#the gray wolf throne

[novaursa]

Hour of the Wolf

- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.

The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come. 

Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather. 

Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.

As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”

Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”

Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”

For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”

The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”

Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.

The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”

Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.

Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”

With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.

As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.

The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.

He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.

Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.

Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”

The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.

Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”

There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.

Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.

“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”

The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.

Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.

The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.

Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal. 

As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.

Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.

"Lord Cregan,

It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.

Maester Kennet"

Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.

He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.

But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.

You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.

It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.

You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.

Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.

Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.

Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.

Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”

The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.

But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.

“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”

You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”

Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.

You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be. 

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.

The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.

Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.

The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home. 

As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.

Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.

You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again. 

Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.

“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.

Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love. 

Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”

Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”

Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”

The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.

Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.

“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.

Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”

The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together. 

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”

“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”

Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.

The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"

The Dragon That Followed the Wolf

In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.

It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.

Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.

It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.

Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.

The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.

Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.

The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.

Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.

On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.

The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.

During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.

King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.

In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.

Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.

[misguidedasgardian]

The Hour of the Wolf (XI)

XI. A ray of sunlight

MASTERLIST

Summary: You never thought you could feel like this 

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Targaryen!Reader

Warnings: Cursing, war, death, mentions of killings, genocide and war, threats,arranged marriage, SPOILERS for ASOIAF, and Fire & Blood, also, might spoil House of the Dragon, might miss some warnings, brestfeeding on this chapter

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3,4 k 

Notes: Alright… sorry for the confusion… There were three ravens, Reader first wrote to Cregan to confess to him that she was pregnant and she wanted him back and whatnot… that raven GOT LOST, got eaten by a snake… idk… she then received a raven from Cregan, who, as he never received anything, he wrote to her telling her he was fine and he would like her to visit him up North, reader thought he received the letter, and didn’t care, and it was answering to it, so she just wrote a letter telling him she couldn’t make the journey, that’s it!

“Look at him”, you whispered, “he is perfect”, you admired his beautiful round face, his perfect little nose, his long eyelashes, his round squishy cheeks

“He is”, Cregan whispered, kissing your temple, “you had done so beautifully, my sweet Queen”, you looked into his eyes and you found content, and pride

But your eyes returned to your baby, your dragonling.

He had silver hair, beautiful silver hair, just like yours, and then when he barely open his eyes, he revealed them to be icy gray, like his father

He was so perfect, a perfect Targaryen Prince

The blood of Old Valyria and the blood of the first men run through his little veins.

You were so, so proud of him, of yourself, you had every maester check his health, and they all agreed, that the New Prince of Dragonstone was healthy, strong, and, as he had proven to you, had a strong set of lungs in him.

“My love”, called Cregan, but you only hummed, not letting your eyes wander from your newborn son, “there is people wanting to meet him”, he said softly, it was the middle of the next day, and you wanted to savor your alone time with him a little longer.

“Later”, you said simply

“They had been waiting since yesterday”, he said, kissing the top of your head again, “and we need a name”

“I just gave birth, can’t they please leave me alone for a bit?”, you asked, softly but angrily 

“This baby is the next ruler of the seven Kingdoms”, he said softly, “there are protocols…”, you looked at him severely

“Bring in my brother and Jahaera”, you conceded, he barely nodded, and went away, giving you a breath of relief. You didn’t want anyone else but your family in here

The children entered with big, curious, scared eyes, when they landed on you, they came to your side quickly, Aegon was sure to be right there next to you, to catch the closest and first look at his baby nephew

“He is a bit red”, it’s the first thing he mumbled, making you giggle

“He was just born”, you whispered, “it’s normal”, you explained softly, Jahaera didn’t say anything, but looked at the baby with big ghostly eyes, and for the very first time, you thought you catched a glimpse of a smile

“Jahaera? want to hold him?”, she seemed truly surprised, you just patted the bed right next to you, and she climbed to your side, when she was settled, you placed your baby in her arms, she seemed content, only watching him in her frail arms

“He is small”, she murmured, you only smiled, he was a bit small, and… “made of ice and fire”, she whispered

“What?”, you asked, but you were interrupted when Cregan opened the door, he stood there, with a warm smile on his face. 

You didn’t even know how you were going to name him, I mean, you had some ideas, and you were not even going to ask your husband, he, your firstborn, was of the realm, of the Iron Throne, he had to have a name of Old Valyria

Jahaera excuse herself, she had a lesson with her septa, but Aegon stayed, sitting there in the bed by your side, Cregan had left to gather the court

“Can I ask you something?”, your baby brother asked 

“Anything”, you answered truthfully

“Now that you have a son… will you… will you still love me the same?”, he asked, and his big eyes told you he was extremely worried. That truly surprised you, but you smiled softly nonetheless.

“Of course!”, you said with a big smile, “you are my baby brother, I will never stop loving you, and I will never stop caring for you, you heard me? you are stuck with me, and your little nephew for life”, you giggled

“Really?”, he asked, hopefully

“I promise”, you assured him.

Cregan came back, thinking he had given you enough time, Aegon as he saw him, he excused himself from the room, and left

“A name, wife”, he demanded. He was the father, but he is letting you name your child, the prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne

“Aerion”, you said with your son back in your arms, “of House Stark, until he ascends the Throne, as Aerion Targaryen”, you said firmly

“Good”, he said, “the small council is waiting”, he said, and again, he did not expect a no for an answer

“Very well”, he received your son, as you stood from the bed, the maids had placed you the “looser” dress you had, but not less impressive than any others, it was soft red velvet, with black and gold details. Your hair is barely arranged by two small braids arranging it off your face.

You barely let the maids touch your child, but they had dressed him too, in a simple golden attire. He was sleeping in his father’s arms, and you held onto him too, as you walked the hallways.

You had to present your son to the court

Not letting them see him, would awaken all sorts of gossip, that maybe there was something wrong with him, or he was weak, or any nonsense like that, this was going to make it clear to everyone…

The House of the Dragon stood strong, with you, your son, your brother, and your niece.

Especially with the silver hair on his head.

“You have done beautifully, wife”, Your husband said, as he saw you pondering, with your eyes lost in front of you

“Thank you husband”, you answered simply

You were already tired as you reached the huge doors, you hoped you didn’t have to sit on the throne today, you didn’t think you could handle it. You were still really sensitive.

“Lady (y/n) of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Roynar and the first Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the Realm, and her Lord Husband Cregan, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and Hand to the Queen, would like to present to the court, Aerion, of House Targaryen and Stark, Prince of Dragonstone!”, you might as well announce it now, the shocked faces appeared before you, your son was the heir, and next King of the Seven Kingdoms.

The huge doors of the entrance of the throne room opened in front of you, you tried to smile as the entire court, your court, tried their best they could to catch a glimpse of the sleeping Prince in Cregan’s arms

You walked slowly to the front, smiling and nodding to everyone on their way

All the Lords and Ladies nodded at you, muttering words of kindness

“Congratulations my Queen”

“What a fine Prince your grace!”

“You had been blessed, and you had blessed us all”

And more

So much more

Your council had been waiting for your approval, to start the celebrations, feasts, tournaments, parties, the first ones since the end of the war

“Behold! Prince Aerion of House Targaryen and Stark!”, chanted Arryk, you faithful Queen’s guard. 

It was a tiring affair, you should be resting, and Cregan thought so as well, but you you a Queen, and if you wished to prove those who wouldn’t see your mother on the throne wrong, you have to stand there, with your newborn son, in front of the court as you barely gave birth the day before as the sun was setting 

“In the celebrations of the birth of my son, I announce a big tournament, to join all countries as one, and also, a big feast to go with it!”, you said loudly, and the entire room bursted in cheers and applause, making Aerion cry angrily, as he was startled by the loud noise

Cregan smiled grabbing him carefully with his strong hands and showed him to the entire room, shortly, then he cuddled him into his strong chest, he looked so proud 

The tournament was going to be held in two months time

This was a new era, you constantly had to be remained of

The kingdoms were still healing, you were still healing… you need this, you did

You were finally “allowed” to go back to your rooms, you dismissed the nannies who had offered to take your baby.

It was normal and customary, that you had a small army of women ready to take care of your child, but you didn’t want to let him out of your sight

Is not that you didn't trust them, it was just…

It felt odd

To be apart from him

You had them bring a crib by the side of your bed, as you watched him asleep tears fell down your eyes… oh how you wished your mother was there with you

You had cried for her in the middle of labor, how you needed her warmth, her maternity, her advice, all of her. She was an excellent mother, she adored each and every one of you, and you didn’t know how you were going to do this without her

You were so lonely

You had dismissed your ladies, and the nurses were unfamiliar to you

Because Aegon the Usurper killed your mother’s nurses when he took Dragonstone

You felt so lonely.

The all familiar pain that had installed on your chest came flourishing back again, and you realized it had never left, you just grown accustomed to it

Would she be proud of you?

You imagined your brothers coming to see your son, Jacaerys picking him up from his crib and raising him in his strong arms, you imagined Luke grabbing onto Aerion with gentle hands, accommodating him on his chest with his beautiful smile looking down at his nephew 

The guards outside your room presented Cregan who entered the room with scrolls on his hands

“Letters, from your cousins Baela and Rhaena, and one from Lord Co…”

“Dispose of them”, you demanded, you didn’t care

“But…”

“I don’t care what those traitors have to say”, you said bluntly, he had caught you in a wrong moment

“Wife…”, he started carefully, “may I ask why…?”,  he asked simply, you guessed he wanted to hear your version of the facts

“Corlys Velaryon served my mother, until it suited him, when the ship was sinking, in the moment my mother needed him the most, he betrayed her, then served the usurper!”, you said bluntly

“He probably was the one who poisoned the usurper”, he said softly

“I guess, it didn’t suit him to keep serving him, I don’t care”, you said angrily, “if he had stayed at my mother’s side like he promised perhaps she would still be here”, you said, you could not forgive him, you wouldn’t allow yourself to

And Baela and Rhaena?

It just hurt too much

At one point they were like your sisters, like real sisters, you had lived together since your mother married Daemon, and… now it just hurts too much. They say Rhaena managed to hatch a dragon, a pink little thing

Good for her

But it just… it hurts… of all the people that could have survived… 

You felt guilty for only thinking about it

They were more Corlys Velaryon’s granddaughters that they were your sisters

“Can I read them?”, he asked, you looked at him

You wanted to say no, you did, but you were also terribly curious

Of what they might want or say… What if was indeed something important? and really, it was Cregan, he was the only one you trusted fully

“Yes”, you said shortly, “let me know if there is something important”. He sat by the window, to read the letter by the sunlight, Aerion began to get fuzzy, so you grabbed him gently and started to feed him

Something very frowned upon

Not even your mother had breastfeed her babies

But to your understanding… who better to feed a future King… than a Queen? his mother? You paid it no more mind as he latched onto you, Cregan didn’t even batted an eye

He was frowning a he read the missives 

“Is there something they need?”, you asked dismissively, “a threat to our Kingdom?”

“No”, he said simply, “just a call for you, their sister”, he said, he folded the letters and put them away, then he opened the one of Lord Corlys

“They wish you the best regarding the birth of your child and Prince of Dragonstone, and they wish to know that if there is anything they can do for you”

“No requests… that’s a new one”, you said sadly 

“Please, help me understand”, he pleaded once again, “what are you thinking?”

“They just keep wanting the fucking throne”, you said bitterly, “that is all this whole thing had been about, the Hightowers and Velaryons alike, each for their own side, sunk their teeth into the targaryen of their choice and bit, ripped and tear them apart for their own convenience, for the fucking throne, killing my entire family in the process, I am done with them”, you sentenced. 

“Very well”, he said, “I will stand by you”

“Thanks”, you said smiling softly, not wanting to discuss the issue further

Even if they were true, that they only were calling for you, their “granddaughter” and sister, how could you ever trust that? if you were not seated on the throne, would they still care for you?

You were convinced they only wanting to fall back into your good graces, the graces of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and everything that meant

And the very fact that they knew about the birth of your son so soon unnerved you.

Of course they had spies inside the castle

Perhaps you should burn the letters publicly so words get to them

But it was of no consequence, because that very day, Cregan received important news

His son was arriving

He was in the Crossroads Inn, and he was dying to go and meet him

You allowed him to go with a small force, you had never seen him so happy and excited. He was on his way to meet his son

And taking advantage of that fact, that was going to take him a few days… You realized, thinking about Rhaena… 

Your son needed his egg

You had felt Vhaelar restless, and you needed to know if she had laid her clutch of eggs, or, egg

Singular

The very thought frightened you, what if it didn’t hatch? She as well could be the last Dragon, a grown, fertile dragon. You called in a Dragon keeper immediately, and he presented in front of you, the one that went inside the cave with you, the only one who could get close to your Dragon

“This is long overdue, your Grace”, he said with a soft smile

“I cannot go down there myself”, you explained softly, his face then changed. “What's the matter?”, you asked him

“Vhaelar laid eggs, we didn’t know how many, when the prince was born we adventure into the cave to find… one is gone”, it seemed like everything froze around you

“What?”, you asked

“One of the nests was… broken into”, he said

“Why wasn't I informed of this!?”, you asked angrily

“We found it this very morning”, he said quickly

“Raised alarms!”, you said

“The one that stole it… didn’t realize, she laid two eggs”, he gave a signal to Erryk who was at the door and he opened them to reveal two more Dragon Keeper, that brought with them the heating chamber

A sight you never thought you’d see again

They revealed the egg to you, and tears were brought to your eyes, it was golden, golden like the sun

Was it an Omen? Golden like Syrax… Golden like Sunfyre

Who could have possibly stolen my dragon’s egg?”, you asked him

We don’t know your grace, it must have been someone who knows the area, that its been heavily guarded, even though its against the sea, you had maintain guards around it, and over it, so we can’t understand…”, you kept quiet, you could barely go up stairs, you couldn’t go personally.

That is why she was so restless

Somebody stole her egg

“What if it hatches?”, you asked him, fright in your eyes, he didn’t know what to answer

“A dragon will only answer to a Targaryen your grace, in the worst case, it will grow wild, until we can finally know where it is”

“And in the best case?”

“It’s not normal for two eggs to hatch in the same clutch”, he said softly, “if the Prince’s egg hatches… then… someone still had a treasure in their hands but at least, it will not be a dragon”

It did not settle your nerves

You saw the beautiful egg, it seemed to move, you could feel it, the life within it

“Thank you”, you said finally, and they left you alone.

It wasn’t until a week later, as you fixed the skirt on your dress, that you finally realized how important this was.

Rickon Stark, Cregan’s son, was entering the city

Your husband’s child

Your own child, by marriage

A sweet boy of eight

Soldiers entered in front of the comitive, mounted men with the Stark sigil, and then, right after them, Cregan in all his glory, and at his side, on his own horse, a young boy, that even from afar, you could tell he looked exactly like Cregan, same shade of hair, and as they dismounted and walked towards you, you realized, he had his eyes

“Your Grace, my I present to you, my son and heir, Rickon Stark”, presented Cregan

“Your grace”, the boy greeted politely, his big eyes looking at you widely, even though he bowed. Cregan was by his side, looking at his son proudly

“My Lord, you are most welcomed to King’s landing, and to the Red Keep”, you greeted, amused, he smiled shyly.

“Thank you, your grace”, he looked at you with mistrust, and you could understand him, all of this was new for him.

You of course invited them in, the entire household he had brought with him was large, but, the more the merrier, and if having more of his people with him was going to make Cregan and RIckon feel more comfortable, they were most welcomed.

