#laena velaryon. || visage.

[imaginarianisms]

queen a.lysanne t.argaryen & her great granddaughter l.aena v.elaryon in their youth.

[imaginarianisms]

@velcryons

Whilst Princess Rhaenyra misliked her stepmother Queen Alicent, she became fond and more than fond of her good-sister Lady Laena. With Driftmark and Dragonstone so close, Daemon and Laena oft visited with the princess, and her with them. 

Fire & Blood, GRRM

[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire (the flint)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: driftmark

- Next part: prelude to war

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

From The Testimony of Mushroom, corroborated in The Accounts of Westerosi Lords by Grand Maester Orwyle and various records from the Rock

The Departure from Driftmark

The incident that marred Lady Leona Lannister at Driftmark’s funeral repast signaled a turning point not only for the young Lannister maiden but for the entire realm. What had begun as mourning for Lady Laena Velaryon quickly unraveled into a maelstrom of violence and whispered treason.

Lord Jason and his lady wife lingered only a short time after the incident. Mushroom claims it was Leona herself who hastened their departure, for when Orwyle attempted to examine the stitches again, the girl reportedly turned her face away and whispered tearfully to her father, “Take me home, Papa.” And take her home he did.

The Lannister host departed Driftmark two days later, the somber air of their procession a stark contrast to the fanfare of their earlier arrival. Grand Maester Orwyle recounts that Princess Y/N Targaryen rode with Leona cradled carefully in her arms, the girl’s face hidden beneath a silken hood. Lord Jason led the host atop his courser, his visage cold and unyielding as the winds off the Narrow Sea. Behind them rode Loren Lannister, steadfast as ever, with the younger children—Aemma, young Tyland, Daena, and the infant twins Rhaegel and Rhaelle—seated in carriages adorned with the lion of Lannister and the dragon of Targaryen.

Witnesses speak of King Viserys himself standing atop the Driftmark battlements to watch their departure, a pitiful sight of a man aged far beyond his years. Mushroom claims the king’s eyes brimmed with tears as he murmured, “They are my blood, and they slip from my hands like ash.” Whether true or not, Grand Maester Orwyle’s letters confirm that Viserys sent a raven to Princess Y/N shortly after, imploring her to return to King’s Landing soon.

Though the Lannisters left without ceremony, their absence left a weight upon Driftmark. The silence of their retreat was more deafening than a thousand horns of war.

The Aftermath of Driftmark

Word of the incident traveled quickly across the realm, carried like wildfire on the tongues of ravens and messengers. In Casterly Rock, Lord Jason and his family settled back into their stronghold, but the rumors from Driftmark followed them like ghosts. Mushroom paints a vivid picture of Jason standing atop the walls of the Rock, looking eastward toward the capital as he told his wife, “I should have slit that boy’s throat myself. No lion forgets such an insult.”

Leona Lannister, the scar now stitched into her face, became the silent symbol of the West’s ire. Princess Y/N ordered for golden masks to be crafted, delicate and ornate, to hide the wound that stretched from her daughter’s mouth to her ear. She is said to have comforted Leona in private, whispering, “You are still beautiful, my love. No scar can take that from you.”

Her brother Loren became her shadow, ever at her side with a quiet watchfulness that belied his years. While Leona grew fierce and stubborn, refusing pity, Loren tempered her fire with loyalty. Together, they were the pride of the Rock—two lions touched by dragonfire.

The Fate of Ser Laenor Velaryon

Less than a moon’s turn after the Lannisters returned to Casterly Rock, word arrived in King’s Landing that Ser Laenor Velaryon, the husband of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, had been found dead in Spicetown on Driftmark. The stories were muddled. Some claimed it was a lover’s quarrel turned fatal; others whispered it had been a planned murder. Most agreed, however, that Laenor had been slain in a private hall by his companion, Ser Qarl Correy.

Whether by design or coincidence, Ser Qarl vanished shortly after, leaving no witnesses save for whispers. Mushroom, never shy of speculation, claims the incident was “conveniently timed” and attributes the deed to none other than Prince Daemon Targaryen, who, in his telling, “grew tired of Rhaenyra’s Velaryon burden.” He also adds with typical vulgarity, “Laenor always loved men better than his princess, and so the gods loved him less in turn.”

