#dragons are my bread and butter

[katiefrog217]

I'm running on 3 hours of sleep after a full day of work but you know what I can't get out of my head?

Dragons. Dragon Crowley and Dragon Azirapahle

Dragon au

I got a confession

I really love drawing dragons

I wanna draw them

[respectthepetty]

I have plenty of things to write about episode ten of Wandee Goodday but I have men to scream at, so just know that the Light (Bulb) of Love is my bread and butter.

It's like the Blinding Light of Love, but better.

I'll never get tired of it.

[mossycat]

I must admit to some dabbling in my day

@xrlyz

[antidotefortheawkward-art]

Realized that in my Immortality Speedrun AU, even though Zhu Bajie and Sha Wujing likely wouldn't have had the opportunity to get thrown from Heaven since they'd be working overtime at their posts, Ao Lie very much would still have the opportunity to land himself on death row as a prince, so.... Sun "An enemy of Heaven is an ally of mine" Wukong gets a roommate for buddy comedy reasons

[ID: 1. An illustration of Ao Lie and Sun Wukong. Ao Lie is in his princely attire, but notably disheveled. His green outermost robe is hanging half open, with burnt and ripped hems. The red sash at his waist is hanging in tatters as well. His hair is loose down his back and he's holdining a sword in his right hand. Sun Wukong is in his human disguise, wearing an open checkered daoist's robe. His white inner robe is not tucked into his pants and a red dudou is peeking out from underneath it. He's staring at a book in his left hand while chewing on a piece of willow, his right hand scritching his chin thoughtfully.

2. A sketched comic, with Ao Lie in teal and Sun Wukong in orange. In the first panel, Ao Lie bursts into a cave in a rush. In the second panel, Sun Wukong is sitting on the floor of the cave next to a table, looking at Ao Lie at the cave's entrance. SWK says, "Uh. Hi? This cave is already occupied." In the third panel, Ao Lie attempts to pull otu his sword in surprise, crying out "Stay back!" before he's interrupted by Sun Wukong casting a freezing spell "定!". In the fourth panel, Sun Wukong has a cheerful but annoyed facial expression as he approaches the frozen Ao Lie. He says, "LOL Nice try, punk- Now what the hell are you doing in my cave?", then, "Wait a min-". In the fifth panel, Sun Wukong is looking up at Ao Lie with a surprised and incredibly amused expression, exclaiming, "Wait- You're the Ao kid who managed to set his father's palace on fire underwater!". Ao Lie looks back at him with a tense expression, saying, "Please don't tell me you're gonna hand me in." To which Sun Wukong replies, "Hell no I won't!"

3. A sketched comic, again with Ao Lie in teal and Sun Wukong in orange. In the first panel, Sun Wukong is reading some plans in the foreground and Ao Lie is in the background. Sun Wukong says, "Xiao Long, could you head out and fetch me some lingzhi? I'm fresh out. In the second panel, Ao Lie responds, "I'm a prince who has an active warrant out for his arrest, and you're just some rogue brewing illegal immortality. Wouldn't it make more sense to go out yourself?" In the third panel, an unimpressed Sun Wukong presses a basket to Ao Lie's chest. Sun Wukong says, "I've got arrest warrants for crimes you wouldn't even imagine. Plus, it's my magic and my cave keeping you hidden, so pull your weight, Princey." Ao Lie rolls his eyes and has his hands up in a mock defeated pose. End ID]

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Ahhhhh! I'm absolutely invested in your fantasy AU! I love it so much, and I can't wait to see more content of it! (Take your time, of course! Don't rush yourself!) I was wondering (sorry if this has been asked before or if this is a silly question) but would you mind if people drew their OC's in this AU (hope that made sense) and made fanart of the AU? Anyway, have a wonderful Morning, afternoon, evening, and or night! :}

Thank You! i'm actually writing an indulgent tidbit right now! no one is having a good time in it!

you guys can Absolutely fuck around in this fantasy sandbox! i don't mind people having fun with my aus, cause they're here for that reason - for fun! to play with characters like they're dolls! to practice worldbuilding (tho that's just a special treat For Me)! I'm not very serious about aus <3

[floorsauce]

Rabbit frens

[nillas-art-den]

Have a bonus chaos snake to offset some of the monkey energy.

[aeriona]

Day 7: Mei!

They belong to @themeeplord! Dragon moment!

[a-tale-of-legends]

Also girl help, dragon soul is stuck in my head

[degenerate-otaku]

RAHHHHHH FINALLY SOMEONE GETS IT!!!

CELL IS COMPRISED OF THEIR POWER BUT ALSO THEIR FLAWS, WHICH MAKES HIM A PERFECT FINAL VILLAIN AS EVERYONE HAS TO FACE THEIR MISTAKES AND PUT ASIDE THEIR EGO TO DEFEAT A MONSTER THAT IS DRIVEN BY HIS EGO GRAHHHHHH!!!!!

“The cell saga is bad because the z fighters were idiots the entire time”

that’s the POINT

THE CELL SAGA IS ABOUT ARROGANCE

EVERYONE IS BEING STUPID BECAUSE THEY THINK THEY KNOW WHATS GONNA HAPPEN

THEY THINK THEYRE AHEAD OF THE CURVE

BUT THEY AREN’T

THIS IS LITERALLY SHOWCASED MULTIPLE TIMES THROUGHOUT THE SAGA

IT STARTS WITH TRUNKS AND BUILDS FROM THERE

GOHAN LITERALLY LETS CELL LIVE BECAUSE OF HIS ARROGANCE

THE ONLY REASON CELL IS DEFEATED IS BECAUSE GOKU, GOHAN, AND VEGETA ALL LET GO OF THEIR ARROGANCE AND PRIDE AND FIGHT TOGETHER

GOKU STEPS IN TO HELP GOHAN, WHICH HE DIDNT DO BEFORE BECAUSE HE THOUGHT GOHAN COULD DO IT HIMSELF

VEGETA HELPS GOHAN AND LANDS THE PENULTIMATE BLOW ON CELL, DESPITE WANTING TO BE THE ONE TO END CELL HIMSELF

GOHAN FINALLY FINISHES HIM LIKE HE REFUSED TO DO BEFORE

THEY ALL LET GO OF THEIR ARROGANCE AND FINISH THE JOB

THATS THE THEMATIC POINT OF THE SAGA

RAHHHHHHH🦅🦅

[bootleg-nessie]

Rating band names based on their accuracy:

(I keep updating this list so check back later)

The Beatles: 3/10. None of these people are beetles, they’re just a bunch of fruity guys from Liverpool with matching haircuts

(Edit: changed from 0/10 to 3/10 because John Lennon beat his wife)

Pink Floyd: 4/10. There is not a single person named Floyd in the band, but some of the members do arguably look kinda pink

Nirvana: 10/10. Getting high and listening to Nirvana is roughly what I imagine actual nirvana to be like

Foo Fighters: either 0/10 or 10/10. I have never seen foo in real life so either they’re pretending to fight a problem that doesn’t exist or they’re doing an absolutely fantastic job of fighting it

The Eagles: 0/10. Same as the Beatles, there is not a single eagle in this band. The name is misleading and we have all been lied to

Queen: 6/10. Partial points for Freddie Mercury

Led Zeppelin: 0/10. I don’t think any of these guys have ever even seen a zeppelin, let alone one made of lead. A lead balloon would crash faster than my hopes and dreams

The Rolling Stones: 3/10. There is not a single stone in this band. Some points added because I’m pretty sure they rolled quite a few

U2: 0/10. Despite what the name says, I am not a member of this band

Metallica: 9/10. Naming a metal band “Metallica” is like naming your dog “doggy”

Red Hot Chili Peppers: 2/10. These guys are not chili peppers. They’re not even that hot, let alone red hot

Guns N’ Roses: 0/10. How the fuck could a gun or a flower play music

Backstreet Boys: ?/10. Depends entirely on their current given location

Simon and Garfunkel: 10/10. No notes

The Doors: 1/10. Jim Morrison is kinda shaped like a door tho

Chicago: 4/10. The number of people in this band does not come even remotely close to the population of Chicago. Points added because it originated in Chicago

Earth, wind, and fire: 2/10. This is even more innacurate than Chicago. Points added because wind instruments were often used

Def Leppard: 3/10. There is not a single leopard in this band. Some of the members are probably kinda deaf by now tho

The Beach Boys: ?/10. Accuracy depends entirely on location

The Black Eyed Peas: 6/10. Not sure what the hell an ‘eyed pea’ is but the black part is pretty accurate

Imagine Dragons: ?/10. Depends entirely on whether or not they’re thinking about dragons.

Cage the Elephant: 1/10. Why would you do that. Let the elephant go

Green Day: 0/10. They’re not even green

The Police: 0/10. There is not a single cop in this band

KISS: 5/10. I’m sure they probably kissed sometimes

The Monkees: 0/10. Are you fucking kidding me

We Butter the Bread with Butter: 8/10. I can’t verify this but I have no reason to suspect that they’d lie. Butter seems like the most logical thing to butter bread with

King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard: 0/10. I got really excited about the concept of a lizard wizard only to be let down. My disappointment is immeasurable

They Might Be Giants: 5/10. I googled everyone in this band’s height, the tallest guy’s only 6’1 so I wouldn’t exactly consider him a giant. Then again, I can’t really argue because the claim was only that they MIGHT be giants

The Presidents of the United States of America: 2/10. None of these people are Joe Biden nor are any of them former presidents. This is incredibly misleading. I’m pretty sure “Lump” was written about my first girlfriend tho so I’ll give them a point or two

Gorillaz: 2/10 Not quite but we’re kinda close genetically so I’ll give them partial credit

The Killers: ?/10. I have no way of verifying if they’ve actually killed before but the fact that they’re not in prison tells me probably not

The Offspring: 10/10. These guys are definitely somebody’s offspring

Arctic Monkeys: 1/10. They are neither monkeys nor are they from the arctic

Thirty Seconds to Mars: 1/10. It takes WAY longer to get to mars than that

Beastie Boys: 8/10. They’re pretty beast on the guitar

Jimmy Eat World: 1/10. Slow the fuck down Jimmy, you’re biting off way more than you can chew

Hole: 9/10. One point deducted because I’m pretty sure they had more than one hole

Rage Against the Machine: 10/10. They did exactly that

Alice In Chains: 0/10. This is illegal. Let Alice go

The Band: 10/10. This could not possibly be more accurate

Nine Inch Nails: 1/10. I can’t find any good pictures of their feet but from what I can tell their fingernails definitely aren’t nine inches long

Bush: ?/10. Not quite sure about this one, felt uncomfortable asking

The Who: 2/10. I’m not dealing with this “Who’s On First” bullshit

Radiohead: 0/10. Not a single person in this band has a radio for a head

Queens of the Stone Age: 0/10. This band should be called “five random dudes from the modern era” but FRDFTMA is a bit of a mouthful

Soundgarden: 2/10. Sound does not grow in the garden

Sonic Youth: 5/10. They’re not exactly youth anymore but the sonic part checks out

Talking heads: 8/10. There’s more to the band than just a bunch of disembodied heads but the heads do tend to talk

The Cranberries: 0/10. Decent music but I only added them so that the Beatles and Freddie Mercury weren’t the only fruits on this list

The Wiggles: 8/10. They do tend to wiggle a lot

Blue Man Group: 10/10. Yep!

