#woodswitch

[imaginarianisms]

Tagged by @velcryons

Tagging @helbroth (either renly, levi or aegon), @goldenngore, @inmydrcams (MMMMM elia or one of the sand snakes) @creolejesus, @loyalpromise (louis or ruby), & viewers like you. thank you!!

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐁 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔?

Dandelion

You grew up too fast and all you know is the calluses on your fists and the thousand invisible scars that you pretend don't ache. Your anger burns so bright, so hot or maybe not at all, so deep you could never tell it was there. You are yours and you will defend that to the death after so many years of being ripped apart and denied your own agency and maybe you are still facing the bastards who stole your innocence but you will survive because that's the only thing you know how to do without breaking, the only thing you know besides protect, protect, protect, protect, yourself or sometimes those few others you claim as yours. You are a thousand sharp edges but impenetrable, a traumatized child so covered by thorny armor that you promised yourself you're grown now, you're stronger than anyone who has ever hurt you. You're safe. Nothing will ever hurt you again. You're so alone though sometimes, in a world that sees you as too much or too broken or too angry or too hurt, and you want to scream with the too-much of it, prove that you're okay, that you're self-reliant, that you are strong enough to stake your claim on your body, on your mind, on your heart, on your people, and protect it from any who dare take it away from you. You are the sea in tempest, a howling sky, a tsunami in motion, a force of nature, no matter how much you sometimes yearn to be still, to be safe, to be small. You are a dandelion, stubborn and determined to grow in the rockiest of soil, and bloom again in spring.

[mourning-sapphire]

Little Flame | Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond’s life was incredibly dim after the war, a bottomless carven he’d sunk himself into with his own actions, until one by one, little flames came into his life.

Pairing: king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader (AU)

Fic warnings: nothing, just FLUFF, there’s mentions of past angst and trauma, but... GIRL DAD AEMOND!!!

Word count: 8.2k

authors note: happy fathers day to girl dad aemond <3

masterlist

If someone had told Aemond during the war that he’d even live to see past that fateful day at the Gods Eye, he would snarl and tell them that he’d rather die gloriously than whatever else fate had from him. But as the war ended, and the ashes from his discretions dimmed, he was left with a hole in his life so vast that he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to fill it.

But the war had eventually ended.

The fires died down, the roar of familiar dragons faded into bitter memory, and the ashes of his many discretions settled into quiet ruin, not forgotten by anyone but not brought up. What remained for him was not peace, but a yawning emptiness that he could almost feel cramping at his own jaw. An empty abyss so vast that he doubted it could ever be filled. War had changed Aemond, irreversibly, and in ways he hadn’t expected.

His mind, had been twisted by the whispers of a woodswitch, and now he bore the scars of unnatural influence on his mind, and traumatised by the things he’d seen within the damp walls of that cursed land. He had watched those who wronged him meet their end—some by his own hand, others by the hands of chaos during—but he had also lost more than any amount of revenge could ever restore.

His family, his blood, his brothers and sister were gone—burned out as swiftly as it had been forged. And what remained was hardly anything to sing about, his mother, was now so entangled in her own delusions that speaking to her felt like reaching through smoke.

His reign as Prince Regent had never been meant to last, although he begged he knew that it was a borrowed title, a duty taken up in the name of his fallen kin, something of his own doing to some degree. But when the last of his brother's children succumbed to the cruel winter fever that swept through the city, everything changed.

The Targaryen line of succession thinned from a rope to a thread, and suddenly, the burden of kingship shifted squarely onto his shoulders permanently. While Aemond has prepped himself for being King all his life, his short time leading during the war, and the task he was to take on after were two completely different monsters to fight.

The war had been a monster he understood: it roared, and he roared back ready to fight, it was two sides; Green and Black, family and hate. But peace? Peace was a stranger in fine robes to him, a subtle, insidious thing that demanded he be whole when all he felt was broken and alone.

Aemond sat the throne not as a conqueror, not like his ancestors, but as a ghost wearing a crown feeling as dead as the people who created it.

Aemond truly had little to enjoy in life, getting everything that he wanted and longed for, was a double-edged sword that left him wounded more than losing his eye ever had. He had to navigate his grief along with taking on a new task, a realm, something his small council had wasted no time in reminding him about.

“You cannot rule alone, Your Grace.” He could still remember the pain behind his eye as he heard from one of his small council members during one of his first permanent meetings as King, “The Realm needs unity and you need a wife.”

That much, he could not deny. He needed a queen—whether he wanted one or not.

But where others might have seen an opportunity for alliance, for legacy, for strength, Aemond saw only chains.

His cousins Rhaena and Baela were the obvious suggestions from everyone, names whispered in the corridors of the Keep like half-formed prayers that he could salvage the Targaryen line that way. But he dismissed the thought outright. No number of empty words or desperate pleas could convince him—or them—to pretend they could mend what had been broken, that he hadn’t killed their father.

The blood spilt between them was too deep, too fresh, and even if it hadn’t been, he would never entertain such a farce. He would rather have perished that day at the Gods Eye than bind himself to a woman he deemed a pretender.

That decision, however, left few other paths.

The great houses of Westeros wanted little to do with the remnants of House Targaryen. The Baratheon’s, once staunch supporters of his cause, had turned their backs in bitter silence, scorning the memory of oaths made before the war. The Lannister’s were quiet, too busy rebuilding their own strength to entangle themselves in dragonfire politics. The Riverlands still wept for their fallen. And the Reach had closed its gates.

As for the witch—the strange, beguiling witch—she was long gone. Dead and buried beneath marshlands and silence, leaving behind nothing but half-remembered whispers and a ghost of betrayal that stung a little more than others.

There was no one left to marry.

No one suitable. No one willing. No one alive.

He often stared at the list the council had delivered—daughters of lesser lords who still had weight to their name, some barely past their maiden years, others hardened by politics and ambition. But they were all names with no meaning, no faces to haunt his thoughts. It felt like choosing a sword from a room full of dull blades—serviceable, but uninspired.

Still, he knew he would have to choose eventually.

The realm would not wait forever, winter was creeping further south, and with it, uncertainty. If the Targaryen line was to endure, it would need more than one scarred prince with a dragon and a crown. It would need heirs. It would need strength.

And he… he would need to become something more than the broken man left behind by war.

 For a while, all hope had truly been lost that Aemond would find someone to sit beside him for the rest of his life, that was until he met you.

You arrived at court in the quiet aftermath of war, the daughter of a minor Reach house—one that had bent the knee late, but wisely, avoiding the full wrath of dragons. Your family name was known only in passing, and your presence at the Red Keep was unremarkable by court standards: part diplomacy, part observance, part subtle reminder of House Targaryen’s waning influence over the once-loyal South.

And yet, to him? You were unforgettable.

You did not shimmer like the daughters of the Great Houses, nor had a presence that filled rooms with pointed laughter or political ambition. You moved like a whisper through the Red Keep—gentle, observant, seemingly delicate. But Aemond, trained to read silence as keenly as sound, sensed something else beneath that soft exterior. You were not weak, just quiet. Tempered, and in that calm restraint, there was strength.

At first, he ignored you—or tried to. You were one more face at a banquet, another name offered with a bow too low. But there was a steadiness to you that made him linger. When you spoke, it was never to impress. When you listened, you truly heard everyone around you. And when you met his eye for the first time—you did not flinch.

That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He began to notice things. The way your hands folded in your lap with practised grace at the sept on the 7th day. The way you walked alone in the gardens rather than crowding into courtly gossip that the ladies often held during afternoon tea. The way your voice never rose to chase attention, and yet somehow always carried when you did decide to speak. You were not like the others, not moulded for power in the way the council would prefer, but neither were you afraid of it.

There wasn’t steel in you, but bone, something raw and natural, hidden beneath linen and courtesy. And gods help him, Aemond found he preferred it to the glittering blades the lords kept offering him.

He first spoke to you in passing, a cool exchange in the library over some half-forgotten history that Aemond knew by hand, but for you, he’d pretend he just learned. You had corrected him on a minor detail—a date, a name, he couldn’t recall and he didn’t care—and while his brow had creased in irritation, you had not withdrawn from talking to him. You had looked up at him, unwavering, and said: “Even dragons can be mistaken, my King.”

He should have been offended, usually, people often sought to offend him when correcting him. But instead, for the first time in what felt like years, he’d laughed—just once, just enough to startle himself. Just enough to remind himself that he wasn’t made of dragon glass inside.

He found excuses to see you after that.

A letter asking for a stroll through the Queen’s gardens, a conversation in the sunroom where you sat reading in the warmth. A dinner were seating was rearranged at his subtle command. He never confessed to it, not even to himself, but every encounter seemed to leave behind something he hadn’t felt in years: quiet, peace, possibility, and warmth.

And yet, he knew it could not last—not easily at least.

Aemond knew that while he was king, the council still had expectations. A wife from a lesser house was not the alliance they envisioned for him and his reign, hence why your name was never uttered on any list he was ever given. Even those loyal to him would question it if he was to indulge, you had no great army behind you, no sprawling coffers of gold to offer the fading riches of the crown. You offered no guarantee of peace beyond the boundaries of your small domain.

But what you did offer was something Aemond had never expected to find: someone who did not look at him with fear, worship, or loathing—but with a tender understanding that he hadn’t seen since he was just a boy. Eyes damped with calmness, with a softness that neither threatened him but instead, welcomed him as he was—the scarred, bitter, dangerous man he had become.

That terrified him more than he could say.

He still hadn’t told the council. Not yet. The list of eligible brides remained untouched on his desk, curling at the edges and gathering dust on the ink. He stared at it some mornings, all while he felt the weight of the crown settle like a shackle around his throat.

But then, by some play of his hand he would see you in his mind, see you wrapped in your soft pink shawl as you walked the paths of the godswood, your breath misting in the cold morning air, your eyes soft and watchful as you mumbled to yourself in the heart of the Keep. Walking towards something, walking towards him.

And for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder—not about duty or strategy, but about what it might feel like to choose something not out of obligation, but desire, to have you walk towards him and never stray.

He didn’t want a political bride, he didn’t want an allegiance, his days of mindless duty were gone.

He wanted you.

But Aemond was not a man who made decisions lightly, even at the notion of wanting you left him at war with himself for weeks. His mind trapped in a web of what-ifs and imagined consequences if he proceeded.

Every quiet moment was filled with them.

What if the realm turned against his family once more? What if his choice fractured already tenuous alliances? What if he proved, in the end, no better than the fools who had once ruled with their hearts instead of their minds?

And yet, the louder those doubts became, the more persistent his thoughts of you grew. Through your time together, you had taken no action to sway him, offered no subtle seduction or plea for affection from him, or even want to be Queen. You had merely remained—as you were—calm, honest, composed while he stewed in his turmoil. He admired that.

Gods help him, he needed that.

The war had left him surrounded by ghosts and obligations. His own mother wandered the halls, half lost in her own memories and mumblings, more in common with his late sister than he ever thought. His council muttered constantly about names and lineages, numbers and heirs. Every path he was offered felt like a negotiation with fate—a stupid compromise wrapped in silk and laced with poison.

Except you.

You were the only path that didn’t feel like a betrayal of himself.

He wore himself down with the weight of it.

He never was one for sleeping well but it got worse. He grew short with his council, his temper fraying. He stopped attending the hunt for a bride altogether, letting names pile up like snowdrifts in the throne room. And when he finally made his decision, he did not announce it with any bite or snarl like he would have a year ago. He simply rose from his chair in the council chamber one bitter cold evening, the candlelight catching on the silver of his hair, and said, flatly:

“I will not marry for the crown, I will marry for the future, and I have chosen my queen.”

The chamber had gone silent as soon as the words had passed his lips.

There were objections, of course. Predictable ones. His master of coin was the first to speak—pale with shocked fury, citing precedent and strength and alliances to fill the pockets of the crown. Others followed, half in shock, half in fear of what it meant that Aemond Targaryen—scarred, cold-eyed, terrifying Aemond—had done something unexpected.

But it didn’t matter.

He had made his decision, and for once, it was not for war, not for vengeance, not even for power. It was for something simpler, something that had somehow become more terrifying than all three.

It was for you, the woman who accepted him and his hasty proposal that same night.

The wedding ceremony was small by Targaryen standards, the crown too depleted for anything extravagant but neither of you wanted that. It modest, almost private, exactly what the two of you were. There had been a intimate ceremony with just the two of you on Dragonstone as well, a small Valyrian ceremony that Aemond had wished to honour himself and his family.

But as soon as it was announced there would even be a wedding whispers flitted through the court like restless birds. Some called it a disgrace, others a political blunder. But none dared say it to his face. And as you stood beside him in the Great Hall that day, draped in the soft colours of your house, your hand small but steady in his, Aemond felt the world fall quiet for the first time in years.

No gold-braided noblewoman could have steadied him like you did. No courtly-trained bride could have met his gaze the way you did, unflinching, calm, knowing. You had not been born to be queen—but somehow, you became one the moment you chose him in return.

And at that moment, with your fingers intertwined in his, and you shared your first kiss, Aemond finally understood. The realm could hate him, the council could doubt him, the histories could question him.

But for once, he had chosen something not for House Targaryen, not for the throne, not even for the realm.

He had chosen peace.

And he had found it—in you.

Marriage did not make Aemond easier to love.

He was not cruel—not in the way many feared he would be—but he was still distant. Guarded. Silent in ways that words could not mend. He had spent so long surviving by himself—gripping tightly to his rage, grief, and discipline—that the new peace felt unnatural. Softness felt dangerous. Love… even more so.

He knew bedding you was never going to be an issue, the two of you clicked in ways he wasn’t sure was possible with someone, but loving you was a beast he did not know how to tame.

