#jace ��💎

[whoblewboobear]

Editing them together real quick so they have a couple’s portrait like Jawbone & Sandra Lynn 💖🤧

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 7: Sapphire] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Thank you for reading (and tolerating all my nautical puns)! 💎

How can love be a curse? How can it be something to fear, to condemn, to break?

She has dreamed of him all her life. First he was a protector, almost fatherlike, and then a remote, bewitching phantom as she crept into adolescence, and then when Harwin Strong died Daemon sailed over Saint George’s Channel to offer her solace in England, and at last the fantasies she never would have confessed to anyone were fulfilled, two marriages and four children later. Rhaenyra remembers what he told her in the mist-draped lakeside cottage where they met in secret, crossing paths like an asteroid striking a planet: My wife means nothing to me. She’s not like us. She is young, and weak, and afraid, and I could never respect that kind of person. Her father owns the last Connemara marble quarry in the world, and I needed a son. But the only woman I want is you.

Aegon fires the pistol as he chases her through the corridors of A-Deck, and when she shrieks nobody hears, or if they do they don’t appear to rescue her; the ship is full of people screaming, sobbing, clawing for their lives against wet walls and locked doors. He shoots and misses again. There’s something wrong with his hands. He keeps fumbling with the gun and almost dropping it, hissing in pain as he squeezes the trigger, and there’s blood staining his fingers.

Good, Rhaenyra thinks. I’m glad he’s hurt. I hope he’s dying.

She sees an open room and ducks inside, slamming the door behind her and barring it with the weight of her body as Aegon rams it with his shoulder. Rhaenyra is surrounded by the trappings of another family who purchased first-class tickets: chairs with velvet upholstery, a faux fireplace, paintings by Rousseau and Boccioni and Homer. The lights flicker and the steel beams of Titanic groan, low and disastrous. There isn’t much time left.

“Daemon!” she yells as loudly as she can. If he hears her, he’ll come running. I have to get to a lifeboat. I have to live for my father, for Jace and Luke and Joffrey, for the children I will one day give Daemon.

Rhaenyra struggles with the lock as Aegon batters the door and it quakes on its hinges. Just as she latches it, he fires the pistol through the door. Wood cracks and splinters; a bullet pierces Rhaenyra’s ribcage like a blade. There is unbearable pressure, and then a sharpness, a pain she believes she cannot stand until it keeps getting bigger, deeper, ripping her open and filling her with dark wet weight like the ocean surging into Titanic. She crumples to the floor. When she coughs, blood spurts out onto her lips. Rhaenyra wipes it away and then stares at the red on her palm.

I can’t die now. My life just became what it was supposed to be.

Aegon punches a hole through the mangled door large enough for him to reach in and unlock it. Then he stands in the threshold looking down at her, his hands shaking but his eyes hard, fierce, unflinching. Rhaenyra has never seen him like this before. She didn’t know he could be good at anything.

“How the fuck did you get on the ship?” Rhaenyra snarls as she scrambles away, hacking up more blood. The black opal ring Daemon gave her gleams like onyx or obsidian, something born of heat and earth and insurmountable, ancient gravity.

Daemon and I were made for each other. The same blood, the same bones, the same will to carve treasures from the bleakest places.

Aegon follows her across the floor, slow stalking steps. He doesn’t answer; instead, he shakes his right hand a few times—steadying himself, casting out tremors like demons—and then grips the pistol with it. He raises the gun, the barrel aimed at Rhaenyra’s face.

“Daemon?!” she screams, but he isn’t here. Then she asks, sudden desperate confusion, her blue eyes wide: “Why are you doing this?”

Aegon’s voice is calm. “Because she can’t be free unless you and Daemon are gone.”

That girl? Daemon’s sad, stupid wife? I’m dying because of HER?

“Father never loved you,” Rhaenyra seethes, red on her teeth, blooddrops spilling from her lips like rubies. Her eyes are cold, glinting sapphires, pools of freezing water that only needs minutes to stop the heart. “Just like Daemon never loved her.”

“I know. And I used to care. It almost killed me, it almost ate me alive. But now I’m better. And I finally know exactly who I’m supposed to be.”

