#Dragon Age Retribution

[hungee-boy]

i know its not the best quality of hair physics out there but just the fact that bioware can do this..... huge

[attractthecrows]

everyone in thedas: abominations are horrible and evil!!!

me doodling abominations in my notebook surrounded by hearts and sparkles:

[herald-divine-hell]

In 9:41, the Herald of Andraste, Alexandra Caera Trevelyan, began to preach her new Chants to southern Thedas. With the crippling of Chantry authority due to the Mage Rebellion, Orlais' fall into civil war, and Divine Justinia V's assassination, many in Thedas turned to the Herald as their new guiding light, and held fast to her as Andraste's blessed daughter, even with the passing of the Mark.

"Praise be to Your Lord and His Bride, and Their Herald, who bears the Mark, and peace be unto the Believers, who bear witness. They ask of you [Alexandra], 'Surely our Maker would not send a mage, a child nearer to damnation. Surely, he would not send the blood of the murderer that slain His Bride.' Ah, that is but only their desires! Wise is your Lord, who would send a daughter, a daughter who is blood of the two Realms, of Andraste and ancient Elvhenan, of this world and the Unseen." Wise is your Lord, who bore witness to the death of His Chosen, and has arisen something greater, more precious, and has given to all Worlds [to all the people], a gentle Mercy, a fierce Reminder." - [The Disputation, 2:1-21]1

"O', you who Believe, when you come across one of the Elvhen, be of the Dalish or of the Alienage, greet them with Peace, and say onto them, 'Our Lady remembers the Blood of Shartan, and sends Her Love onto her Daughter and onto you. Truly, she [Alexandra] is among the Blood.' [or, truly she is a part of you; or, she is part of the Elves.] Forbidden are the Believers to drink the wine of injustice. When you were of the oppress and among the lost, did your Maker not sent Guidance? Ordained onto Our Herald verily is this: when you see oppression, slay it utterly, and cast it into the Flame, so not even it's ashes can be reborn anew. A covenant is granted, to the elves and Andraste's Daughter. Restored are the Dales, and protected in trust by Andraste's Chosen, to the children of Elvhenan. Forbidden are the Lesser Thrones [Orlais, Ferelden, etc.] and Sanctified Seats [the White and Black Divines] to deny the Throne [the Maker] of anything, which They have revealed onto you [Alexandra]. Among the Elves who ascend such a covenant, with their hands clasped onto Our Herald, Our Hands are clasped onto theirs, and Truly We know what is in their hearts. So let all broken oaths before you [Alexandra] become fallen leaves cast away by the wind, and let any who make oaths, unto the Maker, and unto the Flame-veiled Bride, and Her Blessed Daughter [the Herald], and whose heart is free and aware, retain their oaths, evermore. Love and Peace and Justice and Compassion, We have ordained onto those who believe. This is the near insurmountable pass, of which we have revealed onto you. Engraved this into your hearts, for your Lord is All-Aware, All-Knowing." - [The Covenant of the Elves, 10:1-43]2

_

Note 1: The Disputation occurs when the Herald of Andraste first arrives at Val Royeux to meet and treat with the remaining Grand Clerics, which ultimately leads to the Chantry's condemnation of the Inquisition and Alexandra as heretics. Alexandra denies their claims and condemns the Chantry for denying her divinely-sanctioned role, citing the wisdom in Andraste choosing a half-elf mage to be her Herald, especially after the Mage Rebellion.

Note 2: The Covenant of the Elves occurs after the Inquisition establishes control over the Exalted Plains. Here, Alexandra reaffirms to the Dalish, and elves in southern Thedas, that the Dales belong to them, and that no nation or religious authority outside of Alexandra, as Andraste's Herald, has any right to remove the Elvish claims to the Dales, or have any right to dispute Alexandra's decisions. Alexandra also forgives any broken oaths that were made before her Heraldship, especially the commitments of the Mages to aid the Chantry and reside in the Circles. She also tactfully installs the theological belief that she must also be called upon when oaths are made. Pledging onto the Maker and Andraste is not enough. Pledging onto her as Andraste's living representative is also significant. Alexandra also discusses, briefly, on matters of ethics, referred to as the "near insurmountable pass", such as being compassionate and following justice, and that creation will struggle to follow through, but will overcome it in time.

[beeapocalypse]

do not think i have talked abt cholla here either. sphinx who was made a knight of ve-corpsis (basically just showed up demanding it and nobody was brave enough to say no because of the threat of fluisau hovering right behind them) and then went on a meandering countryside murder spree where nobody dared to strike them down for fear of divine retribution until belrath eventually confronted them + beheaded them despite fluisaus rage. had genuinely believed themself unkillable and accepted belraths challenge to a duel with a smile

[witchthewriter]

𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!  

a/n: not a soul mate au, but I can write those if anyone wants! Oh, and Aemond is in his 20s.

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

・Aemond had always been pessimistic. Even from a young age.

・His family was to blame but more so, it was the trauma of losing his eye.

・Although he told everyone it was worth it as he gained a dragon, there was still a fracture in his soul

・He was heartbroken, that his cousins had crossed a line.

・And along with his physical scar, one of revenge was also scarred within him.

・Aemond, although dutiful, also craved something. Love. He'd never admit it, but it was love. And he promised himself to never pursue it.

・That changed.

・Not suddenly and maybe not completely

・But it changed to the point that he no longer sought retribution. The hot, bitter hatred had begun to cease with each interaction he had with you.

・Such softness you had for him. It was foreign. Even Alicent had her impatience and snapped at him from time to time.

・But you did not. You never did such things. He was apprehensive with you because he was waiting for that moment to arrive. For the calmness to dissipate.

・So there was always a wide birth between the two of you.

・And you let him have his space. He was royalty after all. A Targaryen prince, you could not make him do anything he did not want to.

・But even that changed.

・Someone had insulted you, on your appearance. A lord from a small House, visiting King's Landing.

・And although Aemond had not spoken to you in weeks, he would not hear a bad word come out of anyone's mouth.

・So Aemond absolutely dragged the man until the whole table was laughing at him. Bringing up illegitimate children, visiting whorehouses, talking about the secrets that could get him killed.

・Aemond did not care.

・And in that moment, everyone saw that you were off limits. Even if that was not Aemond's intention.

・In the following weeks, Helaena in all her gentleness and confusingness, beckoned Aemond to pursue you.

・He did so slowly, asking to take a walk with you on the castle grounds. Then came the presents, small ones - a flower on your bed with a note from him.

・Helaena seemed to be his greatest advisor on you.

・There was always a sense of tension with Aemond, but you went with it. Not overstepping or pushing. In truth, you were scared he'd be too overwhelmed and leave you.

・Aemond took the next steps: dinners, outings, even giving you jewellery.

・It wasn't until you gently cupped his cheek one afternoon, that he nearly shattered. The words nearly slipped from his mouth. I love you.

But he needed to know if this was a ruse:

Aemond didn't believe you were serious. That you truly loved him, wholeheartedly. Even he did not love himself. So, he took a piece of your hair and went to a known sorceress.

"I need to know if their words are true. I need to know if this is a trick."

"No trick, my lord," was the old woman's reply. Even in the dim light there was a certain energy around her. That Aemond swore he could ... see.

"How do I know you aren't lying?" His voice was barely above a whisper. But there was demand in it.

"You have given me what I asked for. I have no reason to lie. And to a royal dragon rider no less."

Aemond was silent. Letting the knowledge wash over him.

"You would do well to keep them by your side. A love like that is one in a lifetime."

・Once he was convinced, Aemond ran to you. Grabbing your hand and finding a private place to talk.

"I love you," he was breathless.

・The old dragon Vhagar does not know your face, but knows your smell. She allows you to ride with Aemond because she's aware of your bond.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Love language is physical touch (You) x Is touch starved (Aemond)

"Ohhh so you hate me?" (You) x *I'll never love anyone this much again* (Aemond)

 Golden Retriver (You) x Black Cat (Aemond) 

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

You Fell First, He Fell Harder

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley

True Love's Kiss by James Newton Howard

To Bring You My Love by PJ Harvey

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point, I bloody mean it. 

