#♕ * ic. / interactions.

[kaerinio]

@nightstriumph approached her grace: hold his head. please. if only for a moment.

a moment. they’ve only a moment before tent flaps part, and one guest becomes another, becomes another, becomes another. war : what a greedy beast, merciless in its inclination toward devouring time, and impatient, too. it waits not for lovers, and thus, these minutes ( minutes, yes ) where they may luxuriate in one another, are so very dear. “rest, my love,” comes the comfort, lilting, and as lulling as the palms smoothing down the collar of his tunic. “if only for a minute or two. the world will not fall to ruin in that time, i promise you,” she whispers, teasingly adding, i should like to think it would take at least three minutes for all our hard work to come undone. how sweet, that soft curve of her lips, delighted at the soothing weight of his head upon her lap. how adoring, that lean, which has her hovering above, absolutely relishing in him.

the night bows before him and darkness answers his call, and yet, here, he shines for her : a star twinkling, rays reaching to capture hopes and wishes and dreams, while vowing to preserve such yearnings. he burns, as she does, but he does so radiantly ( and ruthlessly ; there is nothing he would not give to save his people ; he would tear himself asunder, if it assured their prosperity ; she loves him for this, fiercely, and for so much more ).

now, she allows the chaos of their world to lay forgotten upon a table. if only for this moment, she will shine for him. she will capture his hopes and cherish his yearnings ; she will save him, if only in this moment.

a gentle hand descends, pressing against the dark locks crashing along the planes of his forehead. his hair is mussed, having been loosened, no doubt, by hours of tugging with map-stained fingers. intent, she brushes the shadowy strands back : once, twice, thrice, until a languid rhythm forms. all the while, free fingers rise, featherlight, to glide along his features. devotedly, she traces the slope of his nose, smooths a brow, caresses lips she is all too tempted to capture with her own, before grazing across the peak of an elegant cheekbone to settle upon a pointed ear. the edge of her index finger arcs, memorizing the shape. a moon-kissed braid shifts when she tilts her head, inviting a beautifully crafted bell, wrought in the form of an eight-pointed star, to sing. “would you like to hear a story?”

[stormbcrn]

HE WAS A GHOST, SILHOUETTED IN THE OPEN DOOR, silver hair illuminated against dark features. But it was Viserys' image she saw as her heart quickened, its pulse growing louder in her ears as lilac eyes widened. How cruel of the gods to haunt her so, to shame her for what became of him – but he wore no crown of gold – and dressed in simple silks as was common in Qarth. He was no dragon, and now, her brother lived only in her memory.

A plume of smoke rose from Viserion's throat as he chirped, curiouser and curiouser, all wings as the hatchling scurried from her lap. Only then did Daenerys see Ser Jorah at the stranger's side. Her knight stepped past him in the doorway, the hand against the hilt of his sword relaxed as she stood to greet him, pulling the red silk robe tighter against her skin. But her eyes stayed fixed on the Valyrian shadow he brought to her, the shadowbinder's warning a whisper in her mind . . .

beware of all . . . when they see, they shall lust . . . fire is power.

Daenerys had seen the pyromancers on the streets of Qarth grow more powerful just by their proximity to her dragons – her children's magic making flames burn hotter, brighter, longer. She had seen the awe in their covetous gaze, so she believed it and heeded the warning fairly. The dragons needed her protection – her power was theirs and their magic was hers. Daenerys must understand it if she would keep them from harm; her magic must too grow stronger.

Drogon climbed from her arms to her shoulder, his eyes, like hers, watching the stranger's every move. "@vaedar Valarys, my queen." Dany's eyes flickered to Jorah's face as he made the introduction, before falling to the purple hues that mirrored her own, "– of old Valyria. He claims to know of the higher mysteries."

[iilahalzili]

     He looms. . .

[zcrayas]

(Impcler) - [Bristle] one muse plays with the others hair. (Messmer's serpents being silly maybe? Also decided to tweak the original prompt a little since obviously Rya has no facial hair)

extensive nonverbal memes || Highly accepting! Messmer || @impcler

Deeply focused, Rya proceeds on embroidery, a handkerchief. A little past-time project of her own, while staying in the room, seated in a slight distance, providing company now with her mere presence. Still alert, should the lord speak, or request something.