The Westerlands’ Growing Suspicion

In the wake of the Lannisters’ departure, other storms began to stir. News of Ser Laenor Velaryon’s untimely death in Spicetown reached Casterly Rock less than a moon later. The Westerlands, already skeptical of the events at Driftmark, viewed the death with deep suspicion. “A convenient murder, timed too well,” Jason muttered during a council of his bannermen. “If it smells of dragonfire, a dragon likely lit the match.”

The whispers of Laenor’s death merged with the rumors that had begun to swirl around Princess Rhaenyra’s sons. Word from King’s Landing suggested that the boys, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were not true Velaryons but bastards born of Harwin Strong. While many across the realm muttered such accusations in secret, Jason Lannister—ever the provocateur—found quiet amusement in the scandal.

Mushroom, never one to shy from salacious details, claims Jason jested to his wife over supper, “At least our brood cannot be questioned. The gods have seen fit to bless me with silver-haired lions—true Targaryen fire with Lannister roar.” Princess Y/N, Mushroom adds, was less amused by her husband’s tongue but refrained from chastising him too openly.

Yet Jason’s pride was not without merit. The children of House Lannister—Leona, Loren, Aemma, Tyland, Daena, Rhaegel, and Rhaelle—were spoken of in glowing terms across the Westerlands. Mushroom claims that lords whispered over cups of wine that “the Targaryen blood runs pure in the Rock, while it spoils in the capital.” Whether truth or exaggeration, the sentiment deepened the divide between the West and the Crown.

The Growing Divide

As King Viserys’s health waned, whispers of war grew louder. House Hightower, aligned with Queen Alicent and her children, sought to solidify their strength in Oldtown and King’s Landing. Meanwhile, Princess Rhaenyra’s supporters looked to Driftmark and Dragonstone as bastions of her claim. Yet in the Westerlands, Jason Lannister remained an unpredictable force.

He did not speak openly of war, nor did he voice allegiance to either side, though his disdain for the Hightowers had been well noted. When questioned by his bannermen, Jason’s only reply was, “A lion waits to strike when the moment is ripe.”

It was said that Princess Y/N, ever the calm counter to her husband’s fire, urged him to remain patient. “For now, we guard our pride,” she is recorded as saying to her ladies-in-waiting. “When the time comes, the Rock will choose its side—and we will choose wisely.”

Yet despite her reassurances, the realm watched Casterly Rock with wary eyes. The children of House Lannister—touched by both fire and gold—stood as symbols of what could come. Leona and Loren, bonded to dragons, were whispered of in awe. Aemma, sweet and clever, was the darling of her grandsire King Viserys. Tyland and Daena grew mischievous and bright, ever conspiring with whispers of their own. And the youngest twins, Rhaegel and Rhaelle, were but babes, yet even they carried the weight of their bloodline.

Conclusion

Thus, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock waited. In Driftmark’s wake, the roar of lions was stilled—but not silenced. As the realm’s divisions deepened and whispers of treason and bastardy spread like rot through the halls of power, Jason and Princess Y/N stood watchful and strong.

“When the dragons burn themselves to ash,” Jason was overheard saying, “the lions will rise to rule the realm.”

Whether his words were prophecy or merely the boast of a proud lord remains to be seen. Yet as Mushroom so darkly concludes, “The lions did not roar that day, but all men heard them breathing.”

129 AC – Casterly Rock

The great hall of Casterly Rock echoed with the quiet murmur of servants, the crackle of torches lining the stone walls, and the faint rhythm of the waves crashing far below. You stood at the window, the view stretching beyond the cliffs to where the sea met the horizon, vast and unknowable. Jason’s footsteps sounded softly behind you, and before you could turn, his arms circled around your waist, pulling you back against him. His chin rested gently on your shoulder as his lips brushed the edge of your ear.

“You’re brooding again,” Jason murmured, his voice low and familiar. “I can practically see the smoke rising from your thoughts.”

You smiled faintly, though your gaze remained fixed on the sea. “A raven came from Dragonstone this morning.”

Jason stiffened just slightly, the subtle shift enough for you to notice. “What news?” he asked, though his tone was casual—a man trying to feign disinterest when he already knew the answer would not please him.