・Not a rough lover, no. Not unless you have been teasing him.

・Then he becomes ravenous.

・So really, it's up to you. If you want soft Aemond, then give him respect, love, admiration.

・But if it's rough Aemond you desire, then grab his thigh, inch too close to his cock then move your hand and suck your fingers - do this in front of many people and his eye will be as cold as the sapphire one.

・Aemond loves your body.

・The softness, the warmth.

・Whenever Aegon asked about Aemond's 'type,' all he could say was, "I want someone who is more."

・His crushes on servants, maids, messengers etc were all ones with more curves. He loved imagining their plump round ass stuck in the air, waiting for him to plough them.

・When you know he's had a rough day, or he's been gone for a while, you'll be naked and ready on the bed for him.

・And it's a sight to behold. He imagines it whenever you aren't near. Because even the thought of you, naked and waiting, can bring him to his knees.

・Aemond loves holding your hands above your head, and nudging your thighs apart. Commanding you to keep your hands in the air, he moves down your body, kissing as he goes along, until he's at your sex.

・With a hot, wet tongue he loves teasing you. Making you beg for him, for his cock, for him to be inside you.

・Because that's when you feel the most whole. When your bodies are encased in each other.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (17)

The Legend of Gahaelon and Aeremys

After being reunited after so long, Aemond has one request of Arianwyn: to read him a story.

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

Warnings: none

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Arianwyn could have spent the rest of her life with her face pressed against Aemond’s cheek, savoring the feeling of his strong arms around her and inhaling his familiar scent of parchment and steel – now laced with brimstone. But the commotion from the Velaryon arrival was fading, and she knew the crowd’s attention would soon be drawn to the prince openly embracing a young lady in a way that was not entirely proper. She opened her eyes and pulled away from him. Still, he did not break contact, keeping his arms firmly around her waist.

As expected, those in the training yard and on the ramparts were staring at them—knights, courtiers, servants… and her stepbrothers.

Luke still cowered behind his brother, fearful now that the uncle he mutilated had become such a fierce warrior. Jace was far less intimidated. His stare was filled with the promise of retribution, and Arianwyn knew that as soon as he had the chance, he would report everything he had seen to Daemon.

Desperate to escape those dark, prying eyes, Arianwyn shyly looked back up at Aemond. “Do you need to return to your training?” she asked, “I believe Ser Criston is waiting for you.”

For a moment, she thought Aemond would not respond. He just stood there, looking at her as if she were some mythical being. Like he wasn’t entirely convinced she was real. “No,” he said, his voice low and soft, a rich sound that seemed to rumble through Arianwyn’s chest like thunder through the sky. “I have been here since dawn; I am long overdue for a break.”

With that, he took her hand and surged up the stairs, pulling her with him into the passageways of the Red Keep. Arianwyn was so delighted to be with him again, her jubilant laughter echoing off the stone walls, that she did not realize where he was leading her until they came to the door.

Her door.

She released her hand from Aemond’s and laid it on the dark wood. “Why have you brought me here?” she asked, tracing the runes they had carved into the door years ago to ward off monsters and spirits.

Aemond was nearly silent beside her, but she felt his presence as if it were the air she breathed. A heavy but welcome weight upon her heart – a perfect embrace. “They are your rooms. I thought you would be eager to see them again.”

She turned back to him and could not suppress her smile. After all these years, they were together again. They stood before the rooms in which they spent half of their youth. It felt like it was meant to be. As if they were always fated to be here again.

“Surely they belong to someone else now,” she said. “It has been eight years.”

A subtle smile spread across his lips, not the broad, toothy grin she remembered as he reached around her to open the door. Then, he stepped back and motioned for her to enter. She did so hesitantly, half-expecting them to be walking in on some stranger’s afternoon tea.

They did not.

Her solar looked precisely as she remembered it.

The same furniture, the same curtains and tapestries. Her old cloak, made of thick brown wool and lined with bear fur, was still draped over her favorite reading chair. Two ancient bronze swords, their fullers engraved with Runes, still hung above the fireplace. Hanging from their handles, tied with faded green ribbon, were scraps of parchment bearing Aemond’s writing – the translation of the Runes they had written years ago.

Arianwyn approached the mantle, reaching out to read the note written in Aemond’s youthful scrawl. The paper was brittle with age, but the ink had not faded. When she tied them on so many years ago, she had not realized that he had drawn a figure, whom she could only assume was the prince himself, wielding the blades as he defended a long-haired maiden from some shapeless beast.

“How?” she asked, unable to tear herself from the artwork.

Aemond came to her side, the space between them sizzling like air broken by dragonfire. “Ser Gerold wanted to empty it and bring everything back to Runestone after he and Lady Arryn failed to secure your release. I would not allow it,” he murmured. “Though he and mother lost hope after that, I knew that eventually, you would return to me… and to all of us.”

She, at last, looked away from the note but remained with her back to Aemond as she stared into the long-cold ashes in the fireplace. “I came close to losing hope as well.” So many times throughout those years, she would fall into loneliness and despair, and not even Brynna or Ser Adrew could draw her out. “I would have, were it not for your letters.”

Knowing that he was still out there, that he still thought of her each day and cared enough to send long, thoughtful letters even when he was infirm, was like the sun breaking through dark, stormy clouds. Each piece of fine parchment bearing his seal was a lifeline she clung to, each one still resting in a trunk in her tower, just below her favorite window. She would read them so often, not only for the lack of books at Dragonstone but –

“What is that?” As she turned to face him, her eyes were drawn to the far corner of the solar, where her bookshelves had once been. Upon closer inspection, she realized they were still there, only now buried within a massive pile of neatly stacked books so high it nearly reached the ceiling.

“That,” Aemond said, setting his hands on her shoulders and leading her across the room, “is eight years of reading for you to catch up on.”

“You cannot be serious!” Arianwyn let out a barking laugh as she craned her neck to take in the entire pile. It was so tall that she would not be able to reach half the books without assistance from someone taller. She took a step back, coming to rest against Aemond’s chest. “You’ve read all of this since I’ve been gone?”

“I’ve read more,” he replied with a smug smile that she could not see but heard in the lilt of his voice. “These are just those I thought you would like, or wanted to discuss with you, or… what I wanted to hear you read aloud.”

At that, Arianwyn turned to face him, the corner of her mouth quirking/”::: up in a wicked grin. She raised her brows in an expression of mock pity. “Are you still struggling with the big words?”

Aemond did his best to scowl at her, but it quickly faltered and morphed into that new small smile of his. “Not for years, Aria.”

Her laughter faded when he laid a hand on her waist, guiding her backward until she was pressed against the wall of books, and he raised one hand above her head. He was so close – their lips so near to meeting. All she had to do was lift her chin ever so slightly.

But before she could truly consider doing so, Aemond pulled away. He held a small grey book, a ribbon hanging from within. He tugged on it, coaxing it open to the page he had marked. “Some stories require your voice to do them justice.”

Arianwyn glanced down at the book. It was a collection of Valyrian myths, illustrated with lovely gilt illuminations. She did not recognize the title, The Legend of Gahaelon and Aeremys.

“Will you read it to me?” Aemond asked, as reverently as if it were a prayer.

Entranced by the intensity of his gaze, Arianwyn nodded. She slipped past him and walked to the velvet couch where they had often read together. The fabric had faded slightly but was kept clean enough. She sat in her usual place on the right, where she so often laid her head against the armrest while commanding Aemond what to write down.

After a moment spent simply staring at her, Aemond sat in his place on her left.

The air between them – smaller than she had remembered – crackled with something that would only take a single spark to ignite as she opened the book once more. Then, with one more furtive glance at Aemond, Arianwyn began to read:

“The island of Aethios was one of the greatest jewels of the Valyrian Freehold. The sands of the beaches sparkled as if made from pure gold, the forests lush and green, and the dragons raised on its shores grew large and strong.

