#Viserion as legacy

[hallowed-harpy]

Viserion as Legacy - theory by Hallowed.Harpy

[novaursa]

Legacy (but you will fly)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Some events and timeline don't match canon plot.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: under lion's gaze

- Next part: winter is coming

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The wind howled through the craggy cliffs of Casterly Rock as you stood before the gaping maw of the old mine entrance, its shadow swallowing the light. The air around you was heavy, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and something older—something ancient, as if the earth itself had secrets waiting to be uncovered. Behind you, a group of Tywin’s guards stood at attention, their hands resting on their sword hilts, their expressions tense.

Tywin himself stood a few paces back, his face carved from stone. His green eyes, sharp as flint, were fixed on you as though willing you to change your mind. The wind tugged at the crimson Lannister cloak draped over his shoulders, the only movement in his otherwise immovable stance.

“You’re certain about this?” Tywin’s voice was low, measured, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “I have to do this, Tywin. He’s waiting for me.”

“And what if he’s not?” Tywin shot back, his tone clipped. “You’re walking into a cavern that hasn’t been stable in years, and after that, you’re putting yourself at the mercy of a dragon.”

“He came here for me,” you replied calmly, though your heart beat like a drum in your chest. “If there’s anyone he’ll listen to, it’s me.”

Tywin took a step forward, his gaze narrowing. “I will not stand here while you disappear into the dark and risk yourself for—”

“For what, Tywin?” you interrupted, turning fully to face him. Your voice was steady, though there was a fire in it now. “This is something I was born to do. You’ve always valued pragmatism over pride. Well, now I ask you to trust me and let me do what must be done.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as he studied you. You could see the internal war on his face—the struggle between his need to control every piece on the board and the realization that, this time, he couldn’t.

“You will not go alone,” he finally said, his tone hard as iron.

You shook your head resolutely. “No. You and your men will stay here. If you come after me, you’ll only provoke him. Viserion will sense your intentions, and that will endanger us all.”

Tywin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re asking me to stand idle while you disappear into that pit.”

“I’m asking you to trust me,” you said, softer this time, stepping closer to him. “This is something only I can do. The dragon is part of me, Tywin—just as this place is part of you. You taught me to value reason, and reason tells me that this connection cannot be ignored.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, his gaze intense as it bored into yours. Finally, after a long silence, he gave a small nod. “If you do not return in one hour, I will send men after you.”

“Agreed,” you said, though you had no intention of needing rescue.

The silence lingered between you for a moment longer, but then Tywin’s hand lifted, his gloved fingers brushing your arm—a rare, silent gesture of his concern. “Be careful,” he said, his voice softer than you expected.

You offered him a faint smile, your fingers briefly grazing over his hand. “I will.”

Turning back toward the mine, you steeled yourself as the shadows yawned before you. The guards muttered among themselves, exchanging uneasy glances as they watched you cross the threshold. The sound of your boots against the stone echoed hollowly as you descended into the darkness.

With each step, the light from the entrance dimmed further, replaced by a deep, oppressive silence. You pressed forward, your hand grazing along the cold, rough walls of the mine. Faint echoes of dripping water reached your ears, the sound almost rhythmic in the stillness.

The further you went, the stronger the feeling became—an energy humming in the air, ancient and alive. It was as if the earth itself whispered to you, beckoning you closer. The temperature shifted as you ventured deeper, the air growing warmer, the scent of smoke faint but unmistakable.

“Viserion,” you whispered into the dark, the sound of his name swallowed by the vastness of the cavern.

A low, rumbling growl reverberated through the mine, the walls seeming to vibrate with the force of it. Your breath caught in your throat, but you forced yourself to press on. A faint glow appeared ahead, flickering and dancing like firelight. You rounded a corner, and there he was.

Viserion.

The dragon lay curled in a vast chamber at the heart of the mine, his cream-and-gold scales reflecting in the dark. His massive wings were folded against his sides, and his golden eyes snapped open the moment you entered. The glow of molten fire flickered deep within them as he lifted his head, nostrils flaring as he caught your scent.

“Viserion,” you said again, your voice calm and soothing despite the thunderous pounding of your heart. “It’s me.”

The dragon let out a low rumble, the sound vibrating through your chest as he uncurled, his massive form rising. The light of his scales lit the chamber, and as he stepped closer, his hot breath washed over you.

You raised your hands slowly, palms open, just as you had done the first time. “I know you came here for me,” you whispered. “I’m here now.”

Viserion’s head dipped low, his eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, it felt as though the world fell away—there was only you and the dragon, your breaths mingling as you stood together in the heart of the earth.

Slowly, tentatively, you reached out your hand, your fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the rough texture of his snout. Viserion stilled, the fire in his eyes dimming to something softer, something familiar.

“I understand now,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the sound of his breathing. “You were leading me here. To what? To why?”

Viserion let out a soft growl, pressing his snout more firmly into your touch. The warmth of his presence filled you with an indescribable calm, as though the dragon itself was reassuring you that this was only the beginning.

The entrance to the mines stood like a dark, gaping maw in the earth, its shadow stretching long across the worn ground. Tywin stood a short distance from it, arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid as a blade. His green eyes, cold and unyielding, remained fixed on the opening, as though his focus alone might summon you back from the depths.

Around him, soldiers shifted uneasily, their hands never straying far from their weapons. Despite the orders to remain calm, the whispers among the men refused to die down. Words like dragon and curse passed from one mouth to another, carried on the wind like a contagion.

Lord Mace Tyrell, never one for silence, paced restlessly nearby, his ornate cloak dragging behind him, dirtied from the long ride. He looked toward the mine entrance with growing unease, as if expecting Viserion’s colossal form to emerge at any moment.

“This is madness, Lord Tywin,” Mace muttered, finally breaking the strained silence. His voice lacked its usual bluster, replaced by a quivering edge of fear. “We sit here like sheep waiting for the wolf. She’s been in there too long.”

Tywin didn’t so much as glance at him. “The hour isn’t yet spent.”

“And what then?” Mace pressed, stepping closer. “If she doesn’t return? What if the beast turns on her—or worse, comes for us?”

Tywin finally turned his head, his gaze sharp as steel. “Then I will deal with it.”

The confidence in his tone silenced Mace for a moment, though the Tyrell lord clearly found little comfort in it. He opened his mouth again, but before he could speak, the sound of hooves pounding against the stone path reached them. All eyes turned to the road leading down from the cliffs as a column of riders emerged, banners bearing the Lannister crimson fluttering in the wind.

At the head of the party rode Kevan Lannister, his armor dulled from travel, his brow furrowed in both concern and confusion. As he drew his horse to a halt, Kevan dismounted and handed his reins to one of his men before striding toward his brother.

“Tywin,” Kevan greeted, his voice steady but guarded as he surveyed the scene before him. His sharp eyes flicked to the mine entrance, then back to his brother. “I rode straight from the Riverlands when word reached me. They’re saying… Well, they’re saying things that are difficult to believe.”

Tywin turned to face him fully, his arms lowering to his sides. “What things?”

Kevan’s gaze swept the gathered soldiers, many of whom avoided his eye. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to keep their conversation private. “Men whispering on the front lines, even in Riverrun—rumors that a dragon lives beneath Casterly Rock.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, though his jaw tightened subtly. “Rumors travel faster than truth.”

“Are they rumors?” Kevan pressed, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief. “Tywin, I need to hear it from you.”

For a long moment, the two brothers stood in silence, the wind tugging at their cloaks and the distant sound of the sea filling the spaces between their words. Finally, Tywin spoke, his voice low but firm. “A dragon has taken refuge here, in the old mines.”

Kevan’s face paled, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “Seven hells,” he muttered, running a hand over his beard. “How is this possible? Dragons are gone—dead—nothing more than bones in the crypts of King’s Landing.”

“And yet one remains here,” Tywin replied curtly. “Alive, and very real.”

Kevan glanced toward the mine entrance again, his unease growing. “And Y/N? The men say she—”

“She is in there now,” Tywin interrupted, his voice brooking no argument. “The dragon answers to her.”

Kevan blinked, visibly struggling to process his brother’s words. “This is dangerous, Tywin. Dragons bring ruin wherever they go. You know this better than anyone.”

“I know what dragons are,” Tywin replied coldly. “And I also know that control is possible.”

Kevan scoffed softly, though there was no humor in it. “Control? You think a dragon can be controlled?”

“If anyone can do it,” Tywin said, his voice steady, “she can.”

Kevan studied his brother carefully, searching for cracks in Tywin’s impenetrable armor. “And what of the realm? What will the king say when he learns a dragon now sleeps beneath the Rock?”

“The king will know nothing,” Tywin snapped, his patience fraying. “Not until I deem it necessary.”

Kevan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flicking to the uneasy soldiers nearby. “You cannot keep this hidden forever. Dragons are not secrets, Tywin. They’re fire and fury. The world will know, sooner or later.”

“And when it does,” Tywin said, his voice like iron, “it will know that the dragon answers to the House of Lannister.”

The words hung in the air, bold and unyielding. Kevan regarded him with a mixture of awe and concern, but before he could respond, a loud, guttural rumble reverberated from deep within the mine. The ground trembled slightly beneath their feet, and the guards took an instinctive step back, their hands flying to their swords.

Tywin’s eyes snapped toward the mine entrance, his gaze narrowing. Kevan followed his brother’s line of sight, his voice low and uneasy. “And what happens when the dragon decides it no longer answers to anyone?”

Tywin didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the dark cavern. The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, whispering among themselves, but Tywin’s face remained unreadable.

They waited in silence, the tension stretching as thin as wire. The wind carried the faint sound of something deeper—something alive shifting in the mines, a distant growl that resonated through the earth like thunder.

Tywin stood unmoved, his gaze locked on the shadows before him. If he felt any doubt, he hid it behind the impenetrable mask of a man who had spent his life commanding not only armies but fate itself.

“It won’t come to that,” he said finally, though whether he was speaking to Kevan, the soldiers, or himself, no one could say.

The cavern pulsed with an ancient energy, the air heavy with heat and the faint shimmer of dust as Viserion continued to carve into the stone with massive claws. The scraping and grinding sound echoed endlessly off the walls, accompanied by the low, resonant growl of the dragon’s breath. The dim light cast by the molten veins of the earth danced off dragon’s cream-and-gold scales, highlighting every sharp ridge and sinew of her colossal form.

You stood at the edge of the chamber, your hands braced against the rough stone wall as you watched him with growing awe and realization. What you had thought was restless movement or instinctive digging was far more deliberate. He wasn’t just clawing at the rock—he was building something.

Dragonglass.

Shards of it, black and gleaming, littered the ground around her claws. Some he pushed into neat piles, others he layered carefully against the wall, fitting them together in a way that made no sense to you at first. And then you saw it: the beginnings of a nest—a crude but unmistakable formation of obsidian, jagged yet secure, a nest only a dragon could create.

A sudden, bone-deep chill crept into your spine despite the heat of the cavern. A nest. Viserion wasn’t just here by accident—he was called here, driven by instinct older than memory. And he was not a he. The realization struck you like a blow to the chest.

“You’re not just a dragon,” you murmured, stepping closer, your voice almost swallowed by the cavernous space. “You’re a mother.”

Viserion turned her massive head toward you, molten gold eyes narrowing slightly as if she understood your words. She huffed, sending a gust of hot air over you that rattled loose stones across the floor. Her claws resumed their work, the slow, steady scraping filling the silence again.

Your hand pressed to your temple as a strange, familiar hum rose in your mind, a vibration that set your teeth on edge. The cavern blurred slightly at the edges, shadows flickering where there were none. Brandon, the name came to you unbidden—the voice that had guided you so far.

"You cannot linger. It is time to move. The dragon knows where she must go."

“Where?” you whispered sharply, your voice echoing as if the cavern itself had heard you. “Where must we go?”

Viserion paused, turning her head once more. This time, there was something expectant in her gaze, something waiting. The voice in your mind grew quieter, as though a path had already been laid and it was for you alone to take the next step.

You swallowed hard, stepping closer to her massive foreleg. “We can’t stay here, can we?” You glanced up at her golden gaze, your voice firmer now. “Then let’s go.”

Viserion rumbled low in her throat, an almost pleased sound, as she rose to her full height. Her wings unfurled slightly, brushing against the walls, and the force of it sent loose shards of dragonglass clattering to the floor. She turned her body, presenting her massive flank, and in that moment, you knew what you had to do.

Your heart hammered wildly in your chest as you moved forward, placing a trembling hand on one of her scales. The texture was harder than armor, sharper than you expected—edges of her scales caught the light like shards of a broken blade.

“Don’t throw me off, Viserion,” you murmured, trying to steady your voice as you gripped the edge of her shoulder. “I need you to trust me as I trust you.”

You hoisted yourself up, clambering awkwardly at first as you tried to find a way to mount her massive frame. Each scale was a ridge of razor-sharp edges, and they dug into your palms as you climbed. You gasped as one particularly deep edge sliced through the fabric of your gown, nicking the skin of your thigh. Warm blood dripped down your leg, but you pushed forward, biting back the sting.

The scales cut deeper as you pulled yourself into position, straddling the base of her neck. You dug your knees into the muscle below her shoulders, the ridges of her spine pressing into your thighs. Your gown was shredded by now, crimson streaks staining the torn fabric where scales had caught and bitten into your skin. Each cut burned, but you gritted your teeth, refusing to let go.

Viserion let out a sharp, commanding shriek that reverberated through the cavern like a war cry. Her wings unfurled, and for a moment, the sheer size of her power stole your breath. The ground beneath you trembled as she shifted her weight, claws scraping against stone as she prepared to take flight.

“Steady,” you whispered, pressing your palms against the scales of her neck, feeling the immense heat radiating through them. “I’m with you.”

The dragon’s massive head turned slightly, her eyes shining as she regarded you one final time. Then, with a surge of power that rattled your very bones, she pushed off the ground.

The world spun as Viserion’s wings snapped open and the cavern blurred around you. You clung tightly to her spines, your fingers digging into her scales as wind rushed past, sending your hair whipping behind you. Pain sparked where your cuts met the rush of air, but you didn’t let go. You couldn’t.

