#ice dragon rider

[helaenarts]

A eight years old rhaenyra targaryen taking syrax for a flight

[leirastar]

new world | chapter 8

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: A tragic accident left you unable to use your wings and, with that, claimed your father's life, leaving you in the care of your noble uncle. In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 4k | 17 minutes A/n: I'M BACK! this is the best chapter i've written so far although it is quite...scary hihi. i also decided to change my username!! Warning: violence (physical assault, knife wounds), blood, injury, threats, emotional distress, storm, suspense, disturbing content, danger, manipulation

The storm had rolled in without warning, the kind that seemed to devour the world in sheets of rain and roaring winds. Thunder rumbled deep and low, as if the earth itself was groaning, and the wind howled through the trees, bending them to its will. You sat curled near the window, your knees drawn to your chest as you watched the rain lash violently against the glass. Each drop exploded on impact, a thousand tiny reminders of how fragile the barrier was between you and the chaos outside. The air in the room felt heavy—like the storm wasn’t just outside, but pressing into the walls, seeping into the cracks and corners, creeping closer with every distant flash of lightning.

It had only been a few days since Yunho left.

Time had stretched since then, moving sluggishly, dragging you along with it. The memory of his presence clung to the room, an invisible ghost that refused to fade. You could almost see him now, standing by the door, dripping from the rain, his coat weighed down and his shoulders slumped as if the storm itself had carried him here. He hadn’t said much that night—Yunho was always sparing with his words—but the way he looked at you said everything he couldn’t. Eyes soft but tired, as though he were asking you for something he couldn’t name.

The last storm had felt different, though. There had been a strange comfort in it, as if it was ushering him toward you, not driving him away. You had watched him wring water from his sleeves, his hair plastered to his forehead, and you’d laughed despite the tension in the air, offering him a towel you knew he’d refuse at first, insisting he was fine. He always did that—tried to be stronger than he needed to be.

But now, the storm felt cruel. There was no gentle promise of someone appearing at your door. Only the emptiness of the room, the silence made louder by the cacophony outside. The glass rattled faintly under the force of the wind, and you wondered if it could shatter, if the storm could simply sweep you away, erase the space Yunho had once occupied, and leave nothing behind.

You leaned your forehead against your knees, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to steady yourself. It was just a storm, you told yourself—just rain and wind and noise. But your heart ached in your chest, and deep down, you knew the truth: storms like this didn’t just pass through. They left things broken. Torn apart. And you couldn’t help but wonder if Yunho knew that too when he walked away.

Flashback

The knock on your door had been sharp, almost frantic, cutting through the low rumble of thunder that had been steadily growing closer. You hurried to answer, your heart leaping in your chest, hands fumbling with the latch. When you finally pulled it open, the gust of wind that blew in stole the breath from your lungs, carrying with it the sharp chill of rain and the storm’s raw, electric energy.

And standing there, like he had walked straight out of the storm itself, was Yunho.

“Yunho?” you breathed, stunned, your voice barely carrying over the howl of the wind.

He stood in the doorway, drenched from head to toe. Water streamed down the length of his muted gray cloak, pooling on the wooden floor beneath him. His dark hair hung in soaked strands across his face, plastered to his forehead and cheeks, and the heavy fabric clung to his broad frame like the weight of the storm itself.

Droplets rolled from his jaw, dripping steadily from his chin, and despite the wildness of his appearance, his golden-brown eyes met yours—steady, calm—unshaken by the chaos that surrounded him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the storm raging behind him, the wind howling as though trying to sweep him back out into the darkness. Then he stepped inside, water pooling where he stood.

“Yunho, oh my—” You reached for him instinctively, pulling him further inside before the storm could tear him away. “You’re soaked!”

“It’s just rain,” he murmured, as if the water running off him and the weight of his clothes didn’t matter at all.

“It’s freezing,” you snapped, half out of concern and half out of disbelief that he could even say something like that. “What were you thinking, coming here in this weather?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and it only made your worry grow as you shut the door behind him with a heavy thud. The room, which had felt so small and quiet before, now seemed to expand with his presence, filled with the sound of the storm battering the walls outside and the sharp drip of water falling from his cloak.

“Take it off,” you said, not unkindly, tugging at the heavy cloak hanging from his shoulders. “You’re going to catch a fever, Yunho.”

There was a hesitation before he relented, his strong hands reaching up to unclasp the soaked fabric. You helped him shrug it off, grimacing at the sheer weight of it as it slumped into your arms like an unwelcome guest. “This is soaked through,” you muttered, carrying it to hang near the hearth. “You must have been flying for hours.”

Yunho didn’t respond, at least not right away. He stood there, water still dripping onto the floor, his broad shoulders sagging slightly as though he were finally letting himself feel the toll of the journey. He seemed almost out of place—like something wild that had wandered into your small, warm home. You glanced back at him and sighed. “Come closer to the fire. You’re going to freeze standing there.”

He moved quietly, sinking down onto the hearth’s edge without complaint, stretching his long frame toward the flames. You knelt beside him, stirring the embers until the fire leapt higher, flames crackling as they licked up the fresh log you’d thrown on. Warmth began to creep back into the room, chasing away the sharp chill the storm had brought in.

Yunho didn’t say a word as he sat there, his arms resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely. The firelight painted his features in gold, softening the sharp edges of his jaw and the faint crease between his brows. He looked tired—more than tired. He looked worn.

You stood up, grabbing a dry towel from the small shelf nearby, and returned to kneel in front of him. “Here,” you said, unfolding it. “Dry your hair before you get sick.”

He blinked at you, as if surprised, but didn’t resist when you reached up and gently pressed the towel against his soaked hair. The strands were still icy cold, and you frowned, shaking your head. “What were you thinking, Yunho? You shouldn’t have been out there in this kind of weather. It’s dangerous.”

His gaze distant, as though part of him had been left out there in the storm. Yunho had always been quiet, his presence like a still lake, but tonight something about him felt…unsettled. The silence was heavier than usual.

You took a seat beside him, the fire crackling between you as it filled the silence. The rain pounded against the roof in a steady rhythm, the wind still howling beyond the walls. It felt as though the storm had wrapped itself around your small home, refusing to let go.

Finally, Yunho spoke, his voice low, nearly lost in the sound of rain. “I like that you worry about me.”

Your hands stilled, the towel slipping slightly as you glanced up at him. “What?”

He turned his head just slightly to meet your eyes, the firelight reflecting in his gaze, warm and steady. “Because it means you cared enough to miss me.”

The confession hit you in a way you didn’t expect, something tightening in your chest as the storm outside seemed to pull away. You swallowed, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to spill over. “Of course I care, Yunho,” you whispered.

“Why are you here?” you asked softly, not to demand an answer but to understand.

He glanced at you, the firelight catching in his golden-brown eyes, giving them an almost ethereal glow. “Because you’re here.”

The words settled between you like a fragile thing, unspoken feelings curling in their shadows. Yunho leaned back against the wall, his hands loosely resting on his knee, though you could see the tension in his shoulders—the kind of tension that never fully went away.

“It’s been weeks,” you murmured, almost afraid to break the stillness. “I thought—”

“I’ve been busy,” he interrupted, his voice low but gentle. His words brushed the surface of the truth without revealing what lay beneath.

You frowned faintly but let it go, your gaze drifting to the fire as the flames flickered and danced. For a while, neither of you spoke. The storm raged outside, a relentless force, but in here, the world was quiet save for the crackling of the fire. Its warmth seeped into your skin, settling the chill in your bones, though nothing could touch the ache that had begun to build in your chest.

Yunho’s breathing was steady beside you, and when you glanced at him, you saw the shadows of exhaustion carved into his features. The firelight painted him in soft gold, his sharp edges blurring into something gentler, something more familiar.

“You look tired,” you said softly, more observation than accusation.

He didn’t look at you. “It’s been a long journey.”