This paradise was ruled by the dragonriders of House Cephaeos. Its Lords ruled wisely and justly for hundreds of years, making the island the greatest power in the Narrow Sea. It was even said by some that the Cephaeosi had made a deal with the Merling King to ensure the tides were always in their favor, for no man alive could remember a ship bearing its blue-scaled sails ever meeting a bitter end. 

But so many years of good fortune so easily won often breed weak leaders. At the height of Aethios’ power, its throne fell to Lord Aeravon – whose most demanding trial came when he had to settle a dispute over the ownership of four crab traps. He was a boastful man, certain that the glory and honor won by his ancestors was also his to bear.

One day, Aeravon was feeling particularly prideful and boasted to his court that so great was the might of House Cephaeos that even the smallest of his family’s dragons – a young beast with scales the white of sea foam which his daughter had only just taken to wing – could surely best and devour any of the Merling King’s monsters.

The court fell silent. Surely their Lord would not be so foolish as to provoke the wrath of the Merling King? Aeravon’s advisors begged him to rescind his words, but it was too late.

A great wave, taller than the topless towers of Valyria itself, crashed over the castle, bringing the pale stone roof down upon Aeravon’s court. Then, the Merling King himself stood before Aeravon’s throne.

“Your tongue wags with dangerous words, boy,” the Merling King said, pointing his three-pronged spear at the prideful Lord. “You have no respect for the sea which I command nor for my children who you now insult without shame. For this, you must pay a price equal to the offense. Bring forth the dragon of which you speak, and we shall see how it fares against the youngest of my children.”

The Lord’s daughter, Aeremys, pleaded with her father to beg the forgiveness of the Merling King so he would spare her beloved dragon, but he ignored her desperate cries. He had been issued a challenge in his own castle, and his pride would not let him refuse.

The young dragon was brought to the throne room bound in heavy chains. The pitiful beast trembled in fear along with its rider when the Merling King lifted a clawed hand to summon his child.

The court cried out when one massive webbed foot, the size of a fishing boat, seized the side of the cliffs behind Aeravon’s throne. Another followed, and the blood-red head of the Caetus came into view. It loosed a horrible roar from its mouth, filled with jagged teeth longer than ballista bolts. The ladies of the court fainted as the beast hauled its enormous body over the edge of the cliff, propelling itself towards the castle with startling speed.

All that is, except for Aeremys, who continued to cry out for her poor dragon. As the creature was devoured, chains and all, by the fearsome Caetus, it was said that her wail shattered every piece of glass on the island.

Lord Aeravon looked on with unbridled terror at the dreadful might of even the Merling King’s youngest. His skin paled as white as his hair when the Merling King again pointed his spear at him.

“Foolish man,” the Merling King said. “To think that your feeble beasts could pose a threat to my children. You and your people will suffer for your vanity.”

Even Aeravon cried when the Caetus reached out and grabbed Aeremys, carrying her away from the castle and the island as quickly as it arrived.

“You shall watch as your innocent child is devoured by my waters,” the Merlin King decreed. “Only when your heart is broken, and you cry out to your fickle gods to save you, will I grant you the mercy of death. You. Your family. Your people. Your very island shall fall to my power.”

The ground beneath the island rumbled, and great spouts of water began to spray from the cracks in the throne room tile. But Aeravon was blind to the suffering of his people. All he could see was the stone pillar that had emerged from the sea, where his beloved daughter lay naked and chained, exposed to the roiling storm that had formed around the island.

He cried to the gods, begging them to spare her, begging them to spare him and his people and the island of his ancestors. They did not listen.

Aeremys resigned herself to a painful death, anticipating the sting of salt water in her lungs or the burn of lightning on her skin. But death did not come.

Her eyes, which she had kept tightly closed since the slimy hands of the Caetus closed around her, opened to find the rain falling upon her had ceased. Instead, she beheld the gleaming silver scales of the largest dragon she had ever seen, set aglow by the light of the storm.

Astride the dragon’s back was a fearsome warrior she had met once before. Gahaelon of House Belaerys, The Silver Knight of Valyria, who had flown the entirety of the world atop his steed, Tyvaros. There was no monster he could not slay.

As if it sensed the prowess of the new arrival, the Caetus again emerged from the sea, diving with an open mouth towards Gahaelon and his dragon.

“Dracarys!” Gahaelon shouted, and his dragon obeyed. A great cone of white flame enveloped the monster, boiling the water from its very blood. As the Caetus wailed for its father to save it, Tyvaros charged, allowing Gahaelon to carve it from tooth to tail with his greatsword, Aemandra.

Before the two halves of the beast could fall into the water, Gahaelon leaped from Tyvaros’ back, using the bloodied sword to cleave Aeremys’ chains and set her free. He held her close as he wrapped her in his cloak to hide her nakedness before mounting them both upon Tyvaros.

“Come, let us save your father!”

“No!” Aeremys replied. “He has made his choice. Let him suffer the consequences.” Gahaelon needed no convincing beyond the rage he found in her eyes.

The Merling King watched as the silver dragon flew away from his storm. Though he mourned the loss of the Caetus, he remembered how Aeremys begged her father to apologize and how she cried when her dragon was devoured. He watched as Gahaelon gently kissed the tears from her cheeks with a love the Merling King had not felt in millennia. Such a love deserved mercy, he resolved.

Then, the Merling King unleashed his ultimate wrath on the island of Aethios, reducing it and its people to stones and sand that sunk to the bottom of his sea.”

Aemond barely heard the story, though he knew Aria read it beautifully. She always did. But as she read, she had shifted closer and closer to him, and he to her. He could focus on little else but the way her head rested on his shoulder, his chin nestled in her hair.

She froze momentarily as if she, too, realized how dangerously close they were. Yet she didn’t pull away.

Emboldened, he slowly moved the arm he had slung over the back of the couch down until his hand was on her waist. She did not hesitate to lean back into his chest. Though his heart raced, and he was sure she could feel it, Aemond felt calmer and more at ease than he had in years.

“I never thanked you for the book of Runes you sent,” Aria whispered as she let the book fall into her lap.

Aemond took her hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “There is no need to thank me, Aria,” he kept his voice soft, too, as if any noise may shatter the small piece of paradise they found themselves in. “If anything, I should be the one to thank you for the gift you gave me.”

“Do you have it with you?” She looked up at his eyepatch as if she could see what lay beneath.

“I do,” he answered, though he was unsure if he wanted to show her. The last time she had seen what remained of his eye, she had fainted. He did not want her to be as afraid of him as so many were.

But then she looked at him with those perfect silver eyes brimming with fondness and reached with hesitant fingers for the edge of his scar. “Can I see it?”

How could he deny the woman he loved? How could he ever think she could fear him? Keeping one arm around her waist, he reached for the patch.

The moment his fingers touched the leather, the door to the room swung loudly open.

In an instant, Aemond realized how they must look, entangled in each other, alone in an empty room. Suddenly desperate to protect her reputation, he hastily uncoiled his arm from her waist and stood from the couch, leaving Arianwyn dazed by his sudden retreat.

Turning to the door, he was greeted by a smiling Queen Alicent, followed by Helaena and her children.

Perfect timing, he thought wryly as he forced an innocent smile to his face.

