogo to win the khal’s friendship. A vain young man, and greedy. Viserys lusted for his father’s throne, but he lusted for Daenerys too, and was loath to give her up. The night before the princess wed he tried to steal into her bed, insisting that if he could not have her hand, he would claim her maidenhead. Had I not taken the precaution of posting guards upon her door, Viserys might have undone years of planning.”

“He sounds an utter fool.”

“Viserys was Mad Aerys’s son, just so. Daenerys … Daenerys is quite different.” He popped a roasted lark into his mouth and crunched it noisily, bones and all. “The frightened child who sheltered in my manse died on the Dothraki sea, and was reborn in blood and fire. This dragon queen who wears her name is a true Targaryen. When I sent ships to bring her home, she turned toward Slaver’s Bay. In a short span of days she conquered Astapor, made Yunkai bend the knee, and sacked Meereen. Mantarys will be next, if she marches west along the old Valyrian roads. If she comes by sea, well … her fleet must take on food and water at Volantis.” - Tyrion ADwD

The floppy ears she chose today were made of sheer white linen, with a fringe of golden tassels. With Jhiqui’s help, she wound the tokar about herself correctly on her third attempt. Irri fetched her crown, wrought in the shape of the three-headed dragon of her House. Its coils were gold, its wings silver, its three heads ivory, onyx, and jade. Dany’s neck and shoulders would be stiff and sore from the weight of it before the day was done. A crown should not sit easy on the head. One of her royal forebears had said that, once. Some Aegon, but which one? Five Aegons had ruled the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. There would have been a sixth, but the Usurper’s dogs had murdered her brother’s son when he was still a babe at the breast. If he had lived, I might have married him. Aegon would have been closer to my age than Viserys. Dany had only been conceived when Aegon and his sister were murdered. Their father, her brother Rhaegar, perished even earlier, slain by the Usurper on the Trident. Her brother Viserys had died screaming in Vaes Dothrak with a crown of molten gold upon his head. - Daenerys AdWd

Daario shrugged. “Most queens have no purpose but to warm some king’s bed and pop out sons for him. If that’s the sort of queen you mean to be, best marry Hizdahr.”

Her anger flashed. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

“No. Have you?” Viserys would have his head off for that insolence.

Dany wrapped her arms about the girl. “Tell me of him.”

“He taught me how to climb a tree when we were little. He could catch fish with his hands. Once I found him sleeping in our garden with a hundred butterflies crawling over him. He looked so beautiful that morning, this one … I mean, I loved him.”

“As he loved you.” Dany stroked the girl’s hair. “Say the word, my sweet, and I will send you from this awful place. I will find a ship somehow and send you home. To Naath.”

“I would sooner stay with you. On Naath I’d be afraid. What if the slavers came again? I feel safe when I’m with you.”

Safe. The word made Dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “I want to keep you safe.” Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. “No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys … I want to protect you but … it is so hard. To be strong. I don’t always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen … the … the …”

“… mother,” whispered Missandei.

“Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered.

“No. Mother to us all.” Missandei hugged her tighter.

Here is another scene that I find particularly interesting from the books;

She dreamt of her dead brother.

Viserys looked just as he had the last time she’d seen him. His mouth was twisted in anguish, his hair was burnt, and his face was black and smoking where the molten gold had run down across his brow and cheeks and into his eyes.

“You are dead,” Dany said.

“Murdered.” Though his lips never moved, somehow she could hear his voice, whispering in her ear.

“You never mourned me, sister. It is hard to die unmourned. “I loved you once.” Once, he said, so bitterly it made her shudder. “You were supposed to be my wife, to bear me children with silver hair and purple eyes, to keep the blood of the dragon pure. I took care of you. I taught you who you were. I fed you. I sold our mother’s crown to keep you fed.”

“You hurt me. You frightened me.”

“Only when you woke the dragon. I loved you.”

“You sold me. You betrayed me.”

“No. You were the betrayer. You turned against me, against your own blood. They cheated me. Your horsey husband and his stinking savages. They were cheats and liars. They promised me a golden crown and gave me this.” He touched the molten gold that was creeping down his face, and smoke rose from his finger.

“You could have had your crown,” Dany told him. “My sun-and-stars would have won it for you if only you had waited.”

“I waited long enough. I waited my whole life. I was their king, their rightful king. They laughed at me.”