You hesitated before reaching for the kettle by the fire, pouring tea into the two cups that sat nearby. Yunho watched you this time, his expression unreadable but his gaze steady, following every small movement. When you handed him the cup, he accepted it without a word, cradling it between his large hands as though letting the warmth sink in.

A heavy pause lingered between you both, unspoken truths pressing at the edges. You sipped your tea, the steam curling gently into the air, a fleeting reminder of comfort. Yunho finally spoke, his voice softer this time. “I need to leave again soon.”

The words settled into the quiet like a stone dropped into water, their weight rippling through the stillness.

“Where will you go?” you asked after a beat, your voice almost too soft to hear.

“Charadyn,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact, though it didn’t stop the ache that spread through you. “I’m needed.”

“And after that?” you pressed, though you already knew the answer.

Yunho’s gaze softened as he looked at you again, his voice gentler this time. “I’ll come back.”

You stared at him, at the faint curve of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile, at the firelight that danced across his features. It was a promise—one spoken with such quiet conviction that it made your chest ache. And yet, part of you couldn’t shake the fear that promises made in the midst of storms didn’t always hold.

He must have seen the doubt in your eyes, because Yunho leaned just slightly closer, his voice so quiet it was barely more than a whisper.

“I always come back to you.”

The words anchored you, as steady as the man beside you. You didn’t answer, but Yunho seemed to know. Slowly, you leaned closer, hesitating for only a moment before resting your head against his shoulder. Yunho didn’t move, his breathing steady and calm as he let you settle beside him.

Yunho broke the silence first, his voice quieter than before. “Sometimes I wonder if I stayed too long.”

You turned to him, your brows knitting together. “Why?”

His gaze lingered on the fire, the flames reflecting in his golden eyes, flickering with something unreadable. “Because I knew you’d make it harder to leave.”

The confession hit you like a weight, your chest tightening as his words sank in. Yunho didn’t look at you when he said it, his expression carefully neutral, but you could hear the truth in his voice—soft and unsteady, a whisper of something he didn’t dare say out loud.

“Yunho…” you murmured, searching for words you couldn’t find.

He finally looked at you then, his gaze holding yours like an anchor. The room felt smaller, the storm quieter, as though it too had paused to listen. For a moment, it felt like he might say something more, like the space between you could be bridged with just one word—one movement.

You set your tea down and leaned into him, your head resting gently against his shoulder. For a moment, he didn’t move, but then you felt the slightest shift, his arm resting around you with careful hesitance, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this.

And in his hands, the weight of the day suddenly hit you all at once, and a yawn escaped your lips. Your eyes began to flutter shut, and you blinked, trying to chase away the drowsiness creeping in.

“Rest, my love,” he murmured, his voice like a quiet hum in the stillness. “I’ll stay here till you sleep.”

The words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the tightness in your chest as you allowed your eyes to flutter closed. Yunho stayed perfectly still, his warmth and the soft rhythm of his breathing grounding you like an anchor.

And just as you began to drift into the quiet pull of sleep, you felt it—a soft press of lips against your forehead, light as a whisper but carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken things. A spark flickered through you, brief but electric, chasing away the last lingering chill from the storm.

You wanted to open your eyes, to say something, but you couldn’t. Yunho didn’t pull away, staying there as the fire crackled and the storm howled outside, and you let yourself sink deeper into sleep, safe in the warmth of his presence.

Present

The memory slipped away, leaving only the storm outside and the silence inside. You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the cool weight of the pendant Yunho had given you days before—a lifeline, a promise he would come back. You missed him. More than you’d ever admit, even to yourself.

In the days since he had left, the house had felt quieter, emptier. Your uncle had visited a couple of times, bringing with him small comforts—a loaf of bread, a bottle of honeyed tea—but his presence, while kind, had never lingered long. He always seemed to glance at you with quiet understanding, as if he knew the weight you were carrying but couldn’t find the words to ease it.

And then there were the letters from Yunho. A handful of them had arrived over the past few weeks, carried by owls that had braved the cold winds and sharp rain to deliver them. The sound of their wings against the window at dawn had startled you the first time, but now you almost looked forward to it, searching the skies in the early mornings for a shadow on the horizon.

The writing had been Yunho’s, his penmanship careful yet hurried, as if he had written them in the midst of something urgent. The words were simple, but they had been enough to keep you tethered: I’m safe. I’ll come back soon. Another had arrived two days later, shorter still but somehow sweeter: Don’t worry about me. I miss you.

The last letter sat on the table now, its edges slightly crumpled from where your thumb had lingered over the page. Yunho’s words had been hastier this time, written with ink that smudged faintly in places, as though his hand had been shaking or rushed: I hope you’re warm. I’ll be there before you know it.

You had read those words more times than you could count, holding onto them like an anchor. But tonight, even the comfort of Yunho’s letters couldn’t ease the weight in your chest. The fire had burned low, the light barely enough to hold back the shadows, and the storm outside roared as though it might swallow the world whole.

Then came the knock.

It shattered the stillness like a crack of lightning, loud and deliberate. You jumped, your pulse racing, fingers tightening reflexively around the pendant.

It came again—three sharp knocks, purposeful, as though someone was waiting for you.

Who would be here in a storm like this?

“Yunho?” you whispered under your breath, a ridiculous flicker of hope sparking in your chest. You hurried to the door, pausing only to steady your breath before pulling it open.

But there was no one there.

The wind howled, whipping through the trees, rain soaking the ground at your feet. You leaned out slightly, peering into the dark. “Hello?” you called.

Silence.

You stepped back, shutting the door firmly behind you, your fingers trembling. Then a sharp crash sounded from behind you—the window had blown open. Curtains flailed wildly, the wind carrying sprays of rain into the room. You rushed to close it, your heart pounding.

The back door slammed open next.

You froze.

The silence after was unbearable, the air thick with tension.

“We finally meet,” a deep voice intoned, slow and deliberate, each word drawn out as though he were savoring the moment.

The voice startled you, low and chillingly calm, cutting through the sound of the storm outside. Sharply, you turned toward the dining room, the storm outside suddenly seeming distant.

And there he was.

A man sat casually at your table, legs crossed as though he’d been there all along. His features were young, sharp, and unnervingly handsome, but there was something off about him—something you couldn’t quite place. A smile curved his lips, too pleasant, too practiced.

His smile widened as his sharp gaze swept over you, lingering just a little too long. “You’re a pretty one,” he murmured, his tone smooth, almost admiring.

You didn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but your feet felt rooted to the floor.

“Who… who are you?”

The man tilted his head, his smile never wavering. “Oh you know, just a traveler. Though I’d say your door was a bit difficult to get through.”

“You broke in,” you said, your voice trembling.

He shrugged lightly. “A formality, really.” He leaned back, his sharp gaze sweeping over you, lingering just a moment too long.

“Shame, I thought he’d hide you better.”

You stiffened. “Who?”

“Oh, you know who.” His eyes glinted, the smile widening ever so slightly.

“Yunho.”

Your chest tightened painfully. He knows Yunho.

“What do you want?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he tilted his head and unfolded himself from the chair, his movements slow and deliberate, every step he took drawing him closer. You stumbled back instinctively, your heart thundering in your ears.

“You’re important, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice almost admiring. “He wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble if you weren’t.”

Your back hit the wall, and you flinched as he closed the distance. He approached, every step measured, closing the distance between you far too quickly. He stopped just short of you, his presence suffocating. The storm outside seemed quieter now, as though it too were holding its breath.

“What… do you want?” you repeated.

You flinched as he reached into his coat and withdrew a slender, gleaming knife. The metal caught the faint glow of lightning streaking through the window, its edge ironed and sharp.

“Hmm… I wonder.” he hummed thoughtfully, almost to himself, the knife spinning lazily between his fingers.

“Shall I hurt the pretty mate of the king?” His tone was almost thoughtful as he tilted the thin, ironed knife in his hand, its edge catching the faint glow of lightning outside.

“Wouldn’t that be something?”