You turned in his arms, looking up into his green eyes. “Rhaenyra has summoned us to King’s Landing. Vaemond Velaryon seeks to petition his claim for the Driftwood Throne… to disinherit Luke.”

Jason let out a quiet breath, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the words. “And Corlys?”

“Gravely wounded,” you answered softly. “Rhaenyra fears the worst. If Vaemond’s petition is heard before the king…” You trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Jason did it for you.

“Then Lucerys could be cast aside,” he muttered, his tone edged with frustration. “It would be a slight to Rhaenyra’s claim as well—a challenge. The Hightowers will surely stoke the fire.”

You nodded, stepping back to lean against the window ledge. “She’s asking for our support, Jason. She’s asking for me.”

Jason studied you for a moment, his arms crossing over his chest. “And what do you wish to do?”

You met his gaze without hesitation. “We go. She is my sister, and her sons are my nephews. You know as well as I that this is only the beginning. If Vaemond succeeds, the next blow will strike closer.”

Jason sighed, raking a hand through his golden hair before pacing away. “Seven hells… I knew peace wouldn’t last. Not with Alicent’s brood sniffing for any excuse to tear Rhaenyra down.” He stopped and turned back toward you, his green eyes sharp. “Very well. We go to King’s Landing.”

Before you could respond, a knock echoed at the doors of the hall. “Enter,” Jason barked, his voice carrying an edge of impatience.

The heavy doors swung open, revealing Loren and Leona standing side by side, their tall frames a mirror of their parents. At fifteen, the twins were striking—Leona with her silver-blonde hair cascading down her back and sharp violet eyes, her chin tilted up in a way that spoke of quiet confidence. Her scarred face, however, was adorned with the golden mask fashioned for her—an exquisite creation that covered the length of her jaw and the line of the deep gash, molded perfectly to her features. The mask was polished to a gleam, etched with intricate lion motifs that caught the light like fire. Coupled with the dresses you had commissioned for her—garments embroidered with threads so intricate and fine that no one could look at her without marveling—Leona was a sight of wonder and strength.

Beside her, Loren was taller, his pale curls an unmistakable Targaryen trait, though his emerald eyes were the shade of a Lannister lineage. Both wore the colors of House Lannister and House Targaryen with pride, their presence commanding even in silence.

“Mother. Father,” Loren greeted formally, though his tone was light, as if he’d overheard and already knew what the summons was about. Leona’s gaze, however, lingered on you with curiosity.

Jason waved a hand, beckoning them closer. “Come here, both of you. It seems your aunt Rhaenyra is in need of our family once more.”

Leona’s expression sharpened as she stepped forward, her brow furrowing. “What’s happened?”

“Lord Vaemond Velaryon seeks to petition his claim to Driftmark,” you explained, your voice steady but soft. “He challenges Luke’s inheritance. Rhaenyra has called us to King’s Landing.”

Loren tilted his head slightly, his lips curving faintly into a smirk. “And you mean to go?” he asked, though there was no doubt in his tone.

“Of course,” Jason interjected, his gaze sharp as he looked between his eldest children. “The Rock does not abandon family, and we do not turn our backs on the bonds we’ve forged.”

Leona nodded, her eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight. “Vaelora and Morghan will carry us swiftly,” she said, referring to their dragons . “We’ll be ready by morning.”

Jason raised a brow, pride flickering in his gaze despite the weight of the moment. “Eager for another chance to show your dragons off, are you?”

Loren grinned, his expression every bit as smug as his father’s. “It would be a shame to waste the opportunity, wouldn’t it?”

Leona gave her brother a faint glare before turning her attention back to you. “What of the others?” she asked quietly.

You smiled at her thoughtfulness. “They’ll come with us. Tyland, Daena, Aemma, Rhaegel, and Rhaelle—all of them. Your aunt wishes us to bring the full strength of House Lannister.”

Jason let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Your mother means to arrive with all power the West can muster.”

“And we shall,” you replied firmly, looking to your children. “When we arrive in King’s Landing, we will remind them all that House Lannister does not waver—be it for blood, bonds, or dragons.”