Weezer: 5/10. They all look like they definitely have asthma

Limp Bizkit: 3/10. While the visual image of baked goods playing the guitar is hilarious, Fred durst is not a biscuit. Points added because he probably has erectile dysfunction

Stone Temple Pilots: 0/10. None of these people are accredited as being licensed to pilot anything, much less an entire stone temple. Stone temples don’t need pilots anyways

Wasted Youth: 8/10. I guess it really kinda depends on how you frame it but yeah, they probably wasted a lot of it

Them Crooked Vultures: 3/10. These are people and not birds but Dave Grohl’s posture is kinda bad and John Paul Jones is so old that his neck kinda looks like a vulture’s so I added some points

Audioslave: 0/10. Slavery is illegal

Traveling Wilburys: 4/10. Sure, they traveled a lot but not a single one of those lying bastards was named Wilbury

D12: 6/12. There were only 6 people in this band

NWA: 10/10. I’m a little too white to safely comment on this one but I’d say they nailed it

Jet: 1/10. A real jet would be way too loud

Goldfinger: 0/10. Not a single person in this band has a finger made out of gold

No Doubt: ?/10. I can’t really be too sure how Gwen Stefani felt but I think it’s probably a safe assumption that she had some doubts

The White Stripes: 3/10. I bet if you stripped them down naked and made them stand shoulder to shoulder and squinted really hard they’d probably look more like white stripes

Screaming trees: 3/10. They scream occasionally

Garbage: 2/10. I think they’re being a little harsh on themselves, their music isn’t THAT bad

Butthole Surfers: 5/10. Not even gonna touch this one

Megadeth: 3/10. To be fair, some of the former members are dead but only a little amount of death, not mega death

Dead Kennedys: 2/10. Last I checked Kennedy was still dead but neither he nor his clones are members of this band

Cake: 0/10. The cake is a lie

Cracker: 8/10. Most of them are

Tool: 7/10. I don’t know much about their music but they sure look like tools

Counting Crows: ?/10. Is this what emo kids do instead of counting sheep? Accuracy depends on whatever bird they happen to be counting at the moment

Dave Matthews Band: 10/10. It certainly is

Oasis: 1/10. Their music is the opposite of an oasis

Blur: 2/10. They are not that fast

Barenaked Ladies: 0/10. If I wanted to be this disappointed I’d reestablish a connection with my biological father instead

Meat Puppets: 10/10. Technically, aren’t we all?

Live: 8/10. Apparently they still do live shows but I deducted some points because I’ve only ever heard their music on Spotify

ABBA: 9/10. I’m still not giving any points to Guns N’ Roses but that’s mostly out of spite

5 Finger Death Punch: 8/10 I guess it probably depends on how hard you hit them but this seems to be the usual amount of fingers to punch somebody with

All American Rejects: 9/10. They’re all rejects from America so I don’t really see any issue with this

T. Rex: 0/10. Even if any of these people WAS a T. Rex I don’t think their arms would be long enough to play their instruments

Free: 0/10. Unless you steal their music, in which case it becomes a 10/10

The Strokes: 3/10. To my knowledge, none of them have had a stroke but I still added a few points because the name was probably accurate for other reasons

The Smashing Pumpkins ?/10. Another thing I have no way of verifying but this seems like a waste of perfectly good pumpkins

Therapy?: ?/10. The hell are they asking me for? I don’t know their medical history

Twenty One Pilots. 0/10. There’s only two of them and neither is a licensed pilot

Finger Eleven: 0/10. Leave the poor Stranger Things girl out of this

Fall Out Boy: 9/10. I conferred with an expert on this one who confirmed that they are in fact boys who had a falling out

Cream: 8/10. Considering this was the OG supergroup I’m sure a lot of people did in fact cream when their music came out

Edit: humans aren’t fucking monkeys. Stop saying we are

[gwarden123]

It's funny. I can go for ages without really knowing what I want to eat, but when the hunger bug hits, it really hits.

[earthnashes]

Meet Melon's pack! As the story of Melon's Adventure progresses, we will eventually see some, if not all, of these yoshi buddies, so what better way to introduce them than to show off their looks? :)

In order of appearance (in the full lineup image), we have:

Bread (brown yoshi): A very sweet yoshi with a love for bread. Interestingly, yoshis don't really cook... or bake. So where exactly does he get his baked goodness?

Butter (yellow yoshi): Bread's twin sister. She's feisty and fast, and has an odd love for butter. She's willing to eat it by itself, much to her brother's chagrin.

Coconut (blue yoshi): An inquisitive yoshi with a love for coconuts! He spends most of his time exploring the beaches of the island, sniffing for his favorite treat and for any treasures he can take home.

Chili (red yoshi): A large yoshi with a hot temper, and even hotter tastes; they love spicy foods, but especially chili peppers! They're quick to frustrate and is sometimes overly strict, but is fiercely loyal and protective of their packmates. They take their role as protector very seriously, and is often the one to join Fig on her patrols.

Potato (purple yoshi): A large, chomky yoshi with a love for potatoes! She love to eat and is always hungry, but is also very generous; when they forage for food she makes it a point to try and find every tasty morsel she can for her packmates. No one goes hungry on her watch!

Pitaya (pink yoshi): The smallest yoshi in the pack, Pitaya is a little lazy and prefers taking naps under the warm sun over any of the chores his packmates task themselves with. Still, he has the strongest nose in the pack, making him their best tracker. His favorite snack is Dragon Fruit!

Melon (green yoshi): The main character of the story and the leader of the pack! Melon is adventurous, kind, and curious; he isn't afraid to venture into the more dangerous parts of the island if it means mapping out safe paths for his pack. In fact, that was what he was doing when Mario landed on his head. His favorite snack is watermelons!

Fig (black yoshi): The largest, strongest yoshi of the pack, Fig is Melon's trusted second-in-command. Her scars are a testament to the fights she's fought for the safety of the others, and she always came out on top, even if it came with a price. She has a permanent limp and is also the oldest of the pack; in fact she was the leader before she passed the status to Melon. Her favorite snack are figs!

-----

These little rascals are all gonna be available as stickers and a stickersheet in my store's launch: Debuting TOMORROW! ;w;

Stay tuned! ^.^

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part vii)

a/n: today on the fluffiest of Stark fluff, Claere goes on a vacation, Cregan rides a sky-cat of a dragon and nearly dies

The brisk winds howled through the open window like a mournful cry, and outside, from the distant courtyard, the sound of Luna's thunderous roar cut through it all—less of a roar to strike fear and more of a longing cry for her rider. It was a sound that used to evoke awe and power toward the open skies; now, it only underscored the emptiness extending between the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, and everything else.

Claere sat by the ledge, uncaring of the chill that bit through her thin gown, her chin resting on her arms. She watched Luna far away, the great white dragon shifting, discontented, wings twitching with the desire to take flight. Her violet eyes shimmered, tears welling at the corners, though none fell. Being a Targaryen meant that a dragon was more than a mere beast. To her, Luna was everything—a best friend, a daughter, a sister, a mother, a reflection of her soul in flesh and flame. Blood from her blood, fire from her fire, they were bound in a way that no human could ever understand.

The ache inside her mirrored that of her dragon. They were both grounded now, for nigh on a week, bound by the silence and influence of Cregan’s absolute command.

Cregan noticed her before he spoke, lingering in the doorway, watching as her delicate frame seemed even smaller against the vastness of the window. She was morning mist, exquisite and evasive, even in her sorrow—more so, perhaps, for the sadness that clung to her like a delicate veil. The faint sunrise caught the tear-stained glint in her eyes, the pale sheen of her skin, her braided silver hair framing her face like a crown of misery.

His heart wrested into itself. He had seen her like this once before—when she had been a stranger to him, when he first tried to coax her to eat, to bring her into the warmth of his home. It felt like a lifetime ago, though the same sadness hung over her now, albeit for different reasons.

Silently, he approached, his footsteps careful on the stone floor. He didn’t announce himself; he knew she’d sensed him long before he arrived.

"Good morrow, love," he greeted her softly, voice low, though he received no answer at first. He undid his cloak to lay it behind a chair. "Slept well?"

She didn’t turn, didn’t flinch, as per usual, her focus fixed on restless Luna below. The chill seemed not to touch her.

Cregan’s gaze shifted to the tray laid out nearby, a modest feast meant for two. He had hoped to tempt her with familiar comforts, a simple offering to break the silence between them.

“I thought we could break our fast together,” he ventured, a hint of hope in his tone.

"I’m not feeling up to it." Her voice was quiet, a mere breath against the wind, but there was no malice in it—only exhaustion.

"Don't punish your appetite for your temper with me," he advised, reaching across the table to caress the back of her head. "Dreamy girl."

She leaned her head away. "I do not have a temper."

He chuckled. "Very well, your grace."

He moved beside her, unbothered by the refusal, his eyes drifting to the spread of food laid out. A variety of her favourites: ruby apples from the capital, freshly churned butter spread over oat bread, honey and blackberry jam, all carefully selected for her. He gave a slight smile and plucked a little lemon posset from the tray, a rare luxury, one of the few delicacies he knew she held fondly from her days in King’s Landing.

“Do you remember this?” he asked, placing the pastry near her. “I had it recreated by the cooks—increasingly annoyed them until they got it right.”

For the first time, Claere turned her head, her eyes falling on the delicacy before flicking to him. The vaguest spark of something—amusement, maybe—crossed her features, but her words were far from sweet.

“Sweetsleep this time, my lord?” she asked, her tone laced with the sharp edge of memory.

The barb of her accusation cut deep, reminding him of the last time—of how he’d slipped the essence of nightshade into her drink to help her sleep, of the guilt that had haunted him since.

But he indulged her grudge, forcing a wry smile to his lips. “I'm afraid it's only lemon and cream, some sugar,” he said lightly, leaning into her. “I have learned better than to drug a dragon to sleep.”

"You're a funny man," she said, surly.

"I try my best."

She said nothing more, but to his relief, she reached for the candied slice of lemon over the posset, without hesitation, and scooped a small serving into her mouth. She chewed slowly, turning back to the window, still impassive, though her silence felt less hostile than it had in days.

Delighted, he plucked a few cranberries and placed them on her plate, slathered a thick layer of jam over the bread and urged it to her mouth.

She squinched, turning away. "I'm no whingeing babe."

“There are worse fates than having me as your meal steward,” he teased, bringing the bread closer.

“Eat it yourself, if you’re so proud of it,” she muttered, pushing the bread back to him.

Cregan dropped the bread onto her plate with a quiet huff and brushed the crumbs off his hands with exaggerated impatience. She gave him a sidelong glance as he walked to the chair beside her, pushing his own plate away.

