#ficsbyuzi

[ficsbyuzi]

All the ways lead to you - part 2

part 1

Characters: Aemond Targaryen and Inara Maegyr (OFC) in a modern AU.

Summary - Inara reaches King's Landing to start her new job.

Word count - 1170

The evening sun always agreed with Inara, especially her amber eyes, which matched the warm hue of the golden hour.

Her cab faced the descending sun and as its rays cast a mesmerizing glow upon her face, dancing in her eyes like a flickering flame, something else glimmered in them too - an anticipation of a new life.

A life that had become infinitely more meaningful to her with just a few clicks and calls. It had also grown more overwhelming, as she now stood at the precipice of living the vivid reality she had once longed for.

As her cab wended its way along the road to her new apartment, her golden gaze was drawn to the majestic edifice standing sentinel, overlooking the boundless expanse of the Narrow Sea. The symbol of King's Landing and the whole of Westeros - the Red Keep castle.

Inara peered out the window to take a good look at its grandeur. She couldn't help but reflect on how King’s Landing always stayed at the bottom of the list of all the places where she wanted to reside. And yet, the reality of her life found its way to the bustling city of hopes and dazzling opportunities.

At last, she secured a satisfying job that paid handsomely, one that even her mom approved of, albeit with slight reluctance.

She was brought on board as a medical advisor at the Red Keep productions.

Besides providing medical aid on the show sets, her job involved ensuring the realistic portrayal of injuries, illnesses, and medical procedures in the makeup and prosthetics. Additionally, she was to assist two senior makeup artists overseeing the team of actors filming together.

-

The following morning, she found herself seated in a spacious conference room at Red Keep Productions. A presentation, followed by an interactive session with the actors, makeup artists, prosthetics specialists, and costume team she would be collaborating with, was scheduled before the project went into production. Waves of nervous excitement surged through her at the prospects of learning the ropes of showbiz.

The heads of the team, Ross and Johanna, began their PowerPoint presentations, outlining the looks they had crafted for each character and elucidating the makeup procedures.

After scanning the actors and production team members seated across the table, Inara fully immersed herself in the presentation, diligently taking notes.

"We will go with a glass skin texture for the actors performing in the palace setting. Medieval royals and aristocrats used certain homemade formulations to keep their skin fresh.."

An abrupt pause in the presentation made Inara look up from her notepad.

"Oh hey, Aemond, glad you could make it. We have just started," the speaker greeted the new arrival, whose presence seemed to fill the room drawing everyone's attention towards him.

"Apologies for the delay, the meeting with the finance team got stretched.”

His euphonious, deep voice resonated through the room.

A surprising, unfamiliar warmth washed over her. As if his voice became a tangible hand and brushed against her skin. It seemed to reach into her visceral depths, plucking the chords of her heart and setting it aflutter.

Her quickened heartbeat urged her to take a deep breath as she watched his tall, sinewy frame stride towards the vacant seat.

People came and sat around her just a few minutes ago, yet she barely registered their presence.

But it was only him who captured her focus, stirring something within her that she couldn't quite comprehend.

Foolishly, she wondered if anyone else in the room also experienced what she was feeling.

His features, as if sculpted from marble, effortlessly commanded her attention. His gleaming silver hair, enhancing his pale, porcelain complexion, was immaculately slicked back. Piercing violet eyes, framed by thick lashes and accentuated by black-rimmed tinted glasses, seemed to penetrate her very soul. Clad in all black, he exuded an aura of enigma and otherworldly aplomb.

Inara realized she had not blinked even once since her eyes got fixated on his ethereal presence, when the same velvety voice that entranced her, broke her reverie.

"I would like to go over the slides from the beginning, please,"

Aemond requested of the speaker, his tone exuding polite authority as he seated himself in the chair adjacent to Sara Snow, a pretty actress portraying one of the main female characters.

The speaker complied without hesitation, and Inara understood that if he wielded enough authority to pause and restart the presentation, he had to be everyone's boss.