[osatokun]

Decided to put pictures from one session together. First 5 are mine, last 3 are drawn by @maria-ruta This is the session where Charlie had to come to the changeling court to fight the Dragon, Everyone had their own motivations. Sidhe were happy to find an idiot who challenged the Dragon, a banal chimera. The Dragon is here for more than 20 years, he shapes the story as he please and changelings trusts him. The sidhe (it seems) wanted to kill him but not by themselves. Simple changelings it was a retribution, a vampire who killed another changeling had to be punished. Charlie tried to save a changeling who lost his time (aged to 60 in a month) and asked technocrats for help. Technocrat's healing helped the boy, but put changeling in him in sleep, as mages saw changelings a disease that had to be cured. And for Charlie and Dragon it was a fight for Glinda's freedom. Charlie fell in love with Glinda almost from the start, but all he wanted for her is to be free. And in the end Charlie got a weapon with the demon inside, at the edge of the death he made a contract with the demon, so everyone could live but the Dragon will be turned into a simple human. Demon used Charlie's body to escape, the old vampire who kept the demon prisoned threw malkavian in the bay and he had to swim to the shore,beaten up and legless. Luckily he was able to mentally call his friend Johnny, who found him and brought him home

[trebuchet151]

Giving myself and all of you whiplash with how fast im jumping between hyperfixations rn, but dragon age and fallen hero have me in a pretty equivalent chokehold.

Heres some old art of Corey, my sidestep. They've had several design changes and a gender crisis since I made this last year

Various stages of Corey evolution. Bonus post-crash retribution under the cut. Content warning for blood

[winterstellars]

sins of the son | part iii

15,506 w (entire fic is 55,619) | aemond x nameless fem oc (can also be read as reader insert) | 6.14.24 | the first two parts can be found in full on ao3

content warning for violence in this excerpt. if reading the full fic on ao3, please be mindful of the tags!

What could you possibly kill that you love so much it would make the sun rise again?

—Succession S2E10, written by Jesse Armstrong

Harrenhal stands out from the gray-brown muck of the Riverlands like a lonely gravestone: bitter, ugly, twisted. Aemond can just barely see the broken towers and melted stone walls, the work of his ancestors, as Vhagar pierces the clouds and descends upon the castle. It is for the best that the weather has put a thick haze between them and the countryside. If it were clearer, he might be able to see the villages. The farms. Small huts where simple people live. It is best not to think of them as people, what with the orders he and Criston have. It is best not to think of them at all.

Her hands, which have been anchored to his tunic since they left the capitol, finally uncurl when Vhagar touches the ground. The tension dissipates as he helps her down from the rigging. She is a bright bloom of life against the dull backdrop of snow and steel. Soldiers cross the courtyard carrying supplies, lighting torches, draping green-and-gold banners with the three-headed dragon sigil emblazoned upon them. Nightfall is close—the clouds hide the glow that should be a sunset—and every bone in his body aches for a bed and a pile of quilts and furs.

“My prince.” Cole, though muddy from the march, is as sharp and meticulous as ever. “The castle is secure. The scouts have not seen any men within a league of here. They likely retreated when they saw our advance.”

She makes a small humming noise in the back of her throat. “They know this land better than we do.”

Cole makes no reply, but Aemond can see a small muscle by his ear go taut. He will not do any of them the disservice of pretending as though Cole would approve of her presence. To him, she represents an uncomfortable inconvenience. Neither as shameful nor as easy to overlook as one of Aegon’s whores, but still. Inconvenient. A blemish on Aemond’s honor, if such honor ever truly existed.

“My lady.” It is a generous allowance coming from Cole. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable inside.”

“I’ll stay,” she murmurs, holding Aemond’s arm, thumb stroking over the crisp leather. He can feel her gentle stability, the sureness of her presence. His wife, he thinks, his queen. 

“These are the prisoners?” He gestures to a pack of men in fetters, closely guarded. Many sport gray hair and long-healed scars from wars of the past along with fresh cuts and bruises. Others are barely old enough to swing a sword, scrawny and unsure of themselves, the same age as Luke had been—

He kills that thought in its infancy. Storm, sun, blood. It feels more like a nightmare than a memory now.

“What’s left of House Strong,” Cole replies, disdain dripping from his words. “They await the king’s justice.”

He can feel her watching him. He dares not look back. He and Cole know full well what their orders are. They know that the king’s justice knows nothing of mercy and everything of retribution.

“I’ll have the servants make up a room for us. You can rest. I’ll find you,” he tells her, but as soon as he speaks, she shakes her head. Firm, sure, unflinching. Sometimes her conviction ought to frighten him. 

“I rode to war with you,” she says. “I expected war.”

“Have you ever seen a man die?”

Her mouth moves, almost resembling a smile, but her eyes are far too steely for there to be any hint of joy. “You won’t scare me.” 

He couldn’t, he realizes, even if he tried. There are no shadows in which he can hide from her gaze. All of his rage, his grief, and his love has been laid bare in front of her, and she has not fled from him. What he must do will not change anything. She has seen him as a killer and still loves him all the same, still touches him as though his hands have never committed any sin.

The first man the guards bring forward has a mop of brown curls with spots of gray by his forehead. His doggish nose is split with a fresh break. He does not look at Aemond, but that is for the best. This man is a ghost from another world, some wretched glimpse of what Luke might have been like had he lived. A silver wedding band perches on his ring finger, and a piece of red ribbon is tied around his wrist. It is a simple thing. A little trifle. Something a child might gift a father.

Traitor, traitor, traitor, Aemond chants to himself, embedding the word into his heart. It does no good to let himself imagine what kind of person this man might be. He makes himself think of his mother, of Helaena, of Jaehaera and little Maelor. Their safety comes at a price he will always be willing to pay.

“Your name, Ser?” Criston asks for him. He is silently grateful; if he tried to speak now, he would not know what to say.

The man keeps his face lowered, shoulders hunched, all signs of fight drained out of him. “Harrold Strong.”

“You command the garrison here?”

“I do.”

Aemond draws his sword, the steel singing in the crisp winter air. He sees her standing off to the side. Her breath turns to mist as though she could breathe smoke and fire, fiercer and darker than even Vhagar. If she can be a dragon, he must be one too.

“Harrold Strong, your house has betrayed the crown and has conspired in treason against the king. In accordance with the law, your lives are forfeit. You and your men have been sentenced to the king’s justice.”

So slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, Harrold Strong looks up at him. Stares. Raises his chin.

“You the king, lad?”

Aemond ought to offer him better dying words, but when he searches inside himself, any pity has evaporated. He has his sword raised in the space of one heartbeat, and in the next, head falls away from body and blood coats the earth. Though he can see Criston’s mouth moving, there is nothing but a great, piercing silence in his head. The guards bring another man—no, not a man, a boy not even Daeron’s age—forward. The boy is crying. A pair of soldiers come for the pieces of Harrold Rivers. One drags his body off by his arms, the other scoops his head up, careful not to touch his neck. Aemond breathes in and tastes metal on the air.

It is past nightfall when they finish. His shoulders burn from the effort of it all. Blood pools along the cobblestones, draining outwards in little rivers. She is there when it is over, arms crossed, serene as a statue, the hem of her dress stained indelibly red.

read the rest on ao3

[quindread]

DISCREPANCIES

Yet another Daminette post.

An actual fic this time. IDK if this will remain a one-shot or nah.

It’s not everyday you discover that the person you are undeniably attracted to is a retired hero. Damian did not know whether to feel horrified or relieved.

This was Jason’s fault like always. He just had to go and befriend Marinette as his alter-ego. And somehow that ended up with her outing her past so she could purge the pit madness out of him because she was kind and generous like that.

But who was he kidding, Damian was happy for his older brother. This was Jason’s chance at normal life. Besides, demoting him back to Peter sounded like an appropriate retribution anyways.

Now, Spoiler, Orphan, and Red Hood were on Marinette’s balcony as was agreed upon. Since Marinette was familiar enough with Damian and his mask could only cover so much, Robin was relegated to chair duty since it was too risky to have him in the meeting. So he wormed his way into a task he would normally leave to the other members of his team to be able to observe - babysit - his siblings in fear that they would scare Marinette off.

Through the Bat-computer, Red Hood could be seen knocking four times against Marinette’s glass door when the clock struck ten. Not a second later and it slid open.