Aegon pulls the trigger.

~~~~~~~~~~

As Daemon descends the Grand Staircase, you crawl down towards the next landing, your head spinning, your hands empty, writhing on your belly like a snake.

The dagger???

But you can’t find it, and you don’t have time to stop and search. Daemon is only a few steps behind you. When your palms hit B-Deck, you try to drag yourself upright, grappling for the banister; but before you can get your feet under you, Daemon kicks you and sends you hurtling down the next flight of stairs. You tumble towards C-Deck, clawing in vain for something to break your fall. Your head strikes the English oak wood and you hear your father’s bewildered voice as he sat at the dining room table in Lough Cutra Castle: Where are you going? When will you be back?

Never, never, never; and now from somewhere below you recognize the roar of rushing water.

“You were going to kill me?!” Daemon taunts as he bears down on you like a storm. Blood soaks his throat and the white shirt beneath his black suit jacket. His eyes are bright, feral, monstrous. “After all those times I spared you when I could have drowned you in a river or a hot bath or the sea? You’re so fucking useless. You really can’t do anything right. All you had to do was shut up and endure, and you could have lived to be an old, old woman with all the comforts my empire afforded you. Now, my dear, you will never see another sunrise. And when Titanic sinks, you’ll be buried with her.”

Down, down, always down towards the ocean floor, you crawl faster away from him as his footsteps grow louder.

“Help,” you moan weakly. Aegon? Anyone? But the only reply is the echoing of your own voice and the sounds of the dying ship: breaking metal, distant screams, gushing torrents of seawater.

You crash into C-Deck and again try to stagger to your feet, but Daemon is here, shoving you as if from a cliffside or off a balcony. And as you plummet down the Grand Staircase towards D-Deck—where the First-Class Dining Saloon is, where Thomas Andrews once assured you that Titanic was unsinkable—it is not hard wooden steps you collide with but swirling ice-cold seawater. You plunge beneath the currents and then come sputtering up to the surface, your white wool coat drenched and threatening to pull you below again like an anchor. You struggle to shed it with arms that are rapidly going numb.

I’m so cold, I’m so cold, if I don’t get out of the water I’ll be dead in minutes—

Daemon’s fingers close around your throat and he forces you under the waist-deep water. You thrash and try to push him away, to pry him off of you, but your muscles seem to have disappeared, they have been scraped off your bones and now you can only wait to die, your breathless lungs burning as your body freezes. You have a sudden vision of Daemon in his firelit study at Lough Cutra Castle, marveling at a shard of Larimar dredged up from the Caribbean Sea and quoting the first known treatise on gemstones, written by Theophrastus in the time of Alexander the Great: Of things formed in the earth, some have their origin from water.

“No!” you scream through the depths, bubbles rising up to air you cannot taste. You claw at Daemon’s hands, but you cannot wound him, cannot get a grip on him, and hasn’t that been true since you married him five years ago?

The dark, freezing water makes you want to give up. It makes death feel easy, painless, inevitable. You imagine faces you’ll never see again: Draco, Aegon, your parents, Fern. You hope Carpathia will be here soon to rescue the survivors. You wonder what will happen to Aegon’s paintings.

Through the water come the muffled booms of explosions, four of them, surely something catastrophic, the ship splitting in half or a distress flare misfired or boilers bursting and shearing through what’s left of the hull. Then Daemon’s hands vanish from your throat and someone is hauling you up out of the icy currents, they are freeing you, they are disinterring you from an oceanic grave.

“I’m here!” Aegon is shouting as you burst into open air, gasping and flailing. He drags you towards the Grand Staircase where you can climb out of the flood, but you’re looking for Daemon. He is a few yards away and floating face-up, one hand clasping his chest and a gurgling sound leaking from his throat. The water around him is turning red. He’s fading, but he’s not dead yet.

“Aegon, he’s still—”

“I know. I’ll take care of him once you’re out of the water. I don’t have any more bullets left.”

“I want to do it.”

“We need to get you dry and warmed up—”

“I want to do it,” you say again, and Aegon lets you go.

You twist off your black opal engagement ring and throw it into the water beside Daemon. Then you place both of you hands on his chest and push him beneath the surface, Aegon standing just behind you with the barrel of the pistol in his grasp in case he has to use it as a club. The glacial seawater froths and whirls as it rises over Daemon’s hemorrhaging chest. He startles—a death rattle, a late rite—and resists feebly, gazing up at you with glassy, disbelieving eyes. They ask: How did this happen? I was supposed to kill you, remember? I own you. I own jewels trapped in subterranean darkness all over the world, and you are the very least of them.

“Draco isn’t yours,” you tell Daemon as you force him under. “Rhaenyra isn’t yours. And I’m not yours either. Now sink and die and make me free.”

He twitches, he bares his crimson teeth at you, but after all this time finally Daemon is the weak one. The rising water flushes maroon around him, his skin goes a frail and translucent bluish-white, his heart is drained until the chambers are cold and grey and empty. You hold him beneath the water until the bubbles roiling up from his nose and mouth disappear. He will never touch you again, he will never hurt anyone, he will never bruise or break or ensnare or captivate. And who will inherit his mines scattered across the planet?

Draco. His only son. And my family and I will act as trustees until he’s eighteen.

“We have to go,” Aegon is saying. He must have taken off his coat before he went into the water after you. He stands shivering in only his white shirt and green corduroy pants, the ocean now lapping at his chest.

“Rhaenyra?” you ask.

“She’s gone. I’m sure.”

“It’s over,” you say softly, feeling weight like stones roll off of you, feeling warmth like sunlight on your face.

As if in reply, the listing ship groans and the lights flicker again. “Not yet,” Aegon says, grabbing your hand. “Let’s hope there’s a lifeboat left.”

You wade to the steps and climb out of the water. Aegon helps you wring out your soaked hair and the skirt of your gown, then snatches his black wool coat off the steps where he left it and puts it on you. You race up the Grand Staircase to C-Deck, and then B-Deck, and then the A-Deck landing where you find your green handbag with Aegon’s tiny aluminum lighter still inside.

“I think you dropped this,” Aegon says when he spots the dagger on a nearby step, still covered with Daemon’s blood. He wipes it clean on his corduroy pants and then passes it to you. When you hesitate to take it, he grins. “Who knows. You might need to stab someone else tonight.”

“I never want to draw blood again.” But you accept the dagger and place it in your handbag, the captive gemstones glimmering there: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire like the North Atlantic Ocean that is swallowing Titanic down into her cold, crushing belly. Then you ascend one last flight of steps to the Boat Deck, passing the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock, stealing a glimpse up at the dome of glass and wrought iron that will soon shatter when the sea punctures through it like a bullet or a blade.

Outside the night air is so frigid that ice crystals begin forming in your hair, and the hem of your blue gown begins to stiffen as it freezes. You are barefoot, you only now realize, and if splinters from the pine planks of the deck needle their way into your flesh you won’t be able to feel them. There are only two lifeboats left on this side of the ship, one of which is already being lowered down to the sea. Officers are still directing women and children into the other. Benjamin Guggenheim and his companions are very drunk, clumsily herding frantic first-class passengers towards the boats. The string quartet is now playing The Merry Widow by Franz Lehár.

“Come, come quickly, Lady Targaryen!” the officers shout when they see you, knowing by your gown that you belong here, perhaps recognizing you from strolls on the Promenade Deck or when you and Daemon boarded Titanic in Cork with much fanfare. Aegon helps you into the lifeboat, his wounded hands cradling yours. Another distress flare is shot into the sky, metallic rain, doomsday portents.

We’re going to be alright, you think. We’re going to survive this.

“Darling, you’re sopping wet!” one of the women in the lifeboat exclaims, and they all begin to fret over you. There are dogs here, a Pomeranian in one lap, a Yorkshire terrier in another.

“Get her under a blanket,” Aegon is saying. “Keep her warm or she’ll get pneumonia. Give her a lifebelt.”

“We will, we will,” another lady shimmering in jewels—a mother of two boys in heavy coats and blue-striped pajamas—promises him. “We’ll take good care of her.”

You turn back to Aegon. “What?”

He tells you, his voice quiet: “Petra, they’re not going to let me in.”

“No, no, you can’t stay here—”

“Women and children only!” an officer booms, then begins waving several shrieking maids towards the vessel, just moments from launching.

“Aegon,” you say, horrified. He’ll die if he stays. He’ll drown or he’ll freeze and he’ll be entombed at the bottom of the Atlantic. “No.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No you won’t,” you sob, then look desperately at the officers. How can I change their minds? “He’s a Targaryen, he’s a first-class passenger, he must be allowed aboard!”

“A Targaryen?!” one of the officers says distractedly as he battles with the rigging. “I know all the Targaryens on Titanic, and he’s not one of them!”

“Just look at him,” the other officer mutters, meaning: He isn’t dressed like someone with castles or mansions or titles or mines. He can’t be someone who matters.

“He is,” you plead, tears stinging on your cheeks as they freeze. “He’s Aegon, he’s a Targaryen, please, he can’t be left behind—”

“Women and children only!” the first officer barks at you as the other pushes away a group of panicked young men in black suits trying to bribe their way into the vessel. “And if you want to stay here with him, that’s your business, but get to it so the rest of us can try to make it off this ship alive!”

“There’s more than enough room for him, for Christ’s sake, there are dogs in here!”

“There will be other lifeboats, love,” one of the women tells you as she drapes a scratchy wool blanket across your shoulders, but you don’t believe that’s true. The maids are climbing into the lifeboat; the officers are beginning to lower it with sharp lurches that make the occupants gasp.

You reach for Aegon, your hands catching on his drenched shirt, the thin layer of ice cracking beneath your fingers. “No, no, Aegon, I can’t go like this.”

“You have to,” he says calmly, and he holds you face still and touches his lips to your forehead, a kiss goodbye, gentle and lingering.

“No—”

“You have a kid. You have to go. Draco will be looking for you on Carpathia.”

“You deserve to be free too.”

“I’ll stay out of the water for as long as I can,” Aegon says like a vow. “I’ll try to find something to float on. And once Titanic goes down…maybe the lifeboats will come back to pick up any survivors.”

The water is too cold. I’ve felt it, I’ve been paralyzed by it, once you go under you only have minutes. “You can’t…you won’t…”

“Petra,” Aegon says, and his eyes turn desperate. He knows it’s his only chance. “Make them come back for me.”

“I will,” you swear to him.

And he pries your fingers off his shirt and rips away from you before your resolve can weaken. High above and through tears that blur your vision, constellations of stars gleam like diamonds.