With deliberate slowness, he lowered it, the blade grazing the skin at the curve of your jaw—just enough to sting, just enough to make you freeze.

The edge of the blade met your skin—cold, grazing along your jawline at a delicate angle. Your pulse pounded painfully in your ears, and you forced yourself not to flinch, not to give him the satisfaction.

“A little cut on your pretty face wouldn’t bother you, right, my dear?” He tilted his head, watching your reaction, his smile never faltering.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice was a murmur, far too calm for the situation. You flinched as the blade’s edge pressed just slightly deeper—not enough to cut, but enough to promise he could.

You forced yourself not to move, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear, but your heartbeat roared in your ears.

“You’re a pretty one,” he added after a moment, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. “Wouldn’t want to get hurt.”

The knife’s edge lifted, and you exhaled sharply, relief warring with terror. The man straightened, his smile widening into something far more dangerous as he stepped back just enough to let you breathe.

“What… do you want?”

The storm outside seemed to rage harder, the windows rattling as though the house itself feared the man’s presence. Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your mind screaming at you to move, to fight, to do something.

He was still too close, that cruel blade grazing the line of your jaw, his dark smile lingering like a shadow.

“Tell King Yunho he’s running out of time,” he murmured, his voice dripping with venomous satisfaction.

And then something snapped inside you.

With a sharp intake of breath, you lashed out, shoving him with all the strength you could muster. His balance faltered just slightly, his smile twisting into a surprised sneer. You seized the moment, grabbing the first thing you could—a heavy iron candlestick from the nearby table—and swung it toward him.

The impact wasn’t clean, but it was enough. The edge of the candlestick struck his shoulder, and he grunted, staggering back a step. His dark coat was torn, and a thin line of red bloomed where you’d hit him.

“You little—” His voice cut off as he surged forward. Before you could react, his hand shot out, shoving you back hard.

The air left your lungs in a painful rush as you slammed against the wall. Your head spun, the hard impact leaving stars in your vision. You tried to push yourself up, but he was already there, pinning you in place with terrifying ease.

His face was inches from yours now, his eyes cold and glittering, his cruel smile returning. “I was going to let you go, you know.” He tilted his head, voice mocking. “But this? This feels like it counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Your heart thundered as he reached into his coat again. This time, he withdrew a dagger—thinner than the last, its blade sleek and gleaming with an unnatural purple sheen. It caught the dim light like poison.

“Let’s give her a little something to remember me by,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice calm and sickeningly sweet.

You barely had time to react before the cold kiss of the blade pressed against your cheek. The skin stung instantly where it grazed you, a faint burn left in its wake. You gasped sharply, jerking your head back, but there was no escaping him.

“Shh, don’t squirm now,” he said, his tone dripping mockery as the blade lingered, the purple sheen staining your skin. The burning sensation spread faintly, like ice creeping beneath the surface.

And then, as if to add insult to injury, he shoved you back hard—your head thudded against the wall once more, and the world swam dizzily. You slumped to the floor, your body heavy, your cheek throbbing where the blade had touched it.

Through blurred vision, you saw him crouch slightly, his smile widening into something truly cruel as he tilted his head. “Looks like it worked, doesn’t it?”

Your breathing came ragged as his voice dropped to a whisper.

“See you soon.”

And with that, he stood, his silhouette blurring as he turned toward the shadows, the storm roaring louder as if swallowing him whole. The last thing you heard was the slow, deliberate sound of his boots as he disappeared, leaving only silence and the faint burn of the blade on your cheek.

The man’s words echoed in your mind, over and over, until they were all you could hear:

“Tell King Yunho he’s running out of time.”

Masterlist

seven | nine

Taglist (CLOSED):

@pinkpearlstar @deltamoon666 @kyra1205 @hecateslittlewitchlingdumplingsyum @caratiny-latte @seongwars @halloweenbyphoebebridgers @angelqueendom

@ffenjoyerdazme @lostxxgirl @xh01bri @neemaxx @furfoxsake22 @Thejentheredhead @soulphoenix1618 @pixie0627

@laurtiny112 @innocygnet @the-first-mate @miniverse-zen @katyeongs @nuggiesnuggetdog04 @sweetmoonlight9 @staytinyluv @bluesiebirdie @kaqua @ateezaddict24 @bamdoe @kandy108 @pixie0627 @bunnii-dolls @kheartost @xlilehx @lalelol @Tiny2018 @salnovna @roryy95 @fairylover68 @meowmeeps @awkward-fucking-thing @blackandgreenandblue @moniesmoon @skteezcursed

[meerabanerjee]

Daenys the Dreamer and Balerion 💜

[spiritofdragonfire]

Gotta love this hilarious, ice-wielding dragon rider! 😂❄️🤎🔥🐲🏰

This is certainly the kind of stunt I could easily see Ridoc and his Brown Swordtail pulling if modern day technology existed in this fantasy world. I quite enjoyed seeing more of their unique and quirky bond in Onyx Storm~

•Onyx Storm is the 3rd book in The Empyrean Series written by author Rebecca Yarros

•Fanart of Ridoc Gamlyn was made by @booknuts_ on Instagram

[insanity-all-the-time]

"in a modern au eragon would be a soldier" "no he would be a student" "absolutely not he would be an unemployed loser"

No.

your all wrong he would be entomologist

A N T S

[ladyadaine]

Catch me defending ASOIAF women like it's the fucking Olympics and I'm one of those lesbian goalkeepers

[aeryscullen]

🔥🩸

[fatum679]

Queen Helaena Targaryen, First of Her Name, Protector of the Realm, the Dreamer, Rider of the Dreamfyre.

All this week we will have to listen to the cries and toxic comments of Aemond haters and Helaena haters who are pretending to be her stans. They dream and hope that Aemond will hurt Helaena. Seriously? Is that what you want? That's your dream? You are sick and you have shown your true colors!

Let me remind you that Aemond already at the age of 10 considered Helaena the future queen, while Aegon at the age of 14 called her an idiot. There is no evidence that Aemond would hurt Helaena. Aemond and Aegon have a personal conflict that lasts a lifetime. But Helaena is not Aegon!

In the promo shot, Helaena is either upset because her family is fighting or she is making a prophecy. But the Antis want Helaena to be hurt. Do you hate Helaena that much? There was no leak that said Aemond would hurt Helaena. Those are your wishes and they are disgusting.

Why can Rhaenyra and Rhaena be a boss girl riding a dragon, but Helaena can't? You don't want Helaena on a dragon. You want to lock her in a tower, the cage.

The haters themselves made up the story that Aemond is using Helaena, and they believe it. I think they should open the window to their bunker. You need oxygen. Aemond said he needed Helaena's help. Because she was a dragon rider, because the Dreamfyre is older than Vermithor. BUT the decision will be up to Helaena.

Why do you want to see Helaena suffering and sitting in her tower for the entire story? Why don't you want to see Helaena as a strong Targaryen queen, riding a dragon and fighting for herself and her family like Rhaenyra, Rhaene, Baela and Daenerys?

#We all know that Daenerys' dragons are Dreamfyre's children.

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

"You create something that was not there before. You wield pure power that takes the form of lightning because that's what you're most comfortable shaping it as."

(My best friend is reading Iron Flame for the first time and just pointed this line out to me… which now has me theorizing on Violet’s power in the next books & those possibilities beyond lightening)…

[murtagh-thorn]

Dark Legacies Part II: Smoke on the Horizon

Pairing: eventual Murtagh x Rider!Reader Summary: Six months after arriving at Eragon's Rider Academy, secrets are revealed, missions are botched, and a long-awaited meeting of kindred spirits finally occurs under a smoke-filled sky. Warnings: canon-typical violence, descriptive battle scene, mentions of past trauma/isolation. A/N: This is a series of one shots and drabbles that all take place in the same universe. You can read most of them out of order (except for the first two parts that will set up the series) and still understand what's going on, and some elements will be taken from other Murtagh x reader one shots of mine. You can find this series listed in chronological order the Dark Legacies masterlist. PSA: Gormlaith is an Irish name (meaning “illustrious princess”) pronounced GORM-lah. Read Part I and see my masterlist here!