“There is someone I want you to meet”, you said happily, he only nodded, you looked at Cregan as you walked back to your chambers, and he seemed content, “Can I call you Rickon?”, you asked him softly

“Yes your Grace, of course”, he said simply

“Are you my new mommy?”, he asked bluntly, and you looked at Cregan, alarmed, he was amused, but didn’t say anything, you then looked back at the boy who was looking up at you with his big ghostly eyes

“I don’t have to be if you don’t want me to”, you said gently, and that seemed to relax him a bit, “but there is a place I’d like you to fill”, you said with a solemn voice, like you were requesting of him, you opened yourself the double doors to your room

“Which one, your grace?”, he asked solemnly

“How about.. big brother?”, you asked, inviting him to look inside the cradle where his baby brother was sleeping peacefully

“I’d like that”, he said, pleased, but frowned at further inspection of your baby, “why is his hair white?”, he asked, you giggled

“Because he got it from me”, you said softly

“I thought you had white hair because you were old”, he said simply, and you laughed, hard

The sound of your own laugh seemed so foreign to you

You haven't laughed in…

In…

In a long time

“No, no my dear, I was born with my hair like this”, you explained softly, he only nodded, understanding clearly, “so… are you going to be Aerion’s big brother?”, you asked, and he looked at you with a true smile for the very first time, and nodded excitedly

taglist!

@lyannesworld @tremendouswolfsaladranch @unlesshouse @mimsie95 @ostricx @amelia262006 @marihoneywk @ahristata @happinessinthebeing @dd122004dd@lyannesworld @aestmilky @lightdragonrayne @delaynew @mxtokko @stargaryenx @lightdragonrayne @delaynew @mxtokko @good-night-starlight @yentroucnagol @beebeechaos @brakingboundaries @duds31 @@persophonekarter @missusnora @aleemendoza2425-blog @aesthetic0cherryblossom @arrozyfrijoles23 @sacredmachine @wintfleur @kitkat-writes-stuff @green-lxght

[mjjune]

TWTR: A COMIC SANS INTRO

as requested/voted on for my 1k follower celebration! thank you so much to everyone who voted and who cares enough about this story to want to know more 💕

artists featured: check them out!!!

@neapaulatan, @ichimakesart, @littlestpersimmon, @akiwitch, @vacantgodling

below the cut is a full image description and twtr's taglist! reply here or message me if you want to be added ✨

[Image Description:

A Comic Sans WIP intro of 9 slides with dark gray background and various images.

Slide 1: Title page with a dark background of green leaves with the title "TWTR: a comic sans wip intro as requested by my followers <3"

Slide 2: "So WTF is TWTR?" with an image of illustrated art of a forest scene with a tree growing through a cottage in the background, a silvery ax with a dragon design sticking out of the earth in the foreground. The slide reads, "a retelling, sorta, more of a sequel ! the prologue is a little red riding hood retelling, and the rest of the novel is the aftermath. red is not so little anymore. the wolf is back for blood and the woodsman has to finish what he started 6 years ago." In smaller font, a note in parentheses says, "and no i will not tell you what twtr stands for. it’s an ongoing joke now that half my betas still didn’t know what it meant even though it was on the signup sheet 🫠"

Slide 3: The Story. Has an illustrated gif image of the woodsman facing away from the audience, his cape blowing in the wind. He has an ax in his left hand, a raven sitting on his right shoulder in the woods. the slide reads: "the woodsman, an outsider, saves a little girl from a legendary beast, only to find out that she’s?? whoops?? the nearby kingdom’s princess and only heir??? so naturally, if you were the queen, and some strange outsider dude pops out of the evil magical forest with your 10yo daughter claiming he saved her from The Wolf™ ... uh, yeah, that’s sus. he’s arrested and has to prove (via dark shit i won’t go into) that he’s magic-free before he can join kingdom society."

Slide 4: Yikes, then what? Has a banner image of the woods with a cloaked figure in the center, fog rising from the bottom, with a raven with glowing eyes in the corner. The slide reads: "over the years, he works his way up to become red’s personal guard. he has his first real friend of his entire life?? 🥺 until the wolf shows back up, working its way through the kingdom devouring people. avery must kill the beast once and for all before it gets to red. as he tracks it, though, he uncovers lies that go deep not only within the kingdom, but his own past. he finds The Wolf™ in the woods, where it offers him a deal: the truth, for red. which will avery choose??? 👀"

Slide 5: Wait so who are these people?? Has 3 icon images of the main characters. First is "Avery, The Woodsman. known for being short, baby-faced, and a man of few words; mysterious past prior to saving red and joining the kingdom." His icon is an illustrated profile view of a short dark-haired tan-skinned man with freckles and a bit of scruff and a serious expression. Second is "Red, Princess Anara. the spirited heir to the throne; angry that she’s not included in royal affairs and wants to learn everything." Her icon is illustrated art of a young girl with blue eyes, red hair in a braid, wearing a dark hooded cloak looking at the audience. Last is "The Wolf™, a monster of legend, rumored to be immortal that lives in the dark forest surrounding the kingdom; the size of a room and devours people whole :P yum yum." Its icon is a dark image of a wolf with glowing white eyes looking at the audience.

Slide 6: Surely there are other characters, MJ??? Slide is plain with a bulleted list of info, which reads: "Honorable Mentions: MAGNUS, the elite guardsman who trains avery and has a complicated history (an unintentional fan favorite); QUEEN ETIENNE, the queen of the kingdom and red’s mom; "GRANDMA", an elderly woman who red liked to visit (secretly) in the woods and was devoured by The Wolf™."

Slide 7: Also Featuring. Slide reads "a badass ax, hand-crafted by avery’s long-deceased parents; giant trees the size of houses; giant burrowing lizards; religious coercion :); magic metal; magic plagues; magic soup; intimate platonic hair braiding; cute child cameos; southern hemisphere world (aka the north is warm and the south is cold)". To the right is an illustration of avery's ax, a dark handle with silvery ax with an etched dragon design.

Slide 8: Ok, but is it gay? with small parentheses note: "how dare you ask me this honestly." Bullet points read: "unfortunately this is classified :) (tbf even in the book i keep it loose and open to interpretation), but here are some themes which may or may not be queer: “(unconscious) true love’s kiss breaks the spell” except does it tho???; princess “uninterested in courting”; handsome shy wallflower guy gets asked to dance by 100 girls and declines them all (think cullen from dragon age lmao); shapeshifting as a metaphor for... things :); found family / family doesn’t have to be blood / adoption; lights vs. dark not being a clear-cut good vs. evil, nuanced morality etc.

Slide 9: Art credits! Slide reads: "a HUGE thank you to all the artists i’ve commissioned! they’re all linked below! check them out! in order of appearance: dark forest scene by neapaulatan; avery cape gif by ichimakesart; foggy banner and wolf icon (fan-made); avery icon by littlestpersimmon; red icon by akiwitch; avery’s ax by vacantgodling. Below the credits, it reads, "Thanks for reading! and as a reminder, all my works have a taglist! if you want a notif every time i post about this wip let me know :)"

End Image Description]

@aether-wasteland-s @annetilney @artbyeloquent @ashirisu @bebewrites

@cljordan-imperium @dogmomwrites @dustylovelyrun @elijahrichardwrites @eventideintrigue

@faithfire-writes @flowerprose @forthesanityofstorytellers @ghafasinej @helioscenic

@isabellebissonrouthier @jamieanovels @lexiklecksi @little-mouse-gardens @marlowethelibrarian

@marrowwife @mr-writes @macabremoons @perasperaadastrawriting @phantomnations

@tate-lin @thyroidhormones @verba-writing @vsnotresponding @wildswrites

[astoundingbeyondbelief]

Deleted/altered Monsterverse scenes in Godzilla & Kong: The Cinematic Storyboard Art of Richard Bennett

Kong: Skull Island

There's a longer opening sequence, with Marlowe discovering Gunpei's camp instead of them both crashing at around the same time.

Conrad stows away on the expedition instead of being hired as a tracker

Weaver and Conrad meet at a Philadelphia train station (no clue what the context was).

Kong swings around a helicopter while the gunner is still firing and the bullets hit another helicopter, which I think is the closest he's ever come to using a gun.

Packard's group watches Kong fight the Mire Squid instead of Chapman.

Very different take on the Iwi village, with smaller lost ships/planes incorporated into the architecture.

The big one: Conrad flashes back to an encounter with King Ghidorah in Vietnam. The three-headed monster's silhouette is basically just the Godzilla vs. King Ghidorah version, but he has at least five prehensile tails he uses to snatch up soldiers.

Conrad and Weaver are tied to a tree during the napalm plot against Kong. Another character sets them free and they go wild on a few soldiers, with Weaver hitting one on the head with a rock. The Skull Devil emerges in a separate scene.

Kong uses a plane wing as a weapon in the final fight.

The Skull Devil has a grappling tail similar to that of Otachi in Pacific Rim.

The Iwi fight Conrad's group (I think) as the Gray Fox is lowered down a waterfall with a pulley system and something ambushes Kong in the background. This one was especially hard to make any sense of without dialogue.

Godzilla: King of the Monsters

Jonah spies on Emma and Madison as they drive to Mothra's temple.

The video montage in the Senate hearing is done via hologram. A mushroom cloud is displayed while Serizawa argues with a senator.

Mark bows to a wolf that approaches him in a nice bit of foreshadowing.

Mothra arrives in Boston alongside Godzilla instead of turning up later.

Godzilla vs. Kong

In an alternate opening, the Iwi retell the history between Godzilla and Kong's species using highly-elaborate puppets. There's a horned character loaded with weapons who briefly traps Godzilla in a cage and transforms into a Rodan-like figure. An ancient mecha?

Text mentions that "the Pensacola/Florida Godzilla attack scene was going to be much longer, involving a mall stampede.

A massive explosion takes place on Skull Island (I believe coming from the Vile Vortex there).

Jia is first shown signing with Kong just before the fleet engages Godzilla.

In true kaiju kid fashion, Jia messes with the controls of the ship to set Kong loose.

Nathan discovers his brother's crash site in the Hollow Earth and gets into a fight with several guards. This scene was definitely filmed.

Bernie was at one point a woman (drawn with ultra-short hair, although in general the human characters in these storyboards bear little resemblance to their screen counterparts).

Kong finds a skeleton of another member of his species sitting on the throne. He breaks off the skull, stares at it, and throws it aside.

Group troops engage Godzilla and Kong during their Hong Kong fight; neither even notices.

Mechagodzilla coils into a semi-sphere to deflect Godzilla's atomic breath.

Echoing his fight with Kong, Godzilla tries to outrun Mechagodzilla's Proton Scream through the streets of Hong Kong.

[ladywaffles]

From the prompt list: icemav + 6. patting the other’s head?? If it inspires

icemav + patting the other’s head

i do not know the meaning of brevity. send me a pairing and a prompt!

To be a fighter pilot, you have to have ego.

It’s not just a requirement, it’s an immutable law. It’s on the checklist of fighter pilot eligibility. One: candidate must be a United States citizen of sound mind and body. Two: candidate must have a four-year degree from an accredited educational institution. Three: candidate must have ego the size of the Grand Canyon and the guts to back it up.

Fighter pilots are young, good-looking guys who grow into stately, well-tailored men. Elegant. Gentlemanly. Airs of class that have since ebbed away in the general population, but which find a home in the handful of officers who call themselves naval aviators, and they wear them damn well.

Ice has always been particular about his appearance; it’s hard not to be painfully aware of it, with twelve years of detentions earned for uniform infractions at elite private schools and four years of the Naval Academy bearing down on him. He holds it together through the six months of hellish diagnoses it takes for the doctors to figure out what’s making him sick (cancer), where the cancer is (his lungs), and where it metastasized to (his throat). There’s never a hair out of goddamn place through the whole endeavor. But when they finally figure it out and get him on a chemotherapy plan, the pristine picture of the Iceman falls apart.

His tan is the first to go; if he’s being honest, it was already on its way out. It’s been nigh on ten years since he was last in a cockpit, and trading his F-14 for another stripe on his sleeve meant he hardly saw the sun in his cramped offices. Maverick used to tease that he looked like a vampire, losing the California bronze that’s been embedded in his skin since he was old enough to walk. Jokes like that are far and few between now that it’s no longer the job that’s draining his color, but his own body.

In the end, it’s easy to let the tan go. What really gets him, what really hurts, is when his hair starts falling out. Iceman has impeccable hair. The sun rises in the east. The facts of life. He puts off shaving it as long as he can, because yes, it’s just hair, and yes, it should grow back—the doctors assured him it would probably grow back—but dammit, he’s a fighter pilot, and he has his pride.

He sulks about it for weeks: gently combing his hair, putting as little product into it as possible so as to prolong the life of the strands that remain, taking shorter showers to reduce the likelihood of tufts of blonde falling out and running down the drain.

Maverick is solid at his side, his own hair dark as the day they met. In the deepest parts of his heart, he hates Maverick just a little bit for it. The asshole doesn’t even have the decency to be going gray yet, and here Ice is losing it all.

But then Maverick will tell him he passed his driving test and got a proper driver’s license so he could drive Ice back and forth from his appointments so Ice wouldn’t have to ride in a smelly taxi on the way home when he’s already starting to feel nauseous, or he’ll smile at Ice when he gets home and say, “Hey, I called up Wolf and he found that baked potato soup recipe from that place we ate at in ’96,” or he’ll sit at Ice’s side at two in the morning on the bathroom floor when the vertigo has Ice kneeling at the altar of the porcelain throne, even though he has to be at the base at five-thirty to do briefings and pre-flight checks, and Ice can’t remember why he was annoyed about Maverick’s hair at all.

Maverick drives him to his next chemo appointment. He sits in the waiting room, perusing the latest copy of People Magazine. Maverick hates People Magazine, but there’s not much else the hospital waiting room can offer in terms of salient literature, so People Magazine it is.

Ice goes back for his chemo treatment. Phil, his technician, doesn’t say much as he putters around the room, hanging IV drip bags here and flipping switches on medical equipment there. When Ice is all hooked up, they chat about inane things. Phil recounts his daughter’s swim meet. Ice responds with tales of his own swim meets, back at the Naval Academy. Phil says his son signed up for flag football, but God bless him, he’s shit at the sport. Ice promises that he’s not going to get much better at it, if he sucks this much at it now; he’s got his own scars from high school to prove it.

Phil unhooks him from the infernal treatment and books him for an appointment in two weeks. Maverick puts down People Magazine—a different issue than he was reading before, Ice notes—and drives them both home. He helps Ice into the living room and lays him down on the couch with the quilt that Carole made for their sort-of-fifteenth-anniversary. He kisses Ice on the forehead and goes to the kitchen to start dinner, and Ice is out like a light.

When he wakes up again, the sky is a dusky gray. It’s just past sundown. Maverick let him sleep for hours.

“Mav?” he calls out. Ice pushes himself up off the couch, his elbows creaking as he goes. “Maverick?”

“In here!” Maverick replies from the guest bathroom. “I’ll be just a second!”

Ice hums and goes into the kitchen. There’s a pot on the counter, but it’s not one of theirs. He lifts the lid; savory chicken congee, with ginger root and scallions. The Reyes’ must have dropped something off while he was asleep.

“Oh, yeah, Martin came by with some soup,” Maverick says behind him. “He says there’s no better cure than his wife’s arroz caldo, not even your mama’s chicken noodle soup.”

Ice puts the lid back on the pot. He turns to Maverick, ready to bear all of his weight down on his partner, because chemo is a bitch and he feels exhausted just standing here in his own kitchen—

—And flinches.

“What the fuck did you do to your hair?” Ice cries. Maverick cracks a grin, his signature Colgate smile.