~~~~~~~~~~

He runs to the other side of the Boat Deck, searching for lifeboats that haven’t launched yet. He can’t find any. There are swarms of passengers weeping, shouting, jostling, and officers trying to restore order. Pistols and flares are fired, chairs are tossed overboard for passengers to cling to as they float. But Aegon knows that won’t be enough; if they stay submerged, they will die.

I need something bigger. I need something I can lie on. A door or a dresser or…

He shoves through the crowd to get to the ship’s railing. Below, the ocean has gotten so much closer. He sees a lifeboat bobbing in the waves, just far enough away that someone brave enough to leap could not get to it. Inside, along with perhaps twenty first-class women and maids, Aegon recognizes Laenor Velaryon and his ever-present Parisian friends. They are puffing on cigars and toasting glasses of brandy, celebrating their good fortune. They must have successfully bribed their way aboard.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs, his breath fog in the frigid air.

How am I going to stay out of the water long enough to survive until I’m rescued?

Then he replays the evening in his mind—his first night with Petra, perhaps his last night on earth, red silk and candles and oil paint and the warmth of her beneath his hands—and Aegon gets an idea. He sprints back to the Grand Staircase and soars down to B-Deck, seawater ankle-deep on the floor. He splashes through the corridors to the staterooms once occupied by Daemon Targaryen’s wife and child, now rid of him, now waiting for what will come next. Aegon hurries through the sitting room, passing the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace and the large, heavy chest where Daemon made Petra lock up the art she bought in Paris.

She didn’t remember to put the real Picasso’s paintings in a lifeboat, but she saved mine, Aegon thinks. If I make it out of this alive somehow, I’m marrying her the second we dock in New York.

He goes to the bedroom, finds what he needs, carries it with him as he returns to the maze of hallways. Now the icy water is nipping at his knees.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ocean is calm, the lifeboat rocking placidly on inky surf. The women comfort their children and their dogs. You take Aegon’s aluminum lighter out of your handbag and light yourself a cigarette, then pass it around so the other passengers can thaw their lungs with hot plumes of nicotine, here in the early hours of the morning when it feels like you’ll never be warm again. The officer who took command of the vessel—the same one who shouted at you and refused to admit Aegon—is rowing vigorously as you and several other women help him, staring horror-struck at Titanic as she goes down by the bow.

“We have to get away from the ship,” the officer keeps saying, and he sounds genuinely petrified. A woman in a glittering gold gown steers with the tiller. “Or she’ll suck us into the water with her.”

There are shadows of other lifeboats nearby, also fleeing from the condemned Titanic, that miraculously colossal and opulent triumph that everyone had told you was unsinkable. You wonder which one Draco and Fern are in, undoubtedly cold and frightened but safe.

Aegon deserves to live too. I have to find him, I have to save him.

Now there is seawater flooding over Titanic’s deck at the bow, where you and Aegon saw third-class passengers—now dead, or very soon to be—kicking around pieces of the iceberg that they didn’t know had doomed them. The ocean surges higher, covering B-Deck, and A-Deck, and finally the Boat Deck, where the towering funnels collapse and you can hear shrieks and guns firing. You know you won’t be able to see Aegon from here—you won’t be able to tell if he made it into a lifeboat somehow, or if he is one of the figures that falls from a lethal height into the waves, or if he is crushed or shot or trapped below deck and drowned—but still, you cannot stop looking for him, peering through the night to where Titanic glows in her spotlight of white-gold electric luminescence.

As the bow sinks, the stern begins to rise, higher and higher until the tension cracks the ship in two, and the passengers you share the lifeboat with wail and sob as the ship’s lights blink out for the last time and the gravesite goes dark. Women call out the names of their husbands, fathers, brothers, adult sons, knowing they must be dying. You can only watch with tears streaming down your face, thinking: How could he survive that? How could I have left him?

The stern bobs for a while in the nightscape sea, a shade, a phantom, and then it plunges into the ocean. The water—indifferent, dispassionate, not a mortal but a titan, here long before humans and destined to outlast them, not unlike the treasures of the earth—gulps down metal beams and pine planks and split bones and shredded flesh. There are screams, so many, so pitiful, so loud they fill the sky, and the howling women in the lifeboat cover their ears and those of their children so they will not have to try to exorcise the sound from their memories later.

As soon as the stern has been consumed by the depths, you say to the officer: “We have to go back to look for survivors.”

“Are you mad, Lady Targaryen?” he snaps at you; but there are tears in his bloodshot eyes. “We’ll be mobbed if we sail into that. They’ll pour into the boat until we go under too. Do you want to freeze to death with them?”

“People will die quickly. They are dying already, the water is cold enough to kill in minutes. If we start rowing towards them now, most of the passengers will be dead by the time we get there. And then we can rescue anyone who’s left.” Please still be alive, Aegon.

“Not a chance in hell,” the officer says.

You turn to the other women. They blink back at you in dazed, timid terror. “It’s murder to leave your men behind,” you implore, you beg them to agree. “Help me row to them.”

But the women only weep softly to themselves and look to the officer to tell them what to do. He smirks at you victoriously, an expression of no humor but rather grim, fearful misery that could drive someone insane. In the lap of one woman, the Pomeranian whimpers.

I can’t leave Aegon, you think. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

You open your green handbag and pull out the dagger, the blade pointed at the officer. He shouts and bolts away from you, incredulous, furious.

“You’re threatening to kill me?!”

You shake your head. “I’m offering you a gift.” You turn the dagger around so the officer can grasp the handle. His gaze catches, transfixed and wondrous, on the gemstone spheres like perfectly aligned planets. “This dagger is worth more than you would make in a decade of work. Go back for survivors, and it’s yours. Refuse, and when we are rescued and my son inherits my husband’s fortune, I will make it my life’s work to destroy you. I will follow you anywhere on earth. I will ruin you. So take the dagger as payment and break my curse, and let us save the people who are left.”

The lifeboat sways in the small, serene waves, and the stars revolve high above in a moonless sky, and you and the other women wait for the officer to reply. After a minute or more—we have to go back now, right now, we don’t have much time—he finally lifts the dagger from your open palm and tucks it into his belt.

“Fine,” he says, picking up his oar again. “Let’s go. I cannot abide your damnation. I’ll be haunted by enough ghosts already.”

He and several of the other women row into the throng while you find the flashlights stored in the bottom of the lifeboat, then perch at the bow searching for Aegon. Instead you see hundreds of bluish corpses floating in their lifebelts, dead men and women and children, some of them first-class or crewmembers of the ship but most of them third-class passengers: Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish, discarded people, good for dying in the operations of mines or factories or railroads and little else.

“Aegon!” you shout over the water, but he does not answer. There is only the mist of your own words and the sound of cold currents rippling as the lifeboat cuts through them.

Your group saves two people from the sea, both nearly frozen to death and unable to speak: one man floating on a table washed out of a dining room, one little girl clutching her dead mother. Then a long time passes with no living souls to salvage.

“Have we done enough now, Lady Targaryen?” the officer asks you gravely. “Have you seen a sufficient number of the dead to assuage your wrath?”

