#Council of Wyrms

[oldschoolfrp]

Up and away to Cloud City, in search of the "Sleeping Dragon" (Peter Clarke cover for Dungeon 48, July/August 1994, featuring the silver dragon player character Agoron Cloudwalker and his elf kindred Larala Firstleaf, from Bill Slavicsek's AD&D adventure for his own Council of Wyrms setting)

[patiusarchivist]

I love my little blue guy and I hope he can grow into the big, sultry, enchanting bardic lord that I know he can become.

The dice was nice to give me a blue draconic bard who may or may not be a child of my Second Tiamat.

[vintagerpg]

Council of Wyrms (1994) is a D&D campaign setting that ponders the question, “What if dungeons WITH dragons?”

This is a unique campaign setting, a string of islands where dragons of all kinds (metallic, chromatic and gemstone) live apart from the world. In the past, they warred ceaselessly on each other, but recently they have founded a sort of democracy (the titular council, which I can’t help but read as making fun of the 1521 Diet of Worms in some inscrutable way). They did this in order to deal with the incursion of pesky human dragonslayers who were systematically eradicating them (there is also maybe some unintentional metaphor regarding the idea of external enemies being necessary for social stability, but maybe I am reading in too much).

Players take the role of dragons! They can also be half-dragons, or the servitors of dragons, but why would you do that when you can play a dragon? This arrangement reminds me of a sort of summer blockbuster version of Ars Magica for some reason.

Dragons! It really is a mind-boggling thing to realize it took two decades before someone came up with the idea of actually playing the dragons (that someone was Bill Slavicsek, who previously work on the West End Games Star Wars RPG, a fact that brings a lot of context to this project, I think). I have to say, the rules for playing dragons are suitably muscular. I suspect this flavor of D&D is extremely cathartic and freeing. At least for a while. Staying power aside, this is a richly realized box set, which was a surprise when I actually sat down to sift through it — I always thought on some level that it was an elaborate practical joke.

Perhaps realizing this sort of high-powered play would rapidly loose its charm, this was the only Council of Wyrms product, one of very few stand-alone products in the 2e era. It was released later as a hardcover “campaign option,” but that is essentially the same material.

[cant-blink]

Council of Wyrmlings

I do a Dungeons and Dragons roleplay with my friends, using the Council of Wyrms module as the groundwork (a campaign where you play as dragons). In this module, dragons of different species live in a 'unified' society under a single governing body called the Council of Wyrms on an archipelago called Io's Blood Isles. Unsurprisingly, a society of good-aligned metallic dragons, evil-aligned chromatic dragons, and neutral-aligned gem dragons being thrown together isn't exactly smooth sailing.

To foster relationships between species, the clans of each dragon species must give their eggs as tributes to be raised under the Council. Wyrmlings of different species are raised with each other and learn to work together, before being sent back to their respective clans when they're of age.

Our roleplay consist of these particular wyrmlings from left to right, some you may recognize from my previous posts.

Zinezmal the Copper wyrmling. The prankster, mastermind of shenanigans, youtuber, constantly in prison for trying to steal from the stupid. He likes to goad and taunt the chromatic members of the group and is very annoying in his pranks and constant roasting, but also very brave and ready to fight for his team when shit hits the fan. Like his character outside the RP, this Zinezmal has a crush on Nizi and makes no secret of it, being very protective of her and teaching her to use her yappiness to roast others without a filter. He is the hardest character for me to play with all his wittiness, hence why he's in jail for his pranks and thievery so many times.

Nizi the Brass wyrmling. The character I play as the most. She is the tiniest and weakest member of the group, and she likes to talk. A lot. She likes to talk to everything and everyone and will kidnap you to make that happen. "One time, I yawned," is a sentence she said, it's THAT level of inane jabbering. She doesn't like fighting, and often tries to stop the others from fighting too much. She is very insecure about her place in the team, especially when Zinezmal is in prison to leave her as the only metallic in the group of chromatics. At one point, she tried to be mean and evil to fit in, which only made the chromatic members very confused (it did earn her the title of Nizi the Nazi though). Nowadays, though still insecure as to what she brings to the table, she is pulling her weight and using her ability to talk to everything to the benefit of the group. Like helping them from being held hostage by a rogue clan of Blue Dragons through talking to and convincing a scarab to help them escape. Nizi is constantly trying to foster a friendship with the Blue wyrmling of the group, knowing their species are destined to be at odds and trying to avoid that future with him.

Raikirin the Blue wyrmling, played by one of my friends. The official leader of the group after winning against his Red rival in the Challenge of Claw and Wing (a system of ritualized combat made to settle disputes). As vain and prideful as you would think a Blue to be, he nonetheless tries to be a fair leader to the group. Though he goes out of his way to antagonize the Red wyrmling, and is not immune to being annoyed with Zinezmal and Nizi, when shit goes down, he steps up. One of his greatest displays of leadership is when the group was captured by a rogue clan of Blue Dragons (which happened to be the clan his egg came from), and Raikirin refused to join the Blues, and chose to stay by his wyrmling companions even when it meant being imprisoned alongside them. In the words of Nizi: "He chose to betray his own kind and be disowned from his clan, ostracized forever, and is now an orphan, because he chose us! So even though he's an orphan that nobody wants, he's a part of our family! He's my big brother, and we can be unwanted orphans together!"

Rhaegar the Red wyrmling, played by my second friend, is the largest wyrmling in the group. He is forever bitter that he lost being the leader to an inferior Blue, and he is constantly getting into arguments and scuffles and "bap battles" with Raikirin. Despite his anger and bluster, he seems to have a soft spot that opens when Nizi is in distress and she confides in him and he lets her train with him. He is also the group's heat pad when they go out on quests, finding himself at the bottom of the cuddle pile on cold nights, much to his chagrin.

Zithuzirrurrin the Gray wyrmling, is a newcomer to the scene both in the RP and my list of dragon characters. He is not part of the Council, his kind not recognized in their society as proper dragons and his kind not native to the Blood Isles. His egg was laid and abandoned on one of the small islets and he was found stalking the group during one of their quests. Intrigued by the concept of the Council and this draconic society, he decided to follow them. Though Nizi calls him her dog, he is treated as a proper member of the group. He established himself as the physically strongest wyrmling of the group, beating Rhaegar in arm wrestling, and he loves the hunt. When the wyrmlings were separated from each other, he aided in tracking down the lost members. Including Zinezmal, who was having a Jack Sparrow-esque misadventure with a tribe of kobolds. He doesn't talk too much and is often seen observing the wyrmlings in the background, at times amused and at times wondering what he's gotten himself into.

Sargoth the Black wyrmling. He is the member often causing the most trouble. He is spiteful and cowardly, more cowardly than Nizi is as he will choose to flee rather than fight when shit hits the fan. He is very orientated to ensuring his own survival and to hell with everyone else. He is often butting heads with Raikirin (whom he sarcastically refers to as their 'wise leader'), always questioning the Blue wyrmling's decisions. Raikirin is aware of a black dragon's fiercely independent nature and has tried to talk Sargoth into being more of a team player, though he also resorts to threats if Sargoth doesn't comply. Sargoth also likes to steal kills, hiding when combat starts and striking only when their foe is near defeat. He despises Nizi, whom he recognizes as the weakest member of the group. He doesn't tolerate her yapping and has tried on multiple occasions to kill her. He doesn't like the Council either, seeing it as unnatural and hating that he is being forced to work with those he instinctively considers his enemies. That said, his survivalist viewpoint does prove advantagous at times, and it was ultimately his plan that allowed them to work together efficiently enough escape Blue Dragon captivity. He is also paid, by Nizi, to catch fish for the group to eat during their quests, so there's that too.

[lord-soth-dk]

[wellthebardsdead]

Urag: Arch mage Deneth did try dressing him in traditional dunmer garb when he was younger but he was so clumsy he kept tripping over the fabric.

Wyrm: *from behind the door* i-i was not! It was too big on me!!!

Nerevar: *looks at urag* was it?

Urag: *shakes his head chuckling* we hemmed it up to his mid shins to be safe and he still tripped over it.

Voryn: all done! *opens the door and ushers Wyrm out*

Wyrm: *dressed in a flowy pretty hanfu in the colours of house sotha, visibly pouting* I hate it.

Nerevar: Hate it?! You look great!

Wyrm: *fidgets his arm aggressively before nearly ripping the sleeve to get his hand free* it’s too bulky and flappy and itchy and I hate it!!

Voryn: okay okay we’ll try the more fitted one now. *pats his hair and turns him around gently ushering him back into his room*

Wyrm: *takes one step and instantly face plants into the floor* …Just let me be naked.

[dragongirlkisser]

ujhhskljgs ough ooohhh i think i hauve covid

[miiroki]

𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 & 𝙣𝙞𝙚𝙘𝙚! 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧/𝙤𝙘

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘙𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘴 11𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥.

Warning: targcest, (niece and uncle) 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

one: ✶ two: ✶

Prince Daemon Targaryen, Lord of Flea Bottom, as he was now deemed in hushed tones had nothing on his mind except his marriage with Lady Rhea Royce.

He had thrown quite the fit when it was announced, his own brother had agreed with the marriage, which lead to the eventual ceremony.

Daemons own grandmother, Alysanne, had arranged the two to wed, others in the council nodded at the offer. The Royce’s were the second most powerful house in Vale, on paper it was a good match for a prince who was second born and wasn’t sent to inherit anything.

But the others had neglected one crucial detail. Daemon Targaryen was vicious, and only marched to the beat of his drum.

Having been wed to an intolerably plain women that bored him was terrible, not being able to return to Kings Landing whenever to visit with his sweet niece had irked him, Runestone felt like exile.

Above all else his bride was not of Valaryen descent, even if Rhea bore children, it’s likely that they would never become dragon riders. To Daemon being wed to a women of brown hair, akin to horse shit, dark emotionless eyes, and that dull bronze armour, had to be the most humiliating action that had ever been done to him.