“Do ya like it?” he asks.

Like it? Ice reaches out for his head, and Maverick leans in. He runs his hand over Maverick’s scalp, feeling the smoothness of his skin. He passes over the whole landscape once, twice, his fingers tripping over the tips of Maverick’s ears and the nape of his neck, as if he’d find something there like a magician performing a sleight of hand, but there’s nothing there.

“It’s all gone,” Ice laughs, somewhat hysterical. “It’s gone, it’s gone! What did you do? What the fuck did you do!”

Maverick shaved all of his thick, dark hair off. All of it is gone. All of Maverick’s damnable, doesn’t-have-the-decency-to-go-even-a-little-salt-and-pepper hair has disappeared.

Maverick smiles, teary himself. “Yeah, babe, it’s all gone.” He takes Ice’s hands in his and holds them tight. Ice tries to fight his own tears, but they’re doing what they please.

“Mitchell, what the hell?”

Maverick laughs. “C’mon, Kazansky, give me some credit. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you worrying about your hair falling out.” He cups Ice’s chin with one hand, looking straight into his eyes. “I thought you’d be less scared of it if we did it together.”

“Maverick,” Ice starts.

He doesn’t know where to go. It’s a grand gesture, that’s for sure, and if fifteen-odd years of knowing Maverick have taught him anything, it’s that you cannot always listen to what Maverick Mitchell says, you must only listen to what he does.

“Maverick,” he says again.

“Ice,” Maverick replies. “Let’s eat. And when we’re done, we’ll call Slider up and tell him what I did, and you can make as much fun of me as you want—for tonight only!—and we can talk about what you want to do next.”

They end up eating dinner in the bathroom. Maverick takes bites of his congee in between bouts of shaving off Ice’s hair as Ice huddles in the tub, ducking his head keep anything from falling into his own bowl. When they’re finished, they cram next to each other in Ice’s office and call Slider on Skype. His laughter is piercing through the laptop speakers and echoes down the hall.

And when Slider arrives ten days later, to, “Make sure Mitchell isn’t leaving you to fend all for yourself, I mean does he even know how to make a proper chicken noodle soup,” he knocks on Ice and Maverick’s front door sporting a grin and a freshly-shaved head.

Fighter pilots might have egos, but they’re a fiercely loyal bunch, too.

[thewriterthatghostedyou]

The Dragon and the Wolf

Chapter 4

Heyyyyyyy sorry for the delay everyone! I’ve been busy with work and setting up my bearded dragon’s enclosure (his name is Caraxes). But here is chapter 4, I hope you enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: non con acts, I used the google translate equivalent for High Valyrian so hopefully it’s right but who knows tbh, black mail (kinda), mean Aemond, and vouyerism kind of?

Divider by @zaldritzosrose

The rest of the day went fairly smoothly after your brother’s match with Aemond. He went on to fight a few more rounds before getting knocked off his horse by Prince Daemon. Jacaerys also lasted a bit longer before losing a match against the Baratheon lord.

Aemond did end up reappearing for another match or so, but he too was bested by the Rogue Prince who ended up being this tourney’s winner. Aemond never once looked in your direction.

While the men fought below you, you found plenty of time to converse with the two princesses and even with the Queen. You found out that Princess Helaena enjoyed insects and embroidery and while you were not particularly fond of bugs you did enjoy the same craft. Princess Rhaenyra spoke to you about her dragon, Syrax and you listened intently as she described what it was like to fly across the skies.

When the festivities ended, you found yourself walking besides Helaena through the Keep. “I particularly enjoy the gardens.” Helaena answered when you asked her where she preferred to spend her time.

“Then you will have to show them to me tomorrow!” You chirped with a smile. The Green Princess was a kind soul and you found that you enjoyed her presence. “Will you be attending your father’s feast tonight?”

The princess shrugged slightly. “I’ve never been very good with that many people. I only plan to stay as long as I need to.”

You nodded as the two of you stopped in front of your door. “Of course. In any case I look forward to seeing you again, my princess.” You gave her a small curtsy that caused her to blush slightly.

“Oh there’s no need for that, please just call me Helaena.” She shook her head and tried to pull you back up.

You nodded again. “Well then I will see you soon Helaena.”

The Princess nodded excitedly before hurrying away to her own chambers. You heaved an exhausted sigh thinking about the night ahead of you.

Adianna and Ursa worked as quickly as a winter storm to prepare you for the feast that was in a few short hours. You were grinning from ear to ear as your hair was elegantly pinned up and you were helped into a beautiful white gown that had flared sleeves and a gray belted chain.

After the two women left you twirled impulsively in front of the massive floor length mirror in your room. You felt pretty. You weren’t usually a fan of the Southern style, opting instead for the traditional furs that the northerners were known for but twirling in this dress made you rethink your sense of style.

When you met up with Cregan, you gleefully took his arm before heading to the main throne room. The once intimidating room had been transformed into a welcoming dining hall with extra lit candles and rich decorations lining rows of tables. In between the rows in the middle of the room there was a wide space where many of the lords and ladies were mingling together to the soothing melody played by a nearby group of musicians.

Craning your neck slightly, you were able to find Helaena at the front of the room seated near her husband who seemed like he had already begun indulging in the available wines. She gave you a sweet smile before her attention was pulled away by her mother.

On the other side of the table you noticed Rhaenyra and her children all seated besides each other. You felt heat rise to your cheeks as Jacaerys flashed you a quick grin.

You felt even more at ease when you were unable to find Prince Aemond in the crowd.

“You really like him. Don’t you?” Cregan followed your gaze back to Princess Rhaenyra’s oldest son who had risen from his chair and attempted to pass through the crowd.

“I do. I think.” You shrugged, red in the face. “From what I’ve seen of him he is kind and honorable. Someone father would have approved of.” You squeezed Cregan’s hand reassuringly as the Prince got closer.

“I agree.” Cregan nodded solemnly, saying nothing else as the Prince appeared before you two.

“Lord Stark, lady Stark.” The two of you bowed slightly to him as he continued. “I’m so glad to run into you here. I was hoping to ask your sister for a dance.” He gave your brother a hopeful smile.

“Of course.” Cregan released your hand from his side returning the reassuring squeeze you had just given him. “My sister loves to dance.”

“Well I must confess I’m not the most skilled on the dance floor so you may have to lead the way, my lady.” You giggled quietly before taking his outstretched hand.

As he led you through the crowd a lively song started and you soon found the two of you swirling around the floor along other couplings. “My brother doesn’t respond well to being lied to, my prince.” You laughed as the two of you performed a particularly skilled twirl.

“Whatever do you mean?” Jacaerys gently grasped one of your hands before placing his own hand on the small of your back. A teasing smile graced his face as he led you into a slower dance as the song changed.

“You are a wonderful dancer. Something my toes are very grateful for.” The two of you swayed softly to the rhythm, forgetting everyone around you as you finally had a chance to get to know each other.

“My late father, Prince Laenor, was an exceptional dancer.” He said softly. “He taught me the basics when I was younger. We would dance in front of the hearth before bed and my mother would scold him for riling us up but smiled as she did so.”

“He sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

“He was.” Jacaerys replied. “He would have liked you. I know that’s completely strange to say, we barely know each other and yet successful marriages have been made on less.” He gave you a hopeful look and you nodded excitedly. “What I’m trying to say is-“

“Nephew.” You recognized the low voice as Aemond appeared behind you. “My lady Stark.” You gave him a polite bow while Jacaerys glared at him.

“Prince Aemond.” You came crashing back to reality as he held out his hand.

“I hope you do not mind if I steal the lady away for a dance.”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes at the statement. “The lady Stark and I were actually in the middle of-“

“Wonderful.” Aemond grabbed your hand tightly before pulling you away from the brown haired prince.

The taller man finally stopped on the other end of the floor before placing his hand in yours and the other on your hip. Similar to what Jacaerys had done but lower than the first man. “As much as I appreciate the invitation to dance, my prince, Prince Jacaerys was-“

“Your brother fights well.” He said, sharply interrupting you before you could protest. The two of you went through the motions in a waltz-like dance as he spoke.

“Thank you, my prince. You fought valiantly as well.” You found it interesting how the man in front of you only had one eye and yet you could still feel his stare boring into you as if there were two.

“I was told you are a fan of the histories.” Aemond continued, turning you so your back was to him.

“Indeed I am.” You didn’t know where this stilted conversation was going and hoped that Aemond would also see this and finish the dance in silence. Unfortunately the man continued on.

“It’s interesting.” Aemond scoffed as you caught another glance of Jace during a twirl. “I was under the impression that the Starks of all people would be the least likely to wed themselves off to a bastard.” You blinked at his treasonous words and huffed at his sudden switch in demeanor.

“You are lucky that no one heard that.” You whispered harshly. “A man lost his head today for saying such a thing.”

Aemond grinned at you as you finally seemed to take interest in his conversation.

“Well I had no other option seeing as you avoid any other conversation topic. Tell me were you always this closed off or is it my eye that turns you away?”

You rolled your eyes at him incredulously. Of course he would blame your disinterest in him on his eye. But to be honest, you didn’t find his handicap disgusting or revolting, it was more the personality behind it that soured your opinion of the blonde prince.

“I’m disappointed that you think so little of me, my prince.” You wondered how long this song would last and prayed that it would end soon so that you could return to the brown haired prince. “It is not your scar that sours my opinion of you or any other superficial attribute, it is what’s behind that scar I do not like.”

Aemond flinched slightly but you continued before he could speak. “I have only met you twice counting this dance here and now and both times you have been selfish and arrogant. I should not be surprised, you are a prince so perhaps you have never been kept from something you wanted, never told no. Well, allow me to be your first.” The song ended and you stepped back from him, shock showing in his eye.

You shook your head slightly before making your way towards the exit. ‘I just need some air.’ You thought to yourself trying to ignore the anger rising within you.

Keeping your face relatively neutral so as to not attract the attention of the other partygoers, you forced your way out into the cool night air. Perhaps you would check out the gardens that Helaena had spoken so much about.

As your feet carried you further and further away from the revelry, you paused slightly hearing several heavy footsteps behind you.

You tried to turn around, but gasped as your head hit the wall with a dull thud and you found yourself eye to eye with an angry Aemond Targaryen. “Our business is not yet concluded, lady Stark.” He grinned at you as you blinked at him in shock.

“My prince-“

Aemond shushed you quietly, keeping a firm grip on your upper arms as he pushed you further into the stone wall. “I would be more quiet, lady Stark.” One of his hands snaked across your body before grabbing the skirt of your dress and beginning to pull it up. “We wouldn’t want anyone to stumble across us in such an… improper position.”

“Aemond please… I’m- I’m a lady I can’t-“ You whispered harshly. You tried not to focus on the feeling of your skirts being shoved up by his long fingers and prayed to any god that would listen that he would stop.

“I know I know.” He cooed softly pulling your small clothes to the side. “I won’t take your maidenhead tonight. I just want a taste for now.” His fake sympathetic tone made you start to shake as he brushed his fingers lightly over your mound. He said he wouldn’t fuck you tonight, but his promise for the future made fat tears roll down your cheeks. You regretted ever opening your mouth as his touch invaded all of your senses.

“Gods you’re divine.” He buried his face into the crook of your neck and inhaled deeply as he rubbed your clit in a way that made your legs start to buckle.

You didn’t feel pretty anymore, you didn’t feel as hopeful as you had been when you entered the feast. All you felt was disgust as your core became slicker.

“Good girl.” He soothingly whispered in your ear as his fingers slipped into your heat and you fought to stay quiet. “Ñuha sȳz riña.” (My good girl) The High Valyrian rolled off of his tongue easily but you had no clue what the man had said, only hoping that it wasn’t as cruel as the act he was performing now.

You moaned involuntarily and felt him smile against your neck as he twisted his fingers deeper inside hitting a spongey spot that made you see stars. “Gōntan ao really pendagon i’d ivestragī bona nādrēsy emagon mirre hen bisa?” (Did you really think I’d let that bastard have all of this?)

“W-what are you-“ Your eyes were half lidded as you heard him whisper into your neck before peppering it with small kisses. He shushed you again and the dam you had built finally broke.

You let out a breathy moan as evidence of your arousal coated the Prince’s fingers.

“Good work Ñuha zoklītsos.” (My little wolf). You gasped as he removed his fingers from your core and pulled them from under your skirts to reveal his glistening fingers. “I will let my mother know that you have accepted my proposal of marriage.”

“What?” You sputtered out, breaking out of the stupor he had placed you under. “I have done no such thing!” You took a deep breath to keep yourself from yelling. “You assaulted my virtue, I would never marry you.” You cringed as Aemond shrugged before sucking your spend off of his fingers.

“Then you will have to explain to your brother and any potential suitors why we were seen together performing martial acts.” He dried his fingers in a crease of your gown before grabbing your chin tightly and angling it upwards. You felt ice spread through your veins as you made eye contact with Lady Redwyne, a lady even you knew as a gossip. The older woman paled before raising a hand to her mouth and running back into the ballroom.

“It is interesting, really. For someone so adept in social situations that Lady Redwyne always steals away to that very balcony a few hours into the feasts.” He released your chin and patted you softly on the cheek. Before walking towards the main room.

“You set me up.” You whispered brokenly. Feeling more tears fall as you realize that everyone would know about this by the morning. House Stark would be disgraced. Your brother would be disgraced and it was all your fault. You wished you had tried harder.

“I did. You left me no other choice.” Aemond paused and gave you another searing look. “Of course the Lady may be persuaded to keep this particular piece of information to herself if the Queen were to ask and provide compensation. Something that I would be all to happy to arrange for my future bride.” He gave you an expectant look, waiting for you to crumble.

Your hands trembled and you shoved them behind you, trying to appear braver than you were. “Fine.” You conceded with a defeated sigh. “Please make this go away.”

You didn’t look up from the floor, didn’t want to see his smug face but you could hear it in his voice. “As you wish Ñuha zoklītsos.” (My little wolf.)

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Tag list 🏷️

@dixie-elocin

@shari-berri

@ka1afbr

@sepherinaspoppies

@gorlillaglue25

@indycaelumskywalker

[kalorphic]

So, Novaturient is based on Spy…do you know any other IFs that are based on existing shows/movies/books etc? I’m quite new to IFs so any recs would be a great help! Thank you!

IFS INSPIRED BY/BASED ON EXISTING MEDIA:

There’s probably loads that I’m missing lol, but here are the ones that I know of. Unfortunately, a lot of them don’t have demos and/or haven’t updated in a long time (some a really long time), but I put them all in just in case you want to follow and hope for a miraculous reappearance lol.

