#was. was that an earth runestone.

[zunadahalforcbarbarian]

[queen-scribbles]

So I, uh, may have made Astrid's daughter as a Rune Keeper¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[greengalaxy-254179]

WHY is there no brown and red Chrysocolla/Malachite. You are RUINING my PLANS.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (1)

The Bronze Bitch's Daughter

Prince Daemon Targaryen has grown tired of his Lady wife, the “Bronze Bitch” Rhea Royce. But he is not so easily rid of her. She survives not only his brutal attack, but his cruel violation of her. Though she remains broken and weak, she endures just long enough to deliver a child: a girl of silver hair and steely eyes.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: Heavily implied rape

Author's Note: Here's the first chapter of my rework of The Silver Dragon! I'm keeping the old versions up, but they will be labeled "archived."

*Important Note* While he's not the villain of the show or book, Daemon is the villain of this story. We are seeing him through the perspectives of people he's hurt in various different ways. As such, he is not as morally gray as you may be used to. If you think this will upset you, don't read. Thank you!

Series Masterlist - Next Chapter

Rhea Royce lay prone on the earth ground of her beloved Vale. But she could feel neither the cold of the stone nor the dampness of the grass and stone as it seeped through her hunting leathers and onto her skin. As the heat of her body met with the chill in the ground, the runes of protection etched into her pauldrons became fogged over – rendered unreadable.

She knew she should hurt. The pain should be unbearable. Yorwyck was a mighty beast, like the Bronze King he was named for. The whole weight of the horse had come down upon her, so there was no doubt he caused her great damage in his fall. She had heard the sharp cracking of her own bones. Yet she felt none of it. 

All she could feel was fear.

The cloaked man waited until her steed was out of sight. Rhea was well and truly alone, with only the distant ramparts of Runestone peering from between the hills as witness to whatever would come next. 

He approached her slowly, casually, as if he couldn’t hear her desperate whimpers. She knew he just didn’t care. He ran his violet eyes along her body as he approached her head. It was not a gaze of lust. He looked on her with the same disdainful curiosity as one examining a woodland rodent crushed by a cart. 

As he stood directly over her, he turned his eyes from her face – he had always avoided looking at the face he found so displeasing. Instead, he turned to her outstretched arm. He took another step, raising his foot above Rhea’s lower arm. The ghost of a wicked smile danced in the corner of his mouth, and he stepped down. 

Nothing.

He raised and pressed his foot down again several more times. Not to be sure, but to emphasize to his victim that she was utterly helpless – precisely as he wanted her. Rhea knew the horrors his men had inflicted on the criminals of King’s Landing and the followers of the Crab Feeder. She knew the cruelty he was capable of and of his unparalleled creativity. He had hated her for years. In all that time, he must have imagined countless ways to torture her. 

Rhea braced herself for what would come next. At least she would not feel the pain.

But his steps retreated.

All the fear in Rhea’s heart evaporated, swiftly replaced by rage. After these long nine years, this was all he had for her? For nine years, he traveled the whole of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, slandering her and her family in the courts, then further insulting her with his brazen whoring. She had lost count of how often he had called her “Bronze Bitch” and accused her of ruining his life. She had been anticipating a reckoning from him. 

But this? 

This was an insult she could not stand.

Rhea knew she would be signing her soul over to the Stranger, but she would not let Daemon Targaryen have the final say.

“I knew you couldn’t finish,” she spat at her retreating husband. 

He turned back, looking at her face for the first time. Rage twisted his face, but his eyes were wide with shock. He had not expected that. But she was, after all, his Bronze Bitch.

What he said next had Rhea’s blood running cold as she thanked all the Seven that she would not feel what was to come. “My dear, lady wife,” he said, breath heaving and voice dripping with hateful venom, “perhaps it is time we consummate our union.”

The Lady of Runestone was dying, nine months on from her “accident.”

The people of the Vale were told that it was a miracle from the Seven themselves that she had survived such a devastating fall from her horse. Even more miraculous still, her husband had swooped in on dragonback to rescue her before she succumbed. He had even used his mount, Caraxes ‘the Blood Wyrm,’ to find and dispatch the offending horse. A true Targaryen prince, rescuing his bronze damsel. It was no wonder when her cousin and heir, Gerold, announced to the court that she was with child. They cared little that their Lady’s rescuer had swept flown out of the Vale as swiftly as he had arrived. 

Only her cousin, her Maester, and her ladies-in-waiting knew the truth. Maester Kerith had spent countless hours binding the broken bones that could be saved, and those he could not, he promptly removed. When Lady Rhea next sat the Bronze Throne, she made sure her ladies dressed her in her riding leathers rather than a gown that would hide her injuries. She wanted her court to see what she had survived, even if they could not know the truth.  

When it became clear that the consequences of what her husband had done extended beyond mere injuries, Maester Kerith offered her moon tea, but she refused. With her health still declining and her body struggling to overcome the trauma she had faced, she knew she would not survive long. But again, she refused to let Daemon have the final word in their hellish marriage. He had insulted her, paralyzed her, and raped her, but she would not let him forget her. 

She would leave him with an Heir of Bronze.

The babe was born as the sun rose, though the day remained dark beneath the clouds that so often surrounded Runestone. 

Rhea wept for the first time, having felt no pain throughout the birth, when she saw that her daughter had the silver-white hair of her father. She had prayed for months that her child would look just like her, to be a constant reminder of his Bronze Bitch. But the babe was just another silver Targaryen. Her final revenge had failed.

Gerold sat at her side, cradling the girl in his arms, as her mother could not. Then, as the babe began to cry, he held her out so Rhea could see her.

“Cousin, look at her eyes,” he whispered, all too aware of the grim looks on the Maester and Septas’ faces. 

Rhea turned her head, lifting her neck as much as her weakening body would allow to try and glimpse her child through her tears. She looked past the white hair at the small but wide eyes that beheld her. 

The slate grey eyes of Runestone, the Bronze Kings, and the First Men. Royce eyes.

Rhea smiled. Perhaps her revenge would not be as sharp as she would like, but so long as her daughter remained, Daemon would never forget her. He would always remember that he could not break her.

The Lady of Runestone’s breaths came slower, and though the Septas flurried around her, she paid them no mind. She had known all these months that she would not live to see the look on Daemon’s face when he first met his heir. She knew these were her last moments. But she did not want to spend them afraid. She wanted to spend them with her daughter.

Fitting, she thought, that Daemon’s heir should be a girl. His young niece had usurped his claim to the Iron Throne, and now his claim to Runestone was usurped by his own daughter. 

And what a beautiful daughter she was. Rhea’s vision began to blur around the edges, and the voices of the others in the room faded as she beheld the babe. Her eyes were bright, even as she cried softly, and the silver-white of her gently curling hair seemed to bring out a metallic shine in her grey eyes. They complimented each other, as her parents never had.

This girl was not bronze.

“Arianwyn,” Rhea whispered, naming her child as the life, at last, left her broken body. Lady of silver.

It was not Prince Daemon who came to Runestone to receive the child on behalf of the Royal family, but the young Queen Alicent Hightower. She came with the unwelcome news that the child’s father had already remarried. Less than a month after he became a widower. He had departed with his new wife, Laena Velaryon, to Pentos without leaving instruction on the care of his daughter – or even acknowledging her birth. 

Alicent, despite her reputation as a fierce supporter of her husband’s family, was more than empathetic to the child’s plight. It seemed to Ser Gerold that the young Queen held a similar opinion to his own regarding Daemon Targaryen. She commiserated with him on the pain the prince had caused his family, especially Rhea and her daughter. It seemed that As long as the prince had vexed the Royce family, he had been equally maddening to his brother.

But what was most shocking to Gerold and the court at Runestone was the offer the Queen brought: to bring the child to King’s Landing and raise her there. Despite her father’s indifference, the child was a Targaryen. It was her right to live amongst her people, to learn the traditions of Old Valyria. 

And at the Red Keep, Arianwyn would not be alone. The Queen had three children, each young enough to be peers to their newest Targaryen cousin, and more were anticipated from both Alicent and the recently wed Princess Rhaenyra. 

The King had already given his approval, both to the fostering of his niece at the Red Keep and of Gerold serving as regent of Runestone until the girl had come of age. Indeed, all the arrangements were already made. The Queen had even brought a small contingent of attendants for the child, from nursemaids to Dragonkeepers, who carried a great, steaming urn containing a silver dragon egg – supposedly chosen by the Queen’s infant son – to be placed in Arianwyn’s cradle.

Gerold had only one caveat before he agreed to the King’s plan: that Arianwyn would not venture to the capital alone. A handful of attendants from Runestone delegates would be sent with her to educate her on the history and traditions of House Royce. So that even surrounded by Targaryens, she would not forget why her eyes were grey.

Queen Alicent, herself clothed in Hightower green, happily agreed. 

After a long journey from the Vale, Lady Arianwyn Targaryen arrived at Red Keep, cradled in the arms of her aunt, Queen Alicent Hightower. As her attendants, including one of her late mother’s most trusted Lady’s Maids, continued on to prepare her rooms, the newest Targaryen was brought into the Great Hall. 

A hush fell over the gathered courtiers when the doors to the throne room opened, and they beheld the silver-haired babe. But the chatter that so often filled the capital quickly resumed when they saw the blanket she was swaddled in. A burnished bronze velvet, carefully embroidered with the same ancient Runes that graced the ancestral armor of House Royce. 