—

Daemon had finally been able to return to Kings Landing, where they would celebrate his nieces 11th name day.

Rhaella had written to him non-stop. Their were times where he had just finished his reply before another one of her letters had come again.

It’s sure that she has grown into a lovely girl, a flower with no thorns. The girl was gentle to even the roughest thugs for goodness sake.

Daemon had not held back and gotten her more things than any child should own, but it was his wonderful niece. She was no ordinary child.

—

“Kepa!” Fathers Brother

As soon as Caraxes had situated himself on the the ground, Daemon slid off his the wyrms wings and had leaned down, opening his arms towards his niece.

The young girl was dressed in frills and lace, she looked like a cake. Rhaella jumped into his arms and tried to embrace his neck.

“Lēkianna” Child of the older brother

Daemon embraced the girl in his end, tensing and crossing his arms across her back, as if she’d fly away as soon as he relaxed. He untucked her from his chest and pecked her forehead.

“Eman missed ao tolī olvie” I have missed you to much

He whispered in her hair, and slowly caressed the now messy silver locks.

Soft. Her scent had mixed with that of the Dragons den, like smoke, citrus and flowers, and something else he cannot name.

Rhaella squirmed into the crook of his neck and giggled. “You’ve gotten larger uncle. Mayhaps Caraxes will have a harder time riding with you”

He chuckled back, moving his arms to end at her waist, tickling her in the process.

Rhaella laughed uncontrollably while flailing in her uncles hold.

“You’ve gotten cheekier with no one to test you I see”

Rhaella didn’t listen and continued to climb all over his chest, finding herself on his shoulders, with Daemon having a strong hold on her legs.

—

Rhaella’s name day celebration was well underway, many lords of the area had attended and brought gifts, ranging from jewel encrusted jewelry, to soft animal shaped pilwe.

The young lady of the hour had last been seen with her twin sister talking to other young maidens from distinguished houses.

Currently she was no where to be found.

On a grassy hillside, the pair of Daemon and Rhaella had escaped the roaring festivities. Viserys had always liked his feasts.

Rhaella had come up to Daemon and requested for him to take her away from the all the ‘scary people’, as she put it.

He had taken Caraxes out of his den and flew to a small grassy Island littered with wild flowers.

Rhaella had been entertaining herself by sticking flowers of all shapes and sizes into Daemons hair. The silver locks now filled with blues and yellows. His back was facing her as he lounged on the grass.

“You look prettier like this Kepa” Rhaella muttered in a hushed tone, her fingers desperately trying to keep the red flower from falling off his head.

“Are you saying your uncle is not attractive?”

“Noo” Rhaella gasped and encircled her small arms around his neck once more.

Daemon chuckled and slowly stood from his spot, dragging Rhaella up in the process.

“We should return, the people would be devastated if the young princess was to run away with her uncle” He carried her, pressing her small body into his tuniced chest.

“I refuse!” She grumbled into his clothes, gripping onto the maroon leather.

“You mustn’t sweetling”

“But I should”

“Stop it” Daemon taunted, reaching Caraxes who was enjoying the sun.

Rhaella sighed for the seemingly thousandth time, and continued to bury herself into her uncles body. “If I must you must also stay”

Daemon peered down at the young girl, her ears were red with embarrassment, and warm to the touch.

“As the young princess wishes of me” He laughed, earning smacks from the girl.

[dragondreamers]

SONOYA MIZUNO as LADY MYSARIA/THE WHITE WYRM in HOUSE OF THE DRAGON | S01E09 - "The Green Council"

[novaursa]

The Golden Court (the pyre)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: Adult themes will progress more and more as chapters go on. This fic is pure filth and I make no apologies for it. You have been warned.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: what may come

- Next part: voyage of life

- Tag(s): @idenyimimdenial @scarletdfox @princesstiti14

The procession wound through the hills, a river of crimson and gold, banners unfurling in the wind, the roar of hooves echoing through the valleys as House Lannister marched upon Lannisport in full splendor. The sight was nothing short of magnificent—a grand display of wealth, power, and legacy, meant to remind all who bore witness that the Westerlands belonged to the lions.

And yet, for all the golden armor gleaming beneath the sun, for all the proud banners rippling in the sea breeze, it was not the lions that commanded the eyes of the people.

It was the dragons.

The air above trembled with the sound of beating wings, a shadow stretching over the city as two great beasts soared through the sky.

Haelle, your dragon—black as midnight, streaked with veins of gold—cut through the air like a specter, her long wings casting the streets below in fleeting darkness. She was a beast of nightmares, fierce and untamed, her molten eyes gleaming like twin stars against the sun. And beside her, Caraxes—the Blood Wyrm—Daemon’s companion, his long serpentine form twisting through the sky with effortless grace. His cries, sharp and keening, sent flocks of birds scattering from the towers, the city’s very walls trembling in his wake.

The people gathered in the streets, lining the roads, pressing against the balconies, their faces a mixture of awe, fear, and sheer disbelief. It was one thing to speak of dragons, to tell stories of their power. It was another to see them.

Jason rode ahead, mounted upon a fine courser, his expression one of utter satisfaction as he basked in the spectacle. Clad in rich crimson, his hair gleamed beneath the sun, his cloak rippling in the wind as he surveyed the city that would soon bear witness to his marriage.

Tyland rode beside you, his posture as composed as ever, his green eyes flickering with calculation as he observed the reactions of the people. Unlike Jason, he did not indulge in the grandeur of it all—but he knew its purpose.

Daemon, of course, was unbothered. The Rogue Prince rode with his usual arrogance, clad in black and red, his Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, strapped to his hip, the silver strands of his hair whipping against the wind as he guided his horse forward with a casual ease that spoke of a man who had never feared the weight of his own legend.

You could hear the whispers threading through the streets as you passed—

“A dragonlord, riding with the lions.”

“She will be Lady of the Rock… a Targaryen ruling over the West.”

“The Rogue Prince himself—he has not been seen in years…”

Jason chuckled under his breath, tilting his head toward you as his smirk widened. “They speak of you like a phantom, little dragon.”

You arched a brow, shifting in the saddle. “That’s fitting. Their children will dream of me long after I am gone.”

Daemon huffed a quiet laugh, his dark violet eyes flickering toward you, his expression unreadable. “Your mother would have said the same.”

There it was again. The ghost between you both.

Tyland cut in smoothly, as he always did when he sensed a conversation turning toward old wounds. “We should be nearing our destination. Lord Alton will be waiting to greet us, along with the rest of the council.”

Jason sighed dramatically. “Yes, yes, I suppose it would be rude to keep my dear cousin waiting.” He flashed you a grin. “Shall we, my love? I do believe we have a city to conquer.”

You smirked, nudging your horse forward as the gates of Lannisport loomed ahead, the roar of the crowd rising to meet you.

The wedding had not yet begun.

But already—the realm would never forget it.

The procession arrived in Lannisport under the weight of history, a city that had witnessed countless grand spectacles, yet none quite like this. The streets, usually teeming with the usual bustle of trade and gossip, were now cloaked in silence, the air thick with anticipation as the lion banners were rolled up to reveal the imposing stone structures of the city gates and its wide streets.

Ahead, at the far end of the broad avenue leading to the grand plaza, stood the altar where the ceremony would take place—a towering stone structure, etched with ancient Valyrian runes and draped in crimson and gold, the colors of both Houses Targaryen and Lannister. The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the occasional flutter of flags and the distant calls of heralds announcing the arrival of the procession.

At the head of the plaza stood Lord Alton Lannister, dressed in his usual elegant finery, a cloak of deep red trailing behind him, his face set in the careful, composed expression of a man who had long been accustomed to the weight of power and expectation.

Jason’s voice rang out, deep and untroubled, as he waved toward his cousin from his mount. “Alton! It’s about time someone with some sense took charge around here.”

Alton’s green eyes glinted with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, though his smile was faint. He bowed slightly, acknowledging Jason’s words before speaking. “I am simply glad you’ve arrived, nephew. You’ve made quite the entrance.” His voice was rich and deep, his bearing one of dignified command.

Behind Alton, a row of Lannister bannermen stood at attention, their cloaks sweeping behind them like waves of fire, their swords gleaming in the sunlight. There was an air of solemnity to their posture, their hands resting lightly on their hilts, though their eyes shifted from one person to another—glancing at the dragon riders, at the Targaryen bloodline, and most of all, at you.

You sat tall on your mount, your eyes scanning the crowd, feeling the weight of their gazes upon you. Their whispers fluttered through the air like soft shadows, none of them daring to speak too loudly for fear of attracting the attention of Daemon or Jason. You could hear snippets of conversation again:

“The dragon-rider’s daughter—Lady of the Rock…”

“A Targaryen to rule over the Westerlands…”

“What will she do? What will he do?”

You held your chin high, your posture as regal as ever, your eyes catching Tyland’s, who had been riding just slightly behind you. His expression remained composed, though there was a faint flicker of something deeper in his gaze—something that mirrored your own awareness of the gravity of the moment.

When the procession came to a halt before the altar, the people parted, giving way to the gathering. There was a gentle rustle of movement as servants stepped forward, preparing the area with candles, incense, and ceremonial goblets, the scene now taking on the form of an ancient ritual, steeped in tradition. You could feel the weight of those ancient vows hanging in the air, thick with the centuries-old magic of the Valyrians, their bloodlines once as eternal as the dragons that flew above them.

Jason dismounted first, his movements lithe and confident, a characteristic smirk still dancing on his lips as he surveyed the scene. He extended a hand to you, helping you down from your mount. As you stepped onto the soft, grassy earth, the crowd’s murmur grew. The presence of two dragons, one of them perched high above, had ensured that no one would dare speak out of turn. But still, there was a weight to this moment, and the eyes of the Westerlands were upon you.