Once & Future by @kaiwrites-if

Merlin | No Demo

Midnight Delights by @midnightdelights-if

The Morganville Vampires | No Demo

The Kiss of Midnight by @if-kissofmidnight

Predator Franchise | No Demo

Scandal by @nightingale-interactive

Scandal | Demo | MC genderlocked to Female

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: An Affair of the Heart by @doriana-gray-games

Sherlock Holmes | Demo

Valhalla by @palette-jack

Farscape | Demo

Supernova: Renegade by @jupitergames-if

Mass Effect/Star Trek | Demo

Unmourned by @unmourned

Frankenstein | No Demo

Façade by @altair-interactive-fiction

Jekyll and Hyde | No Demo

Swan Song by @swansong-if

Swan Lake | Demo

Return to Never, Never Land by @never-never-land

Peter Pan | Demo

Hidden World by @hidden-world-if

How To Train Your Dragon | No Demo

A Life Supreme by @lifesupreme-if

Cyberpunk 2077 | Demo

Beyond the Waves by @allthatwrites

Little Mermaid | No Demo

Orenda by @orenda-if

Howl’s Moving Castle | No Demo

Rabbit Hole by @if-rabbithole

Alice in Wonderland | No Demo

Knights of the Eternal by @if-eternalknights

Transformers | No Demo

Sempre by @sempre-if

Castle | No Demo

Elsinore: After Hamlet by @lapinlunaire-games

Hamlet | Completed [Itch.io]

Calamity Control by @calamitycontrol-if

Mass Effect meets The Dragon Prince | Demo

The Spark of Hope by @thesparkofhope

Star Wars | No Demo

The Hymn of Winter by @thehymnofwinter

Game of Thrones | No Demo

Dusk Till Dawn by @dusktilldawn-if

Dracula | No Demo

A Court of Serpents by @acourtofserpents

Folk of the Air Series | Demo

A Dangerous Game by @adangerousgame-if

Killing Eve | No Demo

The One Who Cried Wolf by @bluewritesif

Teen Wolf/Chilling Adventures of Sabrina/Vampire Diaries/Twilight | No Demo

Blood of a Saint by @bloodofasaint-if

Grishaverse | No Demo

Song of Valhalla: Spear of Heaven by @songofvalhalla-if

Percy Jackson & The Olympians | No Demo

Welcome to the Family by @wttf-if

The Addams Family/Kuroshitsuji | No Demo

Mata Aetara IF by @mata-aetara-if

Naruto | No Demo

Maboroshi by @maboroshi-if

Naruto | No Demo

Tales From Roseborough by @roseborough-if

Stardew Valley/Harvest Moon | No Demo

Emberwood by @emberwood-if

X-Men meets Ms. Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children | Demo

Decaying Picture by @decayingpicture

Dorian Gray | No Demo

Slayer by @slayer-if

Buffy the Vampire Slayer | No Demo | MC genderlocked to Female

The Sixth Guardian by @the-sixth-guardian

Rise of the Guardians | No Demo

My Fair Maiden by @my-fair-maiden

Resident Evil: Village | No Demo | MC genderlocked to Female

Prodigal by @prodigal-if

Prodigal Son | No Demo

Hollowmoon Valley by @hollowmoonvalley

Stardew Valley | Demo (being rewritten)

Her Crimson Clutches by @thathexwolf

Vampire: The Masquerade | No Demo

The Unquiet Grave by @ombresart

Wuthering Heights | Demo

The Inseparables by @theinseparables-if

The Three Musketeers | No Demo

Hana no Uta by @hana-no-uta-if

Gintama | No Demo

Dahlia Hills by @dahliahills-if

Gossip Girl/One Tree Hill | No Demo

Apartment 502 by @apt502-if

New Girl/FRIENDS | No Demo

Embers of Hope by @embersofhope-if

Hunger Games | No Demo

The Whisper in the Mist by ME (@ellawrites-if)

Pacific Rim | No Demo

[coolreference]

Scar had won and as he did he looked towards the sun, to freedom.

On his back he felt a chill, the thousands of eyes of the watchers and a small pantheon of his friends. Each stood before a stained glass throne unmoving like statues.

Behind Grian’s head rose the sun, his wings spread like it’s warming rays.

Behind Scott a crown of stars, poppies laid dying at his feet.

Behind Pearl the moon shone silver linings on her red hood, a wolf skin delicately placed on the unused throne.

Behind Martyn red. Mars judging those who fought carelessly in the games, who thought it was just games.

A final throne empty as the rest with gray stained glass.

What to do with him? He heard, whispered from everywhere.

Scar turns, a silver tongue remark on his bloodied lips. Whispers he hears don’t let him speak.

What can we give him?

What did he earn? The whispers stressed.

The glass on the final chair shifts. He sees what is watched. Trader Scars new and burned asunder. A field of sunflowers blocked by a wall. Each trade and ally. Luck and skill entwined.

Trades and Eloquence.

Traveler and Luck.

Trickster and Thief.

He heard whispered from everywhere.

He walked to his throne, feet moving without thought. Sunflowers grew towards the sun as Mercury rose behind him.

[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 1

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: none

Chapter word count: 3.5k

A/N: The real Paul I of Russia was kind of a jerk and came to such a sticky end (assassinated by his own officers) that I couldn't think of something realistic or historically accurate for him, so I had to put him into an AU. Plus, I've always loved Slavic fairy tales/folk tales, and it's been really fun working them into a fic. This is mostly based on Prince Ivan, the Firebird and the Gray Wolf, but there are elements from other tales as well.

I include a few Russian words for authenticity's sake. In case the meaning isn't clear from the text itself, there will be a translation at the bottom of the chapter.

Chapter 1

Once upon a time...

That is how these things often start, isn't it? Very well, then that is how we shall begin our tale.

Once upon a time, across thrice-nine lands, in a thrice-tenth kingdom, there lived a prince named Paul, a tsarevich, as sons of emperors and empresses of that land were called. Paul was the sole heir to a vast and powerful empire, but to own the truth, unlike the princes of the old stories, Paul himself was not noble or heroic, both in appearance and temperament. He could have been quite handsome if he had let his natural features shine instead of hiding them under the fashionable rouge and powder of those days. He could have been quite charming if his behaviors and expressions were a little more agreeable. He wished to rule but didn't know how or care to learn. He simply assumed that respect and power were owed him, and turned sulky and surly when he didn't get them, which was all the time.

Well, who could blame him? He was caught between two powerful and ambitious women—his father's aunt, the Empress Elizabeth, who had brought him up, and his mother, the Empress Catherine. Catherine, who had taken the throne from Paul's father, Emperor Peter, was a tenacious and ruthless ruler, and she loathed having to share her power. She kept Paul away from all matters of court and country, insisting that his sole and most important duty was to make an advantageous marriage and produce an heir for her. Perhaps she wished to raise this heir as she had not been allowed to raise Paul, and pass the throne directly onto him without having to go through her son, the son who reminded her so much of her feeble-minded husband.

Paul didn't remember his father. He was overthrown when Paul was just a boy, and died soon after—some said murdered by his own wife. He existed in Paul's mind less as a father and more as an abstract idea, an act of defiance against his mother.

And so Paul grew up from a sullen boy into a sullen young man, smothered by his grandmother, unloved and unwanted by his mother, and barely tolerated by the servants, for all that they waited on him hand and foot.

Yet for all his flaws, no evil thought resided in Paul's mind, no harmful desire coursed through his veins. He merely longed for his mother's affection, or, failing that, her acceptance. He longed, like any young man did, to prove his worth. But what was his worth? And how could he prove it, if he didn't know what it was?

As I've said, the empire to which Paul was heir is a vast one. Just how vast, nobody quite knows. It stretches from East to West, from ocean to ocean, and contains the loftiest, iciest mountains and the flattest, most arid steppes, the densest forests and the widest rivers. Though countless attempts had been made by cartographers and explorers to conquer its farthest reaches, many remained uncharted. Yet there are parts of the empire that very few know exist, and even fewer have seen. They stand just above the tall peaks or below the deep lakes, their entrances hidden behind a lightning-struck tree or inside a dark cavern. Look for them, and you'll never find them. During those times when the earth meets the sky, right before daybreak, on moonlit nights, or as dusk is falling, you may spy their denizens just out of the corner of your eyes, dancing in the water or flying on a magic horse, or moving about in their chicken-legged hut. But turn around to look more closely and you'll realize it's nothing but a branch breaking, a flock of birds suddenly taking flight, or a hare jumping back into its burrow.

Every child of the land knows the tales of those strange, hidden corners and their inhabitants, of Koschei the Deathless and Baba Yaga, of Ivan Tsarevich and Vasilisa the Beautiful. Paul, too, grew up with them, as told to him by an old, sad Fool dressed in motley clothes who hung about his mother's court. But as he grew older, he saw those tales as nonsense. There were always rules in the tales, but those rules never made sense. Why was it always the third prince or the youngest daughter who succeeded in their quests? Why was the orphan always aided by a wise old man or an enchanted doll or a talking horse? Well, he was an orphan of sorts—his father was dead and his mother barely even looked at him—so where was his magical helper? Then, as he grew older still, those tales were replaced by reports of conquests of foreign parts, lessons of history and politics, and whispers of how his mother had staged a coup and killed his father for the throne, of the illegitimate children she had hidden away. And so Paul had forgotten the fairy tales, dismissing them as absurd, fanciful yarn designed to fool only children. He was no longer a child; he was close to reaching his majority and must focus his attention on more serious matters.  

That was until the day he saw the firebird.

It was an early summer day in Tsarskoye Selo, the Tsar's Village. The court had recently moved to the Summer Palace there, and the Empress Catherine was spending half of her time mooning over that brainless oaf Potemkin who, blessed be the Saints, was away at war, and the other half of her time carrying it on with the even more brainless oaf Vasilchikov, in what Paul thought was a disgusting display of wantonness, unsuitable for any woman of her age, let alone an Empress. To make matters worse, Paul had turned eighteen over six months ago, yet she showed no sign of wanting to grant him more responsibility. Despite constant hints from his governor Panin and Paul himself, the Empress only gave noncommittal answers, telling Paul that he was going to inherit the throne, probably, one day, answers that meant to assure and only did the opposite. And she had taken to finding him a bride. Day after day, instead of attending the council or other court functions, he was forced to shift through miniatures after miniatures of all the major and minor princesses of Europe, searching for one that may catch his eye. In truth, none of them caught his eyes. They all looked the same, with their vacant gazes and simpering smiles, their powdered wigs and rouged cheeks. They all looked as though they were mocking him.

To escape the endless barrage of potential brides, Paul went to the barrack and gathered up his soldiers for drilling. This brigade, given to him by the Empress as a birthday present, was the one bright spot in Paul's days, but now he began to suspect, like the matter of finding a bride, it was just another way his mother sought to distract him. But at least it gave him something to do, and as he roared at the soldiers and reveled in the way they obeyed his commands, he dreamed of a day his mother may allow him to take them to war, or better yet, when she may be threatened by a coup—not a serious one, like the one that deposed his father, but a coup nonetheless, which he knew was a possibility, as many believed the empire shouldn't be ruled by a woman—and he would sweep in with his soldiers to save the day.

"My father was the father of his people," he shouted. This had been drilled into his head by his grandmother and his tutors until Paul no longer knew if it was what he truly believed or what he should believe. Both had blended into one in his mind. "And one day I will fulfill the duties and responsibilities of that role. I will lead a disciplined army of soldiers to make his dream for this great country come true!"

So perhaps it was unfortunate that his mother caught him just then.

By the thunderous look on her face as she called him into her private study, Paul knew he was in for another dressing down. His knees shook, and he hated himself for it, hated his mother for making him feel like a child. There was nothing else to do but to face her. Perhaps he could convince her and show how much he could be of use to her.

That hope disappeared the moment his mother spoke. "Are you planning your own little coup?" she barked, her sharp voice lashing at him like a whip. Paul almost cowered. He knew cowering would only bring on harsher words from his mother, so he forced himself to stand up straight. It was no use. She was relentless. "Is that what this is all about? Well you won't succeed, young man. The army is loyal to me. And the peasants will do as they are told. That is the truth." Paul was going to point out that there were talks of a peasant revolt, but his mother cut him off before he could utter a word. "It would be a terrible mistake to go against me," she snarled. "Because I know more about politics than you ever will. You would not last two minutes as a ruler!"

And whose fault is that? Paul wanted to scream. Whose fault was it that he didn't know what to do, what was expected of him? This was what his mother did, depriving him of power and agency and then admonishing him for rebelling against it. His blood boiled with the injustice of it all.

"And all your drilling with your little toy soldiers will get you nowhere at all. You see, power—power is a balancing act," she said. The gloating in her voice was more than he could bear, and he turned away again, gripping the pommel of his ceremonial sword until it dug painfully into his palm. "You have to learn how to walk the line. I would remind you always to remember from where your power, if you are ever to have any, which I doubt, will derive."

Those last few words made him pause. Did she just threaten to exclude him from succession? So she had been planning it all along, hadn't she? For all her talk about how Paul would rule one day, she had never truly wanted to share her power. He whirled around to face her, his face white with barely concealed rage.

"What do you mean, if I'm ever to have any power?" he said, biting out every word. "I shall rule! It is my birthright! You cannot deny me my birthright!"

"This is my country, you stupid boy!" Judging by her shout, it seemed his mother had realized her blunder and was trying to cover it up with a show of authority, as she always did. "Look for a bride! Get me an heir!"

"What am I to you, a breeding bull?" Paul snapped and had the brief satisfaction of seeing his mother flinch. He stormed off before she could think of a way to further punish him.

He went into his room, but the silk-covered walls and the gilded furniture felt like a cage closing in on him, making it hard to breathe. Tears of anger and frustration stung his eyes, and they fuelled the flame of his rage even more. He was a prince, and old enough to be Emperor, for God's sake, yet here he was, crying like a little boy being scolded by his mama! He stumbled outside, made his way to the stables, and shouted at the grooms to saddle a horse for him. He needed to get away from the palace, away from the court and its scheming, sycophantic courtiers, away from his mother and the chain she put around him. He urged the horse into a gallop and headed toward the woods that surrounded Tsarskoye Selo.

Paul didn't know how long or how far he'd ridden, when he suddenly became aware of the quietness of his surroundings. The birches, oaks, and lindens formed a green, whispering dome over his head, while thick growth underfoot muffled even the sound of the horse's hooves. He slowed the horse to a walk and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Even in this tranquil forest, his rage refused to subside.

If only she would die! Women her age and even younger were dropping dead every day. Why, even the Empress Elizabeth had died when she was not much older than his mother, yet his mother insisted on staying alive and being in the best of health, as though to spite him. When Paul was younger, he would have been ashamed and frightened of having such violent, vitriolic thoughts about his own mother, but now, he no longer bothered to keep them in check and even took a grim satisfaction from them.

A rustling sound, louder and more erratic than the swishing of the leaves, momentarily distracted him from those dark thoughts. He went around a thick grove of lindens and saw what was making the noise.

It was a bird, stuck in a bramble bush. It wasn't very big, about the size of a magpie, and appeared to be injured. One of its wings hung stiffly by its side, and it kept trying to lift itself out of the tangle of vines and thorns, to no avail.

But the bird's plight wasn't what drew Paul's attention—it was its plumage, the strangest and most magnificent he had ever seen, all shades of iridescent red and gold, glowing like a fireball in the last rays of the sun that speared through the trees. Its graceful tail feathers fluttered behind it like tongues of flame every time it made yet another futile leap over the bush. Yet, oddly enough, other than the flapping of its wings, the bird made no sound. There was none of the distressed twittering or cries that an animal would make in the same circumstances.

An unearthly feeling settled over Paul as he watched that ethereal bird. Half-forgotten memories of his childhood came trickling back, those long winter nights when he couldn't sleep and left his nursery—he didn't exactly have to sneak out, since none of his nurses and governesses paid any attention to him anyway—in search of the old Fool, who could always be found wandering the corridors of the palace at all hours. The Fool was the only one who treated Paul as a child and not a prince. "Well, what do you want, boy?" he would ask upon seeing Paul's forlorn face peeping out from behind a marble column.

"A story," Paul would reply.

"A story? Let's see now... Did I ever tell you about Little Bear's Son?"

And Paul would let himself get lost in the story until he fell asleep somewhere. He'd never gotten reprimanded for leaving his bed at night, because once the servants found out what he had been doing, they simply locked the door to the nursery. No more midnight fairy tales. No more fairy tales altogether.