Aemond still carried the war inside him like it was bound to his soul, and even now it clung to him in the darkest hours of the night. It lingered in the shadow under his eye, in the way he sometimes flinched from your kindness as if it were a trap. And though the crown was now firmly upon his head, and the halls of the Red Keep no longer echoed with the cries grief.

He still remained ever vigilant—watchful, restrained, cold.

You had not walked into the union with rose-tinted hope. You had seen him before the vows were ever exchanged, truly seen him. The way he moved like he bore chains only he could feel. The way his eye, so sharp and calculating in court, would sometimes lose focus—drawn back into memory or regret. You had not been chosen to heal him. You had not expected to.

But even so… you hoped.

The early months of marriage were difficult.

You learned the limits of his affection by accident—what could be touched, what should be left alone, what you shouldn’t ask about. He rarely offered compliments, he never asked for comfort. And in truth, he seemed unsure of what to do with your presence at all.

Some days, he left before sunrise and returned after dusk without a word. Others, he sat beside you in silence during meals, eating little, his thoughts miles away as you mindlessly tried to fill that silence. You tried not to take his attitude to heart, you told yourself it was not you, but the war, the ghosts, the boy he had been and the man that had been shaped in his place.

Still, there were cracks in the armour.

He would watch you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was subtle glances over books, across the courtyard when he was walking, from the balcony as you walked in the garden. And sometimes at night, when sleep came extra uneasily, he would rest his hand just close enough to brush yours between the sheets, not holding it, not quite that.

Simply close.

And then, there were the words. Sparse, but honest. When he spoke to you, it was never idle. No flattery, no pretty courtly lies. But when he told you something, he meant it. A memory of his brothers, a thought he had while flying, a single low-voiced admission after one of his many sleepless nights: “I do not know how to be what you deserve. But I will try.”

That was the first time he looked at you not as his wife, but as something more. Someone real. Someone he could not pretend to keep at a distance forever.

And then came the change.

It was not sudden—not the sort of shift that others noticed straight away—but you did. The way he lingered longer at your side. The way his hand found yours without hesitation, the way he began to listen when you spoke of your family, your home in the Reach, your childhood. He asked questions—not out of obligation, but interest as though he was trying, in his own quiet way, to build something with you.

Then one morning, not long after the first thaw of spring, you told him you were expecting.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just stared at you with something unreadable in his lone violet eye. You wondered if you’d done something wrong—if the news had stirred the wrong ghosts, if he truly regreted you in that moment. But then he stepped forward, hands unsure as they hovered just above your waist.

“Truly?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

You could only nod, and something in him broke.

Not in grief, but in wonder.

He sank to his knees before you—Aemond, Prince Regent, second son of Viserys the Peaceful, kinslayer, oathbreaker, dragonrider—and rested his forehead against the swell of your stomach that barely existed yet.

For the first time in your marriage, he wept. Not like a king. Not like a warrior. But like a man who had never believed he would feel anything again but cold.

After that, things began to change—not all at once, and not without effort. He still had sharpness in him, still vanished at times into thought or memory. But he returned to you quicker now. He sought you out without excuse, he placed a hand to your belly every night before sleep, and when he dreamed, he dreamed aloud to you—of flying, not for war, but for the sake of showing his child the sky.

He began to show up, not just as a ruler, or a husband, but as a man trying to build a life.

He spoke to you more freely, asked after your health, dotted on you in ways you didn’t think you needed, and read over the old Valyrian texts on childbirth and naming customs to better understand as your belly swelled. He took to escorting you through the Keep himself, one hand hovering protectively at your back, untrusting of the new guards. When you sat, he sat beside you. When you stood, he offered his arm to take the weight off. And when you smiled—when you truly smiled with teeth—he watched as if trying to memorise it.

At night, he would lie with his hand spread over your belly, his eye half-lidded with thought, whispering things he couldn’t say in daylight to anyone else but you.

“They will know your strength,” he murmured once. “Not just my blood, but yours too.”

He began to speak to the babe as if it could hear him—sometimes in High Valyrian, sometimes just in soft, uncertain words. He told stories he thought they’d like, he made promises. And when the council dared ask again about heirs and alliances, he answered with a calm finality that allowed no argument: “My queen carries the future, that is enough.”

Even the court—always gossiping, always watching—grew quieter in regards to the two of you. There was something different about him now. Aemond still walked like a sword unsheathed, but there was purpose behind it. Peace in the tension. He smiled more in the privacy of your quarters—not often, not wide, but real. And when he looked at you, it was with something unmistakable.

Not possession.

But sheer devotion.

And so, the man who had once been war incarnate now sat with a hand on your swelling belly, speaking softly of futures he had once believed would never come. And you—who had never expected to hold a broken dragon’s heart—held it nonetheless, steady and true.

For the first time in a long, blood-soaked history, Aemond’s life was no longer rooted only in violence, but in love. In life. In the quiet strength of a woman who had refused to flinch from him.

The day your daughter came into the world, the Red Keep was cloaked in storm clouds and the threat of rain. The wind howled over the walls, and thunder rumbled over Blackwater Bay, echoing off the water and straight to the Keep.

You had been in labour since the early hours, having woken up that same morning with a gush of wetness down your leg and a cramping that had you yelling for your husband instantly.

At first, customarily, Aemond had remained outside the birthing room. Left to pace the corridor like a barely contained dragon. But as the day dragged on, every scream that escaped the chamber sent a jolt through him—each one more violent than a sword to the gut.

He stood motionless at times, staring down the corridor with his jaw clenched so tightly that blood rose in his mouth and teeth threated to crack. The servants and maesters that would update him gave him a wide berth, and no one dared speak to him beyond that. Not even his mother, who watched him from a shadowed alcove, whispering prayers to the Mother and nonsense he couldn’t even listen to properly.

He tried to reason with himself, that this is nature, this is what women were expected endure. That his wife was strong, stronger than anyone he’d ever known.

“She will be fine, they said she would be fine.” He could hear rattling around his head.

But reason meant nothing when it was you crying out in pain behind that door.

And when the fourth hour passed—and then the fifth—and when he heard your voice break on a scream that sounded like it had been torn from your very soul, Aemond finally snapped.

Without a word or a care, he shoved open the heavy wooden doors that locked him from you, and stepped into the room.

The midwives gasped instantly, panicked on what to do as one of the maesters stumbled backwards. The heat of the room hit him like a wave—thick and metallic with blood, with sweat, with the scent of pain and your tears.

You lay on the birthing bed, hair damp and curling, cheeks flushed and streaked with tears, your body bent in the throes of another contraction as your hands grasped at the bedding. You didn’t see him at first, you were too far gone in the storm of labour to see him or hear his entrance.

He had never seen you like this, never seen anyone like this.

You looked like a goddess at war.

“Your Grace, you must wait outside,” one of the Maesters protested.

But Aemond didn’t hear him. He had gone utterly still by the door, frozen as he took you in.

You turned your head then—eyes meeting his—and in your gaze was something he’d never known how to name. Pain, yes, but also defiance. Love. Trust. Help.

“My love,” you rasped. Just one word, one breath. That was all he needed to know you needed him by your side, to stay.

And he did.

He crossed the room slowly as if the floor itself might collapse beneath his boots and knelt at your side. He was careful in taking your hand, unfurling it from the soaked cotton bedding, as it trembled with exertion. You gripped his fingers so tightly it hurt, but he didn’t flinch.

His pain, he could take. Yours, he could not.

“I’m here,” he said gently, voice cracking as he spoke only to you. “I’m here, my flame, I’m here...”

The next hour blurred into one, as you screamed, as you pushed, as you wept.

And Aemond—Aemond shook beside you like a boy who was trying to keep it together. He wiped the sweat from your brow with a trembling hand, he cursed the gods under his breath which each pushed. He pressed his forehead to your temple and whispered in High Valyrian a promise that no harm would come to you or the child.

And when, at last, the child emerged into the world—small and wailing, pink and perfect—Aemond was the first to move.

The maester, pale with exhaustion, offered a nod as he looked over the child. “A daughter, Your Grace.”

He watched, stunned, as the midwife cut the cord and wrapped the bloodied child in linens. His legs unsteady as a doe beneath him as he reached out for her.

She had barely opened her eyes, but he could see that they were as violet as starlight, and she cried.

Aemond Targaryen had never known such feelings.

He turned to you—your face radiant with exhaustion as the maid attended and cleaned you up, your smile fragile but victorious—and said the only thing he could.

“She’s perfect.”

You let out a weak laugh. “She’s ours.”

He stepped toward you then, laying the child against your chest, his hand still cradling her tiny back as she nuzzled your bare skin; her mother and her kin. Tiny fists scratching against your skin as she finally settled down at your touch.

“Her name is Vaella,” You whispered looking down at her, and he nodded once, reverently.

“Vaella,” he echoed, like a vow.

And as he knelt beside the bed, one arm wrapped around you, the other holding your daughter to your heart, the storm outside finally started. Rain lashed the windows, the wind howled across the stones.

But within the chamber, all was quiet.

Aemond had faced every horror the world had to offer, but nothing had brought him to his knees before quite like watching you bring life into it.

And from that moment forward, he was no longer just a kinslayer, or even a king.

He was a husband.

He was a father.

He was hers.

But, Aemond was not prepared for how small Vaella would be.

He had held her once in the birthing chamber—his body shaking, reverent—but in the days that followed, he found himself returning to that feeling again and again: awe, laced with something deeper. Something almost like fear. She was no larger than a bundled loaf of bread, with curled fists and rosebud lips, and yet she held more power over him than any blade ever had.

He had faced dragons and battlefields and traitors in the dark. But holding Vaella? That required a different kind of courage.

Now he woke each morning before the servants, before the sun itself kissed the sky. Not to train, not to talke with his council, but to sit in the chair by the window where the light fell soft and golden.

Sitting with Vaella cradled in his arms, her head tucked under his chin. Listening silently as she would grunt softly, stretching and kneeding like a kitten. Her fingers finding the edge of his tunic, touching and feeling the leather, her tiny breaths warming the skin at his throat.

He had never known peace could come in such small, perfect packages.

You watched him quietly in those first days, your body still aching from birth but your heart full and close to bursting. There had been a time—not long ago—when he would barely meet your gaze in the morning, when his grief still made a fortress of him and turned him into a hallow man who was still learning to be a husband. But now he stood barefoot by the cradle, his long silver hair unbound, softly whispering High Valyrian lullabies to your daughter as she blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Is she not the most beautiful thing in the world?” he asked you once, voice hoarse from wonder.

You smiled from the bed, your own arms aching from the days of holding her, feeding her from your breast, soothing her while he attended his kingly duty. “She is, and she has your temper.”

“She does,” he murmured, looking down at her with what might have once been a smirk, but was now something gentler. “She screams like a dragon, so I’ve heard.”

He began to learn her sounds—what each soft noise meant. Hunger. Discomfort. Sleepiness. He insisted on watching her himself more often than not when his duty didn’t call, despite the protests of nursemaid who were too terrified to object aloud. More than once, you caught him swearing softly under his breath as he fumbled with trying to do something with her in his arms, only to go quiet when she stared up at him, calm as the moon.

He was different with her, his daughter, his little flame, not softer, exactly—Aemond would never be completely soft—but he was present. More present than his own father had ever been. Intentional too, his sharpness, once honed for war, was now turned inward, focused entirely on keeping her world safe.

When she cried in the night, it was he who woke first.

You would wake and turn to find him already halfway to the cradle, arms reaching for her instantly. He would scoop her up like she weighed nothing and pace the room with to calm her. A far cry from his regality with his night shirt wrinkled, his eye heavy with sleep, whispering low comforts that made no sense to you and yet always calmed her.

And sometimes, when she finally drifted back to sleep against his shoulder, he would wait before putting her down. Choosing to sit at the edge on your side of your shared bed, just watching her, watching you, eye bright and thankful.

“You are... everything I did not know I needed,” He had said once, voice barely audible in the quiet night, watching intently as you fed your little Vaella from your breast. “Both of you.”

Those words echoed in your chest long after he spoke them.

You had not expected him to take to fatherhood so completely. He had never been raised with much gentleness, never been shown what it meant to be loved without condition. But somehow, with Vaella, he had figured it out all on his own, something in him that would never make the same mistakes that had been made to him.

Still, not everything was perfect.

There were nights when the weight of it all seemed to press too heavily on him—when Vaella’s cries stirred something deeper in him, something wounded and scared. You would find him staring out the window on those nights, unmoving, with her in his arms. Her little fists beating on his chest as he tried to keep calm, his jaw clenched tight as if holding back some ghost he couldn’t name. You knew not to speak then, you wouldn’t ask, you knew he would tell you in time, instead, you would only press your hand gently to his back, and after a moment, he would breathe again.

You never pushed him, for your dragon always came back to you.

One evening, you found him asleep by the fire, slumped in the armchair with Vaella curled against his chest like a dragon hatchling. His silver hair had fallen over his face. Her tiny hand was tangled in it, holding tight even in sleep.

You stood there a long time, watching them not keen to wake either dragon from their slumber—father and daughter, fire and breath—and felt the world settle.

Aemond had once believed he would die with nothing but rage and honour to his name. But now, in the quiet of this new life, he had something far greater: A child who trusted him completely, and a wife who had never flinched from him.

And a future—fragile, yes, but finally his to hold, some tangible prize that somehow made the last few years’ worth all the pain and grief.

By the time Vaella reached nine months, she had mastered the art of wrapping Aemond Targaryen around her tiny, chubby fingers.

She was crawling now—fast, determined, always after something, or trying to look for someone.

Usually waiting her father. It to the point that she so much as heard the distant sound of his boots in the corridor, her little hands would slap against the stone floor as she scrambled toward the door. Little body shuffling and bubbling out excited noises that only grew louder when her father finally appeared in the doorway.

And even after a long day of meetings and holding court, he still had the energy to share his daughter's excitement with a smile that he'd never share anywhere else.