***

Sometime after the Battle of Tronjheim, in Urû’baen

The small red creature chirped from within Murtagh’s cupped palms, his tiny eyes holding sadness befitting a much larger, older creature. He was barely a few days old and already burdened with an adult’s grief.

Murtagh sighed, rearranging himself on the cold, hard, cell floor to put the hatchling in his lap. A pale strip of moonlight shone through the barred cell window and the only sound was the steady drip drip of a leak caused by this morning’s rain. He remembered stretching his cupped hands through the bars and greedily slurping up what he could before offering the next handful to his dragon. The dragon was sated much faster than he was, being hardly bigger than his two palms. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, opening them a moment later as the dragon purred and snuggled into his abdomen. He gently ran a finger over the top of its head, reveling in the contented mews from the creature. He could sense its fear, hunger, thirst, but also his unwavering trust and love for his new Rider.

Rider, Murtagh thought with a mixture of awe and bitterness. Once this dragon was large enough, they’d be a powerful duo—able to protect each other through sheer size and magic, and then their enemies would get what was coming to them. So many people had tried to take Murtagh down—and even before he did anything. His only crime during his time at the Varden was being Morzan’s son and now the king and his cronies considered him a traitor worthy of torture. He remembered when the guards had forced him down on his knees in front of the king, a table with some cloth-covered object sitting in front of the throne. He had wondered what new form of torture this would be, only to realize it was something much, much worse. Galbatorix had ripped away the cloth to reveal a smooth, red egg that immediately began to crack just as Murtagh began to form the word “no—”

They would forever be outcasts now—to everyone. The empire considered Murtagh a traitor: captured fighting for the resistance and brought in cloaked with chains. Even if the king somehow forced Murtagh and his dragon to serve him, it would have to be by magic or coercion. Or both. Surely, those close to the king and his staff would be aware of this and of the fact that he wasn’t any sort of willing or loyal servant. On the flip side, Murtagh showing up on a large red dragon under the banner of the king to squash the Varden? Even if he refused to kill anyone, Eragon and his ilk would see him as a traitor as well. Because of the birth of his dragon, they now would no longer be accepted anywhere without the greatest resistance.

Sensing his rider’s thoughts, the dragon looked up at Murtagh with a heartbroken look on his face. Although he couldn’t form mental sentences, Murtagh knew that the dragon wondered if he was considered a curse.

Murtagh gently stroked the dragon’s head again. “You’re not the punishment, my friend,” he said softly before glancing at the bars of the cell in front of him. Beyond that stood a thick, stone wall with an equally immovable locked door. A small, barred square in the top showed the torchlight flickering in the hallway as the heavy thud of guards walking to and fro punctuated the dripping noise. “But I’m sure we’ll both find out what it is soon enough.”

~***~

One year ago

Despite the burning in your legs, you continued to run deeper into the cave. You weren’t even sure how deep this cave went, but your panic dispelled your sense of danger. Luckily, it hadn’t for the little creature hidden safely in your jacket and you could sense its fear at the growing dark, dampness, and quiet drip drip of a leak somewhere. You slowed to a halt and glanced behind you to see the light of day from the cave’s mouth a tiny pinprick at the top of the path sloping above you.

You stood for a moment and panted, glancing around to see a small flat area just ahead of you. You went to it and leaned against the wall, letting yourself slide down to sit and tilt your head back.

A tiny gurgle sounded from inside your jacket and you undid the stays to reveal the newly hatched black dragon snuggled against your chest. She raised her head to inspect her surroundings before gently butting her tiny head against your jaw, rubbing in a way that reminded you of a cat. She purred quietly before snuggling into the hollow between your neck and shoulder, holding your shirt’s fabric in between her small maws.

You sighed, gently rubbing your thumb back and forth over her head. “Hi, baby.”

You could sense her comfort, elation, and affection at the nickname and smiled.

“Well, I can’t call you baby forever. You’ll need a name eventually.”

A bird chirped from somewhere nearby, causing your dragon to snap her head up. You glanced toward the cave’s ceiling to see a bird’s nest nestled in a small nook. Your dragon was immediately up and out of your arms before you could grab her, clumsily using a combination of her wings—which she was still figuring out—and claws to drag herself up the cave wall and into the alcove. You winced at the startled shrieks and growls coming from the small hole. Several feathers floated out followed by an egg splatting on the ground below. It was silent for a moment until you heard some quiet lip-smacking and a small belch. To your surprise, your dragon emerged walking backward before falling out of the hole, dragging something along with her. You rushed to catch her before she could hit the ground, as whatever souvenir she had was too heavy to fly with.

The dragon landed hard in your outstretched hands, rolling over to look up at you with adoring eyes. Despite her terror from earlier, all you could sense from the creature now was complete loyalty and admiration. The egg delegation—or whatever they called themselves—from Eragon’s Rider Academy had traveled all the way from Vroengard to your small village just outside Dras-Leona to see if any new Riders were waiting there. Three elves, one in charge of the eggs and two warriors, accompanied by a young Rider and their dragon had swooped in and amazed the townsfolk. A few of the older children had eggs hatch for them right away as the elf in charge explained to a concerned parent that the large black egg in the bunch was rumored to have been sired by Shruikan—the old king’s mad beast. It was given a wide berth after that, but you couldn’t help feeling pity for the dragon inside. You were no stranger to being an outcast, and this dragon hadn’t even been born yet. They’d committed no crimes other than existing, and you couldn’t help but wish you could make them feel loved if no one else would.

Maybe that’s why a small crack appeared when you’d gone to get a closer look. Just as you had, a small smoking sphere hit the ground several yards away from you. There was just enough time for the screaming to start before it exploded, kicking up dust from the road into an opaque cloud. You’d grabbed the black egg and held it close to your chest. The explosion, however, rocked the ground and blew out enough of a shockwave that it furthered the crack the tiny dragon inside was trying to make. Shards flew everywhere as there was a fierce flash of light, slicing over your face and hands, to reveal the small, terrified dragon inside. You’d immediately shoved her inside your jacket, ignoring the searing pain in the palm of your hand, before sprinting in the opposite direction. Men in black hoods with fearsome, jarring masks that reminded you of twisted, black skulls immediately started chasing you, screaming something in an unknown language with the common tongue peppered in—but one thing was clear, they wanted your dragon and your cold corpse.

Over the course of the day, you’d lost them, then they found you again. Then you lost them, and they found you again. Then you’d lost them, but since they’d been pillaging and burning everything in their path, several passersby pointed you out to your assailants as you tried to hide. You’d somehow lost them once again in the forest before finding this cave. You could feel your dragon’s gratitude at not only wanting to offer her love, but risking your life to protect her. Even though she couldn’t form mental sentences yet, you could sense she was making the same promise back to you: especially once she was larger in size—and considering Shruikan was her sire, she would likely be very large—no harm would come to you.

She suddenly jumped out of your hands and took the object she’d worked so hard to bring out of the hole in her mouth. You did a doubletake as you realized your outstretched palm now bore a silver mark. Before you could inspect it too closely, the dragon pranced back over to you with a muffled “mmrph?” to show off her prize.

You bent and realized it was the bird’s nest before receiving the mental image of a small fire from your dragon. You smiled, petting her little head again. “Good girl, thank you.”

She made a small mlem as you gently took it from her jaws. She sniffed the air and turned to gobble up the broken egg on the ground before returning to your side. You returned to the place you’d been sitting and set the nest on the ground in front of you, making a border out of some nearby stones. A mysterious woman who lived in your village for a few years when you were younger had taught you some magic and you couldn’t help but be grateful for it now. You stretched your fingers out towards the fire before muttering, “Brisingr.”

Sparks flew from your fingertips to ignite the nest. It wasn’t a huge fire, but it would be enough to keep you warm as night rolled in.