"I won't eat either then," he declared, settling into his seat with a resolute frown.

Claere sighed, casting him a brief stare, her sweetly obvious annoyance softening, though just barely.

“Stubborn northerner,” she mumbled under her breath, her fingers resuming their idle tracing of the stone ledge.

Cregan leaned back, arms crossed, watching her with wary purpose, a flicker of a smile barely contained at the edges of his lips. “If we both waste away, who’ll keep the lords at bay? Or shall we leave Winterfell to your dragon's mercy?”

Her eyes flicked to his, a fleeting vulnerability cracking through her cold demeanour. She said nothing, but after a lengthy pause, she reached for the jam bread, biting into it without looking at him. Bite after bite until it disappeared.

Stifling his laughter, Cregan joined her side by the window, his arms resting on the ledge beside hers, though his gaze remained fixed on her rather than the courtyard below. He couldn’t help but observe her closely—the delicate lines of her face, the way the sun caught in the silver strands of her hair, the way her lips pressed together, lost in thought. She looked better, eyes alive with violet lustre, healthier now that she was sleeping again, but the distance between them had only grown.

Cregan’s gaze drifted down, his hand instinctively reaching for her side, a gentle brush of fingers over the fabric where he knew the wound lay beneath. He lifted her tunic just enough to check the bandage, his fingers ghosting over the bare skin, where pale scars were knitting around the bruised edges. She barely flinched, but he felt her inhale, the subtle tension rippling through her at the touch. He could see the bruises fading, the wound healing, yet something in her still seemed fragile to him—like glass forged too thin.

For a long moment, he simply rested his hand there, his warmth seeping through to her skin. Soon, he replaced his touch with his lips, pressing it there, as if chasing away the pain.

“It’s mending well,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, though his gaze never left her face.

He reached out, almost hesitant, brushing a loose curl from her temple. That distracting, unfamiliar, sweet perfume wafted from it; he always wondered what it was. No flowers or fruits of Westeros had borne that scent.

“You know,” he began, his voice gentle, “I only forbade you from flying north of the Wall. The skies beyond Winterfell are still yours.”

She remained quiet, her fingers tracing the rim of the weathered stone beneath her arm, but her eyes stayed on the horizon. The thought of Luna still lingered in her mind, but so did the fear—the fear of what would happen if she gave in if she let herself ride again, let herself be consumed by the thoughts of what lay beyond the Wall.

She let out a sigh. “What good is flying if it only starves her more?”

“We have an abundance of harvest. Luna’s hunger won’t tear this place apart,” he countered softly. “But your silence might.”

Claere’s lips parted, a breath of disbelief escaping her. She glanced at him momentarily, the softness in her gaze returning—wounded but filled with love she couldn’t voice.

Her slender hand lifted, fingers spreading open as if cupping something fragile, something long gone.

“When Luna hatched,” she began, her voice distant, “she was small enough to rest in my palm. I used to carry her with me, perched on my shoulder like my little protector, curled into my hair while I slept, watching over me.”

Claere’s eyes shifted to the woods beyond, where Luna prowled like a moving mountain, her growls echoing to the castle. She extended her arm toward the dragon, her fingers curling slightly as if trying to hold that immense creature from afar, to fit her once more into her hand. A wistful smile ghosted across her lips, barely there.

“But she grew… and too fast. By the time I was six, she was larger than Syrax, with white wings wide enough to block out the sun. I never spent a day apart from her. Not once.” Her voice lowered, and she dropped her hand. “And now…”

She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. It hung between them, the significance of their distance bearing down on Cregan.

He watched her, his brow furrowed, discomfort knotting in his chest, wishing for an answer he could not seem to give. There was a pain in her words, a longing he couldn’t soothe with talk of duty or love. She had always been more than a wife or a lady to him; she was fire itself, unbound and untamed. But that fire was darkening, flickering behind her impassive mask.

He could not tell her what he had seen in her sleepless nights—the agonies that had hollowed her, leaving her a shell of the woman he once knew. The hysterical way she used to tear at her hair, crying out in the darkness for things she would not speak of in the light. No, he couldn’t bear to tell her those things. Not now, when she was finally starting to pull herself back from that abyss. It was better she stayed in the dark about his fears.

Cregan straightened, unwilling to let this silence continue. He needed to act; to pull her from the depths she seemed to be sinking into once again. He had been a Lord long enough to know that sometimes it was better to take action when words failed.

“I think…” His voice was measured as if considering his words carefully. “I think perhaps Winterfell has kept you in its guard for too long. A change of scenery might be what you need.”

Claere glanced at him. “A change of scenery?”

He nodded, meeting her gaze with quiet resolve. “Castle Cerwyn. It’s only a few hours on horseback. The old Lord Cerwyn was a second father to me, and his son—well, he’s closer to a brother. It’s a smaller hold, warmer, quieter. We could ride there. Bring Luna with us. Let her stretch her wings over something other than these walls.”

There was a pause, and then, in a softer tone, he added, “And it might help you find some peace… beyond what the Wall takes from you.”

Her lips thinned, not quite a smile, but there was no outright refusal in her eyes. She turned back to the horizon, watching Luna flap her mighty wings below. They could nearly feel the snow and winds she buffeted out from so far off.

“Castle Cerwyn,” she repeated, the name sounding foreign on her tongue. “I wonder what awaits me. More Northern lords suspicious of my sanity and dragon?”

“A kind hearth,” he said simply, his tone warm but insistent. “A quieter place to breathe, to think. And Wolfswood meadows wide enough for you to fly as high as you wish, without fear of where you’ll land.”

At the mention of flying, Claere’s eyes sparkled. He saw it—the briefest spark of yearning. She still longed for the wind, for the liberation that came with it, but it was evident something plagued her, something more than just Luna’s hunger.

Cregan’s hand lingered on her arm, his thumb grazing the edge of her sleeve, and though she didn’t turn toward him, she didn’t pull away either. Her gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon.

“Luna’s not the only one who’s gone too long without a proper meal,” Cregan rasped, his voice low and wanting, fingers gently sliding down to capture hers. His grip was firm but familiar, and his thumb stroked over her palm.

Claere let out a soft sigh, her brow furrowing as if she wanted to resist him, but her grip instinctually softened.

“You’ve gone past bearing, husband,” she muttered, trying to conceal the betrayal in her own hand that curled around his fingers.

Cregan leaned in closer, pressing his shoulder to hers, nudging softly. “A few leagues southwest of Castle Cerwyn,” he murmured, “is the Bay of Ice.”

Claere’s brow quirked ever so slightly, but she said nothing.

He continued, undeterred, his thumb still tracing circles on the back of her hand. “The waters are full of sealife… the kind Luna would love.” His voice was tempting, playful even. “I’d wager she’s never tasted anything quite like it.”

“She likes her meals well-cooked,” Claere replied, still distant, though her lips twitched upward. “She’s no sea dragon of Driftmark.”

“A dragon’s appetite has more range than we think, my princess. Fish, seals; they’ll do for a feast. You need only give her the chance.”

Claere turned to him, raising her brow. “You mean to tempt me with seafood, Lord Stark?”

Cregan grinned wide, his hand leaving hers to brush against her cheek, gently tucking it around her waist. “I mean to tempt you with the skies. And perhaps a bit of seal for Luna. The fresh air might do more than you know, then perhaps you’ll remember why you belong in the sky, not grounded here.”

Claere’s lips tensed, torn between her anger and the pull he had over her. “You’re more unreasonable than I imagined.”

“Possibly,” Cregan murmured, brushing a kiss to her temple, “but you’re still here.”

Claere exhaled, her resistance weakening as her fingers brushed the edge of his leather armour, her head leaning into his touch. She didn’t want to give in, but his warmth had a way of unravelling her walls. The thought of Luna and the open skies tugged at her, the hunger of her dragon like a quiet whisper in the back of her mind.

She finally turned her head, her gaze locking with his. “You’d risk the wrath of my dragon for a taste of the sea?”

Cregan smiled. “I’d risk far worse for you.”

X

Or perhaps he had spoken too soon.

The King in the North had faced many fears in his life, but nothing quite like the trepidation that settled in his gut now. He had vanquished his foes and withstood the bitterest winters, but the thought of mounting Luna—akin to her ancestor, Balerion the Black Dread—wore at his composure. He had never been afraid of beasts, direwolves or bears, yet here he was, feeling less a man and more prey in her amber gaze.

Luna was massive, far larger than he had truly reckoned. From a distance, Luna seemed a marvel; up close, she was a force of nature, a leviathan of Valyrian legend, a living mountain. Her scales glimmered pearlescent, like snow itself, but the beauty of her glistening hide belied the danger in every shift of her sinewy muscles, every glint of her amber eyes. Her wings were half-furled, like banners of war, and her teeth—gods, her longsword-like teeth—could rend the gates of Winterfell if she chose.

Cregan had seen Claere mount the beast with the same effortless grace as a songbird landing on a familiar branch, but now, standing before her, the very idea seemed mad. When he had agreed to ride on Luna to Castle Cerwyn, he had imagined it to be a piece of piss. But such was the conceit of Northmen; if he backed away or failed, he would never let himself live it down.

"Lykiri," he rasped under his breath with a palm stretched out, the one word of Valyrian he had committed to memory, praying it held the same calming power as when Claere said it. Perhaps Luna would smell her rider on him and go easy.

The dragon rose to her lasting glories, a low, thundering growl vibrating through her chest, and Cregan felt it in the marrow of his bones. She lowered her mighty head towards him, her crown of spikes and horns juddering, her jaws unhinging just enough to reveal rows of gleaming, deadly teeth. An inferno awakened from within her throat, ready to engulf him.

He could nearly hear his instincts begging him to turn and flee, sprint for the cover of the trees, and curse himself for ever stepping near this thing.

But he stood rooted in place, blood rushing wildly in his veins. Whether it was his pride or his love for Claere that anchored him, he wasn’t certain.

And then, from behind him, that voice—gentle but commanding, laced with a soft, knowing giggle.

“Lykiri, Luna. Laehossa ynot,” Claere said, the sound flowing from her lips in flawless Valyrian, like an old cradlesong soothing an anxious child. Be calm, Luna. Eyes on me.

The influence was instantaneous. Luna’s growl ceased, her jaws closing with a quiet snap, and her massive form seemed to settle into the ground, though her beady eyes still lingered on Cregan with wary regard.

“Bisa daor sagon ēza,” she murmured. This is not your enemy.

Claere approached her dragon with graceful ease, stepping in front of Cregan as if to shield him from any lingering suspicion Luna might harbour. Her dragon-riding leathers, much like the ones he had seen on her queen mother, were regal and sleek—grey furs and blue, tailored to fit her form, with high collars and silver fastenings that gleamed in the cold light. The cloak billowed behind like her own wings, a living emblem of her Targaryen bloodline.