Aemond was as soft as melted butter in the sun when it came to her.

He made never let her cry or wait for long, not if he could help it. The moment her lip wobbled or her hands reached for him, he was there—scooping her up with a tenderness so at odds with his reputation that even the most hard-hearted of courtiers would be shocked to see him.

But peace in your home, as always, was temporary.

The Riverlands were stirring again.

It wasn’t war—at least, not yet, not if he could help it—but there were disputes between old houses, tension still thick in the air from the burning at Aemond’s hand barely buried. And the lords had requested the presence of the crown itself to remind them who ruled, to build amends with them for everything he had done. Aemond had resisted at first, he had trained stewards and sent emissaries in his place, even some of his small council. But in the end, it had to be him.

Him, with his dragon’s shadow again covering the Riverlands.

Him, as a symbol of the realm’s new stability, despite terrorising the Riverlands just years previously. He had lamented to you in the dark of the nights, the both of you curled in bed as he whispered that I didn’t feel like he could ever go back, for as fearsome as your husband was, then the crown was off and the court was away, he was just as scared at the young boy he had hoped he had grown out of.

You knew he had to go, and he knew it too, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“She won’t understand,” he murmured to you the night before his departure, holding Vaella tightly against his chest as she babbled sleepily, her fist clutching strands of his hair. “She’ll think I left.”

You reached for him, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you sat beside him on your shared bed, curled affectionately towards him. “She’ll know you’re coming back, my dragon.”

His eye flicked to yours. “Will she? She’s just a babe.”

“She’s your daughter,” you said gently. “And your daughter is brighter than all the men on your council combined, she’ll know you won’t be gone for long.”

That earned you a quiet smile, a tired one, a grateful one.

“She tried to say dada today,” you added softly, your hand smoothing over her little back, feeling the breaths under your palm.

“She did not.” He tutted softly, amused at you.

“She said ‘Dahhh’ and pointed at the sky. I’m counting it.”

He laughed, truly laughed, and the sound loosened something in your chest.

The morning he left, Vaella was still drowsy when he pressed a kiss to her downy hair and another to your lips. She clung to his tunic as if she knew something was different, that something wasn’t right, letting out a soft protest when he tried to pass her back to you, her tiny legs kicking instantly, anxiously.

“I’ll return before the next moon, but hopefully sooner,” he promised, resting his forehead gently against yours. “And I’ll bring her something—perhaps a river pearl, or a little sword she can’t use yet.”

“She’ll want your boots and your rings and nothing else,” you said, smiling despite the ache in your heart, bouncing the babe who looked confused as to why her father was so sad.

“I’ll give her all of it.” He murmured softly, promsing.

And then he was gone—Aemond, King, Protector of the Realm, husband, father—swept away by duty once more.

The Keep was quieter without him.

Vaella adjusted better than you had feared, though she grew restless in the evenings without her father to sing to her. Her eyes would always flick to the door, and she’d crawl toward it whenever heavy footsteps of a guard passed, as if expecting to find her father there again, arms open, waiting.

Only to be saddened when the door never opened, her tiny bottom on the floor in waiting.

At night, you held her a little tighter than usual, cuddling her as tight as Aemond did, trying to sing the songs that only his tongue could muster. And when she said "Dada" for the first time—clear, strong, insistent as she looked at the door—you wept.

You wrote to him every day, though you knew the ravens could not always keep pace with his travels. Still, you did it anyway. You told him of Vaella’s teeth beginning to finally push through her gums, how she began to bite at everything and anything to numb the pain of it growing.

How she tried to mimic your laugh and clap when she’d sit with you, or copy the words you’d say in tiny babbles. How she discovered her reflection and seemed convinced it was another babe, a friend, a sibling.

And Aemond, despite his busyness, wrote back when he could, his letters were short but warm. You could tell he wasn’t indulging the stress of being in the Riverlands and dealing with them, trying to make amends and put out fires that had long continued to burn over the years, he never wished to stress you, but he always left ending with a line for his darling girl:

Tell Vaella her father dreams of her laugh every night.

It was three long weeks later when he returned.

It was not a grand return, not heralded by trumpets or banners. Just the soft thunder of Vhagar’s wings against the clouds, circling once above the Keep before landing outside the gates as the sun began to set. Closer than he would usually land, but he was anxious to return to you, to his family.

You were already waiting with Vaella in your arms, wrapped tightly your soft pink cloak, her little eyes squinting against the fading light as the two of you stood just outside the city gates, surrounded by modest amounts of guards.

The moment Aemond dismounted Vhagar, Vaella let out a loud, delighted shriek, her legs kicking in your hold as her tiny fists flapped about, eager to get out of your arms and to him.

“Dada!” She shrieked into the early evening.

Aemond froze at the sound, and for the briefest second, his composure cracked where he stood—lips parted, chest heaving, eye glassy with stunned emotion. And then he was pacing towards you, his hand and his councilmen forgotten as he b-lined for his flames, his girls.

He reached you without hesitation, arms wrapping around both of you at once. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your lips, and finally, carefully, he took Vaella from your arms and held her as if she were something sacred.

“Let me see you,” he whispered, cupping the back of her head with one long-fingered hand. “Gods, let me look at you.”

She babbled at him, delighted, hands tugging at his collar, and he just laughed—low and hoarse and full of something ancient and overwhelming.

“She’s heavier,” he murmured. “Has she grown this much in just three weeks?”

“She never stops moving,” you said, smiling, fingers brushing her soft cheek. “And she said ‘Dada’ for the first time this week.”

Aemond pressed his forehead gently to hers. “She saved it for me.”

“She did.”

He didn’t let go of her as he walked with you back through the Keep.

The servants bowed deeply as he passed, he was still their king, but he scarcely noticed them. His world had narrowed to just two: the child in his arms and his wife at his side. And for all his grace and poise, there was something nearly boyish in the way he kept glancing down at Vaella, as though afraid she might disappear if he blinked.

That night, you did not dine in the Great Hall.

You stayed in your private chambers, just the three of you, with a fire that burned low in the hearth, casting golden light across the stone walls, and the air was filled with the scent of violets and cinnamon from the oils your maids had used earlier in your bath.

The room was made ready with dinner upon your arrival; plates of meats, fruits, and cheese, and a small bowl prepared just for the baby. The servants slipping away quietly as you entered, leaving the three of you in peace.

Aemond wasted no time as he sank down into the chair with a weary exhale, pulling Vaella into his chest again and watching her explore his face again with tiny, curious fingers, poking and prodding.

“She has two teeth now,” you said, handing him the tiny silver spoon to feed her with. “But don’t let her bite you, she keeps trying to take fingers and nip at them.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, amused, letting her gum at the spoon before attempting to feed her.

It was clumsy, but he was out of practice. She spit half the food onto his sleeve and herself, but he laughed, there was no anger to be had in a happy baby.

“She’s perfect.” He mumbled again, neglecting his own food while his girls ate.

You sat across from him, watching the two of them like a dream made real. The fire crackled. The Keep was quiet. And the King who once spoke only of war and vengeance now gently wiped mashed pear from his daughter’s chin, letting her smear a sticky mess on him as she found a way to nibble at his knuckles too, all without flinching.

When she was finally full and drowsy from food and milk, Aemond pulled her close against his chest, rocking her slowly. He had refused to let the nursemaids take Vaella for the night and denied entry to every servant who came to the door.

Tonight was not for the crown. Tonight was for him and his family. In that quiet moment, Aemond was not a king, not a ruler—he was simply a father and a husband.

“I hated being away,” he admitted quietly. “Even when I was doing what had to be done. It felt… wrong. Empty, without the two of you by my side.”

Your heart thumped a little harder at that, your footsteps quiet as you rose and knelt beside his chair, your hand resting on his leg.

“You came back in one piece,” you said. “That’s what matters, to both me and her.”

He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your brow, and then another to your lips—slow, lingering, grateful.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve either of you,” he said against your skin, “but I swear to the gods I’ll never take this for granted.”

Eventually, it was time for bed, and he undressed slowly, carefully, comfortably for the first time in weeks. He wore a simple black tunic and breeches as he took Vaella from her cradle once last time, settling into the large chair near the fire to sing to her like he did before he left, his long legs stretched out, her tiny form curled on his chest.

You sat nearby, dressed softly in your own nightwear, hands carefully undoing your hair as you sat and watched him. He was staring at the child like she had become his religion.

“She crawls faster now,” You said softly, brushing out your hair from the day. “Sometimes I swear she’s trying to find speed and fly.”

“She’ll ride before she walks if I have anything to say about it,” he replied, his voice low. “She’ll have Vhagar, one day.”

“She might not want Vhagar.” You smile softly.

“She’ll have any dragon on Dragonstone that she pleases when she’s older,” He hummed softly, lips pressing to her hair.

“But for now, I’ll build her a saddle for your lap, and we’ll fly together on Vhagar,” he said with a faint, wistful smile. “I will never leave her or you again—not like that, not for that long.”

“She understood,” you said gently. “She missed you, but she never doubted you’d return. I think… in her own way, she knows who you are.”

“Who I was,” he corrected quietly. “But she changes everything.”

You watched as Vaella’s fingers curled against the fabric of his tunic. Her lashes fluttered, already falling into sleep. Aemond looked down at her, as if in awe that something so perfect could find rest against him.

“She is the best of us,” he whispered. “Because of you, I look at her, and I see the man I left behind… and the peace that I took and almost didn’t believe I deserved.”

He looked at you then, eye soft in a way only you had ever seen.

“Thank you,” he said. “For waiting. For keeping her whole, for keeping me whole.”

You rose from your vanity seat and came to his side, sitting on the arm of the chair, your hand resting lightly over his on her back, and the other on his neck as you kissed his hair. Vaella slept between you, her warmth binding you both tighter than any crown or vow ever could.

And in that firelit room, for the first time in years, Aemond did not feel like a prince returning from war. Or a King out of his element.

He felt like a man who had finally come home.

[the-seelie-court-official]

dreamt there was a "maryland woodswitch" cryptid, who was literally just a woman dressed in mostly black that could fly/float thru the air. she had a son who could also do that, called "the witch's boy"

[aziraphales-library]

Hello lovely people! Sorry if im a bit vague but do you have any fics of the 14th century?

("I really didnt like the 14th century")

Preferably with some 'not very nice on the mental health' for Crowley?

With some comfort or not

Cheers!

Hi! Here are some fics about why Crowley hates the 14th century...

Fish-Mesh Trap by Alina_writes (T)

It's the 14th Century, Pestilence walks the earth, and Crowley finds himself in an extremely unfavourable situation. Inspired by the tear-jerking art by fireflysummers and 10yrsart on tumblr.

trapped within an abstract from a moment of my life by midnightdragons (T)

"How long have you been sick, Crowley?" Aziraphale pressed, keeping the tremor from his voice as he steadied his hands, brushing back sweaty hair from the demon's clammy, too-hot forehead. This was not the first time Hell had punished Crowley like this; they were cruel, far too often, and not in the passive-aggressive ways Heaven was, but in the ways that left Crowley shaking and crying out in pain, just as he was now. 

Aziraphale is helping people in the 1300s during the Black Plague epidemic in Europe, and finds a familiar face hiding in the shadows of a sick house ... in need of help of his own.

all hope abandon by morningstar921 (T)

It's the 14th century and the Plague runs rampant through London. It's innocuous enough until the demons start catching it too. Until Crowley catches it. "I'm not helping them. This is medical malpractice, angel. Do you really think a few leeches will cure them?"

so don't go (where i can't follow) by liber_solis (M)

"Angel. What have you done? Answer me!" Crowley shouts. "I'm dying, Crowley." Or There's a reason why Crowley hates the 14th century

A Short History of the 14th Century by agent_p_94 (G)

"You win," said Aziraphale miserably. "I'll go to Scotland." Crowley snapped, and the manacles around Aziraphale's feet broke open. "Shake on it?" "Oh, I suppose." Aziraphale shuffled across the cell and took Crowley's hand through the bars. "This is a one time thing, alright?" he said, looking Crowley straight in the eye. "Due to, ah, unique circumstances." Crowley grinned. A snake's tongue flickered in and out of his mouth. "Course," he said. "Wouldn't dream of asking again." (Spoilers: He asks again) To understand why Crowley hates the 14th century, you have to go back to the beginning of the Arrangement...

The light that is coming in the morning by WoodsWitch (T)

Europe in the 14th century was bloody awful: plagues, famine, century-long wars...no wonder many humans mistakenly thought the apocalypse was already upon them. The only positive, as far as Crowley was concerned, was that Aziraphale was starting to seem comfortable with their Arrangement, even if that was rather torturous in its own way. Unfortunately, their first true, if initially accidental, collaboration goes down like a lead balloon. Guest appearances by Petrarch, John Ball, Watt Tyler, Richard II, and some Cambridge students attempting to do the Faust thing. Can be treated as a prequel to "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition" *TW: References to most of the expected medieval unpleasantness, including antisemitism, messy execution techniques, the black death, etc.