Tyland followed, dismounting smoothly, his posture as composed as ever. His hands briefly brushed against yours as he offered his assistance, and you both made your way toward the altar where the ceremony would begin. The ground beneath your boots felt solid, the stone of the altar cold and timeless, its surfaces worn down with the passage of years, centuries of bloodshed, sacrifice, and pledges.

Daemon arrived behind you both, his presence both imposing and relaxed. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, there was nothing but recognition and understanding between you, a bond forged through the years of his guidance and your shared blood. His cloak, embroidered with Valyrian sigils, swept around him as he walked toward the altar. His face was set, unreadable, his eyes steady as he approached. You could feel the air shift slightly with his presence, the sheer weight of his legacy, the weight of what had been left in his wake.

Alton stepped forward as the final preparations were made, his voice loud and clear, calling the assembly to attention. “Lords and ladies of the Westerlands, bannermen of House Lannister, and honored guests from near and far—” His voice resonated with power and authority, echoing over the plaza. “We have gathered here today to witness the union of two great houses—two bloodlines forged in fire and steel, one of dragons, one of lions.”

Jason flashed a grin toward the assembled guests, his gaze lingering on those most curious about the union. His voice, always playful, but heavy with meaning, rang out. “Let us see if the dragons will bend the lions to their will—or if the lions will show the dragons who rules the Westerlands.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd as the ceremony began. The air thickened with anticipation as you moved into position beside Jason, Daemon, and Tyland. The priestess stepped forward, her robes a deep crimson, the fabric embroidered with a rich thread that shimmered under the afternoon sun. The wind carried the scent of burning incense and the faint salt of the nearby sea, weaving the moment into something almost otherworldly, suspended between past and future, between duty and desire.

She stood before the altar, ancient and worn, its surface carved with Valyrian runes, a relic of a world that had long since turned to ash. The weight of history loomed over the ceremony, a reminder that this was more than a mere wedding—this was a union meant to change the course of the realm itself.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and commanding, thick with the power of words spoken in the old tongue of Valyria. “This is fire, from flame we are born.”

She lifted her hands, and the gathered witnesses, the lords and knights, the bannermen and nobles, fell silent. “You are blood, and to blood you shall return.”

Her dark eyes turned to you first, her gaze searching, as if to measure whether you truly understood the weight of the moment.

You did.

She lifted a dagger, its handle adorned with dragon-shaped engravings, and extended it toward you. “Who stands before us, sworn in fire, and bound to the blood of the lion?”

You did not hesitate. “I am she.”

Your voice was steady, the words settling into the space between the gathered lords and nobles, a declaration of intent, of power, of choice.

The priestess nodded, her hands steady as she turned to Jason and Tyland. “And who stands before us, sworn in gold, bound to the blood of dragons?”

Jason, ever bold, ever unafraid, smirked as he answered. “I am he.”

Tyland followed, his voice calm but unwavering. “And I as well.”

The priestess took a ceremonial blade, its edge honed so fine it gleamed like molten light, and held it out before you.

The old ways of Valyria had always demanded blood. This would be no different.

She placed the blade in your hand first, guiding you as you extended it toward Jason. He did not flinch as you pressed the tip against his palm, just enough to break the skin, to draw forth the crimson drop that welled at the surface.

He smirked even as the blood ran down his fingers, pooling into the chalice set upon the altar.

Tyland extended his own hand without hesitation, his expression composed, regal, unshaken.

You did the same, the blade sharp but precise, carving the barest of cuts against your palm.

The priestess took the chalice, now tinged red with the mingling of your blood, lifting it high as she spoke the words of the vow. “In love, and in sacrifice.”

She turned first to Jason. “Drink, and bind yourself to your wife in blood.”

Jason took the goblet from her hands, lifting it to his lips without hesitation, drinking deeply, the warm liquid staining his lips as he grinned down at you. “Already sweeter than wine.”

You rolled your eyes even as the priestess passed the goblet to Tyland.

Tyland drank next, his movements measured, controlled, as they always were. His green eyes flickered toward you as he lowered the chalice. “Now and forever.”

Finally, the goblet was placed in your hands. The blood of both lions, mixed with your own, thick and warm upon your tongue as you drank.

When you lowered the chalice, the priestess took it from you, setting it upon the altar.

The final step remained.

She took the blade once more, this time holding it between her palms. “And to blood, you are bound.”

You extended your hand toward Jason first.

He clasped it without hesitation, his grip warm, his thumb brushing over the line of dried blood that still lingered on your palm.

Then to Tyland, whose fingers wrapped around yours more gently, but no less securely.

The priestess bound your hands together with a silk ribbon the color of fire, tying it tightly, ensuring the knot would not loosen. She stepped back, raising her arms toward the sky. “From Valyria, from fire.”

A low murmur ran through the gathered crowd, the weight of the ceremony settling upon them like a storm’s first gust.

Daemon stood near the altar, watching silently, his arms folded, his eyes unreadable. But there was something close to satisfaction in his gaze.

Jason leaned in first, pressing a kiss against your lips, deep and indulgent, meant for all to see.

Tyland followed, his own kiss softer, but no less binding.

The priestess lowered her arms, her voice final. “It is done.”

The moment hung there, suspended, heavy with power, with fate, with all that had led to this. You turned toward the crowd, toward the banners rippling in the wind, toward the dragons that still circled overhead.

The wedding was complete. But the world would never be the same.

The light of the afternoon had begun to deepen, casting long shadows across the plaza as the ceremony drew to its close. The air still crackled with the weight of the vows spoken, the blood mingled, the ancient magic that had bound you, Jason, and Tyland in a union that no septon could break. The banners of House Lannister rippled in the sea breeze, and the low murmur of the crowd swelled with conversation as the wedding procession began preparing for its grand return to Casterly Rock.

And then—the Faith arrived.

It began with the sound of iron-shod hooves, slow and deliberate, against the cobbled stone of Lannisport’s grand avenue. The smallfolk, who had begun dispersing, turned back sharply, their whispers rising into a hush as a group of men, clad in the pale robes of the Faith, strode toward the gathering with purpose.

At their head, a High Septon of notable age, his robes edged with silver, his face etched with the hollow severity of a man who had long given up the joys of the mortal world, raised his hand, calling for silence. Behind him, armed men of the Faith Militant followed, their hands resting upon their weapons, their expressions blank with righteous judgment.

Daemon, who had been lingering near the altar, turned first, his eyes flickering with something dark, something dangerous. Jason, who had been in the midst of conversation with Lord Alton, let out a low sigh, his amusement barely concealed as he watched the septons approach. Tyland’s expression was, as always, calm and composed, though his green eyes sharpened with quiet calculation.

You simply watched. Waited. You had expected this. Of course, they would come. The Faith had never been known for subtlety in their opposition, nor had they ever been wise enough to know when to keep their voices hushed.

The High Septon halted before you, his eyes sweeping over the assembled lords, the remnants of the ceremony, and then landing on you—lingering with a gaze that might have been intended as piercing, but in the face of Valyrian blood, felt like little more than a dull blade against dragon-scale.

He took a breath. And then—he spoke. “This union is an abomination.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, low, uncertain.

Daemon, ever the first to meet opposition with wicked amusement, let out a low, almost mocking chuckle. “Oh? That’s bold of you, septon. Do tell.”

The High Septon did not waver, though he had to tilt his chin upward to meet Daemon’s gaze. “The gods do not sanction this. Nor will the Faith. Your so-called marriage is a mockery, a stain upon the eyes of the Seven, a blasphemy that—”

Daemon’s laughter cut through the square, rich and unbothered. “A stain upon the gods, is it? Tell me, dear Septon, which of your gods were there when my ancestors carved their empire into the world? Which of your gods stood against Aegon the Conqueror? Which of them burned against Balerion’s fire? I don’t recall the Seven being present when the first dragons ruled this land.”

The High Septon’s jaw tightened, though he held his ground. “We serve the true gods, not the false heathens of a dead empire. Your Valyria is gone. Its dragons are dust. Its ruins are cursed, left to rot beneath the weight of their own arrogance.”

Daemon’s grin sharpened.

“And yet—” he spread his hands wide, gesturing toward you, toward the Lannisters, toward the blood mingled in the chalice still upon the altar— “here we stand.”

The crowd stirred, the tension in the air shifting, uncertainty mixing with curiosity, with apprehension.

Jason, who had thus far let Daemon toy with the conversation, finally stepped forward, his green eyes glinting with something far more dangerous than amusement.

“You seem to have misunderstood something, good Septon,” Jason said smoothly, his voice rich with the same easy arrogance that had made Lannisters feared for centuries. “We did not seek your approval. Nor did we ever require it. This marriage does not need the Faith’s blessing, because it was never meant to be in service to your gods. It is in service to power. And power, as history has shown, is a god all its own.”

The High Septon’s face darkened, but before he could respond, Daemon spoke again, his tone quieter now, more menacing. “You came here with men. Armed men. That tells me something. It tells me you did not just come to scorn, to wag your wrinkled finger at us. It tells me you expected resistance.”

The Faith Militant behind the High Septon stiffened.

You watched them closely, noting how their grips on their swords were not idle, how their stances were too rigid for men who had only come to speak.

Daemon’s voice dropped lower. “Did you think, perhaps, that you could end this union before it could take root? Did you come here hoping to make a spectacle of us, to turn the people against us?” He tilted his head slightly. “Did you come here expecting to leave alive?”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed the High Septon’s face.

And then—a roar split the sky. The shadow fell upon them first, long and serpentine, dark against the golden light of the setting sun.

Caraxes.

His cry was sharp, keening, unnatural, a sound that had once echoed across battlefields drenched in blood. He circled low, his wings casting a shroud of ominous twilight over the assembled men of the Faith.

And then—a second shadow joined him.

Haelle.

Your dragon, black and gold, her eyes glowing like embers, her long, jagged wings spread wide as she hovered above the square, her presence unmistakable, undeniable.

The Faith Militant flinched, some taking involuntary steps backward, their hands tightening upon their weapons.