"Gōntan ao bōsa syt nyke tolī, gevie Luna? Ēza ñuha valzȳrys ivestragī ao merbugon?" Her voice was soft, the words lilting and musical, almost tender. It was as though she spoke not to a beast but to a dear friend, a sister. Did you miss me too, beautiful Luna? Has my husband let you starve?

Luna’s growls turned into gentle rumblings, deep in her chest, as she drooped her massive head toward Claere. The dragon’s enraged eyes quieted, and her nostrils flared in recognition as she nudged her rider, a deep, affectionate sound escaping her throat.

"Issi ao sȳrkta sir," she whispered. You are healing well.

Claere raised her hand to Luna’s snout, fingers tracing the sharp ridges of her scales, and in response, Luna’s wings fluttered, that sent a ripping tide through the air.

Cregan stood there, awestruck. His wife, no taller than one of Luna’s fangs, looked like a mere speck of snow in front of the dragon’s mountainous form. Yet, in Claere’s presence, Luna preened like a giant kitten under her mistress’s touch. As Claere’s fingers journeyed down the spikes along the dragon’s throat, inspecting the long scarring wounds, Luna roared in what Cregan could only describe as bliss. He had never seen such a creature so utterly tamed, so devoted.

"Ssh," she shushed, giggling. She rested her forehead against the dragon's hide, breathing slowly. "Ivestragī īlva sōvegon arlī, ñuha riña." Let us fly again, my girl.

That smile Claere wore—for all his jokes and sarcasm, she had never smiled at him like that. Not before the Wall's shadow had held her prisoner or the morning after they'd made love. It was especially for her pet. He found himself growing jealous of that beast.

“She won’t bite,” Claere called out to him over her shoulder, amusement bright in her eyes. “Unless you give her reason to.”

“You don’t inspire much confidence, love,” Cregan grumbled, eyeing the dragon’s teeth again.

Claere tilted her head, the corners of her mouth lifting in that happier smile. “She knows you. She just doesn’t understand why you’re still standing there like a frightened little doe.”

“I'm no doe or little,” Cregan countered, though the firmness in his voice faltered under the pressure of Luna’s stare.

“You seem like a man who wants to run away,” Claere teased and held out a hand to beckon him. “Come close, wolf. She won’t let you mount her from there.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed as he stepped cautiously toward Luna’s side. The dragon shifted, her enormous wings stretching slightly, causing a gust of wind to blow through the woods. Her amber eyes locked onto him, and Cregan could swear they were measuring his worth.

“You are certain she won’t eat me?” he asked dryly, not quite hiding the edge in his voice. “She’s been starving for a week, and I’m just the right size for supper.”

Claere laughed, palming her mouth, a sweet dulcet that was full of life, he swore a winter rose stood to bloom by her feet.

Cregan eventually stood beside her, too late to question his choices, and the towering beast dwarfed him entirely. Claere had already started to climb up the ropes and nets affixed to the saddle on Luna’s back with the practised grace of someone who had done this a thousand times.

He, on the other hand, felt immobilised, staring at the sheer size of the creature he was about to mount. If the gods were real, now would be the time to give him hope.

“Do you need a hand, Lord Stark?” Claere called down, her voice still holding that sweet laugh.

“I can manage,” Cregan replied sternly, though as his hand grasped the first rope, he doubted his words. The first Stark to ride a dragon, he thought. He would not make a fool of himself.

It took every bit of his strength to pull himself up the ropes, feeling Luna’s immense heat and powerful muscles shift beneath him. The dragon made a thrumming sound—half-growl, half-sigh—and Claere stroked her, speaking softly.

“Luna, jaelagon,” she nearly sang out. Luna, wait.

Finally settling behind her on the saddle, Cregan exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I didn’t think I’d survive long enough to make it up here,” he muttered, his voice thick with relief.

Claere turned about to face him, her silver hair catching the sunlight. “She likes you, though I’m not sure why.”

“Perhaps because I’m keeping her friend well-fed,” he quipped, his arms instinctively wrapping around her waist as Luna began to rise, wings readying for flight.

She laughed softly, a sound he didn’t often hear from her. “Maybe. Or perhaps because she knows I’d never let her eat you.”

Cregan’s grip tightened as Luna crouched, her wings stretching wide in preparation, leathern scales creaking like taut sails. The ground seemed to tremble beneath them, but Claere was unfazed, completely at ease atop the creature that could so easily rain ruin and destruction over cities. Cregan, meanwhile, could only marvel at her fearlessness, this strange and beautiful woman who, for all her quiet rage and somber smiles, steered a force of nature with nothing more than a whisper.

“You look as though you’re debating jumping off,” Claere teased again, turning her head slightly to catch a glimpse of his tensed face. “Still uncertain?”

“Aye,” he muttered, not entirely making a jest. “But I trust you.”

Her violet eyes softened, and the distance between them bridged for a brief moment. He pressed his lips over her ear, kissing her deeply.

And with a sharp Valyrian command—"Sōvēs, Luna!"—Luna leapt into the sky, her wings beating against the cold air. Fly, Luna!

They scaled up higher and higher, the icy winds biting at Cregan's face as the ground became a distant blur below. The sheer speed, the strength in every beat of Luna’s wings, made his heart thunder. He understood in that moment what it truly meant to ride a dragon. It was more than flight—it was dominion, unchallenged and absolute. The Targaryens didn’t just ride beasts—they commanded the very essence of freedom itself.

Beyond him, Luna let out an explosive roar that echoed into the heavens, a cry not of fury but of pure exhilaration. It reverberated through his chest, drowning out everything but the sound of the wind tearing past them.

And in front of him, Claere—his ever-composed, lady wife—was not the woman bound to Winterfell or its solemn halls. She became unrecognizable. Wild, untamed, she moved with Luna as if they were one. He could see the sheer ecstasy in her, an exuberance that was unburdened by duty, unchained from her past.

Claere twisted her head back to him with a grin, her silver hair whipping across her face. “Still believe you can handle it?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, she twisted a rein around her wrist and leaned forward, and Luna suddenly plummeted. The world spun in a violent spiral, clouds swivelling as they dived. His grip tautened, and a growl escaped his throat—half terror, half awe.

“Claere!” he roared, though the rush of air stole his voice.

But there was no fear in her. She simply laughed along, steering Luna suavely.

His stomach lurched as they hurtled toward the earth, but just as quickly, Luna swooped, her massive wings spreading to catch the wind and slow them to a smooth glide. Cregan couldn’t stop himself. The shout of fear turned into something else—an uncontrollable whoop of excitement that burst from his lips. This was living, this was it. He threw back his head, letting out a deep, throaty laugh, adrenalin flooding his veins.

Still breathless, Luna glided the clouds at a leisurely pace, and Cregan curved his arms around Claere's midsection, holding her closer.

"I think I’d rather be on a horse next time,” he breathed into her hair, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his words.

Claere twisted in the saddle, her smirk full of mischief. “You sound much braver with both feet planted, my lord.”

He barked a laugh, despite himself. “You scared the sense out of me.”

Her smile only widened, and for a moment, as they drifted across the sky, she seemed like the girl she might’ve been if things had been different—before duty, loss, and impressions. It struck him, how young she truly was, how young they both were. Six and ten, nine and ten. Merely children who had grown too fast for expectations. But that was the way of their world—of power, of society, of tradition, of ambition, of titles—that weighed heavy long before they could even begin to understand them.

Luna tilted her wings gently, and they coasted toward the golden horizon, irrevocable souls entwined with the wind.

X

The snow had melted by the time they neared Castle Cerwyn, the old stone fortress standing strong against the sprawling landscape. The castle, though smaller than Winterfell, carried the same powerful significance—an imposing sight against the bare, snow-swept hills. The black-and-silver banner of House Cerwyn—a crowned sword on a dark field—flapped fiercely in the wind.

Cregan’s eyes darted to the men waiting in the courtyard, their breath misting in the frigid air, and at the forefront stood Lonnel Cerwyn, tall, dark and broad, his thick furs making him look even more massive. His pale eyes, like chips of ice, were locked on them, his bearded face twisted into what looked like a permanent scowl.

As they dismounted, Luna’s massive form cast a shadow across the courtyard, her silver-and-pearl scales glinting against the sky. The dragon huffed, her breath steaming as she lowered her head, watching the newcomers with predatory eyes. Lord Cerwyn, his gaze moving from the dragon to Claere and then back to Cregan, strode forward with conscious steps, not wanting to agitate the beast.

“You’re late, Stark,” Cerwyn barked, his voice booming across the courtyard, rough as the northern cold itself. "Thought you’d flown off south, or maybe you’ve forgotten how to ride anything with four legs."

Cregan smirked as he helped Claere down from Luna’s saddle, although she didn't need it, his hand briefly resting on her lower back. She lingered near the dragon, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings as she edged closer to Luna’s side for comfort.

"No dragon's taken my wits yet, Cerwyn," Cregan said, unable to suppress a laugh. "I had half a mind to see if your lot’s finally learned what manners look like."

Cerwyn’s scowl deepened for a heartbeat, then cracked as he let out a deep laugh that could have shaken the very walls. He seized Cregan in a bear hug, slapping his back with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs.

"Manners, eh? If you’ve brought them with you, they’ll freeze before they reach the hall!"

Cregan chuckled, pulling back. "Some things never change. You’re still uglier than pig shit."

"Aye, but at least I’m not riding dragons, you mad cunt." Cerwyn’s grin widened as he looked past Cregan to Claere, his gaze gentling a fraction.

Turning his attention to her, Cerwyn’s mirth faded into something more respectful, though his northern bluntness remained. He bowed before her and shot her an exaggerated wink.

"You’ve made quite the entrance, Your Grace. No Targaryen has set foot in these halls—until today. Castle Cerwyn is all yours."

Claere, standing beside a rumbling Luna, felt the weight of his gaze. She inclined her head, her fingers briefly grazing the dragon's hide for comfort.

"Lord Cerwyn," she greeted quietly, her voice even, but there was a reluctance in her stance. "It’s an honour."

Cerwyn’s eyes flicked to Luna, the massive beast dwarfing the entire castle, and then back to Claere. “An honour? No, my lady, the honour is mine.” He took a step closer, his tone shifting to high earnest. “And I thank you for the Glass Gardens. Your gift will feed not only Winterfell but all of us in the hard seasons to come.”

Claere dipped her head in a bare curtsey, her eyes flickering with uncertainty, though she spoke evenly. "The North will need all its strength, Lord Cerwyn. Winter is coming."

Lonnel regarded her for a moment longer before turning back to Cregan with a knowing grin. “You never cease to surprise me, you gruff bastard. So how did you manage to charm the princess with all your brooding?”

Cregan crossed his arms, raising a brow. "Hardly a charm—more like persistence."

Lonnel snorted, amused. “Wore her down, did you? Poor lass.” He glanced at Claere, who gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.

Cregan chuckled, but his gaze drifted briefly to Claere, sensing her unease in the bustling courtyard. She stood poised but quiet, her hands occasionally brushing Luna’s scales as though seeking solace from the dragon’s proximity.