The roar of her ascent filled your ears as she powered upward, breaking free of the mine and surging into the open sky. The light of the sun struck her scales, setting her hide ablaze in brilliance. For a moment, you looked down and saw the world fall away—the Rock, the people below, all of it shrinking beneath Viserion’s shadow.

And then you looked forward, gripping tightly as the wind tore at your face. You didn’t know where she was taking you, but the voice still hummed faintly in your mind, like an unspoken promise.

High Heart.

You leaned forward against her scales, your voice low but steady. “Take me there, Viserion.”

The dragon shrieked again, wings beating with powerful purpose, and you soared into the horizon together—toward destiny, toward something far greater than either of you had yet to understand.

The moment the rumble started—a deep, bone-shaking tremor that seemed to roll through the very ground—Tywin Lannister knew something was happening. He turned his gaze toward the mine entrance, its dark mouth now alive with a faint glow. A distant roar echoed from within, low and building in intensity until it became a deafening, primal cry.

Tywin’s soldiers, hardened men who had seen countless battles, shifted uneasily. Some backed away, their hands instinctively reaching for their swords, though they knew no blade could stop what was coming. Horses nearby reared and bucked, their wild eyes rolling as the air itself seemed to vibrate with tension. The dogs brought to the site howled, pulling at their leashes, desperate to escape.

“Steady!” Tywin barked sharply, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Hold your ground!”

His words had little effect. The earth trembled again, louder now, until suddenly—a sound like thunder cracked the air. The wind whipped through the clearing as the massive form of Viserion shot forth from the mine, her wings flaring wide as she burst into the open.

“Seven hells,” someone muttered, their voice barely audible over the rush of wind and the bellowing horses.

The great dragon soared into the sky, golden-cream scales glinting in the light. Dust and loose stones scattered in her wake, blinding those closest to the entrance. Tywin took a single step back, his cloak whipping violently behind him. His guards scrambled, some throwing themselves to the ground in panic as the massive beast soared low, the wind from her wings kicking up debris.

“Out of the way!” Kevan Lannister shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by the chaos.

Tywin didn’t move. He stood firm, his gaze locked on the dragon’s back, where the unmistakable figure of you sat, your pale hair whipping wildly in the wind. For a moment, it seemed as though time had stilled. You were there, one hand clutching the base of Viserion’s spines, your form small against the sheer enormity of the beast, yet unshaken.

“She’s riding it,” one of the soldiers stammered, awe and disbelief thick in his voice.

Tywin’s face was unreadable, but his fists were clenched tightly at his sides as he watched you soar overhead. Viserion let out a thunderous roar, the sound enough to send men stumbling backward, hands flying to their ears.

“Control the horses!” Barristan Selmy barked, gripping the reins of one panicked mare as others bolted, nearly dragging their handlers into the dirt. Nearby, the livestock brought as bait screamed and scattered in every direction, a frenzy of hooves and dust.

“Make way! Hold them back!” Tywin shouted, his voice carrying above the din. Guards rushed to regain order, but it was futile; the animals were beyond calming now. One horse broke free entirely, galloping wildly down the path with a terrified shriek.

Viserion angled upward with a sharp tilt of her wings, pulling higher into the sky as if to remind them all of her dominance. A few men stared up, their faces pale, while others sank to their knees in what could only be described as terrified reverence.

Tywin’s eyes never left you. He tracked your form as the dragon rose above the cliffs, your silhouette framed against the blazing sun as you disappeared toward the distant horizon.

Kevan stepped up beside him, his face ashen, his voice tight. “Tywin… she’s gone.”

Tywin didn’t respond at first. His gaze lingered on the shrinking figure in the distance, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between them. Finally, he turned sharply, his voice cold and clipped. “Order the men to regain control of the livestock and horses. I want this site cleared by sundown.”

Kevan blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden command. “You mean to—”

“I mean to bring order back to my lands,” Tywin snapped, cutting him off. His tone left no room for debate. “This changes nothing.”

Nothing, except everything.

The men hesitated before scrambling back to their tasks, chasing after the scattered animals and pulling disoriented horses back into line. Barristan Selmy approached Tywin, his expression grim as he surveyed the chaos. “You know where she’s going,” he said quietly, his voice firm but respectful.

Tywin turned his steely gaze to Barristan. “Wherever she goes, she’ll return.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Barristan asked, unflinching.

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his face hard as carved stone. “Then I will find her. And bring her back.”

The old knight held his gaze for a long moment before nodding once. “I’ll see the men back to order.”

As Barristan turned away, Tywin allowed himself a brief, solitary moment to exhale. His hands unclenched, though the tension in his shoulders remained. The sight of you on dragonback had stirred something deep within him—something he could not yet name. Pride. Fear. Possession.

“Foolish woman,” he muttered under his breath, though the words carried no heat. He cast one last glance toward the horizon where you had disappeared, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his face before he turned and walked away, cloak billowing behind him.

The chamber was heavy with the low murmur of voices and the faint scratching of quills on parchment. A fortnight had passed, and the absence of your return had begun to settle over Casterly Rock like a dark cloud. Tywin Lannister stood at the head of the war table, his gaze unwavering as he looked over the gathered advisors, their faces grim. Kevan Lannister sat to his left, his usual calm replaced with unease, while others—lords, scouts, and captains—exchanged wary glances.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its warmth doing little to ease the chill that seemed to creep through the stone walls. Reports and rumors lay scattered across the table, carried in on parchment and uncertain voices.

Kevan broke the silence first, clearing his throat. “News from the Stormlands and the North,” he began, his voice steady but low. “Stannis Baratheon is dead. His forces have broken entirely—scattered to the winds. The Florents are rallying behind Lord Mace Tyrell in gratitude for their swift deliverance. Storm’s End and Dragonstone remain secured.”

A few murmurs of approval rumbled through the room, but Tywin barely reacted, his face carved into the same stern mask he always wore. “And the North?” he asked, his voice measured but carrying the weight of command.

One of the scouts stepped forward—a wiry man with the look of someone accustomed to hardship. “Cold winds have begun to blow, my lord,” he said, his tone cautious. “Our men in the field report strange weather patterns. There’s talk… of something stirring beyond the Wall.”

“Wildling nonsense,” one of the older lords muttered dismissively, shaking his head.

Tywin silenced the man with a single glance. “What else?”

The scout shifted uneasily. “Reports from the Riverlands, my lord. Travelers and merchants say a dragon has been sighted near the ruins of Harrenhal. Others swear it was seen as far south as Fairmarket. The creature leaves no destruction in its wake—only shadow and flame in the night sky.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the words settling like lead. Tywin’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, though he betrayed no other reaction. His gaze flicked to the map spread across the table, his finger tapping near the Riverlands.

“High Heart,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

Kevan heard him and frowned. “You think she’s gone there?”

Tywin’s expression remained cold, but a faint flicker of something—a calculation, a conclusion—passed through his eyes. “She spoke of it before. A place of visions, of old magic. Whatever drives her, it led her there.”

Lord Tytos Brax, an older bannerman, folded his arms, clearly skeptical. “If she’s taken the dragon to the Riverlands, my lord, then she risks making a spectacle of herself. Rumors are already spreading like wildfire. The smallfolk speak of the return of the Targaryens.”

“And who spreads those whispers, I wonder?” Tywin cut in sharply, his gaze flicking toward the gathered men. “Fear makes men reckless. Rumors of dragons bring panic. I will not allow chaos to fester while we remain uncertain of her intentions.”

Kevan hesitated before speaking. “Do you still believe she’ll return, Tywin? It’s been two weeks. Dragons… they don’t belong in chains, and neither does she.”

Tywin’s sharp gaze snapped to his brother. “She will return,” he said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “She will not abandon her son.”

The room was quiet again, save for the faint sound of wind rattling against the windowpanes. For all of Tywin’s certainty, the tension among the men remained palpable. Doubt lingered, though none dared speak it aloud.

“And if she doesn’t?” Lord Brax pressed, unwilling to let the question go unanswered. “What then?”

Tywin turned his icy gaze on him, his voice colder than the wind from the North. “Then I will bring her back myself, like I've said.”

Kevan leaned closer, his voice low enough for only Tywin to hear. “And what if she refuses?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his face. “She will not refuse.”

Kevan nodded slowly, though the doubt lingered in his expression. “And the boy? What happens to him if the rumors spread further? If people begin to see him as—”

“He is my son and heir,” Tywin interrupted, his voice like steel. “Damon Lannister will remain under my protection.”

The men around the table exchanged glances, the tension settling back over the room like a shroud. Tywin looked down at the map once more, his finger tracing the route through the Riverlands. His thoughts were sharp and methodical, but beneath them lingered something deeper—something he would never admit aloud. A flicker of unease. Of frustration.

“She’ll come back,” he repeated quietly, as if reassuring himself more than anyone else. “She knows where she belongs.”

The chamber was quiet for a long moment before Tywin turned to the scout. “Double the patrols near the Riverlands. If the dragon is sighted again, I want a report immediately. No one speaks of this beyond these walls.”

“Yes, my lord,” the scout said quickly, bowing before retreating from the chamber.

Tywin straightened, his posture unyielding as he turned back to his gathered men. “This meeting is concluded. See to your tasks.”

The lords and captains filed out, their footsteps echoing down the stone hallways as the great doors closed behind them. Kevan lingered a moment longer, watching his brother carefully.

“You don’t truly know if she’ll return, do you?” Kevan asked quietly.

Tywin didn’t look at him as he replied, his voice steady and resolute. “No. But she is mine. And I know that much.”

With that, Tywin turned on his heel, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the window. Beyond the thick glass, the skies stretched endlessly toward the Riverlands, where whispers of dragons and shadows waited to be brought to heel.

[targaryenimagines]

My Khaleesi

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,586

Summary: Daenerys claims more than the Iron Throne on the day she takes King’s Landing.

Warning(s): Smut and G!P Daenerys.

Notes: Wasn’t sure if you wanted Dark!Dany (in a sense) or not, but decided to just do it that way for this one shot! If you’d like another one with a non dark Dany, I’ll be more than happy to do that. Also, this is definitely the most graphic smut I’ve written… I apologize if it’s bad.

Series Masterlist

Ash still falls from the sky like distorted flecks of snow— rubble shifts under foot as you make your way through the courtyard of the Red Keep. You didn’t have to turn your head far to see the destruction that had been wrought across King’s Landing, a destruction that had come at the hands of the woman you love the most in this world.

Fire and blood had come to Westeros, you think, side-stepping a charred corpse. And penance seemed to have been paid in full.

The sights, along with the smells, that assault you the farther you trek into the once great city aren’t something that sits well with you, nor does the knowledge that Westeros had pushed Daenerys, your Dany, to this point. That all of her grief: Viserion, Jorah, Rhaegal, and Missandei, along with all of her men that she lost in the North, had forced her spirit into shattering so completely.

I don’t want to be Queen of the Ashes…

A saying that had constantly been thrown towards Daenerys, that had been used as a means to control her, keep her in line, and what better way to do that then remind her of her father’s legacy, a tale that’s haunted her ever since she discovered it, and had been continually repeated until Daenerys spouted it out as if she was simply talking about the weather. Her drive, the passion that had carried her through Essos, slowly being driven out of her the longer she spent in the toxic landscape that is Westeros; forever surrounded by the tales of her ancestors, by the fear and hatred that the people she saved showed her, at the clear refusal to ever accept her as anything more than a Targaryen Whore.

Rounding the corner of yet another hallway, you pause just outside of the throne room, or what you believe to be anyway, and think over everything that had transpired. Think of the darkness that had seemed to have only grown in intensity since the Night King had been dealt with. Would Daenerys, after all of this, still wish to see you? Would you still have a place by her side?

Only one way to find out…

With a deep intake of breath, you step fully into the debilitated area that had once been a source of great pride— at the head of it all being the almost legendary throne itself, a mass of melted together swords, and standing before it?

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

At the sound of your approaching footsteps, Daenerys turns from her perusal of the throne, and a warm smile quirks her lips at your nearing form.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon,” she murmurs, adoration clear within violet eyes. Slim arms wrapping around your middle the moment your close enough for her to grab. A single gloved finger gently tracing down the expanse of your cheek, rubbing away the hints of ash that still remained. “I’m glad to see you unharmed. I don’t know what I would have done if that hadn’t been the case.”

You lean into the hand still resting on your cheek, a happy smile of your own making an appearance. “Burn down the rest of Westeros?” A dark look flashes through violet eyes, your joke suddenly taking on an all too serious light that you desperately wanted to veer away from. Bumping into her slightly, you disentangle from slim arms, warmed by the smallest bit of hesitance she had at letting you go, you step closer to the throne. “This is it? The Iron Throne?”

Daenerys settles next to you. “It is.” She touches the arm of it with an almost reverent air. “After all these years, all the trials and tribulations that I went through, I’m finally here. A Targaryen is finally the holder of the Iron Throne once more. I’ve brought honor back to my family.”

“You’ve honored them for years already, Dany. You simply being alive is honor by itself.” You angle your head, not surprised at all to see that she had already been looking at you. “This just exemplifies you into the ranks of Aegon.”

Violet eyes gleam with an almost childlike wonder, the hand closest to you touching your cheek with the same reverence she had shown the throne. “Aegon had his wives, he had his queens.” She steps away from you, taking her rightful seat on the throne. “Something that I’ll be in need of moving forward.”

Your head dips. “Anything I can help you with?”

Daenerys chuckles lightly, the sound rumbling from deep within her chest like one of Drogon’s roars. “There is, Y/N.” Gesturing for you to come closer, a command that you listen to without question, she gently maneuvers you into a kneeling position before her, slender fingers tangling themselves within the strands of your hair. “Say yes.”

“Your Grace?”

“Say yes to marrying me, to becoming my wife and queen.” Her holds tightens, forcing your head to tilt back. “Say yes to becoming mine and I’ll make sure everything you could ever want becomes yours.”

A small smile twists your lips upward. “Everything that I could ever want already is.”

At the words a small growl escapes Daenerys, her head dipping downward to press a heated kiss to your lips, maintaining that you’re kept in place by the iron-clad hold she still has on your hair. And, like with everything else, Daenerys didn’t hesitate in conquering what is hers, tongue barely brushing over your bottom lip before she plunders into your mouth, taking you for everything you have. The taste of you, the submission in which you’re showing her, along with the location no doubt, makes Daenerys almost frantic in her need for you.

