valyriascribe

[valyriascribe]

The Amethyst Empress Story

Chapter 3: The Heart of a Princess

Artist: ace_asterisk

༶⋆˙⊹⊱༺ ♛ ༻⊰⊹˙⋆༶ ༶⋆˙⊹⊱༺ ♛ ༻⊰⊹˙⋆༶ ༶⋆˙⊹⊱༺ ♛ ༻

In the passion of their will, farewell and peril,

Amid omens and glory that bid this farewell,

During the age of the Great Empire of the Dawn.

Where she reached upon treasures beneath the rising sun,

Her childish humor and laughter now undone.

She, known for greatness, the empire in her hands,

Yet twilight soon would shadow these golden lands.

As Empress she rose, to the world's delight,

But destiny called her toward eternal night.

She loved the Bloodstone Emperor, deeper than stars dare tell,

Yet in his heart lived shadows, love tangled within hell.

When he claimed her, lovers' peril marked their fateful bed,

Secrets remained, promises unsaid, truths left shred.

The future knew not truth, hidden beneath scorching lies,

Yet Bloodstone's heart remembered, reflected in her eyes.

When his love had departed, his soul began to shatter,

From heartbreak grew darkness, the world soon felt his wrath thereafter.

[valyriascribe]

A puppet's ballad from my Old Valyria’s story on the Amethyst Empress

“Red sun and white moon,

Shine upon the rivers soon.

Purple dawn, let shadows flee,

Share the day for you and me!

Bloodstone breaks, the tiger purrs,

Emp’rors bow to dreamers’ words!”

[valyriascribe]

My OC is NOT a Dany replacement, she is Dany. Reincarnated, reimagined, how you want to look at it.

But! Some may not look at it and that’s okay. My OC, has also a different story, that honours the traits of Dany and also women in general. Not trying to make a hallowed character, trying to make a true complex human being.

[valyriascribe]

From the Ghost of High Heart Chapter

Rhaegar x OC (Reimagined/Reincarnated Daenerys)

“Three heads has the dragon, yet the wolf howls for one. When winter roses bleed their scent through a knight’s shattered shield, the harp shall cease, the north wind keen, and the Watch’s blades shall drink the hidden dragon’s heart-blood. The northern man must choose between the duty of honour’s spear and sister’s plea… Grief in your hair, child of doom. But you know the tales. The world will name you fire, blind to the frost beneath. Hold fast to the singer’s heart, it will burn, yet guide. I say no more.”

[valyriascribe]

Someone had reblogged my chapter and then blocked me…umm I’m sorry I offended you?

Then I saw her page and yea..makes sense

[valyriascribe]

In the little chamber where he keeps his harp, he finds her farewell folded between the strings, as if the instrument itself had swallowed the note to spare him.

Do not follow me.

[valyriascribe]

The Prince and the Scribe - Chapter 2

Rhaegar x OC (Daenerys Reimagined)

The stone corridors of the Red Keep darken long after she leaves the archive. The air smells of torch smoke, parchment, and the ocean beyond the city walls. She walks slowly, until she reaches her quarters, a small, windowed room tucked into a modest corner of the upper keep.

The room is sparse but functional. A cot dressed in dark woollen sheets, a single desk cluttered with scrolls and wax tablets, one oil lamp guttering low.

Through the window she sees the eastern slope of King’s Landing, rooftops pressed shoulder to shoulder; far off, the Sept throws its silhouette over the sprawl twisting down toward the Blackwater Bay.

Aelyria drops the latch behind her and rests her forehead against the door taking one slow breath.

So it is to be the prince.

She did not expect that, exactly

Westeros…again

The last time she had crossed the Narrow Sea, she had stayed only a fortnight.

That first journey in the west had been memorable, though not kindly. She had boarded the first tide out and sworn never to return again.

She has lived many lives, worn many names, always avoiding the name Targaryen when she could. Not out of fear but from memory of what she had lost.

This was meant to be a brief arrangement, a translation, a task for her to complete and return. Yet when she looked into his eyes, when she heard him speak the old tongue, which was halting, imperfect and earnest. She recognizes, he will ask more of her, and she will give it.

She sits at her desk and unrolls one of her own scrolls, fingertips brushing the brittle edge. The prince is young, yet sharp; there is hunger in him, not for power but for understanding. He seemed sincere in their first meeting, and she has no reason to be weary of his presence.

She wonders if she will be of use to him. If she is, how he will grow under her guidance, and if, perhaps, if she has been brought here not by fate or chance, but by purpose.

Aelyria cannot help but shake a prickle of unease at the prospect of remaining in King's Landing, tutoring a prince, and not just any prince, but the Targaryen heir. All the while knowing of her own history's importance.

Would it be best if I leave tonight? she wonders, apprehensive of the thought of staying in King's Landing. She does not wish to expose herself. The West is not kind to outsiders such as herself, and the Targaryen madness is much well known in the east. Yet Rhaegar shows no hint of it, he was thoughtful and kind.

She reminds herself that it is neither prudent, this return, this involvement, but some force more permanent than reason drives her to remain. Perhaps it is duty. Perhaps it is curiosity. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it is time.

She lights a second candle, opens a new page, and begins translating a text she had long ago abandoned.

Outside, the bells of the Sept toll once.

And the city turns into evening.

Tomorrow, she decides, she will meet him again.

[valyriascribe]

Chronology of My OC’s Arc

The Song of Dragons and Destiny

A Pre-Doom Valyrian story that follows Aelyria’s origin (Re-imagined Dany) | WIP

The Ghost

Take place 40 years after the Dance of Dragons | Next Story

The Prince and the Scribe

276 AC, a love story between Aelyria and Rhaegar | Completed

Unnamed Title

Takes place after the Sack of Kings Landing, and will continue with Daenerys arc starting from GOT

[valyriascribe]

Aemond & Alys - A first meeting

Oneshot

Prince Aemond Targaryen arrived at Harrenhal under dark clouds. Vhagar’s colossal shape circling once overhead before landing in the outer ward. The great fortress lay deathly quiet. Blackened, ruined towers emerged over courtyards. Daemon Targaryen and his Black supporters had fled days before, leaving Harrenhal empty of defenders.