“Not yet,” you say, steely, your eyes fixed on the water as the flashlight illuminates lifeless faces, scraps of wreckage, nothing, nothing, nothing. And then the light settles on him.

When the stern of Titanic went under, so did Aegon: there are ice crystals in his hair, and his clothes are freezing to his skin, and his lips are blue, and he’s shivering violently. But unlike over 1,000 other passengers, he didn’t stay in the depths long enough to perish as the cold stopped their hearts and lungs. He had something with him, a life raft, a second chance, a treasure mined not from some far-flung crevice of the earth but from the bedroom where he uncovered you, where you found each other and never wanted to go back to the way life felt before.

Aegon is sprawled across the oval-shaped mirror that once stood beside your bed, the fractured glass reflecting the stars that glimmer in the night sky. His ravaged hands cling to the wooden frame. And when the beam of the flashlight skates across his face like moonshine, Aegon knows you’ve come back for him, and he reaches for you until your hands link with his and help pull him aboard.

~~~~~~~~~~

Carpathia arrives an hour later, just before four in the morning on April 15th, and as the sun rises over the North Atlantic Ocean you and Aegon find Draco and Fern on the bow deck, where stewards are distributing blankets and tea to the survivors. Women wander the ship pleading for help finding their lost loved ones, weeping endlessly for their brothers, their fathers, their husbands. Your tears have stopped entirely.

Carpathia’s passengers are generous. They offer in charity their food, their clothing, even their rooms. Children share their books and toys with Draco. Fern teaches him how to play marbles; you read him The Story of Saint Patrick. A doctor onboard disinfects and bandages Aegon’s hands, and assures him that he will be able to play viola again, not now, perhaps not even soon, but one day.

That first afternoon, as you and Aegon are taking a stroll on the Boat Deck, you spot a man painting a scene of the sunset: gold, tiger’s eye, ruby, red beryl. Aegon shows him some of the portraits from his scuffed leather portfolio…though, of course, one in particular is not suitable for mixed company. The man is so impressed that he insists Aegon must not be deprived of the ability to create such beauty for lack of supplies, and gifts him an easel and some paper, brushes, and oil paints.

It’s difficult with his sore, bandaged hands, but Aegon still wants to try, and when his brush begins to shake he asks you to help him. Aegon explains things to you as you steady his hands: chiaroscuro, scumbling, alla prima, glazing, impasto, a foreign language that will soon become familiar. Already, you are learning. And as Carpathia sails into New York Harbor on the evening of April 18th, Aegon takes a paintbrush and draws a circle around your ring finger in vivid, sapphire blue, a worthless gift of no gleaming gems or metal, a vow that means everything.

It’s been years, but Aegon remembers the way to his mother’s house. He leads you, Draco, and Fern to the doorstep of the Hightower mansion on Fifth Avenue. He knocks and a butler answers, a middle-aged man who gapes at Aegon in shellshocked disbelief.

“One…one moment, sir, if you’d be so kind to…to…to just wait here, please,” the butler stammers, then disappears inside. A few minutes later, a different man appears in the threshold. He must be Aemond, tall and white-blonde and precise in every movement, his left eye concealed by a black leather eyepatch. His remaining eye, a clear alert blue, darts to where Fern is holding Draco on her hip and then to you and Aegon, his bandaged hands resting so lightly on you they could never leave a mark.

Then Aemond’s face softens, and there is a kind sort of relief that seeps in, and you imagine your parents will look the same way when you return to Lough Cutra Castle. “You’re home,” he says quietly.

And Aegon smiles and replies: “We all are.”

[saltandfire-blog]

Team Black Brothers ⚽️AU

"Each of them handsome, wise...and Strong." 😉

Lucerys Velaryon - center midfielder for the KL Dragons

inspired by Sergej Milinkovic-Savic, an incredibly tall footballer who's very talented and just so happens provided the perfect thigh flash pose to use. 💎

Jacaerys Velaryon - the Prince of Dragonstone who broke everyone's heart when he left to play for Braavos.

Obviously the Braavos jersey is Barcelona influenced ❤️💙 sponsored by the Faceless Men of course 😜

Jace is always the hot tempered one who argues with the ref and is the first to bounce back up when a foul isn't called! And yes, he is the big brother who got outgrown by all his younger siblings and hates taking pictures next to them.

Andddd last but not least -

Joffrey Velaryon - a Keeper who plays for Queen Alyssa University

resembling a baby Ryan Corr and also inspired by Sergej's brother Vanja Milinkovic-Savic, another footballer who could just as easily be a Breakbones JR in rl. The neck tattoos were also taken from Neymar and given a little asoiaf twist!

all characters are from a HOTD ⚽️ AU shortfic Transitions.

@lonelymagpies really outdid herself with this one 👌

[sapphire-writes]

Sapphire of His Eye

pairing: Aemond x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader request: You and Aemond are more alike than you care to admit; both dragonless children, both witty scholars, both unnaturally drawn to each other. word count: 2.7k warnings: language, violence, suggestive language note: this was requested by my lovely drama/angst anon! I hope you enjoy 💎 you can find more of my work here

Everyone else had one.

Not you. You spent hours upon hours laying in front of the fire, watching the flames lick at the purple egg that resided in the fireplace of your chambers. 

Hatch, you would pray to the old gods and new, hatch and I shall join the Faith. Hatch and I shall believe. 

But the gods are infinitely cruel. 

“We picked an egg for the baby,” Jace tells your mother, and you cannot help the pout that forms, nor the quivering of your lip as you look down at your new sibling.

Perhaps his egg shall not hatch either.

Shame twists within your gut at the hope you cling to. 

“My love,” your mother says, sensing your distress. 

You walk to her side, and she takes your hand in hers, placing a kiss atop your knuckles. 

“I have something for you,” she says, wincing from the aftermath of her recent labors. 

Rhaenyra motions to Laenor who comes to your side, kneeling. 

“Do you know what the most precious gemstone is said to be?” Laenor tells you, reaching within his pockets. 

You shake your head, lower lip wobbling as your father places two nuggets of sapphire into your small palms. Ser Harwin watches, smiling gently at you as he rocks the babe in his arms. 

“Sapphires have long represented the ending of wars, the peace between enemies, the revealing of secrets. There is magic in these gemstones,” Laenor tells you as you turn the smooth gems in your hand. 

“Though I believe their most precious quality is that they reflect the color of the sea you so enjoy,” he continues, watching your face closely.

You hold the gems carefully in your hand, as though they may break. 

“They are lovely,” you whisper and your father smiles, pleased with your reaction. 