Barely pulling away, giving you both a moment to breathe, before she’s claiming your lips once more— it’s wet, filthy in a way that makes your mind fog over in lust, and you can’t quite get enough air into your lungs through your nose, something that constantly ensures her scent is all that you’re surrounded by, but you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Wouldn’t want to be in any other position than where you are now; kneeling in front of your Khaleesi, her pleasure becoming yours.

Finally, with a ragged breath, Daenerys fully pulls away from you, a thin trail of saliva still connecting you both, before she shifts too far back and it snaps in half. Violet eyes, blown nearly black in lust, pin you in place as Daenerys slowly undoes the buckle of her pants, and jerks it down, the actions clear on what she expected from you. And, without preamble, or any sort of prompting, you help Daenerys with removing them, gently taking off her boots, before pulling her tight-fitting pants off her slim legs. The sight that greets you once you look up almost causing your mouth to dry up completely.

Daenerys Targaryen sat in all of her glory, bare from the waist down, her thick member jutting out from the apex of her thighs. The look in her eyes, in the darkness that lurks just out of reach, tells you all that you need to know, how your Khaleesi wished for you to service her next. Something you didn’t have a problem with doing, damn the consequences of potentially being caught in the wide open throne room.

Taking her into your hands, feeling her warmth, and the way that she twitches ever-so-slightly at your touch, is a heady sort of power that you’re never going to get used to.

Taking her into your mouth, jaw stretched wide to accommodate her girth, feeling the way she arches into the wetness it provides, hands tightening even further into your hair, the wonderful concoction of pain and pleasure, fuels you more than anything ever could.

Bobbing up and down, taking her deeper and deeper into your throat, listening to the breathy sighs she lets loose whenever she completely bottoms out, is a drug you never want to get off of. Her flavor— musky with just the barest hint of sweetness and something spicy— spreads across your tastebuds, your tongue lovingly swirling around the tip of her cock, taking in as much of her as you possibly could.

“Iksā doing sīr sȳz syt nyke.” The Valyrian praise escapes her in a low snarl, hands now guiding you in the exact way she wanted, your own simply being braced on her thighs as you let her use you. “Issare iā sȳz riña syt nyke. Ñuha sȳz riña.”

All you can do is moan in response, mouth completely stuffed full of her, but the vibrations makes her tense even further, another snarl rumbling from deep within her. You know that she’s close, can tell by the way her thighs were beginning to tremble underneath your touch, and the quickening of her thrusts, and your head moves even faster because of it— wanting nothing more than to feel her release down your throat, for your tongue to be coated by her cum.

“Issi ao jāre naejot gūrogon ziry mirre? Gūrogon everything bona nyke tepagon ao?” Daenerys groans out the question, clearly fighting with herself to not succumb just yet to the pleasure of her release. Peering up, you’re instantly met with darkened violet eyes, a rosy hue predominant across fair cheeks. Clearly waiting for a response, all you can do is gurgle around the cock currently in your throat, hoping that your eyes gave her all the answers she needed, which, by the tightening of her hands, absolutely did. “Sȳz riña.”

Within the next moment, jets of Daenerys cum shoots out, going straight into your stomach as you desperately swallow to make sure you don’t lose any of it. The feeling of warmth as her seed settles deep within you is one you’ve long since grown familiar with, but the possessive heat in her eyes as she watches you swallow it all down is definitely new. A reaction that causes your own arousal to come to the forefront of your mind finally, wetness clearly coating your thighs, waiting for your Khaleesi’s touch.

Daenerys pulls her cock from your mouth a moment later— the still hard length shimmering with the combination of leftover cum and saliva— allowing for you to take a deep lungful of air at last. Remnants of her still on your tongue.

Her thumb brushes across your bottom lip, briefly pushing into your mouth for you to suck on, before she retracts her hand and tugs you up onto her lap. Slim arms bracing your lower half perfectly against herself, settling her own body more fully on the Iron Throne.

“You did so good for me,” she murmurs, trailing slender fingers down your thighs. Nowhere near where you needed her the most though. “Do you want to continue?”

You nod. “More than anything, Khaleesi.“

Daenerys hums at the old title, hands gripping your hips in a hold that you know would leave bruises, lips ghosting across your jawline and down your neck.

“You’re mine, right?” Teeth nips into the sensitive flesh beneath your pulse point. “No one else can have you this way, fuck you the way that I can, or hear the beautiful noises you make when you fall apart.”

“Only you, Dany,” you whisper, nuzzling your nose against hers. “It’ll only ever be you. I’m yours completely.”

There isn’t need for more words after that, Daenerys simply hikes your dress higher up your waist, tearing your small-clothes away completely, before rubbing her hardened member against the wetness that has collected between your legs, a deep groan escaping her at the feeling of your clear want for her.

Within the next heartbeat, she’s buried to the hilt within you, a sharp keen being ripped from your chest at the feeling of complete fullness, the delicious stretch as your body tries to acclimate to the feeling of her, and begins to rut roughly into you. Hands slide from their place on your waist to settle on your hips, guiding you up and down as you begin to bounce in response to her thrusts.

A breathy moan falls from your lips, arms wrapped tightly around Daenerys neck, tugging her closer to you, continuing to ride her in complete abandon, wet slapping noise, intercepted by occasional grunts and moans, filled the air, echoing out across the empty throne room. A part of you thinks that you might even be able to be heard down below, the ripped open wall next to the throne offering an excellent siphon to the noises, but then Daenerys twists her hips in just the right way and everything, that doesn’t have to do with the mind numbing pleasure she gives you, vanishes from you mind in an instant.

Nails make crescent moons in the soft flesh of your hips, bruises no doubt already forming on your lower abdomen from how hard Daenerys was thrusting up into you, but the knowledge that your Khaleesi is marking you in such a way, that she’s lost parts of her control because of you, makes you not care in the slightest— you were hers, completely and irreversibly. Her pleasure was your own.

With another strangled gasp, your head falls to her chest, still clad in her formal garb, the metal cool against the heated expanse of your forehead, no longer being able to keep yourself upright. You could feel your climax approaching— coming faster and faster as Daenerys brushed against the spot within you every time she pulled out. Your core clenching around her desperately, trying to keep her within you, milk her for all that she’s worth, and the tight constriction causes a strangled sound of her own to resonate from your Khaleesi.

Feet planted firmly into the floor, she begins to piston fully into you, your body arching into her, allowing her to move you as she saw fit, clearly chasing her second release and your own.

“I’m going to mark you in a way that no one ever has.” Feverish violet eyes meet your own, strands of silvery-gold hair sticking to her heated cheeks, torn from their intricate braids, as her grip on you tightens more. “You’re going to bear my children, you’re going to continue on the Targaryen name. Would you like that?”

You moan. “Yes.”

The thought of carrying her children, of continuing on the Targaryen Legacy, filled you with a sense of purpose, a sense of warmth.

Pushing your head further into her chest, you plead. “Do it, Khaleesi. Claim me.”

With a ragged snarl, Daenerys’s hips stutter and before you know it jets of warmth fill you up, going straight to your womb. The feeling triggers your own release, a broken moan leaving you as you milk Daenerys for everything she has, everything that she’d be willing to offer. Harshly panting, Daenerys settles back onto the throne, hands gently running down your spine, holding you as closely as she possibly still could, still buried inside of you.

“Thank you,” she whispers, nuzzling you before she presses a kiss to your damp temple.

You sigh, content in her arms. “Always.”

Pressing another kiss to your head, Daenerys angles your face in order for you to look at her, the open look of adoration on her face one that’d only ever be reserved for you and her son.

“My beautiful love, my lovely wife.” She drops a chaste kiss to your lips, her hips beginning to move once more. “My eternal queen.”

“My Khaleesi.”

[ophelieverse]

Hotd writers really be hating on my sweet dragon queen Dreamfyre.

First we have only saw her in the first season for like two seconds and nothing of her in the new one yet.We haven’t see her sensing and reacting to Helaena pain or with her in general,not even burn Jaehaerys little body.

And now you are telling me,that the writers also took from her the CANON fact (read fire and blood) that she is the mother (aside Dany) of Drogon,Rhaegal and Viserion?!

Daenerys dragon eggs comes from Dreamfyre not Syrax,stop putting all on Rhaenyra for once and let other characters and dragons shine!

In 45 AC Elissa Farman had stolen three dragon eggs from Dreamfyre,that at the time was princess Rhaena “The Black Bride” Targaryen dragon,and then she fled to Pentos.Centuries later Dany will receive them as a wedding gift from Master Illyrio and make them hatch having Drogon,Rhaegal and Viserion.

I couldn’t care less about what the show said or “confirmed” Daenerys dragons are Dreamfyre legacy,what remains of her forever.

[witchthewriter]

𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑬: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐈𝐀𝐅 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞

a/n: I will be doing this by House! Also, yes it doesn't make sense timeline wise but think of each as an alternate universe ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑬 𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑹𝒀𝑬𝑵

𝑫𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒔 | 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒔

・She did as she promised and liberated Westeros.

・No Mad Queen, but sacrifices were made. However, all three of her dragons survived.

・The Long Night was vanquished because Dany was The Prince Who Was Promised.

・In a turn of events, Viserion was not a male dragon. Dany didn't have three sons... she had two and a daughter!

・Viserion laid her clutch of eggs not far from Dany as she wanted her to be the first person to see them.

・Her clutch of eggs produced three beautiful dragons; the biggest was a deep blue with flecks of gold and bronze. The second was a gorgeous pink egg with light orange accents and the last was purple with pearlescent swirling details.

・Dany became a grandmother and as soon as she saw them hatch, she cried.

・Barely anyone was allowed to see the dragonlings; even though she had risen to power, she still felt the eyes of enemies on her back. Many would love to hurt these new dragons.

・Dany still did not have a pregnancy that came to full term; so her dragons were truly her legacy, with Viserion keeping the magic back in the world.

・The hatching of these new eggs made the realm respect her even more.

・She didn't have a traditional way of ruling; yes she had councilors, and a small council.

・But the wealth was distributed equally. With smallfolk able to have jobs and acquire ones that usually only nobles had.

・Speaking of small councils, she had two of her closest bloodriders, Greyworm, Missendai (yes she is alive, well and thriving), Ellaria Sand and Samwell Tarly (Gilly and their son live in the Red Keep).

・As Dany could not have biological human children of her own, she basically saw every child/orphan as her own, in some way or another. She saw herself in them. Her childhood of always on the run, dirty clothes, knotted hair, clasping her brother's hand.

・She didn't want that for any child.

・So Dany spent a lot of her time building safe houses, schools, places where children could go and feel seen, heard and feel protected.

・A different Westeros was forming and many did not like that. Uprisings were frequent. Always from the Faith of the Seven & the old nobles.

・But every time they were stopped. However, those that repeated were thrown into prison (and therefore used to create new buildings) or were put to death.

(P.s., Ellaria Sand is her book self, not her show self because they are entirely different. Some events from the show never happened because it made no sense for Dany to wait so long to break the wheel.)

𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒚𝒓𝒂 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒔

・She won against her brother and sat the Iron Throne with a tired heart. Rhaenyra lost a lot more than she could handle and her days were spent fighting off her grief.

・That did not stop her from being the best queen she could be.

・Her energy was given to the people, to the dragons and to the restructure of House Targaryen.

・Since the Greens had nearly torn what it was to be a Targaryen, Rhaenyra had a lot to do. So, she depended on those who were loyal to her. Baela, Addam, Corlys, etc.

・Oh, and not to forget Syrax.

・Syrax kept a lot of people in check when they came to court.

・As the dragon pit was partially destroyed (the dragons were okay though, they survived, help came just in time!) the living dragons now roamed to find a proper place to live. Dragonstone became a lot more populated.

・The love of the dragons would be reintroduced. One way she would do that, would be to reinstate the idolisation of the dragons. I.e., basically showing off the dragons.

・So, more royal processions atop dragons.

・As a skilled dragonrider herself, Rhaenyra may have placed greater emphasis on the role of dragons and their riders in the defense and governance of the realm.

・It would not always be easy. Especially with the fact that Rhaenyra's rise to power involved the killing of her own nephew, Aegon II. This would cast a long shadow over her reign and create lingering resentment among some factions.

・But through the influence of Mysaria, the smallfolk and those less fortunate would definitely be focused on. No more fighting pits! (Let's remember that Aegon frequented them...)

・Additionally, through Rhaenyra's victory, there would be a shift in the balance of power among the noble houses. For example; The Hightowers, who backed Aegon II, might have lost influence, while the Velaryons and other supporters of Rhaenyra might have gained prominence. This is all up in the air however, as Rhaenyra did have a forgiving heart... (I mean, before all the war...)

・What I know to be true, is that Rhaenyra would have maintained a strong dragon presence in King's Landing. Positively - this would have deterred potential threats and rebellions. And also led to a more prominent role for the dragonriders in the governance of the realm.

𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒚𝒔 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝑾𝒂𝒔

・Is in history books as one of the best rulers

・Balanced, open-minded and level-headed; Rhaenys didn't need a council - she was one all on her own.

・She grew up never thinking she would rule; so she was quiet and watched everyone's moves

・The Sea Snake was a brilliant King-Consort, still the leader of Driftmark

・Meleys was truly The Red Queen; her own horns and spikes resembled Rhaenys' crown and when they were together, they were utterly breathtaking

・As said before with the others, with Rhaenys and her dragon, Meleys, in a position of power, the presence of dragons would have been more pronounced in the governance of the realm. This could have deterred potential rebellions and solidified her authority

・A lot of her reign would reflect her own grandmother's - The Good Queen Alysanne. 100% Rhaenys would continue with the women's councils.

・The women of Westeros would be given opportunities. I think Rhaenys would take a lot of inspiration from Dorne. And how women were equal to men, because why the hell not?

・And as a dragon rider, who was going to tell her no? Meleys was definitely not about to let anyone defy her either.

・However, one of her greatest allies was the North.

・And due to the North's historical resistance to female leadership, her ability to assert authority and govern effectively would sway Northern lords to reconsider their biases against women on the throne.