Loren dipped his head in agreement, his amusement fading as he took the matter seriously. “And the Hightowers?”

Jason’s smirk turned sharp. “Let them watch. Let them seethe. The king will see that Rhaenyra has allies. We will stand beside her, as always.”

Leona nodded once more, though there was a flicker of concern in her violet eyes. “We will make you proud,” she promised softly.

Jason crossed the room, placing a firm hand on her shoulder before looking to Loren. “You already do.”

The following morning dawned with a flurry of activity. The sun had barely crested the horizon when the sounds of dragons echoed through the air. From the cliffs of Casterly Rock, Vaelora and Morghan took to the skies, their forms casting long shadows across the stone walls.

From atop Vaelora’s pale, red-marked back, Leona sat tall and proud, her silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. Beside her, Loren guided Morghan, the massive black dragon a fearsome sight against the clear sky.

Below, Jason led the head of the Lannister procession, his crimson cloak billowing behind him as he rode at the forefront of the golden host. Behind him rode you, with your dragon, Morrath circling above. Your youngest children bundled safely in carriages, their laughter drifting faintly through the crisp morning air. The banners of House Lannister and Targaryen flew high, carried by men adorned in gilded armor that shone as brightly as the rising sun.

The smallfolk of the Westerlands gathered to watch, cheering loudly as the might of Casterly Rock departed. The sight of dragons overhead, combined with the strength of the Lannister procession, stirred awe and whispers throughout the land.

Jason glanced over his shoulder as you caught up to ride beside him. He flashed you one of his roguish smiles, his green eyes bright with mischief and pride. “Well, wife, do you think the Hightowers will sleep soundly tonight?”

You smirked faintly, your gaze turning to the dragons soaring ahead. “Not if they have any sense.”

Jason laughed, shaking his head. “Good. Let them know we are coming. Let them know the lions have not forgotten.”

And with that, the golden host of House Lannister moved eastward, toward King’s Landing, where fire, blood, and a storm of treachery awaited them all.

The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon as the golden host of House Lannister passed through the gates of King’s Landing. The smallfolk had lined the streets, as they always did when Jason Lannister and his family arrived—curious eyes peering out from shuttered windows, children waving wildly, and men and women alike murmuring at the sight of dragons soaring overhead.

Morrath, Vaelora and Morghan circled high above the city, their wings casting long shadows over the rooftops as Leona and Loren guided them toward the Dragonpit. You had watched their departure from your place in the procession, the pride in your heart tempered only by the unease that curled in your stomach at the sight of the Red Keep growing closer.

But there was no grand welcoming party waiting for the Lannisters at the castle gates—no trumpets, no banners, no eager retainers to greet the Lord of Casterly Rock and his kin. Only silence and the faint shuffle of armored boots as the gates were opened to admit your family.

Jason, riding at the head of the procession, pulled his horse to a stop just inside the courtyard, his eyes sweeping over the near-empty space. His cloak billowed faintly behind him as he turned to you, his smirk edged with derision. “Well, isn’t this a fine welcome?”

You reined in your horse beside him, your gaze narrowing as you surveyed the quiet courtyard. The banners had changed since your last visit—gone were the familiar black and red of House Targaryen, replaced now with great tapestries bearing the seven-pointed star of the Faith. Even the once-proud dragon motifs carved into the stone had been covered or replaced, their absence a pointed declaration.

Jason’s smirk turned sharper as he gestured toward the nearest tapestry, his voice loud enough to carry to his retinue. “I see they’ve redecorated.”

Before you could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the courtyard. Turning your head, you spotted Lord Tyland Lannister emerging from one of the archways, his stern features set into a practiced expression of calm. Clad in a finely tailored doublet of crimson and gold, Jason’s younger twin moved toward you with an air of formality, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“Brother,” Jason called out as Tyland approached. “Is this how the capital greets its honored guests these days? I’m almost offended.”

Tyland’s lips quirked faintly in what could barely pass as a smile. “Jason,” he replied smoothly, inclining his head in greeting. “Sister,” he added with a respectful nod toward you. His gaze flickered briefly to the carriages where the younger children waited and then to the Lannister guards standing silently behind them.