You cannot help the twisting and turning of disappointment in your gut. You had hoped for another egg, selfishly. Perhaps one that would hatch. 

Laenor notices your disappointment, he takes your hands in his.

“You have both fire and salt in your veins,” he tells you, “mastery of one does not mean you lack the other. You are a Velaryon after all.”

Liar, the whispers of court would say, sweet little liar whose dark hair and midnight gaze is not of the skies or the sea. Though your mother would scold you for thinking such things. Your eyes are blurry with tears and you blink, letting them stream down your face. Laenor wipes them from your soft cheeks. 

“Come now, do not fret,” Ser Harwin says joining you, still rocking the new babe in his arms. 

“Might I be excused?” you ask, not bringing yourself to meet the eyes of the adults who watch you. 

Rhaenyra meets Harwin’s gaze as Laenor squeezes your tiny hand in his.

“Of course, my love,” he tells you, and you flee from the room. 

~

“Why do you cry, Princess?” Aemond asks, his voice small as he comes to sit beside you on the steps.

Your uncle has found your hiding place, heard your cries as he left his mother’s chambers, drying his own tears. 

“I have nothing to my name,” you sob, hiccuping, “no dragon, nothing.”

“You are of vital importance to your family,” Aemond insists, “your hand shall be needed when you reach maidenhood.”

You wipe the tears from your cheeks and use your sleeve to wipe your nose. Aemond’s expression  silently scolds you; he tugs at the fabric of your dress and offers a handkerchief instead, You take it from him.

“As for your dragon,” he says, pursing his lips, “I do not have one either.”

It was a familiar ache he felt, as though he was missing a limb.

Dark, watery eyes stare up at him. You open your fist, presenting the sapphires your father gifted you. Aemond cracks a small smile.

“They are beautiful, princess.”

“Take one.”

Aemond looks at you. 

“Father says they look like the sea,” you tell him as he selects a gem from the pair, turning it over in his hand.

“I read a story once, about dragons,” Aemond says softly. You press your head against his shoulder, leaning into him.

“Tell me, please Uncle,” you ask.

“That in Old Valyria, dragons used to guard gemstones such as these,” Aemond tells you.

“Perhaps we are dragons,” you tell him, “and we shall guard them.”

“I shall not soon forget this kindness, niece,” he tells you, dropping formality. You smile, rolling the smooth gem in your hand. 

~

King’s Landing becomes a distant memory after that day. After the death of your aunt Laena. After the death of your father. After Aemond. Your memories of Driftmark as bathed in familial blood, and no matter how many times you try and cleanse yourself of the horrors of those walls, Aemond’s screams seem to follow. Jace and Luke can escape into the skies, they can fly until their ears pop and the only sound surrounding them is the howling of the wind.

You are landlocked. You are trapped. 

They say Harrenhal is haunted, that tragedy and ghosts roam the halls of the monstrous fortress. You wonder if High Tide shares the same fate. 

As you grow into womanhood you find solace in books, studying your craft, and becoming quite the young diplomat. Your stepfather Daemon beams with pride at your skilled High Valyrian, at your mastery of the histories of your people. 

Fate brings you back. The gods weave intricate strings.

“Nephews,” Aemond drolls, violet eye landing on you, “Niece. Come to train?”

His gaze is icy as his lavender eye quickly takes you in. 

“My brothers are needed elsewhere, Uncle,” you answer, taking Jace’s arm.

“How convenient,” Aemond says, smirking toward the ground.

“I beg your pardon?” you ask, surprised at him. 

“It is rather convenient, that when their opponent is armed they choose to avoid conflict,” Aemond says, eye honing in on Lucerys. Your brother turns red with shame, casting his gaze on the floor. 

“Shall I pick up a sword to satisfy you, Uncle?” you ask. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Aemond’s mouth, despite trying to stop it. 

“Would you even know what to do with it?” he asks, and you flush with anger. 

“Let us take our leave,” Luke begs, tugging at your arm as if he were Joffrey, “come, sister, please.”

“I shall have you know I am much practiced with the blade,” you tell Aemond, tugging free of Luke’s grip.

“Princess, I must insist you are escorted inside,” Ser Criston tells you, stepping between you and Aemond. 

You can feel the necklace you were heavy against your sternum, hidden under your dress. The sapphire presses against your flesh, but it now feels hot as though it is branding you. You have worn it continuously as you grew into maidenhood and had it fashioned into a necklace. As a child you held it in your skirt pockets, the weight seeming to ground you. Your hand flinches touching the chain that peeks through. Aemond’s eye travels to it, searching lower but finding nothing. 

He knows. He knows you kept it, knows you wear it still. Aemond is smiling, eye narrowing. 

You wonder what became of his sapphire, the twin of your own. 

You’re still wondering as Jace and Luke lead you inside, it takes both of them nearly carrying you for you to leave the training yard. 

“I shall not let him speak to Lucerys that way,” you tell your mother later that night. 

You know she has been crying as she returned from visiting your grandsire’s bedside. Rhaenrya attempts to hide her tears to no avail. It is easier now as she combs your dark hair, seated behind you. 

“You must pay him no mind, my sweet love,” she tells you, “let him talk, it is all he can do.”

You remain silent a moment longer, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of your mother brushing your hair. Your eyes prickle with tears at the thought of leaving her. But a match has been made, an alliance secured. The heir of Sunspear awaits your presence. A marvelous feat that you have secured. 

This does not satisfy you. You spend the night tossing and turning. The following day is no better as you stare him down across the throne room. Even when Vaemond Velaryon’s skull splits like an egg, your gaze remains on Aemond. You do not flinch as Daemon cleans his sword, and Aemond smiles at your composure, as though he is proud of your bloodlust. 

“Rather unlike the behavior suiting a princess,” Aemond calls to you, finding you in the gardens.

“I did not realize you attended the same lessons as me, uncle,” you tell him, pretending to be confused.

Aemond clicks his tongue, humming softly to himself.

“I was sent to inform you of tonight’s festivities,” he tells you.

“I shall be gone by then,” you tell him.

“Whatever do you mean?”

You turn to him, again feeling the urge to touch the sapphire pendant that rests against your sternum. It burns against your flesh, seemingly trying to meld its way toward your heart. 

“I am to journey to Dorne,” you inform him, “it tis a rather long journey I am told.”

“Why ever do you want to journey there?” Aemond inquires, nose wrinkling with his distaste. 

“It is wise to meet my betrothed before the wedding.”

Aemond freezes, looking at you. 

“I did not realize you were matched.”

“It was rather recent,” you tell him, “though I am surprised he agreed.”

“A Dornish prince and a dragon princess,” Aemond muses, “a match for the songs I am sure.”