A gentle tug of a braid distracts her from work, and by instinct, she touches the braid, brushing over the bun, before glancing over shoulder. Nothing. Yet soon after, it happens again. Now, on other braid, meeting round eyes of a crimson serpent, tongue flickering at her. One of them caught, the other takes advantage and nips another of her braids, again.

A little game that seems to continue, but Rya doesn't mind, nor does she say a word to alert the lord of his companions. Granting him his peace. Instead, she lets them have their fun, merely offering knuckle of her finger, and gently brush scaly cheeks.

[stormbcrn]

"MAEGOR WAS CRUEL," Daenerys answered, though she knew not what to make of the septa's words. The stranger listened when she spoke, candles burning at the alter, but what was she thinking? What did she know? "It is, in itself, a cruel comparison to claim my father – in his condition – or anyone in my family would break the king's peace over the succession."

Vaenna had only caught glimpses of the younger princess before her flight to Essos, but they had been enough to ingrain her visage upon the septa's memory. It was hard to forget the face of a Targaryen once you had seen it. It wasn't a surprise to see her either, in some respect. Sooner or later they all came calling.

"And what of your Great Aunt Rhaena? And her daughter, the Princess Aerea? Their right to the throne did not stop Maegor from burning Westeros."

[kaerinio]

@messianique approached her grace: do you think i deserve this ? / from rhaegar!

it's early : early enough that most of the world around them still sleeps, and those stirring do so slowly, groggily, while nursing steaming mugs and questioning if returning to the sanctity of warm covers would cause some great offense. indeed, dawn has only barely broken on the horizon, its tentative rays spilling through the clouds, like yolk through the cracks of an eggshell ; but, for dany, night ( or, rather, sleep ) never came, nor had she invited it. rather, she spent the time nurturing her living dream : straightening books stacked upon tables and propped-up in displays, ensuring that the titles truly were aligned in order ( alphabetical, of course, and by every author's last name ), fluffing the pillows and cushions adorning every seat.

and between every single task came a pause, where she'd step outside to look upon the sign now gazing down at them. THE SILVER QUILL.

“of course i do. in fact, i believe you deserve more, rhaegar ——— much, much more,” she whispers in a voice swelling with pride and overflowing with love. a hand reaches, grasping musical fingers. “you are the one who introduced me to the true beauty of books, of reading.” for joy and for knowledge, not just for the escape. a quiet swallow drowns the tears threatening to rise and smothers the sob clawing at her throat. the unspoken hovers between them : a silent chorus of ‘you saved me. you saved me. you saved me.’

gingerly, between pearly teeth, she captures her quivering lip, and pulls herself ever-closer to her beloved brother. what a sound hold, as though there exists some fear that, in the day's rise, he may dissipate, evaporating like dew from a rose petal. resting a cheek against his arm, contentment blossoms in her heart, inviting a sweet smile. “i didn't think you'd appreciate a sign with your face hanging right over the door.” sparkling eyes of violet lift, intent upon his expression. “though, i did consider it.” she's teasing, no doubt, punctuating it all with a laugh that could warm, even, the emerging sun.

[stormbcrn]

             ALONE,  THE MOON CAST A WHITE  shadow across red sands.  The nights seemed unending while the days were fleeting.  When the sun shone overhead,  Daenerys was a khaleesi and could shoulder her pain of her people.  She was strong enough to survive until the sun fell past the horizon,  yielding again to the darkness.  Even in death,  she thought,  Drogo made her brave. If he would only stay with her another hour,  another day!  But the gods never answered her prayers – her sun and stars setting with the moonlight.  And night after night,  Daenerys watched the moon wither away, until it was only a crescent hanging in an empty sky.

She turned at the sound of the other approaching, dusty sand coating her skin.  “What would become of the moon if the sun did not rise?” She asked,  eyelids heavy as silver tangled strands fell from her shoulder,  “Would we still admire it?”

open starter, mutuals only 🖤

[iilahalzili]

     He is going to observe for the time being. Perhaps the right time will come to cause some real chaos.