“You should have stayed in Pentos with Magister Illyrio. Khal Drogo had to present me to the dosh khaleen, but you did not have to ride with us. That was your choice. Your mistake.”

“Do you want to wake the dragon, you stupid little whore? Drogo’s khalasar was mine. I bought them from him, a hundred thousand screamers. I paid for them with your maidenhead.”

“You never understood. Dothraki do not buy and sell. They give gifts and receive them. If you had waited …”

“I did wait. For my crown, for my throne, for you. All those years, and all I ever got was a pot of molten gold. Why did they give the dragon’s eggs to you? They should have been mine. If I’d had a dragon, I would have taught the world the meaning of our words.” Viserys began to laugh, until his jaw fell away from his face, smoking, and blood and molten gold ran from his mouth. - Daenerys ADwD

It’s very safe to say that Daenerys mourned Viserys. She mourned the relationship they had as children, she mourned the potential future he would have had with her if he’d lived. Throughout her journey so far, she thinks back to those she’s lost, she thinks back to how it felt to be treated by him, abused emotionally, physically and psychologically, someone who would have raped her had he gotten the chance, someone who looked her in the eyes and told her that he would happily let thousands of men (and their horses) fuck her if it got him his crown. She thinks back to what he was to her, not a sister, but a piece of property, a bargaining chip to be sold off to the highest bidder.

She mourns him, but she mourns him because she loved what they once had and because he was her last family in the world (so she thinks). She could have let the world forget him, but she didn’t. She named her dragon after him, her fucking dragon. She loved him. She mourned him. But her showing no emotion when he died wasn’t a sign of “madness” lmao.

[starksinthenorth]

A Room with a Red Door

Pairing: Sansa/Dany Rating: T Part: 1/1

Read it on AO3.

Summary:

Sansa Stark’s first kiss with Daenerys Targaryen happens before Dany even knows her real name, and they make love long before they have a deep conversation. Somewhere along the line, they relax with each other, becoming just Dany and Sansa. And even though there are not many words between them, there is much and more in the way of feelings, emotions, and love.

Excerpt:

Four days into the queen’s diplomatic visit to claim the Eyrie’s loyalty, Daenerys presses her lips lightly to Alayne’s. The next night, Sansa kisses Daenerys first and wraps her arms around the small queen while they fall asleep together. So intrigued by her witty banter and stories is the queen that when she leaves the Gates of the Moon after just one week, she takes Alayne along as one of her handmaidens.

[damn-stark]

Lost Dragon Ch.18

A/N- finally.

Episode- 7x07

Warning- none

Pairing- Podrick Payne.

-

I stand in the front of the ship with my Valeryian steel daggers that the sand snakes gave to me before I last saw them. The only thing I have left of them. I admire them and look at both of them. Daenerys had one handle changed into a dragon. While the other one had a snake heads and spear pierced into the sun. Now it reminds me of both my families.

“You know all great swords....or in your case daggers have names.” I recognize the thick northern accent approach me. Jon snow. From the corner of my eye I see him stand next to me. “Are they Valeryian steel?” He asks. I hand both of them to him so he could take a better look at them. “A dragon,Targaryen and a Spear pierced into a sun and a snake, Martell.” He says as he looks at the handles and hands them back.

“Well I haven’t named any of my weapons but now that you say it then....the dragon one Is Aegon and the other one is Rheanys. After my siblings.” My expression falters into a sad one but I quickly get over it. He stays quiet for a couple of minutes.

“Thank you....For saving me, you risked your life for me when you didn’t have to. You went back and saved me Thank you.” He says I turn to face him this time and I smile at him.

“It was nothing but you’re welcome.” He returns my smile.

“Why? Why did you turn back?” He asks his smile leaving his lips and a concerned look appearing on his face. I try to find words to say to him. The reasonings still not very known to me either. I shrug my shoulders bite the bottom of my lip as my eyes flicker to the ground and then at him.

“I couldn’t leave you out there die.... and because if we went to the north without the king in north then what would happen to us?” I ask a smug smile growing on my face. He chuckles in response and we both turn to look at the red keep. It’s once more quiet between us but it’s not an umcomfortable silence but more comforting.

“You’ve ever been here before?” I ask him finally breaking the silence.

“No never.” He says as shakes his head.