“You’re late, Tyland,” Jason said pointedly, though his tone carried more amusement than genuine frustration. “Were you waylaid by prayers on your way here?”

Tyland’s expression did not change, though his eyes flicked toward the seven-pointed stars adorning the keep. “You’ll find the tone of the castle has… shifted since your last visit,” he said carefully. “The queen holds great influence now.”

Jason snorted softly, glancing back at the changes with unconcealed disdain. “So I see. The dragons replaced with stars, and the halls no doubt filled with sermons instead of songs. Tell me, did they set fire to the throne room as well, or is it still intact?”

Tyland shot him a sharp look, though his voice remained measured. “Viserys still sits the throne, though he is confined to his chambers for the most part. The king’s health has worsened… greatly.”

You frowned, leaning slightly forward in your saddle. “How bad is it?”

Tyland’s gaze shifted to you, and for the first time, his composure faltered ever so slightly. “He is bedridden, sister. The maesters keep him on milk of the poppy to dull his pain. He is lucid… at times.”

A hush settled over the courtyard at those words, broken only by the faint rustle of banners fluttering in the breeze. You glanced toward Jason, whose expression had darkened, the usual smugness in his features replaced by something colder.

“And what of Rhaenyra?” you asked quietly, your tone carefully even. “Has she not yet arrived?”

“Not yet,” Tyland replied, folding his hands once more behind his back. “Princess Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon, and their household are expected within the next day or so. Lord Vaemond Velaryon has yet to arrive as well, though word has come that he draws close. Princess Rhaenys sails with him.”

Jason exhaled through his nose, his green eyes narrowing. “Of course. I imagine Alicent and her father are already preparing their prayers and petitions.”

Tyland’s gaze flickered briefly toward the keep, his silence enough of an answer. Jason laughed dryly, though there was little humor in it as he dismounted his horse. “Well, come then,” he said briskly, turning to his men and gesturing for the carriages to follow. “Let us find our quarters before someone mistakes us for heathens and throws us out.”

You followed his lead, dismounting with a quiet sigh as Tyland fell into step beside you. “The queen is expecting you,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “She will wish to speak.”

You shot him a sharp look. “Let her wait.”

Tyland inclined his head slightly, though there was a hint of unease in his gaze. “Be careful, sister,” he murmured. “The court is… it changed. This is no longer the King’s Landing you remember.”

Jason, overhearing as he adjusted his cloak, shot Tyland a look of mock surprise. “Are we in danger, brother? Should I ready my sword?”

Tyland arched a brow, unimpressed. “Mock all you wish, Jason, but I do not exaggerate.”

Jason waved a hand dismissively as he turned back toward you, offering his arm. “Come, wife. Let’s not keep the stars waiting. If we’re lucky, they’ll bless us before the night is through.”

You shook your head, linking your arm with his as the two of you made your way toward the towering gates of the Red Keep. Behind you, the younger children were helped down from the carriages, their excited murmurs filling the quiet courtyard as they were greeted by retainers and servants. Tyland lingered a moment longer before following, his expression unreadable.

As you stepped into the familiar stone halls of the castle, the weight of the place settled heavily around you. The dragon motifs that had once marked every wall and archway were gone, replaced now with austere symbols of the Faith. The air itself felt colder, the silence heavier, as though the life had been slowly drained from the keep.

Jason’s voice broke the quiet as he glanced around, his lips curling faintly. “It feels more like a sept than a castle,” he muttered, his words echoing softly off the stone. “The queen’s work, no doubt.”

You didn’t reply, your gaze fixed ahead as you walked deeper into the keep. Whatever games awaited you in King’s Landing, you could feel them already beginning to unfurl around you—threads of dread weaving together in ways that you knew would soon tighten.

The doors to your childhood chambers were opened with a creak, and the familiar sight met your eyes. The room had been untouched since your last visit—spacious and richly adorned, though in a quieter, more intimate way than the rest of the Red Keep. The bed still stood draped in heavy silken curtains, embroidered with dragons in silver and black thread. The windows were open, letting in the fading light of day, the amber glow spilling across the stone floor. A faint breeze carried with it the faint smells of the city—salt, smoke, and life.