Now, looking at the bird, Paul felt the same way he had while listening to the old Fool's stories. His anger and worries about his mother and the throne melted like ice under the sun, leaving only a childlike desire to capture that beauty, not to possess it, but only to hold it for a moment, to convince himself that it was real.

Cautious not to make any sudden movement or sound, he climbed down from the saddle and approached the bramble bush, thankful that the luxuriant summer grass and fallen leaves of many winters past were rendering his tread noiseless on the forest floor. The bird, still desperate to escape its thorny prison, seemed to take no notice of him. This close, Paul realized it was indeed injured—blood was still dripping from a wound on its wing, staining the gold feathers red, though it was from the thorns or something else, he did not know. Slowly, slowly, not daring to even breathe, he reached out, pulling the brambles back with one hand. The thorns were so sharp he could feel them through his kid gloves, but he ignored them. Gently pushing the brambles out of the way, he grabbed for the bird with his other hand.

There!

His hand closed around the feathered body, which was surprisingly hot to the touch, a fire that seeped through his glove, all the way to his bones. Bewildered, Paul looked more closely at his catch and noticed that its eyes, instead of being small and beady like most birds', were rather large and human-looking, except they were golden, like an eagle's. Before he could contemplate this oddity, however, the bird screeched—a horribly humanlike sound it was too—and the fire from its body was no longer warming but scorching. With a startled yelp, Paul loosened his fingers, and the bird, now free of the brambles, dove straight into his face, its good wing hitting him in the eye, blinding him, and, with a wriggle, freed itself from his hand, leaving behind only a tail feather.

When Paul's eyes cleared, he saw that the bird was a mere flash of gold amongst the trees, almost disappearing into the sunset. The feather in his hand gleamed and shimmered like gold, its heat still palpable even through his glove. There were some scorch marks on the glove where the bird had burned him, and a few drops of blood as well.

Tucking the feather into an inner pocket of his coat, he jumped back on the saddle and spurred the horse forward. Like a child who would happily sustain scratches and bruises while climbing over rocks and wading through streams to run after a beautiful butterfly, there was no thought in his mind but the chase. Far from deterring him, those scorch marks only made him long to feel that strange fire in his palm again. He couldn't explain why that yearning was so strong; he didn't even stop to think about it. He simply gave chase.

Through trees and bushes, heedless of the branches that stung as they snapped across his face, heedless of the violent bumping and jostling of the gallop, over shallow brooks and swamps that sucked at the horse's hooves, Paul kept after the firebird. The bird flew with astonishing speed, and only the injured wing kept it within Paul's sight, as it flitted, mockingly, through the green vault that surrounded him, always ahead but only just, always a finger's tip out of his reach.

A grove of silver birches rose before him, rows after rows of ruler-straight, snow-white columns, new leaves turning darker green in the gathering dusk. The bird flew through two birches growing close together, their crooked trunks twisting away from each other while their branches met overhead, forming an arch. The flash of gold winked in and out as the bird faltered and dipped, and Paul bent down until his face was almost pressed into the horse's neck, his heels dug into its flanks, his arm outstretched. Almost—almost—

The horse reared up with a frightened whinny, throwing Paul off the saddle.

The leaf-strewn forest floor softened his fall, but it did nothing for his temper. "Stupid beast!" he snarled, not noticing how the horse was nervously pawing the air in front of the crooked trees with its front legs, refusing to go through. He only saw that the bird was disappearing.

Without a look back, he leaped through the opening between the birches and ran after his quarry.

The bird seemed to be tiring. It dipped behind a thicket of saplings that grew on the edge of the grove, their roots covered by ferns and other undergrowth, and didn't come back up. Paul grinned. He got it cornered now.

The trees were thinner here. As he approached the thicket, he could glimpse a meadow just beyond, and hear the murmur of a nearby stream. The red glow at the edge of the world was fading into soft pink, turning the sky a bluish gray and throwing the forest into a shadowy twilight.

A brief glow seemed to emanate from the thicket and was gone in an instant, which Paul chalked up to a trick of the dying light. The bush rustled. The weary bird must have thought it could hide in there until it was safe to come out again. For a moment, Paul felt rather sorry for the poor creature, but his curiosity was stronger.

He leaned down and spread the foliage apart.

His jaw dropped.

There was no sign of the bird. Lying there, amongst the ferns and tall grass, was a girl.

Her long, red hair covered most of her body. Between the wavy tresses, he could glimpse a delicate shoulder blade, an arm bearing an angry wound that was still weeping blood, and bare legs curled up in exhaustion.

At the sound of his gasp, she lifted her head slightly and regarded him with a sullen eye. 

"What?" she said. "Have you never seen an undressed woman before?"

Chapter 2

A/N: I have no idea what "thrice-nine lands" and "thrice-ten kingdoms" mean. That's just how every Russian fairy tale begins.

The exchange between Empress Catherine and Paul was taken almost verbatim from Episode 2 of the show.

Taglist: @ali-r3n

[pipe-dream-press]

No Stranger to the Wind by Moondal (cc: @moondal514) Words: 11,183 | Rating: T Summary:

Neil Josten is doing his best to keep a low profile in Fellsmarch, capital city of the Fells. The last thing he expects is his past to come knocking at his door and beg him for help. [An AU inspired by the Seven Realms series by Cinda Williams Chima.]

Bound for the 2023 @aftgbigbang.

Technical specs & additional details under the cut.

Inspiration for design came from the cover of The Gray Wolf Throne, the 3rd book in the Seven Realms series by Cinda Williams Chima.

Title font: Desire Pro

Body font: Alegreya, 11.5 pt.

Scene Divider: Bestaline, 36 pt. (lowercase "n")

Style of binding: A modified version of DAS Bookbinding's Single Section Pamphlet (YouTube Video / Instruction Booklet by DAS).

Although I did trim the textblock (letter paper folded in half), I didn't want to cut down my pre-cut boards, so I just left them at the size they already were (8.75” x 5.5” Davey Board from Colophon Book Arts Supply). This meant I ended up with about 5mm of overhang all the way around, as opposed to the 3mm that DAS instructs.

Title card: Designed in Affinity Designer, printed on my laser printer using the same paper I use for bookbinding, trimmed down to the smaller size, and then affixed to the front with PVA.

Number of pages: 43

Number of sheets: 11 (+ 1 sheet for the endpaper + 1 additional sheet for attaching the boards, all sewn together)

Bookcloth on spine: I believe this came from a sampler pack from Book Craft Supply Co., but it was a gift so I'm not 100% sure.

Cover paper: Amate Bark Paper in Grey

Endpaper: Thai Marble Momi Pink, Purple & Silver

[misguidedasgardian]

The White Dragon (Prologue)

MASTERLIST

Summary: You had become of age and your sister’s own wedding celebrations had triggered the interest of the royal family to celebrate yours. 

Pairings: Main Harwin Strong x Fem!Targaryen reader, platonic Ser Steffon Mangold x Fem!Targaryen reader, platonic Cregan Stark x Fem!Targaryen reader

Warnings: cursing, violence, smut, wedding celebrations, medieval and A song of ice and Fire AU customs

18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3.3k

Notes: I have this in my mind since the first episode of House of the Dragon, enjoying the new machinations in my head. I don’t like unhappy endings and conflicts based on misunderstandings so I'm here to correct it. 

Year 115 AC, Rhaenyra is 18, Princess (Y/N) 16

You loved celebrations, birthdays, weddings… anniversaries… with feasts and tournaments, you loved the way King's Landing would roar with life, the streets filled with carriages, colors, banners of the Realm’s most important families. It was breathtaking. It also filled you with energy and wonder 

As a princess, the second born daughter of King Viserys and Queen Aemma, you really didn’t have many people you could talk to, or you were allowed to interact with, so this really was an opportunity to meet new people. And as your father would think… suitors. 

It was the celebrations of your sister’s wedding, she was going to wed Ser Leanor Velaryon, heir to the seat of Driftmark, and lord of the tides. A handsome man and a skilled warrior and sailor. Since she was named heir two years ago, the celebration planned to be huge, families all around the seven Kingdoms were gathering, the Starks from the North, the Lannisters of the westerlands, the Tyrells from the reach, the Baratheon from the Stormlands, the Arryn from the Vale, and Tullys from the riverlands, and they all brought their alleged families as well 

You were excited for the beginning of the festivities, but you were more excited to enjoy them arm on arm with your sister. Rhaenyra and you were close, you were more like sisters, you were friends, specially after the passing of your mother and the fact that your sister best friend married your father

You found her in her room, getting ready to receive the guests for the feast to celebrate their engagement

“Are you ready Nyra?” she meet you with a smile

“I am sister” she was wearing a beautiful white dress, and a bright smile. It warmed your heart to see her so happy, “and maybe soon enough you’ll be too, celebrating your own wedding”

“Let’s just get through yours first” you giggled. She smiled brightly, she looked happy, and calm, you didn’t think she would be like that, but there she was. 

You left her to finish getting ready, but you walked towards the Throne room, because you knew your father would be receiving guests all day. 

You arrived sneakily, in one od the side doors, just in time to watch the entrance of one of the most important families on the realm, the house Stark

“Ser Rickon Stark, and his Lady Wife Gilliane Glover, and their son, Ser Cregan Stark” presented Ser Harrold. You walked until you were close to your father, at the first line. to have a fine view of the new arrivals. It was uncommon for the Starks to make the journey that would take two long months, but here they were. Dressed in dark clothes and furs, dark hairs, and their eyes, they were icy gray, like no one that you had seen before.

You were mesmerized, but soon you caught the eyes of Cregan Stark, your eyes met and you felt butterflies on your stomach

“I'm glad you made the journey, Ser Rickon,” your father greeted. “be welcome at court, to enjoy the festivities and wedding of our heir to the throne, Princess Rhaenyra”

“I’m truly grateful, your grace, for the invitation to celebrate princess’ Rhaenyra” his father’s voice was thunderous, “may I present to you, my son, Cregan, heir to Winterfell and future warden of the North”

 “Be welcome, Ser Cregan” your father greeted, but the eyes of the young wolf met yours once again. Making you blush. You father followed his gaze and you found him smiling back at you with a knowing look on his face. “May I present to you my youngest daughter? princess (Y/N)” now all eyes were set on you, and you smiled brightly 

“Be welcome Ser RIckon, you and your family” you greeted, a miracle they heard you. Cregan Stark himself walked towards you bowing, grasping your hand *which you offered, and kissing it gently

And soon after, you found yourself walking the godswood with Cregan Stark by your side. You father was talking to his father in the tables set in the courtyard, you felt their heavy gaze on you, but you tried to pay attention to the Lord besides you, that right now was talking to you about the wild weather on the North

“So even now that it is summer you have snow?” you asked gently, and his smile was warm

“Sometimes your grace” he answered

“I'd like to see the North someday” you chimed

“And I would love to show it to you” he answered back, making you blush, yet again, “If you show me King’s Landing” 

“What would you like to see?” you asked then, excitement running through your veins, “If you’d like, I could show you the Dragonpit”

“It has been a dream of mine,” he answered. And you smiled brightly His own smile made you blush, he was so handsome and charming, and the best part is that he was as young as you, only six and ten 

“A dragon has never wed a wolf” noticed Rickon Stark, as he was seated at the side of the King. both man were accompanied by the Hand of the King, Ser Lyonel Strong, who looked at the young couple with a frown

“Sister!” Rhaenyra came to find you, already in a beautiful black and red dress, she ran in, interrupting the calm atmosphere you had created, “It’s time for the joust!” she giggled

“Sister, this is Lord Gregan Stark” Raenyra barely looked at him, before she grabbed your hand and almost dragged you out of the Godswood and into the carriage that was awaiting you.

. . .

As it was almost a tradition, your father celebrated a joust once all the guests had arrived, this was even bigger than the one you celebrated for your brother Baelon when he was born. 

You sat on the first row with your sister next to you. The Velaryon hadn't arrived yet, so you enjoyed the last day of your sister’s single life, and you were grateful for that, because you could giggle and hold hands like you have been doing since you could remember. 

“Ser Harwin, of house Strong” presented, and the big knight appeared on a black mount, his armor was a deep blue and in his chest the emblem of his family, his helmet was a simple one, since his house didn’t have a beast representing them

“Ser Harwin Breakbones Strong” you giggled in your sister’s ear

“The strongest knight of the 7 kingdoms”, she responded, a blush in her cheeks and also in yours. Ser Harwin was a big man, broad shoulders, he dwarfed anyone he crossed, he had thick brown locks, and deep eyes that seemed brown at first, but you knew they had strands of blue and green

He just won his joust, so he directed his horse on a light throat towards the royal balcony, were you and your sister where, alongside the King and Queen, and the Velaryons 

“It would be my honor, to ask Princess (Y/N) for her favor” you were surprised he asked you, but he had, so you timidly walked towards the rail, with a crown made of laurels and small white feathers. “Your favor would ensure my victory” he continued, and you felt your cheeks  heated

“I wish you luck Ser Harwin” you muttered, drawing a bright smile just for him, and he gave you one as he caught your favor when you threw it. You felt your belly flutter with butterflies. He nodded at you with a cheeky smile, and spurred his horse away from the royal balcony 

He faced a Baratheon, who had beaten everyone before him, so the matches were coming to an end, only the best of the best remained, and you could sense the tension building, as the two knights prepared to start the joust. 

Your heart was beating as hard as the hooves of the horses as they started to run against each other. your breathing erratic as the horses’ 

Ser Harwin knocked the Baratheon of a clean strike, dropping him hard on the ground, it was a thing of luck he didn’t trampled him with his own horse

“Your knight won!” cheered Rhaenyra

“He is hardly mine, sister” you giggled, but a sense of pride held your chest, and the same butterflies fluttered in your belly as you saw him remove his helmet and greeted the exploding crowd, all chanting “breakbones! breakbones!”

He made his horse round the arena to greet the cheering crowd, and then he stopped in front of your balcony

“Ser Harwin Strong, champion of the tournament” a page announced, giving him a crown of white roses. his eyes traveled directly to you, and you felt your breath stuck inside your throat 

“I’d like to proclaim Princess (Y/N) as the Queen of Love and Beauty” and at that moment, you wanted to swoon, just like the ladies of the songs. 

You barely felt the walk back to the castle, you felt like you were walking on clouds, the flower crown placed beautifully atop of your head. Your sister grabbed your arm tightly, a silly smile on her own mouth

“Do you think he wants to marry me?” you asked, all giggly. Rhaenyra just looked at you with a content smile

“You don’t just proclaim the Queen of Beauty and Love to anyone” she said, in her eyes a tint you didn’t quite conceive the meaning of. You averted your gaze, your cheeks so heated you felt they could melt right out your face. “First Cregan Stark, and now Ser Harwin” she said cheekily, “all man are behind you sister”

“Only because it’s your wedding” you answered, wanting to believe your sister’s words, “you are not longer available” you whispered bitterly

“Well, enjoy the attention” she giggled

The Velaryon’s have arrived, that's what you’d been told, so the welcome feast was to begin shortly. Your sister wouldn’t let you go, in fact, she insisted you join her as she was getting ready. Maids dressed her in a beautiful white dress with golden details, and braided her silver hair at the top of her head with rubies on it. 

You were still wearing the flower crown, but at Rhaenyra’s insistence, you took it off, for her lady in waiting to rearrange your hair in beautiful braids, and you wore a dress of your favorite color with golden jewelry

Even if you enjoyed the celebrations in itself, there were things that you found tedious and boring, like seating at the side of the Queen, who was wearing a beautiful soft red dress, to greet all the families who approached you to present their respects and good wishes for your sister. 