- Mod D

[curiouspupsicle]

Good Omens Fan Fiction Friday (12/27/24) - Through the Ages

Has anything ever topped the cold open to Good Omens season 1, episode 3? What's not to love about our ineffable pair meeting up through history? And lots of fan fic writers agree. There's an embarrassment of riches when it comes to stories about Aziraphale and Crowley meeting through history. Here are a few I think are among the best: Warning Coloration (T) by Woodswitch is a long-ish one-shot in which Aziraphale knows that the coloration of the serpent of Eden is a warning of danger. And that's not to mention the warnings of heaven. But watching Crawley/Crowley over the ages makes him doubt those suggestions of caution. @veganthranduil in to speak to kindly even to the devil (T) has Crowley exploring the meaning of falling and faith against the backdrop of his Arrangement with Aziraphale. Wonderful dialogue. Another long, one-shot. Tender Morsels (M) by anatomic girl has so many layers. It opens with a drunk Aziraphale confessing love to Crowley over oysters. And the pair have to navigate their feelings over the ages. It goes through the end of season 2 and proposes speculations for season 3. At times, it reads like a fictionalized meta answering questions we've all had. More pining than a Christmas tree farm. And splendid all the way through. In Stolen Moments (M) by @lyricalkris, Crowley and Aziraphale confess their love for each other early on. Unfortunately, Beelzebub and Gabriel keep interfering. It's tender, sweet, and romantic with skippable smut in the final chapter for those who want it (but you won't miss out on the story if you don't read it). Yes, I've recommended 6000 Years in Love by @dreamdust before. And I'll recommend it again. You can't stop me! It's a lovely illustrated story starting in before the beginning. The most recent tale has Aziraphale finding Moses in the bulrushes. It's a work in progress. But each story is distinct and ends. You can hop in anywhere. The stories are sweet and the illustrations are beautiful. Oh, Maker (E) by @voluptatiscausa - from my spreadsheet notes - "Really touching retelling of the moments where Aziraphale and Crowley met starting in Eden. Some very sensual writing. Fun story where Crowley befriends Black aviator Bessie Coleman in the 1920s. Lovely." What else is there to say? So there are my favorite Through the Ages fan fics. What are yours? Reblog and add yours to the list. I'm always looking for new fics to love.

I'll be back next Friday with more great Good Omens fan fics on a new theme. In the meantime, check out my other favorite fics on this pinned post of weekly Good Omens fan fiction recommendations.

[juliaswickcrs]

HOUSE BLACKWOOD :: THE DANCE OF DRAGONS ( insp )

The Blackwoods are an ancient house descended from the First Men who ruled the Wolfswood in the North before being driven south by the Kings of Winter from House Stark. House Blackwood is home to many greenseers, skinchangers, and woodswitches, with origins believed to date back to the Warg King and his alliance with the Children of the Forest.

Lord Samwell Blackwood became the Lord of Raventree Hall after the death of his father at the hands of Ser Jonnel Bracken. He avenged his father's death in the Year of the Red Spring, igniting the conflict between both houses once more. He was a shrewd and honorable man who refused to stand by when it came to injustice and was believed to have more north than Riverlands in him. A cunning military strategist, he was the mind behind the Battle of the Burning Mill, which saw the first blood drawn in the Dance. Lady Jocelyn Blackwood nee Stark is the only daughter of Bennard Stark of Winterfell and his second wife Lady Alyssa Strong of Harrenhal. She was sent to ward with her grandfather where she was courted by Samwell Blackwood. She is known as the Witch Wolf, a moniker mocking her relationship with her cousin, Alys Rivers. She was often in contact with her cousin and half-brothers in Winterfell, and convinced them to send men on behalf of Queen Rhaenyra. Cassana Blackwood is the eldest child and daughter of Lord and Lady Blackwood. An unusual and lonely child, her mother sent her to ward in King's Landing with House Strong, where she became fast friends with Jacaerys Velaryon and Daeron Targaryen. She was called home after the Bracken-Blackwood feud ignited again and was staying at Harrenhal when the fire broke out. Miraculously, she survived. She later studied healing and medicine under her mother and the Maester of Raventree Hall. Benjicot Blackwood is the eldest son and second child of Lord and Lady Blackwood. He spent the first three years of his life abed with a sickness none could cure. His lady mother prayed to the Old Gods at the dead weirwood every night for his health as the ravens gathered. When it did, he was left with a large splotch of red on his back and up towards his neck. Some say he fought with an insatiable bloodlust--a touch of the Old Gods within him--and gave him the name "Bloody Ben." Lady Alysanne Blackwood was known as "Black Aly" and is the younger sister of Samwell and Willem Blackwood. As fierce as any man, she was fearless and bawdy and the best archer aside from her bastard half-brother Robb Rivers. She was rumored to be fond of Lady Sabitha Frey, but married Cregan Stark by the end of the Dance. Alysanne was said to have a mind as sharp as her tongue, and often made political decisions for the House when her kin could not. She is credited with the temporary ending of the Bracken-Blackwood feud by marrying her nephew Benjicot to the Lady Catelyn Bracken. Ser Willem Blackwood is the younger brother of Samwell Blackwood and is the only member of House Blackwood in recent memory to follow the Faith of the Seven. He has often been quoted as the Black Sheep of the family due to his preference for his mother's Andal traditions. Later in life, he became known for eschewing honor in order to achieve victory, although this is widely believed to be slander as it came from Amos Bracken. He attempted to win the hand of Princess Rhaenyra and slew Jerrel Bracken, Ser Jonnel's eldest son, in a duel for her hand. Robb Rivers is the elder half-brother of Samwell, Alysanne, and Willem and the uncle of Cassana and Benjicot. He was known as "the Bowman of Raventree" due to his skill with a weirwood bow and "Red Robb Rivers" due to his bright red hair, which contrasted against his sibling's black locks. In contrast to the Blackwood sigil, Robb bore a white tree on a red escutcheon blazoned with a flock of white ravens on black. His mother was believed to be a stable hand at Raventree, although this has never been confirmed.

taglist: @bisexualterror @foxesandmagic @iron-parkr @camiemendess @a-song-of-quill-and-feather

@arrthurpendragon @starcrossedjedis @drbobbimorse @kingsmakers @noratilney

@stanshollaand @astarionbae @darth-caillic @mystic-scripture @aliverse

@misshiraethsworld @asirensrage @eddiemunscns

@princessmadelines @impales @waterloou @stelstellakidd

HOTD TAGLIST: @misskatiewrites (wanna be added? Lmk!)

[evita-shelby]

Warm as Spring, Sweet as Peaches

refrences to the asoiaf song, the Dornishman's wife

cw: some smut, prostitution, false identity

asoiaf peaky gang: @cillmequick @justrainandcoffee @mischievouslittlecreature @call-sign-shark @peakyswritings @hoodeddreams13 @thegreatdragonfruta

He has a thing for the more exotic sort of beauties.

Jack Blackwood had bedded every whore that took his fancy the moment he proved to be good enough with a tourney lance and the sword his grandsire had given him.

Lovely Valyrian looking girls from Essos and the crownlands, summer islanders dark and raven haired, Yi-Tish girls clad in silk and jade ornaments and Dornish women with the blood of Mother Rhoyne burning through them.

The dancer is tan, tall and covers her face in a veil even if the rest of her leaves little to the imagination. She moves with a smooth rhythm, the bells at her ankles and hanging at her skirt mixed with the music she danced to and the patterns painted on her skin made her the most intriguing thing the place could offer.

The inn had plenty of whores and dancers and yet this woman had never been seen before and not even the innkeep knew who she was.

Lady Sand, some had named her. Came with the Dornish envoy brought by Lady Dyanna Dayne.

When the intricately painted woman in red dances her way to him, the riverlord knows he will be the one to unravel the mystery beauty behind the veil.

“How much for the night?” he asks and sees a glint of mischief in her dark eyes at his question. They looked brown in the candle light but up close he could see the rich purple of it.

A Dayne, perhaps. Or a bastard Aegon the Unworthy left in a brothel at his daughter’s wedding had passed on their coloring to her.

“You may ask after you have pleased me, ser.” The whore spoke like a lady, perhaps they were right and she was a highborn bastard here with the Dornish envoy for the tourney.

The door to his rooms are scarcely shut when he unveils her. Red painted lips and freckles lightly scattered across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“Who are you?” he asks, not that he wishes for a real answer as he uses his larger size and strength to pin her against a wall with her strong legs barely needing him to hold them at his hips.

“You will find out tomorrow, ser.” She teased, kissing him again tasting of fine wine and smelling like woodswitch beneath the perfume.

“You taste sweet as a peach, Lady Sand, I do not want to taste your husband’s steel.” The knight breaks apart before he’s dueling another man for fucking his wife.

“I have no husband; you will only taste warm spring and peaches from me.” The dancer assured him and urged him to fuck her, to see if what’s in his trousers is worth his gold.

The bells on her jingle as she helps him tear off his clothes until his manhood is exposed against the bare cunt underneath the dancing skirt. The whore had not let anyone get a hint of her sweet cunny as she had turned the men to dogs with her performance, now Jack had seen the Dornishwoman’s treasure and taste it with no need to taste the kiss of a Dornishman’s steel.

The sounds she had made as his calloused fingers readied her for his cock and played with her pearl, the way she begged for him as he feasted on her supple teats and called him by the name his mother gave him, by the time he’d sheathed his sword, Jack knew he’d use the winner’s purse to pay for a second night.

The red paint on her skin does not smudge after he’s fucked her in every position he could think of, she had come as much as he had and by the time they finished, the men below had sung the Dornishman’s wife because they stopped giving a shit who heard them fuck like beasts.

“How much would you charge for a second night, Lady Sand?” Jack asks spent and tracing the crowned skull he’d recognize if he had paid attention to the maesters when he studied the banners of Westeros.

“A crown of love and beauty.” The mysterious Lady Sand says as the moonlight turns her eyes into purple garnets shining with a mischief that will kill him surely. She will leave soon, the room paid for and his squire and horse taken care of, but Lady Sand never stays once it’s over.

She left him her favor, an orange and black ribbon edged in gold that held no hint of what house she belonged to.

He finds Lady Sand dressed in a princess’ finery seated at the royal box with the Dragons and under the banner of the Martell Speared Sun and House Manwoody’s crowned skull.

The bell wearing dancing whore he planned to fuck on top of the gold he will win wearing the flower crown was none other than Princess Aeva Martell with suns and skulls painted in red.

[ineffableclassics]

"It was hard to keep your guard up around someone so open and friendly and charming. And lovely, whispered a treacherous thought. It was dangerous beauty, Aziraphale tried to remind himself. Black, red, yellow - warning coloration, like a coral snake or a wasp. A helpful sign saying: Do not touch."

Basically 6000 years of Aziraphale trying to figure out what Crowley's deal is, and some of the heavenly conditioning that makes that difficult. Of course, he was largely correct to start off with - he's just over-thinking it a bit.

Words: 10,861

Status: Complete

Rating: Teen and Up

Art Credit: Black Snake, Pseudechis porphyriacus by Helena Scott

[lizzie-queenofmeigas]

Hello Lizzie! I used to think the “Team Greens are never beating misogyny allegations” was just a rolling joke since greenies love stress it that Aegon the Useless is the only true heir, perfectly fit to rule the Seven Kingdoms just because he’s a man. However, I’ve recently discovered the “alysmond” rabbit hole and I’m not gonna lie, the green fandom’s treatment of Alys Rivers is disturbing, to put it mildly.

To start with, I was genuinely surprised to learn the Alys/Aemond thing (books) is considered… Romantic. Alys’ “stans”, including women (!) tend to brush off the fact she was Aemond’s war prize- basically an object he could use as he pleased – and claim he was always respectful, gentlemanly and courteous, saved he from Strongs, who  used to mistreat and abuse her and nothing in FnB implies their “relationship” wasn’t consensual and Alys was beyond delighted to jump to bed with the man who slaughtered her entire family/ employers, including young children she used to nurse/look after before her very eyes. They even say the “war bride” is an utterly romantic term and stresses how much in love Aemond was!

Then, there are all those headcanons virtually reducing Alys to her sexuality. She was  a wet nurse? Oh, she must have had enormous breasts / mommy milkers, just made for Aemond to play with! They also fetishize Alys’ age and slobber over their idea of a “witchy milf” (btw book Alys doesn’t look her age). This sudden love for an age gap relationships is quite surprising given how much their like to shit on daemyra and call Demon a pedophile because his wives – Laena and Rhaenyra -were significantly younger than him (not that by Westerosi standards, they were both women grown when they married him). Why Aemond’s “love” and “attraction”  to 40-ish lady can be something utterly normal, but teenage Rhaenyra cannot have feelings for 30ish Daemon or find him appealing?  But Daemon is a “pedo” and a “rapist”, while Aemond’s a “milf connoisseur with an amazing taste in woman”. Funnily enough those avid defenders of Daemon’s “victims” love to call Alys “Aemond’s Riverpussy”, “The Strussy” and so on…

Of course greenies are massively disappointed in season 2 of HOTD, Aemond didn’t meet Alys and generally don’t seem satisfied with her portrayal. I find it upsetting people who take pride in being (show) Alys’ fans, apparently don’t care about her personality. They flatly refuse to accept it that she’s in friendly terms with Daemon, believes the prince that was promised will be Rhaenyra’s offspring (and it’s likely Daenerys) and apparently cares about the poor and the innocent. They also deny the fact Alys cried at the thought of Daemon leaving her and claim they don’t see any kind of affinity between Alys and Daemon. If Alys’ actress brings up the subject of the characters’ friendship (for example in an interview) they contradict her every word or try to make it all about Alys’ future “love affair” with Aemond. When Gayle says Alys feels lonely, longs for human connection and found a kindred spirit in Daemon, they interpret it as “alysmond foreshadowing”. It’s sad they want the character they allegedly like so much to renounce everything she believes in just to throw herself into Aemond’s arms… I hope the showrunners are not going to service those people.

Disclaimer: I haven't seen the second season of HotD and I don't plan on doing it. Everything I know about it is because of gifs here on Tumblr and people's opinions.

The Green stans misogyny is something very worrying to me. You know, I wouldn't have a problem with them if they simply liked the Green characters more. That's fine, to each their own. But the way they want to make them in the right because "male primogeniture is so fair" and refuse to acknowledge the obvious misogyny in every character of TG, it's fucked up.

The whole thing with Alys is incredibly disturbing. I don't believe Alys was a witch witch, if anything she was a woodswitch, but if she was a witch witch she literally sent Aemond to his death (and without being one she did the same because everyone knew Daemon was gonna kick his ass) what of that screams romance? Here's the truth, Alys was taken as a war price and raped by Aemond after he killed her entire family and then she got him killed. There was no romance here. You can like fucked up dynamics, but don't pretend they are something they are not.