“When I first came here I was excited.... I thought this was a beautiful sight.... it made me happy to come here.... it made me happy to come to where my father once roamed the streets singing to the people and where my mother used to live with me and siblings..... but after everything happened it opened my eyes. I opened my eyes about this place and the horrors that happened here and now I get sad and angry.” I felt anger, sadness I felt like I wanted to cry and scream all at the same time. But I tightened my fist turning my knuckles white and a deep breath. I don’t know why I told him that but I did. And it felt good to say it. It felt to get that weight off my shoulders. He sighed and he put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry.” He says sincerely I smile a smile that doesn’t reach me eyes but I do it and give him a quick thankful nod. “This place is where my father was killed and where my sisters were tortured so we both don’t really find any pleasure in being here but we need too.”

“I know.” I sigh. We stay quiet again watching as we both get closer and closer to the red keep. We both hear approaching footsteps and turn our heads to see who the person was standing next to us.

“How many people live here?” Jon asks Tyrion as he stands next to him.

“A million give or take.” Tyrion resounds.

“That’s more people then the entire north crammed into the that why would anyone want live that way?”

“There’s more work in the city and the brothels are far superior.”

-

“Why did they build it?” Missandei asks referring to the dragon pit. Where the meeting was going to take place.

“Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is there’s and what isn’t Land, livestock, children letting them roam free around the city was a problem.” Jorah answered.

“I imagine it was a sad joke at the end an entire arena for a few sickly creatures smaller than dogs.”

“But In the beginning when it belonged to Balerion the dread it must have been the most dangerous place in the world.” I inturrpted. These are the stories I loved to read when I was a child. I loved to read all about the dragons and their dragon riders. When I was younger I always wanted a dragon like the Visenya Targaryen I was named after. And I would always ask my uncle Doran or my uncle Oberyn for one for my name day but they would laugh and smile at me and tell me how their was no more living dragons. Or my uncle Oberyn would always say ‘you are the dragon’. I would always get disappointed when I never got the gift I wanted.

“Maybe it still is.” Ser Davos said as we all saw the Lannister soilders approach as we met up in the cross path.

The same man who I recognized from when I arrived at Kingslanding was the one that greeted us. He wasn’t in Lannister armor so I don’t know why he was the one greeting us. I also noticed a very tall women dressed in armor. I’ve never seen a women knight. And it was especially rare to see one in Kingslanding. I liked it though. Seeing her in armor. She looked tougher than all the man beside her. I small smile grew on my lips when I saw the same guy that was also there to greet me when I first got to Kingslanding. It was Podrick. He looked quite the same. Nothing had really changed about him. Only that he did look a little older then before. But he still looked the same. handsome.

He seemed to have notice me not seconds later after I saw him. We made eye contact and I saw that his cheeks had turned a light shade of pink and I could feel mine begin to warm up as well. A small smile was also on his face. I felt the same way I did when I first saw him and by the looks of it he did too.

“ Welcome, my lords and Lady your friend arrived before you did. I’ve been to escort you all to the meeting.” The man greeted snapping my attention back to what was going on. They stepped apart to give us room to walk. I looked at Qhono and nodded giving him a sign that it was okay for him and the rest of the Dothraki to walk ahead of us. We followed shortly after they were all ahead of us.

Podrick passed by us a lingering look between the both of us before he was gone behind the crowd heading to talk Tyrion who had stayed behind. I wanted so badly to also walk back and talk to him but I decided to let them have their time. It was beginning to be a quiet walk as we were heading to the meeting. That is until I felt three people walk by me. I looked to my side and it was Podrick and Tyrion and the other man.

“I think it’s time Introduce you two. Podrick this is Princess Visenya Targaryen. Princess this is Podrick a good friend of my mine.” I looked over at Podrick and he his cheeks were red and he seemed to be nervous just like the time I talked to him at the wedding.

“I’ve had the chance to talk to him once thank you Tyrion.”

“Princess.” Podrick said as he swallowed thickly obiviously nervous.

“Please just Visenya the title is not nessescary.” I tell him as we slow down are walk to be behind Tyrion and the man that I heard his name was Bronn. “You know Last time we talked I do believe we were supposed to take a walk together... this isn’t really at all how it would go but It works.” I tell him the smile never faltering. “How have you been Podrick?” I ask him. He stumbles with his words at first but then finds what he wanted to say.