Your dragon jumped at the whoosh the flames made, trilling and hiding themselves inside your jacket again. You laughed. “You’ll have to get used to that, since one day that will come out of your mouth.”

The dragon peeked up out of your jacket and tilted her head in question. You stroked her scales and she closed her eyes with a contented sound.

Your own contentment faded as the reality of your situation hit: you and your dragon might be outcasts for a while. With her being Shruikan’s offspring, people would likely always be suspicious of you right off the bat—and that wasn’t even taking the masked men who would probably continue to hunt you into consideration. People in the village were very quick to blow your cover if it meant their own safety. You couldn’t completely blame them, but it did make you wonder who you could trust. You doubted you’d find the delegation very easily to take you back to Vroengard with everyone else now. And would they even want to? Or would they assume that would put a target on the backs of young children and defenseless hatchlings? You and your dragon were solidly on your own now. Because of her birth, you may now no longer be accepted anywhere without the greatest paranoia.  

Sensing her rider’s thoughts, the dragon opened her eyes and looked at you with concern. Although she couldn’t form mental sentences, you knew she wondered if she was considered a curse.

You used two fingers this time to gently stroke the sides of your dragon’s neck. “You are anything but a curse. I’ll always protect you and have your back.”

The dragon chirped happily before butting her forehead against yours and snuggling into your chest once more.

You placed a protective hand over her body, feeling the soft membrane of her wings against your fingers. “So, how does the name Gormlaith sound?”

~***~

Now

A group of bandits—even one as large as this—should’ve been no problem for Murtagh, especially when he had Thorn with him. But they had been much more equipped and organized than he’d anticipated. Since his mission was more undercover, he’d been riding a horse while Thorn flew high above in the sky when the bandits had first attacked. He’d successfully held them off for a while until they started pouring out of the nearby brush in large numbers. When Thorn had flown in to save him, they’d rolled some sort of ballista out of the forest’s cover before disarming Murtagh and forcing him to his knees. Before he’d had time to warn his dragon, they’d loosed the bolt rigged inside, its tip covered in slimy, black goo. It didn’t go deep or even hit a fatal area, but surprised Thorn into losing his balance. Murtagh could feel him suddenly grow woozy and clumsy through their mental link before crashing to the ground a few yards away. The bandits wasted no time in throwing a large, metallic net over him.

Murtagh tried to quell his panic as Thorn’s mind grew increasingly hazy. Had this group developed some sort of dragon poison, or did they just want to knock him out? He’d never heard of a poison that was this painless and fast-acting. But why try to capture either of them in the first place? And how the hell were they so well-equipped?

Murtagh fought against his captors as they dragged his hands behind his back to bind them. “What do you want?”

No one responded, just held onto him tighter as Thorn’s eyelids continued to droop.

I…I can’t keep my head…up…

Don’t go to sleep, Murtagh begged, his chest heaving. Fight it.

I’m trying…

Movement from behind the group of men in front of him caught his eye. There were ten of them in front of him, weapons all trained closely on him, another four holding him, and another eight surrounding Thorn. They looked like ordinary bandits—their hoods up with cloth masks over their faces, their clothes and gear (aside from the shiny, new ballista and net) worn and rusty. Through the group in front of him, Murtagh could see someone in all black moving toward him. The crowd parted and Murtagh’s breath caught in his throat as a man clad in all black, hood drawn, and face hidden by a black skull mask, emerged and simply stared down at him. He clung tightly to a flail before glancing at Thorn, making Murtagh realize even his eyes were covered with some sort of black mesh that he could clearly see out of, but rendered his eye color a mystery.

“Well done hunting us,” he said, turning his face back to Murtagh. His voice was unremarkable aside from the fact that it was male and muffled by the mask. “You were so close.”

Murtagh tested his captors’ strength again and again failed. He growled in frustration; ever since you and Gormlaith had arrived at the academy, the masked men who had been chasing you had been on everyone’s minds—including the queen, who worried about the threat they posed to everyone as a whole. For the last six months, Murtagh and Thorn had been away from the academy (minus the few trips to return and recoup) hunting for clues about this group. He’d found nothing beyond tracking their path and always being several steps behind, barely missing them whenever they seemed to stop and refuel. There were rumors that they were somehow affiliated with a witch who was just as elusive, but he’d found nothing else helpful. They’d been quiet since you’d arrived at the academy, but clearly on the move—and now it was obvious they’d been equipping themselves with followers and means to take down a dragon aplenty.

Murtagh could feel Thorn slipping further and further into sleep. Stay with me, friend. All he got was a long sigh in response as the dragon’s eyes fell closed and didn’t open again. He could still feel him alive and unharmed, but rapidly losing consciousness.

A bandit with a blue hood and mask who stood directly behind the masked man spoke up. “Where are we taking them?”

“To the black sands.”

Just then, a distant roar filled the air with a tone that betrayed its large size. Thorn’s eyes barely flickered open as their assailants looked up in concern.

“I thought you said this would be the only dragon around for miles,” the man with the blue hood said. “We only have the one net and used our only bolt already.”

The distant beat of wings grew louder until it was thundering toward them from behind. Murtagh tried to turn his head, but it was roughly shoved back to look at the ground. He carefully reached out with his mind and touched a vast, unyielding consciousness with a hint of darkness—and maybe even a tinge of madness—that immediately blocked him out. From his view of the ground, he saw a large shadow suddenly block out the sun as the men in front of him began to panic. Another roar, this time much closer, rang through the sky, so deep and loud that Murtagh felt it vibrate in his chest. There was barely time to register anything before fire rained down, taking out several of the men guarding Thorn and the ballista. Screams and the smell of fire filled the air as the bandits before him broke formation to head for cover in the nearby forest while those on fire jumped in the river on the opposite side.

Now free of his guards, Thorn tried his best to get up and shake the net off, but to no avail.

“Stand your ground!” the blue hood cried.

The masked man held out his hand to keep him from drawing his sword. “It’s no good.”

“It’s one dragon and rider—and the ones you wanted, at that!”

“She’s much, much larger than anticipated. She’s grown too quickly and we don’t have the means to bring her down—and she’s angry. Live to fight another day—and this way, you’ll live to see your pay.”

Another roar sounded, filling Murtagh’s ears to the point of pain. He screwed his eyes shut against the ringing in his head as the shadow fell over them again. A column of fire missed his head by mere feet as the men holding him ducked, yelling in terror.

“Pull back!” the blue hood screamed. “To the forest, now!”

The men holding Murtagh threw him to the ground. He landed hard on his back and felt all the air woosh out of his lungs. Once he’d managed to catch it, he knew the sight before him wouldn’t leave his mind anytime soon: part of the forest and the ground ahead of him were engulfed in flame, several of the bandits making a run for it. Black smoke plumed into the air as a great, black dragon moved to hover just over the tree line, and he had to remind himself that it wasn’t Shruikan in front of him. The beating of its wings drove the smoke back toward Murtagh, obscuring his vision and causing him to cough. As the masked man made his way towards the tree line, a figure emerged from the smoke as if born from it. They were also clad in all black armor, the symbol of the academy’s bodyguards emblazoned on their chest. In their hands, they held a wicked sword with a black blade, several notches along the steel to create the illusion of spikes.

They strode towards the masked man with purpose and as some of the smoke cleared, Murtagh realized it was you. Although you’d never been formally introduced with him being in and out of the academy so much since you’d arrived, he’d recognize you anywhere. You’d become a bit of a celebrity at the academy and he couldn’t deny you’d caught his eye more than once in group conversations. He’d never seen you geared up for battle though and especially with Gormlaith behind you and your black blade, you were truly a sight to behold.