Jason followed you inside, his steps echoing lightly behind yours. As you moved to remove your gloves, your gaze lingered on the carved dragons above the fireplace. “Alicent will fume,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but edged with dry amusement. “She expects her summons to be heeded, not ignored.”

Jason, who had taken his time shutting the doors with deliberate ease, only smirked as he turned to face you. “Let her fume,” he replied casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve always found the queen’s righteous anger quite… tedious. Besides, I rather enjoy ignoring her.”

You shot him a pointed look, though his smirk widened as his eyes swept over you—assessing, lingering, as though distracted by something far more captivating than court politics.

“Jason—” you began, already sensing the shift in his demeanor, but you had no time to protest. In a single stride, he had crossed the chamber and taken your hand, pulling you toward him. His grip was firm but gentle, his fingers threading with yours as he stared down at you, his gaze smoldering with usual mischief and something far deeper.

“You looked radiant today,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone that always made your pulse quicken. “The stars in this cursed keep can’t hold a candle to you.”

You narrowed your eyes faintly, though heat crept up your neck. “You’re avoiding the matter at hand.”

“And you’re avoiding me,” Jason countered smoothly, tilting his head slightly. His gaze dropped to your lips, and his voice dipped lower still. “Tell me, wife—are you going to let your childhood ghosts get in the way of this?”

“Jason,” you warned softly, though your words were already losing their edge as he leaned closer, his hand sliding to rest at the small of your back. Before you could manage another word, his lips were on yours—insistent, hungry, as though the days spent traveling here had been nothing but torture for him.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands pressing against his chest out of sheer reflex, but Jason paid no mind. He deepened the kiss, his arm curling around you as he pulled you firmly against him, the warmth of his body searing through the fabric of your gown. A shiver ran down your spine as his other hand slid up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“Jason—” you tried again, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, but he silenced you with another kiss, this one slower, deeper, and more possessive. You felt the tension in his touch, the heat of it threatening to consume you entirely.

He finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven. “You’re thinking about her,” he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement. “Stop it. I want you to think about me, and me alone.”

You let out a soft laugh, breathless and exasperated. “You always do this.”

“And yet, you adore me for it,” he teased, brushing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. His fingers moved swiftly, already beginning to tug at the laces of your gown. “We’ve been patient for far too long, wife. I don’t intend to waste another moment.”

Before you could protest, Jason swept you toward the bed, his hands deft as he made short work of your bodice, pulling you into his arms again. His kisses trailed along your jaw, down your neck, and heat pooled deep within you at the way his touch set your nerves aflame.

But just as the world around you began to blur into a haze of fire and longing, the sound of the chamber doors opening with a jarring creak tore through the air.

“My lady—”

“Seven bloody hells!” Jason growled, turning sharply to glare at the door, his body still half-draped over yours. Ser Criston Cole stood just inside the threshold, his face immediately darkening as he registered the scene before him—your partially unlaced gown, Jason’s disheveled state, and the flush that had crept up your cheeks.

Behind Criston, Queen Alicent stepped into view, her face a mask of stern disapproval. Her green gown billowed faintly around her as she moved into the chamber, her sharp gaze falling on you before sliding to Jason, who looked entirely unrepentant despite the compromising position.

“Lord Jason,” Alicent began, her voice clipped and cold. “I summoned you—”

“And I ignored you,” Jason interrupted, his tone as smug as ever as he straightened to his full height, though his hand remained firmly on your waist. “Is it not customary to knock before barging into a man’s chambers? Or does the queen find pleasure in interrupting marital affairs?”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her composure threatening to crack as her gaze darted between the two of you. “This is not the time for insolence, Lord Jason.”

“Forgive me,” Jason said, though his tone dripped with sarcasm. He gestured broadly toward the bed with a smirk. “But as you can see, my attentions were already occupied. If you have urgent matters of state, you should have sent a raven instead.”

You shot him a look, your face still flushed as you began lacing your gown back up. “Jason,” you murmured under your breath, though your voice held little conviction.

Alicent’s gaze turned icy as she addressed you directly. “I had hoped you might show better judgment, Princess. The king’s court does not take kindly to such… impropriety.”

Jason scoffed loudly, stepping in front of you with deliberate intent. “Spare me your lectures, Your Grace. If you’ve come to scold us like unruly children, you’ll find little satisfaction here.”