Daemon, who had yet to move from his place, simply smirked. “Well now.” His voice was mockingly casual, though his daek violet eyes gleamed with cold amusement. “It seems the gods have not yet decided in your favor.”

The High Septon’s face had paled slightly, but he held his ground.

You, however, took a single step forward, your gaze locked upon him, your voice calm, but edged with something deeper, something sharp as dragonsteel. “Tell me, Septon. When was the last time the gods sent fire from the sky?”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, suffocating.

The crowd watched, breathless, waiting, wondering.

The Faith had come to denounce you. Now, they stood beneath the wings of dragons, the shadows of fire and death looming over them.

And the gods did not answer.

For a moment, there was only silence.

The Faith Militant stood rigid, their hands tightening around their weapons, but they did not move—not yet. The High Septon, pale and trembling beneath his pious fury, stared up at the two great beasts looming above him, their golden eyes gleaming in the dimming light, their black wings spread wide like omens of doom.

Then—his voice broke the hush.

“Cut them down! Now!” His words rang through the square like a hammer striking steel, an attempt to reclaim control, to command where there was nothing left to command. But his voice was drowned by the roar that followed.

Haelle moved first. A great, guttural snarl ripped through her throat, and before the High Septon could take a step back, before his men could react, the fire came.

A torrent of flame erupted from her jaws, thick and molten, swallowing him whole.

The air ignited with an unnatural brightness, a heat so intense that even the men standing nearest were forced to stagger back, shielding their faces, their cries lost beneath the roar of the inferno. The Septon’s wails filled the square, high and piercing, an unnatural sound that sent shudders down spines, that made the gathered lords and common folk alike recoil in horror.

His robes blackened in an instant, the silver embroidery melting against his burning flesh, his hands clawing helplessly at the air, as though begging the gods to spare him.

But, one again, the gods did not answer.

The Faith Militant faltered, their previous resolve wavering, uncertain.

Haelle lunged. With a single, bone-crushing snap of her jaws, she clamped down upon his torso, her blackened teeth sinking through flesh, bone, and boiling fat.

His screams were gurgled, wet, his body half-consumed, his arms flailing uselessly, his blood spilling thick and blackened down her throat.

But Haelle was not alone.

Caraxes screeched, a high-pitched, eerie cry, his long serpentine form snapping downward like a viper. His teeth found the Septon’s legs, talons gripping the charred remains of his robes, his long, red maw pulling as Haelle bit down once more.

And then—they tore him in two.

The sound of splitting flesh, the sharp crack of bones being sundered, echoed through the square, followed by a rain of blood, of viscera, of entrails spilling onto the charred stones.

What was left of the High Septon’s remains dangled from their jaws, torn and ruined, his once-holy flesh nothing but a feast for the beasts of Valyria.

Then—chaos erupted.

The crowd broke. Screams rose into the air, high-pitched, shrieking, some clawing at their faces as though they could not comprehend what they had just witnessed.

Some fell to their knees, their hands clasped over their heads, wailing prayers to the Seven, their voices breaking with panic, their minds failing them at the horror they had just seen.

Others fled, shoving through the gathering, pushing past fallen banners and overturned benches, trampling over one another in desperation.

The Faith Militant hesitated—some gasped in terror, some stumbled backward, their weapons held weakly in their hands, their eyes darting to their leader’s ruined, half-eaten corpse.

Daemon, who had not moved during the carnage, exhaled, slow and easy, before stepping forward. His voice was not loud, yet it carried through the chaos, a blade of amusement cutting through the hysteria. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

The Faith Militant did not answer.

Daemon tilted his head, his lips curving into something almost cruel. “You came here seeking justice, did you not? You came here to strike down blasphemy, to stop this so-called abomination?” He gestured lazily toward the dragons, toward the bloody remains staining the stone beneath them.

His dark violet eyes flickered, mocking, daring. “Go on, then. Stop them.”

The Faith Militant stood frozen. None stepped forward.

Daemon sighed, shaking his head, clicking his tongue. “Cowards, all of you. You wear your faith like armor, but when it is tested, when the fire comes, you crumble like sand beneath the tide.”

He took another step forward, closer now, his voice lowering, cutting. “The truth is, you were never going to stop this. You were never going to do anything. You thought you could stand here, spout your sermons, wave your swords, and what? That we would bow? That we would kneel before your little gods and beg for forgiveness?”

A chuckle, deep and dark, rumbled through him. “No. You came to die.”

A single step closer, and finally—the Faith Militant broke.

The first man turned and ran.

Then another.

And another.

The few who remained were trembling, their hands weak on their weapons, their prayers lost beneath the cries of the crowd.

Daemon’s smirk widened. He turned his head toward you, his expression one of utter satisfaction. “Shall we return to Casterly Rock, then?”

Jason, who had been watching the entire display like one would watch an amusing play at court, let out a low, entertained hum. “I must say, my prince, you certainly know how to deal with nuisances.”

Tyland, his expression carefully neutral, exhaled as he wiped a single drop of stray blood from his cuff. “The city will not forget this.”

You, however, simply looked to the sky, where Haelle’s golden eyes gleamed, and Caraxes’ long, snake-like body still twisted through the air.

No. The city would not forget.

Nor would the realm.

The gates of Casterly Rock loomed before you, the great lion sigils embossed on their surface catching the evening light, casting specters over the procession that rode through the winding roads. The sky had begun to shift to darker hues, the deep reds of the sunset bleeding into the violet of the coming night, but the glow of torches and lanterns lining the fortress walls made it clear—the Rock was awake, alive with anticipation, awaiting its newly wedded rulers.

Jason rode ahead, his cloak billowing behind him, his golden hair disheveled but glorious, his smirk unwavering since they had left Lannisport. If he had been pleased before, now he was thoroughly indulging himself. The spectacle had been a triumph, from the wedding itself to the fate of the High Septon, and Jason had never been one to let a victory pass uncelebrated.

Tyland, as always, was more composed, his expression cool, measured, but no less victorious. There was a flicker of amusement in his green eyes as he listened to Jason talk—boast, really—about the day’s events.

You sat between them, entirely unbothered, basking in the attention, the weight of what had been done, what was now fully solidified.

“Did you see their faces?” Jason grinned, turning slightly in his saddle to look at you, his green eyes alight with amusement. “The moment Haelle and Caraxes descended, the way they trembled? Gods, it was beautiful.”

Tyland exhaled, adjusting his riding gloves. “You are enjoying yourself far too much.”

Jason laughed, a full-bodied sound, rich and self-satisfied. “Why shouldn’t I? We have won. And more than that—” He turned his gaze back to you, smirking. “We have her.”

You tilted your chin up slightly, your expression unreadable. “You’ve always had me.”

Jason’s smirk widened. “Ah, but now it’s written in blood.”

The gates of Casterly Rock swung open before you, the great fortress swallowing you whole, its towering stone walls a symbol of power as much as they were a warning to any who dared challenge the lion’s rule.

But tonight, it was no ordinary castle.

Because Jason had left his mark.

The moment the procession stepped inside the Great Hall, you saw them.

Lions.

Not the sigils upon banners. Not the golden carvings on the throne.

Real, living lions.

Caged in massive iron enclosures, placed around the hall like sacred beasts, their amber eyes gleaming in the torchlight. They were beautiful and deadly, their bodies coiled with restrained power, their heavy paws pacing, their low growls vibrating through the very walls.

Jason grinned as he dismounted, stepping forward into the hall, his arms spread wide.“Welcome home, my love.”

Tyland sighed, running a hand over his face. “Tell me this is not permanent.”

Jason laughed, already removing his riding gloves, unbothered by his twin’s exasperation. “Why shouldn’t it be? What better way to celebrate the new Lady of the Rock than with the very beasts that represent our house?”

You stepped further into the hall, eyes flickering to the caged lions, listening to the low rumbling sounds they made, feeling the weight of their presence.

Tyland’s gaze lingered on you as well, his hands reaching for your waist as he leaned in slightly, his voice lower, calmer, but no less possessive. “You do not require caged animals to command the Rock. You are already far more than they ever could be.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Oh, come now, Tyland. Let me enjoy myself. We’ve given the dragons their display—” He glanced toward you, his smirk darkening. “It is only fair we honor the lions, too.”

The feast had already been prepared in their absence, the long tables lined with goblets of wine, platters of roasted meats, fruits dripping with honey, and sweet pastries glazed with spiced sugar. The banners of House Lannister hung heavy from the ceiling, the flickering candlelight making the golden thread shimmer against the crimson fabric.

Jason, ever the indulgent ruler, led you toward the high table with a swagger in his step, Tyland at your other side, more composed but no less present.

The gathered lords and knights rose as you entered, their eyes flickering between you, Jason, and Tyland, the weight of the day’s events still fresh in their minds.

Jason took his seat, gesturing for you to settle between him and his twin. “Drink, my lords! Eat well! For tonight, we celebrate the future of the Rock!”

Tyland, already reaching for his goblet, leaned slightly toward you, his voice lower, meant for you alone. “And let us see if Jason tires himself out before the night is over.”

You smirked, lifting your goblet to your lips. “Doubtful.”

Jason, overhearing just enough, grinned, turning toward you with a wicked gleam in his eye. “My love, I tire for nothing. And tonight—” He lifted his goblet, his smirk widening. “Tonight, we begin our reign.”

The hall erupted into cheers, the lions in their cages growling low and deep, the echoes of their roars blending with the laughter, the clinking of goblets, the sound of fire crackling in the great hearth. And as the night unfolded, as the feast began, as the wine poured endlessly and the music rose, you knew one thing.

The realm would never forget this night. Nor would they ever forget the rulers who had bound the lions and dragons together in blood.

The great hall of Casterly Rock was alive with music, fire, and laughter, the golden glow of a hundred candles flickering off the polished stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows across the feasting tables. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats dripping with fat, honeyed fruits glistening in their juices, and the spiced wine that flowed endlessly from goblets. The warmth of the hearth, the constant clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation, filled the chamber with a sense of celebration that was almost overwhelming.