You detect a hint of bitterness in his voice but decided to not call him on it. 

“I suppose,” you tell him, “though I am hardly a true Targaryen, I am dragonless after all.”

“Do not say that,” Aemond insists, “it is you who deserved a dragon, rather than those brutish str-”

“Not another word, Uncle,” you snap, “what you say about them you say about me.”

You stare at him, feel his violet gaze roam over your dark hair and dark eyes. Liar liar liar. 

Aemond purses his lips tightly.

“Forgive me,” he says, surprising you, “I only meant-”

“I know what you meant,” you tell him.

“Do you truly wish to marry this Dornishman?” he asks.

“I was supposed to marry Aegon if you recall,” you tell him.

Aemond did. He recalled it very well. It was your mother’s attempt at smoothing things over between the blacks and the greens, though Queen Alicent did not agree.

She shall be mine then, Aemond had thought. A foolish wish. A childish dream.

“I shall take my leave,” you tell him, “it was good to see you, Uncle.”

“You as well, niece,” Aemond says, watching you depart. A sour taste fills his mouth as the last of your skirts disappear. 

~

The journey is terrible. The seas are rough as though the gods themselves are displeased with the arrangement between you and the Prince of Dorne. 

Even being a child of Driftmark your stomach churns as the waves continue to toss the boat. It has been several days at sea and the water has become so choppy this afternoon that you are unable to even write to distract yourself. Your inkpot clatters to the wood of the desk below, shattering and leaving botches of ink everywhere. 

You curse, trying to clean everything when the boat jolts sending you flying backward. You slam into the wall of the ship, stars filling your eyes at the impact of your skull against the wood. You groan in pain. 

“Princess!” a knight calls, rushing down to your aid. 

“Have we arrived?” you ask, feeling as though you may heave up the little food you managed to get down that morning. 

“No princess,” the knight says, visibility is shaken, “it..you had better join me.”

He leads you to above deck and you blink as the sunlight nearly blinds you. The sound of gulls fills your ears, and the smell of salt and a gentle mist of seawater bathes over you. The air is warm, much warmer than you are used to. The sun is suddenly blocked from your vision and you look up.

Vhagar. 

The massive queen of dragons has stopped the ship, pushing it into a small isle made up of sand and palm trees. Stranded. The knight beside you shakes as you look around. The crew is gone, the only remainder is charred wood, and splatters of blood. Vhagar roars, and you can see her teeth are stained with crimson. Tendrils of black smoke curl toward the sky. 

Your uncle lowers himself from her back, drops onto the deck of the ship, walking over to you, a smirk on his face. 

“What have you done?” you hiss.

“Please, my prince,” the knight beside you trembles, “please I have done what you asked.”

“And now I have no use for you,” Aemond says, and Vhagar roars once more.

The knight attempts to escape, fleeing away from you and off the side of the boat. He barely makes it on the sand when Vhagar greedily snatches him up, swallowing him whole.

“How dare you!” you cry, rushing toward your uncle, beating your fists upon his chest.

Aemond grabs your wrists, holding you still. He bites his lip as you struggle to free yourself from his iron grip. The wind tears through your hair, causing your eyes to water. 

“Do not fight me, niece,” Aemond warns, “I have news.”

“You have killed my crew,” you snarl, “my mother’s people.”

“Traitors to the realm,” he tells you.

“What the seven hells are you talking about?”

“The king Viserys is dead,” Aemond tells you, “Aegon has been crowned king.”

Your blood runs cold, and you clench your fingers into your palms so hard they nearly go numb.

“Aegon?” you snarl, “my mother should be queen.”

Aemond smiles at you once more.

“How dare you,” you yell once more, eyes narrowing, pulling away from him, “traitors!”

His grip is unyielding, in fact, he pulls you closer. The feeling of him pressed against you sends a delicious thrill through you which you shake your head trying to rid yourself of. This is your enemy, your captor no doubt. 

“You are mine now, princess,” he snarls, “as my prisoner or as my wife, you decide.”

You inhale a sharp breath. 

“I am betrothed.”

“I shall have Vhagar slay him too if it pleases you.”

You glare at him, baring your teeth.

“You do not desire me as a wife,” you snap.

“Shall you be my prisoner then?” he murmurs, releasing one of your wrists and grabbing at the skirts around your bottom, pulling you flush against him.

You let out a whine, feeling him growing hard against you and your eyes widen. 

“You shall warm my bed regardless,” he purrs, smiling down at you.

“You would force yourself on me?” you growl, anger and fear blurring your vision.

Aemond merely chuckles at your vile implication. How little you know of the man he is now, the man he has grown into. Aemond would never. 

“No, sweet niece,” he assures you, “you will find yourself willingly in my bed.”

“You are beastly,” you tell him, slapping his face so hard that his eyepatch is thrown from his face. 

You gasp, seeing the bright blue sapphire that rests in his empty socket. His face contorts into a snarl. 

“You see?” he murmurs, “all this time, I have desired you.”

He brings a hand to your necklace, tugging at the chain. You struggle, but the sapphire is revealed all the same. Aemond’s eyes light up, as he turns it between his fingers. 

“I knew it,” he murmurs.

“That means nothing,” you hiss, still squirming in his arms. 

“It means everything.” 

“You think I would betray my mother?” you ask, incredulously.

“I think you would like to ride a dragon,” he tells you.

“I have ridden before,” you tell him, thinking back on your memories of riding Syrax with your mother.

Aemond smirks lazily.

“I was talking about me,” he croons, holding tight as you squirm once more.

“You speak so crudely Uncle,” you accuse, “such horrible things you say.”

“Yet they are true all the same,” he tells you, “yet you want me still.”

“No,” you hiss through your teeth. 

Liar liar liar.

“Tell me the truth of it.”

“No.”

“That is fine, princess,” Aemond says, keeping you pinned to his side, “we have a long journey back to King’s Landing.”

Aemond tugs you towards Vhagar, your feet nearly dragging across the deck. 

“Take all the time you need.”

HOTD taglist: @bluevxnus, @thattargboy, @xlilacfrostx, @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed, @marvelescvpe, @geminithrone, @deltamoon666, @i-killed-ramsey, @tempt-ress, @eddiemadmunson, @zillahvathek, @hangmanscoming, @jojoesq, @f4ll-for-you, @rwdkarla, @cc13723things, @filipiniamultifandom, @watercolorskyy @alexxavicry @sachafirebringer @polireader @jamespotterismydaddy @grv7ay9In35s @sofiaadler @sophielangdonx @doublesparrows, @sophielangdonx, @alitaar, @castellomargot, @paodemorangol1l1, @nik2blog, @arkainea @eddiemadmunson

[presidenthades]

If the targbros and the Valsisters were in the Percy Jackson Universe who would be their godly parent?

It’s been a long time since I read Percy Jackson, so I’ll adjust the question to “who are their Greek mythological counterparts” and you can extrapolate the godly parent from there!