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the sight of abandoned ramparts; he had hoped for battle, for blood to avenge the outrage of the traitor prince occupying his family’s seat. Instead, only desertedness greeted him. In his frustration, Aemond ordered his men to execute any remaining House Strong retainers or traitors they could find. The last miserable few of the Strong clan who lingered at Harrenhal were dragged out and put to the sword at his command. Only one life was spared in the grim purging that followed. A lone woman who stepped forward from the shadows of the Halfburnt Hall, her bare feet tracking through the blood of her kin.

She was Alys Rivers, the wet nurse of Harrenhal, or so his men gossiped. At first sight Aemond narrowed his eye, uncertain if this could truly be the notorious witch of the riverlands talked of in camp gossip. She did not look like any crone or woods witch he’d imagined. Long black hair fell unbound to her waist, framing a face with smooth skin and high cheekbones. In the torchlight of the hall, Alys appeared no older than Aemond himself, perhaps a woman in the flower of her youth. Yet he had heard baffling tales that this woman had been present at Harrenhal for decades, some claimed she’d even been wet nurse to the Strongs of a generation past. Impossible, Aemond thought, gloved hand resting on his sword hilt as he studied her.

She would have to be forty or more. There was no hint of age in her pale throat or clear eyes. If those tales were true, then sorcery was afoot, for Alys Rivers looked far too young for the years she had allegedly lived.

Aemond descended two steps from the high dais of the hall, keeping his posture stiff and wary. Behind him, a few of his knights stood ready, uncertain if this lone woman posed any threat. The prince’s violet right eye fixed on her, his left was covered by a patch of black leather, hiding the scar and prized sapphire he wore in his lost eye’s stead.

“Who in the seven hells are you?” he asked coldly.

He noted that Alys did not flinch at his harsh tone, nor at the smear of gore on his cloak from the executions outside. Instead, she curtsied, spreading the skirts of her simple brown gown.

“My prince,” the woman said, bowing her head.

Her voice was low and roughened, yet strangely melodic. “I am Alys of House Rivers… a humble servant of this castle.”

There was a hint of amusement in her eyes as she emphasized humble servant. Aemond’s lip curled. Rivers marked her as a bastard of the Trident region. Perhaps she was of the Strongs’ blood after all, a by-blow of the late Lord Lyonel Strong. That would make her the kin of those he had just put to death. His fingers tightened around the pommel of his sword, as he considered this. Would she seek vengeance? She stood unarmed, seemingly at ease despite the corpses cooling in the yard. It set him on edge.

“You were here serving Prince Daemon, weren’t you?” Aemond demanded. He took a stride closer. At six feet tall, he shadowed over her, a lean figure in blackened armor.

“Feeding his whoreson bastards, or warming his bed perhaps? Be grateful I haven’t fed you to my dragon for it.” He meant the threat, Aemond’s temper was high after being denied a confrontation with Daemon.

Yet Alys did not wither or protest. Instead, she tilted her head coyly, letting out a small mysterious smile.

“I have served many a lord of Harrenhal, Your Grace,” Alys answered. “Black or Green, it makes no difference, a wet nurse goes where she’s needed.”

She paused, her eyes drifting boldly up and down the prince. “And I suspect Harrenhal itself is glad of your presence tonight. The castle knew its true master would come.”

Aemond barked a laugh at her insolence. “The castle? Do stones sprout eyes and ears now, that they ‘knew’ of my coming?”

He stepped even closer, scarcely a sword’s length from her. He could smell an herbal scent emanating from her skin, not unpleasant but foreign in the dank hall. “Speak plainly, woman. Why did you not flee with the rest of Daemon’s people? All have gone or died… yet you remain.”

At this, Alys lifted her dark eyes to meet Aemond’s directly. In them, he saw a confidence, as if she were the one holding command here and not he.

“I remained because Harrenhal is my home,” she said.

“These old stones have great power. I was born beneath this roof, nursed many of its children… I belong to Harrenhal, one might say.” She swept a hand about, indicating the hall and the half-ruins. “Where else should I go? The castle would not let me leave even if I wished it.”

Aemond felt a chill at her words. He had heard the rumors, every peasant in the Riverlands knew Harrenhal was cursed, that since Harren the Black each house that held it fell to ruin. The Strongs themselves had been extinguished here by fire and blood, save for the clubfoot Larys Strong in King’s Landing. Now Alys Rivers, a bastard of that line, stood smiling amid the ruin, untouched by the slaughter around her. As if Harrenhal protects her, he mused darkly. His hand fell away from his sword. “No castle holds a person against their will. Are you saying Daemon left you here deliberately? Or that you chose to await my coming?” he asked.

At that, Alys gave a little shrug, a gesture almost girlish. “Let us say… I knew you would come, Your Highness.” She glanced toward the fire where flames crackled, and for an instant her eyes seemed to reflect the fire oddly. “The night before last I saw visions in the flames, a great dragon casting its shadow over these towers, a one-eyed beast hungry for vengeance. How could I abandon Harrenhal when I knew its new lord was so near?” Her red lips curved as she looked back to him. “I prepared for your arrival.”

Aemond’s skepticism warred with a strange sensation of intrigue. Visions in the flames? He recalled mentions that Alys was a woods witch, that she brewed poisons and potions and spoke to ghosts. Septon Eustace had dismissed her as an ignorant slattern, but even that pompous septon noted the uncanny air about her.

Aemond frowned, unwilling to show how disquieted he was. “Prepared, did you?” he said with a smirk. “And how does one prepare for a prince’s arrival, pray tell? With bread and salt?” He meant it mockingly, but Alys answered in earnest.

“With wine, my prince,” she said, turning and gesturing to a sideboard where a flagon and cups sat ready. Aemond realized then that the hearth had been lit before his men entered, and the trestle table was set with a simple meal of bread, cheese, and two silver goblets. She had known someone was coming, or else kept these comforts for herself. Alys moved gracefully to pour a cup of wine. “The best red I could find in the cellars. May I offer you refreshment? You’ve had a long ride.” Her eyes turned to the window slit, through which the bulk of Vhagar was visible in the yard beyond. “Your dragon too must be weary. Harrenhal will stable and feed her well.”