Criston shifted uncomfortably at Alicent’s side, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword, though he made no move to speak. Alicent’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Lord Jason,” she said tightly, “this court demands respect.”

“And respect must be earned,” Jason countered, his voice hardening as he met her gaze without flinching. “Tell me, is this about respect, or are you simply still cross about what happened with my daughter? Because let me assure you—no one forgets the harm done to a Lannister.”

A heavy silence fell over the room, and you rose to your feet now, stepping to Jason’s side as you placed a calming hand on his arm. “That’s enough, Jason,” you said quietly, though your voice carried an edge of steel.

Alicent’s expression remained unreadable, though her gaze lingered on you with thinly veiled disdain. “The Hand expects your presence tomorrow. I suggest you both remember your place.”

With that, she turned sharply on her heel, sweeping from the chamber with Ser Criston following close behind. The doors shut heavily behind them, leaving you and Jason standing in the sudden silence.

Jason let out a breath, running a hand through his golden hair before turning to you with a grin that was equal parts exasperated and amused. “Well,” he muttered dryly, “I suppose that could have gone better.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you moved to finish lacing your gown. “You enjoy provoking her, don’t you?”

Jason smirked, stepping closer to brush a kiss to your temple. “She makes it far too easy, my love.”

“And what of Otto?” you asked softly, your gaze flickering toward the closed door. “We’ll have to face him tomorrow.”

Jason’s expression softened slightly, though his roguish grin never faltered. “Then we’ll face him together,” he said simply, his voice steady. “The Lannisters do not cower—not for queens, nor for their fathers.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “Let’s just try to avoid another spectacle, shall we?”

Jason grinned, his hand brushing your waist as he leaned in once more. “Where’s the fun in that, wife?”

The sun was beginning to set over the Red Keep’s courtyard. The air was filled with the hum of quiet conversation and the curious glances of courtiers who lingered, watching the arrival of House Lannister with open intrigue. Servants hurried past with bowed heads, while guards shifted uncomfortably on their feet, their hands idly resting on sword pommels. The whole of the Keep seemed to hold its breath.

Leona and Loren walked side by side, their steps measured and slow, though there was nothing hesitant about the way they carried themselves. As always, they were a striking pair. Loren moved with the composed grace of their father—head held high, shoulders squared, his curls catching the light like a crown. Beside him, Leona strode with quiet purpose, her scarred face hidden behind the finely crafted mask you had commissioned. The intricate details shone in the sun—delicate and strong, like the girl beneath it. Her long crimson cloak swayed behind her, the lions and dragons embroidered into her sleeves catching the eye of every onlooker.

The murmurs that followed them were barely hushed—whispers of admiration, curiosity, and speculation.

“Are those the twins of the Rock?”

“Dragonriders, I hear—riding beasts hatched from their mother’s dragon.”

“The scarred girl, Leona—some say the wound is a mark of her pride.”

“Lannisters here, in such times… who knows what they mean to do?”

Leona paid the whispers no mind, her violet gaze sweeping over the courtyard with the calm sharpness she had inherited from her mother. Loren, however, smirked faintly, though his voice carried a note of dry amusement as he murmured to her.

“You’d think we’d just been crowned ourselves,” he said, eyes flicking to a group of gawking courtiers who immediately looked away. “Father was right, you know. The whole of King’s Landing is waiting for House Lannister to save them.”

Leona glanced at him from behind her mask, her lips twitching faintly at the corner. “Is that what he said?”

Loren nodded, his voice dropping into an imitation of Jason Lannister’s confident drawl. “‘The West shall bring certainty where there is none. The realm needs lions to cut through the chaos.’” Loren’s smirk returned as he shook his head. “Father does enjoy the sound of his own words.”

Leona gave a small, quiet laugh, though it was tinged with thoughtfulness. “They aren’t entirely wrong. Aunt Rhaenyra’s claim has divided the realm, and the king—” Her words faltered briefly before she finished, “—he won’t live forever.”

Loren’s expression darkened slightly at that. “And when the time comes, the West will need to choose.” He looked at her, his tone serious now. “Father speaks with such certainty, but even he knows that war waits just over the horizon.”