・So, by demonstrating strong leadership, it fostered greater acceptance of her rule among Northern houses, and increased their loyalty.

・This is only one example of how she got herself written in the history books.

𝑩𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒂 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔

・Known for her bravery and strong character, Baela brought a fresh perspective to the Iron Throne. She prioritized unity among tTeam Black and Team Green and those that chose between Rhaenyra and Aegon.

・Baela addressed the grievances from various houses and the common folk alike - making a more equitable society.

・Jace's death was a great grief. As was ... basically all her family. It was quickly pushed forward that she needed to marry.

・Baela shut that shit down quick.

・She swore that if she were to marry, she would choose who and when.

・The scars left by the civil war were still fresh in the minds of many houses. Those that aligned with the Greens, sought to undermine Baela's rule, viewing her as a representative of the Blacks. This historical animosity had led to plots and conspiracies aimed at destabilizing her reign

・But it is mainly through the dragons that Baela remained in control. As charming, bold and brave Baela can be, Moondancer ... reinforced people's loyalty. With the death of the majority of Team Green as well as their dragons, there was only other Houses to oppose her.

・She was also known as 'Our Queen of the Skies'. And after ruling for more than 20 years, the people saw Baela as a goddess.

・Some say she was part dragon herself, with how much she was in the air, flying on Moondancer (who many, many children adored.)

・Many rumors grew which made Baela seem impossibly mysterious

・It made the people respect her; and therefore they listened to what she had to say.

・Even the others in court grew to respect her.

・Baela, much like Alysanne, had a ladies court in which she listened to the problems they had.

・Spare food was always given to the smallfolk, unlike other rulers who gave it to the dogs or horses.

・Baela's approach to governance altered the trajectories of other key figures in the realm

・Her leadership focused on healing the divisions within the realm, strengthening alliances, and leveraging the power of dragons to maintain peace and order.

𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒂 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆'𝒔 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏

・Yes! her name reflects Princess Diana's real life title, 'The People's Princess'!

・Her reign would be known as one of peace.

・Well, not only peace, but a unique one as well.

・Rhaena addressed the grievances of the common folk and fostered goodwill among the people of both regions through fair governance and an empathic approach.

・The People's Queen shocked many, many people with how strategic she showed herself to be.

・She did this by navigating the political landscape and carefully addressing the concerns of powerful houses in both the North and the South which led to stability.

・Used her access to dragons as a symbol of authority and a powerful military asset to deter rebellion and reinforce her position.

・Rhaena's dragon Morning, hatched during the Dance of the Dragons and kept growing

・She was a very friendly dragon - similar to Silverwing, and didn't mind being paraded around

・Her experience with the devastation of the Dance of the Dragons, made Rhaena prioritize healing the rifts within the realm.

・Rhaena had strong ties to both the dragonriders and the great naval power of House Velaryon. This continued an emphasis on the Targaryen dominance of the skies, and the Velaryon's dominance on the seas.

・Rhaena's reign ushered in a cultural renaissance. The People's Queen promoted the arts, literature, and education. Her leadership style encouraged creativity and innovation, reflecting a more progressive and enlightened era in Westeros.

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

A lot of the fandom discourse around potential dragon riders tends to gravitate towards Jon, often framing the choice as Jon picking between Rhaegal and Viserion. This positioning can leave Tyrion feeling like an afterthought, with whatever dragon he bonds with being perceived as leftovers. An aftereffect of this seems to be the rising popularity of the theory that Jon will bond with Viserion leaving Rhaegal for Tyrion.

The appeal of Jon and Viserion largely stems from an aesthetic perspective—Jon, dressed in black, contrasting with Viserion’s white—but I believe this argument falls short when considering the deeper narrative and thematic elements. Instead, I'd argue that Tyrion is more suited to bond with Viserion, while Jon should bond with Rhaegal. I've already written extensively on why Jon and Rhaegal are a perfect match, so this meta will focus heavily on Tyrion.

Building a Case for Tyrion + Viserion

Many fans are drawn to the Jon + Viserion pairing because of the perceived contrast: Jon’s black Night’s Watch garb against Viserion’s white coloring. However, this interpretation overlooks key details in the text.

"The cream-and-gold I call Viserion. Viserys was cruel and weak and frightened, yet he was my brother still. His dragon will do what he could not." (Dany I, ACOK)

In ACOK, Dany specifically names her cream and gold dragon after her silver-haired brother, Viserys. And while Viserion is sometimes referred to as a white dragon, his golden hues are equally important. This distinction is crucial because Jon, who has little connection to gold as a color, lacks the narrative association with Viserion that Tyrion has in abundance.

Tyrion Lannister’s connection to gold is profound and multifaceted. First, consider his appearance:

Then he saw the other one, waddling along half-hidden by his brother’s side. Tyrion Lannister, the youngest of Lord Tywin’s brood and by far the ugliest. All that the gods had given to Cersei and Jaime, they had denied Tyrion. He was a dwarf, half his brother’s height, struggling to keep pace on stunted legs. His head was too large for his body, with a brute’s squashed-in face beneath a swollen shelf of brow. One green eye and one black one peered out from under a lank fall of hair so blond it seemed white. (Jon I, AGOT)

Tyrion’s hair, described as so blond it appears white, mirrors Viserion’s cream-and-gold coloring and evokes the dragon's namesake, the silver-haired Viserys. This connection is further emphasized by the tragic end of Viserys, who met his death with molten gold poured over his head (double irony in that he was forced to sell his mother’s crown). In a way, Tyrion’s hair, like a natural crown, aligns with Viserion’s own colors.

More generally, the golden hair of House Lannister is legendary. While Tyrion's hair is paler than typical, it still carries that Lannister legacy of gold, tying him to Viserion in a way Jon Snow—whose identity is wrapped in Stark and Targaryen heritage, not Lannister gold—can never claim.

Beyond physical appearance, gold as a substance plays a very significant role in Tyrion’s character arc, especially his stint as Master of Coin. The golden dragon is the highest form of currency in Westeros.

And in addition to that, Tyrion’s thoughts frequently dwell on the wealth of Casterly Rock, the seat of his family’s power:

“Gold,” Tyrion said, miming a smile. “Casterly Rock is full of gold … ahhhh …” This time the blow was a forehand, and Mord put more of his arm into the swing, making the leather crack and jump. It caught Tyrion in the ribs and dropped him to his knees, whimpering. He forced himself to look up at the gaoler. “As rich as the Lannisters,” he wheezed. “That’s what they say, Mord—” (Tyrion V, AGOT)

Tyrion Lannister’s references to gold, particularly in relation to Casterly Rock, are both numerous and significant. They underscore his deep-seated desire for recognition and power within his family—though this is often denied to him by his father. Tyrion’s yearning for Casterly Rock’s wealth and status is not merely a personal ambition but also a quest for validation and legitimacy ("all dwarves are bastards"), as Casterly Rock represents the pinnacle of Lannister power and prestige.

Tyrion also frequently promises to distribute "all the gold in Casterly Rock", which is interesting if interpreted as a reliance (or perhaps even fixation) on this symbol of Lannister power. Think of how Tywin is often perceived as embodying the Lannister legacy of gold, even to the point where it’s said he “shits gold”; much of this coming from Tyrion's own POV.

Tyrion’s fixation on Tywin’s legacy is an interesting reflection of his own deep-seated desire for recognition and validation. However, in a moment of grim irony, he observes that Tywin dies on the privy without having shat any gold, widening the crack of disillusionment he has come to feel towards House Lannister and its legacy. The realization that “Lord Tywin Lannister did not, in the end, shit gold” emphasizes the disparity between the myth of Tywin’s wealth and the harsh reality of Tyrion’s estrangement from that legacy. And this makes way for Tyrion to finally be alleviated and transcend his father's shadow.

While Tyrion is denied Casterly Rock and its gold—the ultimate symbol of his claim to Lannister heritage—Viserion offers him an alternative symbol of power. Viserion’s cream-and-gold coloring not only aligns with Tyrion’s own appearance but also represents a form of prestige and authority that is beyond what Tywin could ever bestow. In a way, Tyrion’s relationship with Casterly Rock and his father brings to mind the myth of Fafnir from Norse mythology—a dwarf who kills his father to seize his treasure and is transformed into a dragon as a result.

Gold for Tyrion can be a means to freedom or to power - or maybe even both? And this brings us to one of the most recurrent motifs in Tyrion's arc: a Lannister and the debts he must pay.

“And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold,” Bronn said. “A Lannister always pays his debts.” Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler’s eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. “I kept the silver,” Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, “but you were promised the gold, and there it is.” It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. “And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn’s service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you.” With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that. (Tyrion VI, AGOT)

In this instance, Tyrion’s adherence to the motto that "a Lannister always pays his debts" is a positive affirmation of his commitment to repay those who aid him. 

However, this same promise can take on a darker tone as a threat:

“Oh, must I?” Tyrion snarled. “Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!” “Tyrion—” He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced. The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. “I … I suppose I earned that.” “Oh, you’ve earned more than that, Jaime. You and my sweet sister and our loving father, yes, I can’t begin to tell you what you’ve earned. But you’ll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream. (Tyrion XI, ASOS)

In this instance, the promise of payment transforms into a declaration of vengeance, highlighting Tyrion’s bitterness and his resolve to make his family pay for their betrayals and wrongs against him.

Tyrion has set in motion events that may contribute to the second Dance of Dragons and the potential dismantling of Lannister rule. His role as a military advisor to Aegon and possibly Daenerys introduces him to a complex dilemma. Once a defender of King's Landing, he now aligns himself with forces that could undermine the very realm he once sought to protect.

The image of Tyrion picking up a blood-stained white dragon resonates with his involvement in the chaos to come:

The white cyvasse dragon ended up at Tyrion's feet. He scooped it off the carpet and wiped it on his sleeve, but some of the Yunkish blood had collected in the fine grooves of the carving, so the pale wood seemed veined with red." (Tyrion II, TWOW (Sample))

This image of the blood-stained white dragon suggests Tyrion’s complicity in the violence and chaos to come. For dragons are dangerous:

“When I went to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones to beg the Pureborn for your life, I said that you were no more than a child,” Xaro went on, “but Egon Emeros the Exquisite rose and said, ‘She is a foolish child, mad and heedless and too dangerous to live.’ When your dragons were small they were a wonder. Grown, they are death and devastation, a flaming sword above the world.” He wiped away the tears. “I should have slain you in Qarth.” (Dany III, ADWD)

And destructive:

"Your men are needed where they are, my lady," Daemon Sand assured her. Arianne was quick to nod. Any other counsel could well lead to Lord Yronwood's host unravelling like an old tapestry as each man rushed home to defend his own lands against supposed enemies who might or might not ever come. "Once we know beyond a doubt whether these be friends or foes, my father will know what to do," the princess said. It was then that pasty, pudgy Teora raised her eyes from the creamcakes on her plate. "It is dragons." "Dragons?" said her mother. "Teora, don't be mad." "I'm not. They're coming." "How could you possibly know that?" her sister asked, with a note of scorn in her voice. "One of your little dreams?" Teora gave a tiny nod, chin trembling. "They were dancing. In my dream. And everywhere the dragons danced the people died." (Arianne, TWOW - sample)

Yet Tyrion has a chance for redemption, as dragons still serve as a symbol of hope.

On Braavos, it had seemed possible that Aemon might recover. Xhondo’s talk of dragons had almost seemed to restore the old man to himself. That night he ate every bite Sam put before him. “No one ever looked for a girl,” he said. “It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought … the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it.” Just talking of her seemed to make him stronger. “I must go to her. I must. Would that I was even ten years younger.” (Samwell IV, AFFC)

So Tyrion faces a pivotal choice: will he embody the destructive force that his enemies fear, become the monster they said he was, or will he rise as a hero who redeems himself and corrects the damage wrought by his actions? He is currently in the "gaze into the abyss" phase of his hero's journey, but he will emerge from it. Given various elements in his arc the "golden dragon," a literal and metaphorical embodiment of his debts, could become a vehicle for redemption and correction of his—and his house’s—mistakes.

The prince stared at the playing board. “My dragon—” “—is too far away to save you. You should have moved her to the center of the battle.” “But you said—” “I lied. Trust no one. And keep your dragon close.” Young Griff jerked to his feet and kicked over the board. Cyvasse pieces flew in all directions, bouncing and rolling across the deck of the Shy Maid. “Pick those up,” the boy commanded. He may well be a Targaryen after all. “If it please Your Grace.” Tyrion got down on his hands and knees and began to crawl about the deck, gathering up pieces. (Tyrion VI, ADWD)

The cyvasse scene with Young Griff may foreshadow Tyrion’s future reckoning. After the dragons have danced and the realm lies in devastation, Tyrion might find himself on his knees, not in triumph but amidst the ruins of his own making. As he surveys the destruction and reflects on his choices, he may confront the true extent of his actions and the weight of his debts. This moment could prompt him to make the choice to set things right, asking himself, "What have I done?" and seeking to correct the chaos he helped unleash. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts.

Thus, Viserion is the most suitable dragon for Tyrion’s redemption arc. Not only does he present a chance for Tyrion to repent and pay back his debt to the realm, but his personality aligns with the themes of Tyrion's penance. Known for his sweetness and affection, Viserion embodies a beacon of hope for an embittered man seeking redemption. This gentle and friendly nature is significant for Tyrion, who has been grappling with darkness and disillusionment. Just as Viserion shows love and kindness, he offers a symbolic contrast to Tyrion's current state and represents a potential path towards healing. The dragon’s warmth and trustworthiness make him an ideal companion for Tyrion as he emerges from his struggles, and Viserion’s past friendly interactions with non-Targaryens, like Brown Ben Plumm, further highlight the thematic suitability of this bond.

Challenging The Aesthetic Argument for Jon + Viserion

The Jon + Viserion pairing is often justified by Jon’s connection to Ghost, his white direwolf. The visual appeal of a black-clad Jon with a white dragon is undeniable, but this argument ignores the deeper narrative reasons behind Ghost’s coloring.

Ghost’s whiteness serves multiple narrative purposes:

Outsider Status: Ghost, as an albino, stands out from the rest of the Stark direwolves, much like Jon stands apart from his siblings. Jon’s status as a bastard and his true parentage make him an outsider, and Ghost’s coloring underscores this.