“I’ve been good how have you been?” He asks bashfully.

“I’ve been doing good.... I do want to tell you that I was really looking forward for that walk before but I never found you.”

“I was too... I’m sorry princess that I never have the time to explain why I—-“

“It’s fine I understand why you didn’t and please just Visenya.” I tell him inturrupting him from his rambling. It makes me giggle the way he rambled on.

“I do have to ask you, I’ve heard that you went into a battle on dragon is that true?” He asks curiously. I knew excatly what he was talking about. It was not really that much of a battle at all.

“It’s true I did ride a dragon his name was Rheagal. What else have YOU heard about me?” I ask raising an eyebrow he clears his throat and he fumbled with his hands.

“I’ve heard that you are brave and strong and that you’re a very skilled fighter and I’ve also heard that... you’re beautiful and your beauty can’t compare to any other.” His new gain of confidence was admiring. I knew that, that was something he didn’t hear but instead thought himself. I felt cheeks turn hot and not it was me who was fumbling with my words. I just wanted to grab by his collar and pull him into a kiss but I know it wasn’t the right time to do that now.

“You know I’ve also heard a lot about you and how you fought in the battle of Blackwater and how you fought bravely.... and I’ve heard among other things.” I told with a smirk. Tyrion had spoken to me about him a lot but it never bothered me at all. The rest of our conversation continued naturally. It was like we had known eachother for a very a long time. I wanted to continue talking to him but we had arrived at the dragon pit and we couldn’t. Before I went to take my seat I stepped aside with him.

“We’ll see eachother again.” I tell him before giving him a kiss on the cheek. I turned to walk away and I could tell he was still looking at me. We shared one last lingering look before he left with Bronn.

-

We didn’t wait that long for Queen Cersei and her men to arrive. All dressed in black like if it was her house color. Her hair was short now compared to before where she had long beautiful gold hair. Her scowl was very present on her face she didn’t try to hide it all. She looked at her younger brother with hate and disgust. And we should looked at me she smirked. Before I thought much of it my eyes shifted to another. The mountain. I felt as if my breath had been caught in my throat. The memories of what he did to Oberyn rushed in. Anger rushed through me all I wanted to do was run and kill him but that wasn’t a wise idea. I took a deep breath and sat down even if everything in me was telling me to go and kill him.

Daenerys made her arrival known. Cersei had arrived late to show some sort of importance to herself but Daenerys beat her. Everyone looked amazed and suprised when she arrived on top of Drogon. She showed her power and her importance to them. Even if Cersei didn’t look amazed or suprised I could tell she was. It would be hard to be amazed at something so incredible.

Cersei’s ignorance to believing us was annoying . Then again why would she believe us. We are just people trying to take back the throne. And she’s never seen these dead men like we have all she’s known about them was all In books. That is why the reason we made this meeting. The scared look she had was amazing they all look terrified. Even the coaward that left Cersei side was afraid. He might have an island but that won’t save him.

“The crown accepts your truce, until the dead are defeated they are the true enemy.” Cersei finally said. A sigh of relief escaped through Jon’s lips as he stood there In the center. Everything relied on this plan to work. Viserion was killed for this plan. I would feel the relief but theirs always something more to this. “In return the king In the north will extend this truce, he will remain in the north where he belongs. He will not take up arms against the Lannister’s he will not choose sides.”

“Just the king in the north not me.” Daenerys Inturrpted.

“I would never ask it of you, you would never agree to it even if you did I would trust you even less then I do now, I ask only of Ned Starks son I know Ned Starks son will be true to his word.” Cersei finished. I looked over at Jon to see his reaction and to hear what he would say. He looked troubled like he was battling the decision in his head. But when he shared a look with Daenerys I knew he wasn’t making a decision he just couldn’t find a way to say it. He bent the knee.

“I am true to my word or I try to be, that is why I can’t give you what you ask I cannot serve two queens and I’ve already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of house Targaryen.” I sighed at his words. Idiot. He was an idiot. And by the looks on everyone’s face they all thought it too. Cersei left and we didn’t have her armys back. That means Viserion died for nothing. Even if Tyrion did go back to Cersei it’s going to be hard to convince her.