“Come on, then,” Lonnel waved them toward the castle gates, his grin widening as he added in a low tone, “before the snow buries us all.”

As they moved forward, the men of Cerwyn’s hall bowed deeply to Cregan, murmuring their respects with “Lord Stark,” while their gazes flickered in curiosity toward Claere. She received more nods and soft murmurs of “my princess” and “my lady” than she ever had at Winterfell, though the gestures only seemed to accentuate how out of place she still felt. She bowed her head in return, her hands folding neatly at her waist, but her silence remained. Cregan kept her by his side, not pressing her to speak, knowing well enough that she would adjust on her own time. For now, she was still the strange Valyrian witch of the North, standing tall and composed despite the swirl of hesitation beneath.

“We’ve plenty of meat and wine,” Lonnel added, clapping Cregan on the shoulder once more. “Though if you’re lucky, Stark, I’ll keep the jests about you riding the White Dread to a minimum.”

X

As the sky darkened above the Wolfswood, Cregan and Lonnel sat beneath the shelter of towering pines, just at the edge of a wide valley. Their breath misted in the cold air, and the sounds of the night around them blended into a quiet symphony of rustling branches and distant wolf howls. The hunting had long been set aside, and now they sat by the fire, its flickering light casting shifting shadows against the trees as they lifted their horns of ale, hands near-freezing in the brisk night.

Lonnel took another swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze shifting to the horizon beyond. He shook his head, casting a sly glance at Cregan, his mouth tugging into a smirk.

"By the gods, Stark, you’ve gone and done it. Brought dragon's blood into your hearth. Tell me—what’s the princess like when that fire isn’t blazing for the rest of us to see?” He leaned in, his grin turning wicked. “Or does it blaze on, even in the dark?”

Cregan chuckled, leaning back against the trunk of a tree. "You’ve always had a filthy mouth, Lonnel. But she’s more than what you’d imagine."

"Oh, I’m imagining plenty." Lonnel laughed, his voice rich with mischief. "I see her there in Winterfell, all young and radiant. You’re telling me that’s what you bed at night? No wonder you’ve got that weary look in your eyes. Must take all the strength you’ve got, mounting a dragon till the dawn.”

Cregan shot him a playful glare. "Weary? I could still break you in half before you took a step. And I’d gladly do it too if you keep going."

Lonnel grinned, shrugging as he raised his horn of ale. "It’s her that keeps you on your toes, eh? Taming a woman with Old Valyrian fire in her veins… Gods, I can’t even get my own wife to listen to me, and Arelle's nought but Northborn. What chance do you have against dragon’s blood?”

Cregan shook his head, his expression softening. "There’s no taming her, and I’d be a fool to try. She’s wilder than the wind… and I wouldn’t want it any other way."

"Wild like the wind,” Lonnel mused, scratching his chin with a grin. “Or a storm? What’s it like, then? When it’s just the two of you?”

Cregan’s gaze shifted to the flames, reflective, an unknowing smile growing on his lips. Any mention of her only expanded his chest three times its size. "It’s quieter than you’d think. In those moments, it’s as if everything falls away. The world itself. She’s entirely… Claere. And she’s mine."

Lonnel raised an eyebrow, his grin easing to something softer, more genuine. "So the wolf’s got a heart, then, under all that steel and duty."

"Mind your tongue before I remember we’re only friends."

Lonnel snorted, draining his horn with a nostalgic shake of his head. “Friends, aye. But I remember when we were hardly more than lads. Drunk on bad ale and worse decisions. Gods, do you remember that girl?” He leaned in, smirking. “The one in Torrhen’s Square? Tall as a sapling, golden hair?”

Cregan laughed, rubbing his face, caught off guard. “Alannys.” He shook his head with a groan. “She took one look at us, decided I was the taller one, and sent you packing.”

“How tragic for Alannys,” Lonnel quipped, a wry grin forming. “She wouldn’t have handled both a Stark and Cerwyn in one night, I tell you that. Good thing I saved that coin for... Malia? Mylla? Fuck if I know.”

Cregan chuckled, raising his horn in a mock toast. “To bad ale and worse decisions.”

"And those poor girls who survived us." Lonnel laughed, clinking his horn against Cregan's. They let out a deep sigh in unison, leaning back. “Look at us now—wives, babes, duties. Gods, we’ve come far, Stark.”

"Too far, some would say.” Cregan’s smile faded, a sense of gravity settling in. “You took us in without question, Lonnel. For that, I owe you.”

Lonnel waved a dismissive hand. “You’re a brother to me. The gates of Castle Cerwyn open for you, whether you come with a pack of direwolves or a damned dragon. You know that.” He paused, his gaze falling on Cregan, more intense. “But you must also know why the whispers reached me before you did. The North listens, Cregan. And it’s hearing a lot more than just the flapping of dragon wings.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he stayed silent, letting Lonnel continue.

“They say she’s been to the Wall more times than any crow has seen. They say she’s witnessed what no man should and kept it all to herself. Dark things, ancient things. And if it all comes back for her…” He let the words hang, heavy between them. “What will you do?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. “I’ll do what I’ve always done.”

Lonnel chuckled, shaking his head. “Stand and fight, aye. It’s what we were raised to do. But this storm you’ve brought to your door, Stark… it doesn’t just take the one who called it. It takes everything in its path.”

Cregan stared into the flames, thinking about all that had passed in the recent weeks. “She hasn’t told me all of what she’s seen,” he admitted, his voice lower. “But it haunts her. It pains me to see her like that, Lonnel. That’s why I brought her here—to find some measure of peace.”

Lonnel eyed him, more serious now, then took a long drink, the mood sinking as the fire crackled between them. “She’s not just Lady Stark, Cregan—not just your wife. And you’ve more than love at stake. If whatever comes for her… you’ll fight back, I know it. But she’s a crown. And crowns bring war.”

Cregan’s eyes flickered, his face hardening as he looked into the fire. “The North has always known war. It's nothing new.”

Lonnel exhaled a bitter laugh, though his gaze didn’t soften. “Not this kind of war, my friend. Not one that comes from the dark beyond the Wall… or from the throats of ten grown dragons beyond the Reach.”

Cregan’s gaze hardened, resolute. He would not yield his wife for anyone or anything, kin or foe.

“Then let them all come.”

X

The sunlight felt like a rare gift upon Cregan's skin, the warmth cajoling him into a state of near-sleep as he lay across the tough leather rug, between the tall grass, his head pillowed on Claere’s lap, a contented smile playing on his lips as her fingers worked through his hair, weaving small braids with deft movements. Beneath his closed eyelids, the sun burned faint patterns, flickering with each shift of the sparse clouds above. Her voice wafted over him, soft but clear, painting tales of the Bay of Ice, of the frigid, salt-bitten wind, and of Luna hunting seals over those frozen waters.

"They think she swallowed a star," she told him, laughing, a fingertip tracing the length of his nose.

This was paradise. Perhaps it had found him before his deathbed. He hummed along, not truly listening.

He caught faint fragments of her words, the sweet dulcet of her voice rising and falling like a ballad, as she described House Wull’s hardy folk, their eagerness for Luna’s fire to melt the icebergs so they could fish the rich waters beneath. He felt half-lost in the weave of her tale, lulled by the warmth of the sun, the distant clicks of insects, and her fingers threading through his hair like strands of silk.

In a flash, his head slipped from her lap, his neck cricking at an awkward angle. He straightened, rubbing at the spot with a hiss, only to catch sight of her, already cradling a small brown hare, her touch gentle as she brushed its ears and stroked its belly. The sight of her, intent on the little creature, was enough to coax a grin from him.

“Another one for the cookpot then, my lady?” he teased, his voice low and affectionate.

Claere barely spared him a glance, scowling. “Don't be daft.”

Cregan chuckled, leaning back on his elbows as she continued fussing over the hare, her fingers tracing its paws as if in reverence.

“Strange, though,” he said after a moment, his tone more curious than jesting. “What exactly turns you from meat?”

She looked down, her expression thoughtful. “I realized very young that all the world is a balance. Give and take,” she replied with quiet conviction. “My dear dragon's appetite is ample enough; I’d rather give back than take more myself. With her takings are my denials.” Her eyes softened, a shadow of memory flickering there. “I’ve stayed away from it ever since.”

He tilted his head, struck by the dignity and care in her words, considering her. “And what of your tourneys, then? The royal hunts on your namedays? A fine feast without a kill—well, some would call it unseemly for a princess.”

She gave a light shrug, almost nonchalant. “I never had any such thing.”

The words hung there, simple but sharp. She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the playful hare. And he knew better than to pry—the silences of her brothers in her presence, absence of her queen mother's well-wishings, the vacant gestures from her kin, all spoke of a girl with Targaryen blood, Valyrian heritage, truest claim left with the least, yet no more than a shadow in her family’s regard. She’d been raised like an instrument, a spare, the uncelebrated princess, a piece on a board she was never meant to play.

Breaking the silence, Claere spoke, her voice barely above a murmur. “Your namedays must’ve been different.”

Cregan felt a bittersweet smile tug at his lips. Anything to divert his pity. He let the memories flood back, the good ones.

“Different, aye," he sighed.

Claere let the hare hop off her lap, which then refused to run off, waiting on its hind paws by the edge of the mat.

“I was gifted a direwolf pup once, all fur and bluster. Only two weeks in, it was off like the wind. Ran as far as its legs would carry it the first time I made it wear a collar.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “It never came back.”

She laughed under her breath, a soft sound like water slipping over stone. “I should have guessed. But I could find you one if you wish it,” she offered, almost teasing. “The kennel master’s raising a whole pack of them now. They’re all tremendous, close to soldiers.”

He tilted his head back, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Another collar and another beast bound to run?” he teased, the light in his eyes warm. “Or perhaps I’ll forego wolves and settle for that dragon I was promised.”

“If you dare to face it,” she said, eyes narrowing with playful challenge. “The next clutch is yours for the choosing.”

His laughter rolled through the quiet woods, deep and warm. “So, you’d spoil me not just with Winterfell’s fiercest fire, but with her hatchlings too? You know, I think this northern air has made you a touch reckless.”

Her eyes glinted, playful, leaning closer as she matched his tone. “It’s only fair that I spoil you in turn,” she whispered, her voice silken, carrying through the hushed trees like a spell.

"Oh, my love, you've spoiled me very much."

He hummed, pleased, and then, without warning, pulled her close and rolled her beneath him on the soft leather rug. The breath left her in a misty gasp, her gaze meeting his—startled, but not resisting. His weight was grounding, solid and warm, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, the drift of his breath, the quiet crackle of the leaves around them.

Her gaze flitted as his hand moved to the hilt of the Valyrian dagger he carried, her gift to him from the time before, offered with silent promises of protection. He unsheathed it slowly, the blade glinting, and her eyes traced its movement, following as he held it between them.

“With this. A rare gift,” he murmured, “from a rare woman.”