Kingsguard Parallel: Ghost’s white fur is often compared to the white cloaks of the Kingsguard. Since Jon is often foreshadowed as a king within the narrative, Ghost’s coloring positions him as Jon’s protector, his magical “King's guard.”

Northern Symbolism: Ghost’s whiteness is evocative of the snow-covered North, reinforcing Jon’s deep connection to the North. Jon’s surname, “Snow,” further ties him to this imagery. Jon and Ghost aren’t just of the North; they are the North. Also of note is Jon's position as Robb Stark's chosen heir, which makes him a "King of Winter," a title held by Kings in the North.

Weirwood Connection: Ghost’s white fur and red eyes mirror the appearance of weirwood trees, which are sacred to the Old Gods. This connection suggests that Jon is chosen by the Old Gods and is guided by Northern magic. Additionally, Ghost's silent, spectral presence parallels the description of the Others, who are often referred to as silent "white shadows." This further emphasizes the mystical and otherworldly connection between Jon, his direwolf, and the ancient powers of the North.

Foreshadowing Jon’s Fate: Ghost’s name and appearance foreshadow Jon’s death and potential resurrection. As a “ghost,”

Oaths, Knighthood, and Purity: Ghost’s white fur, reminiscent of a white knight, contrasts sharply with Jon’s black garb as a "black knight." In Arthurian literature, white knights are often symbols of purity, virtue, and chivalry, embodying the highest ideals of knighthood. In contrast, black knights may challenge or complicate these ideals, representing moral ambiguity or the darker aspects of the knightly code. Jon, in his role as a black knight, frequently grapples with the oaths he has sworn and the moral complexities they entail. Ghost’s presence (e.g., preventing him from leaving the Watch in AGOT and ASOS), with his stark white fur, serves as a poignant reminder of the virtues Jon strives to uphold, especially those he vowed to protect in the presence of a weirwood tree.

These reasons for Ghost’s coloring, while not exhaustive, are specific to Jon’s character and cannot be applied similarly to Viserion. The assumption that Viserion’s whiteness makes him a natural match for Jon diminishes the unique significance of Ghost’s coloring.

GRRM is very particular with how he positions Jon's animal familiars. In addition to Ghost, Mormont’s raven, aligns with Jon's role as a member of the Night’s Watch. The raven’s black feathers and eyes align with Jon’s identity as a “black crow", while its superior size and intelligence mirror Ghost’s exceptional qualities; notably, the raven once belonged to a warg commander, similar to Jon’s current role. Viserion, with his cream and gold coloring, lacks this thematic relevance to Jon’s character.

Instead, it is Rhaegal, the green-and-bronze dragon named for Jon’s father, Rhaegar Targaryen, who holds greater significance for Jon. Rhaegal’s green scales recall the banks of the Trident, where Rhaegar met his end, a location tied to Jon’s own inheritance as Robb’s heir and his title as the “King of the Trident.” Meanwhile, Rhaegal’s bronze coloring echoes the crown of the Kings of Winter:

The ancient crown of the Kings of Winter had been lost three centuries ago, yielded up to Aegon the Conqueror when Torrhen Stark knelt in submission. What Aegon had done with it no man could say. Lord Hoster’s smith had done his work well, and Robb’s crown looked much as the other was said to have looked in the tales told of the Stark kings of old; an open circlet of hammered bronze incised with the runes of the First Men, surmounted by nine black iron spikes wrought in the shape of longswords. Of gold and silver and gemstones, it had none; bronze and iron were the metals of winter, dark and strong to fight against the cold. (Catelyn I, ACOK)

“Bronze and iron are stronger than gold and silver,” Robb answered. “The old Kings of Winter wore such a sword-crown.” (Catelyn VI, ASOS)

Beyond just his coloring, Rhaegal’s fiery temperament resonates with Jon’s anticipated transformation after his death and resurrection. Jon is poised to adopt a fiercer, more resolute demeanor befitting both a true dragon and the legacy of the ancient Stark kings. In this light, Rhaegal emerges as a dragon uniquely suited to reflect Jon’s journey and ultimate evolution.

In conclusion, when evaluating the thematic and narrative fit of dragon pairings, it becomes clear that Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister are best matched with Rhaegal and Viserion, respectively. While the aesthetic appeal of Jon and Viserion might be tempting, the deeper narrative connections reveal that Jon and Rhaegal, alongside Tyrion and Viserion, provide a more coherent and compelling match. The intricate layers of symbolism and thematic resonance support these pairings as the most natural and fitting choices .

[daenerystargaryen06]

Targ Restoration

I was thinking over the fact, that what if we do have a Targ restoration, but it's not in the way we think it will happen?

My thoughts on this are- we have ample evidence from the books that there can/will be a Targ Restoration, but it won't end with the Targs on the throne.

If we are to even believe what those hacks D&D said- they were told by G.R.R.M that Bran will end up as King, but they weren't given Jon and Dany's ending. It was also stated by G.R.R.M that Jon and Dany are destined to meet; and we are given a lot of subtle cues/foreshadowing/hints of them becoming eventual lovers in the books.

Now, the way I see this working could be... Dany doesn't actively WANT to be Queen. Her goal for the throne is fed on by the fact that she is the last Targaryen left in the world. She wants to help those considered 'lesser' by others. And what Viserys has told her their entire lives. What Dany truly longs for, is home. The house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window. Something she can call home for herself, to live in peace.

As for Jon, I think that he could want to be King, but might turn away from ruling to have a live of peace as well. What Dany and Jon do most is attempt to help others. Their arcs have leadership, learning to rule, and helping the downtrodden. But it's not necessarily something they want.

A possible ending could be that Jon and Dany do fight the war against the dead, bring Spring, but decide not to rule over Westeros in the end. Allowing Bran to become King instead (if that's even an ending for Bran that G.R.R.M will give, as it was only told to us by D&D, and I hardly trust anything those idiots say about the show).

Instead- Jon and Dany could go to find a true home for themselves, and build a life together.

Dany will have children with Jon (she thinks she is barren, but one thing I do think she will eventually have is a living child of her own born from her. She had a miscarriage in ADWD, and both her and Jon think of having children of their own). I believe her miscarriage will lead into her meeting Jon, them becoming lovers, and together they finally manage to have a child (or children) of their own. Not expecting it, but finding comfort in one another and starting their own family in a home they find together.

I also believe that Dany's dragons will not be their end. There are many ideas (I've seen videos on Tik Tok covering over this) that Viserion is a she-dragon, and has exhibited nesting behavior in Meereen, and will likely have eggs. Though there's also the fact that dragons, in truth, are genderless- they can switch, they're 'as changeable as flame'. Any one of Dany's dragons could lay eggs and bring back more into the world, but I have my ideas on it being Viserion as the one to do so.

The ending for Jon and Dany wouldn't be as rulers, but together as a family. They find their own home, find a place to truly belong, and continue on the Targ restoration and the age of dragons, not as King and Queen, but as a loving, caring family in a home they chose for themselves.

That isn't to say that I wouldn't be happy if Dany and Jon wind up as co-rulers together over Westeros, as I'd love it if they did, but practically speaking- I just want them to be happy, together, and in a place they can finally call their own and feel where they belong. Dany can run barefoot and breathless through soft grass and warm soil with her children, and give them the childhood she had never known. Jon can tell their children stories of the Wall and the Others, and their children can connect with Ghost and the dragons they have. Dany can hold dragon eggs to her belly as she did with Rhaego. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal can be parents and elder siblings to the human children Dany and Jon have together. It would be the 'sweetness' to G.R.R.M's bittersweet ending. But it can also be counted as bitter, as the last two Targaryen's do not wind up ruling on the throne, and their legacy over Westeros ends.

I just want my asoiaf babies to be happy!

[rebelumbrella46]

A Nostalgic Take on "House of the Dragon" and "Game of Thrones"

Reflecting on the rich narratives of "House of the Dragon" and "Game of Thrones," fans are often divided over the interpretation of Aegon’s prophecy and the identity of the "Prince That Was Promised." Was it Daenerys? Was it Jon? An intriguing alternative might have been to forego both in favor of their offspring. This approach could have offered a deeper, more compelling resolution to the prophecy.

Instead of leaving the union of Jon and Daenerys as a mere fan service—catering to those eager to see them together or a sensational twist to highlight Targaryen tendencies towards incest —imagine if their relationship culminated in a pregnancy. Daenerys, determined to claim the throne, finds herself carrying Jon’s child, adding layers to her paranoia and distrust of Westerosi men, given that she had lost a child and had been constantly threaten during those years. Jon, ever reluctant to embrace his Targaryen heritage, must now reconcile his love for Daenerys, his duty, and the realization that their child could be in danger as very well he/she could be the true savior of Westeros.

Despite Daenerys’s story telling us that she could never have children, the history of the Targaryens is fraught with complications around procreation. Many Targaryen women, like Aemma Arryn and Alyssa Targaryen, died in childbirth. Even Aegon the Conqueror was rumored to be sterile, suggesting the lineage continued through Rhaenys's descendants, making all future Targaryens potential bastards.

Besides, there's the whole prophecy about "The Dragon has Three Heads...". In the books, there’s speculation that Tyrion could be one of the heads, but for various reasons, the show didn't pursue that path. Given that there are no known bastard children of Rhaegar or Viserys left to claim the title, who then is the third head of the Dragon?

In my view, the answer lies in Daenerys and Jon’s potential offspring. Their child would symbolize the rebirth of House Targaryen, uniting their legacies. The meaning of the title “A song of Ice and Fire” often refers to the rise of Targaryens in order to fight the Long Night. But also refers to the “Prince That Was Promised” and how he belongs to Ice and Fire… meaning House Targaryen and House Stark, and by this it would obviously by Jon… But his child would also bear the Stark’s blood. And let’s be honest, Jon is more a Stark than Targaryen while Dany is the embodiment of Targaryen.

So Daenerys, with Drogon by her side, and Jon, astride Rhaegal, would complete the triumvirate with their child, who could eventually claim Viserion. This powerful imagery not only aligns with the prophecy but also rejuvenates the Targaryen dynasty, showing that their combined line truly has three heads.

The intense power struggle for the Iron Throne could unfold over several seasons, with Daenerys and Jon uniting the kingdoms to challenge Cersei or another more plausible ruler. Jon’s revelation as a Targaryen would add to the intrigue, forcing them to find common ground, much like Aegon the Conqueror did with his sister-wives. They could share power, ruling Westeros together, balancing their ambitions and responsibilities.

THE LAST BATTLE

The winter comes. And when it does, it's not a simple battle at Winterfell (that was just way too easy), but a cataclysm that spreads across Westeros as Aegon dreamt. The North falls, followed by the Vale, the Riverlands... perhaps even King's Landing. The Night King takes the Iron Throne, casting an icy shadow over the realm.

The final battle is fought in Dorne, the one place where ice has never been seen, and where Rhaenys, wife of Aegon, met her end. This kingdom, which fiercely resisted the Targaryens during their conquest and reign, now becomes the last bastion of resistance. It is here that the true need to unite Westeros all those centuries ago becomes painfully clear.

Years of unrelenting winter pass, and the child of Jon and Daenerys has grown into a young man. Now, as in the days of Aegon’s conquest, there are three dragons once more. They take to the skies to fight the Night King, in a battle that sees the potential deaths of Daenerys, Jon, or perhaps both.

When the war is over, it is the child who ascends to the throne. This prince, born of fire and ice, who saved Westeros, now sits the Iron Throne. And who would dare rise against the Prince that saved Westeros? No one.

[davinamikaelsonalwaysandforever]

The Dragons legacy:

Verse 1:

As I stand before my dragons, so fierce and so proud

Their might and their power, my enemies have cowered

I close my eyes and remember, the ones who've left this world

My brothers and my husband, their stories forever unfurled

Chorus:

So I name you, oh dragons, after the ones I've lost

Viserion, Rhaegal, Drogon, their names fit you like a glove

May your flames burn bright and strong, till the end of time

For you carry the legacy of my bloodline

Verse 2:

Viserion, my troubled brother, whose dreams were unfulfilled

Your name will now live on, our bond re-spilled

May your bright scales shine, as you soar the skies

Your fire shall bring justice to those who despise

Chorus:

So I name you, oh dragons, after the ones I've lost

Viserion, Rhaegal, Drogon, their names fit you like a glove

May your flames burn bright and strong, till the end of time

For you carry the legacy of my bloodline

Verse 3:

Rhaegal, my valaint brother, the one they tried to erase

You held within you, a gentle love and grace

May your wings spread wide, as you embrace your might

Your fire shall protect all that's good, by day or by night

Chorus:

So I name you, oh dragons, after the ones I've lost

Viserion, Rhaegal, Drogon, their names fit you like a glove

May your flames burn bright and strong, till the end of time

For you carry the legacy of my bloodline

Verse 4:

Drogon, my sun and stars, my love, so pure and true

The one who taught me strength, in all that I pursue

May your roar shake the earth, as you take to the sky

Your fire shall bring forth a new dawn, for all to comply

Chorus:

So I name you, oh dragons, after the ones I've lost

Viserion, Rhaegal, Drogon, their names fit you like a glove

May your flames burn bright and strong, till the end of time

For you carry the legacy of my bloodline

Outro:

With these names, you are bound to me, forevermore

my brothers, my husband, their spirits I will restore

Together we shall blaze a trail, no chains shall hold us down

For we are the warriors of fire, our legacy shall forever resound.

[wintearys]

𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝕰𝖉𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖉 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖐 𝕿𝖆𝖗𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖞𝖊𝖓, 𝕳𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕴𝖗𝖔𝖓 𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖎𝖝 𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖉𝖔𝖒𝖘, 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖊.