Aemond watched her every movement for some sign of trickery. Poison was ever a concern, a servant of Daemon’s could easily seek to make a kinslayer of him by poison. Seeing his hesitation, Alys lifted the cup to her own lips first. Without breaking her gaze from Aemond, she sipped the wine. “Mm. Safe, you see?” she said, then offered the cup out to him with both hands. The gesture was oddly kind, as though she bestowed a chalice in some sacred ceremony.

Prince Aemond’s tongue flicked over his teeth. The promise of wine did tempt him, his throat was dry from the day’s exertions. More than that, the woman’s fearless demeanor continued to pique his interest. He accepted the cup, fingers brushing hers briefly as he did. She was warm, despite the chill of the hall. Aemond took a small swallow of the wine, it was indeed a fine Arbor red. It soothed his raw throat. “Perhaps I misjudged you,” he admitted grudgingly. “You seem eager to serve your new lord. Are you truly so fickle in your loyalties, switching black for green at a moment’s notice?”

Alys stepped nearer by a pace, lowering her voice. “My loyalty is to Harrenhal alone. Black or green, dragon or wolf, all are transient. The castle endures, and those bound to it endure.” She lifted one slim hand as if to dare touch the prince’s armored forearm, then thought better and let it hover just shy of contact.

Still, Aemond felt the heat of her nearness, and it moved something in him. “Right now, Harrenhal’s desire is to please the prince who tamed it. That is my desire as well.”

Aemond set the half-empty cup aside on the table with a thunk. This was folly, perhaps, to dally here with a strange woman while war raged beyond these walls. Yet he could feel the intensity of her stare, see how the firelight danced in her dark eyes as she looked upon him. The tension of the day’s disappointment twisted tight in Aemond’s chest, and here was a means to release it. He removed his leather glove and boldly took Alys Rivers by the chin, the metal of his silver ring cool against her flushed skin. She let him tilt her face up without resistance. Only a small intake of breath betrayed her surprise.

“You presume much, Alys,” he said, breathing her name like an unfamiliar spice. Her skin felt impossibly smooth under his callused thumb. “Tell me, why should I spare your life after all you’ve seen and done under my enemies? Give me one reason I shouldn’t send your head to my uncle as a parting gift.”

In that moment, he truly was not certain whether he meant the threat or not. The woman bewitched him, but Aemond Targaryen had been taught since childhood to trust no one outside his blood. If this was a ploy, he would not be made a fool.

Alys’s lips curved even with his fingers grasping her chin. Rather than fear, a spark of laughter lit in her eyes, as if the prince had said something only mildly teasing. “You will not send my head anywhere, my prince,” she replied. “I know this as surely as I know the sun will rise on the morrow.”

Aemond tightened his grip, vexed by her bold certainty.

“You know? You sound ever so sure of my intentions.” He felt the urge to shake this complacent confidence out of her, to see her submit and beg for mercy. And yet… deep down, he already suspected she was right. He had no real desire to kill her. Not when she stood before him fearless and beautiful and offering fealty. Not when every fiber of his being, flushed with the heat of dragonfire and victory, hungered to claim a spoil of war. Alys Rivers was the prize he hadn’t expected, the feast laid before him in a deserted castle.

“I am sure,” Alys said, lifting one hand at last to brush the edge of Aemond’s black eyepatch, her fingertip tracing the fine leather. Her touch was light. “Shall I tell you why?”

His breath caught, no one dared approach the scarred side of his face. Instinctively, Aemond seized her wrist. But the anger that flared was quickly drowned by a feeling of strange anticipation. He didn’t pull her hand away. “Speak, witch,” he rasped. “Why?”

Alys’s voice lowered to a near whisper, “Because I have seen what awaits you, Aemond Targaryen.” The sound of his name in her mouth made his heart pound harder. She leaned in, so close that a curtain of her black hair brushed his armored chest. Her eyes were unfocused, as if looking through him now rather than at him.

“I have seen what you seek, and what will come to pass… The fire, the blood, the price that must be paid. I saw it in my dreams, in the waters of the Gods Eye. And I saw you.”

Aemond realized he had stopped breathing. A premonition… Could it be true? His grip on her wrist loosened.

“What did you see? What did the Gods Eye show you?”

Slowly, Alys Rivers smiled, she raised her free hand to cup Aemond’s cheek with surprising tenderness. This time, he did not stop her. “Stay awhile, my prince,” she whispered, “Let me show you all that I have seen… and all that could be, if you trust me.”

In Aemond’s chest, his heart thundered like Vhagar’s roar. He hovered on a knife’s edge between desire and suspicion, feeling only the heat of Alys’s palm against his face.

Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the broken towers of cursed Harrenhal. Inside, the flames guttered low. Aemond opened his mouth to demand answers…to demand her. But before he could speak another word, a deafening crack of thunder broke overhead, and the halls of Harrenhal plunged abruptly into darkness.

[valyriascribe]

Valyrian OC | AU Daenerys | Character Introduction

“She played the lyra-string, sang old Valyrian lullabies, and painted the balconies of Perzysot Ānogros in hues of peach blossom and wine. She could dance as the moons rose, weaving decorative ribbons around her ankles in patterns the temple girls could not replicate. She was graceful and curious. Not yet a scholar but loved from all.” - Chapter 2

“In that brutal, unforgiving moment, Aelyria’s innocence shattered completely, replaced forever by the raw, harsh truth of a world she had been sheltered from, a world whose cruelty was now indelibly carved into her own flesh.” - Chapter 17

“When the servant left, Aelyria approached the mirror, studying her reflection. Where once she had critically judged herself, wishing her breasts smaller, or her curves less pronounced, now she felt newfound confidence. Laeryn had held, kissed, and adored every inch of her, and she finally understood her body’s power and beauty.”

“Curiously, she touched herself, sliding her fingers into her sensitive folds, feeling the wet mixture of her own essence and his seed.”