As the teams resumed the discussion, Aemond watched from the sidelines, tapping a finger on the table, his body language almost inscrutable. He seemed to be taking in everything around him, eyes flickering from one person to the next, as if dissecting the room and analysing every detail.

And maybe she was wrong in her perception, but she could feel his gaze linger a bit longer on her as it swept over the team.

During a pause, when the speaker changed, their eyes met briefly. She quickly looked away, feeling heat rise in her cheeks again.

Oh God, that was rude. I should have at least smiled.

As the meeting continued, Inara stole a few more glances at him, noting how he listened intently, nodded, and contributed his own ideas.

"Dr. Inara, you will be assisting Ms. Margaery with Aemond’s and Sara's looks. I will email the details by this evening," Johanna's voice startled her, making her jump in her seat a little.

Oh. Another actor.

Inara nodded and smiled, her eyes drifting toward Aemond almost reflexively.

And she found his gaze fixed on her.

Summoning a sliver of courage, she offered him a soft smile, only to receive no response as he swiftly shifted his focus to Johanna.

Her smile died instantly.

Great, now I look stupid. I should have just nodded.

Inara struggled to concentrate on the rest of the presentation, avoiding looking at Aemond again. When the meeting ended and people began to disperse, she approached him as he stood up to leave.

"Mr. Targaryen, I am Inara Maegyr. I will be supervising your medical requirements and assisting with the prosthetic adjustments on set,” she said, smiling and striving to maintain a polite and composed tone despite the butterflies fluttering inside her.

“I was wondering if I could discuss the current status of your health, so I can keep- "

“Hmm, call me Aemond,” he cut her off. “I will see you in two weeks, contact my personal assistant meanwhile.”

His blithe expression and seemingly uninterested response quelled the erratic shaking in her stomach.

Have I made a mistake in approaching him?

Feeling a twinge of intimidation, she instantly switched to her professional mode.

"Sure. Looking forward to working with you, Aemond."

He nodded, his eyes fixed ahead and body stiff, as if deliberately avoiding looking at her. With a slight twitch of his lip, he strode past her towards the exit.

Wondering if he was just plain rude or simply indifferent, she watched him walk out the door. As she turned, she found Margaery beaming at her.

"I'm going to the coffee house. Come along?" Margaery offered, smiling.

-------------

Tag list: @zenka69

Part 3

[ficsbyuzi]

Omen

Characters- Alys Rivers, Daemon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen (?)

Words- 1550

Note- My brain came up with whatever this is about six months ago. And I wrote it because I couldn't contain it in my head any longer. I have been vibrating with excitement since yesterday after hearing Gayle Rankin talk about Alys Rivers, so I thought of reposting it from my old account.

I based this ficlet on this leak and some parts of the canon. Alys is a captive of Sabitha Frey as she experiences this prophetic dream. I often think of doing parts for it, but I know I wont because I am horrible at updating my WIPs :)

Alys was dreaming.

Her mind was weaving a gossamer tapestry from the threads of her memories. 

How else could she possibly be strolling nonchalantly through the corridors of that decaying fortress if she weren't in a dream?

What she was experiencing was unreal. 

In her tangible reality, she would not be walking through the cavernous hall of hundred hearths freely.

As she emerged from the massive hall, a wispy dreamscape of the Godswood unfolded before her. She stopped for a moment to observe it and looked toward the heavens.

It had been a long time since her moss-green eyes had drunk in the tender sunlight filtering through the leaden mist enshrouding the colossal, weathered Harrenhal castle.

Her home.

Alone, she ambled along the water stream meandering through the woods, a certainty settling upon her that she was in a dream. Visiting the Godswood within the recesses of her subconscious mind, she echoed the routine she had followed since beginning to dabble in herblore.

Even in the dream, her heart brimmed with familiar peace at the sight of the centuries-old trees adorning the sacred precinct of the Godswood. Those twisted birches, aromatic pines, towering oaks, and vigilant sentinels were more than mere foliage to her; they were her kindred spirits. In the rustle of their leaves and the sturdy embrace of their branches, she had found acceptance deeper than any kin had ever offered her.