Prince   Eddard,   sometimes   nicknamed   the   Son   of   Ice   and   Fire,   was   born   months   after   the   Battle   of   the   Dawn   and   the   defeat   of   the   Others.   His   birth   marked   the   start   of   his   mother's   Reign   upon   the   Six   Kingdoms   and   the   Diarchy   in   the   North   with   the   resurrected   Robb   Stark   and   Jon   Snow,   his   father   and   uncle.   Many   talks   were   held   about   who   would   inherit   the   Throne   upon   his   birth   would   be   handled,   with   his   parents   deciding   the   firstborn   would   be   raised   to   be   the   heir   to   the   Iron   Throne   and   the   secondborn   to   be   the   heir   to   the   North.   Eddard   was   named   after   his   paternal   grandfather   Eddard   Stark   and   he   was   the   first   Targaryen   born   in   Westerosi   soil   who   was   gifted   a   dragonegg   upon   his   birth,   by   one   of   the   dragoneggs   laid   by   the   she-dragon   Viserion,   one   of   his   mother's   dragon.   Eddard   would   eventually   bond   with   the   dragon   that   hatched   with   him   and   name   him   Damonfyre,   as   the   dragon   reminds   him   of   the   drawings   of   Daemon   Targaryen's   dragon   Caraxes.   He   was   also   gifted   a   direwolf,   who   he   named   Sprite,   due   to   his   speed.   There   was   some   opposition   from   the   Northern   lords   about   having   the   one   they   saw   as   their   heir   to   be   send   to   Dragonstone   and   in   return,   some   of   the   Southerns   did   not   trust   a   Northern   with   the   wolf's   blood,   and   the   known   warg   abilities   of   the   Starks.   It   is   said   the   Prince   bonds   with   his   dragon   to   the   point   of   being   able   to   see   through   his   eyes.   Upon   his   investment   ceremony   as   Prince   of   Dragonstone,   he   would   be   referred   as   both   his   Targaryen   last   name   and   his   Stark   one,   with   the   agreement   that   once   he   takes   the   Throne,   he   would   use   the   Targaryen   name   to   keep   his   mother's   legacy.   It   is   said   by   some   that   despite   the   Stark   looks,   he   resembles   the   former   Beggar   King   and   Daenerys'   older   brother,   Viserys.   The   Prince   is   skilled   in   fencing   and   courtly   manners,   and   the   Old   Tongue   and   Valyrian.   Despite   his   rather   impulsive   nature   and   desire   to   see   battle,   the   Prince   knows   that   battle   is   not   easy   and   he   would   rather   not   face   those.

[thelaughingtree]

all great houses are tragic in their own ways but my read on doran is a classic 'putting future ambition ahead of immediate consequences' in a way that will (almost!) kill house martell. his decades-long plot to lead to a martell & targaryen restoration has eclipsed the actual needs of his children - we see this in arianne's PoVs where she's led to really stupid, reckless behaviour in lieu of any honesty. quentyn died trying to tame a dragon (viserion). arianne will most likely also die trying to tame a dragon (griff). trystane seems like the only child who could survive, but given his betrothal to myrcella, i would not be surprised if the two of them end up dying together in some romeo & juliet tragic elopement attempt after doran attempts to break that off and set trystane up with someone in daenerys' favour, if not daenerys herself.

given elia's line is all dead, where will that leave the martells? the enduring legacy will be oberyn's children - the four sand snakes, and his children with his paramour ellaria. it's possible that if no one is legitimised that the house name might die, but given that sand snakes are most likely being positioned to be involved in some really interesting power plays next book (see: alleras in the citadel, tyene by cersei's side), they might live up to the spirit of house martell far better than arianne, quentyn, & trystane, who are all lambs for the slaughter. i feel that highlights a core thesis statement of asoiaf - that the achievements of the low and bastard born are not worth any less than trueborn nobility, and can sometimes be be nobler and more valuable in purpose than what the actual nobility do: play the game of thrones, which itself is a game that ends largely in death and misery.

[hallowed-harpy]

Legacy, Opposition, Lightbringer - an analytical framework for Dany and her dragons by Hallowed.Harpy

[novaursa]

Legacy (winter is coming)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Events of the canon don't match the timeline in this story. The plot is purposefully altered to fit the narrative of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: but you will fly

- Next part: cold winds

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The wind howled across the hilltop, carrying with it the earthy scent of the Riverlands mixed with faint smoke from Viserion’s great form. The dragon's wings spread wide, kicking up gusts of dust and loose leaves as she settled onto the ground. Her talons dug into the earth, the weight of her landing reverberating through the earth beneath you. You winced, gripping at the ridges of her neck as the last shudder of movement rattled your already battered frame.

The journey had been hard. The strain of staying mounted on Viserion without a proper saddle left your thighs raw, your hands blistered, and countless thin cuts etched into your skin from her scales. Blood smeared your palms, and you could feel it trickling down your legs, staining the fabric of what remained of your riding clothes. You leaned forward for a breath, whispering, “You’ve done well, Viserion. Rest now.”

Viserion’s molten-gold eyes turned to you briefly, softer than one would think a dragon’s could be, before she slumped down onto her haunches. Steam rose faintly from her nostrils as she exhaled, her body coiling protectively near the clearing.

The hill of High Heart rose before you, crowned with its circle of ancient weirwood stumps. The air here felt different—thicker, heavier, as though steeped in old magic. You could feel it settle into your bones. But before you could take another step, the soft sound of footsteps reached your ears. Then voices.

“She said we’d meet her here,” a familiar young voice said, and you turned sharply, your heart skipping.

A group crested the hill—the Brotherhood Without Banners—led by Lord Beric Dondarrion with his ever-present grim determination. Thoros of Myr followed close behind, his robes dusty, the ever-burning faith in his eyes. Behind them trudged men in mismatched armor, and there, to your surprise, stood Arya Stark.

Arya saw you first. Her expression froze, her wild grey eyes widening in disbelief before she broke into a run. “Y/N!”

“Arya?” Your voice cracked, disbelieving, but she was already on you.

The girl flung herself into your arms, her thin frame shaking as she hugged you tightly. The force of her embrace nearly knocked you off balance, and you stumbled back, suppressing a wince as the cuts across your body protested. You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, pulling her close, ignoring the pain.

“I knew it! I knew you’d come back,” Arya whispered fiercely into your chest, her voice muffled. “I tried to find you before… but they took you.”

You smoothed a hand over her tangled hair, the gesture calming, though your voice wavered slightly. “I’m here now, little one. And so are you.”

As Arya finally stepped back, her brow furrowed, and she gasped softly. “You’re bleeding.”

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the streaks of crimson that marred your hands and thighs. The ride had taken a greater toll than you realized. “It’s nothing,” you murmured, though Arya clearly didn’t believe you. “Cuts from dragon scales—nothing more.”

Behind her, Lord Beric watched the reunion silently, his one good eye assessing you, but there was no shock in his expression. If anything, he looked unsurprised—as though he had expected this very moment.

“You’ve traveled far,” Beric said at last, stepping closer, his gruff voice low but steady. He glanced at Viserion, whose massive form loomed behind you like a mountain of scales and power. “And brought something the world thought lost.”

You turned to face him fully, your posture straightening despite the pain thrumming in your body. “The world’s forgotten much about dragons. But they are not gone.”

Beric tilted his head slightly, the flicker of a smile almost touching his lips. “I imagine she led you here for a reason.”

“She did,” you replied, casting a glance back at Viserion, who watched the group warily, the muscles in her wings twitching. “This place called to me. There’s something here I need to see. To understand.”

Thoros of Myr finally stepped forward, rubbing his hands together as he regarded the dragon with curiosity and awe. “The Lady of High Heart said the past walks again… and here you stand.”

Arya’s fingers tugged at your torn sleeve, pulling your attention back to her. “Why are you hurt? Did someone do this to you?”

You crouched down to meet her eye level, despite the pull of pain through your legs. “No, Arya. Dragons aren’t made to carry riders, not without saddles. Viserion’s scales are sharp, and I wasn’t prepared.”

Arya glanced back at the dragon cautiously, though her fear seemed to be overshadowed by awe. “She let you ride her?”

“She did,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Arya’s face. “Dragons are not slaves, Arya. They choose. And she chose me.”

Arya’s face twisted in thought, but before she could say more, Beric’s voice cut through the moment. “The Lady awaits us. She will want to see you.”

You nodded faintly, rising back to your feet. Arya moved to your side immediately, like a shadow, her hand brushing against your arm protectively. Beric turned to Thoros and gestured for the others to stay back.

Before you could follow, Viserion let out a low growl, her wings rustling like thunder through the air. You turned back to her, lifting a hand to calm her.

“It’s alright,” you whispered. “Stay here. I’ll return.”

The dragon tilted her head, her eyes locking with yours, unblinking and deep. For a moment, you wondered if she would refuse to let you go, but then Viserion exhaled sharply and slumped back onto her haunches. Arya watched the exchange wide-eyed.

“She listens to you,” Arya murmured, half in wonder. “How do you make her do that?”

You gave her a faint smile as you turned to walk alongside her. “I don’t make her do anything. We understand each other.”

As you followed Beric and Thoros toward the circle of weirwood stumps, Arya’s voice whispered next to you. “You’re like a storybook hero now. Riding dragons and saving the day.”

You smiled down at her, though it was tinged with sadness. “I wish it were as simple as stories, Arya. Dragons aren’t just fire and wonder. They’re war, too.”

Arya looked up at you with a quiet determination in her gaze. “Then I hope you burn the ones who deserve it.”

The hilltop of High Heart loomed before you, its crown of ancient, weathered weirwood stumps standing silent and watchful, steeped in magic older than memory. Each step forward made the air grow heavier, heavy with something unseen but deeply felt—a presence that seemed to pull at you like invisible hands. Arya stayed close at your side, her grey eyes flicking between you and the path ahead.

From behind, the sound of hurried footsteps and clanging armor broke the stillness. “Seven hells,” Hot Pie’s voice carried, breathless and wide-eyed as he pointed toward Viserion, who lay coiled at the base of the hill like a great golden-creamed sentinel. “Is that a real dragon?”

Arya spun around and shot him a glare, her voice sharp as a whisper. “Shush, Hot Pie!” She turned back to you, her expression exasperated. “Ignore him. He’s like that.”

You suppressed a small smile, though your focus remained fixed ahead. “It’s alright. It’s a fair question. Dragons don’t walk this world often anymore.”

Gendry joined them, his usually steady demeanor unsettled as he kept glancing back toward Viserion. “It’s… huge,” he muttered, half in awe. “Does it bite?”

“Only when threatened,” you replied quietly, though a glint of amusement softened your tone.

Hot Pie stared at you in disbelief. “How’re you so calm? That thing could swallow us whole!”

“Because she’s more than a beast,” you answered, your voice steady as you moved forward again. “Come. We’re nearly there.”

When you reached the summit, the chill in the air was sharper, though no breeze stirred. The Lady of High Heart was waiting at the center of the ancient weirwood stumps, her small figure perched atop a gnarled root like a bird of prey. Her milky-white eyes turned toward you the moment you approached, unblinking and all-seeing, as though she had known you would come.

“Child of fire,” she rasped, her voice thin and reedy, yet carrying like a whisper on the wind. “You’ve come at last.”

You stepped closer, Arya hovering protectively near you while Beric and Thoros lingered just behind. “You called me,” you said softly. “Why?”

The ghost of High Heart tilted her head, the corners of her mouth twitching in something like a smile—or a grimace. “I did not call you. He did.”

You frowned, your brow furrowing. “Who?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her small, wrinkled hand rose, pointing a bony finger toward the circle of stumps. The world seemed to shiver as the light around you dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally. A voice whispered faintly, so close it might have been in your ear. “Come, cousin. Walk with me.”

The voice belonged to him—Brandon Rivers.

Suddenly, the world shifted, and you felt yourself pulled, weightless and untethered, into something else. The hilltop dissolved into mist, the figures of Arya, Beric, and the rest swallowed by shadow. When the haze cleared, you were no longer standing on the hill of High Heart but walking through a vast forest of frost-covered trees, their branches clawing at the grey sky.

Beside you strode a figure draped in shadow—a tall man with a pale face, his one red eye gleaming in the cold. Brandon Rivers, the Three-Eyed Raven, walked silently at your side, his heavy cloak brushing the snow-covered ground.

“You came,” he said at last, his voice both gentle and knowing, as though you were old friends meeting after years apart.

“I didn’t have much choice,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Why am I here?”

“To see,” he said simply, gesturing ahead. “To understand.”

The scene around you rippled and changed like water. The forest blurred, replaced by a stark, endless expanse of white. You were standing on the edge of the world—or so it seemed—as a howling wind swept across the frozen tundra. Shadows moved in the distance, dark shapes that sent an icy chill through your bones. The wind carried a sound that made your skin prickle—a shriek, inhuman and terrible.

“What is this?” you asked, your breath visible in the freezing air.

“Beyond the Wall,” Brandon murmured, his red eye fixed on the horizon. “The storm gathers, child of fire. The Long Night comes again, and with it, death.”

You shivered, not just from the cold but from the weight of his words. Shapes became clearer as they emerged from the distance—figures shrouded in frost, their blue eyes glowing like frozen stars. They marched forward, relentless and silent, as if nothing could stop them.

“And why do you show me this?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Brandon turned his head slightly, his gaze sharp and unfathomable. “Your son carries the blood of fire and gold. He is more than you yet know. Protect him, for he will shape the future of this world—and the war to come.”

Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “What do you mean? Damon is just a child—”

“Not forever,” Brandon interrupted, his voice cold as the air around you. “And your husband, Tywin Lannister—he is a man of stone and will. You must keep him close, for the choices you make together will determine whether fire or ice consumes this world.”

The vision rippled again, shifting abruptly. The tundra melted away, replaced by a campfire crackling in the dark. A group of figures sat huddled around it, their faces weary but familiar—wildlings. And there, standing among them, was Jon Snow.

Your breath hitched. Jon looked older, worn by the harshness of the North, but his face was unmistakable. He stood beside the fire, his sword strapped to his back, his expression contemplative. Suddenly, as though sensing your presence, he froze and turned his head sharply.

Jon’s grey eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, it was as if he truly saw you. His mouth parted in surprise, his brow furrowing as recognition dawned across his face.

“Y/N?” he whispered, his voice carried on a wind that seemed to reach you even across the vision. “Is it you?”

You tried to speak, to call his name, but the vision shattered like glass. The sound of Jon’s voice still echoed in your ears as you fell back into the present, the hilltop of High Heart solidifying around you once more.

You stumbled, the weight of what you’d seen pressing on your chest. Arya grabbed your arm to steady you, her voice tight with concern. “What happened? What did you see?”

