#Isle of the Blotted

[cup1dt3a]

The Beckoning Call of the Darkness

Summary: It was all so fast one minute you’re walking back home then the next you’re being dragged by an inky substance to another peculiar world.

TW: Describes drowning and throwing up

You bit the side of your cheek as you looked at the money in your hand. Your stomach churned with guilt. You know it was wrong to steal from your friend, but you were too prideful to admit that your family went into debt and have barely been getting by… You frowned as the thought of you having to slowly sell half of your belongings ran through your mind once again. Putting those thoughts aside with a sigh you soon looked around yourself. It was late at night you currently were on a bench in the middle of the sidewalk waiting for your parents to pick you up. Usually you walked home, but due to the pouring rain and many tornado warnings you’ve been getting you felt safer with your mother coming to pick you up. It was too dangerous to really walk home especially ,since this was the more sketchy part of town. 

Tapping your hands on the cold metal of the benches arm rest as the droplets of shatter puttered and pattered on your old umbrella a sudden chill ran down your spine. You looked behind yourself only to see the Mystery Manor. It was an old broken down mansion left behind by a rich couple who had abandoned it presumably due to them being caught for tax evasion others thought they went missing in the 1970’s. Due to the place being in their name still to this day but their faces never seen again. The place hadn’t been touched since, until now. Months ago several students had gone missing with all of them mysteriously being reported near it or going into the abandoned Manner. Nobody knows or could even find out why all several of them went there. 

You felt anxious even being near the house as the harsh winds bumped into the police tape surrounding the house. You continued to tap even more looking for your mom soon texting her, but due to having no connection to the internet or anything at all you were left with your anxiety. This was great just great. You’re alone in a sketchy neighborhood, you stole from your friends, the weather is getting worse, and you’re all alone. 

Your tapping continues now in your foot as your eyes kept darting around. Looking back and forth. You felt as if something was watching you. Before you could look behind yourself soon a huge streak of lightening struck right next to you causing you to scream as you fled the bench. You ran as more and more dangerously close streaks of lightening continued struck the ground you fled to the nearest shelter you could find. It didn’t matter where.  You banged on the door that immediately broke causing you to crash inside the hard creaking wooden floor.

You grunted in pain as you crashed down onto the wooden floor knocking the air out of you. Taking a minute to catch your breath you begin to look around wincing from the pain and at the door you broke. This place must be old if you could have broken the door down so easily. As you got up, to take everything in the house looked pretty nice to be honest. For some odd reason the voice in your head was telling you to look around. As if on command you started to venture through the dusty house. There were manny dust covered pictures as you ventured throughout the house. The furniture was draped over with off white colored sheets due to years of never being washed. As you continued to look around just aimlessly wondering you soon were upstairs. Ignoring the many things out of place like the bright broken police tape wrapped around the pole on the staircase. In any other situation you’d be feeling the house trying to call your mother, but for some odd reason you felt as if something here was beckoning you to go to it. Continued to walk up the stairs each creaked under the weight of your foot almost like they were trying to tell you not to go through. Once at the top of the stairs you wondered throughout the dark grey halls. Some of the wallpaper was slowly ripping off, cobwebs, and bugs crawling across the dusty walls. But still you somehow paid no mind to it only trying to go to whatever was calling you. It was like a comforting humming of a familiar song. The voice was deep and very smooth. It was hypnotic in a way as you followed where you presumed the humming was coming from.

Continuing to wonder through the narrowing hallway you seen reached a room. It seemed like an old bedroom. Filled with cobwebs, dust, ripped up blue wallpaper, but something stood out to you. It was a golden mirror with an odd design around it. You walked to it ignoring all of your surroundings as the wind rattled the old cracked windows. But soon a bright glow emitted from the mirror blinding you for a second before a hand reached out to you. This wasn’t a normal hand at all, it was covered in ink. The ink dropped down onto the white desk as it reached out for you. Beckoning for you to take it in a glitching and deep voice with the two candles beside the mirror flickering  a bright green flame. 

You soon snapped out of the daze now full of fear. Before you even had any time to react the hand inky hand grabbed yours. It was too late to do anything as you screamed.

Dragged into nothing but an inky darkness. It was like quick sand and water. The more you struggled the faster you sank. The black waves kept hitting you harshly as if trying to knock you down. You tried to grab out at anything you could in hopes to getting out of the sticky ink. You managed to keep yourself buoyant for a second. You saw the mirror right in-front of you the broken old house was just in your reach as you grabbed out to the desk. Only to suddenly feel something wrapped around your waist and foot restrain you dragging you back under. The ink was literally dragging your feet down as you struggled up to the surface. Going further down you could breathe at all as the ink got into your lungs like a thick sap suffocating you. Just as quick as the ink dragged you down it soon dragged you all the way down. 

Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like years as you lost consciousness. Soon you got spit out onto a cold surface. Jolting you out of your passed out state immediately you choked up and spat out the horrific black substance. It was at least a pile of it. It felt sour and burnt your lungs as it fell out in large globs into the puddle. After a whole five minutes, you felt tired and about to pass out again as your vision blurred. 

There were echoing foot steps that soon followed as your eyes closed. All you could make out was a red-like blob and a blur. You could only make out the words

“Looks like another one bites the dust.” The cheeky voice chuckled.

Thank you all so much for reading this! This is my new series called the Isle of the Blot. It will be tagged that if anyone is interested in finding it. Any art I use in my series is mine.

Hope you’re all doing well and having a good day! @simping-on-the-daily

sincerely-Cupid 💖

[teapartiez]

if i could animate it’d be OVER FOR YALL

[targaryenimagines]

Shattered Wings

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 21,652

Summary: You had known, from the moment you stepped foot onto Westeros, that this cursed land would take from you more than you were willing to give; rip you apart, only to put you back together slightly off so you were never truly whole again. You just never expected, never even believed, that it’d be your darling son, your precious Prūmia, your Viserion, that would have to pay the price; and that it would be all due to the actions of your Khaleesi.

Warning(s): G!P Daenerys, angst with a happy ending, angry/grieving sex (trying to numb the pain), dark thoughts, grief, self-worth issues, and slight self-harm (R digs her nails into her arms). Reader is not in a good place. (This is just very angsty.)

Notes: Still not over how the sweetest baby Viserion got treated by D&D (nor how we barely got any scenes of Daenerys dealing with said event — both in Season 7 and in Season 8 when she found out he was enslaved by the Night King; even a scene with her and his shattered body would have been something). Hopefully, in this story, I can do their bond justice (along with the reader's bond with him, of course). Forewarning as well that the Reader puts Dany through the wringer; anger and grief can change someone in ways that you’d never imagine… Is it wholly fair to Dany? Absolutely not. Just wanted to let you all know that beforehand as it’s not pretty for a bit… Also is this the source of Daenerys not being able to sleep without the Reader next to her? Yes… Yes, it is.

Series Masterlist

The salty breeze of Dragonstone carries with it the scent of the sea, mingling with the distant cry of seabirds that circle the rocky cliffs, brushing across your cheeks in a phantom caress; its presence cool, but not cold, against your skin — a gentle reminder that summer was still hanging on even though its grip was beginning to weaken.

You had known it’d be a beautiful day from the moment you had awakened. A feeling that had only grown as the sun began to rise high into the sky and the world seemed to come alive underneath the splendor of its golden presence.

Even now, the sky was a deep blue, unmarred despite the growing bank of clouds on the horizon — holding an ominous presence as if the storm they promised would happen in only a matter of time, but, for the moment, they were fine with holding back, waiting until it was the perfect time to roll in. You had always known the weather within Westeros wouldn’t be like Essos. With the shimmering rays of gold and the endless crystalline expanse of the sky, but you hadn’t expected it to be quite so fickle.

Or perhaps, you muse, this rocky isle, not unlike the ones who had claimed it, had a temperament that was ever changing. Always one step away from a roaring storm or a clear sky.

Despite the overarching beauty of the day, and the initial lightness it brought to your chest, you couldn’t help the heaviness that was beginning to weigh you down as it continued to progress. Something that you could normally attribute to the simple knowledge of the shifting weather, but the tension coiling within you didn’t feel like the apprehension one would face in concern of a coming storm.

Its source, in fact, wasn’t one you could truly place — only heightening the tension further.

You’re currently seated on the edge of a cliff, a familiar perch where you often found peace, the waters of the bay below sparkling under the sun, a stark contrast to the gathering gloom ahead; one that soothes your wayward thoughts for the moment. Drogon soars above, his massive form casting a shadow that briefly blots out the light as he passes above you, continuing to dip and dive; his playful movements a reminder that despite his appearance, he was still young. His roars of joy, carrying easily upon the ocean wind, echoes across the bay, the familiar sound pulling your lips into a smile.

Rhaegal lay beside you, his large head near your lap, bronze eyes half-lidded in contentment. His breaths slow and rhythmic, the warmth of his body radiating through the cold stone beneath you, as your fingers absentmindedly trace the ridged scales of his brow; an action that causes Rhaegal to hum softly in response, a deeply resonate sound.

While Viserion, your golden boy, is curled up on the opposite side; large body coiled around you. An aureate gaze closed, but far from asleep — his breathing too measured, too conscious of your every move — and his attentiveness, even as he basked underneath the sun, soothed you. Leaning against his side, being lulled by the rise and fall of his chest against your back, you go back to watching Drogon dance upon the wind. Every now and then, you notice, out of your periphery, that Viserion’s tail flicked lazily, a sign of his growing restlessness; an emotion that was stemming from your own — even as you try to distract yourself with the world around you to halt it — due to the bond that you share. While you’re bonded to all of your sons, and love them as any mother would her children, the connection you have with Viserion goes a bit deeper; there’s an intrinsic understanding, one that goes beyond mere words. He knows that you’re troubled, even if he doesn’t know the cause, his continued presence is meant to soothe, to shield you from whatever is brewing within your heart, and you couldn’t be more grateful for him. For the love that he has for you.

The wind picks up slightly — a howl beginning to intertwine within it — bringing with it a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. Your eyes, as if pulled by some greater power, shift back to the horizon; to the dark clouds that continue to gather, seemingly growing thicker and thicker with each passing moment. It’s a sight that causes your previous sense of foreboding to make an instant reappearance, curling tightly within your stomach, and, in response, you press back into Viserion; seeking the warmth and reassurance only he could provide. The unease doesn’t subside, not in a manner you wish it would, as it decides to gnaw at the back of your mind instead; reminiscent of a splinter you couldn’t remove. An unsettling entity but one that you’d be able to handle given enough time and care; that’s what you hope, at least.

Looking down at the beach below, where a mixture of Dothraki and Unsullied work hauling Dragonglass and other needed supplies, the smallest of frowns furrow your brow. From this vantage point, and due to the simple fact that few were idiotic, and even fewer brave, enough to approach slumbering dragons — especially dragons that had one of their mothers nearby — left the area upon the cliff free of anyone else, you’re able to see how the few Northerners that had made the journey to Dragonstone were treating them; bodies tense, eyes narrowed in barely concealed agitation, whispered conversations taking place the moment they’re left to congregate amongst themselves, hands constantly reaching towards their hips for swords that aren’t present. It’s a sight that leaves a sour taste in your mouth and a protective outrage roaring within your chest.

The Dothraki and Unsullied did not ask for this war; did not ask to be treated with such obvious disdain from the people that supposedly needed their help. They had agreed to come to Westeros, to fight underneath the banner of House Targaryen, of Daenerys Stormborn, to reclaim the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister, but their loyalty, their faith, in their Khaleesi led them to where they are now. If the North is in such dire need of help why are they biting at the hand that’s offering it to them? 

Your brow furrows into an even more pronounced frown, but, before you’re able to delve even deeper into the thoughts that would, no doubt, dampen your already darkening mood, the sound of raised voices coming from behind you causes your attention to snap back to the world at large. Twisting, and leaning slightly to peer around Viserion’s head, you see Daenerys storming across the rolling grass with Tyrion following behind; even from a distance you can tell it’s a heated discussion. Tyrion is speaking once more, words likely chosen carefully, but whatever it is he’s saying it isn’t easing her agitation. You’re not able to see your dragon’s face, but you’re able to surmise what must be etched across it from memory, and Tyrion’s own expression, alone — eyes narrowed in determination, nostrils slightly flared, some amount of frustration evident, focused solely on her Hand.

As if she’s trying to bend him to her will through sheer force alone.

Not being able to hear their words doesn’t inhibit you from understanding what they’re discussing, your heart turning heavy at the realization. The plan to capture a White Walker had been a thorn in your side since it had been constructed — believing heavily that it was a gamble that relied on too many unknowns. That night, in your shared chambers, you had argued, even falling to the point of pleading, for Daenerys to take King’s Landing first; to solidify her claim and then use the might of the Seven Kingdoms to march North, but your words had fallen on deaf ears. Jon Snow, with his depictions of the Night King and the Army of the Dead, had shifted her focus entirely, convincing her that the real war lay beyond the Wall; not in the South.

At what cost? You remember asking her, in the quiet that had followed your discussion, after all the plans had been laid out. What would happen if our children got hurt? Or worse, killed? For a plan that rests on the hope that they might bring back a creature of myth?

Daenerys had tried to reassure you, warm hands cupping your face, lips gentle against your own before peppering lingering touches across your forehead, but the fear, like the multiple kisses that had been laid upon your skin, had lingered; a cold knot in your gut that refused to loosen.

Now, watching her argue with Tyrion, you can’t help but feel the fear twist into something sharper; something that bordered on anger. How could she risk so much for so little? How could she gamble the lives of your children — as you had heard the varying conversations about potential rescue missions — who had been with you both since the beginning, who had saved you more times than you could count, with such a plan?

Letting your eyes slip shut, trying to center yourself once more, you press a kiss to Viserion’s snout, a gentle rumble sounding softly in response. The clouds continue to gather, something you’re certain of despite your current blindness to them, but you force yourself to focus on the warmth of your sons; the steady breaths of Rhaegal and the comforting presence of Viserion.

Footsteps growing closer cause you to innately turn towards the sound — already knowing, by the lack of reaction from your sons, who it would be — and watch as Daenerys heads towards you; Tyrion still behind her with concern written across his face while Daenerys’ own was unreadable. Her approach causes the knot within your chest to loosen somewhat, as her presence has always wielded a calming influence unto you, but the tension within your shoulders grows just a bit more. You know that the coming conversation will not be an easy one, but it’s one that neither you, nor Daenerys, could avoid any longer.

She halts a few paces away, gaze softening when it lands on you. “There you are,” she greets, a note of warmth suffused within her tone; something that eases the tightness in your chest momentarily. It’s a fleeting entity, quickly remembering the subject matter behind the impending conversation, and taking notice of the determination within her violet depths. A sight that you’re all too familiar with, the burning resolve that has taken her through countless trials, the appearance of it being one that typically soothed you, but, with everything happening, it only deepens your concern.

“You’ve been arguing with Tyrion again,” you comment, trying to maintain a level of calmness that the roiling storm of emotions beneath the surface wished to disrupt.

The observation causes a soft sigh to fall from Daenerys’ lips, a delicate hand quickly rising to brush silver-gold strands behind her ear, while she moves to sit beside you; pausing only briefly for her gaze to linger on the forms of your shared children, before gentle violet finally settles back to you. “Tyrion thinks I’m being reckless,” she admits, the faintest creasing of her brow giving away the frustration she feels. “He just doesn’t understand the urgency of the situation.”

“Do you, Daenerys?” You rebuke, unable to keep the edge from your tone. “Do you understand what you’re asking them to do? What you’re risking?”

A spark of defiance roars into life within her gaze. “I’m not asking them to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”

“That’s not the point.” Taking a breath through your nose, trying to maintain a level head, you continue. “The point is that this plan, this rescue mission you and your council have concocted, is too dangerous. What if something goes wrong? What if one of our children gets hurt? Or worse?”

They’re questions you’ve asked before — countless times since hearing about the possibility of your Khaleesi heading North — and you’re certain they’ll be met by the same response.

Daenerys looks away, jaw clenched. “I can’t let them die.”

“You don’t even know if this will work,” you argue. “We didn’t know enough about the White Walkers, about their strengths or weaknesses, and those men left with that knowledge, understanding what they were getting into, because apparently one of those creatures may convince Cersei Lannister to help us.” Irritation lances through your heart. “Now, after all of that, you wish to head North, with our sons, to potentially rescue men that understood they may not come back once going beyond the Wall.”

“I have to try,” she replies firmly, eyes blazing within renewed determination. “If we do nothing, we’ll end up risking everything. The North, the South, everything we have ever fought for would be for nothing. If there’s even a chance that Cersei might listen, and that Jon Snow is still alive, and, with him, our only ties to the North, then I have to take it.”

You shake your head. “At what cost?” The old question, once again, falls from your lips, imploring Daenerys to actually hear it. “What will you do if they truly are gone? If, by doing this, our children are hurt?”

For a moment, the briefest crack appears in dragon-scaled armor, Daenerys hesitating, expression faltering as her vulnerability makes an appearance, but, before you can blink, it quickly buried beneath a resolved demeanor; one that has defined her since you’ve known her. “Every day I make choices that could mean the difference between life and death for thousands. I carry the weight of every decision, every sacrifice, but I cannot, will not, be paralyzed by fear,” she intones, even as her voice cracks ever-so-slightly, betraying the sense of fear she’s trying so hard to conceal. “I’ll do what I must. Like I have always done.”

Your heart clenches at the words; the anger you had been trying so hard to suppress flaring into something more intense, but, only by a small margin, you’re able to stay calm. “I’m not asking you to be paralyzed by fear, Dany. I’m asking you to consider what you’re risking. I’m asking you to think about what you’ll lose if this goes wrong,” you reiterate, reaching out for her, knowing how much physical touch means to her. “We can find another way. A way that doesn’t risk more lives.”

Daenerys only looks down at the proffered appendage for a moment before taking it in hers. “That’s something I never stop doing, ñuha perzys. I have considered every option, and I wish it were that simple,” she murmurs sorrowfully. “But the time for simple solutions is over. This is the only way.”

You pull your hand back, the warmth of her touch only deepening the growing ache in your chest, tension coiling in your shoulders. “And if it fails? If they’re already dead? What will you do then? If our children die in the pursuit of this mission? Will it be worth it? Will you be able to live with yourself?”

“I have to believe it will work. I have to believe that this is the way to save them. To save us all.”

Lips thinning into a line, her response pressing down onto you like a physical burden, you can’t help the strained quality within your voice. “I can’t do this.” The wind ghosts across your face, offering its own form of support for you to continue. “I can’t watch you risk everything, risk our sons, for something so uncertain.”

“I don’t want to lose them either. Of course, I’d never wish to lose our children.” Her voice cracks slightly at the thought of it. “But, I can’t stand by and do nothing, I can’t let those men die without trying to stop it.”

A long silence settles between you then, only the distant roar of the ocean against the surf, along with the occasional huff from either Rhaegal or Viserion, intercepting it, the tension palpable, its presence a heavy weight that neither of you can shake.

Finally, after another beat of silence, you let out a shaky breath, hands digging into the exposed skin of your forearm slightly, as you gather the strength needed to say what’s on your mind. “If you do this,” you begin, the words sour on your tongue, stomach twisting. “Promise me that you’ll come back. Promise me that you’ll bring them back.”

Daenerys looks at you then, the emotion within her eyes telling you she understood who you were referring to. That you weren’t asking for a promise to bring the men back — your words weren’t a plea for the plan to work; they were a mothers desperate attempt to ensure the safety of her children — and your Khaleesi doesn’t hesitate. “I promise,” she affirms. Even still, a weight has settled within you that wouldn’t become easier to lift until she returned back from the desperate attempt to right a wrong that wasn’t her fault. There wasn’t more to truly say after that, no argument that you could come up with that’d make her change her mind, so you settle, once more, into the silence that descends.

The storm on the horizon draws ever closer, dark clouds beginning to loom over the bay, while the wind picks up speed; whipping through your hair and clothes as if trying to pull you away. You’re aware of what she’s about to do, even if she hasn’t outright said she’d be departing now, and it absolutely terrifies you.

Daenerys stands, gaze lingering on you for a moment longer, before it shifts to the dragons. Knowing what is to occur, even if that doesn’t make it any easier to digest, you follow her lead, rising to your feet and move over to Viserion. Your precious boy lifts his head in response, bright eyes locking with yours, not unlike his other mother had done a moment prior, and you feel a pang of sadness deep within your chest. You reach out, hand resting against his cheek, the warmth of his pebbled scales seeping into your chilled skin. 

“Be safe, Prūmia,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek; Viserion nuzzling against you in response, a low rumble vibrating through his body. The sound being one of comfort, of reassurance, but it does little to ease the fear beginning to gnaw at your heart.

You move over to Rhaegal next, placing a gentle kiss to his nose. The soft huff, a warm gust of air that seems to sink deep into your soul, brings a small smile to life; despite the tears that were welling within your eyes. “Don’t do anything rash, Bāne.”

Finally, you approach Drogon, who had landed nearby, watching you with his crimson gaze. Once you’re near, he lowers his massive head, allowing for you to scratch the underside of his chin, a spot that has been his weakness since he was a hatchling, and you respond with a light chuckle of your own when he admits a huff of amusement — the closest thing, you’ve found, to laughter that a dragon can emit — the corners of his mouth seemingly lifting into a smile of his own. “Protect her, Mīsio.”

It’s a rare moment — even with your warring emotions — of levity in a time that feels anything but light.

Daenerys, simply watching as you say your farewells, meets your gaze steadily once you finally turn back to her, greeting you with a soft expression; the love she feels for you evident within pools of violet, but, underneath it all, hidden away in a place only you could find, there was sadness, genuine regret that she was parting with you mixing within it. It’s only when she steps closer, wrapping her arms around you in a much needed embrace, that the tension, you hadn’t even realized had been there, slackens. Her hold on you was tight, as if she was trying to anchor herself to you one last time before the storm took her away. Daenerys had always likened you to home; the one safe harbor she felt she had within this world. Where she could lay down her titles, her shield, and her worries, to truly be herself once more — simply Dany.

“I love you,” she whispers into your ear, voice trembling. “More than anything. Please know that.”

You press your cheek against hers, inhaling the familiar scent of the love of your life; a gentle fragrance of something sweet mixed with lavender, underscored by smoke and dragon fire. The duality of Daenerys Targaryen showcasing itself even within something so mundane. “I love you too,” you reply. “Always.”

Not wishing to let go, you cling to each other a moment longer, the world fading, as it always does, as you focus on the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart, but, all too soon, she pulls back, violet eyes glistening with unshed tears as she reluctantly steps away. Only to return, seemingly unable to stay away, to place a gentle kiss upon your lips, her words ghosting across them. "I will be back soon,” she vows. “You'll be cuddled up with our children and me before you know it."

With one final embrace, and another brief kiss, Daenerys approaches Drogon, who had been waiting patiently, and climbs onto his back, the great dragon unfurling his wings with a powerful gust of wind; Rhaegal and Viserion following suit, their massive wings beating in unison as they rise into the sky.