The thing about the Greens is that not only ate they heavy on double standards, but they also project a lot on TB characters. Aegon was a pedophile? No, Daemon was. Aemond was cruel? No, Rhaenyra was. Their allies betrayed them? No, Rhaenyra's did.

Not to mention they are completely unable to think critically. They believe everything Eustace says, but laugh at us for believing there are some truths in Mushroom's words.

I would recommend avoid TG posts, because some are genuinely so upsetting.

[greenbardasoiaf]

Are you struggling with an existential crisis? Go as Alys! I think she'll know (how to help). 

This video highlights the magic of Alys Rivers and her home, Harrenhal.  Alys Rivers is a mysterious figure from George R R Martin's book "Fire and Blood," and the earlier short story, "The Princess and the Queen," adapted into the hit HBO Max series "House of the Dragon," prequels to "Game of Thrones" and "A Song of Ice and Fire."

She is a woodswitch, a healer, a skinchanger, possibly even a greenseer. She inhabits the castle Harrenhal, on the shores of the Crater Lake, the God's Eye. The god's Eye, with the Isle of Faces at its center, home to the Green Men and the largest Weirwood grove in Westeros, is a nexus of magic. The castle is reportedly cursed, likely at the behest of the Old Gods that inhabit the Weirwood trees, and their green men protectors.

It was built by Harren the black upon a site of destroyed Weirwoods in defiance of the Old Gods. Some say, part of the "A Song of Ice and Fire" prophecy that led the castle to be ruined by Aegon the conqueror was a dream sent to him by the old Gods to stop Harren and his path of destruction. 

The music in this video is my cover with the vocal talents of Alexandra (see the Aryandmershow YT channel) of "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane," written by their singer, Grace Slick. Alys Rivers is too perfect a fit to Slick's haunting lyrics.

Thanks to the artists, @myredplanet, @chillyravenart, @klaradox @hylora and more!

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 21

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 21: Moon Flower

AO3 - Masterlist

The Kingswoods provided a much-needed respite, offering a breath of fresh air. Escaping the city’s stench, Daenera reveled in the crispness of the spring breeze. The fragrance of the trees and damp soil lingered in the air, and she inhaled deeply, embracing the contentment it brought. It was so quiet in the forest, a solitude one usually only found in the Godswood within the walls of the Keep. 

Fenrick trailed behind her as they ventured further into the forest, their purpose being the search for mushrooms and plants–subjects of which he possessed little knowledge, but Daenera made up for his lack of interest. 

“You seem strangely at home out here,” Fenrick remarked, breaking the silence. 

Daenera responded with a cheeky smile. “So, you’re suggesting I fare well in the wilderness for a pampered princess, is that it?”

“Don’t misconstrue my words,” Fenrick chided, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “You’ve never shied away from getting your hands dirty, is what I'm saying.”

“Actually, I detest getting dirty,” Daenera corrected. “I am simply privileged enough to be able to change soiled clothes and request hot baths. Look at this!”

She hurried towards a fallen tree, its trunk overgrown with moss. Near its upturned roots, a small cluster of whitish mushrooms grew, their caps flattened and slightly turned upwards, creating a funnel. Ignoring the wet ground that seeped through the knees on her trousers as she knelt down in the dirt, she leaned down to get a proper look at them. 

Fenrick leaned against a tree and observed, “Well, it is certainly not dirt that fails to impede you. You would crawl through the wilderness if it meant you’d get to whatever plant captures your attention.”

Daenera rolled her eyes and tossed a rock at him. It flew through the air and failed to hit him, missing him by a long shot. 

“Maester Orwyle speaks highly of your healing abilities.” 

Daenera made a snorting sound. “Please, Maester Orwyle despises my presence in the infirmary. He may be impressed, but that doesn’t mean he’s pleased with me invading his spaces. I’m certain he’d be delighted if I stopped showing up for lessons.” 

“As if that would stop you,” Fenrick remarked. 

Daenera unsheathed a small dagger and began using its blade to carefully free the mushrooms from the earth. Uncertain of their exact type, she intended to bring a specimen back to consult the more helpful Maesters. And if they proved unhelpful, she had a book dedicated solely to the study of mushrooms. 

“I think these are woolly milkcap,” Daenera held up the mushroom, turning it over to look beneath the cap where among the veil of thin white hairs, a drop of ‘milk’ gathered along its gills. “And if they’re woolly milkcap then they’re poisonous, unless prepared correctly.” 

“Why would you need such a thing?” Fenrick questioned with a skeptical expression, as if she had spouted something insane. 

“Because, at times, poisons serve as a remedy,” Daenera answered, carefully wrapping the mushroom in a piece of cloth before putting it in her satchel.

“If you weren’t a princess, you’d be a woodswitch,” Fenrick muttered, shaking his head at her. 

“Ah, the life of a woodswitch,” Daenera said with a grin on her face. “I would create potions and remedies for weary townsfolk who would curse my name the moment I turned my back on them. It’s such ungrateful work… And who’s to say I’m not a witch?”

Daenera used the edge of her trousers to wipe the dagger she had employed to extract the mushroom with, ensuring it was relatively clean before she sheathed it with a swift motion, returning it to her satchel.

“Isn’t it more likely that it would be you cursing them?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I must admit, I would relish having the power to curse others. But alas, I am no woodswitch.” 

“Curses are not to be trifled with, Princess,” Fenrick warned, his arms folded over his chest. “Especially those made in blood, let alone royal blood.”

Daenera raised a brow at him. “Don’t tell me you believe in curses.”

“There was once people who did not believe dragons existed, and then House Targaryen came to our shores.” 

“And you believe my royal blood holds the potential for more powerful curses?” Daenera questioned skeptically.  A flicker settled deep within her, as if something stirred away in the darkness. She shook off the sensation, reminding herself that she had indulged in too many tales of Dragon Dreamers, Green Seers, the Children of the Forest, and the Fall of Valyria. 

“With the blood of the dragon and royal lineage, who knows?” Fenrick replied, shrugging. A frown had settled upon his brow, as if he was uncomfortable with the idea of curses. “It is not something to be tested.”

“I don’t possess that much dragon blood in me,” Daenera noted. “It seems the magical aspects associated with Targaryen blood have skipped over me. Any curses I might attempt would be feeble at best.” 

Daenera stood up and brushed the dirt off her knees. Two dark spots emerged on her trousers where the fabric clung uncomfortably to her skin. She kicked her leg, attempting to alleviate the discomfort. It only offered temporary relief as when she put leg back down to shake the other, the fabric once again clung to her knee. 

Fenrick observed her little performance with a gentle smile on his lips. “There are other ways to acquire a dragon besides hatching an egg.”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware,” Daenera responded shortly, having heard countless times that she should claim a dragon. “I have come to terms with the fact that I will never have a dragon.”

Fenrick gave a short nod, acknowledging that he would not press the matter any further. 

Memories flooded Daenera’s mind, harking back to her childhood when she clung to the hope of hatching her dragon egg by placing it by the hearth. The egg had possessed a deep blue hue, a similar color to her eyes. Her mother had chosen it for her, and its enchanting shade held a touch of wistfulness. 

When Lucerys came into the world, she and Jace had joined together in selecting his egg. It bore the ethereal tones of morning mist, with a subtle gray-blue shade underneath and delicate red embellishments. It reminded Daenera of a tempestuous sea. She had felt joy for her brother when his egg eventually hatched, but there had also been a lingering sadness for herself. And so, she persisted, attempting to warm her own egg in the embers within the hearth until her mother had caught her in the act. 

Her mother had sat down beside her, gazing into the flames that engulfed the shell of the egg. She had pulled Daenera onto her lap, pressing a kiss to her temple while enveloping her in a tender embrace. In that moment, Daenera had managed to muster up the courage to ask, “Why won’t it hatch?”

“It happens more often than not,” her mother had replied, nuzzling her head against her daughters. 

Daenera pondered whether the whispers of Aegon held any truth–that her inability to hatch the egg was somehow a sign that she was not really a Targaryen. “Is it something I have done?”

Her mother’s arms tightened around her, seeking to provide comfort. “Oh, no, my love, it is not your fault. You’ve done nothing wrong. Sometimes, these things just happen.”

“But Jace and Luke’s egg hatched. Why won’t mine?” Daenera’s voice quivered with disappointment. 

“I don’t know, my love,” Rhaenyra responded, her voice heavy with sadness for her daughter. 

“Does it mean that I’m not a Targaryen?” Daenera asked in a voice no higher than a whisper. 

Her mother gently turned her in her lap, their eyes meeting. Concern and sadness was etched across her features as she brushed a lock of Daenera’s dark hair away, cradling her cheek. “Why would you think that?”

Daenera hesitated, reluctant to disclose the things she had overheard from the servants. Moreover, she harbored even greater apprehension about revealing the comments made by Aegon and Aemond. She did not want them to get in trouble, no matter how much their words stung. “I don’t look like a Targaryen.”

Her mother regarded her with an inscrutable expression. “You have the blood of the dragon in your veins. You are of my womb, and no one can deny that. I carried you. I gave birth to you. You are Targaryen, and you are Velaryon.”

“Aegon said that all true Targaryens have dragons, and those who do not are kraven,” Daenera muttered, eyes remaining on her own hands, unable to look her mother in the eye. 

“Aegon didn’t hatch a dragon either. None of my siblings did. They claimed dragons–Aegon with Sunfyre and Helaena with Dreamfyre. Your aunt Laena did not hatch her egg either, she claimed Vhagar, the oldest and largest dragon of them all when she was only three and ten. You have time,” her mother explained, holding her tight. 

“But what if I can’t claim a dragon?” Daenera’s worry spilled forth. 

“You do not need a dragon, my love. Not all Targaryens are dragonriders. It does not make them any less Targaryen,” her mother assured her. “You are a force of nature in and of itself.”

Daenera buried her face in the crook of her mother’s neck, listening to the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat and feeling cocooned within her loving embrace. In that moment, she beseeched the gods, begging them to hatch her egg. But the gods would not answer her prayers, and so they dissipated into nothingness. 

“I have accepted my fate as the only Targaryen of this generation without a dragon,” Daenera declared, looking back at Fenrick. 

As they made their way back through the forest toward their horses, they traversed a familiar cluster of trees that evoked a shiver of remembrance. It felt like a lifetime ago since she had walked through these woods with Ser Harwin by her side. 

A lifetime ago when she first learned of the treacherous betrayals, of death and suffering. 

You will be tested by fire and betrayal, as those around you seek to use you for your own gain… The whole of the prophecy ran through her mind.  

“Princess?” Fenrick’s voice cut through her contemplation. 

Daenera blinked, realizing she had come to a standstill, fixated on the spot where the witch had once greeted her. Memories of the witch's intense, kohl-lined eyes that seemed to strip her bare to the bone were burned into her mind. 

“Sorry,” she muttered, snapping out of her daze. She flashed a smile at Fenrick, hoping to alleviate the tension etched on his face. He eyed her suspiciously but remained silent. 

They found their horses where they had tethered them to the trees. Daenera effortlessly mounted her horse, grateful for the freedom trousers provided her compared to riding in a dress. 

With Fenrick in the saddle of his own horse, they began their journey back through the forest towards King’s Landing.

As they emerged from the tree line, the sight of the city rising before them could not be ignored. Even from a distance, the columns of smoke billowing from within made it appear as though the city were aflame. The stench of filth wafted through the air. For a fleeting moment, Daenera contemplated turning back into the woods. 

Instead, she urged her horse forward, traversing the grassy plains towards the road leading to the city. 

Suddenly, a shadow passed overhead, accompanied by a fierce gust of wind that whipped at her hair and tunic, as the fabric billowed and fluttered like sails catching wind. The horse beneath her began stomping the ground and neighing, before abruptly bolting off in a wild frenzy. The wind lashed against her face, her hair a chaotic flurry, blurring her surroundings. Her grip tightened on the leather reins, desperately attempting to rein in and halt the horse, her thighs burning from the strain of which she held onto the horse. Her heart leapt into her throat. 

Curses spilled from her mouth, her teeth clenched as tears welled in her eyes. The horse galloped over the hills, hooves tearing through the soul as it ran for its life. Daenera exerted all her might, pulling at the reins, but the horse remained unyielding in its panic. 

Upon reaching the crest of a hill, the horse reared up on its hind legs. Daenera’s hold slipped, and she tumbled from the saddle, hitting the ground with a startled grunt, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. Above her stretched the vast expanse of blue sky, while blades of grass tickled against her palms. She gasped, forcing air back into her lungs again. Amidst her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, she heard the sound of her horse galloping away, and for a fleeting moment, the sky darkened. 

Groaning, Daenera sat up, attempting to brush her disheveled hair from her face. She scowled upon seeing Aemond land Vhagar a few paces away, the massive dragon casting an even larger shadow. Her blood roared within her veins as she rose to her feet, brushing off the dirt from her trousers, trying to collect herself. She watched Aemond from the corner of her eye as he descended from Vhagar, murmuring to the dragon in High Valyrian. 

She was going to throttle him. 

Fenrick and her horse were nowhere in sight. Grinding her teeth, Daenera tried to calm her raging blood. Vhagar fixed her with its distinctive serpent-like eyes, emitting a low rumble. Daenera paused her approach. 

Aemond chided in High Valyrian before motioning for Daenera to come closer. She hesitated for a brief moment, gauging Vhagar’s reaction, before storming towards him, hissing out, “You could have killed me!”

“You should have held better onto your horse, then,” Aemond countered, his lips in that perpetual smirk. His cheeks bore a faint pink hue, his pale hair windblown yet somehow perfectly untangled, in stark contrast to Daenera’s own disheveled locks.  