[stormbcrn]

HAD DAENERYS BEEN SO EASILY swayed into a dark, dreamless sleep, just to be woken by a feathered touch? Violet eyes beneath heavy lashes a shade darker with the weight she carried from day into the night, but they lighten with Remilia's question, a smile slow to form on her lips. "If I were a dragon," Daenerys answered, her words drawn with careful consideration, "my scales would be dark, like a storm . . . perhaps with some silver, like the red on my Drogon's scales, so I would look like lightning in the sky."

pokes other's form gently. 'tis a late evening inquiry that cannot go unanswered! chin resting 'pon palm, eyes big & doe-like with true curiosity as if asking a question that held the fate of the world in its answer. " if you were a dragon, what color scales would you have? "

[kaerinio]

@ircnwrought approached her grace (for a sleepy kiss): send 🎲 to generate a kiss! from morgan <3

One blink, then another : weary eyes squint, appraising a room silvered by moonlight, where night has established its dominion. It seems, lips purse, that as she sat ruminating, her mind wandering the planes of the seven kingdoms, time grew hungry and took to devouring the aureate hues of candles once lit. What a sight the chamber had been at evening's advent : with so many flames dancing, their glow licking at the air with such fervor, one would have thought the queen had conjured the very sun. Now, light slumbers. Even the fires beneath the painted table bank, bowing where they once raged, where they once invoked the molten illumination of the realm that ensnared her. Embers flicker and whistle and die ; the map's enchantment is broken.

( Though, truth be told, it never stood a chance of keeping Daenerys past her beloved's arrival. )

Against the dark, beauty shines, like a lantern, attracting her gaze in an instant : oh, she is a vision, ethereal and utterly bewitching, resplendent in a halo of selenic rays, and her hair, a soft inhale, sways like a veil of shimmering shadows, framing the loveliness of her face. “My precious flame,” hers is a breathless whisper, which skims the night as she stands, the shawl falling from her bare shoulders ( only to pool in the elevated seat ) ; on trembling legs, she feels like an ancient thing, burdened by a rigidity that has settled deep in her bones, aching in some places, pricking in others. Duty beckons, demanding her return ——— in vain. She has already begun her heart-driven descent.

Every brush of a bare foot against thermal stone seems to awaken her, if only a little, and she rolls her shoulders, willing more and more of the pulsing atmosphere to seep into her, bidding it to banish the bleariness clouding the outskirts of her vision, beseeching it to peel back the drowsy haze encroaching upon her mind. “I was hoping that, between the two of us, you would be the one to claim a full night of sleep,” her chuckle is hushed when she pauses before Morgan. Tranquility flourishes on her features when she reaches, those fatigued fingers eager to cradle that graceful jaw. On tiptoes, she floats, leaning, leaning, leaning, to capture sweet lips : once, twice, thrice, they press, each kiss dreamy and slow, savoring. “Tell me, dear heart, what has stirred you from slumber? Was it a bad dream?” a murmur against a tender mouth, followed by the slightest of retreats. Concern knits her brows when her eyes meet Morgan's, searching, and a thumb brushes against a smooth cheek. “——— Or does something else plague you?”

[stormbcrn]

just wanted to say i really miss plotting! i have an open starter call that I have been meaning to get to, and these don't have to be plotted but if you'd want to plot w me i'd love to get some new inspo going!

[kaerinio]

@draconikia approached her grace: ❝ i crossed a thousand leagues to come to you, and lost the best part of me along the way. don’t tell me to leave. ❞ // whispers what if i said barristan selmy 

The dragon rears her noble head, fire licking at the roof of her mouth, at her very tongue ; even her children, halting their marveling on the terrace, stalk through the open threshold, hissing and smoking, their tails lashing, tasting ire in the air. FURY IS RISING, there is no doubt, and it climbs, like a spark climbs the dry brush of a tree and ignites a whole forest ; it awakens in the rapid flush crawling across her cheeks, in the delicate flare of her nostrils, in the predacious gleam in her eye. Liar, the hurt girl burning beneath all the anger weeps.