“My armies will not stand down, I will not pull them back to the capital , I will march them north to fight alongside you to fight in the great war, the darkness is coming for us all we’ll face it together and when the Great War is over, perhaps you’ll remember I chose to help with no promises or assurences from any of you. I expect not. call our banners all of them.” Cersei said. I didn’t trust her. Even Tyrion did talk to her I cant trust her. After saw her leave I turned to Daenerys and Tyrion.

“Why should we trust her?” I ask the doubt feeling my mind. Tyrion lets his shoulders fall.

“We have too. We need too.” Tyrion said.

“And why should we? Because you’re her brother? Because last time I remember she hates you.”

“You Just have to. You have to trust me.”

“You better be right.” I huff. I could never trust her. And we shouldn’t either. It’s like she put it to Daenerys before about if she were to accept truce. She would never trust Daenerys if she did. Then why should we trust Cersei and her truce.

-

“If we have the Dothraki ride hard on the kingsroad they’ll arrive at winterfell between the fortnight.” Jon explained pointing at the map.

“And the unsullied?” Daenerys asked him.

“We can sail with them to white harbor meet the Dothraki here on the kingsroad then ride together to winterfell.” Jon continued explaining.

“Perhaps you should fly to winterfell your grace you have many enemies in the north, thousands fell fighting your father all it takes is one angry man with a crossbow he’ll see your silver hair on the kingsroad and know that one well placed bow will make him a hero. The man who killed the conquer.” Jorah explained having some truth behind his words. But we also had to think of how the people would react to her arriving in a dragon. The north dont like us already. Arriving sepreratly in a dragon makes things worse.

“Even if you are right. What will the northerners thinks of her arriving in a dragon? We don’t want them to fear her and hate her all at the same time. She needs to ride alongside her ally.” I tell them.

“It’s true if we’re going to be allies in this war it’s important the northerners see us as allies. If we sail alongside white harbor together I think it sends a better message.” Jon tells her. We all look at Daenerys to wait for her to say something in response.

“I’ve come not to conquer the north.” She pauses and looks at me with a small smile on her lips. “We’ve come to save the north.... we sail together.”

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[samieree]

Born in Flames || Game of Thrones

OC x ?😏

-> Chapter V "I'll take what is mine"

Chapter VI ''The letter''

"Ser Jaime!" " Visenya called out, running up to Jaime Lannister in the corridor.

She knew what she had to be do, she just wasn't sure if it would work. She talked to Selaria about everything and together they found a way to send a letter to Ser Barristan, and it was actually the maid who came up with the idea.

Vis had just found out about it, but Selaria had a brother in the capital. It was obvious that she was reluctant to talk about all this, but clearly she saw no other way out of the situation. She described her brother as... Peculiar. And that he's just hiding under the guise of a Septon. She didn't even describe what she looked like, she said he would find Vis himself.

That in itself seemed suspicious, but she trusted Selaria, so she decided to trust her words. All she had to do was get out into the city and get to the Great Sept. And she already had an idea how to do it.

"Is something wrong, my Lady?" he replied, turning to her. Her cheeks were slightly pink from running through the halls of the Red Keep for a long time, looking for him. These blushes stood out quite strongly against the background of her delicate, bright beauty, but they combined beautifully with her purple eyes.

"Actually... yes. I have a request..." she began hesitantly, avoiding his gaze. She looked like she was stressed, discreetly flexing the fingers on one hand. And that was actually the case, but she wasn't stressed about talking to him, but about the fact that this was possibly her only chance to escape from here and try to regain what was taken from her. "I would like to pray. But being closer to the Gods, in the Great Sept."

In fact, she hadn't prayed in a long time; she didn't even remember how long. She believed that even if Gods existed, they weren't there to help anyone, so asking them for anything... Pff, nonsense.

"You can go to Sept at any time."

"I don't want to make a spectacle of this, I don't need a crowd of defenders." she interrupted him, finally not avoiding his eyes. "I can hide my hair and simply go in there and pray among people-"

"What if someone attacks you?" this time Jaime interrupted her.

"Won't you protect me?" she replied with a question, pretending to be genuinely surprised.

"You want to... Sneak out into town?"

"Not "sneak out", I'm not keeping it a secret here, otherwise I wouldn't be talking about it in the hallway. I just want to..." she paused for a moment, her eyes watering with emerging tears as she looked into his eyes again. "I want to feel like an ordinary woman, at least for a moment, to go and pray among ordinary people, and not alone in a large building. But if it's... It's such a big problem, then fine. I'll go to the gardens and... I don't know, I'll walk aimlessly..."