As she continued to relive a memory of her routine - gathering the herbs to brew her potions and grind her poultices - the weirwood heart-tree revealed itself in the distance.

Conspicuously standing at the emergence of the stream, it marked the point where the waters of the Trident entered the forest. A silvery-white, robust trunk cradled a sparse canopy of blood-red leaves above. The rustle of the five-pointed leaves in the breeze resembled countless blood-stained hands, beckoning her forth.

Red leaves on a silver tree. Red and silver. The two colors had often filled her visions since the doomed war for the Iron Throne began.

Realizing it had been a while since she sought solace beneath the ancient weirwood heart tree, she advanced toward it. 

But her effortless, airy steps began to turn unexpectedly heavy. An unseen force seemed to grip her feet.

As she struggled to move forward, the muffled crunching of leaves and twigs at a distance alerted her of someone’s presence. Her dreamscape wasn't the solitary realm she'd believed it to be. 

A phantasmal figure, a man, emerged from thin air and approached the heart tree wielding  either an ax or a sword - its exact form eluded her perception. The pale color of his hair - silent testament to his identity - matched the trunk of the heart-tree

She watched as the indistinct figure coalesced into the unmistakable form of Daemon Targaryen. He, on the other hand, seemed unaware of her presence. 

She knew he couldn't possibly be near her in reality. However, the smirk on his face and the hubris he exuded seemed too vivid to be a mere figment of her dream.

Perplexed by his amusement, she wondered whether he mocked the grotesque, angry face carved eons ago by the Children of the Forest on the heart tree. It was a face she had prayed to throughout her life, gazing into its hollow eyes that perpetually wept crimson tears, staining its silvery-white trunk.

As she observed Daemon gripping and lifting the blade in the air, her ethereal dreamscape began to turn red with streaks of pearly silver shining through. The pigments of the heart tree began to bleed into her surroundings. 

A reverberating sound of steel meeting the wood, echoed in the air. 

THUD

Alys gathered every ounce of her being to free herself from the invisible ensnarement that entrapped her feet. An urgency to stop him propelled her forward. But, oblivious to her presence, he struck the trunk again,

THUD

“It is blasphemous to fell a heart tree,” she said, suppressing the disdain in her voice so as to not offend a prince of the realm.

THUD

Ignoring her, as he always did, Daemon continued to batter the tree, with what she could now see clearly - an ax.

THUD

Battling the weight that seemed to anchor her feet to the ground, Alys stepped closer in an attempt to draw his attention. Speaking louder this time, she implored, "Please don't."

“You will address me as My Prince, or my blade will meet your tongue next, witch,” he ordered, still facing the tree and ignoring her plea.

THUD

“My Prince,” she said, masking the exasperation with a neutral tone of her voice, “Why chop the sacred tree when there are plenty others that could be put to use.”

THUD

“You have some nerve to question my actions,” Daemon said, finally facing her. 

“Merely trying to save you from committing a sin, my prince. The tree is…” Her words faltered when he hit the trunk again, not heeding her. A grimace surfaced at her face at the sound of the wood splintering. 

THUD

“Your forest is creeping into my castle. It needs to be controlled, as does your tongue.”

  THUD

“Your castle? Or your queen’s?” She asked, striking his Achilles’ heel, as the word ‘queen’s’ elicited two enraged, successive-

THUD

THUD

He halted, groaning and drawing a breath before turning to meet her mocking gaze. The words whirled in his mind like a tempest, displeasure flickering across his countenance. Yet, he opted not to respond to her impudent remark. 

“A thousand men are going to join the army at Harrenhal soon. The war has begun," he replied evasively as the tension seemed to seep into his grip on the ax. His fingers tightened around its helm, ready to strike again. 

Before he could hit, she took a jab at him again, “You Targaryens think of yourselves as Gods, don’t you? Only one God can reside where you are.”