“She wondered if her womb would soon quicken with child. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about the possibility, part of her felt an excitement at the idea, while another part hesitated. She and Laeryn had only just begun to truly discover each other, and she wanted more time alone with him, to savor this intimacy before their lives changed again. Still, whatever the gods planned, she would welcome it when it came.”

“Is this what love feels like?” - Chapter 25

[valyriascribe]

ASOIAF OC | Old Valyria | Valyrian OC's

18+

꧁𓆩⟡𓆪 ꧂

Two expanse balconies opened to the outside, adjacent to each other, their broad arches framed by long curtains that swung in the sea breeze. Walking onto the balcony felt like standing at the very brink of the world, suspended between sky and sea. Down below, waves crashed against jagged rocks, their sound dim, yet ever-present, a melody of the sea’s endless secrets.

Aelyria did not need to ask Laeryn why he had brought her here; she knew instinctively. The intimacy of this place, its deep connection to their lineage, spoke more clearly than words ever could.

She breathed in the salty air from the sea and listened to the distant rumble of dragons settling in their roosts. Carried on the wind alongside the sound of waves.

Footsteps came silently behind her, and she slowly turned around to face Laeryn. His dark, intense eyes never left hers as he stood before her, his speech deep yet tinged with pure sincerity.

"The two times I wished I could have given you myself, truly given you everything," he began, stepping even closer, "I wanted nothing more than to give you something better, something worthy of you. I never imagined you'd forgive me. Aelyria, you have had all of me from the start."

She looked up, captivated by the sight of him, the sea breeze moving through his loose, silver-gold hair, illuminating him against the moonlight. Rising onto her toes, she looped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. Laeryn met back just as softly, his lips brushing hers lightly at first, a caress that slowly became more passionate and consuming.

She drew back slightly, her eyes searching his face. "Neither did I," she whispered. "Yet now, I cannot imagine it any other way."

He encircled her waist with strong arms, pulling her tightly against him as she pressed herself closer, drowning in the flavor and heat of him. Their kisses grew feverish, breath mingling as their hearts raced in unison. Laeryn lifted her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs about his waist, feeling the strong conviction of his grasp. He moved stealthily towards the bed, bearing her as though she was weightless, and their passion and desire flared up like candles on a dark night.

He brought her to the edge of the bed and laid her down carefully. Aelyria met his stare, feeling the pounding rise in her chest. Slowly, she sat up again, stepping closer to him. She circled her arms around his neck, drawing him into another kiss. His mouth met hers eagerly, drifting down to press kisses against her cheek, her jaw, and along the curve of her neck. A shiver rippled through her at the sensation.

Her hands found his tunic, tugging insistently. He quickly obliged, pulling the fabric over his head and casting it aside. His mouth found her shoulder, trailing kisses lower as her breath caught. She reached down, fingers gathering the fabric of her dress, but his hand stopped her. He carefully untied the laces himself, sliding the dress slowly over her head until it fell away, leaving her bare skin before him.

Instinctively, Aelyria raised her arms, covering her breasts. Laeryn gently gripped her wrists, guiding her arms downward. Her heart was racing as his gaze lingered upon her naked skin, soaking up the moonlit paleness of her curves

Lowering his head again, his lips brushed across her breast, lightly teasing her nipples until she gasped, head tipping back as the exquisite sensation overwhelmed her senses.

Stepping back slightly, Laeryn removed his breeches. Her eyes slowly took all of him in, every powerful muscle, defined line, and veins tracing along his forearms, and down to the undeniable proof of his desire. His manhood was fully hardened, rising from a nest of pale curls, so thick and engorged that it curved upward toward his stomach. The broad tip was flushed a deep, feverish rose, as if yearning for her. Heat surged through her, an ache that started in her stomach and pulsed down between her legs in time with her racing heart

“Never have I beheld anything more beautiful,” he murmured, stepping closer again. His hands cupped her face, pulling her into another consuming kiss. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the bed, guiding him down with her as he lay above her, their bare bodies pressed together. His skin warm against hers, her breasts pressed into his chest.

His hands then began to roam her body, brushing over her breasts, her waist, her hips, and thighs. Their kiss deepened, tongues intertwining as she arched into him, craving for more. She felt his hardness brushing against her entrance, she instinctively parted her thighs wider. His fingers circled her nipple in slow, tantalizing loops until it hardened into a tight peak beneath his touch. Laeryn lowered his head, capturing that hardened bud in his mouth that made her toes curl. He suckled gently, drawing another whimper from her throat, before trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her trembling body. Each press of his lips ignited sparks across her skin. She felt that her body was on fire and wondered hazily if this overwhelming sensation was truly what it meant to make love, and he had not even entered her yet.

He moved down to her stomach, he paused to dip his tongue into her navel, making her giggle breathlessly at the ticklish sensation that quickly gave way to more heat. Then he continued lower nuzzling and kissing a path along her inner thigh. Spreading them even more, by the time his mouth hovered over her aching center, Aelyria thought she might die from wanting him. Her thighs did not resist, opening wider to welcome him.

When he finally pressed a hot, tender kiss to her most intimate place, Aelyria let out a strangled cry of pleasure. Her fingers dove into his hair, clutching tight as his tongue parted her folds. He let out a low groan, licking and sucking with aching slowness, sending liquid fire through her veins. She squirmed under the exquisite torment, each stroke of his tongue drawing the coil inside her tighter. It was overwhelming, too good. Panting, she lifted her head to look down, and found Laeryn gazing up at her from between her thighs. The sight of his dark, hooded eyes watching her unravel was almost enough to send her over the edge.

Aelyria whimpered, her body trembling. She needed more, needed him. She rose, and cupped his face, urging him upward. “Laeryn… please.” He understood, pressing one last kiss to the sensitive spot, then he crawled back up to her body. His lips found hers in a deep, searing kiss, and she could taste herself on his tongue. She felt his rigid length prodding against her lower belly. Her cheeks burned, and all she could think about was how badly she wanted to touch him, to feel him in her hands, and inside her. Aelyria slid a trembling hand down between their bodies. Her fingers wrapped around his hard length, marveling at the smooth skin, stretched taut over iron hardness. Laeryn sucked in a harsh breath and groaned her name, hips twitching at her touch. She felt almost scalding hot against her palm, and so magnificently shaped, his arousal thrusting into her hands, she could barely breath.