You and the masked man met in the middle and he swung out with his flail. Murtagh scrambled to his feet just as you ducked to avoid the blow, grabbing Zar’roc where the bandits had abandoned it on the ground and running to your aid. Before he could get close enough to help, you swung for the masked man’s leg. He blocked the blow with the handle of his weapon just in time for you to swing your own handle into his face, stabbing the cross guard of your sword right through the eye of his mask. He shrieked and stumbled back a few steps. Murtagh swung out with Zar’roc just as the man turned. But instead of slicing solid flesh, he found himself slicing through a sudden cloud of black mist that scattered on the wind, leaving the two of you alone amongst the carnage.

You both stared at each other in silence for a moment before looking around, keeping tight grips on your swords. When no one reappeared after a few minutes, you sheathed your sword into the scabbard slung across your back before making your way over to Murtagh.

~***~

“Are you all right?” you asked, glancing at the red dragon still immobile under the net several yards away.

I’ll help him, Gormlaith said before quickly landing by his side, her wings scattering the smoke back towards the wrecked forest behind you. You glanced at the havoc all around—it was hard not to scorch the earth with every entrance with a dragon that size, but it did have its uses. And you couldn’t deny the confidence boost in knowing you were safe with both your skills and dragon.

“I’m fine,” the man in front of you answered, picking up his scabbard. He sheathed his sword and belted it around his waist. “But Thorn has been heavily sedated.”

You nodded, looking at your dragon as she took the net in her teeth and gently pulled it off Thorn’s body. He groaned and shifted his head to look back at her, but seemed he couldn’t raise it very far off the ground.

“Have you ever encountered any sort of sedative that could take a dragon out like this before?” you asked.

“No.” The man swallowed hard, gripping the pommel of his sword until his knuckles turned white. He motioned for you to follow him as he quickly trudged to his dragon’s side. “They shot him with some sort of bolt. It didn’t go deep or hit anywhere deadly, but it was coated in some sort of…goop. An invention of these masked men, I assume.”

You watched in concern as the man leaned against his dragon’s head, gently massaging his jaw. The dragon blearily opened his eyes before settling against the ground, leaning gently into his rider’s body.

The man sighed before turning back to you. “Well…we can’t move him. Even with your dragon’s large size, I doubt she could carry him anywhere along with the two of us.”

You glanced at the setting sun. “It will be night soon and we at least have some cover from the nearby forest. We could camp here for the night, set some wards, and hope this is worn off by the morning.”

He nodded. “How did you get here? I thought you two were back at the academy.”

“We were one of two rider and dragon bodyguards for an egg delegation nearby, but saw Thorn flying through the sky just to suddenly plummet. We got leave from the lead guardian to come see what was going on.”

“By yourselves? Even though these masked men are still out there and hunting you?”

“Well,” you shrugged, “Gormlaith’s big enough and I’ve had enough training to handle ourselves.”

The man scoffed and glanced at the still-smoking trees. “Clearly.”

You chuckled. “But we did promise Eragon we’d behave, so…” You shoved your hands in your pockets and bounced on the balls of your feet, “there, uh, go our ‘leave-the-grounds’ privileges for a while, I guess.”

He gave you a small smile, resting a hand against his dragon’s head. He stared at you for a moment with a look of open admiration that you couldn’t deny stirred butterflies in your stomach. “Thank you for saving us anyway. I’m Murtagh and this is my dragon, Thorn.”

You nodded. “We’ve heard of you. I’m Y/N, and this is Gormlaith.”

Murtagh nodded, a quick flash of guilt shadowing his features before it was gone again. “And we’ve heard of you. You’re quite the celebrity back at the academy—and even among the people here in Alagaësia.”

“So we’ve heard.” You laughed humorlessly. “We’ve been called the ‘new shadow’ enough times since we landed with the delegation.” You tried not to grimace at all the memories of students, their families, and now citizens alike giving you a wide berth. Although you had a small fan club back at the academy, it mainly consisted of younger students who had no memory of the second Riders’ war. You could feel through your bond that it was even harder on Gormlaith than it was on you. She was the one who was being punished for her father’s sins, after all—but you’d both accepted that this was just the way you would exist in the world, at least for a while: alone together.

As if sensing your thoughts, Murtagh gave you a sympathetic, but grim look. “Well…you won’t be a shadow to us.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly, trying to impart with your eyes that you understood he was one of the few—if not the only—person who could truly understand your plight. You held each other’s gaze for several moments before looking away awkwardly. “Well, we should get started with the wards. You can take that side, and I’ll take this side. There should be enough things on fire that starting one shouldn’t be too hard.”

You’re welcome, Gormlaith said, expanding her consciousness so Murtagh and Thorn could hear her, too.

You both laughed, Thorn giving a meager snort that could’ve been taken as one as well, before getting to work. The perimeter of the ward had to be large to accommodate Thorn and enough room for you to sleep in. Gormlaith was always hyper-aware of her surroundings and large enough that you weren’t worried about fitting her in—and the two of you always had light wards anyway. Once a fire was made, the nearby river made for easy fishing via magic. Murtagh insisted on cooking the meat with the utensils he always carried with him as a thank you. You weren’t sure how long you sat and talked, insisting on staying throughout the night to make sure he and Thorn would be all right. Your caregiver and magic teacher had been adamant that you learn how to read well and the two of you talked about books and scrolls you read for so long, you lost track of time. Murtagh seemed pleasantly surprised by your knowledge of the topic and his air was much lighter and more open than what you’d seen the few times you’d run into him at the academy. You’d only ever seen both him and Thorn from across the way or run into him during group conversations where he didn’t say much and disappeared quickly. But they’d both seemed much more tense and closed off then, and you’d certainly never seen him smile. Scoring more than one laugh out of him during your conversation felt like you’d won a prize and up close, you realized just how handsome he really was. If not for his past, you were sure the women at the academy would’ve been all over him trying to get just a shred of his attention. He’d always struck you as very reserved, but this new hint of shyness when he looked at and talked to you was new and only increased your own nervousness that you hoped he couldn’t detect.

Mmm, I see he’s struck someone’s fancy, Gormlaith teased.

Oh, shut up—as if you weren’t admiring his dragon earlier.

A girl can look; that’s not a crime.

A while after Gormlaith had laid down, you realized just how high in the sky the moon was. “We should get some sleep—but before we do, I wanted to ask if you’d learned anything about the masked men in the last six months?”

Murtagh took a drink from his water skin and shrugged. “Not much more than we already know—except I’ve heard rumors that they may be connected to some witch who’s been equally elusive. I’ve always seemed to be two steps behind them and didn’t even know they were tracking us back until they already had us.” He paused. “I know you two are capable, but you need to be careful about leaving the academy…” He glanced at his feet. “I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

You nodded. Although you also believed in your and Gormlaith’s capabilities, you couldn’t help but worry about what all this meant not only for your own lives, but the people around you. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, who knew what could’ve happened to Murtagh and Thorn? Before you’d even been formally introduced, you’d already put a target on their backs. Who else was now a target because of you?

Murtagh interrupted your thoughts. “We should get some sleep now. You’ll probably want to return to the delegation first thing in the morning.”

You stood, untying your bedroll from where it was strapped to Gormlaith’s side. “Well, as long as Thorn’s more coherent by then.”

Murtagh sighed as he grabbed his own bedroll. “I’m hoping he’ll just sleep it off. He’s definitely out right now.” He gently rubbed his dragon’s head again. “We might come back to the academy with you this time. Thorn could probably use a rest after this, especially before we venture any further away from the coast.”

You nodded, laying out your bedroll close to Gormlaith’s side and settling in.

I’ll take first watch and wake you in a few hours, she said before gently nuzzling your side with the tip of her nose.

All right, you replied, already enjoying the warmth radiating from her body as you rolled to face her.

After a few moments of nothing but the crackling of the fire, Murtagh quietly said, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Night,” you mumbled, already half asleep and picturing his smiling face again in your mind.

Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added): @the-ethereal-god @shelbyteller

[the-13th-omniscient]

Dragonpit Headcanons

Just a bunch of random thoughts on the nature of the Dragonpit:

The thick walls of the Pit have numerous rooms and chambers to store saddles, whips, and so on. Dragonkeepers and the rider assigned to the Dragonpit in the event of an attack on the city have small apartments set in the walls, with a view of the Pit floor.