At the center of it all, seated upon the high dais, was you, Jason, and Tyland.

Jason, ever the indulgent lion, had long since abandoned the pretense of formality. His cloak had been cast over the back of his chair, his tunic loosened at the collar, the golden lion of his house gleaming against the crimson silk as he leaned lazily against you, his arm draped across your shoulders in a way that was more possession than affection. His goblet never emptied, his smirk never faded, and his fingers—wandering, teasing, unapologetic—reminded everyone in the room exactly whom you belonged to.

Tyland, as always, was more composed, but even he was not untouched by indulgence. His movements were controlled, his words measured, but there was something in the way he leaned just slightly toward you, his gloved fingers idly tracing along the stem of his goblet, his green eyes flickering between you and Jason with something more than amusement.

Not all at the table, however, were so at ease.

It was Alton who spoke first.

The older lion, ever the voice of pragmatism, leaned forward, his goblet set aside, his fingers steepled in thought as he surveyed the laughter, the revelry, and most of all—Jason’s absolute disregard for the weight of the events that had preceded this feast. “I suppose there’s no use in pretending otherwise, so let me say it plainly—” he began, his voice carrying just enough weight to pierce through the din of conversation. “The Faith will not let this go unanswered.”

Jason, who had been idly pressing a slow kiss against the hollow of your throat, hummed against your skin, utterly unbothered. “Then let them try.”

Alton exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It is not a matter of trying. It is a matter of the consequences, Jason. There were commonfolk in that square, people who had never seen a dragon, let alone watched one devour a living man before their very eyes. There were men who clawed at their faces in terror, women who fainted in the streets, children who—”

Jason laughed, a rich, indulgent sound, before cutting him off. “Children will believe whatever story is told to them. And the story they will hear is this—those who defy us burn. The Faith thought they could shame us, challenge us, turn the people against us. Instead, they were reduced to nothing but charred bones and screaming priests. And I, for one, found it quite beautiful.”

He grinned, lifting his goblet in mock salute. “To the Nightmare Queen and the Blood Wyrm.”

A few at the table hesitated, glancing between one another, but Jason’s presence was overwhelming, his laughter rich and infectious. A few reluctantly lifted their goblets, their voices joining the toast, but others simply looked away, their unease clear.

Tyland, who had been silent thus far, finally spoke—his voice smoother, quieter, but no less certain. “You are right about one thing, cousin,” he said, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet, watching how the candlelight caught in its surface. “The Faith will not forget this. But that does not mean they will act on it immediately. They are cowards, every last one of them. They plot, they whisper, they scheme—but they do not strike unless they believe they have already won.”

Alton turned his gaze toward him, studying his face. “You are surprisingly unbothered by all this, Tyland. I thought you, of all people, would have been the voice of restraint.”

Tyland took a measured sip of his wine, setting the goblet down carefully before speaking. “Restraint? What would you have had us do, Alton? Kneel? Beg forgiveness? Stand there and allow them to spit upon our marriage, upon our house, upon the very union that secures our power? No.” He tilted his head slightly, his green eyes sharp as a blade. “I am not Jason. I do not boast, nor do I revel in the display of it—but make no mistake. I would see the Faith crushed beneath our heel before I let them dictate our lives.”

Jason grinned, nudging you slightly. “See, my love? He may act the part of the dutiful lord, but my twin is just as much a beast as I am. He simply hides it better.”

Tyland sighed, shaking his head.

Alton, still unconvinced, glanced back toward you, as if expecting you to provide the balance between them.

But you simply smiled, slow and knowing. “It is done, Alton. The realm will weep and gnash their teeth, but they will move on. And if they do not? Well… dragons do not fear the cries of lesser creatures.”

Jason’s grip on you tightened slightly, his amusement deepening. “Gods, I do love you.”

He pulled you closer, the press of his lips against yours heavy, indulgent, a reminder to all at the table of exactly what was his.

Tyland, though he said nothing, simply watched, his fingers tracing idly against the back of your chair, his own silent claim just as undeniable.

Alton, finally relenting, exhaled through his nose, reaching for his goblet once more. “Then let us hope the gods remain silent.”

Jason laughed again, low and rich. “They will. Because they know better than to speak when dragons and lions rule.”

The feast continued, the music rising once more, the wine flowing freely. But beneath it all, beneath the indulgence and the spectacle, there was something else—

The weight of what had been done. And the shadows of what was to come.

The great hall of Casterly Rock continue to pulse with life and indulgence, the echoes of laughter and clinking goblets rising to the vaulted ceilings, where the golden lions of House Lannister loomed, watching over their reveling kin. The heavy scent of roasted meats, spiced wines, and burning candles filled the air, mingling with the low growls of the caged lions placed strategically throughout the hall, their massive bodies pacing behind iron bars.

Jason was in his element. He lounged at the high table, one arm draped around your waist, his fingers idly tracing along the curve of your hip through your silks, his goblet lifted in mock salutes and teasing toasts to the men who had come forth to swear their fealty to him—and to you.

The bannermen of House Lannister had arrived in full force, their voices rising in calls of support, their boasts heavy with the arrogance of men who had tied themselves to power.

One after the other, they came—Lords Marbrand, Reyne, Crakehall, Lefford, and the lesser lords of the Westerlands, all draped in Westerland colors, their words laced with admiration, with flattery, with veiled promises of loyalty.

Jason accepted each word with a smirk, a tilt of his goblet, an indulgent nod. Tyland, ever composed, gave silent approval, his eyes flickering with calculation, but little amusement.

And Daemon—

Daemon simply sat.

The Rogue Prince had not moved from his seat, nor had he participated in the revelry unfolding around him. He had not lifted his goblet in jest, nor had he offered a single word to the men who paraded themselves before the high table.

Instead, he ate his meal in absolute, unaffected silence, his eyes watching, assessing, but never joining. His fingers tore through roasted duck with idle precision, his goblet untouched beside his plate. The chaos of the feast unraveled around him, and yet, he remained utterly unmoved.

It was Jason, of course, who decided that the moment required something greater.

Something grander.

Something only he could devise.

“This has all been far too polite,” Jason murmured into his goblet, his eyes flashing with mischief. He set the cup down, leaning back in his chair, one hand still resting against your hip, fingers idly drumming against your skin.

Tyland, who had seen far too many of Jason’s indulgences, exhaled, closing his eyes briefly. “Jason.”

His twin ignored him.

Jason stood abruptly, his goblet lifted high, the room immediately silencing as he spoke. “Lords and ladies of the Westerlands! My dear friends!” His voice rang through the great hall, commanding attention as easily as a lion commanded the jungle. “You have come here tonight to drink, to feast, to swear your loyalty to this union—and I, for one, am overwhelmed by your generosity.”

A chorus of laughter and raised goblets followed, the men at the lower tables eager to follow Jason’s lead.

He grinned, but there was something sharper beneath the surface, something calculated.

His green eyes flickered to you. “But what is a feast without spectacle? Without proof that this marriage is not merely one of words—but one of dominance?”

The murmur of interest that rippled through the crowd was immediate.

Tyland, ever the rational one, stiffened.

Daemon, still seated, still eating, did not even look up.

You, however, merely smirked.

Jason’s grin widened. With a flick of his fingers, a command given with effortless arrogance, the hall shifted.

The great iron cages lining the walls rattled as the handlers stepped forward, their hands steady on the leashes of the great lions that had been placed as decoration for the feast.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as one of the cages was opened, and a fully-grown lion, golden and monstrous, stepped forward, its head low, its deep growl rumbling through the stone hall.

The air shifted.

The laughter softened.

Daemon, at last, lifted his gaze.

Tyland spoke first, his voice low, measured. “Jason.”

Jason merely smirked, stepping forward toward the beast, utterly unbothered.

The lion—massive, muscled, its golden mane gleaming under the torchlight—let out a low, rumbling snarl, its great paws padding against the polished stone as it surveyed the room, its tail flicking behind it.

Jason turned back toward you, his voice rich with amusement. “What do you think, my love? Should I tame it? Should I remind them all why we are lions?”

The room held its breath.

You tilted your head, surveying the beast before you. Then, slowly, you rose from your seat.

Jason’s smirk deepened.

Daemon, finally, spoke. “If it kills you, Jason, I am not dragging your corpse back to Lannisport.”

Jason laughed.

The lion, however, was not yet convinced.

It took a single step forward, its massive head lowering, its amber eyes locking onto Jason with something unreadable.

The handler gripped the chain tightly, but Jason lifted a hand. “Let it be.”

The handler hesitated—but obeyed.

Jason stepped forward—slow, deliberate, his every movement exuding the raw confidence of a man who had never known fear.

The lion’s ears flicked, its tail stilled, its deep growl turning into something more inquisitive.

Jason paused mere feet from the beast, his green eyes gleaming.

And then—he knelt.

A collective gasp rippled through the hall.

Even Tyland tensed.

Daemon merely chewed his food, unfazed.

Jason extended his hand, palm open, fingers loose.

The lion sniffed the air. And then—it moved. Slowly, carefully, it closed the distance between them, its massive head lowering, its mane brushing against Jason’s outstretched fingers.

The room was silent.

Then—Jason grinned.

And the lion sat.

A roar of approval erupted from the gathered lords, the table shaking with the force of their applause, their cheers, their awe.

Jason rose to his feet, turning back toward you, his smirk positively feral. “I believe we have made our point.”

Daemon, at last, exhaled. “You are all fools.”

And with that, he resumed eating.

The roar of the crowd still echoed through the Great Hall, the last remnants of Jason’s spectacle lingering in the air like the final notes of a song. The lion, now subdued, sat at Jason’s feet like a loyal hound, its great mane brushing against the polished stone as its deep rumbling breaths filled the space between the murmurs of the gathered lords and ladies.

Jason, ever the indulgent lion, had finally had his fill. Of theatrics. Of posturing. Of grandstanding. There was only one thing left to do.