Damian did not expect to see a topless blond. And so did everyone else it seems from the sound of gasps coming from inside the cave and the monitors. He could not even imagine any guy close to Marinette without the risk of popping a vein. But there he was, gaping at the view of an unknown guy his age standing in her apartment.

“Oh, hey. It’s the batfam!” The man grinned like it was completely normal to have three vigilantes on what was supposed to be a lone woman’s balcony. “Come in! Mari’s waiting in the living room.”

Mari?

An invisible weight dropped against Damian’s stomach. This guy was apparently on nickname basis with Marinette.

The footage shook slightly as his siblings step foot into Marinette’s home. He ignores the pit in his stomach in favor of taking in every detail he could. Cream walls, random trinkets, vintage decorations, and a painting he recognized as a gift her gave her, framed and hanged beside a vase of irises. The weight in his chest seem to dissipate at the sight.

Then the footage pans to the topless guy again as he opens a door. He could hear Timothy whistle in appreciation and Damian would have shivered in disgust if the monitor did not currently have the vision that is Marinette Dupain-Cheng plastered on it.

She stands and smiles and Damian could only stare. He was glad the monitors were generations better than the ones his father originally used. He could see how her eyes crinkle into half moons as she greets his siblings.

“Sit wherever you like.” Her voice sounded just as refreshing coming from speakers.

His siblings all settle around on their chosen seats. From Spoiler’s view, the topless blond is seen leaning against adjacent wall. Where the fuck is his shirt?

“Uh, is he supposed to be here?” Spoiler points at the guy and Damian takes note of this, she did always support him in his paltry romance endeavors.

“Oh! This is Adrien Graham de Vanily—“ Ah, yes the next name to be added in Damian’s ledger. “—but you may know him as the first Chat Noir.”

Oh.

That changed everything. Marinette told Hood about her relationship and role in the Court. She mentioned that she was closest to the cats and the dragon - they had a good camaraderie. They were teammates. Friends. Just friends.

But why in the world was he without a shirt? Does he not have any decency, lounging there like he was some sort of nudist? Is this some datum of friendship Damian was not aware of?

“And why is he…?” Yes, Stephanie asking the right questions.

Marinette eyes her friend and sighs. “Ah, we were—“

“We were in the middle of a very heated debate,” Graham says with a smirk and Damian swear he could see crimson. He squeezes his armrest hard.

Footsteps sound from his back. “Dames, it’s probably nothing—“

“Fuck off, Drake.”

“Okay! Woah. Last names. Geez, you really like her.” Before Damian could respond, a smack echoes through the cave.

On the monitor, Marinette is shown standing by Graham as she slaps him on the arm repeatedly. It sounded like music to Damian’s ears.

“Stop.“

Smack.

“Saying.“

Smack.

“Stuff“

Smack.

“Like“

Smack.

“That.“

Smack.

“People will get the wrong idea!” Marinette admonishes but her efforts are futile as Graham laughs louder at every contact of her hand against his skin. She faces Damian’s siblings with a slight flush on her face.

“We really were debating,” she says.

“About what exactly.” Red Hood drawls in amusement. “And did he really need to be shirtless for it?”

“It was to prove a point!” Graham exclaims.

“And the point being; you lose!” Marinette slaps him again.

“You’re biased! I’m literally a model!”

“Ex-model!”

“B—I—A—S—E—D.”

“Am not!”

Graham sticks a finger into each of his ears. “Your biased opinions are painful. I gonna get tinnitus,” he snickers and that seems to stop Marinette from hitting him again. Shame, it was beginning to get entertaining.

She glares at him for a second which just seemed to amuse Graham even further.

“You know what,” Marinette starts. “You can call me biased and I won’t give a fuck.” Damian definitely did not get hooked at the way she cursed.

Marinette pokes Graham’s chest before taking a huge breathe.

“Because for me, Damian Wayne is way hotter than you.”

.

.

.

Tim gasps beside him. “Holy shit.”

Holy shit, indeed.

Damian sat there, fully aware that he was probably as red as the accents on his suit. His head was ringing with embarrassment and he swears that he might get thermal shock if he tries to breathe in the drafty air from the cave.

And Marinette was not even finished. She pokes at Graham with ferocity - her every word clear with conviction.

“You may have abs but Damian was literally carved by the Gods.”

Damian disagrees but preens at the compliment anyways.

“I will die happily after he lets me take a body shot off of him.”

She can’t! Damian would be the one doing the dying the moment her tongue touches his abdomen. And he has been through it before, what’s one more if this is the particular cause of death?

“So, you do wanna bone him!” Graham exclaims smartly.

“Kwami! Yes, I do! Can this discussion wait another time?!” Marinette shoves him this time. Damian can hear his heartbeat drumming in his ears.

“But why don’t you?!”

Good question.

“Because we’re friends! And I’m fine with that!.”

Graham raises any eyebrow at her. “Are you?” He asks and she falters, stepping back with her arms crossed.

“Y-Yes!”

“You’re a shit liar.”

Marinette tries to slap his arm again but her catches his wrist. “You are more than just your duties, Marinette.”

The way Graham’s playful demeanor melts of his face suddenly reminds Damian that this man was a hero, a child soldier, who lived with his emotions under duress for years. His voice was solemn, grave with grief.

“You’ve given up more than anyone for the sake of the Order.”

“Adrien—“

“Why can’t you take a pause and live—“

“It’s not that!”

“Mari—“

“Damian isn’t interested in me—”

“You don’t know that!”

“—He’s gay!”

What the actual fuck?

“He and Jon dated. How am I supposed to compare to his best friend? And that’s even if he would so much as look at me which he never will because he is not interested on the opposite sex!

No. Nonononono. This was nightmare, somebody wake him up. Damian and Jon kissed twice and that was the end of it - you could find more spark in a coin battery. And he looked at Marinette plenty. He just makes sure she could not see him doing so like the sneaky assassin that he was.

Timothy had dropped to the ground a while ago and was cackling so hard that Damian fears he might pop open like a kernel and loose his spleen. Again.

From the monitor, his siblings were laughing up a storm as well as Marinette and Graham stood there in confusion.

“Wuahahahahahaha—He’s not—hahahaha—The Wayne kid is—Oh my god, I’m so glad I volunteered to be here.” The feed from Spoiler was pointed at the ceiling. Damian could imagine her clenching her stomach as throws her head back in laughter.

“He’s bisexual.” Orphan says, amused. The only reliable footage came from her albeit a little shaky.

Marinette blinks at her. “And you know that how?”

“We talk. Rescue him and his family all the time.” Hood and Spoiler could be heard agreeing.

Graham pushes Marinette down on her spot on the couch. “And now that we’ve established that, you are going to make a move on him,” he says.

“I will not.”

“You will—“

“He doesn’t see me like that!”

“—after you heal M. Hood.”

That snaps the mood in place and the conversation is stirred away from the topic of Damian.

Said subject was unfocused during the rest of the meeting, his thoughts replaying every single interaction he and Marinette had. In the end, he came to an obvious conclusion:

Marinette will be getting that body shot.

~

AN: There you have it folks! Another one from my archive. I just edited the dialogues. And speaking of archives, should I post this on AO3?

Inspired by the recording contact lenses in Battinson. Here we have an indirect Daminette confession witnessed by Cass, Steph, Tim, and Jason.

You may have noticed that Damian first-names his siblings in this one. I always though that it would be a good measure of his growth as a person. And I headcanon Damian going from last names to middle names to first names as his tolerance (read love) for his siblings grows. He goes through middle names because his male siblings absolutely detests it (except Duke). Imagine pubescent Dami addressing Jason as “Peter”.

Adrien taking his mums maiden name after handing Gabriel’s ass to him? This is non-negotiable. But I really had no idea if I should write Damian referring to him as Graham or Vanily. I like graham crackers so there you go.

Damian and Jon as a ship will always have a place in my heart. Like I can see them trying for more but deciding against it. I think Jon has a partner in the comics. And with his new age, he and Damian now have this space between them I hate with a passion. (I saw a fan-art of Damian crying about how his Jon was taken from and I bawled like a baby. Please do link that art in the comments. I enjoy pain.)