You blinked, your breath ragged as you looked at Arya, then at Beric and Thoros. The ghost of High Heart was watching you still, her expression unreadable.

“I saw…” You swallowed, the words thick on your tongue. “I saw what’s coming. And Jon.”

Arya’s eyes widened in disbelief, but you had no chance to explain further. 

The stillness of the hilltop was shattered as a sudden, sharp pain tore through your body, pulling a cry from your lips. You stumbled forward, clutching at your side where the cuts from Viserion's scales had deepened, raw and angry. The warmth of fresh blood seeped through the torn fabric of your riding clothes, staining your palm crimson.

“Y/N!” Arya’s voice rang out, her hands grabbing at your arm as you faltered. “What’s happening? Are you alright?”

The ghost of High Heart watched silently, her small, withered frame framed by the ancient stumps, her white eyes turning milky pink in the faint light. Without another word, she stepped back into the shadows, her presence dissipating as though she were never there.

“Wait—” you gasped, reaching weakly toward where the ghost had stood, but the pain twisted again, doubling you over. You felt as though fire licked at your skin, the wounds stinging deep with every breath. “The vision—The Others—”

“You’re bleeding too much,” Beric Dondarrion interrupted sharply, stepping forward with urgency. His single eye narrowed as he surveyed your injuries, his gloved hand catching your shoulder to keep you upright. “Thoros, see to her.”

Thoros of Myr nodded and immediately knelt beside you, his movements quick yet careful. “She’s been riding without stopping,” he muttered, his hands tugging at the torn edges of your clothing to get a better look. “The cuts are filthy—dragon scales are sharp as knives, and they’ll fester if we don’t clean them.”

Arya, her face pale with panic, hovered near you. “Then fix it!” she snapped at Thoros, her voice high-pitched and desperate. “Can’t you see she’s in pain? Hurry up!”

“Calm yourself, girl!” Thoros barked, though his tone wasn’t unkind. “Shouting at me won’t help.”

The Myrish priest rummaged through the pouches at his belt, pulling out flasks of water, strips of cloth, and an old salve that smelled of herbs and something faintly bitter. He looked up at Beric. “Hold her steady.”

Beric crouched beside you, his grip strong yet careful as he braced your shoulders. “This will hurt,” he said simply, his eye locking with yours.

“I’ve felt worse,” you managed through gritted teeth, though the sweat beading on your brow betrayed you.

Thoros poured the water over your wounds without warning, and you hissed sharply as the freezing liquid hit your raw skin. Arya flinched at your cry, her small hands curling into fists. “You’re hurting her!”

“I’m saving her,” Thoros replied firmly, his expression set with grim determination. He worked quickly, his fingers skilled as he pressed the salve into the open cuts. The sting burned deep, worse than dragonfire, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“Talk to me,” Beric said, his voice low and even. His hand tightened ever so slightly on your shoulder, grounding you. “Focus. What did you see? What was it?”

You swallowed thickly, your breath coming in shaky bursts as Thoros continued his work. “I saw them… The Others,” you whispered, your voice faint. “The storm beyond the Wall. They’re marching.”

Arya’s face twisted in confusion, though her concern didn’t waver. “The Others? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You nodded faintly, though every muscle in your body trembled with exhaustion. “The dead, Arya. They’re coming—endless and cold. And they won’t stop.”

Thoros exhaled sharply, as if unsettled by your words, but he kept his hands moving. “Visions are dangerous,” he muttered under his breath. “They bind us to things we’re not meant to understand.”

“She understands more than you think,” Beric said, though his gaze remained fixed on you, searching your face for clarity. “And if the dead are marching beyond the Wall, the world will need to know.”

“Let her rest first,” Thoros interjected gruffly, wrapping the last of the cloth bandages around your thigh with quick precision. “She’ll not be spreading any news until she can stand without collapsing.”

Arya hovered close, her worry etched plainly across her young face. “Is she going to be alright?” she asked Thoros, her voice quieter now.

The Myrish priest sighed, wiping his hands clean against his tunic before rising to his feet. “She’ll live,” he said, though his tone carried a note of weariness. “But she needs rest. Proper rest.”

You shifted slightly, testing the bandages as the pain dulled to a throb. “Thank you,” you muttered, though your voice was hoarse.

Beric offered his hand, helping you back to your feet with care. “Easy now. You’re strong, but don’t push yourself.”

“I don’t have time to rest,” you said quietly, glancing toward the direction where Viserion waited below the hill. “There’s more to this… more than I understand.”

“You won’t understand anything if you bleed out,” Thoros shot back, though his tone had softened.

Arya clung to your arm again as you steadied yourself. “You have to stop them. If the dead are coming, we have to do something, don’t we?”

You smiled faintly, brushing a hand against her tangled hair. “We will do something, Arya. But we need to be ready.”

Beric nodded grimly. “Then let us see to it that you survive long enough to face what comes.”

As Thoros gathered his supplies and the Brotherhood set to making camp, you allowed yourself to glance back toward the edge of the hill. The golden shape of Viserion was visible below, curled like a sleeping cat, though her head was lifted, ever watchful. A sense of calm settled over you—fleeting but real.

The vision of the Others, their frozen march and their glowing eyes, still burned in your mind. The world felt heavier now, the weight of what you had seen pressing on your chest. But you had faced storms before. You would face this one too.

The cold wind howled across the frozen expanse, carrying with it the whisper of something unseen. Jon Snow stood at the edge of the camp, his chest rising and falling as he turned his head sharply, his eyes fixed on the emptiness before him. He felt it again—that strange pull, that phantom connection, lingering like a breath of warm air in a place that knew only ice.

“Y/N!” Jon shouted suddenly, the name tearing from his lips before he realized he’d said it aloud. The sound echoed into the silent tundra, scattering the nearby ravens into the pale sky. The wildlings nearby turned to look at him, murmuring in confusion.

Ygritte’s voice cut through the wind, sharp and teasing, though concern underpinned it. “What are you doin’, Crow?” she asked, striding toward him, her red hair wild in the breeze. “You callin’ ghosts now?”

Jon didn’t answer immediately, his brow furrowed as he stared at the emptiness in front of him. He swore he had seen her—standing there, pale as the snow, her silver hair whipped by the wind, her violet eyes filled with something heavy. And she had looked hurt.

Ygritte stepped closer, gripping his arm. “Jon Snow, what in the name of the gods are you shoutin’ at? There’s nothin’ there but wind and ice.”

Jon blinked, breaking out of his daze. “I saw her,” he said quietly, though his voice trembled with uncertainty. “I saw Y/N.”

Ygritte’s brow creased. “Who?”

Jon turned to face her, his breath visible in the freezing air. “The woman who raised me.”

Ygritte tilted her head, skeptical but curious. “Thought you didn’t know your mother, Crow. You always said as much.”

“I don’t,” Jon admitted, his voice rough. “But Y/N—she was the one who cared for me when no one else would. She was like my mother, even if she wasn’t.”

The wildlings nearby shifted closer, their interest piqued. A few murmured amongst themselves, but Ygritte ignored them, narrowing her eyes at Jon. “And who is she, this woman you’re seein’ in the middle of nowhere?”

Jon exhaled, the weight of the answer settling over him. “She’s a Targaryen princess.”

Ygritte stared at him for a long moment, then scoffed, her lips quirking into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A Targaryen? A bloody dragon princess? And you’re just tellin’ me this now?”

Jon shook his head, the ghost of the vision still haunting his thoughts. “It’s not something I talk about. She raised me in Winterfell when Lord Stark brought me back as a babe. She didn’t have to, but she did. Now, Tywin Lannister took her as his wife.”

“And now you’re seein’ her out here,” Ygritte said, her tone laced with doubt. “Beyond the Wall. You think the cold’s gotten to you, Jon Snow?”

Jon turned his head sharply toward her, his expression serious. “I know what I saw, Ygritte. She was here. She looked hurt.”

The smirk faded from her lips, and for a moment, Ygritte studied him in silence, her eyes searching his face. “Hurt, you say?”

Jon nodded slowly. “Aye. Something’s happened to her, and I felt it.”

Ygritte let out a heavy breath, crossing her arms as she glanced back at the wildlings watching from a distance. “You’re tellin’ me a woman raised you like her own and she’s a dragon princess… and now she’s married to a Lannister lord?” The disbelief in her voice was clear, but it was edged with curiosity.

Jon’s jaw tightened at her words. “I don’t believe she wanted that. Tywin Lannister is a man of ambition. He doesn’t make choices without a purpose.”

“And yet you’re here,” Ygritte said, her tone softening just slightly. “Far from your wolves and castles. What do you think it means, Jon Snow, seein’ her like that?”

Jon looked out at the vast, empty horizon, his dark eyes troubled. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”

Ygritte watched him, her expression unreadable before she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low murmur. “Ghosts and visions won’t help you out here. Keep your head where it belongs—on the living.”

Jon glanced at her, a flicker of gratitude passing over his features, but his mind was still far away. “I can’t ignore it, Ygritte. She’s out there, and something’s wrong.”

Ygritte sighed and shook her head, muttering under her breath as she turned to leave him standing alone again. “Bloody Crows and their ghosts…”

As Ygritte moved away, Jon remained where he stood, the cold biting at his face. He looked once more at the empty air where he’d seen you—your pale hair, your wounded stance. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light. It had felt too real. You were calling to him, somehow.

And somewhere, across the snow-covered expanse of the North, Jon Snow swore he would find the truth. 

The large stone chamber of Casterly Rock was cold, the long table surrounded by men who wore the weight of Tywin Lannister’s authority like heavy cloaks. Maps were spread before them, marked with quills and tokens, outlining routes traveled and territories searched. 

Kevan Lannister stood closest to him, his voice steady but edged with hesitation as he finished his latest report. “Our men scoured High Heart, my lord. The hilltop was deserted when we arrived—no trace of the lady or her dragon.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the hearth. Tywin’s fingers drummed slowly on the arm of his chair, the sound unnervingly deliberate. “No trace?” he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. “Are you telling me that a dragon—a creature large enough to blot out the sun—simply vanished into thin air?”

Kevan shifted uneasily under his brother’s cold stare. “It would seem so, my lord. The locals speak of the hill as a cursed place. Some believe the dragon is… of magic.”

Tywin scoffed sharply, the sound laced with scorn. “Magic.” His gaze flicked over to the other men at the table, daring them to echo such nonsense. None met his eyes. “Find me practical answers, not old wives’ tales.”

Mace Tyrell cleared his throat from the far side of the table, leaning slightly back in his chair. “It appears, Lord Tywin, that the princess and her dragon move with a will of their own—elusive as the wind. Wherever they go, there are whispers, but no proof. It’s as though she has disappeared.”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to Mace, and for a moment, it looked as though he might explode with anger. “My wife does not simply disappear, Lord Tyrell,” he said icily. “She is out there, and I will have her found.”

Kevan, unwilling to relent, pressed cautiously. “Brother, we’ve exhausted nearly every path. Riverlands, the Reach—our men are spread thin, and this search is leaving us vulnerable. We are bleeding resources for a single woman—”

“A single woman?” Tywin’s voice cracked like a whip, his face hard as stone as he rose to his feet, towering over the room. “She is worth more than every man sitting at this table, Kevan.”

The room tensed at his outburst, even Mace falling silent. Kevan took a step back, his expression one of wary resignation. “Tywin, I only meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant,” Tywin snapped, his sharp tone cutting through Kevan’s attempted apology. “You think I should abandon her. Cast her aside as though she were nothing.”

Kevan held his ground, though the weight of Tywin’s fury bore down on him. “She’s your wife, yes, but she is also a Targaryen. A dragonlord with a beast at her command. She is not loyal to our banners—can you be certain she will return to you willingly?”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table, his gaze cold enough to freeze steel. “She will return.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Kevan pressed softly, though the tension in the room was palpable. “What then?”

“She will,” Tywin repeated, his voice a growl of absolute conviction. “Because she knows what is at stake. I will not repeat myself again.”

Mace Tyrell, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet through the exchange, finally leaned forward with his hands clasped. “You trust her, then, my lord?”

Tywin turned his gaze to Mace, and for the first time, there was no hint of mockery in the Reach lord’s question. It was genuine curiosity. Tywin straightened, smoothing his hands over his doublet, his composure slowly returning. “Trust?” he echoed, almost as though testing the word. “I trust in her understanding of duty. In her resolve.”

His voice dipped slightly, though there was an edge of finality to it. “And I trust that no one in this realm—not one man—understands what it means to bear the weight of a kingdom on their shoulders better than she does.”

The room fell silent once more, the men around the table avoiding his gaze, their earlier protests buried under the weight of his words. Tywin settled back into his chair, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face.

“Double the patrols in the Riverlands,” he ordered, his tone calm once more but no less commanding. “Send word to every loyal bannerman between here and the Wall. She is not to be harmed. If they see the dragon, they will report to me. No one moves without my word.”

Kevan hesitated for a moment but nodded. “As you say, my lord.”

Tywin turned his gaze back to the map before him, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. His mind was calculating—always calculating. Y/n was out there somewhere, with Viserion at her side, and he would not allow uncertainty to erode his grip on her or their future.

“Dismissed,” Tywin said curtly, and the room began to empty, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of boots echoing through the hall. Kevan lingered for a moment longer but thought better of speaking further, following the others out.

When the door finally closed, Tywin’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly, though his face remained as still and impassive as ever. His gaze lingered on the map, on the Riverlands where her trail had last been seen.

For all his composure, a single thought gnawed at him: Where are you? And why haven’t you come back to me?

The corridors of Casterly Rock were unusually quiet this evening, the heavy tapestries and thick stone walls muffling the sounds of the stronghold. Tywin walked with a measured pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of cold authority. The day’s frustrations hung heavily on him, but he would not allow his weariness to show. His men doubted, Kevan questioned him, and whispers of dragons had begun to snake their way into the ears of his bannermen. But Tywin Lannister had weathered far worse storms.

He reached the door of the nursery and paused briefly before stepping inside. The warmth of the room greeted him—the hearth crackling low, the glow of candlelight casting soft shadows across the walls. A nursemaid rose from her chair and bowed her head as Tywin entered. “Leave us,” he ordered quietly, and the woman scurried away, closing the door behind her.