He drained the last of his wine, setting the goblet down with a satisfying thud upon the long banquet table, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he surveyed the room. He took his time, allowing his gaze to drift from one bannerman to the next, watching the way they still sat enthralled, eager for the next indulgence, the next moment of spectacle.

But Jason had other plans.

He turned, his grip on your waist tightening, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice dropping into that low, knowing drawl. “I think we’ve indulged them enough, don’t you?”

Tyland, seated on your other side, lifted a brow, his own goblet still half-full, though he had long since grown tired of the excessive displays. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get to the point, Jason.”

Jason laughed, slow and rich, entirely unbothered. Then, with a flourish that only he could make look effortless, he pushed himself to his feet, lifting his goblet one last time.

The hall fell silent, waiting.

“Lords of the Westerlands! I do believe we have done our due diligence. We have feasted, we have toasted, we have seen blood and fire both, and yet—” he smirked, turning his gaze toward you and Tyland, his green eyes glinting with something wicked. “It seems I have not yet had the chance to properly celebrate the true cause of this gathering.”

Laughter rippled through the lords, a few already anticipating his next words.

Jason’s smirk widened. He turned then, his gaze landing on Daemon, still seated, still unbothered, still picking at his meal as though the last hour had been nothing more than an amusing inconvenience.

Jason lifted his goblet in mock salute. “Dear father-in-law, I do believe we shall retire now. After all, there is more work to be done.”

Daemon did not look up.

Jason leaned forward slightly, his smirk deepening. “I imagine we’ll be making you a grandsire before long.”

The hall erupted into laughter, cheers, toasts thrown into the air like the clashing of swords. Some of the lords clapped their hands against the table, while others whistled, their amusement uninhibited, their wine-fueled indulgence making them all too eager to laugh at Jason’s antics.

Tyland sighed, shaking his head, but he did not disagree.

You, ever composed, simply smirked, unbothered, unsurprised.

Daemon, however—finally looked up.

Slowly, carefully, he set his knife down, his dark violet eyes flickering toward Jason, then to you, then to Tyland, then back to Jason again.

And then—he exhaled.

Not in amusement.

Not in frustration.

Not even in mild irritation.

Just—exhaled.

“Wonderful,” he murmured, reaching for his goblet with an expression of utter neutrality. “Another insufferable little lord with a Lannister grin. Exactly what the realm needs.”

Jason grinned.

Tyland, despite himself, let out a quiet breath of amusement.

Daemon, unfazed, sipped his wine.

The crowd still laughed, still toasted, still reveling in the moment.

Jason, satisfied, turned back toward you, his fingers sliding against your waist, his touch possessive, indulgent, certain. “Shall we, my love?”

Tyland, ever composed, rose from his seat next, offering you his hand.

You took it.

The room watched as the three of you turned, as Jason led you away, as Tyland followed, as the doors to the hall swung open before you, welcoming you into the night.

The feast would continue without you. But the real celebration had only just begun.

[mclalan]

A small estate map of Northeast Wolderness, a wapentake within the County of Humbershire.

Pentascarth Peaks

River Wyn

Bridburn Orchard

Bridburn Abbey

Firley Village

Grinholm Mill

Skunlington Town

Skunlington Castle

Pentascarth Peaks

Pentascarth Peaks is an ancient evergreen woodland that once dominated Wolderness, but centuries of agricultural expansion have driven it back to the five hilltop peaks. Some say that Wyrms slumber within each of the five peaks, while others more accurately claim that the peaks mark the boundary of the Wolderness wapentake.

Both Bridburn Abbey and Skunlington Minster claim rights to the forest, leading to obvious land disputes. But while mortals argue over who owns what, the woods remain home to forgotten, ancient goddesses— though the monastics seem to agree on this being just superstition.

River Wyn

Leading down from Pentascarth Peaks is the River Wyn, cutting through Humbershire on its journey east to the Lyre Estuary. The Wyn boasts giant crabs with some allegedly growing to a formidable fifteen feet. But if you're tempted to go crabbing, beware of the water spirit Catharine Wart, who drags unsuspecting victims beneath the Wyn's currents.

Bidburn Orchard

Nestled within an oxbow is Bridburn Abbey's apple orchard. The monks began with the principle of ora et labora, or 'pray and labour,' but if it also produces apples so delicious and plentiful that kings from across the seas are willing to pay a pretty sum for them, then who are the Valynites to say no? Whether it's Wyn's blessed waters or the lay brothers' tireless work, the orchard certainly hasn't hindered the abbey's rise to fame and fortune. Just don’t get caught scrumping from it, or the monks will have your hand off.

Bridburn Abbey

Bridburn Abbey houses the Valynite Order, which seems more preoccupied with power and business than strictly worship. With extensive landholdings and significant influence in the region, the abbey functions as the principal rural manor of Wolderness. As a result, it has become the largest and wealthiest abbey in all of Humbershire. But beyond just collecting tithes from the surrounding peasants, the monks are skilled in land management, particularly in assarting the land of trees and marshes.

Firley Village

Firley Village, named after the fir trees that once grew in the area, is an agricultural settlement situated on the glebe of Bridburn Abbey.

A large plot of common land lies to the west of the village, while smaller plots are located south on the opposite bank of the River Wyn. While the villagers grow a rotation of barley and vegetables, they're best known for they're prized oxblood-coloured sheep, whose wool appears black but shines red when catching the light. You'd think the village would grow fat from the wealth of this highly sought-after wool, but as the village falls under the manorial holding of the abbey, it is the abbey that reaps the wealth.

Grinholm Mill

Grinholm Mill, a growing hamlet owned by the Rolleston family, offers a much more reasonable miller's toll compared to the one up by Bridburn Abbey. They've become quite popular amongst the peasants of Wolderness, (well at least by miller standards), as well as wealthy. Although they pay their tithe to the abbey like everyone else on this side of the river, they are perceived to have undermined the abbey’s milling soke monopoly—much to the abbey displeasure.

Skunlington Town

Skunlington is a prominent market town, both wealthy and influential, with a history that stretches back to the First Age. It's located behind a small range of hills that shield it from harsh weather and provides a natural defence, with an added Royal Castle on the highest peak for good measure.

The castle is about the only Royal influence in the town however, as Skunlington holds charters that grant it a degree of autonomy from the Crown. The town is governed by a council of Merchant Guild Aldermen in coalition with the Provost of Skunlington Minster. But despite this apparent independence, the town is practically in the pocket of the Archbishop of Humberthorpe, the capital city of Humbershire.

South of Bridburn Abbey, across the River Wyn, lies the land controlled by Skunlington Minster’s estate (marked in purple on the map). The large tract of empty land between Skunlington and Bridburn Abbey is an ongoing contention, as both estates claim it for their own. The bickering has gone on so long that the land has turned fallow. But the biggest source of contention is how Skunlington controls the river toll for use of its docks, with particularly extortionate prices for Bridburn Abbey. Rumour has it that Bridburn Abbey might just build a whole new town of its own, south of Skunlington, just to avoid paying this toll!

Skunlington Castle was strategically built in the First Age atop the highest hill on Pen-y-Skun for its vantage point overlooking the whole of North Wolderness Dale—crucial in the Woodsy War against the pagans. However, these days it’s the Crown's administrative center for Wolderness, run by the Under-Sheriff. Here, secular law is enforced, tasks such as collecting taxes for the Crown, raising levies, chopping off heads, that sort of thing. There’s a lot of overlap with the ecclesiastical courts however, sometimes resulting in collaboration and other times in clashes.

Skunlington Castle

But it’s not all work. The castle also serves as the hub for the gentry afterall, and they're not exactly know for their hard work. So the castle hosts games, jousts, fairs, that sort of thing, and a bed for when the King comes to visit.

[oldschoolfrp]

It's good to be the king. It's better to be a dragon-mage clan lord. (Arnie Swekel pencils and design, and Glen Angus ink, from Council of Wyrms, AD&D 2e boxed set with rules and unique campaign setting for playing dragons as PCs, written by Bill Slavicsek, TSR, 1994)

[gojuo]

this show went from aemond killing luke (who took out his eye) to purposely killing his brother, because of some drunken joke.

Aemond embarrassed him at the council by also speaking Valyrian fluently and Egg could barely complete a sentence, they were even!

kill a sibling and and not feeling the slightest bit of guilt He takes aegon's dagger and walks away casually as if it wasn't his full brother dying there) about it is something only the worst of the worst would do such as gregor clegane, euron greyjoy and ramsay bolton. it's sick..nothing like stannis and maekar who killed their brothers but had no happiness about it

even daemon targ didn't dare try to kill viserys wtf

we are doomed. we expected complexity between aegond and we received and we received an attempt at fratricide and regicide 😭

It's just not even remotely an interesting or compelling or sympathetic character arc or motivation to me, sorry. I didn't care for Aemond in the book, I loved him in the show out of spite, now I'm back to not caring about him bc this is just not the type of character whose development, whether it be a progression or a regression, I enjoy following. My bridges are burned 😬

Side note maybe but I've noticed how it's Daemon that's getting the sympathetic portrayal concerning his family over his narrative foil Aemond, which, in my opinion, is another aspect of the Greens Condal is taking away and giving to the Blacks that I've been harping on about in posts and tags everywhere lately.

The greatest of his rivals was Daemon Targaryen, the king’s ambitious, impetuous, moody younger brother.

Fire and Blood, p. 354.

As King Viserys had no living son, Daemon regarded himself as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and coveted the title Prince of Dragonstone, which His Grace refused to grant him…but by the end of year 105 AC, he was known to his friends as the Prince of the City and to the smallfolk as Lord Flea Bottom. Though the king did not wish Daemon to succeed him, he remained fond of his younger brother, and was quick to forgive his many offenses.