His words were low, each syllable drawn out as he slid the dagger to the bow at her bodice, poised at the silk ribbon’s edge. With a slow, deliberate twist, he dragged the blade down, the tip of it sharp but light against her skin as the fabric came undone. Her breath hitched as she felt the cool brush of metal taunting her, each tug loosening her defences. The fabric loosened and gave way under his touch, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched his own.

“And now, sweetling,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, voice rough, yet unhurried, “how would you rescue yourself from me?”

He moved the knife lower, its edge trailing over the delicate fabric, a promise and a threat wrapped in tenderness. "Hmm?"

She gave a shiver, yet her eyes held his, and there was no fear there, only a steady defiance. His breath was warm against her ear, his voice a low rumble as he traced the knife along her bodice, a feather’s weight skimming her skin. But her gaze never wavered, the faintest glint of mischief sparking in her eyes.

In one swift motion, Claere twisted beneath him, and with a deft manoeuvre, caught him off balance. She rose, bashing the knife from his grip and flipping him onto his back with a victorious grin, sitting astride him.

Cregan gave a low laugh, a touch winded, staring up at her in bemusement. “You think to best me?”

Her mouth curled, fierce and gleeful. “Seems I already have.”

His hands slid up to cradle her face, and then he drew her into a gruff, enticing kiss, all hasty lips, quiet moans, his warmth a balm against the long palls she bore. She softened in his arms that scuffed into her back eagerly, her fingers trailing down his jaw, meeting his fervour with her own, as though she could draw every bit of the strength and surety he offered.

He paused, breathless, the dominating weight of her against him stirring him upright. With a steadying exhale, he pulled back, eyes still locked on hers, and reached to loosen his cuffs, the sound of each metal clasp a whirr of intent as he shrugged off the coat of plates, carelessly letting it slide off.

But when he looked up, it was her watching him, her loosened bodice held against her chest. Her gaze was calm, unguarded, a touch of wonder damping her expression as if she were seeing him in a new light, yet holding some invisible line between them. Cregan let his hands fall to his sides, sensing her hesitation, yet unmoving in his resolve.

“You think to leave me bested, then, after all this?” he murmured, his voice a teasing rumble that chased away the last shadows between them.

She raised a brow, lips curving. Her arms dropped, letting her bodice fall loose from her chest.

“Consider it a reminder of who you are dealing with.”

He laughed and leaned back on his palms, his candid gaze holding hers. “Then come closer, and let me be reminded once more.”

X

Even with the amicable airs of Castle Cerwyn, sleep evaded Claere like a wary shadow. She would lay awake, eyes tracing patterns from the night sky in the darkened ceiling, her mind tangled in dark memories and half-formed fears. More than once, Cregan stirred beside her, sensing her wakefulness. He’d gather her close, his hand soothing circles along her back, murmuring in that low voice of his.

“Sleep, love,” he’d say and kiss her hair. “It's all gone. You're far beyond it. I have you now.”

She’d push her face into the crook of his neck, his heartbeat steady under her cheek, grounding her, though the shadows still lingered.

Another night, he left and returned with a fur-lined blanket warmed by the fire, wrapping it snugly around her. He traced a thumb along her temple and cheek, eyes full of a patience that was, to her, an astonishment. Be it anyone else, they would have left her to find her own peace.

“I’ll stay awake for you, keep the shadows at bay,” he promised, half in jest, half earnest.

She reached out, her fingertips brushing the curve of his lips, a gesture that was as much for him as it was for herself. "Thank you."

A small smile lifted her lips, shy but true, feeling for once as if the weight on her shoulders had lessened, just a touch. In this moment, she knew she loved him—loved him with a depth that ran deeper than duty or bond. His patience was a balm, his nearness an anchor; it healed wounds she’d long since stopped tending to. And though she rarely gave voice to the feeling, it surged within her now, filling the cracks she had long since accepted.

In his presence, she realized, she was safe.

By the fourth morning, a softened tranquillity had woven through her—delicate, a return to herself. Breathing in the cool air of Castle Cerwyn, letting the scents of moss and pine fill her lungs, she felt her apprehension slip further away here, watching Cregan exult with his old friend Lonnel. She saw a side of him she’d never truly seen—unburdened, joyful—as if the duties that weighed him down in Winterfell had been cast aside, lightened in this place.

The aviary, her newfound haven, beckoned to her like a sanctuary of life and song. She spent hours among the birds, marvelling at the late Lord Cerwyn’s collection: songbirds that trilled melodies, fierce hawks, regal eagles, white doves, and her favourite—a grey parrot that greeted her with a soft hum whenever she hummed first. It was the gentlest of welcomes, and for a while, she felt just a nobody wandering among the trees.

"A lovely voice, Your Grace. I've only ever heard tell of it,” came a voice from behind her.

She turned, startled, to find Lonnel Cerwyn leaning against the aviary gate, a faint smile playing on his lips. She dipped her head in acknowledgement, still unused to strangers’ easy familiarity, and now hesitantly drifted along the cages, learning the birds.

As Claere continued to walk beside the cages, she sensed Lonnel’s presence still at her side, solid and patient. His eyes followed her gaze across the rows of birds, some chirping softly, others watching her back with colourful, attentive eyes.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “you’ve taken to our feathered friends, then? I wouldn’t have taken a Targaryen to like things caged. Would’ve thought you preferred creatures of… larger wingspans.”

Claere smiled, her gaze lingering on the hawk perched within, its fierce stare mirroring her own restraint.

“You’re not wrong, my lord. I believe they belong to the skies.” She paused, turning to look at him. “They’re creatures of flight; seeing them locked away feels strange. Wouldn’t they serve better if trained?”

Lonnel hummed, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, but trust’s a hard thing in the North, my lady. We cage what we cannot lose. They might turn loyal, but even a hawk can strike when cornered.”

Claere’s gaze drifted to a small thrush flitting nervously in its cage, and her voice softened. “Even so. Let a creature soar; you might find it follows because it chooses to. Lock it away, and all you see is its shadow.” Her fingers grazed the bars thoughtfully. "It's why Luna never lived in the dingy lairs of Dragonmont. I left her to fly free wherever she wanted."

Lonnel studied her, a flash of understanding passing between them. “Perhaps we Northerners hold onto things too tightly,” he said.

Lonnel hummed thoughtfully, reaching into a cage to coax a hawk onto his glove. "And one of those beautiful things is Violet. Violet's been a hunting guide of mine for years."

She watched as he gently lifted Violet, her wings extending wide.

But as they unfurled, a sudden vision struck her: flashes of white feathers shifting into silver scales, the hawk’s call blurring into Luna’s roar. She could see it: a thousand wildlings pouring over the Wall, spears in hand, flames burning, their faces darkened under the thick coats. Another flash—the great walls of Winterfell loomed over her, blood staining the stones, and in the fray stood Cerwyn, his hands red and his pace relentless, sword in hand, facing a shadowed foe.

She blinked hard, the vision dissipating as quickly as it had come. Lonnel was watching her, the hawk calm in his grip.

"My lady?" he called, a tension lacing his tone.

Claere steadied her breath and lifted her gaze to him, her hand immediately reaching up to press against his cheek, her fingers cool against his warm skin, as if she were grounding herself. She didn’t know what part of the future she’d seen, if it was his, his children’s, or some fate destined for the next generation. But her heart trembled with the significance of it.

“Keep your heart steady, Lord Cerwyn,” she said as if speaking to him across time itself.

Lonnel’s face flickered with surprise, but he didn’t pull away. He only held her gaze, a silent promise passing between them, however one-sided it was, a confused understanding.

And then, with that quiet exchange lingering like the last note of a song, she withdrew, leaving him with the young hawk in hand, her footsteps retreating along the path of the aviary.

X

The grand hall of Castle Cerwyn was smaller than Winterfell’s, yet it brimmed with warmth, a soft familiarity that softened the edges of the North’s rugged chill. The hearth crackled with thick logs, filling the space with a heat that seeped into the bones, banishing the crisp cold outside. Long trestle tables bore the evening’s fare—a hearty venison roast glazed with honey and herbs, cheese pies, oatcakes with dried fruits, dark bread still steaming, and pitchers of spiced ale that filled the air with a fragrant bite. The scents were rich and earthy, consorting with the soft murmur of voices and laughter that filled the space.

Arelle, Lonnel’s wife, was glowing despite her swelling belly. Her hand rested protectively over her babe, the big smile on her lips a mere instinct. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders loosely, framing a face alight with contentment as she looked to Lonnel, who seemed unable to take his eyes off her. Their gazes would meet across the table, exchanging silent fondness, and Cregan found himself observing them with a stifled smile, reminded of his and Claere’s own shared moments. He had been fortunate enough to find something like that in his own time. Patience truly was a virtue.

Cregan reached for Claere’s hand beneath the table, a gentle squeeze. She bent her fingers between his, holding him tighter, squeezing back.

For the first time in weeks, they were somewhere uncomplicated, unburdened by towering walls and solemn silences.

Conversation flowed as if from a babbling brook, Lonnel regaling them with tales of old hunts and mishaps, each story coaxing a rare smile from Claere. Then, Arelle leaned forward, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“My lady,” she said, almost shyly. “Lonnel mentioned you were… quite exceptional with the harp. I’ve longed to hear you play ever since.”

Cregan felt his chest tighten, a flicker of worry crossing his face. He knew Claere’s songs were steeped in her visions and dreams, dark prophecies veiled in melody. But before he could speak, Claere interfered.

“It would be my pleasure,” she said, her voice gentle yet trusting.

Cregan’s worry ebbed as quickly as it came, replaced by admiration. She always surprised him. He’d seen her hands coax Luna's fires to life, and wield the delicate tools of her garden, and, now, he was about to see them breathe life into a song.

A harp was brought forward on the dais, its golden strings gleaming in the firelight, and Claere’s long, delicate fingers traced over them with an intimacy born of instinct. She began to play a soft tune, one that filled the hall like a lullaby, each note like a petal floating through the air, softening the stillness. Her melody was warm and peaceful—a rare sound from her, as though she was offering a glimpse of a world unburdened.

Her sweet voice, smooth as silk, joined the harp, and the words she sang wove into the room like a spell:

"In fields of frost and towering trees, a heart’s true kin awaits in peace..."

As her voice wove through the hall, soft and lilting, Cregan felt the world fade around them. Each note hung in the air, heavy with a sweetness he recognized as his own. Her words fell like secrets meant only for him, and as her gaze met his, a smile played at his lips, slow and sure. She was singing for him, he realized, in this open hall, like an unspoken vow carved into the heart of the North.

His chest swelled, a fierce, undeniable warmth sweeping through him. Every hardship, every moment they had faced together—the bitter nights, the bone-chilling dawns, the weariness—all of it had led to this calm, boundless love. Here she was, with a song that spoke of him, binding his heart to hers before the world as if none but they two could hear it.

Cregan held onto this moment with almost reverent care, a part of him feeling almost foolishly lucky. She was his, this woman of fire and prophecy, and though she bore shadows in her past, here and now, her voice was for him. And he knew, with all the steel and sinew of his being, that he loved her more deeply than he could ever say.