He then took her hand and pressed it above her head.

Laeryn’s lips found the corner of her jaw, then her ear, “Aelyria,” he rasped, his voice thick with need. He positioned his blunt tip of his length to her entrance. Aelyria gasped at the pressure as he rubbed himself along her slicked folds, coating his shaft with her wetness. The sensation sent a hot shudder through both of them. Her free arm wound around his back, nails pressing into his skin in anticipation. She was more than ready, her body throbbed for him. And judging by the tremor in his arms, he was barely hanging on to his own control.

With a slow, careful tilt of his lips, Laeryn began to push into her. Aelyia’s breath hitched, even prepared as she was, the stretching fullness of him was startling.

He paused immediately, kissing her reassuringly, "Breathe. I will never harm you, you are mine."

She nodded, urging him onward. He inched forward bit by bit, letting her body yield to him. The brief sting of the intrusion melted into a burn of pleasure as he slid deeper. Aelyria cried out against his shoulder, the sound mingling. With Laeryn’s own groan. She felt as if she were being split in two. She enveloped him inch by inch. He paused when he was fully sheathed inside her, buried to the hilt. He cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing her lips. “Ao issi sȳrī iā nyke.” he whispered. You are mine.

They stayed like that for a heartbeat that felt like eternity, chest heaving against each other. Aelyria clung to him, shaking at the sensation of being utterly filled, of their bodies joined so completely. She felt a mix of pain and pleasure, Laeryn placed his forehead against hers, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. His dark violet eyes searched her face worriedly, but all Aelyria could manage was a plea. “Don’t stop.”

Laeryn needed no further encouragement. He drew his hips back slowly, almost withdrawing from her, until only the tip of him remained inside. Aelyria whimpered at the loss, her fingernails pressing deeper into his shoulder blades, she glimpsed down through heavy-lidded eyes and caught a glimpse of his length glistening with her own arousal, poised at her entrance. Then he thrust forward, filling her again in one smooth stroke. She cried out again in pleasure and relief. Laeryn began to set a slow and steady pace, each roll of his hips sending him sliding in and out of her. Their bodies began to move instinctively. Every time he plunged deep, the base of his abdomen rubbed against her folds, she drew a sharp gasp from her lips.

Before long Laeryn’s pace quickened, his mouth capturing hers, withdrawing only briefly to whisper roughly, "Stay with me," and then again, "Always mine."

The wet sounds of their joining mixed with their ragged breathing and Aelyria’s soft cries. She wrapped her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles behind him, desperate to hold him as deep as possible. He drove into her harder. The angle sent a bolt of white-hot pleasure through Aelyria’s core. The hard ripple of his muscles under her body, the rasp of his breath by her ear, the delicious friction of his chest rubbing against her achingly tight nipples. She clung to him, lost in sensation.

She arched off the bed and her head pressed back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut while wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through her. Her inner walls clamped tight around his thrusts, and he groaned at the sweet resistance. He drove into her harder, deeper, losing himself completely inside of her. Seizing the moment, he claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her cries as if to drink down her very release. Aelyria sobbed against his lips, her entire being shaking apart and then melting in bliss.

The feel of Aelyria pulsing around him was Laeryn's undoing. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and finally let go. He tore his mouth from hers to gasp her name, his voice rough and nearly broken. Aelyria felt a sudden warmth flooding deep inside her, and she knew it was him, his release, his love, spilling into her. A strangled groan rumbled in Laeryn’s chest as he emptied himself, clutching her to him as though he could not possibly get close enough.

They trembled through the aftershocks together, still joined as one, until at last the tension eased and a sated calm fell over them.

Afterward, Laeryn wrapped his arms securely around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. His voice was soft as he whispered in. "Daorys ao nyke ūndegon." Never shall I leave you.

Aelyria didn't notice when sleep claimed her, but she awoke sometime in the night, her body sore and aching, but pulsing with the hunger to feel him once more. She reached for him instinctively, and Laeryn awakened instantly to her touch. They came together again slowly, moving with tenderness and unhurried movements, savoring each sensation until sleep overtook them once more.

[valyriascribe]

The Prince and the Scribe | Rhaegar x OC (who is actually Daenerys Reimagined)

Re-edited

Summary: In 276 AC...

A mysterious ancient Valyrian woman named Aelyria, cursed with immortality is drawn to the edge of history once more.

Disguised as a scribe, Aelyria arrives in King’s Landing with no intention of being seen. Until she is summoned by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen to assist with ancient Valyrian texts. He expected a weathered scholar. She wasn’t prepared for a prince with eyes full of mystery and prophecy.

All Canon Events Happen

Chapter One:

Early 276 AC — Lys

The letter arrives on a windless evening in Lys, sealed with a plain wax bearing no sigil. Yet the parchment itself speaks of power. Only nobility writes in such a way, ink mixed with silver powder, the script elegant and exact. Aelyria holds the parchment in her hands for a long while before breaking the seal.

Inside, it is a request. A commission for scholarly aid in deciphering several ancient Valyrian texts held in a private royal collection. The sender does not sign their signature, but the tone is unmistakable, an entitlement masked as politeness. She reads it twice, then sets it aside.

For three days, she ponders on whether to go.

Over the years, there have been other letters, some requests, summons, and even a few threats. They all arrived regularly since she began documenting the lost culture, stories, and politics of Old Valyria. She has ignored them all, especially those from the west. Aelyria built a life for herself, a mundane existence born from decades of hardship. At last, she found peace in simplicity and solitude.

But this letter is different. It carries a sincerity she recognizes, a formality steeped in genuine respect. It tugs at something deep in her chest, igniting emotions she had thought long buried.

She hesitates. And then she finally decides to leave yes, I shall go.

Aelyria travels light. Her robes, her scrolls, her head wraps. The current style in Lys, and it also keeps her distinct silver-gold hair hidden.