Aegon gets a Dionysus comparison a lot because of the wine and revelry, but I think my version has a lot of Hermes in him. Hermes’s domain involves being the protector of a lot of “regular” people, e.g. shepherds, merchants, messengers, thieves, and there are lots of stories where he’s running around in disguise. My Aegon also enjoys going undercover, and he has the most fun when he’s hanging out with smallfolk. And of all the Targkids, he’s the closest to a trickster type.

I would put down Jace as Athena. “But wait,” you might say, “Athena is a goddess of war and Jace hates war!” Warfare is only one of Athena’s many domains. We see way more stories about her as goddess of wisdom, handicraft, and protector of cities/heroes, which are much more Jace’s wheelhouse. And when though Jace is conflict-averse, she IS willing to do what’s necessary (e.g. Clement Celtigar in the Handbook, Viserys and the servants in Lavender).

Aemond has a strong sense of Ares, but my version has potential to mature into the Roman Mars equivalent. Greek Ares is all about war, valor, bloodlust, brutality. Roman Mars has war associations but is also an agricultural deity, because war and agriculture used to go hand in hand: when the military campaign season ends, the soldiers put down their swords and pick up their plows so they can return to their farms. I think one day, Aemond will be able to internalize that war is sometimes a grim necessity (not just an avenue to win glory), but peacetime and stability are vastly preferable.

Luce is like an Aphrodite who embraces her sea origins. One version has Aphrodite being born from sea foam. Luce-dite decides to keep hanging out with the Nereids in the water instead of going to Olympus. Like Poseidon, Aphrodite embodies a primordial force of nature that humanity both fears and reveres, and that’s the effect Luce has on…certain people. 👁️👄💎

(Fun fact: George O’Connor’s Olympians depicts Aphrodite with a lot of similar features to Luce.)

Daeron = Apollo. I debated switching Aegon and Daeron, because Apollo has music and sunlight which are very Aegon. But Apollo has a more prim, proper, and upright image which suits Daeron better. And as a chivalrous knight in training, music and poetry themes also apply to Daeron. But you also have Apollo’s dark side with plague etc, which likewise suits Daeron who also has a point where he’ll eventually snap.

Joff is 100% Hecate. Magic, witchcraft, crossroads, ghosts: need I say more? Hecate is the only deity listed here who isn’t an Olympian, and that seems very appropriate for Joff, who feels like she doesn’t quite fit in with “normal people.” And Hecate, like Joff, has a secret soft spot, e.g. when she helped Demeter search for Persephone (according to some versions of the myth).

[i-have-not-slept]

TMI characters as emoji combos

Isabelle: 👠💄💋🌹⚔️💅🏻♥️

Simon: 🎸🎲🎵👓☕️🎞️🩸

Jace: ☀️🦁🗡️🎹🎼⚜️🪽

Clary: 🎨🖍️🪴➰✨👒

Alec: 🏹👕🏳️‍🌈📜🌃💙

Magnus: 🔮🐈‍⬛💍🪩💎💜

[peachysunrize]

Okay, one more Aemond angst to get it out of my system. (Also, I loved your idea from my previous angst ask, that Aegon and the Lady’s child plant trees over her and Aemond’s graves 😭)

A noble Lady comes to court (her parents have business with Viserys/Otto maybe), and she meets Aemond. They are instantly smitten and develop a secret courtly love type friendship. Otto realises what’s going on (of course he does), and takes advantage of it to try and arrange a betrothal between them (perhaps the Lady comes from the Reach or the Riverlands and therefore Otto wants to use their potential marriage to gain support for TG).

Six months later, Rhaenyra and her family come to court for the inheritance of Driftmark. Rhaenyra manages to outmanoeuvre Otto, and has one of Viserys’s last acts be to betroth the Lady to Jace. Jace is very nice and courteous to the Lady, and if she hadn’t met Aemond first perhaps they could have been happy together. But she doesn’t love him and is devastated to be parted from Aemond.

The Dance begins, and the Lady is kept on Dragonstone. The Lady becomes more depressed as she witnesses the death and destruction around her, as well as her continued separation from Aemond. When Jace dies in the Gullet, she is of course sad, but she feels guilty for not feeling more upset about it, which makes her even more melancholy. Her only solace is hoping that once the war is over, that she can reunite with Aemond if they both survive. When Aegon manages to turn Dragonstone to his side after King’s Landing falls to TB, he secretly sends the Lady to Harrenhal, knowing about her and Aemond’s love. 

They reunite at Harrenhal, and marry almost immediately (the wedding is held in the godswood. I imagine the ceremony to be a mix of Old Gods and Valyrian customs. Alys becomes friends with the Lady). They get one month of being happy together, despite the war going on, before Aemond dies at the Gods Eye in the battle with Daemon. The Lady and Alys recover Aemond’s body but Alys confirms that she cannot revive him, devastating the Lady. 

They bury his body under the hearttree at Harrenhal (except for Aemond’s skull, which the Lady keeps in a fit of depressive delirium). A few days later, the Lady tries to drown herself in the lake, while holding Aemond’s skull, but Alys saves her. Alys reveals that the Lady is pregnant, and the Lady decides she must live, clinging to the small joy that a piece of Aemond will still exist in the world. The Lady and Alys leave Harrenhal together, and the two of them (and the child… and Aemond’s skull), disappear and are never to be seen again, becoming almost myth.

-💎

This truly deserves a long fic!!! This idea is just absolutely fucking beautiful I can feel the angst in my bones😭😩

I’m thinking maybe they have formed a secret sign and keep sending letters to each other OMG SIXHSIJSIS AND ALL THEY CAN CLING TO IS WORDS!!!

Omg the ending😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I can totally see her looking at her baby and see Aemond and Alys helps her with raising the kid MAYBE EVEN SHOWING THEM A FEW OF AEMONDS MEMORIES WHEN THEY’RE A BIT OLDERRT

[iwasalmostagod]

Wait do you mean-? Wow, okay.. so if it isn’t rage, what would you wanna be the new god of?

I want to help you, but only if things are different this time. I don’t want to die again, Porter..

- Jace 💫💎

Baby, did we consider that maybe I’m just not cut out for godhood? I think I might be done with the crazy schemes and ascension. Maybe…maybe I can try just being a guy. Not supposed to be chasing the past anymore, right?

This illumination stuff is so great. I’m having a great time.

[mailoveforu]

writing down the emojis i assigned for ocs because i know im gonna forget this sooner or later

twst

nrc

☣️ yume, 🐦‍⬛ sarai, 🐸 aikaterini, 🐰 u, ✨ shayde, 🎼 melody, 🎨 senalat, 🏹 roy, 🪖 atajan, 💍 galina, 🧜‍♂️ yudai, 🎀 mary-annie

🥕 arledge, 🦎 drake, 🫧 ilsolvic

🌬️ beowulf, 🐻 macbeth, 🎰 caleb, 🪶 talon, 🐆 sadia

🦈 gavin, 🐟 blake, 🏟️ claudius, 🪙 marcus, 🐋 malacoda

📜 bassel, ⏳ heera, 💎 faqeed

🪦 noir, 🕊️ sommeil, 💣 duyao, 🎤 jermaine

👾 pavor, 🎮 nikolaos, 💿 evander

🛡️ severus, 🔍 franco, 🌋 vulcan

🩹 sargon, 🕰️ nova, ☀️ persinette, 🌱 warren

rsa

👑 eden, 👗 gia

🎩 lewis, 🎪 harlan, 🐛 charles, ☂️ bunky, 💭 ellis

🌅 ambrosi, 🌺 fleuri, 🐾 faunus, 🌦️ mist

🕌 jibril, 🐅 kahlil

❄️ alvar, 👓 denarius, 🧩 roux, 💌 cobalt, 🎸 jett, 🛏️ beryl, 🏐 kessler, 🌡️ larimar, 🧹eli