And finally, should I make this a multi-chapter fic? Or is it satisfactory as one-shot?

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

The Dragon’s Spoil (Aemond Targaryen x Rivers! Reader)

Part 1   |   Part 2  |   Part 3   |   Part 4

Summary: The baseborn daughter with little knowledge of who your Lord father was, your life is caught in the midst of war. The Riverlands are the base for the Greens and the Blacks, dragons loom in the skies, and men die daily, especially within the walls of the cursed Harrenhal. It’s only when a certain one-eyed dragon comes for his retribution. The year is 130 AC and war endures.

A/N: You’re Alys Rivers but with less sorcery and more so just judgement over being a bastard. You’re around the same age as Aemond, maybe two-three years older than him at the time of the Dance.

Wordcount: 2,400

The Dragon’s Revenge

It is known by Commons and Nobles alike that the Targaryens have always ruled the skies.

They had for the last century: when the Old King had his decades of peace, continuing to his grandson, Viserys I. Dragons continued to fly over towns and for that century, the common people stared in both admiration and terror.

Peace did not continue for long, not after the death of the King and its disputes finally sprung forth. Rhaenyra, the King’s eldest daughter and Aegon, the second born but eldest living son from his second marriage had begun their war for the throne, and the people suffered for it. 

It didn’t matter what the poor folk thought, not when their opinions were silenced over the sounds of constant clashing steel and the rumbling of dragons roaring above. Wherever war went, the people died for it, and on and on did the cycle continue.

The Riverlands had seen the most of the war, for a dragon appeared from the skies in early 129 AC. The blood wrym circled and landed on the Kingspyre Tower with a screech that shook the castle grounds. 

The castellan, Ser Simon Strong, yielded it without the need of spilling blood to Prince Daemon Targaryen and he used it as a nearby base to carry his side’s attacks.

For the next few months, dragons and armies came and went through Harrenhal, your home for as long as you could remember. You had been fostered by the old man and uncle of Lyonel Strong, Ser Simon after the death of your mother, an unknown woman no one knew of. Not much was known about your father too: noble or baseborn too, there was one thing for certain, your looks were undeniably Strong.

The first men's blood was strong in your veins: from the curls that reached the small of your waist, black as a raven’s wing, to your eyes, brown as chestnuts. Squires and maids whispered within the walls of Harrenhal, murmuring of your potential parentage. One of the many kin of House Strong, many whispered it had been Harwin “Breakbones”, the man who fathered Princess Rhaenyra’s children with her first husband, Laenor Velaryon. 

Others whispered it had been the castellan himself, Ser Simon, who took pity on his natural daughter, taking her in as a handmaiden. Some even mocked it had been Larys, Harwin’s brother and the Master of Whispers for Aegon’s small council, but those also mocked that spoke that it would’ve been impossible for him to even father children.

Harrenhal was a ruined castle: those who resided in its walls spoke of ghosts, deathly and dreadful, cursing those who was the owner. It was no surprise to you when you had heard of the rumours: of Lyonel and Harwin’s deaths and those that came before.

“Have you heard?” You had been kneeling by the fireplace when your closest friend, Perra came running through into the main apartment, a letter screwed in her hand.

“If you’ve come to tell me this bloody war is not over, I’m not interested.” You chided, wiping away the ash from your calloused hands against your apron. 

Perra was from House Grey, a knightly house sworn to House Tully. Brown-haired and long-faced and a girl of ten-and-seven, she was as skinny as a stick and small as one too. Her uncle, Ser Garibald had sworn to the Blacks from the beginning of the conflict and it was without a doubt that Perra agreed.

She grinned toothily, shoving the letter in your face, assuming you were literate. “You will be most pleased to read what just arrived.” As you unravelled the scroll, your eyes darting over the words you were reading. “My uncle brings news. The Queen has taken over King’s Landing. Aegon has not been seen nor his children. The Queen Helaena and Dowager Alicent have been captured.” 

“The Greens will not be most pleased to have their Queen returning to claim her father’s throne.” You rejected the letter quickly, handing it back over to Perra.

“This is good news, Y/N. The war will soon be over. Stark bannermen march down, so too will the Arryns.”

It didn’t seem possible that the wounded usurper king was missing but not much was known of his remaining brothers. Daeron remained at large a threat with his dragon, Tessarion, but what about the one-eyed brother, Aemond?

“You forget one thing, Perra. The King may be missing, but he has two other brothers, Aemond and Daeron. And they have dragons too. What would we do with them? Or where could they be?” 

“They fight elsewhere.” Perra was too naïve to know such a thing, the excitement and positivity were good to hear of, but you doubted the Greens would leave the capital open so easily. “Vhagar has not been seen with her rider for days.”

Certainly, they will be looking for revenge. You dreaded. 

Your conversation was broken when the low, dreadful sound came as a response of caution.

A long, blow of a horn was sounded in the courtyard, and the rush of footsteps and shouts erupted as vast as the sound of battle. Steel and shields could be heard being collected and as Perra rushed to the window to look out, she shouted. “A dragon comes! The Rogue Prince without a doubt.”

How you wish it had been.

The shadow of this dragon was much too large to belong to the blood wrym, looming over the entirety of Harrenhal like dusk. It appeared as if it was an apparition, and fears of what happened a century ago from the first Aegon could happen again.

It had not been Daemon that had arrived, but rather a one-eyed Prince who landed in the courtyard.

The ground shook when the old beast landed, mighty and worn from a thousand battles. The she-dragon growled, hissed and spat as she stared down at those who had gathered arms in protecting the base.

From her saddle, Aemond climbed down, appearing in gleaming armour of black and gold, adorning a helm of similar colours and a long dark plume. He was not mistaken for another Targaryen, for when the banners of a gold dragon on green cloth began to be marched through, you realised the war had not been over just yet.

You and Perra ran as fast as you could, gathering behind the stalls, and observing the entire ordeal go down. 

From this close, you saw the Prince, and despite missing an eye, you couldn’t help but marvel at how otherworldly and comely he was from afar. Targaryen women were blessed with the rare beauty of Old Valyria, and so too were the men.

Aemond stood mighty in front of his dragon, and beside him, the new Hand, Ser Criston Cole, aged and haggard and not so knightly as the stories spoke of him. War and hatred had aged him horribly, and he stood with a sour face, adorning the golden armour of the Kingsguard and pin of the Hand.

“Which Strong rules this castle?” Aemond spoke aloud to the crowd that had gathered and when no one spoke or came quick enough, Vhagar hissed impatiently.

It didn’t take long for a voice to be heard, emerging the old man who presumably shared your blood. “Aye, I am.”

Aemond responded coolly towards him, “Ser Simon, I assume? Can you recall to me, Ser, which Master of Whispers sits at my brother’s council?”

“My grand-nephew, Larys, my Prince.”

“And you agree that you share the familiar ties to Strong blood?”

“Aye, my Prince.”

His seeing eye was wide with rage, mouth twisted when he spoke in unwavering patience. “Then pray tell, why have you yielded the castle to my uncle, and kept it as a base for the forces of his whore of a wife and pretender Queen?”

Ser Simon did not yield under the heavy gaze of the Prince, nor with the hot breath of the dragon eyeing him down. He had no hesitation when he stared death in the face, and he must’ve known that he would die this day. 

Perhaps in the jaws of a dragon. You thought.

Simon spoke calmly. “Prince Daemon took the castle without spilling blood. I am, without a doubt, loyal to my Queen.”

Aemond tutted, his purple eye glaring in rage, though he remained calm. “You waited daily for a dragon to return and now, one does. Do you yield your castle to King Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm?”

“Your brother – that cunt of a man – you wish for me to yield my castle to him?”

Aemond was to speak before Criston Cole stalked towards him, ready to unsheathe his sword. “Not yet, Cole.”