The ship that carries her to Westeros is old but swift. She keeps to herself, eats little, and does not sleep well. The air is colder on this side of the world.

When she arrives in King’s Landing, the city is different yet somehow the same as she remembers before. Targaryen banners hang across the walls and ramparts. Upon reaching the Red Keep and stating her purpose, a steward promptly escorts her to a room within the royal archives, offering neither titles nor explanations. She assumes the arrangement is meant to be private, and indeed it is.

The room is cavernous, lined with towering shelves, and lit by high stained‑glass windows that turn the late‑morning sun into patches of various colors on the stone floor.

She lays out her scrolls, adjusts her head wrap, and waits to see who exactly has summoned her.

When the door opens, she does not rise. She hears light footsteps enter the room.

“You are the scribe from Lys?” a voice asks. It is a man’s voice, clearly young and noble.

“I am,” she replies simply.

He steps closer, and she looks up.

He is taller than she imagined. Pale skin with silver-gold hair, similar to hers, and clad in princely black and red. His expression is one of visible confusion.

He regards her with a surprise, clearly taken aback to find a woman standing before him. After all, the work he has read was published under a man's name.

“I was expecting your father,” he says carefully, “or perhaps your grandsire. He wrote the first translations we received, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Aelyria answers just as carefully. “He passed some years ago. I was trained in his stead. The knowledge has remained in our family.”

His brow furrows slightly as he takes in her presence, her hair covered, the assurance and confidence of her voice. Then, as if remembering courtesy, he straightens.

“I see. My apologies,” he says. “I am Prince Rhaegar.” He pauses, observing her carefully. “I read your kin’s work, The Dragon's Blood Games. I found the Valyrian dialect quite complex, and I had hoped to understand it better. Forgive me, I sent the letter anonymously.”

She bows her head. “Aelyria, Your Highness. I am glad you read those accounts. The language can indeed be challenging, especially for those unfamiliar with Valyrian politics.”

Then, meeting his dark violet gaze directly, she adds in High Valyrian,“Zaldrīzo Lentor daor ūndegon va moriot syt, yn naejot rhaenagon se vāedroma zaldrīzes.”

The Dragon's Game was not meant to be won, but to discover the prophesied dragon.

A small smile forms on Rhaegar's lips. More quietly, he says, “You speak the old tongue well.”

“It was spoken in our house long before it was written.”

He studies her for a moment longer. “Would you be willing to assist further?

“There are more texts, many more. I’ve been studying them, but… the language resists me.”

“Of course,” she replies.

He nods once, slowly, and gestures to the table.

“Then let us begin.”

They start with a scroll, weathered and brittle.

She recites the words she'd written in. Occasionally, she pauses, offering clarity on the text to ensure he fully understands its meaning.

He listens intently, head inclined, brows knit in concentration as he absorbs every word.

Now and then, they pause, so he can repeat phrases back to her, to ensure his pronunciation is correct.

She corrects him when needed, and she notices a slight smile touch his lips. He nods, satisfied by each improvement, then urges her to continue.

The room remains quiet save for the sound of her voice and the delicate turning of pages.

Soon, an easy rapport unfolds between them as they read, pause, and converse. Time becomes fluid and irrelevant.

Hours pass unnoticed, the sun’s journey fading across stone and parchment.

They speak little beyond the text itself, but every word exchanged is meaningful.

An natural ease falls between them, unexpected for a first meeting. Their conversation flows effortlessly, until a knock interrupts them. A Kingsguard enters, announcing the king has requested Rhaegar's presence.

Yet Rhaegar's gaze remains fixed on her, even as the Kingsguard delivers his message. "Forgive me," he murmurs to her. "I would very much like to continue this on the morrow."

Aelyria dips her head in agreement and begins to pack her scrolls. She takes her leave, and as she walks away from the archive, she knows deep in her bones that her life will never be the same again.

[valyriascribe]

A Song of Dragons and Destiny - Chapter Three

A Morning at Perzysot Ānogros

Sunlight shone across the balconies of Perzysot Ānogros, turning the stone to brass and blurring the towers’ hard edges. Within her chamber, Aelyria awoke beneath fine linen, the scent of sea salt and crushed mint drifting through the latticework of her open window.

From her bed, she glimpsed the distant horizon, where the ocean and the sky met in a shade of blue so pure it looked unreal.

Soft footsteps then approached. Serenya, her attendant of many years, entered with grace honed by long practice. She wore the sea-gray and ivory livery of House Maeryxon and inclined her head with respect.

“Riña ñuha, my lady. The household wakes. Nykēla vāedragon, good morning.”

“Let the light come,” Aelyria murmured, voice sluggish with sleep but contented.

Serenya moved to the hangings and drew them aside to let the morning in. As she worked, she placed a warmed basin near the carved washstand and laid out fresh cloth and a simple robe stitched with wave-embroidery at the sleeves.

Aelyria rose slowly, her silver-gold hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her brown-gold eyes caught the sun, eyes of rarity in Valyria, eyes the color of sunlight before it reached the dawn.

She crossed the chamber and retrieved the embroidery she had left unfinished the night before: a firelily stitched in blush reds, with the initials of her niece hidden in the curling leaves.

“Vaeron returns today,” she told Serenya, not looking up. “With his wife and the children.”

Serenya offered a small smile. “The kitchens have already begun their frenzy. The steward says it will rival festival day.”

Aelyria’s smile warmed. She adored her eldest brother, diplomatic, kind, golden-tempered. She had painted three small watercolours for his daughters and stitched matching sachets in sea-foam green.

She set her embroidery aside and moved to the arched balcony doors. Beyond the carved balustrade, the roost ledges twinkled in the early light. There, her Dragon Seranyth rose, silver scales in the dawn. The dragon’s head lifted as if sensing she was awake, and a low rumble traveled the span between them, a greeting she offered her dragonrider. Aelyria pressed two fingers to her heart, then to her lips, and let the gesture fall toward the courtyard, a secret reply the beast had known since childhood. Only when Seranyth blinked with content, did Aelyria return back into the room.