You watch them, heart aching as they disappear into the horizon, get swallowed by the gathering storm, the weight in your chest nearly unbearable; a mixture of fear, sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of loss that you couldn’t comprehend. The smart thing to do would be to head inside, to find shelter from the oncoming storm, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Instead, you stand on the cliff's edge, the wind whipping through your hair, as you look in the direction of where the woman you love and your children vanished into the darkening sky.

A tear slips unbidden down your cheek and you don’t bother to wipe it away. The void within your chest, that had been created by the unceasing weight pressing upon it, threatened to consume you once you realized just how along you truly are now. Your children, alongside the love of your life, were heading into the unknown, and all you could do was stand, waiting within Dragonstone, and hope that they would return.

But, deep down, the sense of unease, the tension that had been coiling tighter and tighter, that continued to gnaw at you, was now settled like a stone in your gut; an unshakeable feeling that something terrible was about to happen settling over you.

For now, until your family returned to you, persevering was the only option — even if it meant burying the dark emotions welling up — and hope that Daenerys would keep her promise, that she would bring them back to you. That she would come back to you.

And, as the first rumble of thunder echoed over the bay, you closed your eyes, silently praying for the strength to face whatever was to come.

When the storm had rolled in, many within Dragonstone believed it would abate quickly, but it had only seemed to worsen as time wore on — as hours turned to days and those days turned to weeks — and, within that period there hadn’t been any news from the North.

It’s late. The kind of late that bleeds into the early hours of the morning, when even the wind is quiet, too tried to howl against the ancient castle; despite the storm still being an ever-present entity. Typically, it’s considered to be a tranquil hour to be awake, despite the earliness of it, and that the sky was still dark, but the silence of it was suffocating — pressing down on you with a weight that makes it hard to breathe. You had become too accustomed to silence, to the sound of your heartbeat and thoughts uninterrupted by anything else, and you absolutely detest it. When Dragonstone awakens — when servants, guards, and dignitaries alike travel through its halls — do you feel more at ease, because, at least when you hear them, you know you’re not truly alone.

The chambers you share with Daenerys, so shockingly cold without the presence of your dragon, to warm it, were dark, save for the faint embers that still valiantly clung to life within the hearth, and the stone walls seemed to close in around you. Ever since Daenerys had left this room had felt like a prison; each hour within it that passed stretching into eternity as you waited for word — any word — of Daenerys and your children. You had barely been able to sleep, being unable to banish the terrible images that haunted your dreams when you tried. Your dreams become consumed by what-if scenarios, each one darker than the last. You see them, your children, in your mind’s eye, falling from the sky, their magnificent wings torn and battered, fire extinguished as they plummet to the unforgiving earth below. You see Daenerys, silver-gold hair matted red with blood, the bright fierceness of her eyes dulled by the hand of death. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you prayed to the Gods to grant you mercy, even if it was only for a short while, those images wouldn’t stray far from your mind; they were relentless, merciless, in their endeavor to tear you apart from the inside out.

Still, even when you were awake, you found no solace, not a sense of peace. The idea of your family, all that you truly had within this world, flying into that forsaken land, facing dangers beyond comprehension, you couldn’t properly stomach it; couldn’t discern the varying emotions that had constantly been battling within you. Anger and fear had been your constant companion — Tyrion, Grey Worm, and Missandei tried to help but there wasn’t much they could do; not when you shut yourself off from the world — and, within that time you’ve spent with them, you understand that the majority of it, while directed towards the events as a whole, centered around Daenerys and her unwillingness to bend. Her fervent need to prove herself, to be the hero.

You know that Daenerys, for all of her pride in being a Targaryen, was weighed down by the actions of her father and brother, know that she desperately didn’t wish to become something that many had already foretold her being, that she was so afraid of becoming Queen of the Ashes. It’s something you detest — the fear that had been instilled into your ferocious dragon; clipping her wings the moment she had stepped ashore Dragonstone— and something you’ve been trying to dispel; never truly understanding why Daenerys would wish to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms if the common folk detested her so based simply off the actions of her forefathers.

Understanding all of that, knowing the insecurities that plagued her, you could see why Daenerys had made the decisions that she has, but you couldn’t understand why she was willing to risk the people that had already proved their loyalty, their unwavering devotion, to serve people that’d sooner call her the Mad Queen, the next coming of Maegor, then see her for what she truly was, to see beyond the fact that she shared blood with Aerys Targaryen.

Even still, knowing this, no matter how much it may squeeze your heart, you couldn’t help the growing chasm of anger that has settled within your gut at her actions. Wishing that, for once, she’d just let sleeping dragons lie, but, on the other hand, if she did, she wouldn’t be the woman you had fallen in love with, which is why a gnawing sense of fear had decided to accompany the anger in a sickening duo.

Daenerys had promised she would come back, that they would all return, but promises are fragile things, easily shattered by the brutality of war, by the merciless cold of the North, and the seemingly unending nightmare of the Night King’s army. Even still, her promise, her commitment to you, was the only thing you could truly still hold onto without falling apart, because, despite everything, you had faith in your Khaleesi, believing in her gave you the hope to believe that everything would turn out okay in the end.

Now, even in the dead of night, when the world is still, and the air is thick with the scent of salt and sea, as you lie awake staring at the ceiling, you hold onto that hope, to the one source of light that would guide you from the darkness. You’re not sure how long you lie there, caught between sleep and waking, your one shred of hope battling against the dark twisted dreams that wish to prey upon you, when you hear a disturbance: the creaking of the door, a faint rustling of fabric, as someone enters the room. And, without having to even look at, you know it is, you would always know. You could feel her presence like a healing salve to your soul, the warmth that radiates from her, the smell of smoke and ash with something sweeter, something distinctly Daenerys, that fills the air — replacing the scent of the sea.

You turn to look at her slowly, heart pounding, a strange mixture of relief and dread coursing through your veins. She’s back. She kept her promise. But, as you make out her form, standing there in the dim light, you know something is wrong.

Daenerys — the unstoppable force that brought many to heel, your dragon that burned with the fires of Old Valyria through her veins, who loves you with an ardency that rivaled the sun itself — looked broken.

There’s no other word for it: shoulders slumped, usually bright eyes dull and haunted, face drawn and pale. She looks like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders — more so than usual — and, for a moment, you can’t breathe.

She doesn’t say anything as she walks towards you, her movements slow, each step measured in a way you’ve never seen before, as if each one took an enormous amount of effort. The bed dips slightly as she sits on the edge of it, and you can see the way her hands were trembling, imperceptible if you had been anyone else, when she reached out for you. “I’m back,” she whispers, her voice so soft that it’s almost lost in the quiet of the room, but there’s something in her tone that makes your blood run cold.

You sit up, eyes searching hers for answers, for some kind of reassurance, but all you see is pain.

“Where are they?” The question slips out before you can stop it, fear clogging your throat making it even harder to breathe. “Where are the boys?”

Daenerys flinches at the words, at such a seemingly innocuous question, that you know within an instant. You know before she even says anything — understanding intrinsically where the aching hollowness had appeared from; a gaping void where your golden boy had once been — in response, but you can’t accept it. You won’t.

Violet eyes fill with tears, and she looks down at her hands, the one that had been abandoned by your own twisting in the fabric of the bedspread, as the other rests uselessly in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your heart stops, the world stops, everything just stops as her apology hits you with the force of an arrow; the meaning behind it crippling in its intensity. The room, that had become your prison since she left, seems to close in on you: the walls pressing in, the air growing thin. You can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but stare at her, waiting for her to take it back, to tell you it’s not true.

She doesn’t.

Daenerys just sits there, tears valiantly remaining in place, whole body trembling as if she’s going to shatter into a million pieces.

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper, refusing to believe that it could be true; willing it to not be true. “No, no, no, no…” The words spill out in a desperate wave, pleading as if you can somehow make reality change by denying it.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys repeats, voice thick with held back tears, and she reaches out for you once more, but you jerk away; the movement is violent, instinctive.

“Don’t touch me!” You snap, sharp and harsh, tone filled with a venom you hadn’t known you were capable of. The grief, the anger, the pain, all crashing down on you at once; a tidal wave that threatens to drown you. “Say it. I want you to say the words”

Daenerys flinches at your ire, just barely, but enough for you to notice; to feel the faint sting of seeing her so shaken. Her lips part, as though she’s about to speak, but the words catch in her throat, and she finally looks away, unable to meet your gaze.

“Say it,” you repeat. A part of you needed to hear her say the words, because, you know, a small part of you would cling onto the shred of hope that it wasn’t true, that Daenerys must be mistaken, if she didn’t. “Say it, Daenerys!”

She still doesn’t turn to look at you, but her shoulders slump even more. “He’s gone. Viserion is gone.”

Why does expecting a blow not make it hurt any less? Why does knowing the pain is coming fail to lessen its sting? Your mind cries out as your heart begins to break. Is it because the expectation of the hit, of knowing what’s coming, evolves into its own kind of torture? Amplifying the pain as it echoes through your mind long before the blow ever truly lands.

You’re the one that flinches this time, the words piercing through you as easily as Valyrian Steel would flesh, and can’t keep the pained noise lodged within your throat trapped any longer; a noise that instantly has Daenerys reaching out for you, trying to comfort you as she has always done. Only this time you couldn’t stand to be near her, didn’t think you’d be able to handle her touch, not when your entire world had been thrown on its axis. Jerking away from her touch, as if it burned, you scramble off the bed, needing to put distance between you, needing a moment to breathe.

Daenerys stands in response, movements slow, hesitant, as if she was afraid that one wrong move will shatter whatever fragile thread that’s holding you together. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t move closer even though you can tell she’s fighting her natural urge to do so, allowing you a moment, giving you an opportunity to sort through your thoughts. It’s something she had done since your friendship began — back when she hadn’t been the Khaleesi, hadn’t been what she is now, when she was a lost girl with a vindictive brother — when things got overly heated, overly emotional, and it never failed.

Until now.

Until you realized that the thoughts spiraling through your mind weren’t your own — not truly — as they were all poisoned by the darkness of your grief, of your anger, of your pain and bitterness. The longer you were left to listen to them now gave you more and more time to get lost under the sea of anguish that’s refusing to let you come back to the surface.

“How?” You don’t know why you’re asking, it’s not something you truly wish to know, but you just wanted the thoughts to stop, to let you breathe without reminding you that Viserion would never do so again. “How did it happen?”

Daenerys hesitates. “The Night King.” That you had surmised as there would be nothing in this world that would have saved Jon Snow if he had been the one to physically kill your son; him being a short-sighted imbecile notwithstanding. “H-He had a sp-spear—”

You don’t let her finish, you can’t let her finish, not when the imagery of those simple words alone was enough; the haunting dreams coming to fruition. The bubbling anger, that you had been trying to stave off since she had arrived, finally erupting. “I told you not to go!” You shake your head, turning away from her with your hands clenched. “I told you that this would happen!”

When Daenerys doesn’t respond, you turn back to look at her, seeing the tears that were now steadily making trails across fair skin, clearly having lost the battle that she had fought earlier by not letting too many tears escape. It’s a sight that should soften your heart — the woman you love more than anything in this world in clear anguish — and make you want to comfort her, because, it’s obvious, she’s lost too, but all it does is fuel the fire of your anger; something that causes another piece of yourself to wither away.

“How could you do this?” You demand, wanting to know, aching to know: your Dany wouldn’t have done this, your Dany would have tried everything before risking the lives of your sons for a fool's errand. “How could you risk them like that? How could you risk him?”

“I had to,” Daenerys replies. “I had to save them.”

Despite yourself you take a small step closer. “At what cost?” A wave of emotions rushes through you, burning your throat with grief. “At what cost, Daenerys? You’ve lost him! We’ve lost him!”

“I know,” she cries out, anguish palpable. “I know and I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I had to try.”

“But you didn’t have to risk him!” You scream, the dam within you finally bursting as tears stream down your face, your grief and anger consuming you whole. “You didn’t have to risk Viserion! He’s dead, Daenerys! He’s dead because of you!”

The words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about the impact they’ll have, and you watch as Daenerys recoils as though struck, eyes wide with hurt and shock. For a moment, the anger drains from you, replaced by a sickening sense of guilt, but it is too late to take it back; the damage has been dealt.

Daenerys takes a step back, the first time she had put distance between you instead of trying to close it, arms dropping back to her sides, an expression of heartbreak, with the barest hints of disbelief, directed at you. “Do you truly believe that this is what I wanted? That I wanted this?” She questions, voice quivering. “You think I wanted to lose him.”

‘No.’ You want to will the word through your lips, to make any sort of noise that’d indicate that you didn’t believe that — not truly — but, even if you had said it, you’re not certain if she would have heard.

“I did what I had to do,” she continues. “I did what I thought was right. We lost Viserion because of it, which will be something that I’ll live with for the rest of my life, but I had to make that choice. I had to do what I thought was best for all of us. For you, for them, for the world.”

“For the world?” You repeat, not even trying to dampen the bitter sarcasm laced within the words. “What about our world, Daenerys? What about our family?”

Her gaze softens, even though the tears remain ever present, and she takes a tentative step forward, reaching out for you again; bridging the gap that she has made earlier. “We’re still a family,” she insists, unwavering. “We still have Drogon and Rhaegal. We still have each other.”

You shake your head. “It’s not the same,” you whisper. The truth in those four words sends another lance of pain straight through your heart. “It will never be the same.”

“Please,” Daenerys begs, realizing that she was losing you, setting in; a desperate panic begins to take form across her beautiful face. “Please don’t push me away.”

How can you not? When her mere presence is a living reflection of the conflict warring inside of you; part of you, buried deep, wanting to reach out, to be held, while the other part wanted to make her hurt like she has hurt you, to get some form of justice for Viserion. So, you do, you push her away with a force that has her stumbling back, tears blurring your vision as you turn and flee from the room.

Your feet carry you down the cold, winding corridors of Dragonstone; shadows looming around you like specters. You don’t have a destination in mind, just the overwhelming need to get away, to be alone with your grief.

It isn’t until you reach a familiar door that you realize where you’ve been heading all along — a room deep within the heart of Dragonstone; where the remnants of the egg shells, the very shells from which your sons had hatched, are kept in separate, ornate cases. The sight of them is enough to send you fully over the edge, your knees buckling as you collapse onto the stone floor, sobs wracking your body as the full weight of your loss crashes down upon you.

Viserion.

Your sweet, gentle Viserion. You’ll never feel his warm breath against your skin again, never hear his soft purrs as he nuzzled into you, seeking comfort and affection. The bond you had shared, that indescribable connection, is gone, severed by the cruel hand of fate, by the cold touch of the Night King.

You reach out, fingers trembling, and brush against the case that holds the remnants of Viserion’s egg; the smooth, hardened shell that once contained the precious life that was now lost to you forever. The tears flow freely down your cheeks, dampening the stone beneath you, as you weep for your son, for the life that was so violently taken, for the gentle flame that had been put out too soon.

Tugging the box closer, your breath catches at the familiar sight of the cracked shell that Viserion had emerged from so long ago.

The shell was pale, a shimmering blend of cream and gold, almost ethereal in its beauty. It sits nestled in the box, as if cradled by the very Gods themselves, the cracks across its surface, that once promised the appearance of new life, are now jagged reminders of all you’ve lost. You reach out once more, fingers trembling even more as they brush against the surface, the coolness of the shell seeping into your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

As you carefully lift the shell, memories flood your mind, each one yet another blow to your already broken heart. You remember the day Viserion had hatched, the first time you had seen him when Daenerys had emerged from the pyre, a miracle of life amidst the barrenness of the Red Waste. He had been so small, his scales soft and glistening, his eyes wide with wonder as he observed the world from near Daenerys’ feet, until his aureate gaze locked onto you. It was in that moment, you knew he was yours, your Prūmia, your beloved son.

You had watched him grow, from a curious hatchling to a majestic dragon, his pale scales shimmering like molten gold beneath the sunlight. He had always been the gentlest of the three, his temper calm, his touch tender. Where Dragon was fierce, and Rhaegal wild, Viserion was your peace, your warmth on the coldest nights, the soft presence that guided you when all seemed lost.

The shell feels heavier now — as if the weight of your grief had embedded itself into it — making it impossible to hold. A sob escapes your lips, raw and broken, the sound filling the room, echoing off the stone walls until it is all you can hear.

You close your eyes, cradling the shell to your chest, the way you once cradled Viserion when he was small enough to fit in your arms. Your mind is a storm, torn between the memories of his soft purrs, the way he could never get enough gentle scratches underneath his chin, and the knowledge that his lifeless body was now lost within the frozen landscape beyond the Wall.

“Prūmia,” you murmur. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The words feel hollow, wholly inadequate in the face of the overwhelming loss that has consumed you. They’re empty, meaningless, a feeble attempt to make sense of the senseless, to find solace in a world ripped apart. You press your forehead against the shell as if, by some miracle, you could draw him to you; as if your love could bridge the gap between life and death and bring him back.

But there is no answer, no soft purr, no warmth to chase away the cold that has settled into your bones. There is only the silence, the crushing weight of the reality that he’s gone, and you are alone within the room that used to represent life and love, but now could only ever be likened to one thing in your eyes.

A tomb.

In the darkness of your grief, you can almost convince yourself that you feel his presence, the ghost of his touch against your skin, the whisper of his breath as he used to curl around you in sleep, but when you open your eyes, there is nothing, only the shell in your hands, a reminder of what once was, and what will never be again.

Viserion was gone and, with him, a part of you died too.

The world is a blur of icy winds and burning cold, a barren wasteland where the air itself is laden with dread; a storm rages, tearing through the desolate landscape, howling its fury as it sweeps across ice and snow. Your heart pounds in your chest, a drumbeat of fear and despair, as you search the endless white horizon for a glimpse of gold — his gold.

“Prūmia.” It’s a whisper on your lips, the name that had never been uttered without fondness was now intertwined with a darkness you couldn’t escape from; it’s a plea, a prayer, but the storm swallows your voice leaving you with nothing except the howling wind and biting cold.

Viserion was out there, somewhere within this forsaken land, a simple fact that you knew as surely as your heart felt the panic clawing at your insides. He’s out there, battling the storm, the ice, the cold — battling death itself.

And you are helpless to reach him.

You run, as you always do, feet pounding against the ice — slipping, sliding — as you race against the storm. Maybe this time will be different? Maybe you’ll be faster? Maybe you’ll be better? Each step feels like a lifetime, each heartbeat a desperate cry for time, for fate, for anything to have mercy on you. Your hands reach out, fingers trembling, aching to touch him, to feel his warmth once more; as if the very act would make him appear, would bring him back.

The world shifts around you, the ice cracks, and you’re falling — falling into the abyss of nothingness, into the frozen depths where hope dies.

You see him then, above you, flying through the storm, searching for you too. His wings beat with desperate strength, pale scales shimmering through the haze of snow and darkness. For a moment, just a fleeting blip of time, you feel relief washing over you like a balm. He’s there. He’s alive. He’ll catch you. He’ll—

Everything around you shifts once more, ripping you away from your one semblance of peace, tilting everything into chaos. Your body slams into solid ground once more, but you barely notice it, not being able to tear your eyes from the sky above you.

Darkness swarms around him, creeping up his massive form like tendrils of death, and you can only watch in horror, suspended in time while everything beyond seems to move too quickly, as the night closes in on him. His roar shatters the air, a sound of agony, of finality; you scream his name, the sound tearing from your throat like a roar of your own.

Viserion’s aureate gaze finally finds yours and, for a split second, everything stops — the storm, the wind, the world itself. In that moment, you see the fire within him, the life, the soul that is yours as much as it is his. You reach out with all that you are: your heart, your soul, your everything, trying to keep him with you.

But ice, as you have found, is relentless; it strikes with lethal precision, piercing through the fire, freezing it from the inside out. Viserion’s roar turns into a strangled cry, his wings faltering, body writhing in the throes of death. The golden light in his eyes dims, flickers, and then — like a candle snuffed out by the cold — it vanishes.

You scream, heart shattering into a million pieces, as he falls from the sky; his massive form crashing into the icy ground with a sound that rips the world apart.

Running to him isn't even an action you registered doing, it was just innate within, instinctual to the most basic degree. You had always come running when any of your children had gotten hurt — tending to their aches and pains, the majority of which being healed by a simple kiss to the affected area — but, as you fall to your knees beside him, you know that this won’t be something you can fix with love, with tender affection.

Your hands reach out to his lifeless body — being unable to not at least try; even though you’re aware it would never work — and shudder at the coldness you find. The ice spreads, creeping over his golden scales, turning them to blue, to white, to nothing. You try to fight it, try to warm him with your touch, try to bring him back from the depths of the chill coursing over him.

But there was no bringing him back from where he’s already been lost.

His golden eyes are closed, his chest still, his fire extinguished, and you are left with nothing but the cold, the darkness, and the empty, hollow ache that gnaws within you.

Another scream rips through the air, but this one is a completely different entity. It’s not a scream of fear, or of pain; it’s one of rage, of a fury so deep you felt like you’d never find the bottom of it, of a mother’s desperate anguish at the loss of her child.  It echoes through the void, reverberating through the emptiness, through the nothingness, tearing at the fabric of the world itself.

The world doesn’t care. It keeps spinning, keeps turning, oblivious to your loss, your grief, your pain.

And, in that moment, as the ice claims Viserion’s body completely, as the cold creeps into your bones, you know one thing with absolute certainty.

This is all your fault.

You failed him.

You were supposed to protect him, to keep him safe, to be the mother he deserved, but you didn’t.

You let him go. You let him fly into the storm, into the darkness, into death.

Now he’s gone.

The darkness closes in around you, the storm howling its triumph, and you are left with nothing except for the icy void that has taken Viserion from you — that now represents your life without him.

You fall into it, letting it claim you, letting it consume you, because without him, there is nothing left.

Awakening with a start, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps as the remnants of the nightmare cling to you, a suffocating shroud of grief and despair, is something you’ve become all too familiar with. The room around you is dark, cold, unfamiliar — the walls pressing in around you like the ice that claimed Viserion.

With your body still trembling, you sit up, skin damp with sweat, and you try to shake off the nightmare even though you know it’s no use. The images are burned into your mind, seared into your soul: Viserion’s lifeless eyes, his body turning to ice, his fire snuffed out by the cold — they haunt you, refusing to let go.

You bring your hands up to your face, trying to steady your breathing, trying to calm the storm raging within you, but the void is still there at the end of it all; still gnawing hungrily at every scrap of weakness it can find, leaving behind a hollow ache that nothing could fill. The cold still lingers over you — icy tendrils creeping over your skin, freezing you from the inside out — and you rub your arms to chase it away but, like with all of your actions, it does nothing. Yet another cruel reminder of what you’ve lost.

Prūmia.

The name is a whisper within your heart, a desperate plea to the Gods to bring him back, to undone what has been done, but you know it’s futile. The Gods are cruel, indifferent to your pain, to the loss that still doesn’t feel real.

Viserion is gone and nothing can bring him back.

Not being able to handle being in bed any longer, you swing your legs over the side of it, bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, sending a jolt down your spine. The room still hasn’t become familiar to you, even after the two days you had been using it, a level of coldness remaining that you couldn’t shake, a stark contrast to the warmth and comfort of the chambers you shared with Daenerys, but you couldn’t stay there. Not after—

You can’t even think about it. The pain is too much, the grief too raw, a wound that refuses to heal.