She was about to leave, acting very saddened by the rejection, but Jaime - as she had assumed - stopped her.

"Wait." he grabbed her wrist, sighing softly before continuing. "Wear a less ornate dress and coat. We'll meet near the fortress gate, I'll take you to the Sept."

"Thank you, Ser." she replied, smiling broadly. She gently grabbed the hand he held her wrist with, turned it and placed a folded piece of fabric on it with something embroidered on it. She then closed his hand over the fabric and gave him one more look before walking away to change.

When Jaime unrolled a piece of white silk material, he saw a beautiful rose embroidered with red and silver thread.

But make no mistake, it wasn't Visenya's job, she... Let's just say she didn't like embroidery, although that's an understatement. She asked Selaria to sew something like this for her because she would later want to give it to Jaime to complete her plan.

Poor Jaime Lannister...

* * *

Dressed in a simple gray dress with a cloak over it, the hood of which covered all of her hair in a tight bun, she walked up the steps of the Great Sept at Jaime's side. She usually kept her gaze downcast so that no one would accidentally see her purple irises, which might arouse suspicion. When she finally entered the Sept, she began to discreetly look around for Selaria's brother, who was supposed to be here. However, at this time there were quite a lot of people there who came to pray with various intentions.

She stopped at one of the columns, lowering her head, closing her eyes, and clasping her hands as if she really wanted to pray. She stood there for a long time, slowly losing hope that her plan would succeed at all. But she's never been disappointed with Selaria, maybe she just needs to be patient?

But what if the septon hasn't arrived yet? What if he doesn't find her? What-

"What a coincidence... Meeting Visenya on Visenya's Hill." she heard next to her, and then immediately opened her eyes, realizing that Jaime had gone a little further, apparently wanting to give her some privacy while praying.

"Are you...?" she slowly began to take the letter out from under her coat. Before she managed to do it, the man grabbed her hand and pulled out a rolled paper.

Visenya had to admit that this wasn't how she imagined her maid's brother would be. Even though he looked similar to her, there was a strange feeling radiating from him that almost made her blood freeze in her veins and made her feel absolutely unsafe.

"I promise to the Princess that was promised, that the message will reach its destination quickly."

"But... I haven't said anything yet..." she only felt more confused with each word he said. Guess she already understood what Selaria meant by "Peculiar"...

"Don't worry, Visenya, first of her name since the conquest. It is not without reason that you are still alive, I see the goal to which I am leading you. But this will be my last help... When you leave, you will rely on someone else." she didn't know what to say at all... "Go, my Queen. And remember: Anyone who wants the throne is your enemy, capable of strangling you in your sleep."

She wanted to ask something else, but before she had the opportunity, the man disappeared in the crowd. She felt... Weird. She understood little of his "advices". Besides, he said that this would be his last help... Had he already somehow worked to her advantage? But Selaria would tell her about it, right?

Ugh, such a short conversation and she managed to get lost in everything she heard...

"What were you talking about?" she turned to Jaime, quickly hiding her surprise after the conversation.

"I know Lord Tywin wants us to get married, your sister told me." she replied instead of answering the question directly. This bought herself some time to think of what she could say next so that he would believe her and not get suspicious. "Septon helped me dispel my fear about marriage, he helped me look at it in a way that I would start a new, better life." she finished, smiling gently.

What difference does it make whether she said it or not? And so lately she had been trying to convince him that they were attracted to each other, testing her suspicions that the blonde felt something more for her.

Yes, it was cruel, but she knew it was necessary if she wanted to get out of the capital. And to escape from here, she is ready to do a lot.

"You'll. No one will ever hurt you again, I swear it, Maegelle." even though she treated him as a friend at most, she felt a slight warmth in her heart when she heard these words fall from his lips. When he gently took her hand and lifted it to his lips, placing a kiss on it.

Maybe she would even be able to truly love him one day, if it weren't for the fact that for all of them she would always remain Maegelle, a war trophy, a beautiful reminder of the unique features of the Targaryen appearance...

"Let's go back to the Red Keep." she said, smiling a little wider, as if she really believed that they could have a happy life together in the future.

I'm Visenya. Visenya of house Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.

~

-> Chapter VII "Sworn protector" -> general masterlist -> Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon masterlist