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she found herself taken aback by her own brazen remark, fearing the consequence of her audacity.

THUD

“How did you come out of your confines?” He asked, ignoring her question which had only fueled his pride. He smirked at the crunching sound of the wood tearing apart, while hers faded away in response. The smugness on his face deepened as he noticed her visibly blanched face.

His endeavors were coming to fruition.

THUD

She could not forge a coherent answer to his question. She wanted to tell him that she was indeed physically imprisoned as she traversed the realm of her dreams. But words eluded her, and despite her effort, she could not utter anything. As if the weight that anchored her feet was now extending its influence on her tongue, rendering her speechless. She was still struggling to respond when another rending blow landed on the trunk.

THUD

The ground beneath trembled with a mighty impact. Her heart sank when a cascade of leaves and twigs showered down like a gentle rain.

"No!" Alys yelled, and just then, a distant shriek from Daemon’s mount, Caraxes, reverberated through the air, piercing her ears. 

Her feet now felt as if melded with the ground, ensnared in the expansive roots of the heart tree. Mustering every ounce of strength, she moved towards him again, in a daring attempt to seize his ax. 

However, the blade in his grip was slowly morphing into a Valyrian steel sword; its pommel embellished with two silver, miniature dragon wings.

“You are coming in my way, ilībōños!” Daemon growled, raising the Dark Sister sword and shoving her to the ground. [Bastard] 

Her eyes fell upon the face carved into the heart tree, as she struggled to rise. It wasn't the face she grew up worshiping, but she recognised it nonetheless.

Somber features had replaced the terrible ones she had always known. One eye was open—hollow and weeping crimson tears; the other eye, closed and sapless.

Before she could act or stop him, Daemon, gathering all his strength, impaled the closed eye on the trunk with his Valyrian steel sword piercing it all the way through. Caraxes roared again, subduing her scream and his rider’s sinister, jubilant laugh.

Still as a stone, she watched helplessly as the heart tree fell to the ground. Blood-red leaves, torn from its branches, transformed into droplets of blood as they brushed against her.

A horrified scream escaped her lips again at the sight of blood staining her, prompting frantic attempts to rub and wipe it away, but to no avail. The stains stubbornly clung to her skin. She shut her eyes tightly, seeking refuge from the unsettling awareness.

An agonising shriek pierced the air, and she couldn't discern if it came from her or his dragon. But the sound jolted her awake, bringing her back to her reality. 

She lay sprawled on the damp floor of a dimly lit cell, imprisoned in the Tower of Widows. 

Still panting and drenched in sweat, she wrapped her arms protectively around her scantily covered midriff, where the promise of a new life burgeoned beneath her skin.

"Aemond, where are you?" she whispered, trembling, posing the question to the desolation enveloping her. The image of the somber face carved on the heart tree from her dream remained vivid in her mind.

A dream that was far more lucid than her evanescent visions in the flames.

[lauraneedstochill]

this is such a beautiful, hauntingly fascinating story! I fell in love literally on the second sentence — “Her mind was weaving a gossamer tapestry from the threads of her memories”; the intricacy of your writing style deserves all the compliments 🖤

I really liked that she had the nerve to stand up to Daemon, not fearful of his temper, but her resolve did crumble when her vision suggested that someone she’s in love with was in danger. really wish we got that same vibe with Alysmond in the show! (what can I tell, a girl can dream lmao) ✨

Omen

Characters- Alys Rivers, Daemon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen (?)

Words- 1550

Note- My brain came up with whatever this is about six months ago. And I wrote it because I couldn't contain it in my head any longer. I have been vibrating with excitement since yesterday after hearing Gayle Rankin talk about Alys Rivers, so I thought of reposting it from my old account.

I based this ficlet on this leak and some parts of the canon. Alys is a captive of Sabitha Frey as she experiences this prophetic dream. I often think of doing parts for it, but I know I wont because I am horrible at updating my WIPs :)

Alys was dreaming.