Rising from the bed, not even surprised anymore by the trembling of your legs — your body weak from the weight of what your grief has done — you make your way over to the small window that overlooks the sea. Moonlight reflects off the waves, casting an eerie glow over the water, but you don’t see it, not truly, not as you once would; all you see are the barest hints of darkness, like a veil of sorrow draped over the night. The water, once a canvas for the moon’s gentle touch, now seems a restless sea of shadows, each ripple a whisper of your pain. Argent light, fractured and cold, dances on the waves like the fleeting echoes of a forgotten lullaby. While the serenity of the night has become a vast, indifferent expanse, a mirror reflecting the hollow cavern of your grief, where each shimmering wave is a silent testament to the void left by Viserion’s absence.

The sharp pain of your nails digging into your forearm is a welcome distraction, one that helps pull you from the void, even if it was only for a minute, and you drag them down, leaving red welts in their wake. It’s a fleeting sense of pain, but it’s barely a whisper compared to everything else.

Your thoughts spiral, a whirlwind of guilt, of anger, of pain. You should have done more. You should have protected him. You should have been the mother he deserved.

You failed him just as you have failed yourself.

Tears come then, hot and bitter, sliding down your cheeks in silent streams. You don’t bother to wipe them away; they are just another small comfort that you’ve been able to find for yourself, a release, a way for you to let some of the pain escape.

It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, but it was something.

Cold stone greets your back when you can’t find the strength to stand straight anymore, your body beginning to shake with the force of your silent sobs, as another wave of grief washes over you, drowning you in its icy depths. There’s no solace, no comfort, no reprieve, at least not you’ve been able to find; only the void, the darkness, and the unbearable weight that seems to only get heavier as time went on.

You can’t fight it, you’re not sure if you even want to, not when it’s all you have left of him: this grief, this sorrow, this endlessly aching pain.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, leaning against the wall with the last vestiges of your strength, body still trembling. Time had lost its meaning long ago — hours blending into one endless stretch of darkness and despair — but the tears eventually came to a gradual halt, leaving you drained. The void is still there, feasting away, but it has dulled somewhat; leaving behind a numbness that is almost worse than the agony.

While the agony hurt, fierce and relentless, it was a constant, burning reminder of what you had lost; it was sharp, immediate, and painfully real, a torrent of raw emotion that you could still grasp and confront. Now, the pain has given way to a familiar numbness that seeps into every corner of your being, a heavy, suffocating silence that drowns out even the sharpest cries of grief. This numbness was insidious — it doesn't allow you to feel the sting of loss, but instead wraps you in a cold, unfeeling shroud. Stripping you of the ability to mourn, to scream, to find any kind of release; an absence of feeling that gnaws at you, leaving you stranded in a void where even the pain is too distant to touch. It’s a feeling that makes every moment feel like a slow drift through an endless abyss where nothing can penetrate or soothe the emptiness, leaving you with an overwhelming sense of being lost and alone.

Pushing away from the wall, as if trying to distance yourself from the feelings, or lack thereof, plaguing you, you make your way back to bed on unsteady legs. The sheets are cold, unwelcoming, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Crawling beneath them, curling into a ball, your body innately searching for the warmth that could only ever be provided by one person, you will sleep to take you. It’s a pitiful attempt, you’re aware of this, but you can’t bring yourself to stop trying — not if it meant that you might finally be fast enough.

You turn on your side, conceding to the lost battle to find sleep for the time being, and stare at the wall, watching the shadows dance across the stone. You know you should go to her, to Daenerys, but you can’t. Not with everything that’s happened, not with the anger still rising to the surface every time your mind drifted to her.

So, you stay here, in this cold prison you had created for yourself, because it’s easier that way. Blaming Daenerys was easy, being angry at her was simple, but it wasn’t the only reason you had locked yourself away; it wasn't the only reason why you’re haunted by the ghost of your precious boy.

You should have stopped her. You should have convinced her to stay at Dragonstone. You should have kept firm, not bending to her will, or, at the very least, convincing her that all three of your sons needn’t have gone.

You should have done something.

Instead you had done nothing and Viserion was dead because of it.

It’s a truth that you can’t bear to face during the light of day — not when it was so much easier to blame her, when you can get lost in the angry spite that erupts within you.

Staying in this room, locking yourself away — letting them consume you — is the only thing that feels right. It’s the only thing that feels like it would ever be enough to atone for what you’ve lost.

For what you’ve done.

Days pass in a blur, each one blending into the next, indistinguishable from the last, causing you to lose track of time, lose track of everything that isn’t beyond the four walls you’ve trapped yourself within. The world outside your small chamber might as well not exist — there’s nothing there for you, nothing that can pull you from the depths of your despair.

You eat little, sleep even less, and spend most of your time staring out the small window; watching the waves crash against the rocks below, their ceaseless rhythm a dull backdrop to the storm raging inside of you. You don’t leave the room, don’t venture out into the halls of Dragonstone, don’t seek out anyone — especially not her.

She’s worried about you. Even after the fight, even after your continued silence, you can still feel her presence outside your door, hear the soft footsteps as she lingers just beyond the threshold, hesitating uncertainty. Characteristics that were so unlike her it nearly made you weep for an entirely different reason. You know she wants to come in, to comfort and hold you, but you can’t bear it. Can’t stomach the thought of being near her, of feeling the icy numbness transform into raging anger, as you try to come to terms with the part she played in Viserion’s death.

It was her need to save everyone that caused this, your mind hisses. If she had just heeded your words, if she had just listened to you for once, this wouldn’t have happened.

The spiteful anger, the ferocity that scorched through your veins, even if it has been held back by chains, as you don’t wish to unleash something you don’t know if you’ll be able to control, isn’t one you’ll ever get used to, but it’s one that offers you some form of solace from the numbness and unending cycle of grief and pain. Pacing your room in controlled anger, fists clenched at your sides, was much more bearable than sobbing in a ball underneath the covers of the bed.

But you hadn’t pressed her on it either. You didn’t let her know what you were feeling. If you had shown her what you were feeling, if you had shared that with her, maybe she would have listened. The other part of your mind whispers, the part that had been progressively getting beaten back to the recesses of it as the anger began to take over. Neither of you knew this would happen. How could you? Go to her. Be with her. Grieve with her.

You don’t. You push the pleading words away, ignoring the ache of your heart, as you push the rest of the world away with them; letting the silence wrap around you like a shroud.

Not that it gives you any reprieve. The silence was also your enemy — as it’s in the quiet moments, when the world is still, that the memories come; unbidden, unwelcome, dragging you back into a nightmare.

You see his eyes — golden, warm, full of life — turning cold, lifeless, as the ice claims him. You hear his roar — strong, fierce, filled with fire — turn into a strangled cry of pain as death takes him. You feel his warmth, his presence, his soul — so intricately intertwined with your own — fade into nothingness.

Digging your nails into your arms, into your legs, anywhere you can reach, as you tried to feel anything besides the gaping hole inside you, but the pain is fleeting — it’s not enough to keep the darkness at bay for long; not when the pain is done by your own hands and not its own.

The room felt smaller tonight; the walls closer, the air more frigid, the festering emotions welling with you more pressing. From the small window — your only connection to the outside world — you can see that the moon has begun its ascent, casting pale silver light onto the world below. An almost eerie silence descending upon the small chambers you have made into your sanctuary, despite the crashing of waves on the rocks below, the faint whistling of the wind, you’ve grown used to the silence, to the empty numbness that it typically brought, but something feels different.

It’s not until a bolt of anger shoots through you, sudden and sharp, like the crack of a whip against your skin, that you understand that the most fiery of the emotions that had been growing within you — the one you had tried to control more than the others, even if it was always present — had been silently working its way through the tight bonds you had held it in; choosing this moment, this silent night, to finally break free; one that promised only more destruction.

You try to calm yourself, to take a deep breath and wrangle the anger back into its cage, back where it belongs, but it only flares hotter in response, stronger in its defiance to not be leashed any longer. Like a wildfire catching the wind. Clenching your fists, nails biting into your palms, hoping that the pain would distract you enough to allow your anger to be reined back in, but not even the subtle sting could ground you.

The fire within you has been smoldering for too long and now that it’s finally had a chance to ignite you couldn’t stop it.

Why did she go beyond the Wall? Why did she risk him, risk everything? The questions that have plagued you for days spin around in your mind with no relief, no answers. You know the reasoning that Daenerys had given you, but it never felt good enough — never the exact words that you needed to hear on why she had risked it all on something that would obviously end in some manner of death.

You’ve isolated yourself, hoping the distance would dull the sharp edge of your grief, of your bitterness, and fierceness of your anger, that staying away from Daenerys so she wouldn’t ignite the anger that’s been lit all by itself.

Pacing the room, each step heavy with the weight of your emotions, hoping that the repetitive movement that you’ve grown used to would soothe you in some way, but the restless motion seems to agitate you further. The chamber feels too small, too cold, too far removed from the life you once had. From her.

Because, no matter how angry you are with her, no matter how much a part of you hated her for the part she played in Viserion’s death, you still needed her like the air you breathed.

It’s a realization that strikes through you like lightning, a sudden, almost violent, force that ignites every nerve, feeling it burn through your chest, a molten heat that rises to your throat. Now unleashed fully, it overwhelms the grief, filling the hollow space inside you with something sharp, something dangerous.

Your hands tremble, breath quickening, as the anger flows through, unbound from its chains, feeling the heat radiating throughout your body, and, before you know it, you’re moving — feet carrying you swiftly toward the door. 

You don’t think as the anger propels you down the dimly lit corridors of Dragonstone, each step harder than the last, until you reach the chambers you once shared with Daenerys. The place that had been yours together, now nothing more than a reminder of what you’ve lost.

Without pause, knowing if you faltered you’d self-destruct in a different way, you push open the door to the chambers, the heavy wood creaking under your forceful shove. The room inside is dim, lit only by the flickering flames of the hearth. She’s there, seated by the fire, her silver-gold hair catching the light as she stares into the flames, lost in thought.

For a moment, she doesn’t notice you, and you stand there, seething, your heart pounding with the force of your anger and pain, and, for a brief moment you believe that just looking at her would be enough to soothe the flames within you, but the moment she looked up, her violet eyes meeting yours, something snapped inside of you.

You don’t give her time to speak, to offer apologies or explanations; even as she stands up to greet you properly. You don’t want to hear them. You can’t bear to.

In an instant, you close the distance between you, your body colliding with hers in a forceful, desperate motion. She gasps, her breath catching as you press her against the wall, your hands finding purchase on her waist, fingers digging in harder than you mean to. You’re trembling, the anger boiling just beneath the surface, and all you can think is that you want to forget. You need to forget, even if it’s just for a moment.

Need to forget the warmth of Viserion’s gaze, the sound of his loving croon as he nuzzled you, the way his scales sparkled so ethereally underneath the sun… The way you had felt the bond snap within your heart — leaving you adrift, untethered from what you had always believed would be there.

Daenerys looks at you, her expression startled, her lips parted as if to speak once more, but you don’t let her, can’t let her; silencing whatever words she might have uttered with the heat of your body pressed against hers, your heart pounding violently in your chest.

Her hands come to rest on your shoulders, hesitant, unsure, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. The rage, the grief, it’s all too much, and you need something, anything, to drown it out. You don’t care that it’s rough, that it’s unrelenting — knowing that Daenerys would be able to push you off if she didn’t wish for your attention; that, even in your darkness, you’d stop the moment Daenerys wished for you to do so — you just need to feel something other than the crushing, unbearable void that grown larger as the days went by.

You lean in, your forehead pressing against hers, nose gently grazing her own, breaths coming in ragged bursts. She can feel the tremors in your body, the raw emotion barely contained, and her hands, though gentle, feel like fire on your skin, fueling the storm inside you.

“Please,” Daenerys murmurs, voice trembling with the weight of her own pain. “Talk to me. Let me help.”

You can’t — talking won’t help.

Words won’t bring him back, and, as of right now, the only thing that feels real is the heat between you, the desperate need to lose yourself in something other than the pain. Your fingers tighten on her waist, your breath harsh against her neck as you wait for her to take charge; to be your Khaleesi.

She doesn’t disappoint.

Without warning, she crashes her lips against yours; an action that causes your heart to flutter in your chest — not out of love, but out of the need to forget, to make the pain go away, and finally receiving that release. It’s a desperate kiss, full of anger and need, your hands rising to fist in her hair as you pull her closer, demanding more.

Needing more.

Daenerys gasps into the kiss, her hands gripping your shoulders, body pliant, yet unyielding, against yours — a duality that only she could possess. She doesn’t push you away, doesn’t fight you, simply letting you take what you need, her lips moving against yours in a way that only feeds the fire burning inside you; tongue grazing against your own as she sought to taste you after so long apart. Her own desperation became apparent.

Even as your bodies pressed together, as you lose yourself in the heat of the moment, of the warmth seeping into your skin from every inch of you she caresses, the pain still lingers, just beneath the surface. The anger, the grief, was still there, simmering, waiting to pull you back under, and you refuse to let that happen.

Your fingers, that were still woven through the silky strands of her hair, tug her head back, forcing Daenerys lips away from you own; a snarl of displeasure rumbling from your dragon’s throat at the added distance, but the look in your gaze must have halted her from reclaiming your lips in a feverish embrace. “Claim me.”

Make me forget…

The force in which Daenerys collides with you again, fingers digging more incessantly into your waist, causes you to stumble back, only her arms keeping you steady against her solid form, as she descends upon you with a fervor that nearly takes your breath away. Her lips traveling down the length of your neck, tongue and teeth clashing in a heated battle to ensure you wouldn’t forget her presence, even after she had pulled away, down towards your breasts.

Daenerys kissed as much skin as your dress would allow, small noises of displeasure rumbling from the back of her throat when the fabric of it impeded her progress on tasting you further, the frustration mounting in a manner that Daenerys was typically able to temper, but it had been too long since she held you in her arms, since she had you squirming beneath her as waves of ecstasy cause you to clench around her length.

It’s an image that causes a hint of darkness — lust mixed with her natural possessiveness — to flicker through her violet gaze, giving you all the warning you needed, when, with a soft grunt, Daenerys simply gripped the thin material of your bodice and ripped it apart; exposing your heaving chest for her hungry eyes.

“That’s better,” Daenerys purred, mostly to herself, as she lowered her head to take a nipple into her mouth; biting the hardened tip before she soothed it with the warmth of her tongue. Your dragon, ever the thoughtful lover, giving your neglected breast much needed attention with her hand; slender fingers rolling a hardened peak in the exact way that caused your back to arch, a moan catching in the back of your throat. The halted noise causes Daenerys to bite down on the underside of your breast — teeth sinking into the tender flesh, ensuring you’d have her mark for days. “None of that, ñuha perzys, I want to hear you sing, I want to hear all of your pretty noises.”

The sound that’s released from you when Daenerys finally pushes you down onto the large bed, her undershirt hanging open, revealing full breasts that caught the eye, but didn’t hold your attention like the growing hardness within her breeches, is practically wanton in nature — a noise that belonged in a pleasure house that the ancient stronghold of the Targaryen legacy.

With your dragon hovering above you — lithe arms bracketing your head — the darkness recedes, the flaming entity that is your anger transforming into burning lust. Your hand trails down her chest, briefly tweaking a hardened nippled before continuing, descending until you got to the laces of her breeches, making quick work at unfastening them in order for you to slip your hand inside.

Hardened warmth greets your palm as you grip Daenerys’ throbbing member — an action that causes her to hiss sharply through her teeth, hips flexing as she tries to hold off from intuitively thrusting forward — ensuring you had her by the base of it.

“You would do anything to bury yourself in me, wouldn’t you?” Even if your core clenched at the thought of being stretched by Daenerys’ thickness, you wanted her to work for it. This night was about your pleasure, about lust and desire being stronger than anger and grief. “To have me mewling beneath you as fill me again and again.” Each word is coupled by a stroke of your hand, feeling the way Daenerys began to tremble under your touch, clearly fighting herself to hold back, to let you run the show for the moment; a response that is rewarded by a quick swipe of your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum down the rest of her shaft to give you an easier time. “Answer me, Daenerys, or I’ll stop and you’ll have to deal with this on your own.”

The spark of fire that ignites within the violet depths sends a powerful jolt to the apex of your thighs, more wetness appearing because of it, as you know you’ll be paying for this in the best possible way later, but Daenerys, not wanting to even take the chance of you leaving, finally relents. “What will you have me do, vāedar hontes?”

Instead of answering her vocally, your hand unlatches from her cock, giving you a clear view of the wetness clinging to your fingers as you bring them to your mouth sucking off Daenerys’ essence; loving the salty, yet slightly sweet, flavor. It’s a sight that causes Daenerys’ eyes to darken further, but you don’t give her time to say anything, your fingers popping out from your mouth as you shift to grip the back of her neck, pushing her downward to where you needed her most.

“Put that talented mouth to use, Khaleesi.”

Daenerys bites your hip bone in retaliation, the sharp sting being soothed with her tongue after a beat, as her mouth trails lower; veering away from your aching center to lavish attention to the trembling thighs. Peppering kisses on the heated flesh, leaving more marks that’d remind you she had been there, as she cleaned the wetness from them, humming lowly at the taste.

A wet kiss pressing against sensitive skin, right next to where you need her the most, a shiver wracks your body, goosebumps rising all over. Gentle puffs of air greets your overheated flesh as Daenerys peers up at you between your legs, ensuring that you’re watching her as she takes her first lick through your slit; from top to bottom and back again.

Daenerys’ hands, sturdy with slight callouses from gripping onto Drogon, glide over your thighs to keep you held open for her; in the next moment it seems as if her entire mouth covers your center, tongue lashing across the little bundle of nerves that makes your entire body quake, before barely dipping into your entrance. You knew that Daenerys probably wished to tease you, to prolong your pleasure as she typically does, but it had been too long since she last had you — since she had felt you cum in her mouth, since she had been buried inside of you, since she had felt you falling apart in her arms — and, selfishly for once, she refuses to wait, her aching length getting little relief from the thick blanket beneath her.

Moans escape your lips brokenly when Daenerys begins to scoop her tongue inside of you, rolling your hips to meet the thrusts of Daenerys’ talented tongue, the sound of Daenerys’ clear enjoyment at the act — soft hums, the clear sight of her swallowing your juices, and a hooded expression on her beautiful face — only adds to the intensity of the entire act, heat pooling with more fervor as two fingers begin to stimulate your clit.

Needing Daenerys closer, you thread your fingers through silky locks, tugging her further into you as you continuously roll your hips. “Fuck,” you cry out, a sharp keen ripping itself from your throat. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

A familiar pressure was building in your core — the trembling of your thighs keying Daenerys into what was about to occur, her efforts doubling as she latches onto the small bundle and sucks.

Overwhelming pleasure courses through you, mouth falling open in a silent scream, as your climax finally crashes through, tilting the world on its axis as you buck into Daenerys’ mouth. The earlier intensity from her tongue turning gentler as she helps you down from you high, softly cleaning you up, groaning headily at your taste, before she pulls away completely; resting her cheek on your thigh as she looks up at you.

She looked completely debauched — slick shining wetly on her face, hair in complete disarray from your hands, face slightly red from her efforts — but she didn’t seem to care in the slightest; not as crawls up you body, taking a nipple briefly into her mouth, sucking harshly, before she settles firmly on top of you.

“I believe it’s my turn now,” she husks, barely giving you a moment to react before she’s fully sheathed within you — your wet heat stretching to accommodate her thickness — a moan leaving you just as a soft groan escapes Daenerys. “Perfect.”

Daenerys, knowing you didn’t want soft or gentle tonight, not with the way you had come to her, sets a brutal pace from the beginning; where it was almost imperceptible to notice when her cock wasn’t within you, thrusting so hard she hit the sweet spot within you over and over again. Your back was officially off the bed as you cling tightly to Daenerys’ back, nails sinking into fair skin, as you had torn her undershirt off ages ago, as broken moans keep falling from your lips, barely able to take a proper breath as your dragon refuses to falter.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed through the room, intercepted by a mixture of low grunts and high-pitched moans, as the air thickened around you; mingling both of your scents into a heady concoction that caused you to instinctively tighten around Daenerys’ rigid length. An action that causes Daenerys to press her face against your neck with a low groan, teeth digging into your shoulder, as if she was keeping you in place, as she continued to rut against you; your walls continuously milking her, trying to keep her inside for as long as you could, before she plunged back in, and the process continued.

Needing to do something your mouth, as you could feel the urge to talk, as you typically did when your Khaleesi was lost in her passion like this, but knowing that you weren’t here for that — you didn’t come here for normal, you came here for Daenerys to fuck you until you forgot everything — so you force Daenerys away from your shoulder and claim her lips in a sloppy kiss; tongues battling as teeth clash. It was raw, dirty, and completely what you needed as mewls continued to escape, Daenerys unrelenting as your pleasure grew higher and higher — until the familiar peak was in sight.

Daenerys grips the rumpled blanket next to your head as her pace begins to speed up, feeling the way your walls were beginning to flutter, more wetness coating her cock, as a familiar heat begins to build within her own body, but she wouldn’t release until you did. “Come for me, ñuha perzys,” Daenerys whispers hotly against your ear, biting at the lobe as she jerks harshly against the sensitive spot within you. “Let me feel you tighten around me.”

It was as if your body has been waiting for Daenerys’ permission, waiting to feel your dragon’s warm breath against your skin as she whispered sinful words to you, as a cry rips itself from deep within your chest as your body spasms, walls tightening to such a degree that Daenerys couldn’t even thrust anymore — not unless she wished to potentially hurt you — but her own orgasm soon follows, lithe form hunching over you as strong jets paint your insides white with her seed, hips slightly jogging in order to get it as deep as she possibly could. The feeling — of her warmth steadily filling you — only prolonged your own release, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your vision went completely white. Leaving you floating in a void between pleasure and the real world.

When you come back to, chest heaving in exertion, skin gleaming with sweat, you notice that Daenerys had shifted positions; having leant back so you were now straddling her lap, her slowly softening cock still within you, as Daenerys soothingly ran her hands up and down your spine. An action she always did in order to help you settle back into your body, a lovingly gentle action that causes a chaotic array of emotions to run through you, as Daenerys hums an older Valyrian hymn against your ear.

But it was too soft, too much, as the familiar dark emotions that had been lurking beneath the lust and flames of desire, began to make a reappearance. So, you scratch down Daenerys’ back, causing her humming to stutter to a halt, and begin to roll your hips, feeling the way her length began to immediately harden within you, claiming her lips with your own — tongue immediately requesting access so you could get lost in the taste, in the feeling, of her.

You needed to forget and, as Daenerys began to respond with her own thrusts into your core, you knew that this was the only way you’d be able to do so.