It was a slight on the Royal House that, in another court, would have undoubtedly caused a scandal. But in this court, where the Queen herself so brazenly wore the colors of her own house rather than her husband’s, it was immediately relegated to petty gossip. So the Lords and Ladies quickly resumed their conversations as the Queen approached the Iron Throne.

“My King, may I present your niece, Lady Arianwyn Targaryen,” Alicent said as she bowed before her husband as best she could with a squirming infant in her arms.

King Viserys’ eyes brightened, and he dismissed the Hand from his side. The King, having lost so many of his own children by his first wife, was always cheered when he had the chance to meet a healthy babe.

“Hello, my dear niece,” he cooed, reaching out to hold her, “what a delight you are!” His arms strained slightly at the weight of the plump child, so he pulled her into his chest. She relaxed into his against him, fussing softly as she reached for his long white hair.

Viserys laughed, running his fingers through her own hair. The exact shade of silver-white that graced nearly every member of his family. Though hers held significantly more curls than any Targaryen he had ever known.

“She is indeed a beauty, cousin.” A familiar voice drew the King’s attention. His cousin, Rhaenys, approached the throne. “It is a comfort to see our families flourishing.”

The King smiled and nodded, allowing his cousin permission to approach. She ascended the steps to the Iron Throne and ran the back of her fingers along the round cheek of her new baby cousin. “It is a shame her father is not here to meet her.”

Viserys heart sank. In his joy at meeting Arianwyn, he had momentarily forgotten the circumstances under which she arrived – without her father. Once again, his brother had shamed not only himself, but his family and the Crown itself. At least the child’s hair had put to rest any rumors that Rhea had been unfaithful. 

Suddenly, the sight of the babe made his heart ache. “Alicent,” he called to his wife, “take Arianwyn to her rooms. I am sure she is tired from the journey.” He handed his wife the child and slumped back into the throne, readjusting himself to try and remain comfortable. Then, when Alicent was out of earshot, he again turned to Rhaenys.

“What has my brother done now?” He said, running his gloved hand over his face.

Rhaenys grimaced. “I am loathe to speak against him now, as he has so recently taken my daughter to wife,” she sighed. “But I feel confident in saying that none of us can ever say exactly what your brother is doing, much less predict what he may yet do in the future.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Viserys said, “I just pray that poor girl won’t suffer any more than she already has.”

When she arrived, the Queen’s three children were waiting inside the solar of their cousin’s new rooms. Aegon, now four years old, ran from his nursemaid, cackling as he swerved precariously between the servants attempting to arrange the room. Helaena, approaching her second nameday, stayed in her nurse’s arms, hands clasped tightly around her ears as she took in the unfamiliar space. And Aemond, only a few months older than his new cousin, lay peacefully in his maid’s arms as he watched servants haul numerous sparkling bronze trappings into the rooms.

“Come and meet your new cousin, darlings,” Alicent called to Aegon and the nursemaids bearing her other children, “She’s come a long way to be with us.” The Queen sat on a plush chair near the west windows of the room, gently lowering the babe into her lap.

Aegon reluctantly approached, sneering slightly at the child in his mother’s lap. “She doesn’t look like Daemon.”

Alicent sighed. “Nor did you look like your father when you were so young. Indeed, even now, I wager you look more like me. You have the Hightower nose.” She tweaked the tip of his soft nose – the same as hers - to drive her point home.

“I am a Targaryen prince!” Aegon insisted.

“Of course, my boy. How could any of us forget it with this on your head,” she said, ruffling his unruly mop of white hair.

Aegon grunted, looking back down at the baby. He gently reached out to touch her silver hair, both neater and curlier than his own. “What is her name?”

“Arianwyn.” The Queen responded.

“Ari…” Helaena started, her hands finally coming down from her ears. Alicent nodded for the maid to set her down, and the young girl approached her mother and the babe.

The Queen spoke slowly and carefully as she repeated, “Arianwyn.”

Helaena listened intently, then repeated the name several times, struggling with the pronunciation. “Ah-ree-an-win.”

“That’s it! Very good, my sweet,” the Queen said, placing her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, though the young girl winced at the touch.

Aegon continued fiddling with his cousin’s curls, “It’s a weird name.”

“Her cousin Sir Gerold Royce told me it is of the Old Tongue,” the Queen said, motioning for one of the nursemaids to bring her youngest babe closer, “it has some meaning, though I am afraid I forget what it is.”

Releasing Arianwyn’s hair, Aegon made a noise of quickly waning interest and stepped away, eager to resume his perpetual torment of his nurse. Had she not been holding her young niece, Alicent may have chased after him. But for now, she lifted the child babe to face her own.

“Aemond,” she said softly, “meet Arianwyn.”

As he beheld his bronze-wrapped cousin, he smiled, cooing and reaching a squirming fist toward her. A smile appearing across her own face, Arianwyn reached back toward him.

I'll be starting a new taglist for this, so if you'd like to be on it, please reach out to me or comment on this post.

[littlewitchygreen]

Zero Cost Witchcraft

When I first started learning witchcraft, I remember seeing a lot of people bemoaning the fact that witchcraft cost so much, and even a few people who seemed disheartened by the fact that they’d never be able to start due to the cost. In a fictional book I was reading around that time, that incorporated modern witchcraft and paganism in it, even the main character made a comment about how much witchcraft and pagan practices cost. To this day, I continue to see similar posts and stories from people, and it always makes me twitch a little because witchcraft doesn’t have to be that and I’m frustrated that it’s presented that way so often.

So, here is a non-exhaustive list of various ways to practice witchcraft for free - or at least enough of it to get you started in the general sphere of things.

Energy Manipulation/Spellwork

At its core, witchcraft is the practice of manipulating energy into the form you want it to take. If you look at quantum physics, attention and expectation can change the way quantum mechanics present themselves in experiments, and it is my personal belief that witchcraft harnesses this phenomenon through the form of intentional energy manipulation.

The great news? Energy manipulation doesn’t cost a thing to do or to learn. You can learn to manipulate your own energy to do magic, or you can draw energy from the earth, fire, the stars, darkness, the moon and sun, the wind, sound. There are so many sources of energy to tap into - and while they might be easier to tap into with tools and leave you with more energy after a working to not use your own energy, you are absolutely able to do magic with just that.

Tools

As we are talking about using tools already, let’s talk about how to get supplies for the craft without spending anything. Jars for holding supplies or for spells can be obtained from washing out food jars, medicine bottles, or even be made from folding in the ends of paper towel or toilet paper rolls so that they form a container. Herbs and other plants can be obtained either from your kitchen where you already have them, or from wildcrafting what you need from your surroundings (just be sure to do so ethically, safely, and responsibly - there should be a variety of posts circulating around witchblr about how to do that). You don’t even need to gather anything fancy - as I mentioned in a past post, historically witches did not have access to the vast array of stones, woods, spices, incenses, etc that we have in the modern day, and they were still able to practice just fine so get creative. For elemental magic, you can get focuses from your surroundings - water from the rain or the tap, earth or stones from the ground, air from smoke or the wind, and fire from candle flame (or other kinds) or the sun. For material tools used in certain paths, you can use what you already have. A cup or thimble for a chalice, a sharp or dull knife for an athame, a found stick or a needle for a wand (or even your finger), a bowl you own for an offering dish or a general container while working.

Divination

For divination, there are a lot of ways to do it without buying tools. A bowl filled with water or a candle flame can be used for scrying. Dream magic can be used for prophetic dreams. A pendulum just needs to be something with weight suspended using something else - a stone tied to a string, a piece of fruit suspended with hair, a necklace you have, there are all kinds of options. For cartomancy, if you have a deck of cards you can use that, looking up the ways it translates to divination, or you can make your own tarot deck or deck of playing cards to use. I’ve heard from others who have tried this method that it generally works best if you have a decent understanding of the cards’ meanings when making them, but that it isn’t required to get a functional result. You can draw your own runestones and put them in one of the jars mentioned earlier to draw them out of. Palm-reading is a popular and common method of divination that doesn’t require anything but a pair of hands. You can even explore less common methods of divination, like reading bird flight, lightning patterns, bibliomancy, or by the shapes of shadows. There are quite literally hundreds of methods of divination created and practiced throughout history, despite the handful of major methods commonly practiced in the modern day - feel free to get creative.

Learn

You can also always learn about the theory of witchcraft if you aren’t currently in a place where you feel you can practice it. There are hundreds of witchcraft books available online in PDF format, and if you have a public library near you, chances are they might have a few books in the nonfiction section (if you live somewhere that uses the Dewey Decimal System, it’s usually in the 000s). Depending on the rules, some bookstores will also allow you to spend time in the store and read, and a growing number are carrying books on witchcraft.

For a more hands-on approach, you can also try learning from the tools and materials you intend to use. There are quite a few practice exercises around out there describing how to sense the energy of the elements, plants, etc, and I covered how you might get your hands on things like that for free earlier.

I know it is frustrating when you want to get the same tools and supplies as everyone else but those specific tools cost more than can be justified - I’ve been there myself. But when that happened, I looked to the past to see what alternatives could be used and to fellow witches about their solutions to the problem, so I hope this (incomplete) list can help you too! Best wishes!

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Head in the clouds (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: My take on Modern reader meets Daemon Targaryen. Here we have the meeting.

Chapter warnings: Canon character death. Kidnapping. Mature language.

A/N: I’m so excited to share this story with you. I had so much fun building it. This series will be updated every sunday.