The dragonkeepers have strict protocols for moving dragons, and even princes have to be accounted for when a dragon is loosed for feeding time or to clean their lairs. Usually any Pit visitors are required to remain in the stone benches high above the Pit floor.

The floor's sand layer is often blackened and turned to glass in places from dragonfire. Animal bones and dragon waste is carted off daily. It is not a task that is ever slacked off on, because the dragons are symbols of Targaryen power and must be kept in immaculate conditions.

Because it was made and designed by Free Cities architects, it has a distinctive aesthetic compared to the rest of King's Landing. More like a giant temple than a stable, very flowing carvings in the walls for adornment. Loads of dragon motifs.

The stony walls are often blackened by dragonflame, and the dome is crusted with ash and smoky residue, obscuring the flying dragons carved into it.

The walls have windows, tall and narrow ones that let in bars of sunlight and make the Pit feel less oppressive than it is.

It's BIG. The Dragonpit is the single biggest structure in Westeros aside from the Rock and Harrenhal. It's the first landmark that ships or dragonriders can make out when approaching the city. Inside, it makes Balerion look undersized. It's almost like Erebor from the Hobbit films, just completely absurdly voluminous.

The dragon lairs are also huge, two hundred feet tall at the apex of the arched ceiling, a hundred feet wide, and black with ash. Most of the lairs went unused, as there was forty chambers and only ever about twenty dragons in total- and no more than fifteen or so ever nested under its roof at one time in Targaryen history. The lairs have a half dozen chains for each dragon, with links as big as a man for the adults, and links as big as a human skull for the small ones.

The dragonriders never left through the Main Gate. They always departed and landed at the entrance to each dragon's lair.

The lair entrances are flanked by huge dragon statues, which stood guard over huge signal braziers to denote which lair the dragons should land at. Dragonkeepers would use banners to wave in returning Targaryens.

Pit dragons seldom laid eggs compared to the Dragonmont-dwelling beasts, but any eggs that were produced would be stored in special furnaces or moved to Dragonstone for storage.

[leirastar]

new world | chapter 3

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: A tragic accident left you unable to use your wings and, with that, claimed your father's life, leaving you in the care of your noble uncle. In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 2.3k | 10 minutes A/n: SUPRISE!!! 2 CHAPTER IN A DAY😊 a treat since i passed all my exam with flying colors!!! IN ALL HONESTY! chapter 2 and 3 are one chapter but it seems like a lot of word SOO, i divided into 2! Another good news!! i will try my best to upload every week while im in winter break. I finished drafting chapter 8 and i loved it just the angst and EVERYTHING! Warning: Mentions of emotional distress, ominous foreboding, potential stalking, unsettling sensations of being watched, subtle tension, and implied danger.

The next morning, the lingering weight of unease clung to you like a shadow. You pulled your dark maroon robe from its hook by the door, wrapping it snugly around your shoulders. The fabric was heavy but comforting, lined with faint embroidery at the edges—a pattern of trailing leaves your mother had stitched long ago.

Grabbing your basket from the small table and tucking it under your arm, you paused by the shelf near the door, reaching for a small, leather pouch. Inside were a handful of Aurians—small, hexagonal coins of bronze and silver that served as the currency in Hala. Each one bore a delicate engraving of a sun on one side and a feather on the other. You ran your thumb over the edge of the pouch before tying it securely to your belt.

Stepping outside, you made your way to the barn adjacent to your cottage. The faint smell of hay and earth greeted you as you pushed the wooden door open, the creak echoing in the quiet morning. Inside, the familiar warmth of Branwen—your sturdy chestnut mare—was enough to bring a faint smile to your lips.

“Morning, girl,” you said softly, reaching out to stroke her neck. Branwen huffed in response, her ears flicking toward you as though in greeting.

You moved with practiced ease, gathering her bridle and saddle from the hooks near the wall. “We’ve got a long ride today, Branwen. Market day again.”

She seemed to understand, stomping lightly against the ground as you began to saddle her. You took your time, murmuring small reassurances as you worked, your fingers moving deftly despite the thoughts that lingered at the edges of your mind. Once everything was secure, you tucked a folded blanket into your basket—just in case—and looped the reins around your hand.

“Let’s go, girl.”

Leading Branwen outside, you took a deep breath of the cool morning air, heavy with the scent of damp earth and lingering rain. The sky was soft and pale, the sunlight barely breaking through the thin mist that clung to the trees. You swung yourself up into the saddle, adjusting your cloak so the maroon fabric draped comfortably around your legs.

With a soft nudge to Branwen’s side, you set off down the dirt path. The rhythmic sound of her hooves against the ground steadied you, grounding your thoughts as the looming dread of the Goretheron Bloom sat quietly in the back of your mind.

The road was quiet this early. Birds chirped faintly from the branches above, and the only company you had was the occasional rustle of leaves as a breeze whispered through the trees. Branwen carried you with her usual calm steadiness, her steps unhurried yet purposeful. The faint mist of rain from the night before clung to the ground, carrying with it the sharp, earthy smell of wet soil.

By the time the forest gave way to open fields and the distant hum of the village reached your ears, you felt your shoulders begin to relax.

The closest village was a brisk twenty-minute ride away, its streets already alive with color and noise. Merchants had set up their stalls, their voices ringing out across the square. The smells of fresh bread, roasted meats, and bundles of herbs wafted through the air, mingling with the chatter of townsfolk bartering for their morning supplies.

It was a comforting scene, a stark contrast to the dark silence of your cottage the night before. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe, guiding Branwen toward the edge of the market square.

You dismounted and looped the reins loosely around a wooden post before weaving through the growing crowd. The noise was soothing in its own way—a reminder of life, bustling and loud, utterly normal.

You stopped first at a vendor you always visited—a tidy little stall brimming with bundles of dried herbs, baked goods, and small jars of preserves. The owner, Joonie, greeted you with a warm smile as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“Y/N! Right on time, as always,” she said, her tone familiar and teasing. “Come to clear me out of all my feverfew and woodruff again?”

You grinned faintly, setting your basket on the edge of the table. “You know me too well, Joonie. It’s not often I find feverfew as fresh as yours. And perhaps a little of those sweet rolls while I’m here.”

“You keep me in business, girl. Between your herbs and those healing teas you make, the whole village’s aches and fevers disappear in no time.”

You nodded appreciatively. Feverfew, known for soothing headaches and calming inflammation, was a useful herb—one you’d often stocked for your uncle and his patients when he visited. Caius, despite its abundance of rare blooms, rarely saw such practical, temperate plants outside of shipments.

Joonie returned with a small paper bundle of fresh sweet rolls, setting it into your basket along with the carefully wrapped feverfew. Then, with a sly smile, she leaned over the table, resting her chin on her hand.

“Now tell me, Y/N,” she said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Is there a reason you’re always after feverfew? Someone special suffering a headache you’re not telling me about?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Joonie, it’s for medicine.”

She waved a hand, unfazed by your flat tone. “Oh, I know, but Jay’s still asking about you, you know. Says he hasn’t heard your answer yet.”

You sighed, feeling the familiar heat creep up your neck. “Joonie, you know I’m busy enough without—”

She winked, slipping an extra sweet roll into your basket. “You say that now, but mark my words, one of these days someone’s going to snatch you up. Maybe you’ll even share some feverfew tea while you’re at it.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you tucked the herbs and food securely into your basket. “I’ll be sure to let you know when that happens.”

Joonie grinned, handing you the wrapped herbs as you placed a few Aurians—the silver hexagonal coins—into her outstretched hand.

“Take care, Y/N!��� she called after you.

“You too, Joonie!” you replied over your shoulder, her laughter still ringing faintly in your ears as you made your way deeper into the market.

You stopped briefly at a small, cluttered stall tucked between two busier vendors. Its tables were draped in deep green cloth, every inch covered with trinkets, small jars, and curious wares that glinted faintly in the morning sun. It wasn’t the sort of place you typically visited, but something about it drew your attention.