His had been a harmless lie : a fortress erected on a foundation of half-truths, constructed to protect himself. From me, lips thin, and her throat works, as though she may devour the realization ( and feed it to the rage eating at her belly ). It is fruitless, though, for that thought is a key which unlocks a despairing sort of curiosity. Gods above, had her forebears truly been so . . . SO ATROCIOUS, as to warrant such hesitation? When he first set eyes upon her, had she been so fearsome? Across the chamber, she peers, hunting in crystalline eyes : they are alarmingly bright, unbending, and — — — fingers curl against smooth sandsilk trousers — — — so very sorrowful.

A wave of gloom, cool and sobering, nudges against the flames. An innocent lie is still a lie. A lie! A lie. A lie, the voice thrashes unavailingly against the swell, receding, drowning into utter oblivion. Her ferocious veil is thin as kindling now, and through it, she can see : his is not a demand ( as Jorah’s had been ), but a plea. Something loosens in her shoulders, unwinds in her fingers. “Barristan the Bold,” she begins, brow quirking, “well, you are that, at least, for braving my wroth.” A true knight, he must be, to stand tall in the face of danger.

A long, long breath streams out of her ; she is weary ( so very weary and her reign has only just begun ), yet she lifts her chin, bells tinkling with the movement. “Hear me clearly, ser : I’ve no patience for deceit.” The words are a bite. “But I am neither cruel nor forgetful. I know that my standing here is due to your gallantry. You have saved me numerous times and delivered this victory into my lap,” her voice is quiet, weighted, but reflective : twice has he swept her from death’s path, and now, he has won her the very city bowing beneath her dainty sandaled feet. “Your fate is of your own making. If you are to remain at my side, swear to never play me false again. Swear it by the gods you hold and by the heart which gives you life — — — and here, at my side, you shall remain.”

[stormbcrn]

THE TEMPLE OF THE DOSH KHALEEN sprang to life around her, the lip of the torch she knocked over seared into flesh that would not blister. The straw roof caught first, while dry wood forming its walls and columns quickly followed. Smoke, so black and putrid, filled the room and her lungs with each breath, and each breath became more strained with effort. Fire light illuminated the screaming figures of the khals before they were forever lost in shadow. Daenerys could not always see them clearly, but she could smell their flesh and hair, and she could hear their screams as the fire consumed them. They matched that of her memories from a long night spent curled around three stone eggs . . . the smell and agony. The life and death of light.

Ragged breaths raked through Daenerys' frame, coughing as hands searched desperately through the darkness for something – anything. If only she could find the doors to break free to a clear and silent night. A cool night . . . a dark night. It was difficult to imagine such a thing when fire burned so hotly against her skin, each flame licking the sweat that dewed against bare skin. She was again in the red waste, starving, dying in brutal heat. Gasping for breath, her lilac eyes squeezed shut and burning grasses fell on her from above

And just then her hand found contact against a heated figure, giving her pause as fingers instinctively closed around course fabric. What amidst the salt and smoke would still feel so warm against her skin ???

"You are under my protection now, and I protect what is mine.” / fenrir, @runaljod

She need not see him, with stinging smoke burning and blurring her vision, Daenerys knew him by voice alone. She dared to believe she would know him even in death. Perhaps she was dying. Eyes opened, a hand left resting against his broad chest – and it surprised her that her lungs did not ache from breathing ash and grit when under his gaze, his protection. She felt no pain. If this was her untimely death, she would greet it fondly.

"I owe you my life," she managed, unable to catch her breath nor satiate her desire, "for whatever it's worth."