A cocoon of darkness, is what you become aware of first, finally pulling yourself from the light slumber that your earlier passion had sent you into, embers from the dying hearth sending small slivers of orange to dance across the stone walls; while the air is thick with the lingering heat of your bodies, sheets still tangled around your legs, dampened by sweat. Lying next to Daenerys, chest heaving, skin still humming from the intensity of what had just occurred, you take note of the aftermath your coupling had wrought across the bed; rumpled linen, pillows cast to the stone floor, sheets strewn in a manner that only came from the most intense of passion. It’s a chaos that aptly matches the turmoil in your heart.

Daenerys shifts beside you, breath slowing, skin warm against where she presses against your own, the steady rise and fall of her chest, her very presence, so familiar to you; yet she had never felt farther away.

Once this would have been enough.

Once the quiet moments after lovemaking would have brought peace; a refuge from the outside world that no one but the two of you could ever enter. 

Now, with everything that has happened, the peace is unattainable, shattered by the memories that haunt you.

The anger that had driven you to her, the overwhelming grief that had spiraled into fury, has been temporarily sated. It’s something you can still feel — a dark cloud on the edge of your consciousness that has decided, for the moment, to remain elusive until it decides to rain hell upon your world once more — however you’re semi-secure in the knowledge that it had been soothed for now. You have tried everything to escape it — drown it in drink, bury it under layers of numbness, letting it loose to the winds in an agonized cry — but nothing has worked.

Not until now.

Not until this moment — a moment enshrouded with the raw, physical connection alongside the woman you love with your entire being.

The woman you blame for your pain.

It leaves you feeling sick with the knowledge that everything you had tried to grasp, to gain control over, had already been out of reach, lulling you into a false sense of security, allowing you to take without thought; the guilt of using Daenerys to temper the roaring typhoon of emotions within your body is yet another emotion you don’t wish to deal with. That you don’t know how to deal with.

Closing your eyes, willing the tears that sting the corner of them to stay at bay, wishing, with every fiber of your being, that you didn’t feel this way. You didn’t want to be angry with her. You didn’t want to blame her. You didn’t want to have all of these dark emotions swirling within you. The way you felt for Daenerys had never been eclipsed by any other emotion except love — by the Gods how you love her — but that very love is now tainted with the bitterness of loss, of a stinging sense of betrayal, and the fiery anger you can’t seem to shake. It festers inside you, feasting on all of the soft parts leaving nothing except a hard exterior behind, turning every moment of closeness into a reminder of what you’ve lost.

You turn your head to look at her, heart aching at the sight; silver-gold hair spills across her pillow in a wild halo, lips swollen from your kisses, violet eyes half-lidded in the aftermath of your intimacy. She looks peaceful, ethereally beautiful, and for a moment, as you observe the love of your life, you almost forget: the pain, the anguish, the grief, the anger. For just a moment you allow yourself to believe that things were as they used to be; before the Wall, before Viserion, before everything changed.

Daenerys moves once more, her hand now resting on your chest, and you feel the warmth of her touch seeping into your skin. It’s comforting — in a supremely twisted way given the raging emotions within you and the state your relationship is currently in — to feel her there, to know that she’s real, that she’s here with you. Your eyes slip shut once more, letting the sensation wash over you, part of you hoping this contact will help soothe the burgeoning anger, trying to hold onto this fleeting moment of peace.

“I missed spending moments like this with you,” she whispers, her voice soft, barely more than a breath. “When it’s just us and the rest of the world fades away; nothing else matters in the end.”

The words are innocent, a simple reflection on the time you’ve spent together, on the love that has bound you together, but they’re an unintentional dagger to the heart. How can she speak of moments like this like nothing has changed? How can she talk about the world not mattering when your own has been torn apart? When Viserion is gone and the emptiness he’s left behind is all you can feel?

A surge of anger, that you’ve been desperately trying to suppress, rushes to the surface, sharp and searing. The brief moment of peace you had found within her arms shatters — leaving you raw and exposed. You can’t do this. Can’t pretend that everything is alright; that her touch is enough to keep the darkness at bay. Feeling all the negative emotions at once — the loss, the bitterness, the helplessness — drives you out of the bed, tearing yourself from the loose embrace.

Daenerys sits up, alarm flashing in her eyes as she watches you scramble to your feet; movements frantic, desperation tinged within each motion, as you rush to try and escape. “What’s wrong?” She asks, concern so apparent within her tone, but you didn’t think you could respond to her if you wanted to; not having the wherewithal to explain the storm that rages inside you.

You need to get away, to put distance between yourself and the source of your pain, but before you can reach the door, Daenerys is standing before you, blocking the way. Sometimes you forgot how quick she could be if she had good enough reason to be; having already pulled on the tunic she had previously discarded.

“Don’t run from this,” Daenerys pleads, taking a hesitant step closer. “Don’t run from me.”

It’s an understandable request given the situation, and the years you have spent together, but it’s not one you can acquiesce to. You can’t face her right now; not with everything that’s boiling up within you. “I can’t do this,” you manage to choke out, hands shaking due to the force of your broiling emotions. “I can’t pretend that everything is alright.”

Her expression crumples at your words, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, Daenerys reaches for you, her fingers brushing your arm, trying to ground you, to keep you from slipping away. “We’ll get through this,” she insists, voice a mixture of desperation and determination. “Whatever we have to face, we will do it together. Just like we always have.”

The heartfelt plea is one that’d normally soften your countenance, opening your heart back up to the warmth of her love, but you don’t think you could bear it now. Not as your thoughts twist and turn the light your shared love has brought to you into unending darkness; reminding you that she was the one that brought Viserion beyond the Wall, the one that left you behind, the one who’s actions have caused a death that could have been avoided.

“The fire that burns within a Targaryen is a double-edged sword,” you muse, a sardonic twist to your lips, as the realization suddenly settles within you; something you had been too blind, too besotted with love, to notice until now. “It can forge a kingdom from the ashes or it can reduce a kingdom to cinders. Those who follow them must always be prepared to walk through the flames and emerge either as conquerors or as nothing more than ash.”

Your words hang heavily in the air — striking Daenerys with a lethal precision, making her flinch as if you’ve physically struck her — but you can’t stop the torrent of emotions that have been unleashed.

“It’s a neat adage, don’t you think? Something I read long ago, in Meereen perhaps, but I have never given it much thought since. Never let it settle long enough to become tangible within my mind,” you continue, the bitterness welling within you impossible to mask. “You’re the Mother of Dragons, Dany! The Unburnt! You’ve always walked  through flames and those who follow you — those who love you — have no choice but to do the same, but not everyone emerges unscathed. Not everyone survives.”

Realization dawns within her violet gaze, Daenerys finally understanding where your words were heading. “Don’t,” she murmurs, voice breaking as she reaches for you once more, but you step back, shaking your head; even if your heart tugs at the sight of her despair.

“Viserion didn’t survive,” you press on, the statement a dagger to your own heart as much as hers. “You took him beyond the Wall and now he’s dead.”

Violet eyes shimmer with unshed emotion — her desperation causing her to try and bridge the distance between you both once more, but you hold up a hand, keeping her at arm's length. “I never wanted this,” she breathes. “I never wanted to lose him. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you snap. “You did, Daenerys, and now I have to live with the consequences.”

She shakes her head, tears falling freely, but her eyes never waver from yours. “Please,” she begs, raw with emotion — completely open at this moment, allowing you to see every single portion of her pain. “Please don’t leave me. We can’t let this tear us apart; not when we’ve already lost so much. I-I can’t lose you too.”

Her words, the sincere emotion behind them, cut deep, cause you to hesitate; the love you feel for her, that you will always feel, warring with the overwhelming grief that has consumed you, but the pain is too great, the loss too unbearable, and you know staying here will only add salt to an already stinging wound.

“I need time.” It seems like a reasonable request. You know, deep within yourself, beyond the anger and pain, that you need Daenerys, but, at the current moment, you can’t be in her presence and heal to the level you need to. However, you allow her next attempt to touch you, knowing that she needs physical contact, not having the heart to deny her again, and soon her hand makes contact with your arm, gripping in a firm, yet still gentle, manner. “I need to think. I need—” You breathe harshly through your nose. “I need space.”

The grip on your arm tightens slightly, her eyes searching yours, looking for something — for anything — that might give her hope. Something that you can’t give her right now. Not when everything was still so fresh. Not when you didn’t even know if the person you used to be — the woman that Daenerys had fallen in love with — was still underneath all of the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” you say, meaning the words despite everything else. “I can’t stay.”

It’s in that very moment that you see her heart break — the realization that you’re truly leaving, finally registering — and it tears at something inside of you, but you push that feeling deep down. Right now, all you can think about, all you can handle doing, is getting away; finding some peace, some clarity.

“Please,” Daenerys whimpers, a sound you never expected to hear her make, let alone be the reason behind it. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.”

That, more than anything, causes your breath to catch in your throat, a new kind of pain searing through your chest. You hated this — the parts of you not held down by the darkness were screaming at you to stop this, to hold your Khaleesi and never let go — but there’s nothing else you could do. Not in the state you were in because, if you stayed, if you bent, then you’d keep bending until you were broken completely.

You try to ignore the growing sense of distress emanating from your dragon, moving ever closer to the door of the room, subtly switching to the position she had once held, you shared within Dragonstone — a room you knew you wouldn’t enter for a long while after this — to ensure a quick escape.

Daenerys steps forward. “Ñuha perzys.” Hands outstretched to take your own once more — panic-stricken desperation etched across her face, while violet pools shimmer with more tears — but you twist away from her. Knowing, deep within yourself, that if you let her touch you, if you let her in now, you’d crumble, and that’s not something you’ll allow yourself to do. Not now. Not with this. Not when your son was dead and you’re still breathing, and you still needed to come to terms with that. “Please.”

But, even now, even with all the pain, the grief, the anger, swirling within your body, the familiar urge to look at your Khaleesi, to find solace within her gaze, within her presence, trickles through you like a mountain stream; eroding the miasma of emotions for just enough time that you felt compelled to listen. Maybe because you knew it could be the last time you do so?

The sight that greets you is one that’ll haunt your dreams — just like the emptiness within your heart will forever carry Viserion’s loss — and you wish, for just a moment, that the love you shared with Daenerys wasn’t so strong, so overwhelmingly life-changing, so you could look at her, look at the woman that took away your son, your Prūmia, and feel absolutely nothing at the sight of her devastation, of her anguish.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You think, watching as Daenerys tries to center herself, hands curling around the ends of the loose tunic she had thrown on in her haste to catch you. She has always made you feel too much. Awakening things within you that you never believed possible. You just never imagined that she’d be the cause of this much darkness when she’s always been your light.

“I never thought this would happen. Never even believed it to be a possibility.” A bitter smile curls your lips, tears finally slipping down your cheeks, matching the ones falling across Daenerys’. “It’s my own fault, of course. For not foreseeing this to some degree. I was foolish enough to fall in love with a dragon never expecting to be burnt. Now I’m left behind with the scars of what once was and the ashes of what could have been.”

You don’t give her time to respond — knowing that nothing will change the outcome of this, because no matter what she said, no matter what reasons she gave you, or how much she pleaded, how much she begged, Viserion would still be gone when her words turned into mere echoes within Dragonstone — fleeing from the room that had once been your sanctuary in times that have always been rife with uncertainty.

Ignoring the wail of your name as the doors slam shut with a finality that’d echo within your memories for far longer than you think you can bear.

It’s the second time you have done that, you realize. The second time you had left her behind.

It hadn’t gotten any easier nor do you think it ever would, and you hated yourself just a bit more for falling back into her arms, for seeking her out, and causing more pain because of it. There was more than enough of that already.

Viserion was gone, your son was dead, but there was some form of peace in that, in knowing that he was laid to rest. Even if his memory would still haunt you until the day you drew your last breath. While Daenerys was a living ghost, a tangible phantom, who’d bring her own whirlwind of grief and agony.

You don’t know which is worse; living with the memory of your dead son or with the living ghost of the love of your life that caused his death — both haunting you, one in every shattered dream and the other in every hollow embrace.

Daenerys may still be alive, but you’ve lost her just the same, and you don’t know if you’ll ever find her again.

The days following your disagreement with Daenerys passed in unending monotony, self-inflicted numbness casting the world into varying shades of gray.

But could you truly trivialize the harsh words you had hurled at Daenerys as a mere disagreement? It’s something that you have wondered every time your mind inevitably went back to that moment — observing how everything came into fruition; how a brief moment of peace had been torn apart due to the unending despair that has plagued your every waking moment since you heard the news — wherein your normally loving words had twisted into something that seemed like it was coming from someone else.

They were a poison, seeping into the fragile bond you both had fought so hard to build, had spent years strengthening into an enduring relationship built upon a foundation of love and trust stronger than even Valyrian Steel. The memory of her eyes, usually burning with resolve, haunted you — clouded with hurt and grief, not just for Viserion, for the bond that had severed the moment he fell from the sky, but the knowledge that she had possibly lost you too. You had seen the pain you caused etched on her face, and that image refused to leave your mind.

Even thinking of it now, the despair so clearly burning within her normally vibrant violet gaze, causes you to flinch at the reminder that you had been the one to cause such a state; something that you had always vowed to never do. You had seen the way Daenerys clung to people that had earned her loyalty, earned her love, her devotion. She had already lost so much: her parents, her siblings, her husband and unborn son, warriors that had sworn to fight under her banner, and numerous others that promised to be there for her but had proved to be nothing but snakes in the end; just waiting for a time to strike while reaping the benefits of being in the presence of the last dragon.

You had loved Viserion as fiercely as any mother loves her child and his death had shattered you in ways you hadn’t known were possible. The bond you shared with him had been unlike anything else in this world — an extension of your soul, a piece of your very being. Now, with him gone, it felt as if that part of you had been violently torn away, leaving behind a bleeding, festering wound that no amount of time could ever hope to heal; a wound that had birthed the vicious words that you had hurled at Daenerys — they were daggers, sharp and unforgiving — with the sole purpose of hurting her in the way that she had hurt you.

Spite and cruelty had never been part of your repertoire — kindness and compassion had always been at the very crux of your being — but it has suddenly become the only thing you could stand to grasp. As if, in the absence of love, bitterness was the only armor strong enough to protect the shattered remnants of your heart. The warmth that once defined you has been buried beneath layers of resentment, each act of malice a desperate attempt to shield yourself from further pain, even as it pulls you further away from the person you once were; from the woman that you have loved since she had awakened the feeling within you.

Grief is a poignant beast, you’ve come to realize, dragging its heavy claws across the heart, carving deeper and deeper burrows that widen into an endless chasm; devouring the light, leaving behind a void so vast that no bridge of time or love can seem to span it. A chasm that yawns wider with each passing day, echoing with the sounds of what once was, relentless and unyielding in its pursuit of every lingering joy. Until all that remains is the hollow ache of absence and the weight of memories too heavy to bear.

Dragonstone had become almost unbearable to traverse during the day: filled with Dothraki and Unsullied, with advisors and allies, with friends, all knowing what had occurred between you and Daenerys. Their gazes ranging from pity to curiosity to a protective rage — an emotion that gave you an inkling about how Daenerys has been faring in the days since your disagreement — and you couldn’t stand to be analyzed in such a way, couldn’t stand to be the source of courtly intrigue, nor could you stand the constant need for people to try and help; even if it’s from the best possible place. 

You found that the nights didn’t bring you much solace either. In the stillness, the weight of your grief pressed down even harder, a suffocating blanket of despair that wrapped around you, refusing to let go. The walls of Dragonstone, cold and unyielding, seemed to close in, amplifying the emptiness inside you. Sleep eluded you, and when it did come, it still brought the nightmares that have consumed you since you heard the news — visions of Viserion taunting you; his comforting roar turning into a screech of agony, golden eyes that blazed like the sun being extinguished, his fire, his warmth, disappearing forever. Each time, you woke with a start, the sound of his loving croons resounding in your ear, following each beat of your shattered heart.

So, not knowing what else to do, not being able to withstand the prison you had constructed any longer, you sought refuge on the rugged cliffs of Dragonstone; away from the bustling interior of the castle, but not too far to make you feel completely disconnected from the world around you. It’s a haven you find yourself standing upon now, the cold wind whipping around you as you stare out at the churning sea below.

Here, amidst the raw beauty of the cliffs, you let your thoughts wander; the vast expanse of the ocean stretching before you gives the perfect view to let go, to let your eyes watch the soothing way in which the waves continue to move, a stark contrast to the confined spaces of Dragonstone. It feels like a place where you can breathe, if only slightly, away from the prying eyes and well-meaning, but intrusive, concerns of the court.

Your thoughts shift, as they often do, to Daenerys wondering what she could be doing in the wake of everything that has happened. Your mind’s eye brings a vivid picture of her in the chambers that you had stormed out of days prior, a place that you used to find solace, now filled with a heavy silence. How does she cope with Viserion’s death? With the burden of your anger still lingering in the air? Does she, too, seek refuge in the quiet spaces of Dragonstone? Or is she out there, being the indomitable conqueror that’d make her ancestors proud, dealing with the fallout of her decisions; attempting to carry on despite the wounds that she now bears?

The thought of her enduring similar pain tugs at something within you. Despite the anger and pain that still chokes you every time you take a breath, despite the grief that’s still burrowed deep within your heart, a part of you — the part that is still trying to hold all your shattered pieces together; the part that remembers the kindness and love that had encompassed who you are — understands that she is as broken by the loss as you are. It’s a realization, one that had taken days to finally come to terms with, that makes your own pain more poignant; knowing that the woman you’re at odds with is also mourning. Possibly even feeling abandoned and misunderstood — yet another promise that you had broken in the dark abyss of your grief.

You think about the last words you had exchanged, the vitriol behind them on your side and the pleading desperation on her own, and it stings to remember how your pain had twisted your words into something that only deepened the ever growing rift between you both.

If only you’d been able to see through your anger, you think, jaw clenched in an effort to stop the scream that wished to tear itself from your throat; announcing to the world the depths of the opposing emotions within you. If you had then you might have been able to approach her with the understanding that, despite everything that has transpired, she was grieving just as profoundly.

Standing on the cliff, cool air washing over you, the sound of waves crashing against jagged rock resounding within your ear, you try to clear the fog of anger and regret that has hung over you. Reconciliation had always been something you knew would be inevitable — despite the pain, the anger, and overwhelming sorrow — understanding that a life without Daenerys wasn’t a life worth living. You also know that, if you truly wish to reconcile with your soulmate, you need to move beyond the blame and confront your own feelings. Reconciliation wasn’t about who was right or wrong, but about finding common ground in your shared loss.

But how could you?

How could you bridge the gap when your emotions were so tangled? When the anger and grief that you directed at her felt justified in your own suffering but wrong when you considered her side? The hurt had been real, but it wasn’t all that defined her actions; she had lost Viserion too, and her heart was likely just as broken as yours, though perhaps in different ways.

The waves continue their relentless assault on the rocks below, and you find a kind of solace in their persistence; they remind you that even in the midst of turmoil, there is a rhythm to life that continues, a reminder that healing is a process that takes time and effort. It may not be possible to find perfect words or to erase the pain that has accumulated, nor do you think that pain will ever truly go away, not when its origin is the way it is, but you have to try.

Determined, you turn away from the edge and make your way back to the castle. Perhaps the path to healing is not in grand gestures or perfect apologies, but in the simple act of showing up, of being willing to face the difficult truths and seek understanding.

To honor the love that, despite everything, still exists between you.

You brace yourself for the confrontation that looms ahead; the entire thing feeling inevitable. The days of avoidance, of festering wounds and unspoken grief, have stretched on for far too long. Hearing Daenerys out, allowing her the chance to air out her pain, the anger and sorrow that has been gnawing at her heart since Viserion’s death was the least you could do after everything you’ve already done. Even if all the things you hurled towards Daenerys, at the time, felt justified, you know that they’re anything but; now they’re simply an added weight that you must now shed if you are to continue forward.

If you are to heal.

But healing doesn’t come easy and it certainly won’t come without more pain. You’re aware of this, knowing that when you face Daenerys it will not be simple apologies and easy forgiveness; she will be rightfully angry and hurt. You had abandoned her in the aftermath of Viserion’s death, retreating into your own grief, leaving her to carry the burden alone; with the added weight that she might not have only lost her son but you as well. Daenerys was strong, the strongest person you’ve ever met, but you know her, know that beneath her strength lies a heart that feels too deeply, a soul that has been wounded again and again. Your actions had only wounded her further, something you had promised yourself you’d never do so long ago, with your absence, with your vitriolic words and then your silence, and, potentially above all, your inability to stand beside her when she needed you most. 

With each step back towards the castle, the enormity of what you’ve done presses down upon you — it’s not only about Viserion, not anymore, it’s about the distance you’ve allowed to grow between you and Daenerys; the love that’s been overshadowed by loss and anger.

Blaming her had been easier — allowing him to go North, not protecting him as fiercely as you would have — but you now know it had all been a smokescreen for your own feelings of failing as Viserion’s mother; for not being there to save him like he had always saved you.

And now you’ve been absent in saving the only other person who matters most to you — Daenerys.

The ancient castle looms ahead, its dark silhouette stark against the fading light of day, the closer you get causes your chest to tighten. You don’t know how to fix this, don’t know how to find the words that will make her understand how much you regret what’s happened, how much you hate the distance that you’ve created, but you have to try. You don’t know what you’d be if you didn’t.

Viserion may have been your heart — your Prūmia — but Daenerys was your soul.

Moving through the corridors of Dragonstone, each step louder in the silence of your surroundings, as the air around seemed colder in comparison to the warmth of the sun; the fire that had once warmed the halls seems dim now, almost as if it was reflecting that coldness that had descended between you and Daenerys. Not knowing where exactly your dragon was, but allowing your instincts to guide you, you find yourself heading towards the chambers that Daenerys often retreats to when she needs solace.

When you reach the doors to the chambers you had once shared, the flickering torch light casts your shadow on the stone walls; a subtle reminder of the darkness you’ve both been carrying.

It’s a long time before she responds — leaving you to linger in the silence you’d rather forget — but then the door finally opens, Daenerys standing before you, a vision of fragile strength: silver-gold hair falling in loose waves around her face, undone from the typical Dothraki braids, a pallid hue to her skin that brings out the darkened circles beneath her brilliant violet gaze.

A gaze that was harder than you could ever remember, but all that you could imagine yourself deserving after everything that’s happened. Sharper, as if the amethyst hue had been honed by the same grief and guilt that had cut into you, the room behind her, lit by only the hearth, causes a glow to wrap around her — ethereal as your dragon has always been.

“Why are you here?” It’s a pointed question, one that lingers due to the coldness within her tone; protective walls firmly in place. “Is there something you need?”

You open your mouth to speak, the words die as soon as they’re born on your tongue, her questions hanging in the air between you, but the answer you wished to give seemed so much more complicated than you could ever put into words.

Why are you here? To apologize? To seek forgiveness? To mend what’s been broken? Perhaps you wished to do all of it, but none of it feels like enough. 

“I came to—” You search for the right word, but you can only manage a feeble one, voice quieter than you intended. “—talk.”