Next part here

Beneath the covers, there is a girl. Brown haired, dark eyed. A smile that could light up the whole room. Etched into your memory, carved a place inside your heart. Forever living there.

“Does it not bother you?” You had asked her. “Being nothing more than a wife?”

“Am I a wife?” Her laugh was sharp. Strong. She didn't cover her mouth with her hand like other women did. She was so sure of herself, tiny things didn't bother her. There was no time to worry if her teeth were perfect or if it was unladylike to cackle in laughter.

Alive. So alive it hurt.

Two girls. Curled mirroring each other in the bed. Sharing secrets, and giggling. But never touching. It was not allowed, you see.

This was how women loved. Raw, all electrified wires and emotions. Bared. Never taught to fear each other.

A naked, creamy shoulder. A mole, right above her sternum. Heart beating fast.

Shining. In a sunny field, rushing after a stag, spear in hand. Predator, never prey. Vibrant with color. Rich browns and earth tones. The sun hitting the left side of her face just right.

The memory is etched in your eyelids. The girl, laughing. Dancing along to an imaginary song. A field full of golden flowers. Her voice in your thoughts.

Now gone.

Rhea had passed, or so the other serving girls had told you. Runestone was going to her husband. After four years, the man was finally back from war.

The apron you were wearing was clean, and so were you, despite your face being puffy from too much. Rhea had been your only friend. The only other person in the castle that had been able to read.

The Common Tongue had a striking similarity to English. There were few books, and you had struggled to read them at first. You soon realized that the Common Tongue was not a different language, but Middle English. It made sense. People in the Middle Ages didn’t know they were living in the Middle Ages.

You had met Rhea when she realized one of the serving girls was spending her time in the library. It was not forbidden, but unusual. No one had thought to forbid it. The ratio of literacy among the common folk was low, or better yet, nonexistent.

Her dexterous hands. Aim that always rang true. Her hair, cascading down her back, perfect and smooth.

It had lightened your burdens, this friendship with her. Since arriving in the Middle Ages, the feeling of alienation had been too much to handle. And being the Lady’s favorite meant that your time spent at the kitchens was more and more scarce.

Rhea and you had turned into something more than friends, by the end of it. Two lonely, unsatisfied women. One left behind by a husband that had spent years at war. Another out of time.

A pointless war, she had said. She had an interest in politics, your Rhea. They called it a manly pursuit. She called it doing whatever she pleased.

Your lips, tracing her temple, her cheekbones, and a whispered word, muttered back. “Sister.” You couldn’t call it anything but.

Afternoons, spent using each other’s lap as pillows. Every memory since meeting her, tinted in gold. How you regretted never speaking words of love more often, when you found out about her death. An odd one, when she had been such a strong rider and hunter…

A sudden flurry of movement started in the front of the room. Your contemplation was not allowed any longer. The rows of servants in front of you were all bending their knee, prompting you to do the same. Finally, your new lord was here.

The man made others wait for him. You had been gathered in the courtyard for hours, under an unusually bright sun. The air was warm. A golden, beautiful summer day to say goodbye to a beautiful, golden woman.

Your dress clung to your skin, the garment heavy and restricting. Despite being made of soft cotton, you still felt hot and sweaty. You missed shorts and miniskirts. Fucking purity culture.

Fuck the Middle Ages, too. For they had taken Rhea. It had not been cruel enough, to make her suffer scorn and ridicule from her husband, they had to take her too. She would have prospered in a modern world.

Some nights, searching for a solution, you thought of taking her back with you,

The row of servants in front of you lowered. You bent your knee, keeping your eyes lowered. It was about time. Your hips and legs were starting to get sore. Hopefully, you would be overlooked.

Rhea’s husband would surely want to replace some servants in favor of his most trusted people. He was an important man, or so you had gathered. She avoided mentioning him, often unhappy.

A Prince. He should have given her the world. He had arrived too late.

The servants kept quiet, organized in neat little rows. You waited for the command to rise, but none came.

Instead, an angry voice, and the unmistakable sound of boots stomping on rock.

“Bring forth the girl!”

A brave guard stepped forward. You heard his armor cling and clang, and you shivered. You hated the sound of metal scratching against metal. It did something funny to your teeth.

You kept your eyes trained on the floor. You were not supposed to look nobles in the eye, in these times. Rhea had taught you that, and all you knew about manners here.

“Which girl, my Prince?” The guard asked. You didn’t recognize his voice. Rhea kept a scarce household. She hadn’t like the fuzz her husband always brought.

Most of the guards she had were outside the castle, and they didn't mix with the servants. They were bastards or second sons of minor houses, who thought themselves too above you. Rhea didn't care enough about them to worry about it.

“The one she cared about.” The man answered, and you shrank down on yourself. Your uneasiness was turning into fear. Who else could he be referring to, but you?

The servants started muttering among themselves. None dared answer Rhea’s husband. They all knew he was referring to you, but were hesitant on betraying you.

“Well?” He asked, tapping his foot against the floor.

A beat of silence. You kept your eyes down. Finally, the guard spoke. His voice was shaky.

“She is one of the kitchen maids. The ones in white aprons.”

The boots stomped against the rock once more. Rhea’s husband was on the move, prowling between the rows of servants.

A girl shrieked. You dared not lift your eyes, frozen into the spot.

“Milord… I…” That voice, you knew. It was Mina, one of the girls who worked with you in the kitchens. You peeked out of the corner of your eye, catching the silhouette of a man, grasping a girl roughly by the arm. His back was to you, but by the hard set of his shoulders and the sword hanging at his belt, you could tell he meant business.

Tears started gathering in your eyes. You were afraid. Whatever this man wanted with you, it was not good.

“No, I don’t think so.” He let go of her arm, roughly pushing her away. You quickly looked down, but it was too late. The man was already approaching you.

You saw his boots first. Dark and well polished, unlike those of any guard. You keep your eyes on them. Despite your best attempts, you were starting to shake. Were you not so terrified, you would have thought his voice familiar.

“I am certain I have found my prize.” The man lifted your chin with a finger. You looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “Ah. I have. Care to tell me why my wife has left you all she had?”

Your lower lip wobbled. You tried forming words, but none came up. Because the man who was looking at you was a Target version of Matt Smith. Which meant…

“You killed her.” You whispered. Your heart was beating so hard you were afraid he could hear it pounding against your rib cage. You brushed your sweaty palms on the skirt of your dress, trying to dry them.

This was not the Middle Ages, not at all. This was Westeros, a fictional world not meant to exist. And if this was Rhea’s husband, then it meant Rhea, your Rhea, was the wife of Daemon Targaryen. You remembered little about him. But what had struck in your mind about him was that he had killed his wife.

There had been a golden girl, once. And a fool looked at her and thought her bronze.

You should have noticed sooner. You had always found it odd, that Rhea’s priest wore a seven pointed star instead of a cross. She had not been very religious. Other than her, you neverspoke to others about matters deeper than how to cut the potatoes. You had rationalized it as being another symbol of Christianity. After all, they had used a fish as a symbol, once.

Your voice was not low enough for him not to hear, unfortunately. Daemon’s eyes widened. Then, he grabbed at your face, roughly.

“What did you say?”

You glared. The hold he had on you was too painful for you to even whisper a word. You pushed at him, trying to get him off you, but his grip was strong. He laughed, amused.

“My, aren’t you a willful thing?” Daemon pushed you towards a guard. “Seize her and place her in my chambers. We have a lot to talk about.”

The guard, the same one that had said you were a kitchen maid, caught you.

“My Prince, if what you say is true and your wife left Runestone to her….”

Had she? Brilliant, crazy woman. Passing over her husband's claim. You weren't sure you wanted the responsibility of being a Lady, but you weren't about to complain. The position would provide you with comforts unlike any other.

“That's utter madness, and you know it.” Daemon took you from the guard's arms, roughly holding you by the shoulders. You started to struggle immediately. “A serving girl cannot inherit.”

“But a bastard can.” Another guard pitched in, stepping forward. His hand was at his belt, ready to draw a sword. Mutters broke out among the crowd, the servants on the verge of a riot. “The Lady called her sister.”

“Well, then. If you don't act against your Lady…” Daemon took a pair of manacles from the guard's belt and grabbed at your wrists. “I will.”

You screamed and kicked, trying to get back to the safety of the crowd. If the guards thought you were their Lady, you were not going to complain. Not if it meant this psychopath let go of you. You still remember one of the last scenes of the season. The decapitation of the guy who called Rhaenyra a whore.

“Let go of me, you asshole!” You pushed at Daemon, and he cursed in a language you didn’t understand. Valyrian. Old, or High, or whatever the name of what Targaryens spoke. He cuffed one of your wrists, then the other. You screamed louder.

The guards moved, as if to step in. They had taken your resistance as an order. Those men had been ready once, to defend Rhea. Willing to kill for their Lady. Now, they were willing to kill for you.

Daemon could sense it too. The air was charged, a fight about to break out. One he wouldn’t win. Not against that many guards. Not against the servants, who looked ready to raise in arms for one of their own. He had to do something drastic.

He took his sword out and pulled you towards him by the cuffs. Your back hit his chest, hard enough for it to hurt. Your wrists, trapped between you and him, ached. But Daemon seemed to pay no mind to the pain. He raised the sword in front of you, keeping the guards away.

The guards exchanged looks. One gestured at the others. Daemon placed the tip of the sword at your neck. You blinked back tears.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t do that. One wrong move, and your Lady dies.” His voice was calm, too calm. You remembered the battle at the Stepstones, and whimpered.