And he should've known, what he had been conditioned to consider beyond all this newfound devotion, that not all good things last very long.

As Claere's song drifted in the air, the hall doors opened, and the castle's maester entered, his face grave beneath the dim candlelights. He crossed the floor to Cregan, extending a parchment sealed with the unmistakable black wax of the Night’s Watch.

“Dire straits, Lord Stark,” he intoned, his voice respectful but heavy with urgency.

Cregan’s hand tightened around the parchment, breaking the seal as he read its contents. As he did, the lightness in the hall seemed to drain.

When he looked up, a murmur passed through the hall as all eyes fixed on him. He hesitated, then addressed his audience, his voice collected but cold. “A word from the Wall.”

Lonnel, his face creased with confusion, asked, “Wildling attack?”

“Worse.” Cregan’s voice was sombre, his face darkening. “They’ve overrun the garrison at Queensgate. A chieftain who calls himself Sylas the Grim led a force of three thousand through the breach.”

There was a ripple of reaction in the room. Claere’s hands stilled on her harp, her gaze intent. She’d heard stories of wildlings crossing the Wall, of skirmishes and raids, but this was different. This was an army. And this Sylas—a man none of them had known even existed—had crushed a garrison with ease and marched past the castles.

The maester’s voice interrupted Cregan’s grim revelation. “Sylas is bound southward, with his war band tearing through the lands of the Gift.” He paused, glancing at Claere. “They say he’s sworn himself to find the one who rides the snow dragon.”

Silence filled the hall, as heavy as iron.

“He rides,” Cregan declared, almost as if the words could summon the reality, “for the Dragon Queen of the North.”

A silence fell over the room, tense and laden with foreboding. Cregan stared at Claere, her face unreadable, yet he knew her mind was already spinning, parsing every implication, every thread of what this could mean. Lonnel’s earlier warning hung between them, and it felt as though every word had foreshadowed this moment. That grim prophecy that now took shape before them all. You’ve brought the storm to your door, Stark. It'll take everything in its path.

The carefree laughter, the warmth of the hearth, the taste of ale—all felt painfully distant now. War had reached their doorstep, a shadow from beyond the Wall. She had brought her dragon, and the storm had followed. And with it, the delicate peace they’d found here, so fragile, slipped through their fingers like the last light of day.

X

*gasp* storm's a-comin'... and it's coming for our girl. only a few chapters left! thank you for reading and keeping up!

a question for my loveliest people: what do you think is Claere's sun sign or moon sign? What about Cregan's?

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[ruinandrue]

Introducing Inkwarren: A dark fantasy TTRPG of woodland adventures!

Hi all! I'm Matt, and I am an Atlanta-based indie ttrpg designer currently developing Inkwarren, a dark woodland fantasy TTRPG of swashbuckling tactics and storybook intrigue. Today, I'm going to talk to you about what Inkwarren is, what inspired it, and the design goals I have for the game. Inkwarren is already in preliminary playtests, and I hope to have public playtests sometime in the near future.

What is Inkwarren?

In Inkwarren, players take on the role of woodlanders- animal wanderers of the massive Woodland, who use magick, wits, and weapons to take down foes supernatural and mundane. Your woodlanders' wandering band may be a band of mercenary adventurers, a band of high-spirited rebels, or even a band of scoundrels and ne'er-do-wells just looking for their next score.

One player takes on the role of the Voice in the Dark, a guiding force behind the story that presents challenges, describes consequences, and narrates the actions of the woodlander's foes.

Inkwarren aims to merge modern-style deep narrative rules with exciting, flashy, swashbuckling battles that emphasizes teamwork, movement, and positioning. Character creation is a deep and choice-driven process, that fully contextualizes a woodlander within the world and sets them on a path to a truly memorable story.

Inspirations

Mechanically, Inkwarren borrows from and is inspired by games like Dungeons and Dragons 4th Edition, Modiphius's Dishonored, ICON, Blades in the Dark, and City of Mist, mixing design trends of modern tactical fantasy games with deep narrative based trends found in other systems. Inkwarren's combat also shares inspiration with the Hades series of games, aiming to emulate the fast-paced action where movement and positioning are just as important as the attacks you use.

Narratively, Inkwarren is inspired by The Secret of NIMH, Dishonored, Redwall, Root, and Hollow Knight. When designing Inkwarren's eponymous setting, I want to evoke the gravitas and melancholy somberness of Hallownest from Hollow Knight, with magic as eldritch and strange as the Outsider's gifts in Dishonored. With this, Inkwarren is still a game about hope, and aims to capture the optimism-despite-adversity and little-heroes-against-great-foes vibes of stories like Redwall or The Secret of NIMH. I have to credit Root for originally giving me the idea to shift my game concept to one where the PCs are little woodland creatures.

Choice, Sacrifice, and Hope

Inkwarren's core mechanic emphasizes choice, intent, and narrative weight. The base 2d10 roll is modified by the woodlander's own Virtues (core strengths like Brawn, Nimbleness, or Insight), combined with a Style to define how they're using that Virtue (such as performing an action Cunningly, Quickly, or Sneakily). Difficulty is measured by Risk and Effect, that assign narrative weight to the severity of consequences a woodlander faces, and how effective they will be if they Prevail.

When woodlanders just don't roll high enough, they don't simply fail- they Falter. Faltering grants Hope, a resource that can be used to Persevere and succeed despite consequences on future challenges. With Hope, failure is never the end- it simply closes one door, and opens another.

Swashbuckling Battles

Inkwarren's Battle system emphasizes movement, positioning, and teamwork. Woodlanders interact with the battlefield through exploits, combat disciplines that have a variety of different effects to use on the field. Exploits have an at-will root effect that can be used as a woodlander's bread and butter, but more powerful effects are always within reach. By using root effects, meeting battle objectives (such as defeating enemies or reaching escape points), and continuing the fight (by ending rounds), woodlanders build Momentum, a shared resource pool by the entire band that can be used to power a woodlander's most powerful abilities. Woodlanders can spend Momentum to use an exploit's powerful bloom effect, or power a duo effect that they can use to combine their abilities with those of another ally. Momentum doesn't deplete until the Battle is over-- use it for quick bursts, or build up to unleash more powerful attacks against your foes!

Other rulesets like charging attacks, staggering mechanics for bosses, climbing on top of larger foes, environments, high ground, and ally turns (that don't clog up combat) also add gravitas, pace, and exciting tactical decisions to make Inkwarren's Battles so engaging.

Sweeping Narrative

Inkwarren's narrative mechanics work to ensure that solving problems outside of Battle carry just as much weight as Battle itself. Inkwarren's narrative ruleset includes:

The Doubt system allows woodlanders to call upon the Voice in the Dark for aid, but at a cost: as the woodlanders build Doubt, the Voice can spend it to increase the danger of the surroundings, unlock new abilities for foes, or act as a mastermind behind the antagonistic forces of the narrative.

Narrative abilities called flourishes that woodlanders can use to interact with the world.

A special character-based tour de force that a woodlander may use to do something truly legendary, although infrequently.

Rest Activities woodlanders may use to Cook Meals, Spar, Entertain, or Pray to give themselves bonuses and restorations for use later.

Wounds to carry over how trials in-combat affect a woodlander after the Battle ends.

Rules for Tongues that establish a woodlander's knowledge of a language with several levels of fluency.

Ties, which are narrative bonds with NPCs woodlanders may use to increase their effect against them, or burn them to ask for a favor.

And So Much More!

Deep character customization for woodlanders, including a Coat mechanic that allows you to play as any little animal your heart desires, unique and evocative traditions like the ghostly historian Folklorist or the passionate Warrior-Poet, rules for mysterious and magical artifacts called esoterica, an in-depth crafting system, and more!

If you've gotten this far, thanks for reading! I'm so excited about this game, and I hope to share more with everyone soon!

Tìoraidh!

[prophecyofwinter]

Se Riña Qilōni Iprattan Se Jēdar | V

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary | Saera Targaryen daughter of Jaehaerys I ran away from Westeros to escape her fate. 45 years later her daughter Y/N Targaryen, with invitation from King Viserys wishes to go back.

Tags | Angst, Slowburn (Hot&Cold), TargCest, Smut, Standard ASOIAF content, Aemond and Reader are First Cousins Once Removed, Reader is Self-serving, tags to be added

Word Count: 3k

Prologue | Chapter IV | Chapter VI | Masterlist

Chapter V | He Won’t Forget

“It is the hour of the nightingale my lady, you must wake up.” A hushed voice stirs you from your sleep and shakes you awake. A groan escaped your throat and you opened your eyes to meet the voice that woke you. A girl no older than yourself stood above you, with pitch black hair and wearing what you would assume to be a maids attire. It was still very early in the morning, the sun hadn't even broken the horizon.

You could tell there was one other maid by the torch light, she was lighting candles that were scattered in different places throughout the room.

“She is not a lady quite yet, miss will do until then.” By the other maids' voice you could tell she was older and more seasoned. You sat up against the headboard to wake yourself up some more. Naturally, the furs that covered your body in the night slipped down exposing your upper torso.

“Miss makes me sound like a spinster.” You groaned while stretching your arms. You step out full from under the sheets, standing on the cold stone floor. The younger maid has a robe open for you to slip into and you follow.

“The Queen has ordered that you see her and the Hand of the King before midday. In that time we must get you bathed, fed, and clothed.” The older maid said while reaching for a jug to spill into a metal bathtub that you hadn’t even noticed.

“Very well. Since you’ve already seen my breasts, I assume it’s appropriate for me to ask your names?” You laugh to yourself as you wrap the front of the robe criss cross. The younger one finds it funny and lets out a soft laugh while the older one simply clears her throat.

“My name is Mela, and this young one is Ellyn. While I am experienced, you are the first person Ellyn has served so please forgive her childishness“ Mela sends a warning glare at Ellyn for her giggles. Ellyn pouts for a moment before joining Mela in emptying the water jugs. You look at the features of the two women for the first time, Mela has blonde hair and Ellyn a medium brown.

It seems counterproductive to put a robe on just to take it off moments later to bathe. As soon as they are finished filling the tub, the water has cooled enough to not be boiling hot. You grab onto both sides of the tub and sink in slowly. A moan escapes your lips as you feel your muscles truly relax. Being on a ship for almost a month didn’t give you many hot warm baths, just room temperature ones. Mela pushes you forward so she could access your back to begin washing. While Ellyn poured scented oils into the water filling your nose with a smell you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You could fall asleep right there, especially when your hair was being washed. Her nails massaging your scalp with even better smelling things. You’ve had your hair washed by another person a few times, but then it was by one of your mothers prostitutes in the workers' baths with her breasts pressed against your back. Up in the air which one you preferred.

For the first time a while you felt fully and utterly clean. You wanted to whine when the water cooled down to the point where it was no longer comforting to sit in. Ellyn holds up the same robe as before waiting for you to slip in. Being careful to not slip as you leave the tub, you put on the robe.