The merchant, an older woman with a kindly face and bright eyes, offered you a warm smile. “Looking for anything in particular, dear?”

You shook your head, absentmindedly brushing your fingers over small carved pendants and polished stones. “Just browsing.”

As your gaze wandered, it caught on something tucked near the back of the table—a small, silver sun-shaped medallion with an intricate engraving. The rays of the sun stretched outward, almost like feathers, and in the center was a delicate stone of faint amber.

You picked it up carefully, the weight of it solid in your palm. The craftsmanship was fine, but the edges were worn enough to suggest age, as though it had been passed through many hands. It reminded you of something your uncle might appreciate—simple yet meaningful, its design carrying an air of quiet authority.

“That’s a fine piece,” the merchant said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s said to be lucky—crafted long ago by an artisan in Charadyn.”

You smiled faintly. “Lucky, you say?”

“For those who carry burdens,” she replied with a wink. “A little light to guide their way.”

It was a silly notion, perhaps, but you tucked the medallion into your basket anyway, already imagining how your uncle’s expression might soften when you handed it to him.

“How much?” you asked, reaching for your coin pouch.

“Two silvers will do,” she replied with a nod.

You exchanged the coins—two Aurians, their feathered engravings glinting softly in the sunlight—and carefully wrapped the medallion in a cloth before placing it in your basket.

“Thank you,” you said softly, and the merchant’s smile deepened.

As you moved back into the flow of the market, the sound of bustling vendors and townsfolk surrounded you once more. You adjusted the basket under your arm, its weight now holding something more meaningful than a simple purchase.

But as you rounded another row of stalls, a sudden prickling sensation crept along the back of your neck.

Someone was watching you.

You slowed slightly, glancing casually over your shoulder. The crowd bustled as usual, but a shadow seemed to flit just outside your vision. You turned back, your steps quickening as you navigated a path between the stalls, ducking into a quieter alley that led toward the fabric vendors.

The sound of footsteps—light but deliberate—quickened behind you.

Your heart skipped a beat as you clutched the edge of your cloak, fingers instinctively drifting toward the small knife tucked into your belt. “Who’s there?” you called, your voice steadier than you felt.

The footsteps halted abruptly.

You spun around just in time to see a familiar face skidding to a stop, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Whoa, easy!”

You blinked, startled. “Yujin?”

Your friend grinned sheepishly, brushing a stray strand of hair back as she caught her breath. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost? I called your name twice, you know.”

Relief flooded through you as you exhaled sharply, dropping your hand from your knife. “You scared me half to death, Yujin.”

She smirked, crossing her arms. “Scared you? You’re the one stalking around like you’re running from something.”

You shot her a flat look. “I thought someone was following me.”

“Someone was, Y/N. Me.” She laughed softly, the sound light and teasing as she gestured for you to follow her back toward the market. “I was looking for you. Mama’s been asking about you all morning—she wanted to say thank you for the medicine.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. Yujin’s mother had been one of your more difficult patients, her recovery slow but steady.

“How is she feeling?” you asked as the two of you walked side by side, the tension from earlier slowly melting away.

“Better. You really do work miracles,” Yujin replied, nudging your arm playfully. “She says she hasn’t slept that well in years.”

You smiled softly. “That’s good to hear. I’ll stop by and check on her before I leave.”

The rest of the morning passed in pleasant company. You followed Yujin back to her family’s stall, where her mother greeted you warmly with hands that no longer shook as they once had. You checked her pulse, answered her lingering questions, and waved off the basket of fresh bread she tried to force into your hands as thanks.

By the time you returned to Branwen, the weight on your chest had eased slightly. The morning mist had lifted, leaving the air sharp and clear, but the unease from earlier still lingered faintly in the back of your mind. As the village faded into the distance, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder once more, half expecting to see a shadow flitting at the edge of the trees.

The feeling of being watched had vanished, but it didn’t stop the occasional prickle along the back of your neck.

“Just tired,” you muttered softly to yourself, patting Branwen’s neck reassuringly. The mare let out a steady breath in response, as though she agreed.

By the time you arrived at the cottage, the sun hung high in the sky, casting long beams of light through the canopy above. You slid off Branwen’s back, her coat warm beneath your hand as you led her toward the barn.

“There you go, girl,” you murmured, loosening her bridle and brushing down her chestnut coat with practiced ease. “You’ve earned a rest.”

Branwen huffed softly, nudging your shoulder as you hung up the saddle and left her with a fresh bucket of water and hay.

Satisfied, you turned toward the house, your boots softly crunching against the grass as you crossed the small yard. The quiet of the cottage greeted you as you pushed the door open, a familiar warmth wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket.

You set your basket down near the table and pulled off your maroon cloak, draping it neatly over the back of a chair. The hum of the day’s ride still buzzed faintly in your bones, and for the first time in hours, the weight in your chest seemed to ease entirely.

But then you heard it.

A soft rustling sound—feathers shifting, deliberate and near.

You froze, your hand still resting on the back of the chair. The sound came again, faint but unmistakable, from just behind you.

You turned sharply, heart hammering in your chest.

Standing in the doorway, partially silhouetted by the light filtering in from outside, was a familiar figure.

“Yunho.”

His name slipped from your lips before you could stop yourself.

He stood tall, his indigo cloak fluttering faintly as though he’d only just landed. Loose strands of his dark hair fell across his forehead, but his golden-brown eyes were clear and sharp, fixed squarely on you. His wings—large and striking—rested partially folded at his back, the faint edges of his feathers catching the light.

Then, before your eyes, his wings began to retract. It was seamless—elegant—as though the feathers folded into themselves, vanishing beneath his skin until there was no trace of them left. The movement was quiet, almost unnatural, and yet undeniably beautiful in its fluidity.

He tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into the faintest of smirks.

“Am I intruding, my lady?”

The words hung in the air, carrying just enough teasing to soften the tension that had coiled in your chest. But beneath it, his tone still held that same quiet, measured weight, as though he were testing your reaction.

You exhaled, the surprise melting into something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re back.”

The corner of his mouth quirked further, though his gaze remained steady. “I told you I would return.”

Masterlist

two | four

Taglist (CLOSED):

@pinkpearlstar @deltamoon666kyra1205 @hecateslittlewitchlingdumplingsyum @caratiny-latte @seongwars @halloweenbyphoebebridgers @angelqueendom

@ffenjoyerdazme @lostxxgirlxh01bri @neemaxx @Furfoxsake22 @Thejentheredhead @soulphoenix1618 @pixie0627

@laurtiny112 @innocygnet @the-first-mate @miniverse-zen @katyeongs @Nuggiesnuggetdog04 @Sweetmoonlight9 @staytinyluv @bluesiebirdie @kaqua @ateezaddict24 @bamdoe @Kandy108 @pixie0627 @bunnii-dolls @kheartost @xlilehx @lalelol @Tiny2018 @salnovna @roryy95 @Fairylover68 @meowmeeps @awkward-fucking-thing @blackandgreenandblue @moniesmoon @skteezcursed

[childofchaosnic74]

Tarot card of Aegon II Targaryen

I find Aegon and his relationship with Alicent especially, so very interesting and complex, but this phrase I saw here on Tumblr just about summarizes how I feel about this character "I like him the way you like to kick around a pebble on the pavement"

I decided to make this portrait using only shades of green to represent how Aegon is trapped in a role he didn't want and is not really suited for. I can't wait to see him on Sunfyre and to see what's in store for him in season two...

[weirwoodarrow]

completing the trifecta of this aegon i drew and the matching aemond @fruitageoforanges drew with a daeron! maybe helaena in some of her brothers armor is next…

[midnight--sadness]

BABY STORMCLOUD ❤️❤️💖💖💖✨✨💖🥰🥰🥰

[ladyadaine]

"We need more complex female characters," You couldn't even handle her