Fire and Blood, p. 355

Thus did matters stand in King’s Landing late in the year 105 AC, when Queen Aemma was brought to bed in Maegor’s Holdfast and died whilst giving birth to the son that Viserys Targaryen had desired for so long. The boy (named Baelon, after the king’s father) survived her only by a day, leaving king and court bereft... save perhaps for Prince Daemon, who was observed in a brothel on the Street of Silk, making drunken japes with his highborn cronies about the “heir for a day.” When word of this got back to the king (legend says that it was the whore sitting in Daemon’s lap who informed on him, but evidence suggests it was actually one of his drinking companions, a captain in the gold cloaks eager for advancement), Viserys became livid. His Grace had finally had a surfeit of his ungrateful brother and his ambitions.

Fire and Blood, p. 359.

Prince Daemon was not amongst them, however. Furious at the king's decree [naming Rhaenyra heir], the prince quit King's Landing, resigning from the City Watch. He went first to Dragonstone, taking his paramour Mysaria with him upon the back of his dragon Caraxes, the lean red beast the smallfolk called the Blood Wyrm. There he remained for half a year, during which time he got Mysaria with child. When he learned that his concubine was pregnant, Prince Daemon presented her with a dragon's egg, but in this he again went too far and woke his brother's wroth. King Viserys commanded him to return the egg, send his whore away, and return to his lawful wife, or else be attained as a traitor. The prince obeyed, though with ill grace, dispatching Mysaria (eggless) back to Lys, whilst he himself flew to Runestone in the Vale and the unwelcome company of his "bronze bitch." But Mysaria lost her child during a storm on the narrow sea. When word reached Prince Daemon he spoke no syllable of grief, but his heart hardened against the king, his brother. Thereafter he spoke of King Viserys only with disdain, and began to brood day and night on the succession.

Fire and Blood, p. 360.

After Mysaria lost her unborn child, Daemon hated Viserys. He had no love for his brother anymore and began his grooming of an 8-year-old Rhaenyra to get closer to what his biggest wish in life was: the Iron Throne.

Notice how this is not him in the show but Aemond now? The bullying + brothel plotline to make him hate Aegon is not there in the book. In contrast, Aegon, Aemond and Daeron together actually hated the Strong bastards and none of them, especially not Aegon, were friends.

The sins of the fathers are oft visited on the sons, wise men have said; and so it is for the sins of mothers as well. The enmity between Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra was passed on to their sons, and the queen’s three boys, the Princes Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron, grew to be bitter rivals of their Velaryon nephews, resentful of them for having stolen what they regarded as their birthright: the Iron Throne itself. Though all six boys attended the same feasts, balls, and revels, and sometimes trained together in the yard under the same master-at-arms and studied under the same maesters, this enforced closeness only served to feed their mutual mislike, rather than binding them together as brothers.

Fire and Blood, p. 377-378.

It was Viserys actually who hurt Aemond over being dragonless, NOT Aegon.

Only the middle son, Prince Aemond, remained dragonless, but His Grace had hopes of rectifying that, and had put forward the notion that perhaps the court might sojourn at Dragonstone after the funeral. A wealth of dragon’s eggs could be found beneath the Dragonmont, and several young hatchlings as well. Prince Aemond could have his choice, “if the lad is bold enough.” Even at ten, Aemond Targaryen did not lack for boldness. The king’s gibe stung, and he resolved not to wait for Dragonstone.

Fire and Blood, p. 380.

Aemond in the book was also never characterized as lusting after the throne like Daemon was. He's always been presented as a staunch supporter of Aegon's birthright.

One-eyed Prince Aemond, nineteen, was found in the armory, donning plate and mail for his morning practice in the castle yard. “Is Aegon king?” he asked Ser Willis Fell, “or must we kneel and kiss the old whore’s cunny?”

Fire and Blood, p. 397.

The greatest danger was deemed to be Storm’s End, for House Baratheon had always been staunch in support of the claims of Princess Rhaenys and her children. Though old Lord Boremund had died, his son Borros was even more belligerent than his father, and the lesser storm lords would surely follow wherever he led. “Then we must see that he leads them to our king,” Queen Alicent declared. Whereupon she sent for her second son. Thus it was not a raven who took flight for Storm’s End that day, but Vhagar, oldest and largest of the dragons of Westeros. On her back rode Prince Aemond Targaryen, with a sapphire in the place of his missing eye. “Your purpose is to win the hand of one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters,” his grandsire Ser Otto told him, before he flew. “Any of the four will do. Woo her and wed her, and Lord Borros will deliver the stormlands for your brother. Fail—” “I will not fail,” Prince Aemond blustered. “Aegon will have Storm’s End, and I will have this girl.”

Fire and Blood, p. 400.

“You must rule the realm now, until your brother is strong enough to take the crown again,” the King’s Hand told Prince Aemond. Nor did Ser Criston need to say it twice, writes Eustace. And so one-eyed Aemond the Kinslayer took up the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror. “It looks better on me than it ever did on him,” the prince proclaimed. Yet Aemond did not assume the style of king, but named himself only Protector of the Realm and Prince Regent.

Fire and Blood, p. 437.

I know people like using this passage as evidence that Aemond wanted the crown, but this is the only sentence that insinuates such a thought in the entirety of F&B, and it then also gets shots down immediately in the next sentence after. People can yap about how Aemond knows he can’t do or say anything as long as Maelor is alive, but when this one sentence—which gets rebuked pronto anyway—is the only evidence you have for that headcanon vs. Daemon who in the text explicitly and repeatedly is said to want to throne and hate his brother, then it’s just not a supported notion in the text or subtext at all.

That “‘Tis I the younger brother who studies philosophy, history and swords etc. etc.” is also nowhere in the book. This second son complex is just a show invention that used to be Daemon’s in the book now given to Aemond in the show, because of course Condal wants Daemon to be far more sympathetic in the eyes of the audience through exploring his love and guilt towards his brother and Rhaenyra with the Harrenhal hallucinations, rather than Aemond, whose actions snowballed into Blood and Cheese and who has a far better character arc lying in wait if that love and guilt he feels towards his brother post-B&C had actually been his.

Show!Aemond is such a wasted character, really. They had so much potential in him becoming an unhinged, murderous psycho falling into impatiency (reason for leaving KL and Cole unprotected) and mania (reason for carpetbombing the Riverlands) because of the immeasurable guilt he feels for what his actions have caused his family (Kinslaying!! The greatest sin in Westeros!!! Blood and Cheese!! ASOIAF’s most atrocious event that kinda happened because of him a little bit!!!)... And yes, it’s not a justification but it’s a reason for why he would do such monstrous things in the book because that’s just how a young, 19-year-old, emotionally volatile, new-to-the-horrors-of-war Targaryen prince with access to nukes would act like once he’s wholly consumed by the guilt of Blood and Cheese and war and the failure at Rook’s Rest and his brother’s disability therefore he’d become unable to face his family anymore culminating in what’s basically his suicide above the God’s Eye... His obsession with facing Daemon could have been because he feels like he has to redeem himself towards his brother for kinda being the cause of Jaehaerys’ death... but Ryan Condal does not want the viewer’s focus to stay on Blood and Cheese or else that would mean negative feelings towards Daemon and Rhaenyra are validated, and also the Greens can’t love each other and care about each other or how else can Condal portray them as fuckups unworthy of positivity so that the viewer does not get attached to them or root for them? Blood and Cheese and Jaehaerys have practically been forgotten by the Greens and the show by now. Nobody cares anymore! How many times has anyone even said his name? Uggghhhhh.

That love and loyalty the Greens feel for each other was, of course, all propaganda 🙄 Daemon in the book got his somewhat redemption through saving Nettles at the cost of betraying Rhaenyra, so fuck Condal for switching him and Aemond around and fuck Condal for cutting Nettles in order to whitewash Rhaenyra some more. And then stealing the love and loyalty the Greens had to the family and giving it to the Blacks. Ugh.

[localsharkcryptid]

Dragon Rider AU Cast & Dragon List

° = Dragon Rider/Bonded with a dragon

The Kingdom of Orborus

°King Xavier, first of his name (XD)

*XD's name MAY change

°Prince Dream, brother of the king & heir to the throne

The Small Council:

Hand of the King - Eret

Master of Coin - (Currently vacant/To be filled :])

Master of Laws - °Bad B. Halo

Master of Ships - Lord of the Tides, Captain Puffy

Master of Whispers - Karl

Lord Commander of the Kingsguard - °Sam

Lord of the Dragonkeep - °Callahan

Other Important People:

°Sapnap - Member of the Kingsgaurd

°George - Castle lord & member of the royal court, (To be King Consort)

°Foolish - Son to Puffy, Architect & First Mate of Puffy's crew

°Ranboo - Squire to Dream

Boomer - Member of the Kingsgaurd, close friend to Sam

Ponk - Head Physician of the Capital

°Antfrost - Member of the Castle Guard

Velvet - Husband to Antfrost, head cook of he castle

Seapeakay - Squire to Bad

°Skeppy - Member of the Castle Guard

Hannah - Castle Gardner

Tina - Event Coordinator and Overseer of The Capital's Port

°Schlatt - One of the liege lords of the Kingdom, once enemy to the crown

°Quackity - Lord husband to Schlatt, to-be Master of Coin

Charlie - Close confidant to Quackity

Connor - One of Schlatt's bannermen

°Tubbo - Schlatt's only son, currently a ward/squire in the kingdom capital

(14 Dragon Riders)

-----

The Host of The Antarctic Empire

Current Ruler: Emperor °Phliza

Prince °Wilbur - Firstborn son of the emperor, no longer heir to the throne

'Prince' °Tommyinnit - Proclaimed heir to the throne

Other Important People:

°Niki - Head of the Emperor's Guard

Jack Manifold - Member of the Emperor's Guard

Fundy - Ex.Squire to Wilbur, General Advisor and Assistant within the Empire's Castle

HBomb - Husband to Fundy, Head Cook of the Empire's Castle

Eryn - Friend of Tommy's

°Technoblade - Ex. Emperor, now retired from ruling the empire.