————

As your hair dries, your breakfast is set in front of you. Bread, butter, assorted fruits, salted fish and sweet wine. Mela tells you this is what is normally served in Westeros, a larger variety is served if you decide to eat meals with the Targaryens. You pick and choose from what you are given and take your fill.

A knock clearly made by metal against wood rings through the quiet room. You let out a sigh having an inkling that it may be a certain white haired brother of yours. You speak out a ‘come in’, and maybe you should pick up gambling. Vaegon walked in with clinking armor and his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Forgive me sister, I didn’t mean to interpret your very important work. But, while I don’t need permission to protect my sister, I have been allowed to be your personal guard until you're fully settled.” Vaegon held himself proudly, he’s clearly getting a kick from being allowed to stalk and follow you around in the name of protecting you. His weird little dream is being fueled.

This news makes a shiver roll down your spine. If you weren’t already full you would’ve lost your appetite. “That's… Great brother. That means you’ll be leaving after me and Aemond marry then?”

He clearly stiffens up at the implication, gripping his sword harder. “Most likely yes, unless you still need me here. I recommend you keep me here by your side.”

“No, I’m sure Volantis needs you more than I do. The temple needs you and silver wouldn’t suit you.” You say passive aggressively hoping he will get the hint. After many years he still hasn’t understood so you knew your hopes would be set to the side.

Vaegon opens his mouth again to voice his opinion but you cut him off swiftly.

“I am quite full, I should be getting dressed brother. Make your leave. Now.”

He staggers for a minute before leaving with his tail between his legs. Nothing would dissuade Vaegon from his passions, if he died his ghost would haunt you surely. When the door shut an awkward silence filled the room, neither of the maids sure what to do next. You realize how this must look, harassing your brother. But you know him, they don’t.

The chair squeaks on the floor when you stand up to face your maids and give them a smile. “It's about time I get dressed, no? I would hate to be late.”

A ‘yes of course’ was said in usion and you were guided to a full mirror. You stripped from your robe, seeing yourself fully for the first time in a while. A month at sea and you still looked as beautiful as always.

From what you have seen, Aemond is a proud and cold man. Most likely due to your bastard status. But, men are men at the end of the day, their desires will get the best of them even if it’s against their morals.

You slip into your small clothes, in the mirror you see Mela holding a red dress that you don’t recognize from the ones you brought. You turn to take a proper look at it, it looks like a fairly simple dress. Long sleeves with slits from the forearms down, straight neckline, long skirt, faint decorations throughout, and there's a chain resting on the dress that will dangle across your waist.

“Whose dress is this? Surely you can’t just have ones this nice lying around?”

“Well, it did belong to someone but it was left behind over 6 years ago and hadn't been worn even longer ago than that. Queen Alicent said to go through old wardrobes and find you something for the time being.”

You hoped it was at least washed before giving it to you. It was very pretty, very pretty, but second hand all the same. It was bunched up for you to step in and put on. You felt the strings on the back be picked up and before you could react they were harshly yanked back and all the air was forced from your lungs. A whine escaped from your throat and hands gripped the sides of the mirror. A string of panicked apologies follow as you recollect yourself.

“No no, it’s quite alright. I just wasn’t ready. Whoever owned this had real taste, they have my thanks.” You posed in the mirror, finding a position that wasn't crushing your ribs. The chain was clasped round your waist and groups of your hair are braided back.

A smile creeps onto your face. This small taste of importance is greater than any wine in Essos. Baths to yourself, food served directly in your chambers, lovely kind maids who dress you themselves, soon to be called a Princess with a Prince by your side… It is almost enough.

—————

Vaegon stood two paces behind you. You originally told him to stand 10 paces behind but he insisted. You can’t win every battle. A guard walked you both deeper into the keep. He didn’t tell you where you were going, just that it was by the Queen's orders. You pray it isn’t to get probed again.

Suddenly you hear footsteps approaching rapidly towards you. You turn around and see a clearly Targaryen man, white wavy hair and a slightly shorter stature than Aemond. He looks excited, really excited.

“Just the girl I was looking for. I needed to see you for myself.” He caught up quickly and walked right next to you. The guard uttered a ‘my Prince’ and continued his walk. He could either be Aegon or Daeron.

“You’re Aegon, yes?”

“Did my good looks and charm give it away?” Aegon laughs and you laugh with him. Aegon looks around with his hands out feigning shock. “Where’s my brother?”

“I don’t think Aemond likes me that much.” You let out huff mixed with a laugh while gazing at Aegon from the side.

“He’s always had a stick up his ass, don’t take it too personally. He’ll come around eventually, I certainly would.” Aegon whispers the last part into your ear with a hand on your back, you can smell the wine on his breath. You are surprised by his boldness, but far from the worst things you’ve heard. You give him a straight lipped smile and lean back into him.

“Where am I going?” You whispered slowly with passive aggression.

“Oh? You haven’t heard? I’m surprised you haven’t been told. In the throne room they are reading your letter of legitimization.” He wears a smile so wide you would know he’s drunk immediately. Your eyes go wide. Is it happening this fast? You just got here, you’d thought it would at least take some time.

“Normally it’s a simple letter, but since you are already here…” Aegon makes a weird gesture with his hands.

That makes sense, all you need is a letter from the king, and the King has already asked you to come. You imagine the rest of them would just want to get it out of the way. At least Aegon doesn’t seem to care, maybe too drunk to care.

Not too long until you arrive at the doors to the iron throne. Doors as tall as the ceiling and two men stand at the front, noticing Aegon and you they grip onto the rings of the door and pull them open.

The first thing that graces your eyes is the Iron Throne. It was grand, on top of all those steps with swords casted together. It entranced you. Your mother told you about the Iron Throne, only once. She said her father sat on it like a god and he called her a whore. She’d hoped that it would stab him through the chest just as it did to Maegor.

Snapping you out of your short lived daydream, Aegon grabbed your wrist and led you in a direction. All of the lords and ladies were staring at you both, you hope it wouldn’t linger for long. Near the front of the room you could see that it was Aemond, Alicent, and another silver haired girl. Helena, you believe you were told?

“Look who I found! Ran into her on the way here.” Aegon walked you over to Aemond directly and grabbed his arm and forcibly linked your and Aemonds arms together.

“I believe you lost this brother.” Aegon patted his brother on the back and caressed your shoulder. Between the two of you he caught a glimpse of a servant boy carrying wine and simply moved on to drink his fill. Aegon's mind is an enigma…

Aemond lets out a huff but doesn’t let go. He leans into you with darkened eyes. “What do you think you are doing?”

“I was talking to my future brother-in-law. He is quite funny.” You laugh in an attempt to lighten his mood. Of course, this doesn’t work and Aemond tightens his grip on your arm. Eyes were still on you both so he tried to make it look like a simple conversation.

“Don’t.”

Before you could scoff in Aemonds face, the doors are pulled open once again. You turn your head to see an older man with brown hair and a thick beard. This clearly is not King Viserys by the state of him.

“King Viserys is still too unwell to sit at court. As Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, I will assume his courtly duties.” The room is silent and there’s no sound but the clicks of his heels on the floor going across the floor, up the steps and sitting on the throne.

“First things first, a formal declaration of legitimization from King Viserys himself.” Otto held out a rolled up letter with a red seal holding it together. “Come. Present yourself to the court.” He motioned for you to step closer to the open center, Aemond released his hold and nudged you to go.

You detached from Aemond and walked to the center of the room in front of the Iron Throne. You swallowed hard with your hands folded in front of you, head held high. You wish you’d at least been told this was happening. If it wasn’t for Aegon you wouldn't have had the slightest idea.

The seal was popped open and the scroll unraveled by Otto and cleared his voice before he spoke.

‘As Viserys Targaryen, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

It is with much honor to the Targaryen name,

My Cousin, Y/N of Volantis, daughter of Princess Saera Targaryen, is declared Princess Y/N Targaryen of House Targaryen.

From this day until your last.’

An applause echoed throughout the room, no doubt one done out of obligation. A smile decorated on your face hiding your anxieties and swirling thoughts.

“King Viserys and House Targaryen have my love and appreciation for allowing me into their walls. My mother is extremely pleased with this outcome.” You make a curtsey before the throne. Otto nods and gestures for you to return to where you stood previously next to Aemond.

You thought such a thing would be longer but it makes sense. Bastard legitimization isn’t something that is celebrated as a great thing like Weddings or Name Days. You stand next to Aemond for the next few proceedings until Alicent has Aemond to lean over to her and whisper something in his ear.

—————

You’re linked by the arm with Aemond as he walks you through the palace gardens. You assume this is what Alicent whispered to Aemond about. As your protector, Vaegon is nearby but you try to ignore him.

There is still a tension between you and Aemond that has persisted for the past 24 hours. You are unsure if it is just his nature or if it’s due to other obvious factors. Legitimization doesn’t change the social problems with being a bastard in Westeros. You didn’t expect it to, but you’re nothing if not ambitious.

“Do you take many walks through the gardens or am I special?” You laugh to break the silence.

“I prefer to walk in the gardens at night. For Privacy and it’s better at night.” Aemond doesn’t attempt to make eye contact, preferring to look forward.

“I would take similar walks myself in the courtyards in the Black Walls.” Aemond looks to the side ever so slightly with confusion. “Oh, Right. The Black Walls is this gigantic oval of walls that contains all kinds of things. Palaces, Courtyards, Temples and more. I think I’ll start missing it sometime soon.” Rambling and reminiscing makes you feel better.

Aemond seems to actually take interest, making full eye contact. “I believe I read about the Black Wall before. Only people who can trace their ancestry to Valyria are allowed in, correct?” He talks in a tone you haven’t heard yet, he’s being genuine.

A smile paints your face “You are well read. My father has property in those walls and my mother needs help in her older age so I would split my time between the two.” Hopefully you can visit soon, but realistically it wouldn’t happen for another year or more.

“Your father? No one seems to know anything about your father except that he has quite a bit of money.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday if I really like you. I might even want to take you to Volantis someday.” You tease him, holding onto him a little more snugly.

Aemond likes this banter showing you a small smile for the first time. Though, this doesn’t last long when you see a flicker behind his eyes and he pulls back emotionally and physically.

“Forgive me for cutting our walk short. I have lost track of time and I must head to the dragon pit.” He says with the same tone as he had with anything before this conversation. You swallow hard and attempt to say anything.

Aemond puts his gloved hand on your cheek and kisses the other. “I hope to see you at dinner.”

“I hope the same.”

Aemond takes his leave and all you do is watch him walk away. You bring your fingertips to your cheek and trace the area he kissed you on, your face drops with a sad expression.

“He remembered what you are, Sister. He won’t forget.” With Aemond gone, Vaegon is more comfortable getting closer to you. You hate that he is right. You can’t let him of all people be right.

It’s only been a day and you're chipping at Aemond faster than you thought. It feels like he’s chipping at you at the same time.