His son, Damon, lay in a cradle fashioned from carved gold and dark red oak, the Lannister lion emblazoned on its side. The boy stirred softly, his silver-gold hair glowing in the firelight as he let out a content sigh in his sleep. Tywin moved toward him, his usually rigid posture loosening just enough to betray the rare flicker of vulnerability he reserved for moments like this.

He stopped beside the cradle, his sharp gaze softening. The boy’s tiny hand curled around nothing, his peaceful face a sharp contrast to the chaos surrounding him. His blood. His heir. For all the trials of the past moons, here was proof that his efforts had borne fruit. Damon was a future secured, a legacy given form.

As Tywin watched his son, the door creaked open, and the maester entered hesitantly, clutching a scroll in his weathered hands. “My lord,” he said in a low, deferential tone, “Ser Jaime is en route from King’s Landing. He should arrive within the week.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to the old man, a faint narrowing of his eyes the only indication of his thoughts. “Jaime?”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester confirmed, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “It seems Queen Mother sent him. She… insisted.”

*Of course she did. Tywin’s jaw tightened briefly. He could already picture Cersei’s smug defiance, her desire to tighten her grasp on Jaime now that Y/N’s absence had destabilized the fragile peace. She would be hoping for support—perhaps even plotting. Tywin would deal with her when the time came. For now, his focus was elsewhere.

“You will prepare his quarters,” Tywin instructed flatly. “And ensure that no one else is disturbed by his arrival.”

The maester bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He shuffled out of the room, leaving Tywin once more alone with his son.

Tywin sighed softly—an uncharacteristic sound—as he sank into the chair beside the cradle. His gaze returned to Damon, who still slumbered peacefully, oblivious to the weight of expectation placed upon him. For the first time that day, Tywin allowed himself to relax, though it was subtle. The sharp lines of his shoulders eased, and the hard edge in his stare softened.

“You are stronger than you know,” he murmured quietly, his words almost lost to the crackle of the fire. “And you will need to be.”

Tywin leaned back in the chair, watching the boy as he slept. There was something about this small, helpless child that grounded him, even now. Damon was a mix of two powerful bloodlines—Lannister and Targaryen. His existence was proof that Tywin’s plans, for all their trials and conflicts, were succeeding.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. The Targaryens had once been his family’s greatest rivals, and now their legacy was entwined with his own. Tywin’s gaze lingered on the soft silver sheen of Damon’s hair, a reminder of Y/N’s, her fire. He frowned faintly, the thought of her absence stirring something uncomfortable within him. She had left, vanished with her dragon to gods knew where, but he refused to believe she would abandon this—their son, their future.

“You will know her strength,” Tywin said softly, his tone carrying a strange note of conviction. “And mine.”

Damon stirred in his sleep, letting out a small, quiet sigh as though in response. Tywin allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to cross his lips, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He reached into the cradle, his fingers brushing gently over the boy’s small hand. Damon’s fingers twitched instinctively, curling slightly against his father’s.

For a long while, Tywin sat there, silent and still, watching the child. Outside, the Rock’s great halls were alive with whispers of dragons, absent wives, and unstable alliances. But here, in this room, there was quiet—a moment of peace that Tywin would not allow the world to shatter.

When he finally rose, the hardness of his expression returned, but his movements were careful as he tucked the blanket closer around Damon. He lingered one last moment, his gaze lingering on his son.

“You will inherit a world stronger than the one I was given,” he said quietly, his voice firm with promise. “And you will endure.”

Tywin straightened, his full composure restored as he strode toward the door, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor. When he opened it, his features were a mask of calm authority, the face of a man who controlled everything and allowed nothing to slip through his grasp.

And yet, as he stepped into the corridor and the door closed softly behind him, the image of Damon’s small, sleeping form lingered in his mind—an anchor in a storm that refused to calm.

[satellitetvcompany-blog]

The Most Searched 'Game of Thrones' House: Unveiling the Fan Favorite

Since its debut, HBO's Game of Thrones has captured the imagination of millions worldwide. The epic tale of power, betrayal, and dragons became a cultural phenomenon, spawning a massive fan base. Central to the show's allure are the noble houses of Westeros, each with its own rich history, distinct characteristics, and fervent following. Among these, one house stands out as the most searched and arguably the fan favorite.

The Noble Houses of Westeros

The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros are home to numerous noble houses, each vying for power and influence. Key houses include Stark, Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, Martell, and Tyrell. Each house has its own sigil, words, and unique legacy, contributing to the complex political landscape of "Game of Thrones."

House Stark, with their dire wolf sigil and the motto "Winter is Coming," represents honor and resilience. House Lannister, symbolized by the lion, is known for its wealth, cunning, and the infamous words "A Lannister Always Pays His Debts." House Targaryen, represented by the dragon, embodies fire and blood, with a legacy tied to dragons and a history of conquest.

The Contenders

Given the array of fascinating houses, determining the most searched and beloved is no small feat. However, search engine data, fan forums, and social media trends provide valuable insights. Over the years, three houses have consistently topped the charts: Stark, Targaryen, and Lannister.

House Stark: The Embodiment of Honor

House Stark of Winterfell, hailing from the cold, northern reaches of Westeros, is arguably the heart of "Game of Thrones." The Starks, with their deep sense of honor, loyalty, and justice, resonate with fans who value integrity. Characters like Ned Stark, Jon Snow, Arya Stark, and Sansa Stark have become iconic, embodying the struggles and triumphs of their house.

Starks' journey is one of endurance. From the brutal beheading of Ned Stark to Jon Snow's resurrection, their narrative is filled with poignant moments that have left an indelible mark on viewers. The dire wolves, their loyal companions, add a mystical element that enhances their appeal. The phrase "Winter is Coming" has transcended the series, becoming a cultural touchstone that signifies preparedness and resilience.

House Targaryen: The Fire and Blood Legacy

House Targaryen, with its dragons and fiery legacy, is another fan favorite. The Targaryen ruled Westeros for nearly 300 years before being overthrown. Their story is one of rise, fall, and resurgence. Daenerys Targaryen, the last scion of the house, is central to this allure. Her journey from a timid girl to the powerful "Mother of Dragons" captivated audiences.

The Targaryen' connection to dragons sets them apart, adding a fantastical element that is both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Daenerys' dragons, Dragon, Rhaegal, and Viserion, became symbols of her power and determination to reclaim the Iron Throne. The house words "Fire and Blood" encapsulate their ruthless pursuit of destiny, resonating with fans who admire strength and ambition.

House Lannister: The Power of Wealth and Influence

House Lannister, known for its immense wealth and political acumen, rounds out the top three. The Lannister' influence is felt throughout the series, often acting as the antagonists. Characters like Tyrion Lannister, with his sharp wit, and Cersei Lannister, with her ruthless ambition, are central to the show's plot.

The Lannister’s' motto, "Hear Me Roar!" and their unofficial saying, "A Lannister Always Pays His Debts," highlights their power and resourcefulness. Despite their often-antagonistic roles, the complexity of their characters, especially Tyrion's journey of redemption and Cersei's descent into madness, offers a rich narrative that keeps fans intrigued.

The Fan Favorite: House Stark

While each of these houses has a massive following, search data and fan interactions indicate that House Stark emerges as the fan favorite. Several factors contribute to this preference:

Relatability and Integrity: Starks' values of honor, loyalty, and justice resonate deeply with viewers. Their struggles and triumphs are grounded in a sense of realism that fans find relatable.

Iconic Characters: Characters like Jon Snow, Arya Stark, and Sansa Stark have become beloved figures in popular culture. Their growth and development throughout the series provide a compelling narrative arc that fans avidly follow.

Emotional Investment: The Starks' journey is fraught with tragedy and loss, creating an emotional connection with the audience. The Red Wedding, Jon Snow's death and resurrection, and Arya's vengeance are moments that have left a lasting impact.

Mystical Elements: The dire wolves add a mystical and symbolic layer to the Starks' story, enhancing their appeal. These loyal companions symbolize Starks' connection to the ancient traditions of the North.

How to watch game of thrones on dish network

To watch Game of Thrones on Dish Network, follow these steps: First, ensure you have a Dish Network subscription with HBO included. If not, upgrade your package to include HBO. Next, tune in to the HBO channel on your Dish Network receiver at the scheduled airtime of Game of Thrones. If you prefer to watch it on-demand, use the Dish Network on Demand feature and navigate to HBO's on-demand section. Alternatively, you can stream Game of Thrones using the Dish Anywhere app on your mobile device or computer by logging in with your Dish Network account credentials.

Conclusion

"Game of Thrones" has left an indelible mark on popular culture, and its noble houses play a crucial role in its enduring legacy. While House Targaryen and House Lannister have their legions of fans, House Stark stands out as the most searched for and beloved. Their embodiment of honor, iconic characters, and emotional journey have made them a symbol of resilience and integrity. As the tale of Westeros continues to captivate new generations, the legacy of House Stark will undoubtedly remain a cornerstone of the "Game of Thrones" saga.

Find out why House Stark is Rachel's all-time favorite—discover the secrets today. (877) 471-4808

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My Favorite Dragons from the Game of Thrones novels and shows.

Do you like Dragons? Is there one that is your favorite? Well I will show you my favorite Dragons from the Game of Thrones universe.

12. Seasmoke- Seasmoke is named after his color. Bonded to Laenor Velaryon and Addam Velaryon of Hull, this dragon helped the Velaryons and Daemon Targaryen defeat the Crab Feeders and it was so cool.

11. Vermax- Vermax the Dragon of Laenor and Rhaenyra’s son Jacaerys Velaryon, this young dragon in House of the Dragon episode six the dragon keepers of the dragon pit helped Jace to tame his dragon like how Aegon II did with Sunfyre and they brought a goat where Jace tried commanding Vermax to Dracarys or breathe fire at the goat.

10. Syrax- Rhaenyra’s Dragon Syrax is a beautiful dragon and we see her and Rhaenyra on the first episode of the show flying to Kingslanding on Dragon back.

Although not as battle experienced as her fellow dragons she is still a strong dragon.

9. Dreamfyre- Dreamfyre ridden by Rhaena and Helaena Targaryen is a Blue Dragon that we first saw in House of the Dragon as the Dragon breathing fire in front of Aemond in the Dragon pit. This Dragon was theorized to be the Biological Mother of Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion.

8. Caraxes- Caraxes the Blood Wyrm is blood red colored Dragon bonded to Aemon and Daemon Targaryen. The Dragon looks horrifying in the House of the Dragon show and has a History with Vhagar starting with the two dragons bonded to Aemon and his Brother Baelon and Daemon with Laena Velaryon but the two met their ends when Vhagar bonded to Aemond Targaryen fought Daemon with Caraxes during the Dance of the Dragons.

7. Meleys- the Red Queen bonded with Alyssa and Rhaenys Targaryen, Meleys is one dragon you wouldn’t want to mess with. House of the Dragon Episode 9 shows Meleys breaking into Aegon II’s Coronation like how the Dragon in Shrek breaks into Lord Farquaad’s wedding. Meleys along with Caraxes are two red dragons that can face a challenge thrown at them.

6. Vhagar- Bonded with Visenya, Baelon, Laena Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, Vhagar is one of the first three dragons along with Meraxes and Balerion. Vhagar was almost the same size as Balerion and is the only known dragon to survive until the Dance of the Dragons.

5. Rhaegal- Rhaegal named after Rhaegar Targaryen by Daenerys is one of the last three dragons that are born in the Dothraki sea. Rhaegal was bonded to his namesake’s son Jon Snow.

4. Viserion- named after Daenerys’ other brother Viserys Targaryen, Viserion is another dragon along with Rhaegal and Drogon. Sadly he was killed and reanimated into a white by the Night King and became his Mount.

3. Meraxes- Meraxes is another of the First Three Dragons. Bonded to Rhaenys I Targaryen, Meraxes almost grew to the size of Balerion and was a little larger than Vhagar but sadly she was killed by a scorpion bolt along with her rider trying to subdue Dorn to be part of the seven kingdoms.

2. Drogon- named after Khal Drogo and thought to be Balerion’s reincarnation, Drogon bonded to Daenerys is a loyal dragon who treats Khaleesi like a Queen and a mother. Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion are the last of their kind.

1. Balerion the Black Dread- The Largest and Most Powerful Dragon of the First Three, Balerion is a huge creature that was ridden by Aegon I Targaryen the Conqueror, Maegor the Cruel, Aerea and Viserys I Targaryen. Balerion was the only Dragon that passed of old age but Drogon did continue his Ancestor and Lookalike’s Legacy.

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No one:

Absolutely no one:

Me: Can we just talk about how the show purposely put Sansa as Jon's right hand in this shot? Sansa who was regent while Jon was away & prepared Winterfell/The North for the battle about to happen? Sansa who ends up becoming Queen of the North and "speaking" for the North? That this is the very first closeup we get of Jon? That they purposely don't include Arya or Bran in this shot? CAN WE????

While they had Dany on the next side of the table? And THIS is the first closeup shot of Dany shown as Sam says "being forgotten"? And they kept Jon in the shot (though not in focus)? Jon who is not only a rival to her claim (that she doesn't know about yet) but also has been ignoring her? (and of course she doesn't want to be forgotten herself nor her legacy)

And that they literally had the setup of Sansa being in the same place as Jorah for Jon?

His most trusted just like Jorah is for Dany? And then this shot at the end which shows a very notable space in between Jon/Sansa and Arya/Bran?

Most likely to leave space for Bran to be seen but they could have told Issac to move a little more to the left but they chose not to? And notice how the fire/flames are to Jon and Sansa's backs? While Arya and Bran have lit candles in the background? But there is one lit candle in between Jon and Sansa, showing that while darkness surrounds them (and not just literally), there is still hope between them. Not just because of the battle with the NK but also due to Dany's presence and the strain due to Jon bending the knee. That they are one, working towards the same goal, like one pack = Stark. They did this all on purpose!!!

Same as this shot right here:

(notice there is purposely three candles there; despite Viserion's death, three dragons -> Targaryen; Dany still hopes to reconcile with Jon though she has no idea why he's avoiding her & she still has hope for them together & Jon still cares about her)

So can we talk about that? CAN WE??????????