The guards stepped forward anyway. Daemon dug the blade deeper into your throat, until you felt it pierce skin. You raised your hand, palm extended in front of you. The universal halt gesture.

“Good girl.” Daemon pulled the blade slightly back. Then, in a raised voice. “Caraxes!”

A deafening roar shook the courtyard. A big shadow made the servants cower in fear, and duck for cover. You looked up and right in front of your eyes, there was a dragon.

It was a gigantic, red beast, that looked much like a reptile. It felt surreal to watch, as the man holding you hostage ordered it to land and stand guard. You didn't oppose resistance when he started to tug you towards the inside of Runestone.

“Come, Lady Cuffs.”

No one moved to help you. Daemon Tragaryen had played his trump card. He might not own Runestone, he might not be the King. But he had a dragon.

“You and I have much to speak about.” He said, as he locked the door to Rhea’s chambers behind him. Daemon pushed you to the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

“I have nothing to say to you!” You screamed, as you scrambled back. Your back hit the pillows. They still smelt like Rhea. It made you want to cry. You wished you could roll around in her scent, disappear beneath her covers.

“I happen to disagree.” Daemon sat down at the edge of the bed. You tried to kick at him, but his hand caught your foot before it could make contact. His grip on you was punishing. It felt as if he wanted to crush the delicate bones there.

“I have nothing to say to a killer.”

“I would like to know how you found out, Lady Cuffs.” A bit more pressure on your ankle, enough to be sure that they would bruise. It doesn’t have the intended effect. You are too blinded by his admission to be able to worry about your pain. You are angrier now. Did he have the nerve to admit it to your face?

You want him to hurt. To feel the same fear that's suffocating you, that forms a knot in your throat and doesn't let you breathe. The same fear Rhea must have felt, helpless, as he killed her. Monster. Monster. God awful monster.

“You killed her. You killed her, but know what? It doesn't matter because you are going to die!” And you are not thinking, of course. You just want to see him suffer. The consequences of what you are saying don’t cross your mind, at all.

“Oh?” Daemon looks amused. To him, your threats are empty. He is so privileged and self-assured, he probably thinks it’s like a giant getting threatened by an ant. It annoys you more because you are being serious.

Even if she was a supporting character in a fictional world, to you, Rhea had been a friend. More. And it had felt real, what you had lived with her so far. Were it not for Daemon’s arrival, you would have still thought you were in the Middle Ages and not Westeros. This has been your life for the past two years. She had been yours. And he had taken it all away.

“I googled it! I remember. Your nephew, the one with the eye patch. You die fighting him. And I hope it hurts, plummeting to your death from…”

It fills you with satisfaction, speaking those words. But he is not taking you seriously. You want, no, need, to twist the knife deeper.

“My nephew?” Daemon echoes, mouth agape at your outburst. Still, the smirk doesn’t leave. He seems amused by what he believes to be the ramblings of a madwoman.

“Aegon, Aemond what’s his name! You are going to die, and it’s all pointless, but you will rot in that lake.”

“Oh?” Daemon arches an eyebrow, on the verge of laughing. You glare.

“And you will marry that little girl! The one who is the daughter of Corlys… Something! And she dies too, and it will be her dragon that kills you!”

It's that, what makes his face change. From amusement, to disbelief. Daemon steps forward, hand cupping your cheek. His thumb taps at your bottom lip, twice.

“So you are a dreamer. A pretty one, for a Royce.” His thumb caresses your mouth as if you are nothing more than cattle, ready for his inspection. When he tries prying open your mouth, you bite him. And not in a sexy, playful way. In a hurtful way. Daemon takes his thumb away, and winces, before continuing. “I had told no one of my intentions with Lady Laena.”

Your heart sinks. A dreamer. A fancy way of saying witch, you guessed. Or seer. His expression is greedy, enough so you know what he will say next.

“This will please my brother, for we can keep the Vale and gain a dreamer. You will no longer be a bastard, girl. Rejoice.”

“What?” The change of topic confuses you. You are not a bastard because such a thing didn’t exist in your time. Rhea apparently put you in her will, and that means something to these people. But will or not, Westeros is a feudal society. Big thing about feudalism? There are no rags-to-riches stories because there is no social class mobility.

“You will be my wife, of course. It’s as your sister wished.” At that, you kick at him with your other foot, hard. The nerve. The nerve to threaten you so. After he killed Rhea. No way you are marrying him.

You curse all those times you read those spicy romance novels. The ones with the mafia boyfriends, like 365 DNI or those Wattpad stories you used to read. Or the ones where the girl is sold into an arranged marriage. As the protagonist of one, you are starting to feel like it's not very fun.

Absurd, where the mind might go to protect herself. From the memories, and the pain. Rhea. Dead, by his hand. While your mind whirls and jokes around.

“You are insane and I hate you!” It's not very creative. But your entire world has shifted in a matter of hours. You deserve a freak-out. “I will never be your wife, you monster!” You kick at him some more, but he catches both of your ankles and drags you through the bed and towards him.

“Oh, Lady Cuffs. You flatter me.”

[arcane-trail]

What are the different “types” of witches?

During the infamous witch persecutions that happened across Europe and America between 1450 and 1750, the members of the Church that led the inquisitions had a very clear idea of what they meant by a “witch”. These were mostly women, but sometimes men, who had entered into pacts with the devil and his servants.

But the term “witch” has been used to refer to many different types of people across the centuries. In the Viking age, Norse witches were principally seeresses who could also detect negative energies that might be affecting a household or community. In the Greco-Roman world, witches and magicians were again principally diviners. In ancient Egypt, they wrote down spells to heal or remove hexes. In early medieval Europe, they were often wise women and healers who provided alternative medical care.

In the modern world, when someone refers to themselves as a witch, it could mean various things. Witchcraft is a very open practice, and you do not need to fit into a specific mold. That said, the witchcraft community has coined some terms to help define the different types of witches. Below is a list of some of the most common types of witches.

Coven Witch

A coven witch is a practitioner who is a member of a coven, which is simply a community of witches. Covens gather to teach one another and to pool their energy and power to have a greater impact on the world around them. Covens will sometimes have formal structures and admissions processes and are usually led by a high priestess or priest.

Solitary Witch

A solitary practitioner is a witch who prefers to practice on their own. Their journey of learning and self-discovery is between them and a higher power, and they may choose not to tell others about their calling and practice. Solitary practitioners choose this approach and are not simply solitary due to a lack of other witches.

Hedge Witch

Hedge witches tend to be natural witches who use the power of nature to create remedies and harness certain powers. They have great respect for nature, will often work with the elements, and tend to be knowledgeable herbalists. Hedge witches are often minimalist and practical, cutting away much of the ritual that has developed around certain magical practices.

Ceremonial Witch

Ceremonial witches actively engage in rituals and ceremonies to tap into the magic that exists within the universe. This often involved being part of an order that teaches the required rituals. The most well-known example of a ceremonial magic order is the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

Baby Witch

The term baby witch is used for someone who is just starting out on the witchcraft journey, so it is just another term for a beginner witch. Very often, baby witches have eclectic interests as they are still exploring broadly to find the type of witchcraft that they feel most connected to. There is no specific point when a person stops being a baby witch, but it is usually when they feel confident to speak authoritatively about their craft.

Eclectic Witch

Not every witch chooses to specialize in a specific area, and some continue to have a broad and eclectic practice incorporating several different traditions. These types of witches are called eclectic, and they will often mi traditions to create new rituals and approaches.

Divination Witch

Divination witches concentrate principally on seeing the future or gaining a deep understanding of the current reality to make educated inferences about the future. The method of their practice can take many different forms. They may read the Tarot, cast runestones, read palms, commune with the spiritual realm, or something else.

Cosmic Witch

Cosmic witches, also sometimes called Lunar witches, use astronomy and astrology as the basis of their craft. They are highly aware of the impact that the movement of the heavenly bodies have on the earth, especially the moon. But rather than just telling you your horoscope, they use their knowledge of these energies to affect active change in the world.

Death Witch

A death witch is another term for a necromancer, but rarely does their practice involve bringing back and controlling the dead. Witches who work as mediums and gain insight and power by asking the deceased for their assistance.

Green Witch

Green witches are very connected with nature and the elements and principally work towards healing and nurturing. They may create herbal remedies or engage in natural powers, such as the chakras, to nurture balance and alignment in the body and spirit.

Kitchen Witch

Kitchen witches are a variety of green witch, but they focus on imbuing their cooking and baking with magic, often to heal and invigorate those who eat. They use their knowledge of the magical properties of ingredients and may engage in rituals to imbue their baking with specific energies.

Energetic Witch

Energetic witches are often drawn toward the vibrations of crystals and the auras of individuals. They are good at reading, harnessing, and directing the natural energies of objects to influence the energies of individuals and situations.

Sex Witch

Sex witches use the power and clarity that comes with orgasm to push into the spiritual realm. This can be a solitary practice, or one done with others. Probably the most famous sex magic practitioner was Aleister Crowley.

Folk Witch

Folk witches tend to preserve, maintain, and recreate historic magic and ritual practices established by pre-Christian ancestors.

Hereditary Witch

Hereditary witches come from a family of witches and will inherit or learn their practice from their elders. Their family has often been the shamanic heart of a community for generations.

Innate Witch

Innate witches are individuals born with certain abilities that look like magic. These can be hereditary, but this is not always the case. The ability, whether it be mediumship or the ability to heal, can vary greatly.