Her mind was weaving a gossamer tapestry from the threads of her memories. 

How else could she possibly be strolling nonchalantly through the corridors of that decaying fortress if she weren't in a dream?

What she was experiencing was unreal. 

In her tangible reality, she would not be walking through the cavernous hall of hundred hearths freely.

As she emerged from the massive hall, a wispy dreamscape of the Godswood unfolded before her. She stopped for a moment to observe it and looked toward the heavens.

It had been a long time since her moss-green eyes had drunk in the tender sunlight filtering through the leaden mist enshrouding the colossal, weathered Harrenhal castle.

Her home.

Alone, she ambled along the water stream meandering through the woods, a certainty settling upon her that she was in a dream. Visiting the Godswood within the recesses of her subconscious mind, she echoed the routine she had followed since beginning to dabble in herblore.

Even in the dream, her heart brimmed with familiar peace at the sight of the centuries-old trees adorning the sacred precinct of the Godswood. Those twisted birches, aromatic pines, towering oaks, and vigilant sentinels were more than mere foliage to her; they were her kindred spirits. In the rustle of their leaves and the sturdy embrace of their branches, she had found acceptance deeper than any kin had ever offered her.

As she continued to relive a memory of her routine - gathering the herbs to brew her potions and grind her poultices - the weirwood heart-tree revealed itself in the distance.

Conspicuously standing at the emergence of the stream, it marked the point where the waters of the Trident entered the forest. A silvery-white, robust trunk cradled a sparse canopy of blood-red leaves above. The rustle of the five-pointed leaves in the breeze resembled countless blood-stained hands, beckoning her forth.

Red leaves on a silver tree. Red and silver. The two colors had often filled her visions since the doomed war for the Iron Throne began.

Realizing it had been a while since she sought solace beneath the ancient weirwood heart tree, she advanced toward it. 

But her effortless, airy steps began to turn unexpectedly heavy. An unseen force seemed to grip her feet.

As she struggled to move forward, the muffled crunching of leaves and twigs at a distance alerted her of someone’s presence. Her dreamscape wasn't the solitary realm she'd believed it to be. 

A phantasmal figure, a man, emerged from thin air and approached the heart tree wielding  either an ax or a sword - its exact form eluded her perception. The pale color of his hair - silent testament to his identity - matched the trunk of the heart-tree

She watched as the indistinct figure coalesced into the unmistakable form of Daemon Targaryen. He, on the other hand, seemed unaware of her presence. 

She knew he couldn't possibly be near her in reality. However, the smirk on his face and the hubris he exuded seemed too vivid to be a mere figment of her dream.

Perplexed by his amusement, she wondered whether he mocked the grotesque, angry face carved eons ago by the Children of the Forest on the heart tree. It was a face she had prayed to throughout her life, gazing into its hollow eyes that perpetually wept crimson tears, staining its silvery-white trunk.

As she observed Daemon gripping and lifting the blade in the air, her ethereal dreamscape began to turn red with streaks of pearly silver shining through.The pigments of the heart tree began to bleed onto her surroundings. 

A reverberating sound of steel meeting the wood, echoed in the air. 

THUD

Alys gathered every ounce of her being to free herself from the invisible ensnarement that entrapped her feet. An urgency to stop him propelled her forward. But, oblivious to her presence, he struck the trunk again,

THUD

“It is blasphemous to fell a heart tree,” she said, suppressing the disdain in her voice so as to not offend a prince of the realm.

THUD

Ignoring her, as he always did, Daemon continued to batter the tree, with what she could now see clearly - an ax.

THUD

Battling the weight that seemed to anchor her feet to the ground, Alys stepped closer in an attempt to draw his attention. Speaking louder this time, she implored, "Please don't."

“You will address me as My Prince, or my blade will meet your tongue next, witch,” he ordered, still facing the tree and ignoring her plea.

THUD

“My Prince,” she said, masking the exasperation with a neutral tone of her voice, “Why chop the sacred tree when there are plenty others that could be put to use.”