The Hand did not answer as he slowly stepped away from Simon, glaring silently. “Yes, my Prince.”

“I will not ask again, Ser. Answer truthfully and you will be spared alongside your kin. My dragon will not burn your walls the same way it did at the hands of my ancestor a century ago. Do. You. Yield?”

“I would never accept the words from a kinslayer.”

Kinslayer. The word was wrought with dread from the simple term, and it seemed to both spook and bring Aemond’s temper to rise. Or neither. Murdering his nephew with his dragon, chasing them along the clouds only for them to meet a death falling into the sea.

Aemond nodded to the honest words, and it took you everything not to grab Perra and flee through the castle gates. You knew that the Green’s forces stood just outside to chase any Black loyalists down. 

Or even have Vhagar have a meal if she’s hungry. You shivered. Instead, you stood still, frozen in terror of what would happen if you were spotted.

The next words to come from Aemond’s mouth were wrought with venom.

“Cole. Bring me my sword.” 

Men of Aemond’s forces grabbed for Simon, kicking and knocking him to his knees, holding him by the back of his burly arms. The Hand did not say a word, silently moving like a shadow before bringing forth what the Prince had wanted. There were cries in the crowd, presumably from those who were close kin to Simon. 

A sword flashed bright silver when it was unsheathed from the Prince, as he stalked his way towards the knelt man. 

“Speak now or forever hold your silence, old man,” Aemond asked, his mouth thin and twisted, holding the blade in between both hands. “Do you have any final words?” 

“Gods be good to you and your ilk, kinslayer,” Simon spoke with as much pride as his “The Black Queen will come for your head and every Green who chases for her throne.”

Aemond did not flinch when he gave the man a worthy death, swinging the sword with might that it took his head clean off, thudding softly into the soft mud. Shouts and protests were heard in response, but they were deafened by the sound of Vhagar roaring.

You watched as the resigned Aemond brushed off some blood and its matter from the blade with a harsh flick. You could tell in his eye that it was something he shouldn’t have done, but what he had to do next was the next honourable thing:

His voice was laced with heaviness as he announced to his men, “Bring every boy, squire and baseborn of Strong blood to meet my steel.”

You grabbed Perra by the hand, fleeing back the way you came through, down the vanquished halls that had melted away like a thousand candles. Screams from others were heard around you as you hid, but to no use, the castle was surrounded by not only men but an ancient dragon that could burn it all down.

It felt as if no time had passed at all, before Perra was grabbed and thrown into the arms, screaming for you as she was led out the castle. “Perra!” You, however, found yourself running after her, colliding into the back of a heavily-armed bannerman, decorated in the green sigil of a dragon. 

“No! Unhand me!” You screamed and hissed as you were dragged the opposite way from your friend, away from the sight of freedom and back towards the courtyard.

Aemond was facing his dragon when you came back to meet him up close, and you realise even despite the way he scowled as he looked you up and down, that he was still comely. You were thrown to your knees, your hands bracing your stumble as they were coated in the mud and blood that decorated the yard.

Aemond eyed you scrutinisingly as if assessing what was wrong with you and what he had to do to be rid of you. After all, you did have Strong blood in you, but he didn’t know that.

“Who are you, girl?” He drawled, but his tone was laced with taunting you.

You dared not to meet his dismal stare, instead, watching the blood-soaked and muddied ground or his muddied boots. “Y/N. Y/N Rivers.” You spoke earnestly.

“A bastard,” Criston Cole hissed, momentarily holding his sword’s hilt to draw it, “would you wish for me to bring forth her head, my Prince? Or she could be fed to Vhagar.”

“No,” Aemond dismissed quickly, too quickly. He was staring at her distantly, and it was difficult to see what he was thinking. His seeing eye was bright and staring down at her with disgust and fascination for her and those of House Strong blood. “No, she will not be fed to my dragon. She is much too reliable. Bring her warm clothes, Cole. I will have better use for her.”

“Yes, my Prince.” Cole relaxed as he grabbed you by the back of your arm, dragging you away from the yard, away from the one-eyed monster and his loyal beast. 

You wished for your feet to stop yourself from being dragged away, to accept the headsman’s sword and to have your head beside those you were fostered by.

You looked back in horror, watching as the courtyard grew smaller and smaller, hearing the foreign, unknown words dragonrider spoke to their bonded dragon, the bright flame came from her open jaws, lighting up the pile of corpses you did not stand too close to a second ago.

[shewolfofvilnius]

Wallavellan brainrot has consumed me once more while thinking about Dragon Age.

Because if you really think about it, Blackwall and Lavellan really do have inverted but mirroring stories.

He so utterly despised who he became that he took the persona of a better man, moulded himself to be like who he thought the real Blackwall was. Grafted the best parts of Thom Rainier on to this construction of Warden Blackwall and chose a new identity.

Contrast to Lavellan, who was just living her life with her clan, either as a scout, tracker, and hunter (rogue/warrior) or as the clan's First and thus future Keeper (mage). She's got an entire life and it's the world she's always known and as soon as the Conclave goes BOOM, that is over with. Now she's the Herald of Andraste, an idea that can easily be abhorrent to her. She's The Inquisitor. She's every other title in the game, but she's not Lavellan anymore, not really.

So Blackwall x Lavellan builds to a climax of "Who are we?" If you grant him his life as Rainier back, you're still you. Beneath the trappings of office and politics, it's still the elf who likely cared not for shem politics. And you can either reunite with your love, or let him go free while acknowleding the lie was a bridge too far. But either way, you're you. If you're cunning enough to remand him to the Wardens' custody, however, Lavellan starts to slip away in favor of The Inquisitor. Remanding someone into the Wardens' custody is a political move. An order from a leader. His lie sits on your heart enough to want retribution, oh so fitting. It might BE fitting, it might be suitable, but it's also not Dalish. It's an acknowledgement that part of the old you has slipped away for good (and the part of you that loved him will be silenced when he has to go).

And if you force him to pretend to be Blackwall? You're forcing him to fully take on his own faked identity while you yourself have completely and willingly subsumed yourself into this new you that you didn't even want at first. The power and authority to make a man be another man. To taunt him for his crimes. To in effect enslave Blackwall/Rainier into your control. (Maybe the old ways of the Evanuris persist still, that moment you get that first taste of true power).

For my Lavellan, Thom turning himself in solidified that even through the deception, that was absolutely the man she fell in love with. And if the nobles hated how she used the Inquisition's leverage to free him? They can all sod off, they all hated her anyway because she's an elf. She's an elf who loves Thom Rainier.

[mrkida-art]

What are your headcanons regarding dwarves and their attitude towards treasure and gold?

Hello Anon! I do in fact have a lot of thoughts about this subject. I always go by the legendarium as something that is fallible (since Tolkien’s work is written from the POV of unreliable narrators), especially when it comes to the secretive dwarves who do not share their culture and secrets openly. This leaves a lot of room to recontextualize or even straight up change things (hence the “not canon compliant” disclaimer on my blog lol) and this is one of those cases. 

Anyways, here are some of my headcanons about dwarves and their treasure.

Dwarves are stereotyped as being greedy by other races, this is rooted in many stories circulating about dwarves going to extreme lengths to protect their treasure. This is especially true about the Durin’s Folk dwarves, who are said to have killed men for simply laying claim to what these dwarves felt was rightfully theirs. One of the more well known examples being Fram, the Lord of the Éothéod, who claimed the hoard of the dragon Scatha after slaying it.  This hoard contained treasure which Durin’s Folk claimed as theirs. Fram refused to give it to them, and it is said by many that he was murdered by the dwarves of Durin’s Folk as retribution. Among the race of men  it’s said that this story illustrates the greediness of dwarves.  Fram is said to have had rightfully earned this treasure as it was he who killed this dragon, and the dwarves acted in dishonor and tried to steal it from him.  