But your mind was elsewhere, with the events of the day, your cheeks blushed with the memories of Lord Cregan Stark and Ser Harwin. A small smile creeped on your lips, you felt excited and thrilled for the prospects of your future. 

“Con congratulations on being named Queen of Love and Beauty stepdaughter” you heard the faint voice of your stepmother at your side, and you smiled kindly at her. you took the liberty and grabbed her hand over the table and squeez, she returned the favor

“Thank you, stepmother” she smiled at your heated cheeks

“Ser harwin is a handsome man, and your father told me you had been talking with Lord Stark earlier

“Yes” you giggled

“Perhaps we are going to celebrate your own wedding soon” she said gently

“I’d really like it” you confessed, your mind still fogged with fairy tales and happy endings

“I’ll make sure your father finds you a good man to wed” she promised, and you smiled back at her

“Thank you” you both giggled like the old friends you used to be, and continued to pay attention to the arrivals of the guests

The Velaryons finally arrived at the party, doing a great entrance that filled you with excitement, you looked at your sister and she looked incredibly happy. So you were happy too.

You couldn’t help but giggle as you saw her perform the dance of the dragon with her betrothed, because you knew how she cursed at the septas when they tried to teach her such dance, and she hated every second of it, thinking she looked ridiculous, and she kind of did, but that you were never going to tell her.

Soon all the guests joined the dancefloor, and you waited there, patiently for someone to invite you to dance. But the one who finally did wasn’t who you expected, it was Jason Lannister who offered his hand, and you agreed, since you wanted to dance and celebrate with your sister. As you joined the dancefloor, you found Ser Harwin dancing with Rhaenyra, not even looking your way when you changed partners according to the rhythm, it made you feel a little sad that he wouldn’t invite you himself, but you got distracted as the partners changed again and you could put some distance between you and Lord Jason

You saw in the corner of your eye the Stark Family, drinking and eating at their table, but none of them joined the dance, you guessed they didn't dance in the North, and you felt even sadder if Cregan wasn’t going to ask you to dance either. But the glee of your sister’s face was contagious, and soon you found yourself dancing alongside her, giggling and enjoying the music. And you felt like the happiest girl in the whole world.

But the awakening was tough, when you heard screams that made the music stop. You tried to pinpoint the source of the screaming, and you found flashes of white and green moved not far from you

“Ser Criston!” you barely could watch, being pushed by everyone else, but you saw Ser Steffon, your sworn sword tackling Ser Criston, who was bashing Ser Joffrey’s head into the floor

Everyone was screaming, and pushing each other so soon everyone started fighting, throwing punches and kicks. You were pushed into a table, hitting your back, but loosing your feet and falling to the ground

You could hear Rhaenyra’s own screams for Laenor, but the last time you saw his betrothed he was in the other side of the hall 

Someone stepped on your hand, and you whimpered in pain, trapped into pushing bodies your instincts commanded you to panic, you held your injured hand to your chest to help the burn, but it was useless. 

In the deep of your comprehension you heard your father call your sister’s name, and you wanted to scream for somebody to save you too but your voice just wouldn’t come out. you couldn’t moved, feeling trap under a mass of bodies

Ser Harwin, at the same time punched his way through the crowd to get to Rhaenyra, succeeding into grabbing her and throwing her into his shoulder, taking her to safety, as soon as he left her on the ground by the big table, she turned, looking at the crowd for you

“Where is my sister?” she asked in urgency, and Ser Harwin turned to the crowd, to look for you. Your sworn knight, Ser Steffon Mangold, after taking Ser Criston under custody, looked for you as well. You were usually easy to spot, because of your silver hair, but now you were nowhere in sight. He looked at the spot where he saw you last and saw the people gathered there in panic, so he pushed his way through

He met halfway there with Ser Harwin, they shared concerned looks and kept pushing people, until the Kingsguard found you cuddled on the floor

“Princess” he even pushed Ser Harwin, and grabbed you gently, “Are you hurt?” the panic was diminishing, so you could actually hear him

“I’m ok” but as you lowered your hand you winced 

“What is it” he took your hand gently to observe it, you whined in pain

“Someone stepped on my hand,” you explained.

“it’s probably broken” he observed, “I shall take you to the maesters”

“I’ll take her” Harwin said with his gruff voice, Steffon looked at you and only when you nodded he agreed, he was the last knight keeping watch for the night at the event, so he couldn’t accompany you

“Very well” with one of his big hand in the small of your back, Harwin took you out of the hall, and towards the Maester’s tower

“I’m very sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner” he muttered, his voice was so deep and gruff, it made tickles run down your spine

“Is ok Ser Harwin, you didn’t know” you responded, “you saved Rhaenyra, and that is what mattered” He didn’t answer anything to that and you wished he had. You didn't know what to do with the fact that he had proclaimed you the Queen of Love and Beauty just hours prior, but he didn’t seem to recall either.

Soon you were at the maester’s tower, your hand was pounding, rhythmically, like it had his own heart. 

“It’s broken, your grace” he said bitterly, you whined in pain when his fragile fingers caressed your knuckles, “but it will heal” he continued, “just let me give you some milk of the poppy, and I will immobilize it” 

“Thanks maester”, Soon after you, Joffrey was brought in by two guards, he was beaten up, but alive. Leanor followed closely, concerned on his face. If you knew better, you’d think that it was uncommon for a friend to have such a frown on his face and worry for his “friend” but you knew better, Rhaenyra has told you about his preferences, and the arrangement they’d done, you just hoped Laenor got the best of it as well.

“I should leave you, princess,” muttered Ser Harwin. You were grateful to him but a little bit disappointed

“Of course Ser, thanks for being so attentive” with a last smile, he left the room

After the maesters took care of your hand, you left the tower to find Ser Steffon waiting for you, he was a member of the Kingsguard, but he was sworn to you. You guessed other guards reached the celebration

“how is Ser Criston?”

“We have him under guard, we don’t know what happened to him” he looked too serious, and too tired, he escorted you back to the throne room slowly 

“Now that you are immobilized on one hand, you are making my job easier” he mocked, taking your hand in his to watch it closely

“Very funny” you mocked, “my hand hurts still”

“You should have told the maester” he warned

“I don’t want to take milk of the poppy, it makes me too drowsy” you said back, “specially with the wine I’ve been drinking” you giggled

“Lightweight” the thing you loved the most was how close he was too you, even though Ser Harrold always scold at him for it 

“My valyrian steel sword lies idle in its sheath another year” you told him, looking at your broken hand, “I wish it could be of some use on my hands one day”

“Gifting a Valyrian Sword to a girl of four and ten, what was your Uncle thinking?” he said, reproaching your uncle

“Well, I’m six and ten now” you muttered with a smile

“You do not trust me to defend you, your grace? I’m offended” you smiled back at your sworn sword

“You know I do” you muttered, “I just wish to learn how to brandish a sword” 

“Then I shall teach you” he answered, “But only with the King’s own permission, I do not wish to give him another reason to mistrust me”

“He doesn’t mistrust you”, you answered, “if he would, he wouldn’t have you by my side” 

“He didn’t have much of a say, it was your dear mother” he said gently, and you smiled.

“Right” you answered, he returned you safe and sound back to the celebration, but something had changed, Lord Cregan Stark never looked back at you, and Ser Harwin didn’t either. 

[venture-through-the-mist]

Petals May Wilt (But We Can’t Let Them Wither)

The New War is over. The System is saved, for now. Yet, a new challenge arises, the issue of ‘the Lotus’. With her mind fragmented from Ballas’s abuse, can she begin to coexist with the other two voices that now begin to drown out her own?

Natah and Margulis have been awakened into a world that is distinctly unfamiliar. They are not who they once were—in more ways than one. But who is the third voice sharing their mind, and why is she so uncomfortably familiar—for one of them, at least?

Chapter 1: Burrowing Doubt, Blinding Rage

What is ‘childhood’? A period of weakness and ignorance? A fleeting shield, protecting those under its gaze from the horrors of reality? She never knew. She was destined to save her kind, to be trained from the moment she could coordinate her clawed, pointed limbs. Her kin sang on the day of her birth, as the manifold bled crimson tears of joy, as she was lifted away by the being who she would call ‘Father’. 

They sang, for they knew that now they could cull the pests that attempted to take their home. The Golden Lords, sitting pretty in their ill-fitting thrones, blissfully unaware that their glorious reign was coming to an end. Not even their ‘Continuity’ would save them, not when her people were to raze their society to the ground. Or, so went the tales told by her father, by her brother. 

She never doubted them. Not once. Not when she nursed her quickly-healing wounds from the Wolf’s training. Not when every waking moment—of which there were many—was spent learning to utilize her powers of deceit. She honed her craft, shifting her dull shell into formation after formation. Stormy gray became umber streaked with green, camouflaging her in the dark forests of Tau. Her light sang with pride the first time that she bested the Wolf, the first time that she perfected complex transformations. It was a sight to behold. He did not notice that there was one more clone than usual, not until she lunged forward, maw agape, energy collecting at her jaws as she screamed. Her training progressed quickly from then on. When she was not learning to be a soldier, she was lectured by her father, sometimes by her mother, on how to lead. The Farmer, the Carpenter, the Shepherd. All three imperative for the survival of her kind, her kin, her family.

No, she never doubted them.

Not even when traversing the Void left her with an emptiness within, one that she knew could never be filled again. Not even when her father made a deal with that treacherous Orokin, a deal where her involvement was crucial. Not even when she caught the way that the so-called Executor sneered in her direction, her face twisted into that form unfamiliar to her. 

She never doubted her father’s promises. Until them.

How weak were the Golden Lords that they had to utilize these children? Soft, scared things with no hearts for war. Not like her own, hers had been hardened from the moment her purpose was revealed to her. No, these things had no place on the battlefield. These Devils, as the Executor called them, were to be destroyed. It is what would be best for all, yes? Yet, as she smiled at them, saccharine words dripping from her tongue under the guise of that woman whose skin she wore, something changed within the Sentient Queen. That first crack began to splinter through her mind, her resolve, her dedication, weakening.

He saw that crack. He used it, twisted her doubt into something unfamiliar to her. She could hear the sharp rhythms of her family fade from her mind—What was he doing to her?—as the Executor forced her mimicry to a new height. She refused to let him, screeching and clawing and fighting against the invading forces in her mind—it was her mind, not his, HERS— but all was for naught. She failed. Yet, in those last moments, as her mind darkened, twisting into something that she no longer recognized, she felt only a blinding rage. Then, nothing.

The Shepherd turned on her flock.

Yet, all is not yet finished, it seems. Even the great Golden Lords are not omniscient.

Natah awakens once more, a screech on her tongue, one that is not realized. What is this disconnect? Why is her mind not her own? Her fury does not falter, only burning brighter with her newfound confusion. It soon finds its newest target.

‘EXPLAIN. NOW.’

[asongofstarkandtargaryen]

HOUSE OF THE UNDYING PROPHECIES

When Daenerys entered House of the Undying she received some of the most compelling visions of asoiaf books. I know that plenty of other fans have already tried to decipher them but since this is my favourite chapter of hers (and one of my favourite chapters in general) I decided take a shot, too. Please note that this post is purely speculation, especially when it comes to visions that haven’t happened yet. I could end up being totally wrong as I’m not the one writing these books. That’s why while I respect people having different views, I won’t participate on any debate about the views I expressed here.

First of all, I feel the need to divide the visions into four categories. Those which belong into the first category happen before Dany meets the Undying, the second one consists the visions the Undying speak about, the third one are the visions which occur after Dany asks for further explanation (three sets of triple visions) and in the final category are those rapid visions that happen as the Undying trying to distract her from realising that they are about to cannibalize her.

FIRST CATEGORY

In one room, a beautiful woman sprawled naked on the floor while four little men crawled over her...One was pumping between her thighs. Another savaged her breasts, worrying at the nipples with his red wet mouth, tearing and chewing.

I believe that the woman symbolizes Westeros and the four little men are the kings fighting over her. It could either be Stannis, Robb, Joffrey and Renly (excluding Balon because he didn’t have as big impact on the country as the other four) or Stannis, Robb, Joffrey and Balon (excluding Renly who was already dead at that point).

Farther on she came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Savaged limbs clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. On a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a scepter, and his eyes followed Dany with mute appeal.

 I think that this one shows the Red Wedding and that the dead man with the head of a wolf is Robb (foreshadowing the cruel way his corpse will be defiled)

I know this room, she thought. She remembered those great wooden beams and the carved animal faces that adorned them. And there outside the window, a lemon tree! The sight of it made her heart ache with longing. It is the house with the red door, the house in Braavos. No sooner had she thought it than old Ser Willem came into the room, leaning heavily on his stick. “Little princess, there you are,” he said in his gruff kind voice. “Come,” he said, “come to me, my lady, you’re home now, you’re safe now.” His big wrinkled hand reached for her, soft as old leather, and Dany wanted to take it and hold it and kiss it, she wanted that as much as she had ever wanted anything. Her foot edged forward, and then she thought, He’s dead, he’s dead, the sweet old bear, he died a long time ago. She backed away and ran.

The Undying are trying to tempt her by showing her most happy memories: when she lived on the house with the red door with Ser Willem. It’s one of the hardest trails she faces inside HotU because as an orphan girl she always longed for a home and this vision is promising exactly that. But Dany is known to prioritize her mission over her own happiness and that’s what she does here.

Beyond loomed a cavernous stone hall, the largest she had seen. The skulls of dead dragons looked down from its walls.Upon a towering barbed throne sat an old man in rich robes, an old man with dark eyes and long silver-gray hair. “Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat,” he said to a man below him. “Let him be the king of ashes.”

This is a vision of her father, Aerys Targaryen.It's interesting that Dany doesn't recongize him, she doesn't even see a resemblance in appearance with her and/or her brother. Unlike the  next vision where she sees Rhaegar and she links him to Viserys in terms of appearance. I understand that King Aerys wasn't taking care of himself and looked pretty much awful so it makes sense not to link his appearance on either Dany or Viserys. 

However, on a deeper level I believe this is because Dany still refuses to see the actual true nature of her father. I do believe that later in the books she will have to accept the fact that her father wasn't the best person (and unlike what her antis say I don't believe that any of his father's bad traits reflect badly on her)

The man had her brother’s hair, but he was taller, and his eyes were a dark indigo rather than lilac. “Aegon,” he said to a woman nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. “What better name for a king?”  "Will you make a song for him?” the woman asked.   “He has a song,” the man replied. “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” He looked up when he said it and his eyes met Dany, and it seemed as if he saw her standing there beyond the door. “There must be one more,” he said, though whether he was speaking to her or the woman in bed she could not say. “The dragon has three heads.” He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as man and wife and babe faded like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind to speed her on her way.

Martin has confirmed that the couple on this vision are Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell with their son, Aegon. The need for another child is a hint towards Jon being Rhaegar's son.

 I don't believe that Rhaegar was right about Aegon being the chosen one and the one with the song of ice and fire. It's not like Rhaegar wasn't wrong before about interprenting the prophecies -in the past he believed he was tPtwP- so I believe that this is another time he's wrong. After all, Rhaenys, Aegon and his third child (Jon) can't be the three heads of the dragon when only one of them is alive.

SECOND CATEGORY

…mother of dragons… child of three…

Dany is the mother of dragons and she’s also the third child of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen

...three heads has the dragon...

Speculation time! 

I believe that three heads of the dragon are Daenerys, Jon (those two are Targaryen) and Tyrion, who also shares lot of parallels with them and I could see him working with them to defeat the Others/ to built a better future for Westeros. Another candidate could be Bran Stark, I guess.

...child of storm...