THUD

“You have some nerve to question my actions,” Daemon said, finally facing her. 

“Merely trying to save you from committing a sin, my prince. The tree is…” Her words faltered when he hit the trunk again, not heeding her. A grimace surfaced at her face at the sound of the wood splintering. 

THUD

“Your forest is creeping into my castle. It needs to be controlled, as does your tongue.”

  THUD

“Your castle? Or your queen’s?” She asked, striking his Achilles’ heel, as the word ‘queen’s’ elicited two enraged, successive-

THUD

THUD

He halted, groaning and drawing a breath before turning to meet her mocking gaze. The words whirled in his mind like a tempest, displeasure flickering across his countenance. Yet, he opted not to respond to her impudent remark. 

“A thousand men are going to join the army at Harrenhal soon. The war has begun," he replied evasively as the tension seemed to seep into his grip on the ax. His fingers tightened around its helm, ready to strike again. 

Before he could hit, she took a jab at him again, “You Targaryens think of yourselves as Gods, don’t you? Only one God can reside where you are.”

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she found herself taken aback by her own brazen remark, fearing the consequence of her audacity.

THUD

“How did you come out of your confines?” He asked, ignoring her question which had only fueled his pride. He smirked at the crunching sound of the wood tearing apart, while hers faded away in response. The smugness on his face deepened as he noticed her visibly blanched face.

His endeavors were coming to fruition.

THUD

She could not forge a coherent answer to his question. She wanted to tell him that she was indeed physically imprisoned as she traversed the realm of her dreams. But words eluded her, and despite her effort, she could not utter anything. As if the weight that anchored her feet was now extending its influence on her tongue, rendering her speechless. She was still struggling to respond when another rending blow landed on the trunk.

THUD

The ground beneath trembled with a mighty impact. Her heart sank when a cascade of leaves and twigs showered down like a gentle rain.

"No!" Alys yelled, and just then, a distant shriek from Daemon’s mount, Caraxes, reverberated through the air, piercing her ears. 

Her feet now felt as if melded with the ground, ensnared in the expansive roots of the heart tree. Mustering every ounce of strength, she moved towards him again, in a daring attempt to seize his ax. 

However, the blade in his grip was slowly morphing into a Valyrian steel sword; its pommel embellished with two silver, miniature dragon wings.

“You are coming in my way, ilībōños!” Daemon growled, raising the Dark Sister sword and shoving her to the ground. [Bastard] 

Her eyes fell upon the face carved into the heart tree, as she struggled to rise. It wasn't the face she grew up worshiping, but she recognised it nonetheless.

Somber features had replaced the terrible ones she had always known. One eye was open—hollow and weeping crimson tears; the other eye, closed and sapless.

Before she could act or stop him, Daemon, gathering all his strength, impaled the closed eye on the trunk with his Valyrian steel sword piercing it all the way through. Caraxes roared again, subduing her scream and his rider’s sinister, jubilant laugh.

Still as a stone, she watched helplessly as the heart tree fell to the ground. Blood-red leaves, torn from its branches, transformed into droplets of blood as they brushed against her.

A horrified scream escaped her lips again at the sight of blood staining her, prompting frantic attempts to rub and wipe it away, but to no avail. The stains stubbornly clung to her skin. She shut her eyes tightly, seeking refuge from the unsettling awareness.

An agonising shriek pierced the air, and she couldn't discern if it came from her or his dragon. But the sound jolted her awake, bringing her back to her reality. 

She lay sprawled on the damp floor of a dimly lit cell, imprisoned in the Tower of Widows. 

Still panting and drenched in sweat, she wrapped her arms protectively around her scantily covered midriff, where the promise of a new life burgeoned beneath her skin.

"Aemond, where are you?" she whispered, trembling, posing the question to the desolation enveloping her. The image of the somber face carved on the heart tree from her dream remained vivid in her mind.

A dream that was far more lucid than her evanescent visions in the flames.