Grey Witch

People will often talk about black and white witches. The idea is that black witches use their power for their own personal gain, while white witches use their power for the greater good and follow the principle of “do no harm”. Grey witches, like white witches, tend to be driven by their desire to do good in the world, but they may be willing to do curses or hexes to punish those they see as evil doers.

You can see the broad number of different ways that a person may consider themselves a witch, and this is far from a comprehensive list. Plus, not every witch will fit into one of the categories that the witchcraft community use as shorthand to communicate about their practice. So, how would you define yourself as a witch?

[Full article here]

[jezzibee]

I just finished crocheting Tauriel!!! I am SO SO SO in love with this!! @westfarthingcrochet you, are an AMAZING pattern maker. She has a lot of great middle earth patterns if anyone is interested. I highly recommend checking out her blog and etsy shop!!!! As for my lady elf here, I did add the runestone, belt, and daggers myself but Tauriel is all from a pattern. Next I gotta make this elf her very own dwarven prince. Kili, you are next!

[thewriterofrunestone]

Daughter of Runes and Flame

Chapter 1

A layer of darkness blanketed the streets below in Kinglsanding, before a deafening roar echoed out shaking the stone foundations. Hundreds of feet above the capital soared the most unimaginable creature since Balerion the Black Dread…Cannibal. The smallfolk who dwelled on dragonstone had named the beast such for his appetite for younger and smaller dragons. It was well-known by the dragon keepers that the Cannibal’s behavior was unpredictable at best and volatile at worst. However, there was ,and remains only one person alive who bears no fear for the formidable creature…his rider, the Princess of Runestone…

Barely a speck on her dragon’s back, the Princess of Runestone held no fear as she guided Cannibal over the city below her. His obsidian scales absorbed the sunlight around him and ever so often his menacing green eyes would scan the horizons, always guarding his rider. Frightened commotion among the smallfolk of Kinglsanding could be heard traveling amongst the streets at the sight of the unfamiliar dragon. Word would eventually reach the Red Keep of the Princess’ arrival, to some this news was expected and welcomed. To others, it boded a feeling of unease…

Cannibal’s size made landing in the Dragonpit complicated, so the Princess directed him to land outside the city in the spacious tourney grounds. The dragon’s weight shook the earth beneath him and he let out a sort of unimpressed grumble. After unfastening the straps and buckles of the saddle, the Princess made her careful descent off of her mount. On the ground, she traced a gentle hand along her dragon's neck until she reached his face. A soft smile formed on her lips as she stroked his rough snout. The dragon let out an uncharacteristically purr and allowed his eyes to shut. The moment was soon interrupted by the sound of approaching horses and armor clanging in the distance. In an instant Cannibal opened his eyes, lifted his head, and began to bear his teeth that gave the appearance of dozens of greatswords. The guards on horseback who had approached, reared their horses back and shared nervous glances amongst one another. 

“ Gīda Morvir, Gīda…,” the Princess coos to her dragon. His muscles relax slightly while his eyes remain fixed on the newcomers. One courageous guard dismounts his horse and speaks, “Princess…welcome to Kinglsanding, her grace, Queen Alicent welcomes you, we are here to escort you to the Red Keep.” The Princess of Runestone removes her riding gloves and smoothes down her gown before turning to face the guard. “Thank you…what is your name Ser?”

“Ser Criston Cole, Princess”

“Very well Ser Criston escort me to the Red Keep then.” 

Ser Criston gives a nod of acknowledgement, the other men and their horses part and a carriage wagon is wheeled forward. The Princess leaves her dragon’s side to enter the carriage.

“Dragon keepers will be sent to attend to your dragon Princess.”

“Do not bother Ser Criston, he is not one to be managed,” the Princess says with a small grin. 

“Sōvegon Morvir!”

With that command the Cannibal lets out a huff before using his massive wings to propel him back into the air. The gust of wind sends the horses nearby whinnying and stamping their hooves. 

The carriage is led through the tourney grounds and into the capital by way of the Dragon Gate. This journey would be made much shorter if I could land Morvir in the courtyard of the Red Keep, the Princess thinks. Finally, the carriage halts in front of one of the many entrances to the royal keep. The wooden doors to the carriage swing open, revealing the inner walls of the Red Keep. As the princess makes her way down the steps of the carriage, two familiar figures are present to greet hair. Both sport the same silver hair she had once been jealous of as a child. 

“Our fair cousin has finally returned home brother, and she has grown even more beautiful…”

“On that much we agree brother.”

Earlier that morning….

The scent of wine permeating the room carried a sickeningly sweet note when combined with the smell of perfume lingering on the air. Although it was nearly noon, the curtains had yet to be drawn back. With a scoff the one-eyed dragon prince strolled over to the windows and unceremoniously yanked the heavy fabric open. Sunlight burst through the room revealing the unseemly sight that was Viserys Targaryen’s first born son, Aegon….in bed with two courtesans. The eldest prince let out an undignified groan as he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Standing still near the window, Aemond examined the state of his brother's room. Clothes strewn about in every direction, wine bottles littering the floors. The women took one look at the one-eyed prince before quickly dressing and fleeing the chambers. 

“Must you spoil everything little brother,” Aegon groans.

“I believe that is your job brother,” Aemond sneers.

“Get up and make yourself presentable, your presence is required soon.”

Laying on his bed Aegon rolled his eyes. “What could our dear mother possibly want at this hour?”

“It is not our mother who wishes to see you, but for some reason she wishes you to be present with me to greet our dear cousin when she arrives.”

At the mention of their cousin Aegon’s eyes snap open and he jolts into a seated position.  “She…She’s coming back?”

“Yes you fool, now clean up unless you wish to smell like wine and whores when she arrives.”

And with that Aemond strides out of his brother’s chambers slamming the door behind him. 

“Gods….fine…wine and whores really? I couldn’t smell that…bad…fuck….”

“Maids! Your prince requires hot water and your best soaps!”

[thedarkwitchesblog]

Witch Types

During the infamous witch persecutions that happened across Europe and America between 1450 and 1750, the members of the Church that led the inquisitions had a very clear idea of what they meant by a “witch”. These were mostly women, but sometimes men, who had entered into pacts with the devil and his servants.

But the term “witch” has been used to refer to many different types of people across the centuries. In the Viking age, Norse witches were principally seeresses who could also detect negative energies that might be affecting a household or community. In the Greco-Roman world, witches and magicians were again principally diviners. In ancient Egypt, they wrote down spells to heal or remove hexes. In early medieval Europe, they were often wise women and healers who provided alternative medical care.

In the modern world, when someone refers to themselves as a witch, it could mean various things. Witchcraft is a very open practice, and you do not need to fit into a specific mold. That said, the witchcraft community has coined some terms to help define the different types of witches. Below is a list of some of the most common types of witches.

Coven Witch

A coven witch is a practitioner who is a member of a coven, which is simply a community of witches. Covens gather to teach one another and to pool their energy and power to have a greater impact on the world around them. Covens will sometimes have formal structures and admissions processes and are usually led by a high priestess or priest.

Solitary Witch

A solitary practitioner is a witch who prefers to practice on their own. Their journey of learning and self-discovery is between them and a higher power, and they may choose not to tell others about their calling and practice. Solitary practitioners choose this approach and are not simply solitary due to a lack of other witches.

Hedge Witch

Hedge witches tend to be natural witches who use the power of nature to create remedies and harness certain powers. They have great respect for nature, will often work with the elements, and tend to be knowledgeable herbalists. Hedge witches are often minimalist and practical, cutting away much of the ritual that has developed around certain magical practices.

Ceremonial Witch

Ceremonial witches actively engage in rituals and ceremonies to tap into the magic that exists within the universe. This often involved being part of an order that teaches the required rituals. The most well-known example of a ceremonial magic order is the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.

learner Witch

The term baby witch is used for someone who is just starting out on the witchcraft journey, so it is just another term for a beginner witch. Very often, baby witches have eclectic interests as they are still exploring broadly to find the type of witchcraft that they feel most connected to. There is no specific point when a person stops being a baby witch, but it is usually when they feel confident to speak authoritatively about their craft.

Eclectic Witch

Not every witch chooses to specialize in a specific area, and some continue to have a broad and eclectic practice incorporating several different traditions. These types of witches are called eclectic, and they will often mi traditions to create new rituals and approaches.

Divination Witch

Divination witches concentrate principally on seeing the future or gaining a deep understanding of the current reality to make educated inferences about the future. The method of their practice can take many different forms. They may read the Tarot, cast runestones, read palms, commune with the spiritual realm, or something else.

Cosmic Witch

Cosmic witches, also sometimes called Lunar witches, use astronomy and astrology as the basis of their craft. They are highly aware of the impact that the movement of the heavenly bodies have on the earth, especially the moon. But rather than just telling you your horoscope, they use their knowledge of these energies to affect active change in the world.

Death Witch

A death witch is another term for a necromancer, but rarely does their practice involve bringing back and controlling the dead. Witches who work as mediums and gain insight and power by asking the deceased for their assistance.

Green Witch

Green witches are very connected with nature and the elements and principally work towards healing and nurturing. They may create herbal remedies or engage in natural powers, such as the chakras, to nurture balance and alignment in the body and spirit.

Kitchen Witch

Kitchen witches are a variety of green witch, but they focus on imbuing their cooking and baking with magic, often to heal and invigorate those who eat. They use their knowledge of the magical properties of ingredients and may engage in rituals to imbue their baking with specific energies.