🏺 hector, 🎠 perseus, 💐 miles, 📣 chryses, 🏛️ castor, 🌾 thales, 🪩 theodore, 🎭 melanthios

🍯 winston, 🐷 pietro, 🫏 tristan, 🍝 tigre, 🦉 otus

🩵 duke, 🦘 koen, 🦞 simone, 📚 faron, 🪭 jia-hao, 🤖 mon, 🦴 ivan

awi

🌌 galadriel, 🔷 konyd

♟️ juno, 🃏 henrietta, 🥀 rosalyn, 🦩 carmine, 🦔 emerald

⚒️ imara, 🪮 zuri, 🥇 keletso

🐚 iris, 🧠 jessamine, 🧬 forsythia, ⏲️ kitch

🐍 ritika, 🦜 alya, 🗺️ leila

👠 ellie, 🪞 serenity, 🦚 meili

🚬 helena, 🐺 andrea

🐐 maria, 🪽deirdre, ☸️ sydney, 🏰 daenerys

🗻 headmistress, ⚰️ collector, 💄 vanita, 😈 miriam, 🥼 yvonna, 🦅 shanyuan, 🕸️ bonnie, 🛍️ glynda, 🖌️ jayda, 🌿 gautami

extra

🍬 maximilian, 🩰 margaretta

🧞‍♂️ yusra, 💔 ???, 👻 thirteen

💫 yuehai, 🐉 long/haoran, 🐴 ma/zhang

🦋 aponi, 🌄 odina, 🍁 nuka

🌳 virgo, 🌊 pisces

⏱️ mi-gyeong

akuneko

mcs

💝 nimue, 🪻 yareli, 👔 kimiya, 🪲 jace, 🐱 camilla, 🍓 lenore

butlers

📙 andre, 🍸 hadwin

obey me

mcs

🍎 eve/adam, ⛵️ noa/noah, 🌟 ruth/matthew, 🐝 deborah/barak, 🔏 susanna/daniel, 💻 abigail/david, 🏍️ judith/achior, 👸 esther/mordecai, 📂 miriam/aaron, 🦾 lydia/silas, 🐏 priscilla/aquila, 🔮 martha/lazarus, 🤺 berenice/herod, ✝️ tabitha/peter, 👛 zillah/lamech

other

💧 crocell, 🔪 legion, 🎆 ereshkigal, 🏵️ ishtar/inanna

hypnosis mic

🦢 asuka, 🪴 fumio

🌸 koyumi, 🎎 honoka, 🌻 moriko

🐣 jay mi, 💊 emu

fragaria memories

🍦vianali, 🍫 caomint

🧁 shirousa girl, 🍩 kurousa girl

ensemble stars

🎻 wakana awaji, 🏝️ ranma awaji

kira kira

🕷️ kuro, 🌙 souvanna, ❤️‍🔥katawaguruma

18trip

🌺 harumi, ⛱️ natsuhisa, 🍂akie, ☃️ fuyuyoshi

[whoblewboobear]

Gift of gab not being a sorcerer spell is so rude. Now Jace has to say something with his whole chest 😔 I fully wrote this without looking it up so uhhhh here’s this lmao

[fictionkinfessions]

For Twilight’s newest question about family. I miss them, i miss my sister so much and im so worried how she is right now and that she knows i still care about her. We stayed together through thick and thin.

Space Ghost or Tad, is another issue, i find myself shifting specifically from the original show and I miss him, i miss that ship and he always gave me a pat on the back when i did something new. Then I remember all the dangerous missions and we went on, places we went without supervision nor any weapons nor protection from any aliens, and figure out how much of a fucking dick he was after he forgot about us to go with his show!

-Jace from Space Ghost and Space Ghost Coast to Coast (#🧨🗑🔥)

💎

[zeciex]

🌹🌶🍑💎

I'm guessing this is with A Vow/Dae/Aemond so here:

🌹 - First relationshipI They are each other's first relationship.

🌶��� - First intimacy Daenera; Aemond Aemond; Sylvie

🍑 - Notable flings Daenera had a... flirtation with one of the guards (17) on Dragonstone until Jace found out and got very protective of her. Baela were the one to talk him down from beating him to a pulp + she smacked him over the head when Jace started chewing Dae's ear of and were like 'what about YOU and that girl from the village?' He was real quiet after that.

Aemond didn't really have any flings. He had a crush on a lady once, but Aegon hounded him about it. '

💎 - Chosen family (including warband) Well... Eventually, they'll make their own little family and chose that (including none-direct family members.)

[presidenthades]

Some ago you have us an amazing ice cream analogy about the Targbros can you give us one about the Velargirls. I miss your writing soo much Im craving any crumb you give. Pretty , please :)

Thank you for the Ask! And good news: I recently finished the first draft of Chapter 10 of Compromise (Aemond’s POV of their last days in the Stepstones). I’m currently working on a draft of Chapter 11 (Luce’s POV the day the Targbros return to Westeros and visit Dragonstone). I will probably be able to revise and post Chapter 10 (currently 7k words) after I attend a convention this weekend.

That ice cream analogy was very fun, so I’m happy to do a girls’ version. :3

Jace is a scoop of homemade rose ice cream, presented in a nice crystal cup and garnished with petals and maybe even gold leaf. She is, after all, very concerned about appearances. And the presentation is so pretty that some people are afraid to touch/eat it, lest they ruin it. Rose—in addition to being her favorite flower—is, in my opinion, a not-too-sweet and delicate flavor that can be tricky to get just right. I specified homemade because it tends to melt faster than store-bought ice cream, and our poster girl for anxiety is often on the verge of a meltdown.

Luce is like cookies and cream, with a few sprinkles for appearance’s sake, though the main appeal is the actual ice cream. It’s a popular flavor, and most people have no objections to it at first glance. But then you take a bite and WHOOPS it turns out the sprinkles are secretly pop rocks. Surprise little explosion in your mouth, just like how Luce’s temper can go off. But some people are really into pop rocks, so some asshole stuck his finger into the ice cream container to try to deter other people from eating it. 👁️👄💎

For Joff, I googled “most controversial ice cream flavors” and went from there. I decided to go with tiger tail ice cream, which is orange ice cream with black licorice swirl. I have never had it before, but it’s described as an acquired taste. Joff is a bit of an acquired taste to the people around her, and the name “tiger tail” evokes a sense of fierceness that suits her. Also, because the flavor is so unpopular at this imaginary ice cream parlor, the one customer who really likes it has to custom order a batch and then he’s stuck eating that same gallon of ice cream for a year. Not that he’s complaining. 🦮

[kinterrors]

NAME SUGGESTIONS // JIM LAKE JR. + RELATED 💎

Gender was not specified, so i did a mix of masc, fem and neutral

NEUTRAL - BEGINNING WITH J

Jamie - Dimminutive of 'James', shares the same meaning. Meaning 'supplanter' Jupiter Journey Jericho Jaiden

NEUTRAL - RELATED

Hunter - speaks for itself frfr Alex – Greek for 'defender' Sage – Latin for ‘wise’, also means ‘adventure’ Kale – meaning ‘man of adventure’ Vance – French for ‘adventurous’

MASC - BEGINNING WITH J

Jacob - shares the same meaning of Jim/James. Meaning 'supplanter' Jake - shares the same meaning of Jim/James. Meaning 'supplanter' Jace Jasper Jay Jason

MASC - RELATED

Chase - The meaning of Chase is ‘to hunt’. Lucian - meaning 'light'. Emery - 'brave, ruler, powerful Andrew - 'brave, strength, warrior' Axton - 'sword stone'

FEM - BEGINNING WITH J

Jade Jillian Joy Juliet Judith

FEM - RELATED

Raine – Old English for ‘queen’ and a journey of power Diana - The Roman goddess of moon and hunt. Helena - 'shining light' Phoebe - 'radiant, shining one' Aubrey - 'power, supernatural being'

[arsenic-catnep]

So if I'm following everything right...

We have

💋

Jace's twin💅

Jon's twin🥰

&

Aemond's little sister 💎

💋

The kinky trinity...our girls really said imma fuck my brother

Brother fucker behavior

[dream-dove]

💎 - to try to steal something from your muse / Luke for the big bro who definitely wasn't going to eat both those cakes

@nerdqueenmari

It was only for a split second that Jace turned around to find something unholy transpire. His slice of cake was stolen without a trace! The poor boy looked around the table in confusion. Only to follow the crumbs toward his dear brother's plate. “Luke you chipmunk! You stole my slice. The crumbs on your cheek speak the truth!”