(5 Dragon Riders)

Those Unaffiliated With Either Crown:

°Punz - Sellsword

°Purpled - Sellsword, an apprentice of sorts to Punz

----

----

----

The Dragons of Orborus

'The Graceful' - Olympia - Rider: Xavier (XD)

'The Wraith of the West' - Nightmare - Rider: Dream

'The Black Beauty' - Reverie - Rider: Bad B. Halo

'The Warden' - Archon - Rider: Sam

Brightfyre - Rider: Callahan

'The Fireborn' - Ember - Rider: Sapnap

'The Spoiled Wyrm' - Coldsnap/'Snap' - Rider: George

'The Living Storm' - Tempest - Rider: Foolish

Ender - Rider: Ranboo

Floof - Rider: Antfrost

Shatter - Rider: Skeppy

'The Devil' - Falchion - Rider: Schlatt

Lucky Strike/'Lucky' - Rider: Quackity

Beowulf/Beewolf - Rider: Tubbo

Deceased

Crimsonwing - Rider: PVP

Velkesis - Rider: HD

---

The Dragons of The Empire

'The Black Death' 'The Frozen King' - Mourner - Rider: Phliza

'The Musical' - Passerine - Rider: Wilbur

Sunbeam/'Henry' - Rider: Tommy

Spitfire - Rider: Niki

'The Great Dread' 'Queen of the South' - Sibyl - Rider: Technoblade

---

Unaffiliated Dragons

'The Gilded Scourge' - SkyPiercer/'Sky' - Rider: Punz

Champion - Rider: Purpled

---

Note: Dragon titles (i.e the names in ' ') are given mostly by the smallfolk and other people aside from the dragon's actual riders!

---

IT'S DONE, I FINISHED IT!!! THIS IS THE FULL CAST LIST!!!! And it's important to note that while I've named almost every single character on the DSMP - most of them will probably be for name drops or smaller roles in the story, I can't promise full fledged content for everyone as this is a very Dream/XD centric project - regardless though I'm glad I got this done :)

Now I've just gotta design all- *checks notes* 21-23 dragons-- oh boy-

[heckeronincheese]

Wizard Flow

Smoking on that dragon scale fent

Got me speaking in ancient tongues at the drive thru.

Amateur sorcerers pondering their orbs and scrying tablets

I'm fuckin over here pondering my bricks and bands. Merlin ain't got shit on me

He forgot I'm him.

This Zaza has me speaking elvish

Pack of level one goblins tried to run off with my percs smoked their silly green asses with the god particle on my hip

Fought off 50 crack fueled Orcs for the last pint of top shelf tavern fent at the town center.

King called me in for a prophecy of his heroic battle. Told that fuck boi to prophesise deez nuts

Haha

This shit ain't nothing to me man

Fought off a dragon with a fifth of henny and a great sword from temu

Get off me broke boi

The high council must've casted grand amnesia cus they forgot him

I've always been him

Sent That lil potter bitch boy to the shadow realm with my dark elf garbanzo pack

Lil shit had no idea what hit em.

Got more inches on me than a tower of dwarves.

This Zaza has me speaking esoteric horrors beyond comprehension while trying to order a bacon egg n cheese.

Were smoking indigenous elvish fronto leaf off a bottle of mead you stupid piece of shit.

Knights tried to run up on my tower

Smited that tin can fuck with my Balenciaga staff.

This shit ain't nothing to me man

The townsfolk needed a powerful potion

Gave those poor saps a fourloko and some fine middle earth crack and said sort it the fuck out.

Turned my scribe into a rat for touching my Gucci robes

My humonculus be hitting that fat dragon cum dark ranger pack blunt in his jar

Poor fucker found a new religion

The paladin shat himself when checking his scripture.

Bard was talking shit so I casted mend buttcrack on his goofy ass.

I've been flipping bricks before yall entered the third era.

Only dressing my mutton in demon tears

Just so I can feel something slime.

Ops needed initiative

Casted magic missile on their whole quadrant

Movin like Nicholas flamel

This emerald ogre taint blaster 3000 perc got me movin different

This Zaza has me moving like a fuckin cracked out water nymph.

I'm casting spells that'd make Gandalf piss,shit,cum, and most likely cry.

Casted the the spell of 45acp on this ops kneecap

Fuck off slime.

I've seen the third era

I've jerked off in the gates of oblivion for a perc. I'm an animal.

This shit ain't nothing to me man.

The orcs are back.

Fuckin astral projecting to the bodega for a 40 and a swisher

Got the switch on my wand

Smoking that dark evil wyrm blood watered druid fronto leaf out of a lich kings cod piece.

Always have been him

My staff is from H&K get on my level

Goblins had no idea what hit em

Haha.

This shit ain't nothing to me man....

[certifiedskywalker]

She Keeps Me Warm - Rhaenyra Targaryen

nyrathecruel asked: Could I request Rhaenyra x handmaiden!reader where they’re drawn to each other from the moment they meet and bond over their mutual trust issues regarding losing loved ones while slowly falling in love on Dragonstone? Like Nyra is cold and distant with everyone else, hesitant to let anyone in, but she just clicks with reader and whenever they’re alone, Nyra just melts and goes all soft, all affectionate touches and sweet nicknames and tender looks? (Two of my fav nicknames she’d call reader are: my little one, and Perzītsos (little flame) Maybe even a bit of soft smut, though it doesn’t have to be smut if you’re not comfortable

Anonymous asked: Could you do a Rhaenyra x fem stark reader pls :)

A/N: I had TWO IDEAS for these requests! So stay tuned for another fic publishing soon!

They were not well-kept secrets, Daemon’s unsavory proclivities. So, in turn, Rhaenyra went to neither effort to hide her misery nor how you, a simple handmaiden from the North, seemed to be its only remedy. 

“Enter, perzītsos. He has gone.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the low sound of Rhaenyra’s voice and you pulled your ever-listening ear from the ironwood door. Your hand, fumbling with the wiry giddiness of a lightning bolt, found the cool handle and pushed with a turn. Tongues of yellow and orange greeted you with licks of diminished warmth along with the sight of Rhaenyra, bathed in the same glow. She sat, body spread and extended over the plush armchair before the fireplace.

“Apologies, my Princess, I did not wish to intrude on-”

“What have I told you?” 

Her voice was low still, her eyes still fixed on the dwindling flames, as she addressed you. Heat rushed up to your face and washed down like the tides of the Narrow Sea. Your mouth opened slightly before you closed it, your muscles suddenly all-too-alive. Luckily, the Princess of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne, clarified. 

“You must call me Rhaenyra,” she turned to you then, light eyes darkened by the colors of fire and smiling softly. “I will not have you hiding behind formality or dutiful, Northern niceties.”

“Apologies,” you echoed, swallowing hard. “I did not wish to intrude on your lawful husband…having you.” 

Rhaenyra’s smile faded, ebbed into a flatline of stone sternness you recognized from meetings with the maester. “He left before dusk on Caraxes, an hour or so before by which I told you to arrive. There was no having of any sort.”

She moved to her feet then, her shoes knocking against the heated stone floor of her chambers as she approached you like the Blood Wyrm in her crimson gown. Her eyes were squinted slightly, focused on you, your face, reading how your eyes slowly widened with her every careful step. It was the same manner in which she approached you the first time: calculated, a predator eyeing prey. The lightning returned again, sending you into a brewing storm that culminated in Rhaenyra’s lips.

When she stood full before you, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the column of your neck. Your breath hitched immediately, and trepidation caught in your throat.

“Princess,” you whispered, though it sounded more like a gasp. Rhaenyra immediately pulled away from your neck, revealing her furrowed brow and playful scowl. “I still do not understand.”

“My perzītsos, what more is there to understand?” Her hands raced up the bodice of your gown to your neck. Her hands were warm dancing along your most sensitive skin. 

“Prince Daemon-” “Is off sowing dragonseed,” Rhaenyra said, though the ease with which she used the term alarmed you. “Just as my court remains adrift gathering council. All men, all cold, making me colder and I will not have that. I will have you.”

Rhaenyra pressed her lips back against your neck, closer to your jaw. You shivered again, your body knocking against hers instinctively, careening into her warmth. The tip of her nose tickled your skin as her lips went lower, nipping at your collarbone. Your hands rose to her waist, the whaleboning of her corset bodice. Beneath the fabric, you could feel her breathing grow more erratic. Your own breathing grew shallow with excitement, so much so that you pushed the Princess gently away. 

She gave you a worried look, her hands caressing your flushed cheek. “Do you not wish to have me?”

White hot, dragon fire panic shot through your veins. “No, no, I-”

But Rhaenyra was recoiling despite your manic clarification, already reigning in herself, her want. She was cooling into her hardened self, the soul sent off to Dragonstone by the eyes of the critical court in King’s Landing. You had seen it too many times before. How practiced Rhaenyra was as holding parts of herself back.

You reached out, just as she had, with your lips finding her neck first and your hands on her gowned hips. She was stiff under your touch but for a moment until she quickly melted into you as your mouth moved up. You pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek before pulling away, eager to see her pleased, unworried; eager to see the Rhaenyra she only seemed to show you.

“I don’t understand what it means,” you breathed out, not entirely knowing what you yourself meant, only that whatever it was made your heart sing.

Rhaenyra seemed to reach and read the most clouded part of your mind, obscured to even you. Her smile returned in glorious full and you felt your heart tickle in your chest. In turn, you felt your own lips quirk upwards, ready to swallow the newness of it all.

“You mean perzītsos?”

You nodded, unsure at first, but, sure in how it made Rhaenyra smile.

“Perzītsos. Little flame. You burn in me. You keep me warm,” Rhaenyra softened, then, her smile ebbing ever-so-slightly. “In the darkest moments, you keep me alive.”

Without wasting another second lost in the storm, you barreled through and crashed your lips into Rhaenyra’s. It felt like you were falling until you actually were as Rhaenyra pulled you down onto the silken sheets of her bed, and the rest was warm.