Energetic Witch

Energetic witches are often drawn toward the vibrations of crystals and the auras of individuals. They are good at reading, harnessing, and directing the natural energies of objects to influence the energies of individuals and situations.

Sex Witch

Sex witches use the power and clarity that comes with orgasm to push into the spiritual realm. This can be a solitary practice, or one done with others. Probably the most famous sex magic practitioner was Aleister Crowley.

Folk Witch

Folk witches tend to preserve, maintain, and recreate historic magic and ritual practices established by pre-Christian ancestors.

Hereditary Witch

Hereditary witches come from a family of witches and will inherit or learn their practice from their elders. Their family has often been the shamanic heart of a community for generations.

Innate Witch

Innate witches are individuals born with certain abilities that look like magic. These can be hereditary, but this is not always the case. The ability, whether it be mediumship or the ability to heal, can vary greatly.

Grey Witch

People will often talk about black and white witches. The idea is that black witches use their power for their own personal gain, while white witches use their power for the greater good and follow the principle of “do no harm”. Grey witches, like white witches, tend to be driven by their desire to do good in the world, but they may be willing to do curses or hexes to punish those they see as evil doers.

You can see the broad number of different ways that a person may consider themselves a witch, and this is far from a comprehensive list. Plus, not every witch will fit into one of the categories that the witchcraft community use as shorthand to communicate about their practice. So, how would you define yourself as a witch?

[heavenechos]

 announcing  the  arrival  of  nestor  of  house  royce,  the  heir of  runestone.  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  observant and haunted  in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  training horses.  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  the blue tint that coats the world in the hours before dawn; the creeping feeling of being watched, only to turn and see an owl in the trees, observing you, judging you, like he knows what you’ve done; catching a glimpse of your face in the river as you lean down for a drink- do you even recognize yourself?.  the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  loyalties  truly  lie  with  house royce, the vale.

under the cut- tw: abuse, murder, drugging

# basic information.

official  name:  lord nestor royce.  nicknames:  n/a.  noble  title:  lord of runestone.  date  of  birth:  tbd.  age:  36.  birthplace:  runestone.  home:  runestone/the vale.  nationality:  westerosi.  gender:  cismale.  pronouns:  he/him.  orientation:  biromantic/bisexual.  monikers:  the ghost of runestone, assassin name coming eventually. languages:  the common tongue, low valyrian, braavosi.  accent: a neutral westerosi accent that is hard to place, which is by design. a sharp ear can hear a braavosi lilt to his voice, but it’s subtle and fades more every day. he speaks with authority and chooses his words carefully.

# physical information.

faceclaim:  manny jacinto.  ethnicity:  westerosi.  hair:  dark, short.  eyes:  dark brown.  height:  5’10”.  build: lean and muscular.  scent:  like a walk in the woods during a rainstorm.  dominant  hand:  left.  allergies: none.  scars: a long scar along his chest, which peaks out the top of his shirt if the collar is low enough (he wears them high for this reason).  distinguishing  features:  watchful eyes, staring like they can see through to your core, his uncanny ability to enter a room without being noticed. clothing  style:  neutral, comfortable, specifically designed to blend into the crowds. 

# personality.

label:   the lost soul, the phoenix.   mbti:   infj.   enneagram:   8w7.   element:   earth.   star   sign:   cancer.   temperament:   tbd.   character   inspirations:   bucky barnes (mcu), kendall roy (succession), simon basset (bridgeton), lord varys (game of thrones), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARakFevks18&ab_channel=TheSilentEskimo .   deadly   sin:   wrath, envy.   heavenly   virtue:   temperance.   godly   parent:   poseidon.

# drives.

hobbies:  sailing, raising/training horses, hunting.  religion:  the faith of the seven.  alliance:  house arryn, the vale.  personal goals:  to keep runestone secure, to maintain his family’s safety. (possibly in the future, to get revenge against the people who manipulated him.)  would they choose family or power? power, if it means security.

# familial ties.

parent one: lord yorbert royce.  relationship:  tba.  parent two:  lady alayne royce. relationship:  tba.  spouse:  tbd. relationship:  tba.  sibling:  melantha bolton (royce). relationship:  tba.  

  narrative... TW: abuse, murder, drugging (to be safe, will put section with this trigger in italics)

TLDR to avoid triggers- nestor’s early life was defined by an intense pressure to be the perfect heir, and some time in his twenties he decided to run off with some unsavory characters who manipulated him into doing their bidding. it took a few years, but he eventually returned home, even if he was not the same as he was before. he is slowly coming back to himself and mending the connections he’d severed. 

WE REMEMBER. fitting house words for the boy who couldn’t forget. every moment, every detail, seared in his mind. 

it is easy to be the son and heir that you’re expected to be in the first years of your life. so full of potential, every milestone celebrated with glee, every need tended to, every action projected upon. the trouble comes once you start acting in ways contrary to the personality bestowed upon you by an eager lord and lady. 

nestor was silly, mischievous in ways his father believed was unbefitting of a lord. it was unclear to nestor why he had to live a life that was so serious, so grey, so devoid of the things that it meant to be alive. even lords were human- right? 

the pressure was manageable for many years, especially with the little outlets he found and kept hidden from his father, lest they be taken away. after his twenty-seventh name day, he realized he was a piece of coal, expected to be a  diamond, when he was really just… soot. 

nestor, in his search for human connection without conditions, befriended a small group of men who had sailed across the narrow sea from braavos on a whim, landing in runestone for a few nights before returning home. they offered him a spot on their ship, and for the first time in years, he acted on impulse. he offered the men a fake name, promised his sister he’d be home in a few months, and sailed for braavos the next morning.

the first weeks were easy enough, though he noticed the group played a bit fast and loose with the laws of the land. but that’s why he was there, wasn’t it? to break the rigid bones that society had forced him to grow? slowly they pulled him into their schemes, starting with simpler things like stealing chickens or pickpocketing drunk noblemen in the streets. 

(murder, drugging tw) like a frog in boiling water, they started dosing him with increasing levels of poison to keep him docile and malleable, putting him into a dreamlike haze and intensifying what they asked of him until he was essentially functioning as an assassin. he can’t pinpoint the moment that he came back to himself, but it shook him out of the poison’s grasp long enough to escape, to find passage on a ship back to westeros. as the poison faded, the memories returned, and he was left horrified, traumatized, and terrified. 

he thought he’d been gone for a few months, but nearly six years had passed. if it wasn’t for a handful of letters that he’d sent home, he’d have been presumed dead. 

the last four years have been focused on healing and fully recovering the man he was before. many who knew him before his disappearance comment on the quiet way he walks, the way he can slip in and out of rooms without being noticed, moving through runestone like a ghost. with time, the softer parts of his personality have returned, especially around those he trusts. 

his focus is now on his duty as heir, but he can’t get the idea of revenge out of his head. 

# wanted  connections. fellow horse girls:  platonic. nestor searched for a way to cope, and he found it in breeding, taming, and training horses. there’s something about the trust they build, the connection they create. it makes him feel separate from himself, and what he’s down. if an animal conditioned to run from danger can form a bond with him, maybe he isn’t the weapon he feels he became. this could just be someone he goes on rides with, or someone who has hired him to provide well-trained horses. either way, it’s something they bond over. 

connection name tba <3: platonic. people who didn't know him before, that he has learned to trust. he can be himself in their presence, and it's with them that his goofier side returns. nestor treasures these friendships because they are untainted by his past, and he feels they are the rope connecting him to a future where he can truly let go of what has happened, so he has no interest in opening that side of him up to them.

who the hell is bucky:  platonic, negative or positive potential. one of nestor’s closest friends, who was blindsided by his disappearance. whether or not they know what happened, if they harbor some resentment over him disappearing, or if they’re still close is entirely up to plotting, and there’s a lot of directions we can go with it! maybe they even received a letter while he was gone, or wants to help him get justice. -2/2 available. the lead:  misc. nestor has almost no information about the men he was with, except that they all spoke braavosi. they all seemed to be from different parts of the world, though, so that isn’t much of a lead. he has no real names, no permanent location of the group, nothing that would identify them. this connection knows something that might help him find them, and its information that nestor is becoming increasingly desperate for. why did you ghost me: negative. there are some in the vale that believe he is unfit to take his father’s place, and while his continued presence in court has settled the minds of many, he still needs to convince this connection. maybe they have something to gain from his downfall, or maybe they genuinely worry over the future of runestone, but they hold strong to the belief that he should be deposed, and house royce should pass on to another. 

[eparch]

A few decades after the first jackals were constructed, Adarat formed from the same corrupted sands of the Desolation. Under Cardinal Adina's orders, his fellow djinn attempted the same purification process on him by binding him with runestones. Adina would keep him within Ahdashim for the next century of his life with the excuse of monitoring his corruption...but whether the runestones truly had any cleansing effect or if he would have been a typical djinn of his element anyway isn't clear. In truth, Adina mostly treated him as an underling who answered directly to her, but with no real power within the strict hierarchies of the city.

Eventually, she would send Adarat on to Sand Jackal Run, where he would desperately attempt to become a jackal trainer, only to be denied due to being overly emotional when faced with jackals too unstable to be saved—the only crack in his placid, often apathetic personality. He was, at least, allowed to become a runesmith himself, but perhaps even that isn't enough to truly appease a distantly growing yearning to step out from the shadows of the Cardinal of Earth, or even to shake away the fetters of his brethren...