That was when the thunder of footfalls broke the peace outside her chamber, excited chatter following in their wake. At last, the door burst open.

“Have you risen at last, moon-maid?” Vaelior called, grinning like a fox.

“I was composing art, not slaying straw men at dawn,” Aelyria replied without glancing up.

Rhaelys followed, leaning in the doorway with his usual dreamy expression. “She’s at it again, Val. Third firelily this week.”

“It’s because we never give her peace enough to finish one,” she shot back, tossing a cushion toward them.

Vaelior ducked. “Biarves iā ñuhys mandia, blame your own mind. It is not my fault your muse has poor stamina.”

“More like you steal every thread and ruin every brush,” Rhaelys said. “One might think dragonriding would tire you out.”

“Aelyria loves me best,” Vaelior said loftily, plucking a plum from her tray. “For I keep the world interesting.”

“You keep it in disarray,” Rhaelys corrected.

“Isn’t that its natural state?”

Vaelior was the oldest and tallest among them, with the classic chiseled features of an old Valyrian prince and silver-white hair cropped fashionably short and in style. He carried himself with the confidence of one well aware of his charms, and though his gaze often lingered where it should not, he bore no malice. Outgoing to a fault, quick to laughter and quicker still to flirtation, he remained deeply kind, beloved by retainers and siblings alike.

Rhaelys, the second oldest and a touch shorter, wore his long silver hair like a banner of defiance. His face was beautiful rather than handsome—finer-boned, with a solemn grace that mirrored Aelyria more than their brother. He was introspective by nature, sharper in mind than in manner, with a tongue that cut not through volume, but through precision. Though less animated, he was never less felt.

“You two might try embroidery,” Aelyria said sweetly. “It teaches patience.”

“Rhaelys tried once,” Vaelior said with mock solemnity. “Pricked his finger and wrote a lament about it.”

“A moving ballad,” Rhaelys added with dignity. “Titled The Crimson Thread of Betrayal.”

Aelyria laughed, pure and sudden, and for a moment, it was as though Perzysot Ānogros had never known silence.

When Serenya returned to summon them for the meal, the three left as they always had—laughing, squabbling, and alive.

By the time they reached the main hall, the household moved in full. Servants passed with trays of steaming bread and sugared roots, while the scent of fruit and honeyed figs hung in the air.

Lord Rhaemarys sat at the head of the table, a scroll open before him, his silver-gray hair bound neatly. He glanced up at their arrival, his gaze cool but amused.

“Rytsas,” he said. “Punctual as ever and twice as loud.”

“Good morning to you too, Father,” Vaelior quipped, sliding into a seat and stealing a fig without shame.

She leaned forward to kiss her father lightly on the cheek, and did the same for her mother as she arrived. Rhaelys poured chilled water for Aelyria, who took her seat with a nod of thanks. Rhaelys followed suit, pressing a fond kiss to Lady Aelys’s hand before he sat beside his sister. Lady Aelys sat tall in an emerald-silk Tunica. Her presence calm and of quiet authority.

“We’ve had word from the Capital,” Rhaemarys said. “Vaeron is expected by midday.”

Aelyria’s face lit. “I do hope Elenya still favors strawberries. I prepared her a sachet.”

From her seat two places down, Lady Aelys turned and offered Aelyria a small smile. “She’ll treasure it,” she said,

But then came the second note.

“Laeryn returns as well.”

The mood around the table suddenly shifted.

Aelyria’s smile dimmed.

Vaelior groaned. “Well. There goes the lightness of the day.”

“Shall we polish the silverware, then?” Rhaelys muttered. “So he may better carve us apart with it.”

“Perhaps he’ll bring a mirror,” Vaelior added. “To admire how stern he’s become.”

The clatter of dishes and conversation ebbed for a moment, and in the lull a shard of memory cut through Aelyria’s thoughts.

She remembered an autumn evening in the lantern-hall, when she was eight years of age, charcoal smudges on her fingers. She had drawn a small portrait of Laeryn, with careful lines and intentionally earnest shading, and she held it out of her tiny outstretched palms. Laeryn studied it in silence, then said:

“Perzys daor iderēbagon tolī jēda.”

Flame will not keep an unworthy shape.

With no shame he dropped the sketch into the nearest brazier. Ash flurried up as he walked away. She did not draw him again.

Another memory followed. Vaelior and Rhaelys, nine and eight at the time, had coaxed Laeryn, home on brief leave, into sparring with wooden swords. He obliged reluctantly, stepping into the training circle. With one clean motion, he knocked Vaelior flat and set Rhaelys’s blade skidding across the sand. Planting the wooden tip at Vaelior’s throat, he said:

“Vōlī jemēla rȳbāzma,”

Little boys should stay earth-bound.

No heat coloured his voice, only harsh judgment. The brothers rose red-faced; no one asked Laeryn for lessons again that summer.

Rhaemarys remained silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice became stern.

“He is still my son,” he said. “And he has grown more patient, more tempered than the boy who left us. Training, and the art of life beyond these walls, will do that to a young man in Valyria. You will greet him with the honor his name deserves.”

“Of course, Father,” Aelyria said, voice polite, if not warm.

She turned back to the arched windows, where the morning bleached the sky, and the sea answered with flashes of light.

Her heart was light, for now.

Her golden brother and his own family were coming home.

And nothing, she believed, could dim the joy of that.

Not even Laeryn.

[valyriascribe]

Chapter Two:

During the last years of the great Valyrian Empire. Before the Doom, before the scrolls burned, before the land collapsed and the sea flooded, there was Perzysot Ānogros.

It stood along the southeastern coast of Valyria, carved not from black stone like the rest of the Freehold, but from limestone that caught the morning sun and made the sea look like a lustrous pearl. Balconies spilled with hanging vines, and its central courtyard bloomed year-round fire poppy and tangerine trees. Perzysot Ānogros in the old tongue, a haven where calm seas kissed volcanic stone, it would be remembered differently from the rest of the Valyria, for it was open and alive.

House Maeryxon was one of the oldest families in the Freehold, tracing its bloodline back to the shepherds who first heard the call of dragons. They were respected, if not feared, known not for conquest but for wisdom. They rode dragons, yes, but more often as leisure than declaration.