Daenerys narrows her eyes slightly, the hurt and anger she’s been carrying apparent, but she steps aside; allowing you to enter, but the distance between yourself and your dragon felt more than physical. It feels as though the Narrow Sea stretches before you — filled with all the things left unsaid, all of the pain neither of you had fully acknowledged, simply letting it drown in the murky waters — but if the Dothraki could find the courage to cross it then so would you if it meant your Khaleesi would be waiting for you on the other side.

Taking in the room, a familiar sight but somehow different all the same — just like everything between you and Daenerys; similar but different, right but wrong, close but distant — as the fire crackles in the hearth, doing little to warm the coldness that had settled within the chambers. You watch as Daenerys moves to stand beside the hearth, refusing to sit, seemingly believing this wouldn’t be a conversation long enough wherein she’d have to get comfortable, her posture defensive; her violet eyes filled with a wariness that should never be within her gaze.

“You said you wished to talk,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “So talk.”

You swallow hard, the words still struggling to come out: Where do you even begin? How do you properly explain the storm of emotions that had made their home within your body since you had been told the news of Viserion’s death.

“I’m sorry,” you finally reply, the simplest of all words, but heavy with the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid for too long. “I’m sorry I left you to deal with everything alone. I’m sorry that I had let my anger control me that night. I’m sorry for blaming you when—” You falter for a moment, remembering the way you had sharply blamed Daenerys, putting the horrific accusation into words, even though you had never said it since. “—when it wasn’t your fault.”

Daenerys’ expression slightly softened, her head tilting as her eyes searched yours as she decided whether or not to believe you.

“Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?” It’s a bitter question, one borne from your constant rejection of her love, and it’s something you deserve to shoulder. “You left me. Twice. You blamed me. You abandoned me when I needed you most. And now, after all this time, you show up and say you’re sorry?”

Her words sting like a blade to the heart — making you realize exactly what your own, much harsher, words had done to her; as Daenerys wasn’t aiming to hurt you, not truly, but when you had been lost in your grief, in the darkness it brought, you had been doing so. “I know,” you concede, not even trying to defend your actions. All you wished to do was explain and see where it led you and Daenerys from here. “I hurt you, I made things worse, and I don’t have an excuse except to simply say that I was lost. When Viserion died it felt like a part of me died with him. I didn’t know how to handle it.” You look away from your Khaleesi then, shame lying heavily upon your shoulders. “I didn’t know how to stay.”

Violet eyes blaze into life from her anger — the flicker of emotion she’s been holding back finally breaking through — as she tenses. “And you think I didn’t feel the same? He was my son too, I loved him just as much, maybe in a different way but no less profound, but I didn’t get to fall apart, did I? I didn’t get to disappear. I had to keep fighting, keep leading, keep moving forward, and where were you?” Her voice cracks with emotion and, for a brief moment, the anger in her gaze is replaced by something far more vulnerable; pain, raw and unfiltered. “Where were you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice breaking under the weight of the truth. You hadn’t known where you were. Not truly. Your body may have been in Dragonstone physically, but you hadn’t truly been here for such a long time. “I don’t know why I couldn’t stay, I should have, but I was so angry.” Fists clenching at your sides, you shake your head, as if to clear the fog from your mind. “Angry at the world, at everything that had happened, and I took it out on you because you were the only person I could blame when I didn’t wish to face the truth. It was easier to blame you than facing the fact that I couldn’t protect him. That I wasn’t there for him in the way that he deserved.”

The silence that follows your admission feels like a chasm, similar to one the darkness had created within you, vast and unbridgeable, as you watch the way Daenerys tenses even further, lips thinning, as she struggles to hold back her emotions further.

“I needed you,” she whispers, finally breaking the silence. “And you weren’t there.”

Those words, devastating in their simplicity, shatter something inside you, causing you to take a step toward your dragon, but she doesn’t move. Daenerys’ arms remain crossed, her posture still defensive, but the violet pools you adore were shimmering with unused tears. And it breaks you even more to see her like this — your strong, unconquerable dragon — like this.

To know that you had been the one to cause it.

There’s nothing you could truly say to make up for what you’ve done — what you’ve put her, and yourself, through — but you’d never stop trying. “I know,” you say, regret filling you. “I failed you, Daenerys. I let my own pain blind me to yours, I let the grief and bitterness consume me, and I left you to bear the weight of it all alone.” Your lips thin into a line, nails slightly digging into your palms. “And I hate myself for that. I hate that I wasn’t strong enough for you, for us, like you have always been towards me.”

The tears that had been gathering in her gaze finally spill over, cascading down her cheeks like falling stars, glimmering underneath the light, and she turns away from you; as if she was trying to hide the vulnerability in her expression, her hands gripping the back of the chair that was situated before the hearth, knuckles white from the effort.

“I didn’t want to be alone.” Daenerys’ typically strong voice trembles under the weight of her emotions, her confession hanging in the air; as if on a delicate thread made entirely of fear and vulnerability. The room seems to shrink around her, the silence amplifying the rawness of her words. Her fierce exterior, always so carefully maintained, now cracks, revealing the depths of her isolation. “I didn’t want to carry the pain alone, but I didn’t have a choice when you left me.”

You take another tentative step toward her, heart aching at the sight of her crumbling before you; the woman you have seen standing tall before armies, who had survived betrayal, loss and death, in a manner you couldn’t truly comprehend, now stood before you broken because of your absence, by the weight of the grief you shared.

“I didn’t know how to be there,” you admit. “I didn’t know how to stay when hurt so much, when I could barely contain the anger within me, but I know now that leaving you was the worst thing I could have done.”

Daenerys turns to face you once more, and this time you don’t find any anger within her violet gaze — only pain that mirrors your own. “Why now?” The fragility of the question showcasing how afraid Daenerys was of your answer. “Why come back now?”

The words that flow from your lips leave as easily as a dragon flies through the air — an innate response that you didn’t need to ponder, to question, or feel as if it wasn’t enough. “Because I can’t do this without you. It took me a lot longer than I’d ever like to admit, to realize that I was using my isolation as a shield and you as the martyr I needed to disappear.” You shake your head, agitated at what you’ve done even if you know that it might have been for the best at first, but you shouldn’t have continued to stay away, continuing to let the darkness fester within you. “As much as I tried to shut out the pain, trying to convince myself that it’s easier to stay away, because then I’d be away from the woman my darkness had blamed, it wasn’t. It was yet another lie my mind had created, a feeling of false security, to ensure I wouldn’t get hurt again, trying to protect what I had left. But it didn’t help, it only made things worse, unbearable, because I need you, Daenerys. I always have and always will.”

Her expression softens at your confession, your heartfelt admission to how you almost lost yourself to your own mind, the rest of the sharpness in her gaze fading away, becoming open. Taking a step forward, you watch, with bated breath, as Daenerys’ arms uncross and she tentatively reaches for you, testing if it was safe to touch again — clearly remembering the times you had rejected her affection. When the warmth of her hand finally rests upon your chest, over your heart, the contact is like a lifeline you’ve needed for so long, pulling you from the murky waters that have been trying to pull you under, grounding you in the reality of her presence.

“I missed you,” she confesses in return, voice thick with emotion. “Every day, I missed you. Even when I was angry, even when I was hurt by your actions, even when I thought I hated you.”

The words hit you like a wave, almost causing you to detach from the buoy her touch had given you, but you refuse to let yourself sink again, to be consumed by the darkness when finally in the face of your sun. You reach up to take her hand in yours, holding it tightly to ensure she didn’t slip away, as you reply. “I missed you too. Even when I was at my worst, even when my thoughts didn’t feel like my own, some part of me, the truest part of me, missed you too. I’m just glad I didn’t ruin everything.”

Daenerys shakes her head, tears still steadily slipping down her cheeks, but she no longer looks devastated. “We’ve both made mistakes,” she admits. “We’ve both been hurt, but the one thing that could never change is the love I feel for you, not even when it felt like everything was falling apart, my love has always remained true.”

You can’t hold back your tears any longer, blurring your vision for a moment, as you pull her into your arms, holding her as tightly as you can; trying to make up for all the time you had lost while apart. Daenerys, in return, clings to you just as tightly, body trembling against yours as the weight that seemed to have pressed upon day-by-day began to finally lift.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper against the soft skin of her neck, your face pressed as close as you can manage; delighting in the familiar scent of your Khaleesi. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know,” Daenerys soothes, arms tightening as she presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry too.”

For a long time, you just hold each other, the silence that had descended between you — not the familiar entity that had kept you company for so long — filled with an unspoken understanding that you both had been through hell, but you’ve managed to come out on the other side.

The scars are still there, the wounds still fresh, but the love that has been between you is there, shining through the pain. A North Star in the darkness that promised salvation, leading you home within your Khaleesi’s embrace.

Eventually Daenerys pulls back, only slightly as she didn’t wish to put too much distance between you, but just enough to be able to look at you fully. Her eyes, still red and swollen from crying, are filled with a warmth that you haven’t seen in such a long time; amethyst pools shining like the precious gems as Daenerys seemed to glow from within.

“We’ll get through this,” Daenerys vows, determined to not falter again. “We have to get through this, ñuha perzys. We belong together.”

All you can do is nod in response, throat too tight with emotion to allow any form of speech, instead you lean forward to press a kiss to your Dany’s cheek, nuzzling against the warmth you find there, heart swelling with a mixture of relief and love.

Knowing, with everything within you, that as long as you had her by your side, your Khaleesi’s warmth keeping the cold at bay, you’d be able to face whatever comes next.

Together.

[chernabogs]

Styx, Fae, and Malleus—Oh my!

Okay I'm writing this more as a marker for myself because I keep breaking my brain with connecting C6 to C7, but I've included my notes down below to kind of trail through how things might go with the next C7 update. Since the Shroud brothers are back in business, we'll be seeing a lot more of Styx's hand too, so I also wanted to collect as much information (canon) as I can on them too. Because I just think they're neat, and combining all the information makes them that much neater!

Warning for a long-ish post.

All About Styx (Up to C7, April 2024)

Styx, originally serving as just the Watchman before the Age of Gods (which Malleus discusses in C6 part 18),

is an independently operating institution (non-government affiliated) that specifically focuses on research pertaining to blot. According to the welcome video narrated by Idia’s mother and father, Styx covers the following:

Safe use of technomantic technology

Magical power analysis

Preservation of ruins and mage stones

Blot emission reduction

Post OB treatment

Magical disaster prediction systems

Maintaining phantom databases

Styx operates off of the Isle of Woe, an area mostly inaccessible to outsiders due to its status as being below the ocean and only accessible via the Oceanus Gate. Styx is seemingly composed of multiple units and teams, including the Hex Team, with most of the employees living in the residential block of Oceanus and using chariots (technomantic vehicles) to get to the tower. Another unit that Styx controls are the Charon members. These appear to be the equivalent of armed forces under Styx’s command. They specifically act as retrievers of over blotted mages, or more specifically the phantoms involved in the overblot. Magic Marshals and the Arcane Response Unit often handle overblot cases, but in extreme incidents, Charon members step in.

It’s mentioned that they also arrive regardless of if they have authorization from the government of the location the overblot is occurring. 

Regarding the technomantic equipment mentioned, this is what Styx seems to mainly use for all operations, likely due to the nature of its research. Technomantic technology has an ability to almost entirely nullify magic. Although not 100% effective, it was enough to even make Rooks UM limited, forcing him to only track the kidnapped students when there were second breaks in the tech. This tech was also used on the overblot students, with Riddle stating that it’s equivalent to his UM (C6 part 26). 

The tower that Styx operates out of is a large structure located in the centre of the ancient city that was originally attached to the Kingdom of Heroes. Within this tower, Styx keeps phantoms preserved frozen in the lower layers. This area is referred to as Tartarus and hosts approximately 10,000 subjects split into 12 levels. A-class are considered exceedingly dangerous phantoms, according to Ortho. Sector 12 is where the original Phantoms are housed, known as the ‘Titans’. These are three phantoms that have been sealed in Tartarus by the original Jupiter family members since the Age of Gods. 

The system designed to preserve these phantoms is known as the Cerberus System. This encapsulates the entire Isle, not just Styx. According to Idia, mages are taken and housed for testing in this region before being wiped by Lethe, another system operated by Styx that re-wires memories and implants false ones. Interestingly, Lethe works differently on fae than humans due to fae’s long lifespans. Idia states that it’s hard to adjust what information to remove and rewrite without making it obvious that there was an erasure. He does mention Malleus by name when discussing this, but not Lilia. 

All About The Fae in Briar Valley (Up to April 2024, JP Spoilers)

Fae appear to live broadly across Twisted Wonderland, but a large majority do reside in Briar Valley (other additions such as Fairyland/Land of Fairy have been mentioned and seem to host diurnal fae. More of this can be found in the fairy gala events. Diurnal fae are considered to herald the coming of spring with this gala, which ties in with later discussions about fae and nature). Various species were also noted to exist, including:

Dragon fae (note: Dragons are mentioned to have arrived for Meleanor during her youth, however after her passing a decade later it appears that Dragons have either gone underground or extinct across the broader Twisted Wonderland area)

Raven fae

Bat fae

Crocodile fae

Subcategories of crafter fae and the likes exist too, but don’t quite count as species 

There appears to be a hierarchy of value among fae. In one conversation by a Senate member (in Chapter 7, release 6), Lilia is referred to in derogatory terms due to his status as a bat fae. It is unknown if this bias is strictly the Senate member, Briar Valley, or if it spreads across broader fae populations. Fae also appear to have monarchies, although the only two known so far are the Queen of Fairyland and the Draconia Family. Fae also appear to age at different rates (Malleus states infant fae often take 30 years to walk, and it took him 20 years alone to gain his 2-legged form). 

Due to Briar Valley being the major focus of C7, we’ll look at fae in this region specifically. 

For context, constant conflict has arisen between fae and humans, specifically within Briar Valley. A major conflict and large plot point in C7 so far is the conflict between Briar Nation (former name of Briar Valley) and the Silver owls. The Silver Owls, run by Henrik, carried out mining operations throughout Briar Nation without permission from the royal family. Despite the name Silver Owls, it should be noted that they are also called Iron Ones due to their iron weapons and armor. According to Briar Nation soldiers, Silver Owls recklessly endangered fae by driving wildlife into villages in addition to colonizing the region. The Silver Owls (Henrik in particular) are aiming to attain Princess Glow. Henrik stated that he wanted it for his father (unlikely, lbr). Princess Glow appeared to be a gem associated with the Draconia Family that was capable of performing miracles like healing incurable ailments. It’s unknown if this is factual or not, but Meleanor does appear to put value on the gem when discussing it with Lilia. 

Conflict with the Silver Owls extended across several regions in Briar Nation, including:

Verdant Moors (outside the present day borders—confirmed by Sebek in C7)

Canyon of Howling Winds (also called Valley of Howling winds in some translations)

Mystical Mountain/Forbidden Mountain

Thunderclap Mountains

Cape Sunrise 

Tenebrae Forest/Dark Night Forest

Crimson plain

Dragon’s Tail Mountains 

Wild Rose Palace 

Black Scale Palace 

Dragon Capital City (surrounding Black Scale Palace)

Cradle Tower

Note: present day Briar Valley is situated farther up north and is said to have a cold climate for the most part, including particularly harsh winters (confirmed by Silver in release 4 of C7). Double note: Names may be susceptible to change with EN release. 

The conflict ended with Meleanor and Levan (Malleus’ parents) allegedly dead. Fae ceased intermingling with humans likely after this conflict according to Lilia in C6 part 18, leaving to heavy deficits in the validity of history surrounding the fae. This also means that a lot of human history books miss history that fae may have personally experienced or have to share (as spoken by Trein and Lilia). 

In terms of powers, fae in Twisted Wonderland seem to rely on nature a great deal for their magical abilities. Idia’s father discusses the extent of what some fae can do due to their connection with ancient magic, including mentioning how fae have had control over climate change and diastrophism since the Age of Myths (presumably predating the Age of Gods). Malleus’ ability to alter the world in a designated area falls under this category. He is stated to have magic tied to the earth itself. Idia’s mother also mentions that fae can also draw magical energy from nature itself, building on Idia’s fathers statement about how fae’s magic directly connects to the earth. Generally, fae with elemental connections can do this, which proposes the idea that Malleus has such an ability. 

It also appears that fae can lend this magic to humans. The Knight of Dawn frequently calls upon the blessings of diurnal fae to aid him in his fights throughout C7 (note: he says 'fairy guardians', so this could be just this specific instance). 

So… what’s up with chapter 7, as of April 2024? (JP Spoilers)

Well… Malleus over blotted. Inconvenient, absolutely. Fortunately, his grandmother snitched and gave all of his information over to Styx, allowing them to formulate somewhat of a plan to use.

We know specifically that the Arcane Response Unit is unable to get access to Malleus through the thorns because, should the thorn wall be penetrated or collapse, it will kill whoever is caught inside of it. At the moment, ARU is likely on the borders of Malleus’ thorn wall while Ortho (acting as a stand-in Charon member, in this case) deals with the issue. Anyone who gets too close to the thorns (fae or human) are also being sucked into the barrier. 

Silver, Sebek, Yuu and Grim are currently travelling through various dreams. This allowed some insight on fae (see Fae in Briar Valley for more) as well as the abilities that they possess. Ortho has pulled the group into Idia’s dream, stating that Malleus is using all resources to keep Lilia asleep. Ortho was able to penetrate into the barrier using a counter-spell barrier and ethereal slicers, in addition to a magical cannon honed by Styx. 

We also know it’s confirmed that Malleus needs to either voluntarily end his spell or die in order to actually cause the barriers to drop. 

What might happen, then? (JP Spoilers)

Who knows! Yana likes to keep us on our toes. That being said, one of the biggest takeaways that came from this is the technology (technomantic) that Styx has access to, as well as what fae seem to rely on to continually use their magic. Styx’s access to technology that can almost entirely nullify magic in combination with their isolation from ‘nature’ (based on the brutalism architecture their facility had) could be two avenues of mitigating Malleus enough to at least let the students get an upper hand. 

However, Styx also did confirm that their technomantic equipment was not having as good of an effect on Malleus’ barrier as they anticipated. If technomantic equipment were to be used on Malleus, it would need to be something advanced, like Ortho’s Cerberus gear, but on a larger scale. Ortho has already shown that Malleus’ magic is ineffective when faced with the type of tech that Ortho is equipped with, positing the idea that this can be an avenue to take. In the battle with Ortho, Malleus does appear to freeze up and misses a hit. 

The comment about Malleus needing to break the spell himself was emphasized a lot in this section. Styx confirmed they’ll reach out to Queen Maleficia to see if she can persuade Malleus to drop the spell, but they’re also convincing the dreamers to persuade Malleus as well. 

So… it seems like a triple whammy of tech, Maleficia, and guilt tripping as a way to take Malleus down. Exciting!!

[flipppyflopp]

“I don’t have time for you right now. Huh? That doesn’t mean tag a long!” ✨

Say hello to my other twst oc, Arlen Nox! Arlen is based on Riku as well as Replica Riku from Kingdom Hearts. He is much more quiet and isolated compared to Finn, but he has more burdens than the other.

I really wanted to start right off the bat with some lore about Arlen, so I went all out for his introduction comic. A slight spoiler for Book Seven, though nothing super deep, but Arlen is a failed copy of the Knight of Dawn made by a certain someone. When Lilia sees him at the entrance ceremony, he immediately sees the resemblance and instantly switches into battle mode at the sight of Arlen; however, he recognizes his mistake quickly and begins to question who is Arlen’s family…or who might be his maker 👀

Other than his unique origins, let me mention a couple of fun tidbits for Arlen! Arlen’s blindfold is see through and he has perfect vision, why does he wear it then? Let’s just say if he doesn’t, the blot inside him will threaten to be unleashed and we don’t need anymore issues at NRC. That doesn’t stop the first years who are desperate to take that blindfold off because of their curiosity! Arlen is awful with technology and loves to write letters to his adoptive parents back home. He writes letters to a certain friend back on Destiny Isles, but he can’t bring himself to send them after a particular incident that led to him leaving for NRC. Surprisingly, he becomes friends with the most introverted student, Idia, who begrudgingly shows him the ropes with the latest tech. His unique magic is called Way to Dawn and allows him to manipulate his shadow.

There’s more I could say, but this post will get super long. Be sure to leave any questions in my inbox! Hope you look forward to more Arlen content soon!

[galedekarios]

waterdeep & the city's wards: castle ward - part 2

"The splendors that await you in Waterdeep are legendary. Each of the city’s wards is detailed in this work, telling you what to expect depending on where you are, as well as what thrilling things you might see and do."

[from: volo's waterdeep enchiridion]

waterdeep is divided into a system of wards and civic districts. the six recognized wards are:

dock ward

castle ward

north ward

sea ward

southern ward

trades ward

notable parts of the city that aren't considered wards are the city of the dead and deepwater harbour and its surrounding isles (deepwater isle and stormhaven island).

in this meta, i'd like to first focus on the castle ward of waterdeep. the ward contains blackstaff academy, the yawning portal, the undermountain as well as other important landmarks and locations.

castle ward

castle ward heraldry with a golden griffon

castle ward map made by reddit user ravenxalmasy

i'll include an ambience video to listen to while reading:

rainy streets of waterdeep by dungeon crawler audio

general information

in his waterdeep echiridion, volo introduces the castle ward as follows:

"The Castle Ward is the heart and mind of Waterdeep, if not its soul. It houses the city’s military forces, courts, government, and the Market — the largest market square of any city in the North. It encompasses the City Navy’s docks in the Great Harbor and all of Mount Waterdeep, and it is home to six walking statues, numerous temples, and many other landmarks."

i already wrote a meta including the walking statues of waterdeep in my the splendours of waterdeep meta.

the important landmarks volo further highlights are the following:

"Castle Waterdeep stands above the city on a great bluff that extends out from the mountain, its towers soaring hundreds of feet into the sky. It surprises many to learn that this isn’t where Waterdeep’s rulers reside, nor from where the city is governed. The castle was and is a redoubt of last defense should the city be attacked, but for well over a century, the ruler of Waterdeep has occupied the Palace of Waterdeep — also known as Piergeiron’s Palace, and still called that by elderly and long-lived citizens (including many elves). Though not quite as large as the castle, the palace is far more comfortable and lavishly decorated, with many halls used by government officials, guildmasters, and nobles for meetings and court proceedings. If you have reason to be invited (not compelled, I should hope!) to meet with the Masked Lords or the Open Lord of Waterdeep, it will likely take place in the audience chamber of the palace. There, you can witness the ancient and humble throne that Ahghairon first sat upon so long ago.

Many other buildings in the ward are given over to city business, including several courts for magisters and the barracks of the City Guard. So many of the ward’s structures are offices and meeting halls for business owners, solicitors, publishers, and the like that the Castle Ward has the smallest resident population of all the wards. Many landmarks of interest are found in this ward aside from the six walking statues (discussed later in this chapbook). You could hardly see them all in a day, but the following are highly recommended.

Blackstaff Tower is a squat black blot in the otherwise pretty ward. Humble though the edifice might be, looking at the place for too long can give you a queasy feeling and the sense that you are being watched — almost as if the tower itself has turned an unseen and wrathful eye upon you. Perhaps you think this fanciful. Well, go and try it yourself!