[thecoolercoincat]

bro why are fire and earth runestones so expensive

Like all the others are like 7kt but these things are like 500kt+😭

Are they rarer or something?????

[dragonbanexxi]

The Great Bronze Conspiracy

Aegon II Targaryen x OC Targaryen- Royce

Coming Soon!!!!!

****!!!!NOT CANON COMPLIANT!!!!****

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Bronze Knight stands in the cool crisp morning, giving his murdered cousin her final salute. His jaw tightens as Lady Rhea’s casket is lowered into the rich brown earth. A tradition they have kept to honor their bronze ancestors.

The Runestone Septon delivers the final prayer, so that the deceased may find her peace among the Seven. Ser Gerold almost scoffs. Rhea had devoted her beliefs to the Old Gods. She did so out of defiance. It had been her nature to do the opposite of what was expected. The beauty lived life to the rhythm of her drum.

The few Royce’s left, stand together all sharing solemn expressions though their honey brown irises gleam in rage.

“Bring me the babe” Ser Gerold commands harshly.

The mousy wet nurse moves forward passing the pretty baby into the knights arms carefully. She’s bundled in an emerald woven blanket, embroidered with bronze colored flowers.

Squirming in her uncles arms. The man gives a thoughtful hum and turns to face his cousins. The silver clouds begin to disperse allowing a glowing light to fall on the small Royce clan.

“Our Lady Rhea will be avenged” Ser Gerold says with great conviction, “I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” His cousins cheer in an agreement.

The tender infant lets out a small coo, opening her lovely brown eyes. The wind caressing her frosty wisps of hair. The new lord regent stares down at the infant in his arms. Allowing himself to shed a single tear for her.

“We will make a Queen out of you Amélia Royce”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hi guys! I’ve been flirting with idea for awhile now. I’d like to know your guys thoughts. Comments are always welcomed. ❤️

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (1/?) ARCHIVED

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character.

Word Count: 2781

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was not born of love. Nor passion. Nor even a sense of duty. She was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

But even a child born of such darkness can find her way to the light.

With her mother dead, and father flown across the Narrow Sea with a new wife, the girl is taken in by her Aunt, the Queen Alicent Hightower, to be raised among the little family she has left. There, she finds her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen.

As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. The two spend long nights in the palace library together, studying the histories of both Old Valyria and the First Men, seeking to understand who they are and where they fit in the world.

But finding that place proves more difficult than in the fairy tales they read. The seeds of disaster were laid long before they were born, and as tensions in the family rise, it seems as though their places may begin to diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Prince Daemon Targaryen has grown tired of his Lady wife, the “Bronze Bitch” Rhea Royce. But he is not so easily rid of her. She survives not only his brutal attack, but his cruel violation of her. Though she remains broken and weak, she endures just long enough to deliver a child: a girl of silver hair and steely eyes. 

Warnings: Mentions of rape

Series Masterlist

Author’s Note: Oh my gosh. I haven't written anything in so long, but something about House of the Dragon - and Aemond in particular, just had me typing away. I'm going to be totally honest, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, but if you'll stick with me, I'll definitely get somewhere!

Prologue

Rhea Royce lay prone on the earth of her beloved Vale. But she could feel neither the cold nor the dampness of the grass and stone as it seeped through her hunting leathers and onto her skin. As the heat of her body met with the chill in the ground, the Runes of protection etched into her pauldrons became fogged over – rendered unreadable.

She knew she should hurt. The pain should be unbearable. Yorwyck was a mighty beast, like the Bronze King he was named for. His whole weight had come down upon Rhea, so there was no doubt he caused her great damage in his fall. She had heard the sharp cracking of her own bones. Yet she felt none of it. 

All she could feel was fear.

The cloaked man waited until her steed was out of her sight, and Rhea was well and truly alone, with only the distant ramparts of Runestone peering from between the hills as witness. He approached her slowly, casually, as if he couldn’t hear her desperate whimpers. He ran his violet eyes along her body as he approached her head. It was not a gaze of lust. He looked on her with the same disdainful curiosity as one examining a woodland rodent crushed by a cart. 

As he stood directly over her, he turned his eyes from her face – he had always avoided looking at the face he found so displeasing. Instead, he turned to her outstretched arm. He took another step, raising his foot above Rhea’s lower arm. The ghost of a wicked smile danced in the corner of his mouth, and he stepped down. 

Nothing.

He raised and pressed his foot down again several more times. Not to be sure, but to emphasize to his victim that she was truly helpless – exactly as he wanted her. Rhea knew the horrors his men had inflicted on the criminals of King’s Landing and the followers of the Crab Feeder. She knew the cruelty he was capable of and of his unparalleled creativity. He had hated her for years. In all that time, he must have imagined countless ways to torture her. 

Rhea braced herself for what would come next. At least she would not feel the pain.

But his steps retreated.

All the fear in Rhea’s heart evaporated, swiftly replaced by rage. After these long nine years, this was all he had for her? For nine years, he traveled the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, slandering her and her family in the courts, then further insulting her with his brazen whoring. She had lost count of how often he had called her “Bronze Bitch” and accused her of ruining his life. She had been anticipating a reckoning from him. 

But this? 

This was an insult she could not stand.

Rhea knew she would be signing her soul over to the Stranger, but she would not let Daemon Targaryen have the final insult.

“I knew you couldn’t finish,” she spat at her retreating husband. He turned back, looking at her face for the first time. Rage twisted his face, but his eyes were wide with shock. He had not expected that. But she was, after all, his Bronze Bitch.

What he said next had Rhea’s blood running cold as she thanked all the Seven that she would not feel what was to come. “My dear, lady wife,” he said, breath heaving and voice dripping with hateful venom, “perhaps it is time we consummate our union.”

-

The Lady of Runestone was dying, nine months on from her “accident.”

The people of the Vale were told that it was a miracle from the Seven themselves that she had survived such a devastating fall from her horse. Even more miraculous still, her husband had swooped in on dragonback to rescue her before she succumbed. He had even used Caraxes to find and dispatch the offending horse. A true Targaryen Prince, rescuing his Bronze Damsel. It was no wonder when her cousin and heir, Gerold, announced to the court that she was with child. They cared little that their Lady’s rescuer had swept out of the Vale as swiftly as he had arrived. 

Only her cousin, her Maester, and her ladies-in-waiting knew the truth. Maester Kerith had spent countless hours binding the broken bones that could be saved, and those he could not, he promptly removed. When Lady Rhea next sat the Bronze Throne, she made sure her ladies dressed her in her riding leathers so her court could see what she had survived, even if they could not know the truth.  

When it became clear that the consequences of what her husband had done extended beyond mere injuries, Maester Kerith offered her tea, but she refused. With her health still declining, her body struggling to overcome the trauma she had faced, she knew she would not survive long. But again, she would not let Daemon have the final word in their hellish marriage. He had insulted her, paralyzed her, and raped her, but she would not let him forget her. 

She would leave him with an Heir of Bronze.

The babe was born as the sun rose, though the day remained dark beneath the clouds that so often surrounded Runestone. 

Rhea wept for the first time, having felt no pain throughout the birth, when she saw that her daughter had the silver-white hair of her father. She had prayed for months that her child would look just like her, to be a constant reminder of his Bronze Bitch. But the babe was just another silver Targaryen. Her revenge had failed.

Gerold sat at her side, cradling the girl in his arms, as her mother could not. Then, as the babe began to cry, he held her out so Rhea could see her.

“Cousin, look at her eyes,” he whispered, all too aware of the grim looks on the Maester and Septas’ faces. 

Rhea turned her head, lifting her neck as much as her weakening body would allow to try and glimpse her child through her tears. She looked past the white hair at the small but wide eyes that beheld her. 

The slate grey eyes of Runestone, the Bronze Kings, and the First Men. Royce eyes.

Rhea smiled. Perhaps her revenge would not be as sharp as she would like, but so long as her daughter remained, Daemon would never forget her. He would always remember that he could not break her.

The Lady of Runestone’s breaths came slower, and though the Septas flurried around her, she paid them no mind. She had known all these months that she would not live to see the look on Daemon’s face when he first met his heir. She knew these were her last moments. But she did not want to spend them afraid. She wanted to spend them with her daughter.

Fitting, she thought, that Daemon’s heir should be a girl. His claim to the Iron Throne had been usurped by his young niece, and now his claim to Runestone was usurped by his own daughter. 

And what a beautiful daughter she was. Rhea’s vision began to blur around the edges, and the voices of the others in the room faded as she beheld the babe. Her eyes were bright, even as she cried softly, and the silver-white of her gently curling hair seemed to bring out a metallic shine in her grey eyes. They complimented each other, as her parents never had.

This girl was not bronze.

“Arianwyn,” Rhea whispered, naming her child as the life, at last, left her broken body. Lady of silver.

-

It was not Prince Daemon who came to Runestone to receive the child on behalf of the Royal family, but the young Queen, Alicent Hightower. She came with the unwelcome news that the child’s father had already remarried, less than a month after he became a widower. He had departed with his new wife, Laena Velaryon, to Pentos, without leaving instruction on the care of his daughter – indeed, he left without even acknowledging her birth. 

Alicent, despite her reputation as a fierce supporter of her husband’s family, was more than empathetic to the child’s plight. It seemed to Gerold that the young Queen held a similar opinion to his own regarding Daemon Targaryen. She commiserated with him on the pain the Prince had caused his family, especially Rhea and her daughter. As long as the Prince had vexed the Royce family, he had been equally maddening to his brother.