Their strength lay in the preservation of ancient alliances and the mastery of regional politics, keeping lesser Valyrian houses near Perzysot Ānogros loyal, and extinguishing any unrest that flared in the eastern coast of the Freehold. Though raised amid sun-drenched halls and the sea, the men of Perzysot Ānogros were trained as both tacticians and statesmen, their education concealing a legacy of disciplined force.

Their sigil was a spiraled silver dragon without wings, wrapped around a single rising flame, against a field of ocean-blue and faded-gray.

Their words were, Zaldrīzes ēdruta, the Dragon Remembers.

It was said that to be born Maeryxon was to be marked not by ambition of the Freehold, but by memory of the blood of the dragon's ancestory.

Her mother named her Aelyria from two old words, ānio, calm. Lir, gleam. In that name she hoped her daughter would move like the sea and shine like an unseen ember. She was the only daughter of Lord Rhaemarys Maeryxon and his second wife, Lady Aelys, a distant cousin of Lord Aenar who spurned exile at Dragonstone and had wed into House Maeryxon when the ink on the Conclave’s registry was still wet. The Targaryen house of modest rank whose marriage into such an ancient house had once been considered scandalous at the time. But scandal faded in the embrace of legacy, and Lord Rhaemarys had grown to love her dearly.

His first wife, Lady Nyraella, had given him two sons: Vaeron and Laeryn. Vaeron, the eldest, was twenty years older than Aelyria and though his mother had died in childbirth when Laeryn was six years of age, Vaeron bore no bitterness. Wise, golden-haired, and courtly, he was a model heir.

Laeryn, the second son and ten years older than Aelyria, was another matter. From the earliest days, he had been cold and withdrawn. He did not laugh with the others. He did not join in their games or music. Where his eldest brother offered kindness, Laeryn offered silence, or, more often, judgment. He spent his days in training yards or deep in the flame scriptoriums of Perzysot Ānogros, sharpening himself against feelings and kindness.

He looked at Aelyria, at her brothers, and at their mother as though they were less of the Maeryxon blood.

She had hated him, then, not because he was cruel, but because she didn’t yet understand cruelty. Not the kind that came without shouting, or without blood. Not the kind that felt like a cold stone in the middle of summer.

When Aelyria turned eight, Laeryn departed to the Perzys Qore, a Dragon-forged Legion, an elite order where war, dragon-flight and fire-bound arts are hammered into flesh and will of young boys into men. He returned only a handful of times in the years that followed, each visit colder than the last, until five full years passed without word. To the children of Perzysot Ānogros, his absence was not a wound but a reprieve, like the sun returning to a terrace long shadowed by a storm.

Aelyria grew in that light.

Her brothers, Vaelior and Rhaelys, were just a year and two apart from her, and the three were inseparable. Unlike the eldest sons, who had been raised under the strict expectations of political and military command, Vaelior and Rhaelys were granted more freedom, they were allowed to chase joy, creativity, and mischief rather than duty.

Beloved by the staff, called ‘the triplets’ by dragonlords, they danced through the corridors of Perzysot Ānogros like laughter given form. Vaelior was the prankster, a master of mimicry who once convinced a visiting Freeholder that their dragon had taken flight. Rhaelys was the quiet poet, who set Aelyra's paintings to music and taught her songs in tongues no longer sung aloud.

And Aelyria

Aelyria looked like she had not been born to flame, at least, not to anyone who only saw her eyes. While her kin bore the classic violet eyes of their ancestors, hers were a warm light brown, ringed with gold like honey. An oddity in the Freehold, whispered some.

But to her father, she was a jewel.

She played the lyra-string, sang old Valyrian lullabies, and painted the balconies of Perzysot Ānogros in hues of peach blossom and wine. She could dance as the moons rose, weaving decorative ribbons around her ankles in patterns the temple girls could not replicate. She was graceful and curious. Not yet a scholar but loved from all.

At ten, she was called to the roosts with her brothers. Their dragons were young and sleek then, their wings not yet grown strong. Aelyria had approached her own with hesitation, only for the creature to lower its head and nuzzle against her palm.

Her father had smiled that day. "Even the dragon knows its own blood" he had said.

But Laeryn, watching from the stone steps, had only stared with coldness.

And then, he had turned away.

Aelyria didn’t soar, not like the others. Not right away, instead she coiled, like a sleeping Dragon, forgotten until fate remembered its call.

[valyriascribe]

Before the towers topped the sky of the great Freehold, before dragons bent to mortal hands, when the Valyrians were nothing more than mere sheepherders.

A soul would rise. A dragon would wake. And the world would burn anew.

In the oldest songs of shepherds who first found dragons, told of the Zaldrīz Arlinta—the Dragon Reborn. Not just a creature of Valyrian blood, but a being born from the fire beneath the bones of the world.

The signs of its coming were inevitable, embedded in the fabric of destiny. It would begin under a bleeding star, when a sacred flame, long extinguished within a glass candle, would blaze to life, kindled by neither hands nor blood magic, but awakened by forces unseen.

Next would come fire made flesh, amid salt and smoke. Without spell or sorcery, flames would dance upon the chosen, marking them unmistakably before all eyes.

And last…dragons would bend without chains or whips or blood-binding, bowing their mighty heads as meekly as the stallions to the world-mount.

The Dragonlords of Valyria feared this prophecy even as they revered it. To name the Zaldrīz Arlinta was to speak of greatness beyond empires, yet to birth such a being threatened ruin that no crucible could withstand.

So fear cloaked itself in pageantry, ritual camouflaging dread. The Games of the Dragons’ Blood-Fire became both a extravaganza and a hidden trial to sniff out the one they feared. Dragons raced among soot pillars, warriors dueled with steel and blood-sorcery below skies darkened by smoke and fire. All served one hidden purpose. To identify the spark of prophecy before it burned beyond their grasp.

They watched. They waited, listening intently for the coming of The Dragon among them.

And at the Freehold’s final Games, under snapping banners that beat like wings against the sky, the chosen dragon finally roused.