“It’s not easy to hold onto a frightened horse, especially one that wouldn’t have panicked if you hadn’t chased after me with your dragon!” She retorted, her frustration evident as her voice continued to rise. 

“If we were truly chasing you, you wouldn’t have been alive,” Aemond assured her, as if  offering some solace that he hadn’t intended for her to fall off and break her neck. “We simply flew over you.” 

“You never do anything ‘simply’,” Daenera remarked, contemplating the opportunity to punch Aemond in the face, knowing there would be no witnesses other than his dragon. However, the prospect of being engulfed in Vhagar’s flames stayed her hand. She glanced begrudgingly at the imposing beast. 

“Do you wish to come closer?” Aemond asked, his gaze shifting from the dragon to Daenera, a curious gleam in his eye. 

“I’ve seen dragons up close before,” she replied, her narrowed eyes betraying her wariness. 

“But you haven’t seen this one up close before,” Aemond noted, turning towards Vhagar and motioning for Daenera to follow. Tentatively, she complied. 

The she-dragon observed them, allowing their approach. Vhagar possessed the color of a thunderstorm. At times, her hue appeared deep gray, only to shift to shades of green and gold. She was a colossal creature, marred by age. Sagging skin hung beneath her chin, and her body and wings bore the scars of The Conquest and the battles with the Dornish. She embodied years of war, a living testament to history. 

“ Sagon gīda ,” Aemond cooed to the dragon, his hand brushing against the rough scales as if he were caressing a horse. Be calm . 

“She is formidable,” Daenera admitted, awestruck by the magnificent dragon. 

“You may touch her, if you wish,” Aemond said, observing her with an inscrutable expression, unable to discern her intentions. 

Biting her lip, Daenera hesitantly reached out, allowing the tips of her fingers to brush over the scaly skin. It felt like weathered leather. Slowly, she pressed her palm against Vhagar’s side, patting the dragon as one would a horse. 

“Why have you not claimed a dragon for yourself?” Aemond inquired, his curiosity apparent. 

Daenera withdrew her hand. “I don’t need a dragon.”

She felt his eye search her face, attempting to decipher her expression. “Your brothers have dragons.”

“An astute observation,” Daenera answered dryly. “They were fortunate to hatch their eggs.”

“Claim one,” Aemond suggested. 

“I will not steal a dragon,” Daenera stated firmly, locking eyes with him. A muscle twitched in Aemond’s jaw, a clear indicator that she had struck a nerve. 

“I did not steal Vhagar. I claimed her,” Aemond defended himself, his voice reverberating with exasperation. 

“Before Rhaena even had a chance.”

“She should have been quicker then,” Aemond retorted indignantly. 

Daenera did not let it go. “She was in mourning. They had barely even laid her to rest.”

“I rightfully claimed Vhagar,” Aemond sneered, his blue eye shimmering with anger. All pretense was gone. He gestured towards his eyepatch. “And I paid for it.”

“A ‘fair exchange,’ as you put it. Yet, for a fair exchange, you seem rather bitter,” Daenera responded coolly, aware that she was getting under his skin. 

“What would you give to claim a dragon?” Aemond asked, his voice hardened. “Or are you too afraid the dragons will reject you to even try?”

Daenera glared up at him, her eyes locked onto his face, his features sharp as cold steel. There was something dangerous within his gaze, something that ran deeper than his anger or the amusement that always seemed to play along the edges of his features. 

Aemond continued in a smooth drawl. “Do you fear you don’t have enough Targaryen blood coursing through your veins to lay claim to one?” 

“We share an equal amount of Targaryen blood,” Daenera bit back. “Maybe you harbored a sense of inadequacy as a Targaryen without Vhagar. Undoubtedly, Aegon would have reminded you of your weakness and inferiority, I am sure. And perhaps you believed him. But I do not need a dragon to feel powerful.”

Power manifested in various forms. While a dragon represented an overt display of power, a formidable weapon that instilled fear in others, Daenera discovered that a subtle knife could wield its own strength. 

She braced herself for his retaliatory outburst, expecting a barrage of insults hurled back at her, along with the reminder that possessing a dragon equated to absolute power. Yet, contrary to her expectations, he remained silent. The charged atmosphere between them crackled like a thunderstorm on the horizon. 

“It’s a shame,” Aemond murmured, his eye softening ever so slightly. His head tilted, and Daenera felt a rush of heat creeping beneath her skin. “It would be quite a sight.”

Caught off guard, her cheeks flushed, and she gaped at him, uncertain of his intentions beyond wanting to cause a reaction.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Aemond continued with a remark. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t know what to do with a dragon.” 

Daenera bristled, her voice laced with defensiveness. “I’ve received the same training as you.”

“If I remember correctly, you did everything you could to avoid spending time at the Dragonpit,” he countered smugly. 

“I did not!” Daenera snapped indignantly, offended by the vaguely true accusation. 

“You were far more interested in playing in the dirt,” Aemond stated, his words striking a chord of truth. 

While she had indeed spent ample time in the gardens, she had also promised her father that she would attend the lessons at the Pit. However, attending and actively participating were two separate matters. She had lingered in the shadows, and distanced herself from the forefront. And then they moved to Dragonstone, where there were no Dragonpit but instead windy beaches and rocks. 

“I learned the commands,” Daenera argued. 

A smile played on his lips. “Have you ever flown a dragon?” 

“My mother has Syrax and Daemon–Caraxes. Jace and Luke have Vermax and Arrax. I’ve been around dragons all my life. Do not presume to know more about them than I do.”

Aemond let out a breath that played along the edges of a chuckle. “I did not inquire about your knowledge of dragons. I asked if you had ever ridden one… Well, besides me.”

Daenera bit her tongue, looking away from him, her eyes searching the horizon as she tried to hold in the laugh that threatened to erupt from her. The whole situation felt absurd. When she looked back at him, she found his eye ticking across her features with a gleam in them she remained unfamiliar with. 

“No,” she admitted. 

“Would you like to?” Aemond inquired. 

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “If I wanted to fly a dragon, I would ask to ride with my mother or Daemon.”

“Why haven't you?” Aemond asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle. It was disconcerting. 

Daenera impatiently brushed her hair out of her face, nearly tangling her fingers in the tresses. She hesitated. “Because I fear I’d want to do it again.” 

Her admission held more truth than she cared to admit. The temptation was ever-present, and she dreaded becoming reliant on it. She feared realizing what she had missed out on all these years. Deep down, she also feared rejection once more; and a dragon’s rejection spelled certain death. 

She had buried the longing, the desire to fly among the clouds on a beast that should have been her birthright. 

“I’ve witnessed the profound bond between my brothers and mother and their dragons,” Daenera continued, her voice filled with uncertainty as she searched for the right words. “Despite dragons having minds of their own, the connection between rider and dragon runs deep, like two souls intertwined. I fear if I were to experience flying, I would yearn for it relentlessly.”

Aemond studied her face, seeming to search for something. “Dragons are forces to be reckoned with, that much is true. But that shouldn’t prevent you from claiming what is rightfully yours.”

“I would think you, of all people, would prefer me to remain dragonless. It wouldn’t serve your interests if I were to gain one,” Daenera retorted, a hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of her lips.

Aemond conceded with a wry smile. “You’re right. Managing you alone is already exhausting. Introducing a dragon into the equation… well, the realm might just find itself engulfed in flames.”

Daenera’s eyes flashed with amusement at the thought. “And you will be the first to feel its scorching heat.”

“I'm sure,” Aemond simply hummed, seemingly unfazed by her threat. “My offer still stands.”

“I have no intention of flying with you,” Daenera replied stubbornly. 

Aemond’s smirk grew. “But it appears you’ve lost your horse.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “And who should I thank for that?” 

“If you set out on foot now, you should reach the King’s Gate by evenfall… or you could choose to fly with me to the Dragonpit.”

Daenera’s voice dripped with defiance as she retorted, “I have far better odds on the road than risking my life flying with you. I cannot trust that you wouldn’t let me fall to my death.”

Aemond chuckled, the sound resonating through her body, warming her from within, though she hastily swallowed the feeling. He reached for her, tracing a long finger from her cheekbone down along her jaw, the touch making her skin tingle. “I would not let you fall, Daenera” 

The sound of her name falling from his lips twisted something inside her, a mixture of agony and excitement. It felt like a dagger plunging into her heart, twisting and turning, bringing her closer to death and a heightened sense of being alive–like standing on the edge of a cliff with the crashing waves beneath, the wind swirling around, and the looming threat of doom intensifying every sensation. 

“Why not? It would be a fitting end to this war you’ve initiated,” Daenera challenged. 

“Well, for one, if you were to meet your demise at my hand, whether by accident or not, I would be branded a kinslayer, and the King would surely punish me severely. Your tragic death would eradicate any notion of ruin. If I desire your ruin, I would need you to remain alive,” Aemond explained with a smirk. 

“How reassuring,” Daenera hummed, far from reassured. “You possess everything necessary to bring about my downfall. And yet, you haven't used it. Why is that?”

She had finally given voice to what had gnawed at her. The relentless waiting had become its own torment, with the lingering dread that everything would collapse in an instant should Aemond chose to expose her. Day by day, she grew increasingly perplexed by his silence. Why hadn’t he exposed her indiscretion?

“If I wanted your reputation destroyed, I would have done it already,” Aemond answered. 

Daenera let out an exasperated huff, throwing up her arms and shifted on her feet with irritation. “So, what is your plan? To torment me? To threaten me?”

Aemond seemed pleased by her suggestions, and wildly entertained by her annoyance, his gaze searing into her skin, his touch growing even more intense as his hand braced the side of her face, cupping it. 

Daenera swallowed, attempting to regain her composure. “You’ve gotten everything you wanted from me. What more could you possibly want?”

Aemond held an arrow aimed at her, ready to fly and hit its mark, yet he did not release it. At times, she wished he would. She could trust an arrow, trust its aim and where it would land, but only if he let it fly. 

A voice cut between them, and Aemond withdrew his hand, leaving the heated area chilled without his touch. Her eyes snapped towards the owner of the voice. 

Fenrick came into view, sliding off his horse and pulling it along with him by the reins. The world seemed to come into focus, and Daenera instinctively took a step back, creating some distance between herself and Aemond. “It appears I’ve found another way to get back to King’s Landing.”

Aemond couldn’t resist goading her further. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a coward.” 

Anger flared in Daenera’s eyes. “I am not a coward. I simply possess the good sense not to entrust you with my life.”

He maintained his arrogant facade, that smug smirk etched on his face. He would never let her forget. “As opposed to entrusting me with more delicate matters?”

Aemond pushed further, testing the boundaries. “What’s improper about an uncle flying his niece back to the city?”

“What would your mother say when she hears?” Daenera shot back at him, knowing Alicent would disapprove. 

“She would consider me a gentleman,” he claimed, and they both knew it was a lie. “Fly with me.”

“Princess,” Fenrick interjected in a warning tone, urging her to listen. “We should return to the Keep.”

The intensity in their gazes persisted, Aemond’s lips  maintaining their taunting smirk. The challenge hung in the air, undeniable and tempting. Bitterly, Daenera came to the realization: she wanted it. Despite her better judgment, she desired to soar through the skies with him. It should have made her turn away, resist the temptation, but something inside her refused. 

“Aemond will fly me back, Ser Fenrick. Meet me at the gates of the Keep,” Daenera declared, shooting Fenrick a fiery glare that warned him not to question her decision. Her loyal shield reluctantly nodded, his lips forming a tight line beneath his beard. She was aware of Fenrick’s lack of trust in the princes, but she needed him to respect her choice. With a bitter and disgruntled expression, the guard turned and mounted his horse, casting a final glance over his shoulder before riding off. 

Aemond’s victorious smile widened as he grasped the net encircling Vhagar’s form. Extending his hand towards her, he expected her to take it. However, Daenera swatted his hand away and instead gripped the rope tightly, mustering a breath to steel herself for the climb.

Although she had grown up around dragons, the apprehension still lingered within her. It was a feeling she couldn’t shake, even now. 

Daenera had always resisted her mother and father’s suggestions of flying with them. The same went for Daemon, who had wanted to show her the power that came with flying a dragon. She had staunchly declared that she was content with being rooted to the ground and had no need to experience it firsthand. It was easier to live without knowing exactly what she was missing out on. 

The rope she clung to was coarse and matted from years of being wrapped around the dragon. As Daenera pulled herself up, she felt Aemond’s hand sliding up the back of her thighs, attempting to offer assistance. Once again, she slapped his hand away, the sound of his chuckle lingering in the air. 

By the time she reached the top, her breath came in ragged gasps. It wasn’t solely due to the climb itself; it was  the knowledge that she was now perched upon a living, breathing creature with the power to toss her off at any moment. It reminded her slightly of mounting a horse for the first time, if the horse possessed the power to level all of King’s Landing in a matter of hours it so desired. A horse couldn’t really compare to that. 

With a firm grip, Daenera settled into the saddle, her knuckles turning white. The wind whipped at her more fiercely than it did closer to the ground. Aemond smoothly settled into the saddle behind her, guiding her forward so that he could swing his leg around to the other side. She had anticipated that she would have been the one at the back, but instead found herself enveloped in his embrace as he reached around her to grip the reins. Her back found his chest. 

Daenera mustered her courage and swallowed her anxiety. “Let me fall, One-eye, and I shall haunt you for the rest of your days.”

Aemond’s laughter rumbled into her, stirring something deep within her. He didn’t give her much time to dwell on her words or change her mind as he exhaled, the breath tickling against the nape of her neck. “ Sōvegon Vhagar.”

Fly, Vhagar .