She’s Daenerys Stormborn, born during a storm.

three fires must you light . . . one for life and one for death and one to love . . .

The first one was the funeral pyre of Drogo which gave birth to her dragons. The second one I suspect it will be Dany fighting her enemies using her dragons. As for the final one I believe it will be Dany and her dragons contributing to the fight against the Others. She will do it out of love because she's Mhysa and loves her people.

three mounts must you ride . . . one to bed and one to dread and one to love  

I think the first one refers to Dany riding silver on her wedding with Drogo, the second will be Dany riding Drogo to destroy her enemies and the last one finding love in Jon Snow. Alternatively, the mounts could refer to her husbands: Drogo, Hizdahr and future husband Jon Snow.

. . .three treasons will you know . . . once for blood and once for gold and once for love . . .

I think that Mirri is the first treason, the second could either be Hizdahr or Ser Jorah. As for the third which hasn’t happened yet, I don’t think that based on the facts we know so far we can speculate what that might be.

THIRD CATEGORY

1. First set of three visions:

1a.  Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth

Viserys’ death.

1b. A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him.

Rhaego, with his father’s coloring and his mother’s hair, in a what if situation where he grew up to become a powerful leader. Note that like the previous vision this is also associated with death because that poor boy was born dead.

1c. Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman’s name.

Rhaegar’s death.

… mother of dragons, daughter of death…

Daenerys’ father died before she was born, her mother died giving birth to her and the previous visions highlighted how some of her closest relatives are dead.

2. Second set of three visions:

2a. Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow

Stannis with his fake lightbringer sword. He has no shadow, because at that point of the story his shadow was used to kill his enemies (aka Renly)

2b.  A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd.

The Young Griff, Aegon, who in reality isn’t the son of Rhaegar Targaryen (cloth dragon)

2c.  A great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire.

Perhaps this refers to the alchemists who create an artificial dragon. They could be hired by Lannisters as they are the only major opponents of Dany who aren’t mentioned on the slayer of lies section.

...mother of dragons, slayer of lies...

Dany will kill/defeat her enemies in the race for the Iron Throne and their lies will be revealed.

3. Third set of three visions

3a. Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars

Dany remembering her wedding night. Dany’s wedding to Drogo is her becoming part of the dothraki community and later on commanding her own khalasar.

3b. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly.

I really want to say Victarion Greyjoy for that one because the desciption fits him so well (Iron born are “dead men” according to their religion). However, since this set of vision refers to Dany’s “husbands” the only way of being him is if he almost marries her. Otherwise, it could be Hizdahr or Daario accompanying her to the journey to Westeros (very unlikely for the former one) and dying while they are on the ship. Depending on which this section refers to, it could also be linked to the army they bring in their alliance with Dany.

3c.  A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness.

Lyanna Stark is the character associated with blue flowers and her son is currently on the Wall. The fact that the air is filled with “sweetness” indicates a good and probable indimate relationship between Dany and Jon. Perhaps aside from being her future lover could also become her future husband? Jon Snow brings with him the forces of the North as I suspect we will see him rising on the next book to become the leader of the North.

… mother of dragons, bride of fire…

She’s a Targaryen and mother of dragons so of course she’s associated with fire. She’s referred as bride because that’s her relationship with the men on the above three visions.

FOURTH CATEGORY

Shadows whirled and danced inside a tent, boneless and terrible

Mirri’s magic inside Drogo’s tent.

A little girl ran barefoot toward a big house with a red door.

At first glance, it’s easy to say that it’s Dany as a kid on her childhood home. However, Daenerys would recognize her childhood self, she wouldn’t refer herself as “a little girl”. Maybe it’s Arya Stark? the only significant character who fits the description of a little girl. My crack theory is that it’s Dany's child running toward her house (bc she bult that house with the red door she desired). The reason she doesn't comment on the girl's appearance is because she looks like Dany's future husband who she hasn't meet yet.

Mirri Maz Duur shrieked in the flames, a dragon bursting from her brow

Mirri’s death.

Behind a silver horse the bloody corpse of a naked man bounced and dragged

It’s the guy who comes to poison Dany in AGOT and is punished for that.

A white lion ran through grass taller than a man.

I think it’s Tyrion who is shorter than most men. Next to him, the grass would look taller than next to an average height man. Another possibility is Jaime who is a Lannister (lion) but as a member of Kingsguard wears white.

Beneath the Mother of Mountains, a line of naked crones crept from a great lake and knelt shivering before her, their grey heads bowed

A future vision where Dany becomes leader of all dothraki.

Ten thousand slaves lifted bloodstained hands as she raced by on her silver, riding like the wind. “Mother!” they cried. “Mother, mother!” They were reaching for her, touching her, tugging at her cloak, the hem of her skirt, her foot, her leg, her breast. They wanted her, needed her, the fire, the life, and Dany gasped and opened her arms to give herself to them…

The Mhysa scene that happens on ASOS.

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

I want to tag you for Give me a character game: Eskel, Olgierd von Everec, Radovid, Cerys an Craite

Yay! Another one. Thankfully I'm playing TW3 again and have gotten re-acquainted with the characters while on a quest to become the imperial paparazzi to Emhyr. My replies will be longs, so check em out underneath the cut

How I feel about this character:

Eskel

I never find this guy hideous. In fact he is probably more popular that Geralt when it comes to TW3 game fandom. He's charming all around and cuddly!

Olgierd von Everec

I am torn between helping this poor sod or handing his smoldering skull to O'Dimm. Mr. Olgierd "David Beckham" von Everec is hands down the most well designed Redanian I've set my eyes on. He is desperation personified and how that drove him into signing his soul to the devil.

Radovid

...Mad Rad is a result of mistreatment. As much as I want to sympathize with the Redanian king, I'd rather relieve the North of him. He is so black and white in the game that I can't see the shades of gray.

Cerys an Craite

Cerys is an anomaly. She is that rare gem glittering under a pile of pebbles. Wise, patient, but feisty. The thinking Skelliger and it's just right to place her on the throne of the Isle than her impulsive brother.

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

Eskel

The guy has no interest in relationships imho (that means Im not sold on the Trisskel ship), but I've been meaning to launch a rarepair with the scarred wolf with an equally scarred lass: Cerys. Story is still rolling in my head but I dub the ship Cerskel!

Olgierd von Everec

The OG pairing Iris x Olgierd. The canon pair for me. But since that ship has sailed, Olgierd is the lone surviving von Everec, maybe Im up for a Shani x Olgierd. Im also down for Ciri x Olgierd since I saw a fanart of it and it piqued my interest.

Radovid

Honesty I wouldn't bother shipping him. But if I must, then his one and only Adda the White and no one else.

Cerys an Craite

As I mentioned above, I'll be launching the Cerskel (Cerys/Eskel) ship someday. Other than that, I ship her with Ciri as two powerful monarchs that finally, or at least, smoothen the animosity between their realms. Make love not war and all that. Apart from that, I paired her with Folan, if he didnt die in the Battle of Kaer Morhen.

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

Eskel

Wolf Brother Lambert. Eskel is the only guy who has the patience to put up with his prickliness. They share stories and frustrations over mugs of The Gauntlet or vodka.

Olgierd von Everec

As I am also open to a Shani x Olgierd, I am also shipping them in a non-romantic concept. Shani cheers a newly mortal Olgierd of the fun she had with Vlodmir and help him professionally with moving on. Kinda farfetch since Shani is a medic, not a therapist. But she is a kind and caring individual regardless of their colors.

Radovid

Radovid and Roche. If Radovid wins the war, Roche takes the role of mentor for his future queen Anais and an ambassador of her kingdom to Radovids' Redania. Roche will have to get used to trading his blue stripes with red.

Cerys an Craite

Yennefer and Cerys. The queen of the Isle sees Yennefer as one powerful woman who knows how to wrap a man, any man, around her little finger. heck, Yennefer even had a romantic history with Crach, so Yennefer acts as a good council when dealing with these menfolk who might see Cerys as a wet behind the ears wench. And having Yennefer in an advisorial capacity can be the bridge between Cerys kingdom and Ciri's empire.

My unpopular opinion about this character:

Eskel

He is clearly an expert in his own right, maybe even more than Geralt. Calling himself just a simple witcher is a disservice to his craft, and a wasted potential.

Olgierd von Everec

Now that I think about it, he should be handed over to O'Dimm for squandering his gifts and not treating Iris right.

Radovid

For a genius, he sure is dumb for not figuring out that Sigi Reuven is a name put together from his old enemy Sigismund Djikstra and Djikstra's loyal secretary(?) servant Ori Reuven.

Cerys an Craite

Instead of sending Svanringe to exile or death (as is the tradition of Skellige), she should've pardoned him because he played no part in Birna's schemes, even denounced her own mother: that shows character. As the heir of Bran Tuirsseach, Svanringe could be useful as an advisor or ally.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in cannon:

Eskel

Decides to stay in Kaer Morhen after the end of the game.

Olgierd von Everec

Visits Vlodmir's grave for the last time and we get to see this before he sets out for parts unknown.

Radovid

All his men becomes aware that their king is dead so I don't have to pass by any of them proclaiming "Long Live Radovid".

Cerys an Craite

Diplomatic talks with Emhyr, or with Ciri in the empress ending.

Whew! Thanks for the tag @gauntermetaverse

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 17: Trust and Loyalty

Chapter 17 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, male whumper, royal whumper, whumper who is also a whumpee, emotional whump, abusive parent, psychological effects of parental abuse, punched in the face

---

Kezul

Mir did crawl—literally, their lopsided movements painful to watch. Kezul had to force himself not to look as Mir made their slow, halting way out the door. He was glad when his father slammed the door shut again before he had to watch Mir try to make it down the length of the hallway.

Mir would need that wound treated, and soon. Would any of his Wolves take care of it, if they saw? Probably not. They would likely assume the prisoner had deserved whatever they got. Kezul would have to order it done. And when he did, his father would know he had done it. His father had eyes and ears here, and Kezul didn’t know where.

After the door was shut, his father stood in front of it, legs wide, arms crossed. He faced Kezul the way he might have faced a defeated enemy, or one of his Wolves who had disappointed him. Kezul had to fight the unaccountable impulse to drop to the floor and present his weapon.

He didn’t, of course, because that was never what his father had wanted from him. His father didn’t want another obedient Wolf. His father wanted another son. And Kezul had never managed to give him that. How many times had they stood like this, over the years? His father looking down on him with those iron-gray eyes, while Kezul stood with his eyes on his feet, squirming under the weight of his father’s disapproval. No matter how many years went by, he was always a boy standing in front of his father, knowing he wasn’t good enough.

But he wasn’t a child anymore. He had been given charge of Danelor, and he had done well with it. Well enough to undo the damage his father’s army had done—damage he suspected his father had meant to be irrecoverable. Well enough to earn the respect of his Fangs.

He was not that boy. Nor was he the defeated soldier he had been, freshly returned from that disastrous battle.

He kept his eyes on the floor, but he straightened his shoulders. He took a long breath. “I have ruled Danelor for a season now,” he said. “When I arrived, its people were starving. Now they will eat for the rest of the winter. There have been no revolts. No whispers of discontent from our neighbors.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about your relations with your neighbors,” said his father, his voice sharp and unforgiving. “Was that the prisoner’s doing? Or should I call him the king? From what I hear, it seems you have elevated him to the throne. What does that make you? The court jester, like they have in Faraille?”

“You left me little in the way of resources when you gave me this throne.” Kezul stopped short of saying it was a test he had been meant to fail. There was no sense in saying it aloud, not when they both already knew the truth. “I made do with what I had. Isn’t that something a ruler should do?”

“You seem to understand very little of what a ruler with my blood in his veins should do. Making deals with Danelor’s aristocrats! Letting them negotiate in your stead! Bribing them with the promise of food and a seat at the table. They’ll think they’re not conquered at all—and I wonder if they’re right. Who really sits on your throne, Kezul?” He shot a sharply mocking glance at the wooden throne behind Kezul.

“Danelor was in a desperate state when I came here. They had no food. I couldn’t even feed my own army.”

“Then if things were that hopeless, you should have razed the lot of it and started over. Turned it into farmland for Kyollen Naskor. There’s no need to worry about food if there are no survivors to feed.”

“You told me to rule.”

“Better to rule an empty land than to let these people think they have power. You are not ruling. You are eating the scraps they throw you from their table, and you are too stupid to see it.” With those last few words, his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Then the thunder arrived as his father stormed past him to the throne. He drove his foot down hard into the wooden seat. A crack ran up the seat, but the throne held.

Kezul tensed, but didn’t flinch. He was accustomed to his father’s displays of temper. He knew what his father wanted from him now—unconditional agreement, and an apology to follow it up. At least, from him, the apology would not have to be entertaining.

But he was not a child, to offer a child’s chastised agreements, a child’s apology. He was ruler of Danelor. He had passed this test.

“I understand your position.” Kezul tried to keep his voice even. He realized, as he listened to himself, that it was a habit he had learned from Mir. “But this way, Danelor will produce more for us in the long run. And making building good relationships with our neighbors may help our reputation.”

“Help our reputation.” His father went still, his voice low and deadly. “You intended to change our reputation? This was not mere incompetence? You mean to have us known as people who make deals with the weak southern lands? Who offer them concessions, who approach them on our knees with our hands outstretched? Is that what you mean to tell me?”

“Of course not.” But Kezul didn’t know where to go from there. It had made sense when Mir had said it. But he didn’t know how to explain it to his father, didn’t know how to explain it to himself. He had acted on faith and instinct, following Mir’s advice instead of Gyoras’s trusting Mir that being open to cooperation was more fruitful than the threat of violence. He understood it, could even half-verbalize it to himself—they had food, and they had relationships, and those relationships were resources, and wasn’t it best for him to make use of every resource at his disposal? What would more shows of force get him beyond a burned expanse of ruined countryside?

But that was what his father was saying he would have preferred. A destroyed land, emptied of people, rather than a reputation for cooperation. And Kezul had been taught, all his life, that his father’s desire was the axis upon which the world turned. When his father wanted something, his Wolves made it happen, or they suffered for it. When his father wanted something from Kezul, Kezul made it happen, or knew himself to be a disappointment.

It wasn’t even that he had been taught his father could never be wrong. Right and wrong didn’t enter into it. There was only his father’s desire, and his father’s will.

Of course this wasn’t what his father had wanted.

Of course he hadn’t passed the test.

“I should never have trusted you with this,” his father said. “Not after your previous failure. I should have known that even a small, insignificant country like this was too much for you to handle.”

Kezul—standing here in his throne room, beside the throne he had sat in for months—felt the sudden urge to shrink down into himself and apologize. Apologize for not passing his father’s test. For proving himself unworthy yet again. For not being the son his father wanted.

His father’s desire was everything. And Kezul, whenever he failed to be what his father wanted, knew himself to be nothing. He was nothing now.

But he was a son of the Unmaker. Should he apologize for doing what his father had told him to do? Should he apologize for doing a better job than his father had thought he would, than his father had thought he could?

He kept his shoulders straight and kept his apologies sealed behind his lips, although it cost him a lot to do it. It was his throne, and this was his palace, and he was his father’s son.

“Danelor will survive, thanks to my decisions,” he said. Even though we both know that isn’t what you wanted. He didn’t say that part. He didn’t need to. The truth lay between them as plainly as if it had been spoken. If he had burned the whole of Danelor, his father would have branded him a failure all the same.

“It will survive,” he repeated. “Give it a few years, and it will be thriving. I don’t even need a few years—give me until next summer, and I’ll prove it.”