Much of this story does ring true for the dwarves, but their attitudes towards treasure is misinterpreted by the outsiders who tell these tales. Dwarves see treasure in two ways, there is treasure meant for trade and monetary gain, which they will guard as anyone would with their money. And then there is the most important type of treasure, artifacts made by their ancestors and loved ones.  The value of their artifacts is not determined by what materials have been used, but rather by WHO made them and who used them, as well as their age. Some of the most ancient and precious artifacts are made of crude stone and wood, not gold and silver. Their artifacts represent their history, heritage, and the story and souls of their ancestors.   To specific families their most important treasures or heirlooms may also be trinkets or craft made by loved ones who have since passed, it can also be tools or weapons that these dwarves used while still alive.  Dwarves  believe that these artifacts  can be used to communicate with their dead, both their ancient ancestors and those who recently passed, which naturally means that their protected treasure is of massive cultural importance. It’s also said that artifacts falling into the wrong hands may disturb the peace of the dead, which may contribute to them becoming restless spirits which is something no dwarf wants for their loved ones. 

The reason as to why Durin’s Folk may very well have killed Fram for what he did is because they are particularly protective of their artifacts. The treasure he took originally belonged to them which then had been stolen  by the dragon Scatha. Many of these artifacts were in fact of cultural or sentimental importance, which means it was something they sought to get back. It’s also good to note that Fram didn’t just claim artifacts from any dwarf clan, these were dwarves who had been exiled from their lands in Khazad-dûm. Big part of their cultural heritage had been lost when it fell which meant that they were even more desperate to protect what little they had left.   And they do not look kindly upon outsiders that steal from them, especially their most treasured objects. 

TLDR: Dwarvish treasure is sometimes artifacts that are extremely important in dwarvish culture. And clans such as Durin’s Folk who have lost so much are desperate to protect the little they have left of their cultural heritage.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed it. I have more headcanons about this particular subject but that would be too long of a post haha. 

[tgrailwar-zero]

Perhaps once we’re fully on our feet we can join you in jolly co-operation in fighting the foe that has taken over the Moon Cell.

SLAYER: "That's the hope! That Titan that took everything- that Titan that wished to destroy humanity! We're the only ones standing in it's way!"

KEEPER: "We won't ask you to do anything you don't want to, but your help would be appreciated."

SLAYER: "Ahaha! And-- this Solar Cell is a secure box. It can bang on the 'outside' for eons if it wants, it's not getting through. Which gives us plenty of time to prepare and come up with a perfect plan. We were each summoned for a reason. That's right! You must have come for a reason! More allies, willing to go into the fray and join us in saving Humanity!"

PRIESTESS: "…Once the core of the Solar Cell gathers enough power, then we can begin our assault. It'll be far from 'jolly', our adversary carved through true Divine Spirits from the Age of Gods. Just thinking about fighting it gives me the chills, bringing back horrible memories…"

PRIESTESS: "But we can't afford to be cowardly! If something has to be done, then we'll have to do it!"

SLAYER: "Hear, hear! We ride in ready to die, and thus we shall prosper! Ahahahahahaha!"

KEEPER: "Hah, look at you, matching Slayer's energy. Well, not exactly, she's still a few notches higher. Still... I like this, it's better than your usual gloomy self. Maybe you really are feeling a bit more hope?"

PRIESTESS: "Maybe you're right, either way… I can't waver. I am of a unique body, but I was summoned with this strange Saint Graph for a reason. And if that means laying down some dragon-fox wrath, then so be it!"

PRIESTESS: "We'll show that Umbral Star the might of the Sun!"

.

..

...

You felt a shudder.

At this point, you knew the rest.

War, fire, death. It was as if not to torture your brain with irony for much longer, your mind mentally began fast forwarding through everything else. There wasn't any changing the past, after all.

At some point, you recalled that you had slain the Slayer.

...Your fractured memory told you that it wasn't easy.

You recalled the moment of your 'end'. Where you had been cast away, and sealed.

The last time you had recalled this moment, it had been more twisted. More horrifying, more monstrous, more viscous. A beast, clad in shadow, mechanically slaughtering you and casting you into the abyss.

Now, the memory was clearer.

Powerful magic coalescing, a sealing spell beyond compare. The Priestess of the Sun had her hands raised, her expression bitter and filled with betrayal and contempt. A goddess that had seen tragedy, and now was more than willing to enact divine retribution.

A voice screaming. Hoarse.

"For what reason… for what purpose?!" "Show me, tell me, do something! Please!" "Why did you destroy my world…? Why did you crush my dream…? We could have saved everything! Avenged everyone! And now... and now it's gone! Are you happy?! Are you proud?! The war is over before it even began!"

"I'll… I'll curse you! For a thousand years, I'll curse you! May you and your sins burn for a thousand, thousand eternities!"

She brought down her hands with rage, the might of a wrathful god slamming down on you and pushing you deeper and deeper into darkness.

Deeper and deeper.

Blacker and blacker.

Dark, for so long.

You felt your hands let go of the teabowl. Not even a second had passed, it seemed.

The sweet taste ended bittersweet in your mouth. Still, it felt a bit like a jolt. It'd be easy to stay in that memory forever, but waking up was the important part- as hard as it was, sometimes.

RIKYU: "..."

RIKYU: "..."

RIKYU: "I see."

[thethirdamell]

Accursed Ones

Fandom: Dragon Age Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings Additional Tags: Blood Magic, Dark, Horror, Angst, Sexual Content Main Pairings (M/M): Anders / Amell, Anders / Hawke

Chapter Excerpt:

The Minanter ran red with the blood of mages as apostates fled in all directions, seeking asylum. Ferelden was the first to offer it. Weak and ravaged by war, Ferelden relied on the Frostback Mountains for safety should the Divine send soldiers seeking retribution. The Venatori followed, mages from the Tevinter Imperium, offering apostates citizenship in exchange for indentured servitude. Those that remained were sent to Ansburg, and to Anders.

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[alicentsgf]

say what you want about the greens i know everyones awful blah blah favourite war criminal whatever... but the greens never directly targeted children. (and dont argue alicent was trying to get jace and luke killed with the bastardry talk. it was so obvious jace and luke were bastards that rhaenyra even giving birth to them placed targets on their backs - daemon spoke candidly about harwin being their father and he literally lived on a different continent. everyone knew. alicent was anatgonising rhaenyra about it to try to get her to concede her claim to aegon. she had plenty of oppertunities to gather evidence, use her familys connection with the faith and get rhaenyra and her boys strung up if she wanted that). and in the case of aemond killing luke - even in the book it was kid on kid violence that we cant prove wasnt an accident and in hotd what we get is basically vehicular manslaughter.

people will throw around that 'the greens are coming for you rhaenyra, and your children' quote as if its reality rhaenys is spewing. as if we didnt see alicent fight tooth and nail for rhaenyra and her children to be spared any consequences. as if we didnt see the entire council concede to alicent's desire to offer them generous peace terms that included clauses that would have helped solidify rhaenyra's sons legitimacy. joffrey was killed by his mother's own dragon and both of rhaenyras younger boys were left untouched. compare that to the way aegon and helaena's boys were brutalised? beheaded. torn apart. it was aegon ii who spared the pretender gaemon palehair on account of his age and made him a ward of the crown - a boy that (apparently) wasnt even his own son. compare that to the treatment of little jaehaerys at a similar age when daemon decided he deserved to die as retribution for a crime he'd had no part in at all. (another reason to be critical of them including the bs fighting pits story in hotd). rhaenys quote is bullshit. its bias. like half of the dialogue in the show tbh.

and when rhaenyra sees alicent again she has the fucking gall to try and hold alicent accountable for jace and lukes deaths?? as if alicent targeted them? the Hypocrisy. when rhaenyra's husband sent killers to murder an innocent little boy in front of his grandmother and mother and siblings.

if alicent was being an evil bitch then me too because i wouldnt have stopped at just bitchily pointing out rhaenyra's hypocrisy i would have told rhaenyra to go fuck herself repeatedly and at volume