A startled yelp escaped Daenera as the dragon shifted beneath her, stretching its immense wings. Her stomach lurched with a mix of fear and excitement. Vhagar took one step, then another, and then another, her wings billowing as they caught the wind and propelled them into the air. Her breath caught in her throat, and her nails dug into the leather of the saddle. Her back pressed against Aemond, his presence a reassuring anchor as she squeezed her eyes shut. 

Whether it was the howling wind or the rush of blood that roared in her years, she couldn’t tell. All she knew was the wind that wrapped around her, blowing wild and recklessly, as it did on Dragonstone. Her heart pounded fiercely, threatening to burst from her chest. She had never anticipated flying to be so chilling, but the warmth of Aemond’s body against hers provided some solace.

She felt his lips brush against the shell of her ear as he spoke softly. “ Lēda aōha laesi kesā ūndegon.”

See with your eyes, moon flower .

The term of endearment was lost on her as she cautiously willed her eyes to open. Instantly, her eyes began to water, unaccustomed to the force of the wind. 

They soared high above King’s Landing, the capital city appearing a miniature below them, resembling a collection of dollhouses. Even the Red Keep seemed diminished in size. Waves crashed against the shore far beneath them, the expanse of the sea harrowing in its vastness. 

Daenera released a breath, her eyes wandering to the sky that still remained above them, almost shocked to find that they could still rise higher. Each beat of Vhagar’s wings propelled them upward until they soared through the few clouds there were, emerging above them. The clouds rolled beneath them like a serene sea of white. It was a sight that took her breath away. 

Closing her eyes, she turned her head towards the sun, relishing the warmth upon her skin and the exhilaration she felt with every breath she took. She felt liberated, empowered. This was what she had missed out on all her life. 

The realization cut deep. 

“It is thrilling, is it not?” Aemond whispered in her ear. “Do you feel the power inside of you, as if the whole world is in the palm of your hand?”

Daenera refused to let the tears fall, and she felt them strain painfully at the back of her throat. “Do not mock me.” 

She felt his hand snake around her waist, pressing against her stomach, keeping her firmly against him. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, and a breath left her lips. 

“I am not mocking you.”

She couldn’t fathom any other reason for his actions, except to mock and insult her. The urge to cry clawed at her insides. It would have been less painful if he had just thrown her from the saddle. Aemond was a cruel man, she reaffirmed. 

If given wings, he would be quick to take them away again. He was showing her exactly what she lacked. 

“What other reason could you possibly have?” She yelled above the wind as Vhagar soared above the clouds, her wings skimming their soft hills and stirring them into the air. 

“You think me cruel,” Aemond stated. 

“I do.” 

“I suppose it is cruel to show you what you could have.” 

Years of mocking and thinly veiled insults rang in her ears, and they were only emphasized by the sting of his words. “I don’t need a dragon to be formidable.”

Vhagar descended below the clouds, reentering the realm of men. The vast, never-ending ocean stretched out below them. Aemond pressed himself further into her, his breath hot against her ear as he taunted. “Formidable, you say–”

Daenera cut him off with a growl. “I wonder what they would say if I threw you from the saddle and claimed Vhagar as my own.”

A genuine laugh fell from his lips, the sound sending a shiver down her spine, and she felt her stomach flutter. “Daemon would be ever so proud. But I can assure you, hūra rūklon, that if you were to do such a thing, Vhagar would kill you in an instant. And if not, then I shall surely haunt you for the rest of your days.”

You’re already haunting me, Daenera thought. 

The whirlwind of emotions and the exhilaration of flying coursed through her veins with a tingling sensation that threatened to erupt. A deranged laugh bubbled from deep within her chest, escaping her lips uncontrollably. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest, matching the frenetic rhythm of her laughter. It was a strange mixture of joy, fear, and madness that consumed her in that moment, creating a wild, almost unhinged energy she couldn’t contain. 

Vhagar descended lower and lower. The city began  to grow larger, and before she knew it, Vhagar landed at the Dragonpit, creating a cloud of dust. The dragon shook her head, jolting both of her riders from side to side. 

The dismount was embarrassingly slow. Her legs felt weak and wobbly, and she could hardly feel them at all. She nearly fell on her rear by the time her feet finally touched the ground. Had her mother ever felt this weak after a flight?

Aemond had an easier time dismounting, landing gracefully beside her. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed with color. He grinned at her, and despite everything, she found herself grinning back. 

“Perhaps it’s for the best that you don’t have a dragon. Your hair can’t handle the winds,” he teased, pulling at a strand of her hair. 

Her hands instinctively went to her tangled mess of hair, realizing just how unruly it had become. It would take hours to comb through.

“It’s a wonder your eyepatch stays in place,” Daenera retorted, giving up on trying to untenable her hair with her fingers. It was a futile task anyway. “It makes me wonder if you’re able to remove it at all or if it has grown stuck to your face.”

They regarded one another for a moment, before Daenera broke the silence. “I thank you for the ride, One-eye. It was… eye-opening.” 

Aemond let out a breath, shaking his head at the astonishingly bad joke. 

Daenera turned and began to make her way towards the stables, her steps unsteady. 

[leonanette]

The Man in the Pearl Mask Masterlist

Summary

The Valryan gods foresee what destruction Lucerys Velaryon’s death will bring and decide to intervene. They cannot stop the dragons from dancing but they can change the tune.

Lucerys comes back from the dead thanks to Balerion’s intervention and decides that, since he failed to help his mother’s cause as himself, he should become someone different - the masked, mute, mystery dragonrider known only as Lord Velaryon.

The gods aren’t content with intervening in just one person’s fate, however. Other gods set their eyes on Aemond and work to set him on a different path.

One day, Lucerys and Aemond’s paths will cross again and, when they do, they will be very different people.

Main Fic Chapters:

Divine Intervention

Spectre at the Feast

Death Denied

Tessarion's Work

Brothers Reunited

Grounded by a Ghost

Death to the Greens

The Return

Becoming Indispensable

The First Battle

Blood and Cheese

The Bridge Again

Storm's End Again

The Papers

Syrax's Best Work

Chaos in King's Landing

The Morning After

The Road to Battle

The Miracle at Duskendale

Facing the Music

Many Councils

The Night Ghouls

The Red Fork

A Plot is Hatched

Madness and Mutiny

Rhaena Rises

The Mercies

The War Sept

Changing Course

The Trap and the Lance

Tumbleton

The Negotiations

A Secret Meeting

Larys Returns

A Debt Repaid

Shipbreaker Bay Again

The White Worm and the Woodswitch

A Letter from an Enemy

The Princess Returns

The Chase

Cloak of Gold and Cloak of Silver

The Search

The Awful Truth

The Punishment

The Highgarden Ball 

Silence and Defiance 

Family in Name Only

The Deep Breath

Harrenhal's Revenge 

Ride of the Golden Dread

The Last Few Miles

Night at Acorn Hall

High Heart

Harrenhal Again

The Golden Tooth

A Storm Passing

No Way Out 

The Trial

Meleys' Best Work

Plots and Counterplots

Ultimatum

The Last Battle

Epilogue

The Valyrian Gods

Character Profiles

Syrax

Balerion

Tessarion

Vermax

Vhagar

Meleys

Family Tree and Creation Myth

Spin Offs, Deleted Scenes and More

Portrait of Lord Velaryon by hrgves

The Blue Poppy Dreams

Vermax used the last of the blue death poppy to allow the dead to contact Aemond through dreams. This is the counsel they have to offer him.

Deleted Scenes

Stuff and nonsense too good not to write but not good enough to make the fic.

How Vermax Won His Wager

Alternative title: Valyrian Gods Behaving Badly

There's nothing more dangerous than a bored Valyrian god and Vermax is getting very bored in King's Landing indeed. So, when his friend, Gaelithox, offers up a friendly wager, he can't resist the opportunity to cause chaos among the greens.

Be prepared for a maiden made of clouds, a King getting turned into a horse for five minutes and all sorts of other godly hijinks.

Policy of Truth

Alternative title: What would have happened if I wrote the fic after watching Episode 1 of Season 2.

An AU within the 'Man in the Pearl Mask' AU, taking place around Chapter 15.

The Valyrian Gods are working to turn Aemond against his family by showing him the ugly truth about them. But, Vermax is saving the ugliest truth until last because he knows that seeing his mother and the man he once admired having a sordid affair would break him. And, Vermax also knows that he can use that to his advantage...

Playlist

This is an ever-growing playlist made up of my ideas and suggestions from my lovely commenters. I'll always open for more suggestions so please don't hesitate to comment with yours!

Fire and Ice by Nerdout (suggested by RoAKing0fShadows)

Back from the Dead by Skillet (suggested by RoAKing0fShadows)

The Dominoes Fall by Dario Marianelli

Mirage by OneRepublic (suggested by RoAKing0fShadows)

Firestarter by The Prodigy

(spoilers for Chapter 19 incoming) No Bullets Fly by Sabaton

Night Witches by Sabaton

Molossus by James Newton Howard

No Light, No Light by Florence and the Machine (suggested by cryptid_corvid)

Silly Tumblr posts

Just a collection of stuff and nonsense.

Chapter 16 in GIFs

My Snarkiest Author's Notes (without context)

The Valyrian Gods during Chapter 35 of The Man in the Pearl Mask

Me being a Sabaton fan in ‘The Man in the Pearl Mask’ - Part 1

The Valyrian Gods betting on what Luke will do next

Details

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Fandoms:

House of the Dragon (TV)

A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin

Relationships:

Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen/Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra) ; Cregan Stark/Jacaerys Velaryon ; Baela Targaryen/Helaena Targaryen

Characters:

Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra) ; Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen ; Balerion the Valyrian God (A Song of Ice and Fire ; Syrax the Valyrian God (A Song of Ice and Fire) ; Valyrian Gods (A Song of Ice and Fire) ; Aegon II Targaryen ; Alicent Hightower ; Helaena Targaryen; Daeron Targaryen (Son of Viserys I) ; Alys Rivers of House Strong ; Jacaerys Velaryon ; Cregan Stark ; Daemon Targaryen ; Otto Hightower ; Laenor Velaryon ; Rhaenyra Targaryen ; Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon ; Baela Targaryen ; Rhaena Targaryen (Daughter of Daemon) ; Tyraxes the God (ASoIaF) ; Vermithor | Jaehaerys I Targaryen's Dragon ; Silverwing | Alysanne Targaryen's Dragon ; Corlys "The Sea Snake" Velaryon ; Erryk Cargyll ; Floris Baratheon ; Borros Baratheon

Additional Tags:

Fix-It ; Secret Identity ; Ghosts ; Shakespeare References ; Slow Burn ; Eventual Romance ; Other Additional Tags to Be Added ; Body Horror ; Blood and Gore ; Vermax the Valyrian God ; Tessarion the Valyrian God ; Lucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra) Lives ; Aged-Up Character(s) ; Not Beta Read ; Nightmares ; Minor Cregan Stark/Jacaerys Velaryon ; Sabaton References ; Minor Baela Targaryen/Helaena Targaryen

[synchodai]

Episode 6 Live Reaction

I liked it! Best parts are the Larys and Mysaria scenes and the worst parts continue to be the Black council scenes.

New tapestry addition: is that Aemond raising the sword? And the blood is black now for some reason...

Lannister host from the sigils — Jason Lannister!!! Yes, I love seeing non-Targs on my screen! It just makes the world a bigger place and conflict more realistic.

Jason Lannister sounds like Prince Charming from Shrek, I love it.

It's actually a pretty good and realistic addition that the highborn aren't willing to fight a dragon without a dragon backing them. Not all of them would have this attitude ofc (the northmen have a deathwish and wouldn't gaf), but someone like Jason Lannister would.

RED KRAKEN MENTIONED! KRAKENNATION WE STAY NOT SOWING!

"I'll fly up to meet you when the time is right." For a dragon war that can be ended more quickly if someone with the most dragons just swarmed everyone, these people sure don't wanna use them. In the book, Aemond was less scrupulous about using Vhagar while Rhaenyra was less inclined to send out dragons prior the dragonseeds because it would be her and her sons who would be directly in the line of fire.

Tbh, if I was Aemond I would fire my mom too, she technically doesn't have anything to do at the table. If she were actually treating with lords to get more support or doing Princess Diana PR appearances to ingratiate the smallfolk, she'd have something to offer the council, but her job right now begins and ends with complaining about everyone else's plans.

Gods, Rhaenyra we get it—stop complaining about how your hands are tied. It doesn't project power or wisdom to your lords who are listening!

"Dragons are gods." Only exceptionalists would say this. Otherwise, it's blasphemy to the Seven. But Steffon Darklyn being an exceptionalist would make sense.

"I do not compel you to do this." UGH, STOP WRITING RHAENYRA LIKE THIS. She was raised a highborn princess—she's lived her entire life ordering people around! Even "softer" monarchs like Robb Stark and Daenerys didn't end every command with "Please" or "if it's not too much trouble." They knew they had to project power and confidence. Rhaenyra acts like a person who's never been in a court of people who would jump at the chance to criticize her for appearing weak. You cannot mask the fact that she is ordering her people to death in pleasantries. "Go to war for me" isn't made better by the ruler saying "only if you want to." It just makes her look weak and unconvinced of her own plans and power.

Omg welcome back, Paddy Considine!

Weird that Daemon suspects Simon Strong first before the actual woman who greeted him by announcing his death, but okay.

"Perhaps those who strive to wear it are the least suited to wear it." Ugh, it's giving s8 GOT "ambitions are bad, wanting power for any reason is bad, the only good stance is apoliticism" vibes.

Why is the bastard lowborn woodswitch spouting about the burdens of the crown? It like a regular citizen saying, "oh, it must be so hard being the president" which is technically true but not something someone whose primary interaction with the president is through taxation would say.

And now Daemon is asking the bastard lowborn woodswitch for her counsel. Unlike Mysaria, she hasn't proven to have any politically valuable skill — she's just been scolding him this entire time (like what Alicent does in her council). Scolding the men in charge is not a valuable political contribution in and of itself, you know.