He heard a hint of desperation in his voice, and inwardly cringed at himself. Even now, he was apologizing, even if he didn’t say the words I’m sorry. Even now, he was bargaining for his father’s approval. Give me until next summer, and then you’ll be proud. Then we’ll see how I’ve given you what you wanted. Only he could never give his father what he wanted, because what his father wanted was his defeat.

He, not Danelor, was the one his father had meant to destroy, to raze to the ground and begin again. Danelor was only incidental.

That made the rage rise again in Kezul’s belly. It felt like the madness coming back, like when he was in the courtyard doors and thought his Wolves were insulting him behind his back. They hadn’t been. They had praised him. They had offered him respect, true respect, for the first time in his life. He had earned it. He had earned his victory. He had—

The world spun, the walls tilted sideways, and then he was on the ground. A pain spread from his cheek out through his jaw and into his nose. His father stood over him, fist still clenched. His knuckles were streaked with blood. It took him Kezul a moment to figure out that his father had struck him. He touched his hand to his cheek. It came away dark red, a match for his father’s knuckles.

His father loomed over him like the mountains of Danelor, far above him and untouchable. His stern face looked like something eternal, outside the normal rules of time and humanity. Kezul tensed, embracing for the next blow, but it didn’t come in. His father looked down at him with a sneer of disgust, as if he wasn’t even worth bloodying his knuckles again.

“You’re as weak as I always suspected,” he said. “As weak as you proved yourself to be in battle. I should disown you now and done with it. I should give you to the people of Danelor you love so much, and let you see how much love they have for one of their conquerors.”

“Then do it,” Kezul said, his voice slow and distorted from the pain in his jaw. “Give me Danelor. Take your spies with you.”

His father’s fist clenched again, and Kezul thought that second blow might come after all. But still didn’t come. “I could have you killed for making such a demand of me,” he his voice was not angry—anger would have been better. It sounded like he was merely speaking a truth of the universe, like a god handing down knowledge from on high. The sun rose in the east, the snow never melted in the highest mountains, and Vorhullin the Unmaker could have his son killed for daring to speak to boldly.

“Danelor is mine,” he said. “It would take a war to wrest it from my hands—and you, my son, are not prepared for war. Your army belongs to me, just as your throne belongs to me. And we both know how well you would fare in on the battlefield. I gave you Danelor as one last chance to prove yourself. That does not make it yours to demand of me.”

Then do it, Kezul almost repeated. Have me killed. Put an end to this game where we both pretend I can be what you want. But he didn’t say it. He had been trained for the battlefield, but as everyone already knew, he didn’t have the courage of a warrior. He didn’t want to die.

“But it would reflect poorly on me if I were forced to openly call one of my sons a traitor,” his father said. “Just as it would reflect poorly on me to let someone of my blood proved himself to be irredeemably weak. Do you think I gave you this chance only for your own sake?”

His father looked down at him with those stony eyes. Kezul knew better than to speak, or to raise himself up. His father wanted him on the floor, so that was where he would remain. His father’s desire, as always, was everything.

“So I will give you one more chance,” his father said. “Rule Danelor as it should be ruled, in a way befitting a son of the Unmaker. Do that for me, and I will raise you to the level of your brothers. Do that, and you will be my son.”

There were so many protests Kezul could offer. He didn’t voice any of them. He knew better—because as his father spoke, the last pieces of the truth of his situation became clear to him.

He had always known this was a test. And he had always known he was meant to fail. But it was more than that. His father didn’t want Danelor ruled, didn’t want it as part of his empire. He didn’t care if its people were fed, didn’t care if they rose up in armed revolts, so long as they didn’t shame him by spilling his son’s blood where others might see. When he had first arrived, he had had a passing thought that his father could have conquered this place solely as to serve as a test for him. Now he knew he had been right.

But it was not meant as certain failure, as he had thought at first. His father did not, after all, want to publicly disown his son and admit the weakness in his blood. He had assumed his father wanted him to fail. Now he knew otherwise. This was an arena to prove his ruthlessness, to prove he could do from a throne what he could not do with a sword in his hand. He was not here to rule. He was here to destroy.

He was here so his father could say, Yes, my son has the stomach for battle for destruction, for blood and fire and death. Yes, despite his shameful scar, my son shares my blood, and my blood is strong.

If he had destroyed Danelor—as he had wanted to so badly when he had first arrived, but never considered as a serious option—his father would have welcomed him home with open arms. He would have failed to rule, failed most spectacularly, but that would not have mattered. That was never what his father had wanted.

And what did that mean for him now—now that he understood the true rules of the game? He could hardly turn around and undo what he had done, send the food back, burn the remaining farms and the surviving villages. Was that what his father wanted from him? Did it matter if it was? His pride would not allow it. His pride and, perhaps, something else—the thing that had stopped him when he had seen Perajeon standing helplessly before him, waiting to die.

He could not do what his father wanted. But he could not defy his father, either. His father had eyes and ears in the palace, and if asked to choose, Kezul’s Wolves would not choose him. Not even his Fangs, most likely, no matter how much of their respect he had earned. Respect was one thing. The will to defy Vorhullin the Unmaker was another.

His father’s will was everything. He could not stand against his father’s will. What he wanted did not enter into it. To defy his father will be to defy the mountains themselves, or a river strong enough to carve a canyon from stone. It was not a matter of courage. It was a matter of impossibility.

If his father suspected what he was thinking, he said nothing. Such things were, perhaps, not relevant to him. What did the river care what the pebbles thought as it swept them along in its path?

“You can start by thoroughly breaking this prisoner,” his father said. “Consider it a demonstration that you have what it takes. Do you think you can handle that?”

What could he say to that? If he refused, what then? It would not save Mir. There was no defying his father. Or if there was, he had never learned the trick. All he had learned to do was apologize, and when that failed, to lie bleeding on the floor.

“Yes,” Kezul said, nodding and feeling sick.

“I would like to believe that,” his father said. “But you have given me little reason to believe. I think I will require a demonstration from you.” He offered Kezul a hand. Kezul, feeling sicker, took it and let his father help him to his feet.

“This will be a good chance to see where your loyalties truly lie,” his father said. “With your blood, or with these conquered people.”

But his father had it wrong. This wasn’t about loyalty, any more than it was about courage. It was, as always, about what his father wanted.

---

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[elffics]

Carless Hunter

Summary: going on a hunting trip despite everyone warning, Celegorm discovers why this forest is dangerous.

Note: a little bit of violence is mentioned.

Main Character: Celegorm

In a realm infused with magic and danger, an elf hunter ventured into the heart of a foreboding forest, a place shunned by his kin. Their voices echoed in his mind, urging caution, but the hunter, ever the stubborn spirit, brushed aside their warnings. He believed the tales of terror were mere superstition. With pride swelling in his chest, he embarked on a hunting trip that would soon unravel his hubris.

The forest, draped in shadows and cloaked in mystery, welcomed him with an eerie silence, interrupted only by the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of creatures unseen. With skill and determination, the elf set traps, laid out his gear, and soon, his efforts yielded success—game caught and gathered. Triumph surged through him, fueling his belief that his siblings were overreacting, their fears nothing more than whispers in the wind.

As twilight embraced the forest, the moon ascended to its throne in the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the woodland. Encasing his campsite in an otherworldly light, it seemed almost ethereal. Yet, it was amidst this peace that a chill wove its way into the air, somehow Celegorm liked this quietness, although this silent was disturbed by a haunting sound of wolves howling, a sinister symphony that stirred a primal fear deep within him. Dismissing it with a wave of his hand, Celegorm scoffed at the notion of danger, his pride blinding him to the lurking threat.

But in a heartbeat, that bravado shattered. Three massive gray wolves emerged from the underbrush, their eyes gleaming like shards of obsidian under the moonlight, each step heavy with menace. Stunned by their enormous size—far beyond the ordinary—Celegorm barely had time to react. Instinct kicked in; he drew his bow and nocked an arrow, but the wolves were quicker. With a primal roar, they lunged, and chaos erupted.

He fought valiantly, arrows flying into the night, but the sheer ferocity of the beasts overwhelmed him. One wolf seized his shoulder in a bone-crushing grip, sharp teeth piercing flesh, as pain radiated through him like wildfire. He fell to the forest floor as the world spun around him, blood pooling wickedly in the grass, his life essence mingling with the earth beneath. The shadows of the trees seemed to stretch, clawing towards him as he lay helpless, surrounded by the predatory trio.

In that moment of despair, surrendering to the thought that he would draw his last breath in this forsaken place, a sound split the night—another howl, deeper and more resonant than before. The three wolves, momentarily distracted, turned their fearsome gazes toward the source of the sound. There, atop a rocky outcrop, stood a colossal black wolf, its silhouette framed by the moon. Its gaze burned with an intensity that demanded respect, a formidable predator that emanated ancient power and fierce anger.

The black wolf leapt into action, launching itself at the gray wolves with a speed that defied its size. The forest erupted into a cacophony of growls, snarls, and the savage clash of fangs and claws. As the brutal battle unfolded, Celegorm vision began to blur. He could feel consciousness slipping away, the world dimming around him.

In those final moments, the last image etched into his fading mind was that of the three gray wolves retreating, their cowardice unveiled as they fled from the might of the great black wolf. And then, silence enveloped him, the shadows closing in, along with the chilling question lingering in the air: would this magnificent creature turn upon him next?

With a final sigh, he succumbed to the darkness, unaware of what fate awaited him in the depths of the forest he had so recklessly dared to confront.

The flickering flames of the hearth cast dancing shadows across the cluttered room, illuminating shelves laden with vials and bottles of every conceivable hue. The air hung heavy with the scent of herbs and strange, pungent concoctions. A small bedroll, nestled beside the crackling fireplace, was where Celegorm awoke. His head throbbed, a dull ache that echoed the memory of the wolves attack. The forest, once a familiar haven, now seemed a distant nightmare. He was stripped to the waist, a bandage secured tightly around his injured shoulder, a testament to the unseen hand that had tended to him. With a groan, he attempted to sit up, but a firm hand pressed him back onto the bedroll. He looked up, meeting the gaze of a woman, her face etched with a coldness that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the forest itself. Her eyes, sharp and piercing. They were the eyes of a creature of the wild, untamed and unyielding, although what caught his eyes the most was her jet black hair.

"you should rest more", she told him as she tried to push him to lay down. Celegorm was quite stunned because of her strength.

"Where am I?, how did I come here?, the wolves?!". he demanded answers, only to whence when a sharp pain hit his shoulder.

"your shoulder has not recovered yet so lay down and let me help you, little elf". calmly, she told him. the nickname she gave him made Celegorm raise an eyebrow, thinking why is this human woman calling him little. when her hand reached his injured shoulder, immediately, he caught it, holding it firmly.

"little elf, I'm trying to change your bandage","stop calling me little!, how can I trust you?". Celegorm did not like her touching him. "well I did bring you to my house and healed your injured shoulder". again, she told him calmly, then she turned her head looking at something....sniffing?. "and I'm about to feed you from my food also, so a thank you would be nice". she turned to look at him again, her eyes still held coldness which quite bothered him.

"there you go, now let me bring you something to eat". after changing his bandage, she stood and left the main room, which gave Celegorm more time to process everything. the last thing he remembered was that black wolf gazing down at him with its cold eyes, until he lost his consciousness. now he is here?, with this strange women... how did she get him to her house or even find him.... many questions wander his head but he choose to dismiss it and focus on leaving this place and this forsaken forest.

wincing in pain as he tried to stand, he grabbed his shirt, wearing it, grabbing his stuff which was beside him, he found his way out of the cottage. as he reached outside, he found that the cottage was surrounded by the forest. the trees were so tall that they covered the whole view. breathing heavily, Celegorm tried to look for his horse when suddenly he heard wolves howls which made his body shiver as he remembered what happened to him. "you shouldn't have come here, did your kin not warn you about this forest or you are just a carless hunter?". as Celegorm turned, he found her leaning on her cottage door, crossing her arms, this time a smirk was on her lips. "they did, but I did not listen, unfortunately". he looked at her, curiously.

"still, how does a defenceless woman like you live here?, this does not make sense". her answer to him was a sweet giggle. "don't you remember, little elf?". "remember what? and stop calling me little elf, I have a name, it's Celegorm". she confused him a lot."well met, Celegorm, I am called*.....*". "come, let us eat first then I'll answer your questions". she didn't wait for him to answer as she stepped inside her cottage and left the door open. after a while of thinking, Celegorm decided it's the best to return inside, last incident almost cost him his life and it's night now.

after finishing eating dinner, they sat in the same room he woke up in. a cup of tea was in her hands as she settled down on a cushion. it seems she does not like chairs as she does not have any that he can notice. "well, answering your previous questions, you are in my own cottage, I brought you here, the wolves fled... anything else?". as she finished, she sipped for her cup of tea, waiting for his next questions. "how did you find me?, the black wolf was right above me, probably trying to make me his next meal". he questioned and she locked her eyes with his this time, they looked very familiar. "I assure you, I was not thinking of eating you, sweet elf". calmly, she answered and sipped her tea. Celegorm on the other hand was far from calm, his heart beat got faster and she could hear it very clearly.

"w-what are you?". his hand tried to reach for his dagger, she noticed and laughed at him, shaking her head. "I saved you, brought you to my house, healed you and yet you are scared of me?". "you are a servant of Sauron!". he held his dagger now in front of him. "DO NOT MENTION HIS NAME!". furiously, she yelled at him, her eyes now glowing. slowly, she sighed and returned to her seat. "apologize for my outburst but please, do not mention his name again, and no I do not serve him.... never". her gaze returned to normal, looking at him calmly. Celegorm tried to calm himself, trying to believe her. she saved his life, did she not?, perhaps she is telling the truth, he did not sense any lies. "you won't hold me from leaving this forest?". "no, no. don't worry, once you the next morning arrive, you can leave...also, your horse is outside". this time he calmed down and lowered his dagger, although he put it closer to him.

Celegorm being the lover of nature and everything in it, his eyes were filled with curiosity, wondering what is the feeling of being a turning into a wolf, of being with nature. she sensed his excitement and chuckled. "just for you to know, I'm not a werewolf". "what?, but you can change into a wolf?". this made her laugh more at him, her kin is still hidden from the outside world. "true but I'm a complete different being, my kin are called skin changers, some of them can change to other animals. we are on the good side".... oh those new information made Celegorm look at her with wonder. "if you are good as you say, why did those wolves attack me?". "those wolves were from another clan and you were trespassing on their territory, they attacked you and injured you only to plant fear in you so you would leave and never return. we don't kill, only if necessary".

she gestured for him to drink his tea before it gets colder and he did. "you were fighting them, unwilling to yield, that's why they attacked you violently, trying to kill you. I saw the fight and came to rescue you". she smiled as she said her last sentence, gone the coldness that was in her eyes previously. "still, I don't understand why you saved me, it's true I was trespassing, so why?". "because I knew you were just a careless hunter, I followed you since the moment you stepped foot on this forest". Celegorm did not know what to say now, at least he is safe now. tomorrow he will leave and never return. "I truly thank you for saving my life, I'm forever at your debt. if you ever need help, come to my land, Himlad and I shall do as you require". Celegorm vowed truthfully, promising to return her favor. she gave him her sweet smile, nodding to him, understanding.

the next morning arrived and as she promised, she led him outside the forest. he turned his horse to look at her for the last time. on the hill, she stood in her mighty wolf form, gazing down at him, ensuring he was leaving the forest, safely. Celegorm bowed his head to her, she did the same and turned to leave... on his way back to his land, he could not stop thinking about her. perhaps....... perhaps he would return again, even if it would cost him another attack.