On the opposite end of the mountain, close to the Naval Harbor, stands Mirt’s Mansion. Once a fortress-like and glowering tower, it has been upgraded with more delicate fashions of architecture since the return of its long-absent owner. Mirt has quite a history with Durnan, the proprietor of the Yawning Portal. Together they descended into “the Well,” as the entrance to Undermountain was known in olden days. Waterdeep used to throw criminals in the Well, leaving them to die horribly in Undermountain’s dungeons. Durnan and Mirt entered the dungeons of their own free will — and not only that, but returned laden with treasures. Both used magic to extend their lives, but they eventually parted ways. Mirt kept on with a life of adventure, while Durnan built the tavern called the Yawning Portal over the Well and now, almost two centuries later, charges coin to descend into it. Not a bad way to part fools from their money!

The glorious Spires of the Morning, dedicated to Lathander, is one of Waterdeep’s most beautiful temples. But it is rivaled in this ward by the Temple of the Seldarine, dedicated to all the elf gods. The journey through Mount Melody Walk, a tunnel cut through Mount Waterdeep, to New Olamn’s academy of music and other arts is a wondrous daytime excursion. The Market offers a wild array of sights, smells, and sounds in which folk might lose themselves for a tenday. The Font of Knowledge is a temple to Oghma, yes, but also the city’s largest public library. Titles written throughout the ages can be viewed here — under the watchful eyes of the temple’s priests. In short (if I can claim this section of the enchiridion to be such), the Castle Ward offers far too many splendors to list them all here.

The Castle Ward’s colors are blue and purple, and its mascot is a griffon, typically depicted in gold. These borrow colors from the city’s flag and reference the Griffon Cavalry, of course. Champions for the ward often come from among the ranks of the Guard, the Navy, or the Cavalry. Although such competitors have often have the advantage in races and competitions, their crowds of rabidly cheering fans are naturally much smaller than those of other wards."

[from: volo's waterdeep enchiridion]

the description of the castle ward from waterdeep dragon heist reads as follows, echoing the stateliness of this ward in particular, with its many temples and sights of commerce:

"In terms of both geography and power, Castle Ward is the city's center. Most, if not all, of the city's administrative buildings are within the ward boundaries, from the lofty spires of Piergeiron's Palace to the low-slung crenelations of the guard smithy. While money and social standing are the prevalent benchmarks of might in the City of Splendors, Waterdeep's true power and what keeps it running are the Lords and Magisters here. If you like the taste of power and authority mixed with the usual commerce of the city, Castle Ward is the place to go. The city guard maintains a strong presence in Castle Ward due to the concentration of city officials and areas of importance in need of heavier security. Even so, the watch maintains much of the order, especially around the Market, the Palace, and the Castle Ward docks. Like the guard, the watch makes a show of force in Castle. Ward, traveling in larger patrols of six and brandishing short swords in addition to their normal rods and clubs. The ward boundaries are the southern side of Julthoon Street over to Shield Street and down to Trader's Way on the north, meeting up with the High Road and Snail Street for the eastern perimeter. Lackpurse Lane, Belnimbra's Street, Gut Alley, and Shesstra's Street combine in an uneven boundary to the south, whereas the mountain and the coastline form the western edges of the ward. While Castle Ward covers the most territory, Mount Waterdeep makes up a lot of empty land and the ward is effectively a little larger than Sea or North Ward."

"It is hard to pin down a "typical" architectural detail for Castle Ward, as there are so many different structures here that dominate the skyline. The city buildings, temples, and wizards towers are impressive stone structures, with the Palace and Castle in leagues of their own. Folk who quest for power but lack the funds to rise above the merchant class often dwell in the environs north of Waterdeep Way, their homes either well-kept row houses of three to four stories or individual homes of one or two stories. In either case, structures tend to be timber and wattle-and-daub with stone foundations nestled among the shops. The southern leg of the ward is primarily made up of barracks and warehouses attached to the castle and to various wealthier merchants and noble houses. The only discernible difference between Castle Ward's docks and Dock Ward are the heavier watch patrols. In terms of roads and byways, Castle Ward is by far the easiest ward to traverse due to the paving on many of its larger, primary roads. Even with heavy cart traffic on the roads, it is possible to travel from the Field of Triumph to Castle Waterdeep in the same time it takes to cover one-third of Dock Ward's docks. The paving is primarily for access by dignitaries and officials of the city and other foreign powers (and use during holidays for parades)."

[source: waterdeep dragon heist]

neighbourhoods of the castle ward

the neighbourhoods of the castle ward with notable landmarks and buildings are listed as follows:

The Market

Upmarket: Amberpaths, Cascades, The Cliffride, Elvarren's Lane, Head Lane, Highdrake, Melshar's Ride, Spireshadows, Tanthruil, Tchozal's Race, Toalar's Path

East Midcastle: The Buckle, The Catwind, Duir's Trod, Eldath's Alley, Elsambul's Lane, Goldstar Path, The Houndtwist, Lamp Courts, Lhestyn's Turn, Lhoril's Alley, Manyspells Court, Solemnar's Trod, Summerkeep, Sweetglade, The Waverise, Zeldan's Alley

West Midcastle: Alnether's Prowl, Asmach's Wind, Autumngleam, Blackstave, Cage Street, Cymbril's Trod, Dozenalley, Hippogriff Maze, Jester's Court, Marlar's Lane, Mulgomir's Way, North Swords, Siren Lane, Threeshields, Turnback Court

Piergeiron's Palace: Aghairon's Plaza, Fetlock Court, Piergeiron's Palace

Downcastle: Barracks Court, Castlefoot, Court of Gems, Glittergleam, Mountroot, Old Temple, Owlroost, Portal Lane, the Reach, Tarnished Silver

while the living conditions range from the very wretched to those wealthy and aristocratic.

landmarks and notable locations in the castle ward

there are many landmarks worth exploring in the castle ward. in this post, as well as the posts centered around the wards, i'll mainly focus on those important to gale's story:

blackstaff tower/academy

the yawning portal

promenade of the dark maiden (my own oc purposes and all those who have a drow tav or a tav that follows the dark maiden eilistraee)

i will still touch on other landsmarks and locations, but not as in depth.

blackstaff tower / academy

Gale: “A misadventure from my days as an apprentice at Blackstaff Academy. I was but a child, only a few months into my studies, but already I knew I was destined for greatness. No one believed me, of course, so I decided to prove it. To cast a spell with the Blackstaff itself. From one perspective, I succeeded. I opened a portal. However, instead of pointing it at the first year dormitory, I found myself pulled into limbo, facing a very irritated Death Slaad. Fortunately the Blackstaff himself came to the rescue, hauling me backwards from the brink, and straight into several months of writing lines. Or rather, finessing my autograph.”

[source: gale's dialogue after visiting the abandoned wizard tower in the underdark]

blackstaff tower concept art

the tower is described as a foreboding structure, made out of smooth black stone, with no apparent way to enter it, seemingly having no windows or doors. its main entrance was on swords street, while apprentices could gain access by touching the gate with a left palm. the tower itself was surrounded by a great wall (20 foot / 6 meters). [source: forgottenrealmswiki].

most notably, the tower also has the ability to magically repair itself, a process supported by laeral silverhand, one of the seven sisters and chosen of mystra.

more views of the interior of the tower, including the great staircase which connects the different levels of the tower, a reading room, an apothecary, the library and other interior structures:

the interior of blackstaff tower is also described as follows:

"From the inside, windows appeared to show what was going on outside, but these were illusions. The interior (but not the exterior) of the tower was warded against magical intrusion. The tower was protected against scrying magic. Rooms were connected to the central stairwell and entry hall, which was full of floating doors and arches. Many alcoves and shelves covered the walls of the stairwell, displaying magical items and artifacts, and although they seemed unprotected, a command word was needed to remove any of them. The items changed on a regular basis, so returning to the same stairwell on another day might result in seeing different items. Leaving the dormitories without issuing a command word would lead to the second level's stairwell. Saying the command word nhurlaen in the stairwell took one to the study. On the top floor of the tower was a study and a scrying chamber. There was also a parlor where Khelben displayed his art. In the library was one-way dimensional door to Candlekeep (the other side of the door led to Jester's Court nearby). As of 1374 DR, the tower's entry chamber contained a wardrobe that Khelben was able to use to access almost any closet in the tower. In the tower's kitchen, Khelben liked to serve cups of roasted chicory. Tunnels linked the tower's basement to Piergeiron's Palace and other locations in Waterdeep, which could be accessed by uttering the command word vhuarm. One such tunnel could be accessed at Northspur Rock on Northspur Landing on the Talltumble Stairs in Mountainside. [...] From the mid-to-late 14th century DR onward, the Tower was home not only to the Blackstaff, but to the Blackstaff's apprentices, which numbered fifty or so at any time. These apprentices, and their apprentices in turn, formed the Blackstaff Academy, an elite yet informal school for the training of wizards.

[source: forgottenrealmswiki]

the yawning portal

Gale: Believe it or not, but I witnessed a similar standoff back at the Yawning Portal. Of course, an establishment like that invites all sorts of outlandish entertainments. Player: What’s the Yawning Portal Gale: An inn in Waterdeep. Never a dull moment there. Adventurers come from all over Faerûn to try their luck down the well: Leads into the Undermountain, you see - full of death, danger, and vast amounts of treasure. Hard to resist. Player: What was the standoff about? Gale: Oh, a drow, a dragonborn, and a cleric of Cyric walk into a bar. Your standard fare. Maybe someone was cheating at cards, maybe it was some weird lovers’ quarrel. In any case, out came the crossbow, and a hush fell over the entire room.devnote Player: What happened next? Gale: I stood up and yelled: ‘Shadowdark ale for everyone!’ The crowd cheered, the tension drained into five dozen tankards, and soon all was well again. Gale: In a place like the Yawning Portal, the most powerful magic is calling for a round of drinks. Gale: Mind you, all I did was call for ale, but you went and stood in front of that crossbow. I’d drink to that.

[source: gale's dialogue after saving sazza the goblin]

concept art of the yawning portal [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

the yawning portal, which we know gale references once in the main game and once in the epilogue, implying that he's quite a frequent patron, is an infamous landmark in waterdeep:

The Yawning Portal was an inn and tavern in the city of Waterdeep that was renowned for being the primary open route into Undermountain. A well within its walls led down into the first level of the vast dungeon complex. It was owned and run by the famous adventurer Durnan the Wanderer. The name "Yawning Portal" referred to the deep well and also alluded to the habit of its patrons to tell wild stories. Naturally, the inn was a popular attraction among visitors to Waterdeep and a common point of departure as well as a refuge for expeditions into the extensive dungeons. [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

A well-known inn and tavern whose main feature is a massive well on the ground floor of the tavern, some 40 feet across, that descends 140 feet into the first level of Undermountain. There is a rope hoist that can be used to lower or raise those foolhardy enough to venture into Undermountain, at a cost of 1 gp per person. [source: waterdeep dragon heist]

layout and menu of the yawning portral [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

location of the yawning portral

The Yawning Portal was located on Rainrun Street in the upper part of Waterdeep's Castle Ward between Waterdeep Castle and Snail Street[ and close to Mount Waterdeep's eastern slope. Fronting onto the north side of the road, it stood next door to Mother Salinka's House of Pleasure, and beyond that, The Empty Keg tavern, on the west side, and next door Lankathla Dree's Bakery on the east side. Nearby also stood the magician Sobrey's Magic Shoppe and the smithy of Argali Smith. The inn's relative proximity to the city's docks helped it do good business. Its site was exactly that of the former Halaster's Hold, the demolished tower of the mad mage Halaster Blackcloak, the builder of Undermountain, and the inn was constructed over the well to Undermountain, which had previously been a place of execution, simply known as "the Well". [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

its exterior was made up out of mismatched fieldstone and a roof of "a steep-angled roof of unpainted dark-gray and black slate", giving it a rather drab appearance from the outside. the building had no windows on the ground floor, only on the upper floors, but it boasted several chimneys.

an old wooden sign, which was recovered and reused each time the inn was rebuilt, read simply "the yawning portal".

volo during a visit to the yawning portal [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

the yawning portal also boasts a host of rumours and legends, most recently, however, this:

Circa 1492 DR, a band of doppelgangers were rumored to operate out of the Yawning Portal. The Harpers and Emerald Enclave even sought people to investigate this.

the promenade of the dark maiden

"Eilistraee teaches us that we are not bound by the circumstances of our birth. We all may find beauty and light, if we have the courage to seek them." — Trelasarra Zuind

trelassara zuind, informal leader of the promenade since 1491 dr

the promenade of the dark maiden is located in the undermountain of waterdeep.

"The Promenade of the Dark Maiden was the most sacred temple to Eilistraee. It lay beneath Waterdeep, northeast of Skullport in Undermountain. The temple was composed of four major caverns. One cavern contained multiple buildings that were used as living quarters for the faithful. Another cavern named the Cavern of Song served as an open amphitheater used for songs and celebrations dedicated to Eilistraee. The third cavern consisted of living quarters for the priestesses. The fourth cavern was mostly occupied by the temple guards, storehouses, and armories. A large side cavern connected the Cavern of Song with Eilistraee's Mound. Within stood a large statue portraying the Dark Maiden (but actually modeled on Qilué Veladorn's appearance) and sculpted from a mound of rock. Next to the main temple was the Hall of Healing (a former temple of Moander that had been destroyed by worshipers of Tyr). This section was used as a place to shelter and tend to the temple's wounded and all those who were rescued by the Dark Ladies (including adventurers lost in the Undermountain). North of the Hall of Healing was a small cavern that was the destination of a one-way portal connecting to the sixth level of the Undermountain used to deliver wounded adventurers to the temple. Priestesses of the Promenade healed and welcomed any who came to the Hall, and were known to offer their friendship to (non-ill-intentioned) individuals of races who were more frequently than not met with prejudice and hostility." [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

the promenade held some influence in skullport and they had made it their mission to free slaves and adventurers that ran afoul the more powerful groups and bands within skullport. this earned them the nickname "slave shelterers" and they were regarded with animosity by those groups. other enemies were also worshippers of ghaunadaur (greater god of abominations, oozes and outcasts believed to be touched by the dark realms, and a part of the dark seldarine) as well as worshippers of lolth (most influential drow goddess, mother to eilistraee and vhaeraun) and vhaeraun (eilistraee's elder twin brother and part of the dark seldarine).

the dark promenade's history is defined by those friends and enemies:

the founder of the promenade qilué veladron, youngest of the seven sisters and chosen of mystra, was guided by eilistraee to extinguish the presence of ghanaudar. qilué was helped to victory by the dark maiden and mystra against ghanaudar. the battle took place within the undermountain (third-level). after her victory, eilistraee spoke to her:

"You must make a stand here close to the surface world, and you must be ever vigilant against the return of Ghaunadar. For a mighty city of humans shall rise above this place, and if you are to make peace with humankind and your elven kin of the surface world, this place is best suited for you."

qilué obeyed the words of her goddess, and she and other chosen of eilistraee patrolled these dark corridors (mockingly called promenades). during that time, the temple was being constructed, becoming habitable by 1357 dr.

the promenade had 392 habitants by 1375 dr.

the population of the promenade was severely diminished in 1370s, after an attack by followers of ghanaudar, nightshadows, followers of vhaeraun:

"In the 1370s DR, the Promenade was attacked by a new cult of Ghaunadaur. Nightshadows, former followers of Vhaeraun and later followers of the "Masked Lady" (following the death of Vhaeraun at Eilistraee's hand, and her taking on his portfolio), were sent to infiltrate various drow houses who worshiped Ghaunadaur, but this allowed the cultists to locate some portals leading to the temple. Taking advantage of this, the followers of the Elder Eye proceeded to attack, hoping to release the trapped avatar of their god. However, the glyph of insanity that Qilué had placed on the prison made many cultists go insane. Despite this, the assailants were supported by an army of slimes and decimated the population of the Promenade. In the fierce battle, almost all the Protectors of the Song and Darksong Knights were killed, along with many of the priestesses and of the followers who lived there or were visiting. The battle also caused the seals on Ghaunadaur's prison to break and his avatar to escape, even though it would be soon tricked into attaching itself to a fleeing Nightshadow. He sacrificed himself, going through a portal that led to "a plane of endless mazes" and dying in the process, to trap the avatar there." [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

after the second sundering, eilistraee returned and with that, she also breathed new life into the promenade:

"After returning, Eilistraee personally appeared under the walls of Waterdeep, leading many of her followers to travel to the city. Some of them found the support of Remallia Haventree and started creating a forest-temple, named The Dancing Haven, within Waterdeep itself. While originally meant to be created in the Field Ward of Waterdeep, due to the chaotic developments of that area, the Dancing Haven was temporarily moved to the North Ward. The Eilistraeens planted and grew a small grove of trees within an abandoned, roofless building, and then used it as a temple and base of operations. From there, the moondancers led a series of expeditions to cleanse, rebuild and resupply the Promenade. In the 1490s DR, a dozen priestesses, four novices, and nine lay guardians populated the temple; Trelasarra Zuind was their (informal) leader. Few knew of the restored Promenade (aside from followers of Eilistraee), but rumors regarding it restoration spread in Skullport." [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

by 1491 dr, the promenade would have around 25 inhabitants again, including trelassara zuind:

"After the restoration of the temple, Trelasarra, a dozen clerics of the Dark Maiden, four novices, and nine lay warriors moved there. They established a new base of operations, linked to the Dancing Haven in Waterdeep. The followers of Eilistraee tried to keep their presence a secret but, as rumors started spreading in the near and dangerous Skullport, Trelasarra opted to garrison the temple as if at war." [source: forgottenrealmswiki]

of course, the castle ward has many more locations of note to offer. the following list is taken from waterdeep dragon heist:

Rentals

Banderly Rooming House: A four-story boarding house kept by the Banderlys, two married women who pride themselves on providing good, clean, safe accommodations.

Fair Winds: Rental Villa

Heroes' Rest: Rental Villa, owned by House Melshimber

Marblehearth: Rental Villa

Sablehearth: Rental Townhouse (Northern Swords Street)

Sapphire House: Inn, Rooming House

Stormwatch: Rental Villa

Businesses

Baltorr's Rare & Wondrous Treasures: Shop (Curios) and Warehouse. A curio and coin shop owned by an expert on coins and military markings.

Crommor's Warehouse: Warehouse

The Curious Past: Shop (Historical Curios & Books)

Danimar Fine Wines: Shop (Wine) The Danimar family are one of the oldest holders of licenses by House Melshimber to sell its wines in the city of Waterdeep. They do a brisk business in both the imported and domestic Melshimber vintages.

Dathchant Engravings: Shop (Engraving services)

Diloontier's Apothecary: Shop (Apothecary)

The Golden Key: Shop (Locks) Ansilver the Locksmith (Southern Street of the Sword)

Halambar Lute & Harps: Shop (Stringed Musical Instruments) The premiere place to find any stringed instrument of the Realms. It is also host to a magical harp that sings by itself and is rumored to have connections to the Harpers in some capacity. (Southern Street of the Sword)

Halls of Hilmer: Shop (Armor). Master Armorer Hilmer's shop is hard to miss due to its front of polished plate armor. He sells custom-made armor that is without parallel on the Sword Coast. The shop features practice rooms for trying out his armor. (Southern Street of the Sword)

Hilmer Warehouse: Warehouse (Halls of Hilmer) (Southern Street of the Sword)

Kreis' Fine Wine and Spirits: Import/Export (Spirits) An import business run by Tyrannus Adarbrent.

Mother Tamra's House of Graces: School (Grace, Etiquette, Comportment)

The Market: The largest open area of the city that plays host to hundreds of stalls and camped vendors able to sell nearly anything in the Realms, and many thieves to relieve one of same.

Nureene's Marvelous Masks: Shop (Masks)

Old Knot Shop: Shop (Sailing Gear)

Olmhazan's Jewels: Shop (Jewelry)

Paethier's Pipeweed: Shop (Tobacco)

Phalantar's Philtres & Components: Shop (Herbs and Medicines) (4c). A small shop for medicinal herbs and ingredients for oils, perfumes and potions. It is said that Phalantar allegedly supports adventuring companies in exchange for the rare substances he sells here.

Rebeleigh's Elegant Headware: Shop (Hats)

Sorynth's Silverware: Shop (Silver Goods)

"Sharkroar" Horth Sharlark's Broadsheets: Printer (Broadsheets)

Velstrode the Venturer's: Shop: (Adventuring Goods)

Inns

The Jade Jug: Waterdeep's plushest inn with luxury in every detail, and well worth the expensive price.

Lazy Dragon: A newly-established inn (Old Temple)

The Pampered Traveler

Sapphire House: An expensive rooming five-story house across Swords Street from Blackstaff Tower that has provided room and board for more than one of the Blackstaff's apprentices who found the Tower to be a little too confining (Northern Swords Street)

Wyrmbones Inn

The Yawning Portal: A well-known inn and tavern whose main feature is a massive well on the ground floor of the tavern, some 40 feet across, that descends 140 feet into the first level of Undermountain. There is a rope hoist that can be used to lower or raise those foolhardy enough to venture into Undermountain, at a cost of 1 gp per person. (Southern Castle Ward)

Taverns

The Asp's Strike

The Blue Jack

The Crawling Spider: A tavern for subterraneans that pine for their homes (as well as regulars who like the thrilling atmosphere), decorated as if underground with serving folk dressed as drow elves. Well known for its subterranean dancing floor, and the many small "caverns" that lead off of it whose dark recesses are best left alone by the curious. (Southern Street of the Sword)

The Crow's Nest: A modest but comfortable tavern; a favorite among the clerks, bureaucrats, and visitors of nearby Castle Waterdeep. (Southern Castle Ward)

The Dragon's Head

The Elfstone: An old earthy tavern, with live trees in the walls and the bar, that caters to elves and half-elves, and is a rare source of such delicacies as elverquisst, guldathen nectar and maerlathen blue wine. (Southern Street of the Sword)

The Empty Keg: A rough-and-tumble beer-hall. Later in the eve, it often sees visits from some of the unattached ladies from Mother Salinka's next door, looking to lure some of the drinkers back to their boudoirs. (Southern Castle Ward)

The Flagon Dragon: A modest neighborhood pub renowned for its zzar (Waterdhavian mulled wine) and talyths (a palm-sized cracker with a thin slice of sausage on top, and a mixture of cheese, herbs, mashed root vegetables and other ingredients whose recipe is a house secret) (Northern Swords Street)

The Mighty Manticore: An older friendly tavern with ample ale and light evening fare at affordable prices that attracts a loyal clientele of merchants at the close of day.

The Quaffing Quaggoth:A dwarf-owned tavern and a growing favorite among the city's sailors, merchants and young nobles. The tavern is well-known for the house specialty: a thick-brewed stout mixed with an unknown liquor that is called the Quaggoth for its rumored ability to cure every hair on a quaggoth and then some.

The Red-Eyed Owl: A comfortable, unimpressive local ale-house that is a favorite of the average Waterdhavian locals, well-loved for its cheap ale and heavily spiced coast chowder. (Southern Castle Ward)

Sailor's Own: A crowded, dark, and dirty sailor's dive bar.