But what was most shocking to Gerold and the court at Runestone was the offer the Queen brought: to bring the child to King’s Landing and raise her there. Despite her father’s indifference, the child was a Targaryen. It was her right to live amongst her people, to learn the traditions of Old Valyria. 

And at the Red Keep, Arianwyn would not be alone. The Queen had three children, each young enough to be peers to their newest Targaryen cousin, and more were anticipated from both Alicent and the recently wed Princess Rhaenyra. 

The King had already given his approval, both to the fostering of his niece at the Red Keep and of Gerold taking charge of Runestone until the girl had come of age. Indeed, it seemed all the arrangements were already made. The Queen had even brought a small contingent of attendants for the child, from nursemaids to Dragonkeepers, who carried a great, steaming urn containing a silver dragon egg – chosen specifically by the Queen’s youngest son – to be placed in Arianwyn’s cradle.

Gerold had only one caveat before he agreed to the King’s plan: that Arianwyn would not venture to the capital alone. A handful of Runestone delegates would be sent with her, to educate her in the history and traditions of House Royce. So that even surrounded by Targaryens, she would not forget why her eyes were grey.

Queen Alicent, herself clothed in Hightower green, happily agreed. 

-

After a long journey from the Vale, Lady Arianwyn Targaryen arrived at Red Keep, cradled in the arms of her Aunt, Queen Alicent Hightower. As her attendants, including one of her late mother’s most trusted Lady’s Maids, continued on to prepare her rooms, the newest Targaryen was led into the Great Hall. 

A hush fell over the gathered courtiers when the doors to the throne room opened, and they beheld the silver-haired babe. But the chatter that so often filled the capital quickly resumed when they saw the blanket she was swaddled in. A burnished bronze velvet, carefully embroidered with the same ancient Runes that graced the ancestral armor of House Royce. 

It was a slight on the Royal house that, in another court, would have undoubtedly caused a scandal. But in this court, where the Queen herself so brazenly wore the colors of her own house rather than her husband’s, it was immediately relegated to petty gossip. So the Lords and Ladies resumed their conversations as the Queen approached the Iron Throne.

“My King, may I present your niece, Lady Arianwyn Targaryen,” Alicent said as she bowed before her husband as best she could with a squirming infant in her arms.

King Viserys’ eyes brightened, and he dismissed the Hand from his side. The King, having lost so many of his own children by his first wife, was always cheered when he had the chance to meet a healthy babe.

“Hello, my dear niece,” he cooed, reaching out to hold her, “what a delight you are!” His arms strained slightly at the weight of the plump child, so he pulled her into his chest. She relaxed into his chest, fussing softly as she reached for his long white hair.

Viserys laughed, running his fingers through her own hair. The exact shade of silver-white that graced nearly each member of his family. Though hers held significantly more curls than any Targaryen he had ever known.

“She is indeed a beauty, cousin.” A familiar voice drew the King’s attention. His cousin, Rhaenys, approached the throne. “It is a comfort to see our families flourishing.”

The King smiled and nodded, allowing his cousin permission to approach. She ascended the steps to the Iron Throne and ran her fingers along the round cheek of her new baby cousin. “It is a shame her father is not here to meet her.”

Viserys heart sank. In his joy at meeting Arianwyn, he had momentarily forgotten the circumstances under which she arrived. Once again, his brother had shamed not only himself, but his family. At least the child’s hair had put to rest any rumors that Rhea had been unfaithful. But knowing the relationship between Daemon and his late wife as he did, he shuddered to think how the child came to be. He had not seen the extent of Rhea’s injuries, but the description alone was enough to make him feel ill.

Suddenly, the sight of the babe made his heart ache. “Alicent,” he called to his wife, “take Arianwyn to her rooms. I am sure she is tired from the journey.” He handed his wife the child and slumped back into the throne, readjusting himself to try and remain comfortable. Then, when Alicent was out of earshot, he again turned to Rhaenys.

“What has my brother done now?” He said, running his gloved hand over his face.

Rhaenys grimaced. “I am loathe to speak against him now, as he has just taken my daughter to wife,” she sighed. “But I feel confident in saying that none of us can ever say exactly what your brother is doing, much less predict what he may yet do in the future.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Viserys said, “I just pray that poor girl won’t suffer any more than she already has.”

-

When she arrived, the Queen’s three children were waiting inside the solar of their cousin’s new rooms. Aegon, now four years old, ran from his nursemaid, cackling as he swerved precariously between the servants attempting to arrange the room. Helaena, approaching her second nameday, stayed in her nurse’s arms, hands clasped tightly around her ears as she took in the unfamiliar space. And Aemond, only a few months older than his new cousin, lay peacefully in his own maid’s arms as he watched servants haul numerous sparkling bronze trappings into the rooms.

“Come and meet your new cousin, darlings,” Alicent called to Aegon and the nursemaids bearing her other children, “She’s come a long way to be with us.” The Queen sat on a plush chair near the west windows of the room, gently lowering the babe into her lap.

Aegon reluctantly approached, sneering slightly at the child in his mother’s lap. “She doesn’t look like Daemon.”

Alicent sighed. “Nor did you look like your own father when you were so young. Indeed, even now, I wager you look more like me. You have the Hightower nose.” She tweaked the tip of his sharp nose – the same as hers - to drive her point home.

“I am a Targaryen!” Aegon insisted.

“Of course, my boy. How could any of us forget it with this on your head,” she said, and ruffled his unruly mop of white hair.

Aegon grunted, looking back down at the baby. He gently reached out to touch her silver hair, both neater and curlier than his own. “What is her name?”

“Arianwyn.” The Queen responded.

“Ari…” Helaena started, her hands finally coming down from her ears. Alicent nodded for the maid to set her down, and the young girl approached her mother and the babe.

The Queen spoke slowly and carefully as she repeated, “Arianwyn.”

Helaena listened intently, then repeated the name several times, struggling with the pronunciation.

“Very good, my sweet,” the Queen said, placing her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, though the young girl winced at the touch.

Aegon continued fiddling with his cousin’s curls, “It’s a weird name.”

“Sir Gerold Royce told me it is of the Old Tongue,” the Queen said, motioning for one of the nursemaids to bring her own babe closer, “it has some meaning, though I am afraid I forget what it is.”

Releasing Arianwyn’s hair, Aegon made a noise of quickly waning interest and stepped away, eager to resume his perpetual torment of his nurse. Had she not been holding her young niece, Alicent may have chased after him. But for now, she lifted the child to face her own.

“Aemond,” she said softly, “meet Arianwyn.”

As he beheld his bronze-wrapped cousin, he smiled, cooing and reaching a squirming fist toward her. A smile appearing across her own, Arianwyn reached back toward him.

[rememberences]

who: @moonhillsunsets where: the wedding of lord axell royce and lady yuna upcliff, within the great ancient hall of runestone. the vows have been said, and a night of feasting and celebration remains ahead of them.

the words that came from the ruling lord of the snakewood, newly widowed, rang true in his own mind as his dark grey gaze fell across the spinning figures within the ancient hall of runestone. the sound of bagpipes and the thud of feet danced the night away, the sound of roaring laughter and the old tongue of the bronze valley filling the air; nobles of the entirety of the vale had descended from the might to the warm, earthiness of runestone, for whilst it too remained higher in position, it felt as though each of them within this room felt entirely down to earth in this moment. the matters of the three sisters continued, and so they would continue needing to reap the coin to pay back what was lost within the manderly vessel - they had already decided it would not come directly from their coffers, but from the sisters themselves.

but the words of the lord of the snakewood rang louder than ever, as his gaze fell upon a familiar figure.

mariela egen, the lady of moonhill, was situated across the hall alongside the bride, his cousin marasol, and his wife the queen. their association was one that stretched years, in the days of youth and when things seemed so much more simple: when she were warded under the guardianship of his stepmother to help her connect more with gulltown. no doubt it were an attempt for her to find a husband someday, either with one of the sons of house royce, or perhaps the sons of house grafton considering gulltown were of close proximity to them. her wardship came to an end, and they had parted their ways amicably; his path as ruling lord of runestone, and hers being married into marrying into the egens of moonhill. they were his kin, and they were good enough people.

at least, that was what he had always thought: the news that had been broken by his own brother revealed his family, the only connection he had left to his mother's tongue, her ways and her own culture, were not quite as they seemed. specifically mariela's own husband, being involved in the attack of the sistermen. correspondence had been found within the guildhall upon one of the isles, and transfers of money consolidated by his own hand and stamp. he had been all too aware of the growing dissent across the sea, and their intent on striking out against their northern allies. only, how he could face any punishment for his actions, now that he was dead?

the lady mariela egen was a widow of moon hill, her husband dying and leaving her alone to handle the children he had left behind. it would be all too easy to not tell her of the reveal, to allow her this peace without the worry that her name would soon come under scrutiny too.

only, it would come up in small council meetings. she had been a loyal, dedicated member of the falcon court, sitting upon the small council chamber soon after the murder of rowan arryn. it were her right to know if the name associated with her was being brought up. and so, wordlessly, the king consort of the vale winded his way through the crowds of people he knew; settling by her side quietly. "i regret to inform you we need to talk, my lady." graham spoke, his hands behind his back as they watched dancing before them. there was a pause as her gaze turned to look upon him, and he only fixed her an earnest look. "it can wait, though it is something you would prefer to know sooner rather than later."