[kaerinio]

@messianique approached her grace: i always wonder what would have happened. / from Dana 🥹

Beneath the crescent of the moon, a chest rises, and the breath within flutters, shuddering with consideration at musings left unspoken. What would have happened, words murmur, babbling, like water cutting over stone, and against the thoughts, a yearning heart pounds, its beat a drum upon a battlefield of wishes. Somehow, she is there, marching on that fateful day, stomping on that familiar ground, and blazing with hope. Oh, how triumph flourishes, unveiling a realm of truth : of what would have been, if Rhaegar had proven victorious that day ; of what could have been, if he were the one to rise onto the shore, ebon armor shining and glorious in the rays of a worshipping sun ; of what should have been, if the Usurper's blood had bubbled upon the river's froth — — — not their brother's. What would have happened, the reflection stirs once more, and fingers twitch against a phantom hand, if our wondrous brother had lived?

Against flitting eyelids, blissful visions emerge of bodice-clad forms bestowing favors unto eager knights, their gleaming eyes and handsome lips beseeching and promising honor ; ornately embroidered skirts of vermillion billowing, their fabrics whispering to each other with every prance, meshing into one ; a feast hall lined with a near-impossible number of tables, each one long and teeming with smiling lords and giggling ladies and covered in food aplenty, its walls adorned with banners of the three-headed dragon roaring upon a field of black ; and arms, so comforting and adoring and sweet, cradling them both, shielding them from every blade-sharp edge of the world.

“I do, too. Every day, I wonder,” she whispers, turning her head upon night-cooled, dew-kissed grass to look at her twin, a soft smile forming on her lips. “My mind wanders when I do : to peace and abundant feasts and decadent balls and tourneys,” a sweet ( and longing ) chuckle , then, followed by a teasing coo, “where we are crowned as queens of love and beauty, of course.” Between them, a hand seeks, grasping fingers to secure comfort. A dreamy, almost reverent hush ushers forth her next words ( and her vision focuses on something faraway, on something seemingly within Dana ) : “I see lands filled with people, who cheer upon our arrival. I see their eyes . . . bright with such gladness, it rivals the sun! They run from their homes and hang from their windows, just to see us, the beloved sisters of the king.” Violet eyes, tinged ever-so-slightly with sorrow, meet Daenaera’s, and she gives her fingers an encouraging squeeze. “In your imaginings, what do you see? Tell me of your dreaming.”

[stormbcrn]

TO HONOR THEIR FURY – dragonriders old and new have always been at the mercy of fire & blood, Daenerys supposed, and as long as they lived, so would be the world. She wanted to honor the dragons, to respect them in a way that was befitting of the beasts that flew the skies. And more than anything, she wanted to feel the same trust that @realmsdelite felt for them, but fear still lay buried in her chest and her three grew bigger each day. If they are monsters, what am I? "Do you get used to them?" Daenerys asked, brows furrowed, "like, were you ever frightened of Syrax?" / continued.

[kaerinio]

@nightstriumph approached her grace: ❝ not going to try to kill me again, i hope. ❞

The day, with all its strain, draws itself upon her ; nonetheless, even within the comfort of her own tent, the mask of the ruler sits unrelenting upon her face. A weight so immense, it suffocates and bruises, she laments, breathing through the stiffness in her elegant neck and slender shoulders ( though, she does allow the small comfort of tucking a bare foot beneath herself, the other dangling, its lacquered toe tips brushing to and fro along a rough spun tapestry, which provides a meager barrier against the hardened earth ). From a corner at her back, Barristan grunts in disapproval, his cerulean eyes hard, no doubt, and trained on the male before her, whose goblet she now leans forward to fill. Wine cascades in a steady stream, rich and heady and deep as the primordial eddies of the Cauldron. “Again?” she echoes, the curve of her lips vague when she sits back, placing the pitcher at the edge of the little table. “I am only a young queen with little knowledge of Prythian's ways, but I am not so foolish as to harm a guest in my tent.”

Slight and controlled : a pale brow rises, a chin tilts, and silver bells, carefully woven into intricate braids, sing. “Especially when that guest is rumored to wield the power to crush a mind as easily as one may a rose petal.” Soft as a kiss, the words may be, they reach, like fingers in the dark : seeking, reaping, clawing for truth. A nail traces the base of her goblet ; gaze bears into gaze, violet searing violet, and the smile caressing her lips settles on innocence before she croons, “Tell me : why do you expect ill fate from me, my lord? Am I truly so fearsome?”