The Singing Sword

The Sleepy Sylph: A popular tavern for visitors to Waterdeep, featuring driftglobe lights and scantily clad waitstaff dressed as fairies. (Southern Castle Ward)

Festhalls

Blushing Nymph: An upscale brothel known for its exotic pleasures. (Southern Castle Ward)

The Crawling Spider: A tavern for subterraneans that pine for their homes (as well as regulars who like the thrilling atmosphere), decorated as if underground with serving folk dressed as drow elves. Well known for its subterranean dancing floor, and the many small "caverns" that lead off of it whose dark recesses are best left alone by the curious. (Southern Street of the Sword)

Genmura's Stage: A bawdy burlesque palace with two floors of small, cheap, stinking rooms above its taphall, Genmura's sees plenty of seedy sorts, criminals, dock hands, and sailors just come a'shore. (Old Temple).

Jhural's Dance: Nowhere near as raucous as many festhalls, Jhrual prides himself on the seductive, intimate environment he fosters in his hall. Plenty of alcoves and nooks to hide in with someone in close company, all surrounding a stage where his festhall workers dance to advertise their wares. His festhall is also notable for its equal proportion of men and women performers. (Northern Swords Street)

Lightsinger Theater

Mother Salinka's House of Pleasure: A shabby, low-coin festhall. (Southern Castle Ward)

Mother Tathlorn's House of Pleasure & Healing

The Smiling Siren: A festhall that specializes in small plays and the hosting of traveling troupes (burlesque and otherwise). (Northern Street of Silver)

Temples

The Font of Knowledge: Temple to Oghma.

The Halls of Justice: Temple to Tyr.

The House of Two Hands: Monastery to Tyr.

The Pantheon Temple of the Seldarine: Temple to the Seldarine (Elven Gods). When elven clergy of the Seldarine approached the Masked Lords to ask for permission to establish a Pantheon temple to their gods, it was considered a coup for relations between Waterdeep and the elven peoples. Waterdeep has always had an extensive elven population and is indeed the site where the Grey Ships of Evermeet come at Midsummer to carry away those elves who tire of Faerûn and seek to return to elven lands. When that permission was quickly given, the elves asked for an allotment of property right in the middle of a busy and crowded Castle Ward neighborhood, shocking the Lords. Even when pressed, the elves would not explain their choice; so without further ado, the grant was given. The Pantheon Temple is a tall, dour structure of gleaming white stone flecked with silver, but has within it a garden and long walking galleries between the shrines to the elven deities.

The Spires of Morning: Temple to Lathander. A walled garden compound with eight beautiful gilded towers that reflect Lathander's dawn. (Northern Swords Street)

City Buildings

Peaktop Aerie :Headquarters for griffon mounts of City Guard. Rorden Rialter Obyrdar is currently on duty at the Peaktop Aerie where the griffons are kept. 

Guard Barracks: City Guard Barracks (Southern Castle Ward)

Guard Smithy: Smithy for City Guard

Bell Tower: A simple bell tower used to signal fires, attacks and calls for assembly at the Palace. (15 Guard at all times)

Palace Storage: Warehouses for Piergeiron's Palace

Palace Stables: Stables for Piergeiron's Palace

Palace Paddocks: Paddocks for Piergeiron's Palace

Walking Statue: One of the eight known 90-foot-tall stone golems created by Khelben Arunsun to defend any gaps in Waterdeep's defenses, this regal figure stands at the Gull Leap cliff at the end of Julthoon Street.

Watching Towers: Sentry Towers

Piergeiron's Palace: The center of Waterdeep's government with various courts, embassies and city offices therein, as well as the living chambers of the Open Lord Piergeiron the Paladinson.

Castle Waterdeep: Castle for the Masked Lords of Waterdeep and the Magistrates' Courts.

Ahghairon's Tower: The slim stone tower of the original First Lord of the city that is surrounded by invisible magical barriers that suspend the skeletal remains of a wizard that tried to get into the tower.

Guildhalls

The House of Gems: Jeweller's Guild

The Map House: Surveyors', Map and Chart-Makers Guild

Fellowship Hall: Fellowship of Innkeepers. The headquarters of the Fellowship of Innkeepers that operates as a member-only inn one night a tenday.

The Master Baker's Hall: Bakers' Guild (Southern Street of the Sword)

Tower of the Order: Watchful Order of Magists & Protectors. A three-story stone tower surrounded by a fence of sparkling green lights that coalesce into Azuth's and Mystra's symbols, with the hand of Azuth over the tower door rumored to watch the tower and fire magic at any intruders.

Guildhall of the Order: Solemn Order of Recognized Furriers & Woolmen

Pewterer's Guildhall: Pewterers & Casters Guild

House of Fine Carvers: Fine Carvers Guild. The slate-roofed wooden base of the Fine Carvers Guild, easily found on the High Road with its frieze of carved animals and people, including Ahghairon and other First Lords.

The Market Hall: Farmers and Grocers Guild

Alleys & Courts

Cat Alley: this narrow twisting, turning passage was frequented years ago by a masked, rapier-wielding man of wealth who scared young women and cut away their garments but was never arrested.

Elsambul's Lane: named for a long-dead priest of Mask and now one of the few areas with graffiti on its walls (they say Elsambul himself still leaves enigmatic messages and clues to hidden treasures on the walls!), it attracts many folk beyond simple curiosity seekers.

Jesters' Court: a courtyard frequented now by hard-currency girls and minstrels that has also been a performance stage for jugglers and comics as well as a meeting place for eloping lovers.

Sevenlamps Cut: named for seven fancy magical lamps placed here long ago by Ahghairon himself, this safe alley is the place to hire spellcasters (apprentice wizards and poor underpriests) for quick healing, curse removals, or some magical firepower for your latest excursion into Undermountain.

Turnback Court: a lamplit, shallow alley at the end of Selduth Street that is used as a rallying point for watch and guard patrols both day and night.

this concludes my collection of information about waterdeep's castle ward for now. it's a sprawling topic, each and every ward, and i'm sure there are things i missed or forgot!

still, i hope this was of use to someone other than myself!

tag list: @evenstar-crescentmoon, @criticalgale, @ofthedirewolves

if you want to be added (or taken off) the tag list, please let me know! 🖤

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hi! I'm a big fan of your blog and love reading all of your posts. You always have such interesting perspectives and incredibly thoughtful points to add! I'm not quite sure if you're open to answering questions like this right now, and if not, feel free to ignore! But I was wondering if you have any information about the Island of Woe and what life is like there? Like do they ever have to import or export things, do they have more there than just S.T.Y.X to keep them occupied/entertained, etc.? I was trying to figure it out myself and all that I learned was that most people live on the upper walls in the Oceanus section. Do the Shrouds live there too, or do they live within the S.T.Y.X. headquarters? And do they ever have to travel for their jobs, beyond the little mishap that happened in Book 6?

Anyways, again, totally disregard this if you don't want to answer! Thank you for even reading this. I look forward to seeing more of your posts and enjoying your writing and input!

Aaaah, thank you!! ^^ Glad you enjoy my content, whatever it may be!

The bulk of lore for the Isle/Island of Woe comes to us from 6-40 of the main story. We (comparatively) have more information about Styx and how it is run, so I had to isolate what lore is about the island itself + life on the island and what lore is about the organization.

To begin with, here is a map of the area:

Most of the island residents don’t live in Ancient City at the seabed level. Instead, people tend to live in the residential block of Oceanus, which is the outer wall which covers the island. (This is how Ortho describes it to us in game, but it’s sort of confusing what exactly he’s referring to since we don’t see land above the water; based on Epel’s dialogue, the “outer wall” may refer to the upper levels. This means that technically all of the Island of Woe is underwater.)

Ancient City refers to the seabed level of the Island of Woe: It seems to be the community that surrounds Styx HQ, which lies at the center.

The giant pillar in the middle of the city connects to Oceanus Gate, the entrance at the surface of the water, and ends in Tartarus at the other end.

Trains, elevators, and Styx-made technomantic flying vehicles called Chariots are used for transportation. (I assume that only Styx agents are allowed to use Chariots, but this isn’t made clear.)

There is an artificial sky over the isle. This is because natural light provides mental and physical benefits to humans.

Styx makes efforts to use advanced technologies to emulate life on land. This results in the Island of Woe having seasons, weather, forests, and rivers even at the bottom of the sea.

Idia’s post-OB flashback implies that there may be strong security systems in place not only in Styx HQ, but also around the entire island (since he talks about wanting to leave the island and having to disarm the security in order to achieve that; Styx is also shown to control the Oceanus Gate and therefore controls entry to and from the isle).

Going hand-in-hand with the previous bullet point, Ortho states that it’s dangerous to wander the area.

The architecture is a remainder of the Island of Woe’s olden days as part of the Kingdom of Heroes. The buildings are relics there have been well-preserved.

The entire isle used to be spoken of by the common man as like… some kind of superstition or boogeyman?? Lilia tells us that “People believed the Island of Woe would punish any wizard who abandoned their principles and went mad with power.” This is attributed to the isle’s origins as being the place where the Jupiter family sentenced the Phantoms in the Age of the Gods (a period of time in which mages were feared and the relationship between magic and blot was not yet established). Since Styx is not an organization that the general public knows about, it’s possible that the public assumed residents of the isle themselves were vigilante agents of justice against mad mages.

Idia describes the Island of Woe as "filled with the lamentations of five billion people [...] It's dark and gloomy 365 days a year." He also refers to the island as his hometown.

The Island of Woe has bugs, but different kinds than what you would see in the outside world.

To address your specific questions (and please keep in mind that these points are not directly answered in TWST and instead relies on inferencing):

Do they have to import or export things?

While the island does receive sunlight and have seasons + varied weather, I don’t think they’d be entirely self-sufficient depending on the population size and its needs. Styx seems to run the show, but I’d imagine they need to focus their efforts on research and not food production or something. This could easily be automated with tech, I guess??? But some things they just couldn’t get, even with automation. They may have to import some stuff from the outside, though I imagine there are multiple security measures in place to convolute the supply chain and to keep the location of the Island of Woe hidden.

I’m not sure about exports since the island isn’t noted to produce anything significant (other than Styx tech, which I’d imagine they want to keep confidential).

Do they have more there than just S.T.Y.X to keep them occupied/entertained, etc.?

Being that there’s an entire city down there, yes, I’d have to think that the people don’t just work all day. Idia himself is one huge example; how did he get into anime, games, idols, etc. if no entertainment exists in the isle? We even see him as a child playing his beloved Star Rogue in his post-OB flashback scene—and his childhood bedroom is also littered with other signs of his hobbies and interests. Ortho has also mentioned that their family celebrates birthdays and go on outings to parks and such. This implies to me that there are definitely recreational activities around on the isle.

Do the Shrouds live there too, or do they live within the S.T.Y.X. headquarters?

I believe the implication is that the Shrouds technically live in Styx HQ. (A researcher remarks that “Idia hasn’t come out of his room for over two years now” while the background shows the Styx interior.) I’m not sure if this is true of the entire Shroud family, but I think it would make sense if they did since it would add to their vibes of isolation and gloom.

Additionally, it’s stated that it benefits the Shrouds to reside in a blot-dense area like Styx HQ so that their hereditary curse burns through blot in their immediate surroundings rather than burning through their own magic (and potentially life force). I don’t think the Shrouds are forced to stay IN Styx HQ all the time though; they clearly leave and explore the seabed city since Ortho says their family used to go on trips like that.

Do they ever have to travel for their jobs, beyond the little mishap that happened in Book 6?

I don’t know how often travel for work occurs, but it does happen. Styx agents are deployed as needed to secure Phantoms, as well as to speak with important figures. Leona, for example, mentions seeing Ferrymen lurking at the palace of the Sunset Savanna.

[thornnii]

⏤ ✦ ink spots

genre: fluff wordcount: 0.6K pairing: Carlos DeVile x gn!reader pronouns: they/them other: Y/N's parents aren't mentioned so can be from any family, no specific timeline but set during school years, implied AK!reader, no actual dialogue, established relationship warnings: one swear summary: for an art project Y/N has to incorporate ink into their piece, but it's not just the art that gets covered in ink thorn's notes: originally posted 01/Oct/2022; edited, this has a really shit and rushed ending

⏤ return to old posts masterlist

The stark white canvas stared back at them tauntingly, a small yellow post-it note was stuck loosely to the table beside them. Y/N had jotted down the prompt given earlier in class on it: 'use ink in project'. Short and simple and to the point, not that that served to provide any inspiration now.

It was at that moment that their boyfriend, Carlos DeVile, entered the art room. In all honesty he had been looking for Mal, needing to pass on a message that Ben had given him. He didn't mind not finding her, in fact he was pleased to have found Y/N instead. Y/N too was pleased at his arrival, happily welcoming the company. Carlos's arrival had provided Y/N with some much needed inspiration, more specifically: his multi-coloured hair, the splattering of black in amongst soft white locks. Ink blots on a page or spots in a dalmatian's fur.

That was it! That was they would paint; a patch of snowy white fur using deep black ink to create spots and patches. It would take time and would probably beat them round the ass when it came to shading, but it was something and they would make it work.

It had been a day and a bit since Y/N's inspiration had dawned on them and they'd been making good progress. Carlos had stayed and watched for a bit before remembering why he was there in the first place and the message for Mal.

Now, though, the couple sat together deliberately. Finally it had come to the point when the painting part was finished and dried and all that was left was to add the ink. An inkwell full of deep black ink sat on the table in front of Carlos, who held onto it with a firm grip to make sure that there would be no risk of spillages, whether over the table or yourselves.

Y/N was using a calligraphy brush to draw with the ink; it kept the line neat and smooth as they used it carefully. Just as Y/N was moving the brush back to canvas after going for a re-dip a small drop fell from the tip and landed on the sleeve of Carlos's red, woollen sweater. As soon as they noticed the ink dropping, Y/N flipped the brush in their hand and began to apologise profusely to Carlos. Carlos didn't mind, sure it was annoying but clothes could be washed and he was used to way dirtier clothes back on the Isle anyway.

But as the two focused on his sweater sleeve, neither noticed ink began running down the brush Y/N's hand, slowly making its way down to their fingers. Not until Y/N felt it dripping down their skin. Now looking to their fingers they gave a short laugh, quickly putting the pen down in the inkwell, they quickly grabbed for some paper towels that they'd left to their side incase of this exact situation. But, of course, the ink didn't wipe away cleanly, leaving a large streak across their hand.

Finally the project was completed, left to sit on a windowsill to dry. Y/N absentmindedly drew shapes onto the table with their finger as they talked about this, that and the other to Carlos. As they were talking, Carlos picked up the fine brush from the ink pot and began drawing patterns on the back of his partner's hands. Y/N quickly noticed what he was doing, feeling the brustles drag across their skin, but they made no effort to stop his actions, continuing on as if nothing was happening.

At some point the roles reversed and it became Y/N that was drawing on their lovers hand: softly painting out the bones of his left hand.

It didn't take long until both of them had each of their hands covered in an array of doodles and were laughing away like idiots. Idiots in love.

[thelamentknight]

Ceres Wolfgang

19/ Male

Black Greek/German

Dog Beastman

Bisexual

Taurus

Hometown is Isle of Lamentation

Twisted from Cerberus

Ignihyde

3rd Year

His Best Subject is Defense Magic

He’s in the Board Games Club

His Favorite Food is Orange Glazed Salmon Medallions

His Least Favorite Food is Coleslaw

Dislikes Instigators

Hobbies include playing video games (mainly horror games), shopping for music CDs and albums, solving Rubik’s cubes, reading manga, and doing Horror Escape Rooms

Talent: Fixing WiFi Boxes

UM “Hell’s coming with me“

When Ceres uses his UM, chains will appear and lunge after whoever Ceres targets. The chains will tie around the victim and brings them back to Ceres (but Ceres likes to grab onto the chains and control them). Using it on so many people in little amount of time causes a lot of blot to form.

Ceres is kind of hard to get a read on. He’s very quiet, and not many have even heard his voice. He’s calm and serious, and kind of comes across as a loner. He doesn’t smile or laugh much, and has really bad Resting B!tch Face. He tends to be intimidating to most students (this is accidental on Ceres’ part). But it’s basically impossible to get Ceres mad. He’s not the best with socializing, but he tries his best (he’s more shy than he comes off).

The Wolfgangs and the Shrouds are business partners and have been working together for centuries. Neither families remember exactly when; they just know that at some point, the Wolfgangs began helping out the Shrouds, and they’ve been buddies ever since. The Wolfgangs specifically help fund STYX and help in finding research about Blot. As Ceres is their heir, he’s expected to carry on with the Wolfgang’s business and help out Idia when he has to run STYX.

Fun Facts:

+ Other than Ortho, many consider Ceres to be the “Vice Dorm Leader” of Ignihyde (mainly because Ceres is one of the very few people Idia seems comfortable with)

+ Loves Rock and Electronic Heavy Metal music

+ His tail is actually a snake tail instead of a dog tail. Tends to hide his tail (he’s not embarrassed by it, it’s just that the questions get annoying)

+ Doesn’t like Soda

+ Dorm Leaders go to him to fix the Dorm’s WiFi Boxes (cause Idia’s too shy)

+ (Warning for baby d*eath) Ceres is actually from a triplet pregnancy, but his brothers didn’t make it

+ His online nickname is XIII Reaper

+ Has a cabinet filled with his snack supply

+ Horror is his favorite genre

+ Can drive a Blastcycle

+ His favorite band is River Down Under, or RDU for short

+ Weirdly enough, neither of Ceres’ parents are dog Beastmen. His Father is a human while his Mother is a Snake Beastwoman. And they’re his biological parents, so nobody knows how Ceres is a dog Beastman while his parents are not

+ Finds the beauty in things most people don’t (like the animals Ceres thinks are really cute are animals most people would think are scary or ugly)

+ Ceres and Idia have an interesting history together. They were close when they were young, playing games a lot alongside Ortho. But after Ortho’s d**th, due to Idia basically shutting himself away, the two didn’t see each other much. Afterwards, they really only saw each other when their parents met up. During NRC, the two have a coworker type relationship, with the two really only talk to tell each other for important Ignihyde/business stuff. After Chapter 6, Idia reached out to Ceres so they could be actual friends again. Now the two hang out once a week to game (Usually to play Horror, like Phasmophobia or Dead by Daylight or Lethal Company)

+ Unlike Idia, Ceres doesn’t scream or gamer rage. So while Idia is shrieking or cussing from the monsters, Ceres just stays calm and tells Idia to hide (or do whatever you have to do to avoid the monster k!lling you)

+ With all due respect, Ceres just…doesn’t know how to feel about robo Ortho. He understands that Idia is grieving, but Ceres was friends with human Ortho and grieving him too, Ceres can’t help but feel…unnerved about Robo Ortho (though he tries not to show it)

Voice Claim

[yuurei20]

Are there other residents in the Isle of Woe? Other than the Shroud family?

Hello hello! Thank you for this question!

It appears so, yes! ^^ While we only have one comment from one STYX researcher to go on ("I was born and raised on this island"), it does seem as though it is an island inhabited by multiple families!

Does this mean that all everyone born on the island naturally becomes an employee of STYX, and never leaves? Possibly not!

Another researcher says that STYX only hires people "with small magic pools because (they're) less likely to go out of control from blot exposure."

This seems to mean that if you were born a mage with a large magic pool (or had yours artificially increased by force), they would refuse to hire you regardless of whether or not you were born and raised there.

Rook calls the island a "dark and dreadful" place and Leona says that the island's location "is so secret, it's not on any maps."

This all makes this interaction from Idia's gymwear vignette all the more interesting:

Idia voluntarily admits that that is where he is from, as if it's a perfectly normal place for a person to be born and raised not unlike the Shaftlands or Sunset Savanna. And yet it is so mysterious that, infamously, "no mages have ever come back once the Ferrymen take them to the Island of Woe."

It is a curious situation that I also found being discussed on Twstsoku, where a commenter points out that we do not know when the vignettes (if they are canonical at all) are timed with the main story--perhaps this one was after Book 6? Which would make sense ^^

To the original question: yes! It appears that there are other people who live on the island and are even raising families there! It might still be unclear if everyone is employed by STYX or if the institute is run by only a select few (only locals? Possibly also from abroad?), but they are there! :>

[cup1dt3a]

sneak peek

Here’s some concept art of Overblot cater and WIP of riddle I’m working on

[tixdixl]

I gotta know more about Kingsley

Anything that might not have been talked about thru asks or general lore you wanna let folks know?

I don't think I've ever properly talked about him, his lore, and his motivations openly here. So strap in; this is gonna be a doozy.

And for y'all's sakes... I'll limit this to only containing lore from during his time at NRC. I can share post-NRC stuff another time.

Kingsley is a Horned King expy from the Chronciles of Prydain (the source material from which Disney's the Black Cauldron was made). As a result, many of his physical attributes, his personality, his story, and his relationships twist from the book series beyond the Disney film. There are very clear influences from the film as well, but I felt it would be far more striking and interesting if he drew from the original source material moreso than the film.

Kingsley is the crown prince of a fan-made location known as the Isle of Cantrevs - twisted from the Cantrevs in the Chronicles of Prydain. Due to his issues with anger management, his views on authority, and other additional traits, his parents - despite raising him to BE this way and culturally raising him to have certain beliefs - were unsatisfied and didn't approve of him as their son, let alone as the rightful heir to the throne. They opted to use sending him to NRC as a chance for him to prove himself, while also using it as an opportunity for them to literally get him off their hands. Naturally, he accepts the deal, but Kingsley feels the weight of the pressure to become the man his father wants him to be.

As he starts freshman year, he is sorted into Diasomnia, not SavannaClaw. Despite the aggressive and intimidating way he holds himself, he does maintain a militant, commanding presence and a subtle, noble aura. He is sorted into Diasomnia because of both who he will grow to become, and also because nobility and magical prowess are his most prominent attribute. And yet, to most, this shocks them. Because those who do not know how Kingsley is beyond his aggression assume he is best suited in SavannaClaw.

What's worse, the political tension and the personality clashing with the other canon characters of Diasomnia leads to many many conflicts, near death duels, and the immediate social isolation of one Kingsley Tyr. Because why did this human who prefers to fight with his fists and axes over his magic get sorted into Diasomnia? He doesn't belong here. We don't want him here.

In truth, despite how long it takes him to develop his UM, Kingsley is an incredibly strong mage, both physically and in the arcane. But he tries not to show off all of his cards. He tries to keep his secrets hidden in hopes to retain an upper hand.

He is diligent and vigilant, reserved unless he chooses to strike or intimidate or initiate. He keeps largely to himself, only choosing to create allyships when he knows its mutually beneficial, but does not hold himself like a normal student. He doesnt start out having friends. Instead, he dedicates all of his free time to trying to find the location of the Black Cauldron, or if not, the method of which it was created in order to obtain either the original or to create a new one. Because perhaps if he were to raise an army of the undead, his father would be impressed and acknowledge him for his skills and assets.

But in his isolation, blot and darkness are stewing. Truthfully, he should have Overblotted. Then why did he not?