Her "counsel" was the most basic information anyone could tell him. "Ally with the liege to get the support of all his vassals" wow, groundbreaking, Alys. Does Daemon not already know about House Tully?

Love the dragon-claiming scene though. It's immensely tense. This show is good when people don't have dialogue.

Did no one think to bring a flame retardant to the dragon-claiming? If Seasmoke lashed out at everyone, them leaving Steffon to burn would be much easier to swallow.

I kinda love Alyn's hesitance because he knows the precarity of being a secret bastard Velaryon. Yes, it could elevate him, but it could also end up with his head chopped off.

"Nothing but fish in this damn city." If the blockade is the thing causing the food shortage, it should be everything but fish.

"It is my fault, I think, that you have forgotten to fear me." YES, RHAENYRA, FINALLY.

"This becomes you." Ohhhhh, now I see how Mysaria was Daemon's favorite, girl is so subtle and manipulative in her flattery.

"Why is this anger directed at us? It Rhaenyra the Pretender who blocks the Gullet..." Truuuueeeee.

Iron Rod looks so done when Larys does his powergrab, like "Ugh, not another upstart."

The Aemond-Larys scene was really good political posturing and intrigue. It shows that Aemond is smart enough to know he's being manipulated but not empathetic enough to handle Larys in a way that doesn't make an enemy of him.

TGC once again having a great performance. Truly, the king who serves. And Aemond holding his hand by his wound? Judas kiss me, brother.

Oh no, why is.....oh no...a dragon travelled by itself to the Vale? I mean, even if it were foraging for more food, that's really far away and at the most inconvenient place.

LOVE Alyn shaving his head so that it won't show up as white *chef's kiss*

I LOVE ADDAM AND ALYN AND THIS DIALOGUE WHERE THEY TALK ABOUT THEIR TWO VIEWPOINTS ON THEIR BASTARDY

Jace, Jace, it rhymes with face. Addam might be giving him a run for his money though once he gets more screentime.

Orwyle speaking lines directly lifted from the book is such a good detail since he's one of the sources for Fire and Blood.

They're giving so much backstory and characterization to Gwayne "one-line in the book" Hightower 😭 Meanwhile, Baela still doesn't have a personality beyond crossbow and dragon.

All this talk about Daeron but still no Daeron in sight. It would be funny if they never cast him and just have the audience know he's doing stuff through other characters expositing.

I'm not sure what to think about the food plan. The point of a blockade is to starve and cut off resources, but if they were sending said resources directly to smallfolk and not armies or commanders....hmmm... Yeah, I'm sold. (But why wouldn't the guys who found the food just hoard it?)

Do the queensguard not have shields? Shield your charges, damn.

FINALLY, some actual believable violence and punishment. Gods, I was starting to forget we were in the pseudo middle ages.

Oh, this "riot" could have been waaaaay more bloody, but I suppose they're cutting out the gore sfx for the dragon sfx.

I remained quiet, seated, captivated, and enthralled by the Aegon-Larys scene.

I will never forgive HBO for cutting out Kermit and Elmo Tully. Never forget what they took from us.

Alys killing Grover is....intriguing. It does make her a more valuable and active ally and/or foe.

Daemon has such amazing and complex character work. As far as effort for developing these characters, it goes Daemon, Aegon, Alicent, Criston, Larys, Aemond, Rhaena, Alyn.....and Rhaenyra is still all the way down there with even her son out-nuancing her. She's been stuck on "they coddle me because I'm a woman and want Daemon instead" since episode 2.

"You have me." Rhaenyra x Mysaria 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀 Not the toxic yuri I expected, but maybe the one we deserved...

Welp, my new ship just started sailing.

FINALLY, Rhaenyra realized that if she wanted to go on a dragon, no one could technically stop her.

Jace's "Mother!" — no notes.

[soothsaver]

could  that  really  be  PIHLA,  the  HEALER  of  WINTERFELL  entering  the  keep  ?  king’s  landing  is  sure  to  benefit  from  the  thirty  four  year  old’s  ability  to  be  adaptative  but  beware,  whispers  also  say  they  have  been  known  to  be  mysterious.  their  loyalty  belongs  to  THE  NORTH  and  are  indifferent  to  the  ruling  of  house  targaryen  throughout  westeros.

i.  dossier

full name: pihla (/ˈpiç.lɑ/) meaning: rowan tree title: none alias(es): the soothsayer, the witch from frozen hells age: four and thirty  birthdate: unknown; supposedly between the fifth and the sixth moon of the westerosi year 24 ac. gender & pronouns: cis woman & she / her   orientation: heterosexual, demiromantic   religion: the old gods  languages spoken: the old tongue, the common tongue  occupation: woodswitch healer allegiance: the north

ii.  physicality

notable features: bright shock of red hair. height: 5’7, 170 cm   build: tall, curvaceous. eyes: light brown. hair: her hair is licked by flames, an inheritance from her wildling mother yet is is very curly, inherited from her father's own curls. she usually wears it in northern braids. wardrobe: she is not picky with clothing, nor the most fashionable. will wear any scrap of fur she finds, and always lines her clothing with it; besides fur, leather and cotton are her most worn textures and she tends to wear darker clothing in the shades of blacks, browns, greens and blues. 

iii.  ties

father: asmund of skagos mother: thistle siblings: none known marital status: unmarried   children: unnamed babe (dead in the cradle c. 55 ac) relatives: none of note; considers her companion wildlings as kin 

iv.  personality

abilities: although she carries no supernatural ability that she knows of, her kinship to healing and herbology akins her to a wise woman, and her queer knowledge rumors claim her as a dark woodswitch; she can also sail through rough waters and chart the stars. moral alignment: tba positives: tba negatives: tba pass times: tba wields: always carry with her a pouch of herbs, two vials with one sprinkle of poisonous herbs and another of dried herbs for good doing; also carries a dragonglass blade on her waistline. inspirations: mr. & mrs. everdeen ( the hunger games ), alys rivers ( asoiaf ), freydis eriksdotter & leif eriksson ( vikings valhalla ), the soothsayer ( varangian ), iseult ( the last kingdom ).

v. background

tw : death, infant death, illness, religion.

born from a skagosi who wandered through rough waters beyond the wall and a wildling woodswitch, pihlalearned of love through the veils of temporarity — it is never to last, not even that of a woman and man, or mother and daughter. still, she learned as much as she could from both mother and father until they were both to part — father for a trip that he never returned to, and mother from death’s arms. from her father, she learned the language of the stars and of the sea, of the common tongue and of the world beyond; from her mother, an old seer, she learned of the old gods, of the old tongue and of the old world, of plants and of their proprierties. through the world, she learned of its people and what they expect of you, not always in the sweetest way possible.

her mother's so called witchcraft kept her partially safe in those early years of life. people came for her for their future and for their past and for their present, and, soon enough, they would also come to trust on pihla to help them with the same, though she would think of herself less remarkably accurate than her mother. still, she noted on what her mother said, of what would one day come. she was never wrong, even if she was sometimes fuzzy.

when the woman was long passed and pihla had done well in estabilishing herself as a woodswitch and a wise woman around her parts, a man in black came to her doors. nearly dying, she took him in and healed him until they became one, over and over. he would come to tell her more about the other world, the one she knew only so much about. about lords and kings and crows and dragons; she was taken with him as much as he was with her, or so she had assumed. love is not to last, and he returned to the watch, leaving his dagger with her and a seed within her.

the babe was born during a rare warm day. pihla's world stopped and she thought no more of prophecies and of the gods, only of her beautiful son and of the life they were to lead together, forever. she was not wise, of course. the gods are demanding and took her child, a sprout dead before its time. those were her mother's words. run when the sprout is dead, she had said. run to your father's world before the chill catches you too. although heartbroken, she did as she was told; garnering supplies and making her way to the edge of the world she knew, where the great rough seas meet snow. throughout the path, she told of what she knew, and those who believed the old seer's words followed her.

with a handful or two of people, they built a sturdy ship and made their way to skagos. from skagos, to eastwatch by the sea. flocked by crows, they were only able to survive the day because pihla spoke of her own man in black, showed his words written on rough paper. that was enough for an audience with the head crow, and with the king of the north — nay, the lord stark. the chill, my lord. the dead with it, they pleaded for reprieve from the world across the wall. somehow, the lord stark's heart softened and they were given refuge; for however long his heart remained soft, that is.

though a small path of land was bregundingly given to the refugees by the watch, pihla could not bear to stay in lands infested by crows — her heart still ached for what she lost and there was a whole world to see that she had one day dreamed of. so she was allowed to accompany the stark retinue out of the wall and, alone, she perigrinated through northern towns, offering her gifts to those who would have her. the illness that coarsed the north did not touch her — she had already seen and survived it before, and knew how to see and survive it again. many, many did not. she touched and healed those she could, as best she could, yet the number of those who perished was great.

when she was summoned by the lord stark, his wife was one of those who did not survive. pihla knew so as she saw the woman, but she was able to bring the stark child back to life and their life tied with hers; his survival was enough to keep lord stark's heart soft towards her. for now. going further south is not something she had expected, but she abides to her new sire's words; she has always been heedful, after all. for as long as this one lasts.

[bloobluebloo]

you know, I'm absolutely on the chicken train with you, seeing as twice now I've ended up indulging in a "woodswitch Sheik who lives in a hut in the woods with her flock of cuccos" AU by complete happenstance. she'd be so distraught at Ganondorf arming the cuccos and turning them in an army but she'd also be, secretly, a bit proud.

the mental image of the two of them rising a whole farm of cuccos together is causing my heart to just melt. I can see Gan possibly making tiny little helmets and other armor pieces for his feathery warriors and Sheik is just like "noooooo leave them alone" and he is like "they are proud women who must defend their land and conquer the enemy, they must be protected" and they get into a heated argument about just how much armor does a bird require to be a proper soldier

I would like to present a counter argument, and that is that Ganondorf is actually arming the chickens for the pure sake of ✨aesthetics✨. Cuccos, once they are angered, are invincible after all, and their onslaught would look all the more terrifying with little helmets and armor pieces. Everyone knows the difference between a villain and a super villain is presentation, after all.

So, the theoretical answer is none, they require no armor to be a proper soldier, but the proper amount to leave a truly terrifying impression is debatable.

That being said I love Ganondorf referring to the chickens as “proud women”, as they should be! What would our society be without chickens? No eggs, no chicken nuggies…tragic. Plus I always found it very cute that one of Ganondorf’s exclusive missions in Hyrule Warriors was to escort a baby cucco to its mother which is so cute 🥺 Sheik and Ganondorf are gonna be such good chicken parents 🥺🥺🥺

(If Sheik ever intended to have or needed a home security system well…nothing beats them chickens)

[watcherintheweyr]

Zevran!

…. So I went overboard!

He is still attempting to understand the Warden he has found himself life-debted to, though the very mention of such a thing had caused her expression to contort rapidly between expressions; confusion-disgust-rejection. His Warden has no poker face, it would seem.

<i>You are not life-debted to me. You owe me nothing but the promise not to harm me or mine, and the aid you promised. Leave it there.</i>

And so naturally, he’s fascinated by her. And naturally, he will not be <i>leaving it there.</i>

He does not yet… Know, entirely, what he is doing. If he truly intends to be some loyal friend to this Warden and the other, if he intends to cut and run, or to fulfill the contract when they are not looking and return to Antiva a hero. Seeing as his original plan had fallen entirely apart.

His first observation is that she’s the observant one of her group; by which he means <i>nothing</i> escapes her. Her eyes are always moving, head snapping quickly towards sounds, ears twitching in manner that’s reminiscent of the wolf that sometimes follows at her heels, or the big cat that tends to follow them through the treetops. It’s undoubtedly how she was the first one canny to his ambush, and how she’d immediately identified him as the only legitimate threat on the field.

The human warrior isn’t even half as keen-eyed or eared as she is; nor is the woodswitch, though she’s better off than the man by far. Not much of a high bar there. The qunari warrior is observant, but in a much less interested manner. The chantry-assassin-bard is observant with the people of their group, and when they pass through or around towns, but the wilds seem to leave her wrong-footed.

It is a good thing, he thinks then, that the more senior Warden deferred to the red-headed elf. They are still branded as traitors and kingkillers, having to avoid towns as much as possible, and Zevran is <i>deeply</i> sure of the fact that anyone else in this rag-tag bunch, except perhaps the dog, would have gotten them lost for all time within the woods, or walked them off a cliff.

Actually, that’s the second observation. It’s just the first one that he’d made off the battlefield. The first observation he’d made was that she was lethal. <i>Incredibly</i> lethal. Were she a Crow, she’d be the pride of whichever house trained her. But she is not a Crow; just the woman who’d bested them. She’d been utterly unerring in the battle, barking orders in elvhen for the beasts that shadowed her and in common for the two-leggers, before slamming into him with strength that had stunned him a moment, their daggers screaming against one another and sparks flying.

He’d smiled as she bared her teeth at him, and then the dance had begun.

Zevran could make any excuse he liked; how he wasn’t on top of his game after traveling, after Rinna, how he wasn’t trying to his utmost given the way he’d hoped all would play out, but even though both of these things held kernels of truth, the more important one was this. Litriu Mahariel had bested him; thoroughly. Almost embarrassingly. It had been a dance the likes of which he’d never had before, and somehow desperately hoped to have again.

He wanted to try himself against her when he was fresh and his heart was in it, because as they had danced and clashed, while their daggers had screeched and sang against one another… It was the most alive he’d felt in too long. Better than any other fight he’d had, better than any sex with any bedmate he’s fallen in with in the past year or longer. And at the end of it, she’d held him pinned to the earth, a wolf atop his chest and snarling while she disarmed him, only to rise and stare down at him.

[ for the rest of this, which has become ch.1 in a fic, see HERE ]