Jack Howl. A few months into schooling, Jack decides he wants to see if the rumors are true, that there is nothing else besides lethal rage behind those skull hidden eyes. And what Jack finds instead is a young man hiding his numbness. His loneliness. He finds a young man who has never experienced a friendship and doesnt know how to connect with people beyond political allegiance. He meets a dedicated student, a young man built with an unwaverable loyalty, an a cunning strategist who is far from perfect, especially in his social skills. He sees a flicker of hope. A flicker of humor. A three dimensional human being. And from that flicker of life in Kingsley's eyes, Jack decides he's gonna see to it that Kingsley proves them all wrong. So Jack keeps hanging around him, until eventually Kingsley concedes and slowly begins to open up. And from that, he makes his first friend. You can read their first interaction here.

He often finds reprieve in SavannaClaw after this. He fights to earn his welcome and catches Leona's eye. Leona sees something akin in him and tolerates his presence in his dorm, so long as Kingsley doesnt become a problem. And when he starts to do so, their talk happens (which you can read here). But Kingsley TAKES the instruction, and ends up inadvertently proving both Leona and Jack right about what else is hidden behind the skull.

From there, we see allyships and friendships built between @thehollowwriter 's Finn, @ramshacklerumble 's Gia (who becomes his partner in crime and eventual QPP), and @cyanide-latte 's Copper (who becomes one of his most cherished and valued brothers).

We also see a game between hunters, as Kingsley and Rook wordlessly initiate a game between the two of them, which can be seen in a vignette here. The first one to land a lethal hit wins. And it's entirely on sight, regardless of the circumstances. Yet... after enough time passes, rumors begin to spread that they both are intentionally missing. Who is to say? But what we do know, flash forward, is that the King Takes Rook, and right before the graduation ceremony during Rook's senior year, Kingsley catches him off guard for ONCE, and calls checkmate with an axe blade to Rook's throat. Despite the two of them almost never talk, they end up maintaining their connection with one another, and Rook remains an invaluable presence in Kingsley's life - one who will guide him in his years post-NRC.

We also see a profound rivalry between Sebek and Kingsley. Sebek cannot understand for the life of him WHY Kingsley is allowed to grace the same steps and dorm as one Malleus Draconia. This human disgraces everything that they stand for, and has done nothing but cause problems for Malleus - who for the record doesnt give a fuck about Kingsley in any capacity. You can see one instance of them fighting here. And we will touch more on this later, but keep it in mind.

There isn't a lot that has been thoroughly hammered out in terms of specific details. But dynamics have been considered and there are specific key moments that have been fleshed out.

There are a few things I have hammered out, like his direct involvement in Book 4, as well as one instance of dream walking that Silver experiences- which can be read here. Otherwise, there are a ton of empty gaps.

During sophomore year, while predominantly nebulous at this point, is where I imagine a big turning point happens, where we really see him growing. He starts to question his dynamic with his parents. He starts to question their expectations of him, and whether or not their vision of their political dynamics and rulership is beneficial both for their foriegn affairs, and for their country. But moreover, he begins to question if he even wants to take the throne after his father. He questions if thats a life he really wants to have. In social isolation. Under immense stress. Is he even cut out to be king? Is he a fit worth selecting?

I do also Headcanon that he becomes Housewarden after Malleus heads off for his internship - you know... making bold assumptions here since Book 7 isnt finished. But I imagine he is challenged regularly, and wins- often without use of magic.

Just as he is beginning to sort out his feelings, his parents summon him in the summer between sophomore and junior year for what I refer to as the "Cantrevs Event". He has been summoned to clean up his parents mess and find a magical artifact that was stolen from them while they are busy dealing with conflicts between the Cantrevs and Briar Valley. He is asked to select a team of qualified assitants to come to the Cantrevs and retrieve the artifact, and prove that he actually has what it takes to be a leader. He chooses his friends and mutual acquaintances who have specific skill sets in order to help him on their quest. During this time, his UM awakens, and he really starts to realize his true potential. This is something I hope to write out as a long form fic one day.

In junior year, he finally earns Sebek's respect. And when Kingsley clocks the change in Sebek's demeanor toward him, he does actually offer Sebek the opportunity at becoming Vice-Housewarden. This is no small gesture, and it significantly changes their dynamic moving forward. This can be read here.

Beyond this, again, things are still really nebulous and I haven't fleshed them out. I also haven't fully figured out where exactly he interns at for his senior year, but Im excited at the prospect at exploring these things. And furthermore, all the empty space for me feels like opportunities to explore other things and to explore OC to OC interactions, where other folks may be interested.

If you've stuck around this far, thank you so so much for reading!!

----

Tag list: @ramshacklerumble @rainesol @elenauaurs @inmateofthemind @thehollowwriter

@cyanide-latte @blithesharem @theleechyskrunkly @starry-night-rose @boopshoops

[chernabogs]

Threnody

Inc: Malleus x Reader, with a lil bit of Lilia parenting Warnings: Existential crisis, anxiety mentions, allusions to death, dabbling in insecurity, post-blot coping WC: 2.9k Summary: There is trivial difference between storms of a Fae’s misery and those of a Fae’s joy—both are adorned in catastrophe for those caught within.  Part 1

The gasps of spring’s last moments found closure under summer’s blade as she sliced through the tolerable weather into that of stifling, uncomfortable heat. Despite the way it made his skin itch beneath his uniform, or the way it left an aroma of sweat and humidity on those he surrounded himself with, Malleus was apt to linger on the Isle of Sages for slightly longer than necessary this time. Of course, Housewardens were always the last to leave anyway—someone had to make sure the dorm rooms were cleared out and prepared for the coming fall. 

Last to leave, first to arrive. 

Even then, there was more motivation than the years before for him not to depart so hastily back to the cooler, darker halls of Black Scale Palace for all of three months. Motivation which was presently situated on one of the couches of the Diasomnia lounge, basking in the fresh air from the open windows as Malleus arranged the last of the disarrayed cushions to his liking. 

Yours had come to be a strange relationship in the aftermath of his uncomfortable realization post-overblot. He had bit his tongue like a man cursed and ensured that you had not caught wind of the idle thoughts turning in his mind as he had observed you, so patient and so giving, sitting next to the cot he had been delegated to in that medical ward. 

Your idle chatter had been efficient at keeping periods of silence from stretching for too long. Those periods of silence would have been the trigger to make him shoot off his mouth at you, ejecting his revelations like a psalm that no one was ever meant to read. 

… He wanted you. He wanted you, so much so that it ached in his body …

Such thoughts were akin to ones that a man in torment would have, writhing between the battle of want and learned conservativeness. 

He had admittedly avoided you for a week upon being released. His excuses were mainly that he wished to focus on the reparations duly owed to everyone that had been caught in the prison of his insecurities. Internationally, he had a script written for him by some of the more political of Briar Valley, apologizing for his actions and ensuring he was taking the steps to never fracture again. Privately, he fumbled over words in the dark to the three he had hurt the most, his voice breaking as fingers twisted the hems of his sleeves. He had been more nervous asking forgiveness from Silver, Sebek, and Lilia than he felt speaking to an international stage.

He had not asked for forgiveness from you, despite the fact that you and Grim had been on the forefront of this conflict, alongside the Shroud brothers and STYX. Your presence by his bedside had felt like absolution already granted, and so to plead for it would be a waste of fragile breath in the end. 

“Have you marred the cushion enough?” A teasing tone snaps him sharply from his ruminations as he pauses, his mind sluggishly returning to the present. He holds the couch cushion in his hand, its form warped from the original due to his constant pushing and remodelling. Malleus clears his throat before dropping it unceremoniously and nudging it with his knee. 

“It was due for some rearrangement.” His voice is less light as he assesses the rest of the dorm before his gaze drags itself back to you. The sunlight dapples across your skin as you watch him, the faint smirk on your lips doing little to hide the tiredness that rests in your eyes. Like him, you too have fought battles this year. It was selfish to bemoan his own hells when you have been in levels far deeper. 

“Sometimes you seem more meticulous than Riddle. I should be thankful I don’t need to memorize a rule book for Diasomnia as well.” You still continue to poke fun even as you observe him with a sharp stare. This is a look he has grown familiar with since his overblot. Perhaps born of concern, or perhaps born of paranoia, but you have been dissecting every comment he’s made as of late in a more clinical fashion. 

Malleus does not deign to give you a reply as he drifts around the lounge, readjusting candles or shifting books ever so slightly on the table. He wouldn’t say he’s overly anal about how things operate, but he does appreciate a sense of order. He has dealt with enough chaos this past year that the thought of more feels like a weight on his back. It’s when he enters his third lap of the room that you speak up again.

“Malleus.” His name slips from your lips like a lure, causing his attention to move from the lounge to your form once more. The smirk is absent from your lips as a sterner expression rest on your face. He still enjoys the sight of it. Smiling, stern, or despairing—he struggles to find flaws in your complexion. “Is there something on your mind? You seem quite restless.” 

That terrible impulse to speak true rears its ugly head once more as deeper thoughts bubble up to his tongue. Want, want, want, want—

His upper lip curls into an expression he doesn’t mean to give—disgust—and he see’s the consequence of this by the hurt that flashes in your eyes. He turns to face away as an ugly feeling embraces his body.

... You cannot speak with them, or hold them, or tell them how much they mean to you ...

“Nothing, Prefect. I’m merely thinking about what still needs to be done.”

_______________________________________________

There is trivial difference between storms of a Fae’s misery and those of a Fae’s joy—both are adorned in catastrophe for those caught within. The skies above are a roiling mass of grey as the scent of rain perfumes the air. Malleus observes it with fraught silence as he taps painted nails along the windowsill. That ugly feeling is still wrapping its arms around his body. He has showered several times, scrubbing his skin until it was raw in an attempt to remove the heat and the unseen slickness that is holding him hostage. The failure to do so has set him in a foul mood—one that the entire world can now sense.

This can be easily written off as a last spring storm, intending to make the season’s death a performative one. At least, those who have not been alive for several hundred years would think so.

He can feel a gaze on the back of his neck for a while before he finally rolls his eyes and decides to address the elephant in the room.

Or, more accurately, the bat.

“If you intend to surprise me, you’re doing a poor job at it,” Malleus mutters wryly as he finally looks back to the shadowy corner. Red eyes glint in delight before being accompanied by a white smile as Lilia moves to stand by his side.

“I was trying to surmise if I would be allowed to approach, or if you’d try to fry me with a lightning bolt first.” Lilia clasps his hands behind his back as he leans forward to look at the skies above. His expression is quite relaxed for someone fully aware of the turmoil going on in the man next to him. Lilia’s brush with death in the recent months had caused him to be more open-minded to the possibility. “You’re going to make move out day a very unenjoyable experience if you keep this up.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Malleus’ voice is dry as he taps his nails again, his attention fixating on the skies. The ugly feeling churns alongside the clouds above and for a moment it makes him feel satisfied to see a physical reflection of his state.

“Malleus.” There’s a sharper, more paternalistic tone now behind Lilia’s words. Malleus can feel the disapproval rolling off of him the longer they stand here in a stubborn silence. In the aftermath of the blot, Malleus had agreed to be more communicative of his moods to his family, and so it’s with a reluctant grunt that he speaks again.

“I don’t feel good.” His words are just as sharp as Lilia’s as his expression darkens. “I don’t know why.”

“Have you visited the medical ward?” Lilia’s hand flits out to touch Malleus’ forehead, as though checking to see if he’s feverish. The gesture causes the prince to scowl and move his head back. “Oh, come now, don’t get moody with me. I’m concerned.”

“Is it concern, or do you just wish to fuss over me?” He grumbles back as he bats his guardian’s hand away. “I haven’t visited the medical ward, no. I’m not too sure if there’s cause to do so.”

“Then at least tell me what you’re experiencing. Perhaps I can provide some insight.”

Lilia would be the most probable to give some sort of answer. Malleus knew the cause already, but his denial of the fact makes him speak up regardless. “I feel... unclean. Hot. Restless. There is a twisting sense of anxiety in my stomach that has made sleep quite evasive as of late, and it only is growing with each passing day. It’s as though I’m afraid of something—but I have yet to discover what.”

Lilia frowns as he looks from the window to Malleus. There’s a seriousness to him that comes from those many, many years of experience. “Is that so? And is there something you think of that seems to make this feeling grow?”

Malleus’ jaw clenches at the question as memories briefly flash in his mind. Sunlight dappling on skin, lips curled in a faint smirk, and idle chatter at a hospital bedside.

“Malleus?” Lilia’s voice is softer this time. Malleus knows that in this moment, he is playing traitor to his own thoughts. He looks to his guardian, and his silence is all the answer the other man needs.

“Am I ill?” He asks, and it’s when Lilia’s expression becomes one of faint sympathy that the ugly feeling becomes clearer.

“... no, not ill.”

Lilia’s repetition of the same answer he gave Malleus so long ago feels like cruel irony in this moment. Malleus barks out a laugh before waving dismissively at the other, who takes his cue to vanish away.

Not ill, no. But foolish, most certainly.

_______________________________________________

Ramshackle is no longer a dorm of ruins. The school year and your tender care has given it new life, something that many may have thought would never occur. No longer can he hear floorboards rotting or cement cracking under the weight of time. Although he mourns the loss of such precious tribute to the end, the prospect of rebirth is invigorating all the same.

He draws to a stop by the iron gates and takes a deep breath, looking to the dorm in silence until he see’s a figure step out and stand on the porch, waiting for him.

He does not make you walk to him this time.

Malleus’ hand grasps that iron gate and forces it open so that he may step through. He walks with purpose towards the porch where you stand, a mug of something in your hand as you watch him in the dying light. Birds sing their last songs and grasshoppers begin their own chorus as he stops just at the edge of the steps and looks to you appraisingly.

“Are you ready to retire?” He asks.

“Depends. What brings you to my home tonight?” You counter, smirking wryly from over the rim of your mug. That expression makes his nails dig into his palm behind his back as he clears his throat. He feels more nervous standing before you now than he felt speaking to an international stage.

How funny.

“Walk with me.” The words come out more as a demand than a question, and for a moment he balks, thinking that the authority in his tone may have just cost him an opportunity. But then you take a sip of your drink before setting it down on the porch’s banister.

“Please?” You hum, and Malleus clenches his jaw, looking to you with an unwavering gaze.

“Please.”

_______________________________________________

The nights silence, often welcoming, now feels as though he’s standing on a stage before an audience held in rapt attention. The two of you walk silently down your usual route as his mind turns and tosses his thoughts like a restless sea. He wishes to know if you feel a similar turmoil to what he presently does—and yet you are moving in perfect ease by his side.

“... and I can tell you, he wanted to make another contract with Azul over this. He was making faces at the man the entire time we were in the Lounge and Floyd looked ready to drag him to the backrooms.” You’re chattering away about your two other friends as you walk. He finds the situation grimly humorous. He’s having a crisis, and you’re filling him in on how ridiculous the antics of your companions are.

“Is that so?” Malleus murmurs vaguely, if only to keep you speaking, if only to keep hearing your voice. The two of you continue on your route as he remains in a trance like state.

No, not ill.

Lilia’s words are an omen hanging over his head. His guardian knows, and although Lilia is very skilled at keeping secrets, the fact that another is involved in this only makes his anxiety grow. He looks to you briefly. There’s a time limit left on how long you will remain by his side, both for tonight and for the future. You may return home, or you may embark on some grand adventure around the world, drinking in all the sights that Twisted Wonderland has to offer while he’s forced to remain in a palace on his own.

Everyone misses the ones they love when they leave us.

His grandmother’s comment in the mausoleum also comes to the forefront of his mind as he ruminates on this. He will miss you, and that’s an uncomfortable fact. He will miss you, and he cannot place if this is because of genuine care or because he’s so goddamn terrified of ending up on his own, that he cannot come to terms with the loss of someone by his side.

He doesn’t even register the two of you coming to sit on a bench by the main street, doesn’t even register how empty it is. He doesn’t register anything at all until he feels the sensation of your warm hand on his and it pulls him so harshly from his thoughts that he fears he may have whiplash.

“Hey?” You’re looking at him, and it seems that at some point you had stopped talking about your friends, stopped talking about your day. There’s concern in your eyes and it’s such a warm feeling, to be worried about, but for some reason it makes Malleus want to shrink back into the shadows even more. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem like you’ve been in a whole different place this entire walk.”

No. He wants to say. No, actually. According to my guardian I am not ill, and yet the very prospect of watching your form grow smaller on the coast of this Isle as I return to the Valley is one that fills me with such abysmal fear that I cannot even comprehend it. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I do know that you are the centre of this all.

You will die. So will I, in the end, but yet it’s this childish fear of seeing you fade away while I still remain that I cannot seem to get past.

Please, show me how to get past. Let me know, so that I may know you.

The words that had fought so hard to escape him so far now shrivel on his tongue as he looks to you. Your gaze flickers around his face, focuses on his lips, and it’s that action that makes a bolt of heat shoot through him. But before that bolt can ignite to something more, the ugly feeling wraps its hand around his throat and wrenches his head back. He jerks his face away and stands from the bench, his body stiff as he clears his throat.

“No, I think I may be coming down with something. It would be best to head back.” Even his words feel fabricated—traitorous! —as he speaks them aloud. This is not what he wishes to do. He wishes to thread his fingers through your hair, to pull you in and to lose himself within you until he can no longer differentiate where he ends, and you may begin. He wants to taste your words before they leave and know your thoughts before they’re spoken. He wants you, so much so and it aches and—

“Malleus,” you begin again, moving to go to his side, but he raises a hand to you sharply.

“Now.” He chokes out before setting off down the path, uncaring to see if you’re truly following or not. His mind is in turmoil and his body feels as though he has no control over it any longer. All that lingers now is the way your gaze went to his lips and the silly, hopeful thoughts such an action provoked.

Please.

[r00tpackl0ver]

"Seriously, what does he see in that guy?"

I want to try and do more with my paper art. I'm a bit nervous to jump straight into color so I made something very dumb with a pen as practice.

(Featuring some of the other Isle 1 bosses judging my taste because I felt like drawing them)

(ALSO I WAS TIRED WHEN DOING THIS AND DIDN'T REALIZED I DREW BLOTS PUPILS WRONG AAAA)

Based on this text post:

[justabigoldnerd]

Thank you so much @pippinoftheshire for the tag!!!!

My Words: Suspicion, Heart, Wonder, Flight

Your Words: Charge, Positive, Sport, Know

Suspicion - "Which Side Of The Wall Really Suffers That Cost?"

Regrettably, the hand dropped from Illya's shoulders, and he cringed at the defeat in Solo's voice when he conceded, “Okay. I won't push you. Do you….still want to walk to the office together?” Illya worked his jaw. If the KGB had solid evidence on him, there was no point in changing routine. What would happen was inevitable. But if they only suspected that his newfound affiliation with the Western world went deeper than being on loan, then there were bound to be eyes on him twenty-four seven. Would it be smarter to cease contact with Solo to distance himself from being associated with his antithetical ideals? Or would doing so effectively confirm their suspicions, dooming him anyway? “Da,” he decided after a moment, “Come on.

Heart - "To Be Built Back Up Again" [Flufftober Day 14: Fantasy Au/Mundane AU]

��Whenever you're ready,” Solo repeated gently. Peril beat his wings once, twice, three times, then leapt. The owl plummeted like a rock in a blur of feathers and Solo's heart sank. He tried to pick him up again, but Peril shrieked and scrambled away, still furiously beating his wings. “Hey, hey, calm down, it's okay, calm down,” Solo pleaded, to no avail. He swore and closed his eyes, his hands held out in front of him. Pulling from the increasing static of the storm around him, Solo hummed a calming spell meant for Elven children.  Peril's rage filled shrieking quieted to short, sharp barks, then finally settled into an unhappy growl. Solo sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the air crackling around him. Rain began to fall and black clouds blotted out the moon. He was drained, but Peril was still and out of danger. He checked over the injured wing to make sure he hadn't worsened it, then tucked the owl into his cloak. “Now that was a little dramatic,” he chided half-heartedly.

Wonder - "Flufftober Day 18: Bewitched"

“You do so much talking, but it does not mean anything, most of the time. Just–,” he smiled lazily and made a “talking” motion with his free hand, “–all the time. Nonsense.” “Your point?” Solo rolled his eyes affectionately. “Try to say something you do mean. Like this,” he lifted their intertwined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of Solo's, “I love you.” Solo watched his face for a long while, the back of his throat burning like hellfire. Illya's cheeks were dusted in primrose. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his smile was easy and bright. The seemingly permanent crease in his brow was gone, for once. Solo tentatively reached out and ran his thumb over the spot where the fold would usually be. He wondered if Illya had ever had a chance to be this free, if he was looking into a past version of his partner, or a version that neither of them had met before.

Flight - "Isle of Flightless Birds" [Collaborative 5+1 TMFU Wingfic (We're still looking for one more author!!)]

That is where the poignant smell of decay was originating. A pit opened up in his stomach and he retrieved his flashlight from his belt. Solo flicked it on and curled the fingers of his left hand around its handle, holding it tight to the side of his gun. He waited until Gaby had followed suit, then stepped into the cavern. Immediately, the wretched stench hit them like walking into a brick wall mortared with rotting viscera. Gaby gagged violently and covered her mouth and nose with her upper arm. The combined beams of their flashlights swept back and forth, what little light they provided glinting off damp, bare rock. Then a flash of red caught Solo's eye and he focused his light on it. It was a flight feather– cardinal-type, judging by the color. He almost crouched to investigate further, when a horrified whisper from Gaby made him look up. “Oh mein Gott….”

No pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @bighandsforabigheart

@kcscribbler @yallwildinrn @cha-melodius @the-golden-comet @thattripleabattery

@too-young-to-fall-in-love @times-up-alone-tonight @vnyu73 @nicijones

And anyone else who wants to join!!! 💕💕💕💕

[fair-night-starry-tears]

I’m returning the Madness In Wonderland au, and for all the Riddle fans. Here’s your fighter babey. Kinda.

For the au, it was deeply explained in the #Madness In Wonderland post that explains everything and its theme

Riddle is still the same as the original but with a few character details. He is a capable fighter on his own, has more stamina and agility to be leaping at higher grounds and parkour, and he isn’t physically stronger then Leona or Malleus or Vil, but he can sure hell swing a scythe at a blot monster/ink monster and stand with no injuries. He is the only one who screams at Yuu who first arrived to run to safety. In this au, you only need to fight to live to the next day and blot monster are spawning at dangerous intervals.

To add more details, there are loud sirens all over the isle that were made by S.T.Y.X that predict the next spawn point and charge over to attack. Everyone is forced to fight. That is, if they are a professionally trained fighter. In arcane schools, yes you are taught your magical education. But you also need to learn to fight nonstop 24/7 live

I will draw the other wardens and finally make Pomefiore a confirmed uniform because the dorm uniforms will be replaced.

This AU again is based off of Madness Returns American McGee Alice in Wonderland.

@adrianasunderworld @mangacupcake @writing-heiress @the-weirdos-mind @skboba-stars @nproduction626 @rose-tea-and-strawberries @anxious-twisted-vampire @yukii0nna @achy-boo @abyssthing198