Leona was silent for a long moment, her gaze turning toward the looming towers of the Keep. The sun caught her mask again, and for all her quiet strength, there was something thoughtful—something distant—in the way she stared ahead. “Then we’ll make sure the lions roar loud enough to be heard on both sides of the realm,” she said softly.

Their quiet conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of slow, purposeful footsteps approaching them from across the courtyard. Loren turned his head first, his expression sharpening as he recognized who it was.

“Speak of war and here comes the prince,” Loren muttered under his breath.

Prince Aegon Targaryen strode toward them with an air of lazy confidence, as if he were simply wandering rather than seeking anyone out. His platinum hair fell in loose waves around his shoulders, the sun reflecting off it in a pale glow. He was clad in rich green and gold finery, his cloak clasped with a dragon pin at the shoulder. The faint smirk he wore hinted at amusement, though his violet eyes were sharp—too sharp, perhaps—as they lingered on Leona and Loren.

“Twins of the Rock,” Aegon drawled, his voice dripping with casual mockery as he stopped a few paces away. “King’s Landing grows brighter with all your splendor.”

Loren, always his father’s son, inclined his head just slightly, his smile polite but cool. “We aim to please, Your Grace.”

Leona said nothing, her masked face tilting slightly as she regarded Aegon with her sharp, unblinking gaze. If Aegon noticed her silence, he gave no sign of it. His attention lingered on her longer than necessary, his violet eyes flickering over the mask and the rich crimson of her cloak. When he finally spoke again, his tone was quieter but edged with something unreadable.

“You’ve grown since last we saw each other, Leona,” he said, almost offhandedly. “Stronger, I imagine.”

Leona tilted her head slightly, her voice even as she replied, “And yet you remain unchanged, Prince Aegon.”

The response caught Loren by surprise, and his smirk widened into something far less polite. Aegon, however, let out a soft huff of amusement, as if impressed. “Sharp-tongued lions. I should have expected no less from my half-sister’s children.”

He lingered for only a moment more, his gaze lingering on Leona once again before he turned and began to walk away with that same easy, languid stride.

Loren watched him go, his smirk lingering as he leaned toward his sister. “Well, that was charming,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve clearly made an impression on him.”

Leona did not turn to watch Aegon’s retreating figure, though her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ve no care for the prince’s impressions,” she said curtly.

Loren snorted softly, though his voice carried an edge of warning now. “Perhaps not, but men like Aegon are never without motive.” He glanced at her golden mask, his tone softening. “You know that, don’t you?”

Leona turned her head just slightly to look at him. For all the emotion her mask concealed, there was something steely in her posture. “I know,” she replied simply.

The courtyard had begun to settle once more, the gawking courtiers gradually turning their attention elsewhere. Loren placed a reassuring hand on his sister’s arm, his tone shifting into something lighter. “Come, let’s find the others. You know how Father is—he’ll have half the Red Keep turned upside down if we’re late.”

Leona nodded faintly, allowing Loren to guide her toward the inner halls. But as they walked, her thoughts lingered on Aegon—on his words, his lingering gaze, and the unease it left behind.

The younger Lannister children moved through the vast corridors of the Red Keep with the lively shuffle of a small parade. At the front of the group was Aemma, composed as ever, with her chin tilted slightly upward in the poised manner she had learned from her mother. Behind her walked Tyland and Daena, who whispered conspiratorially to one another, their soft giggles punctuating the otherwise solemn air. Rhaegel and Rhaelle, the youngest twins, were walking along, their small hands held carefully by a pair of Lannister servants.

Leading the way were a mix of stern-faced servants from House Lannister and the Red Keep, the latter keeping a watchful eye as though uncertain what mischief might arise from the group. The younger children seemed entirely unbothered by the hushed whispers they passed, the occasional courtier peeking around corners to catch a glimpse of the “golden brood” that had returned to King’s Landing.

“Do you think the gardens here have butterflies?” Daena whispered excitedly to her brother Tyland, her small fingers tugging at his sleeve. “The ones at home are prettier, but maybe they’ll have more here.”

Tyland shrugged, his expression exasperated. “Why do you always care about butterflies? I’d rather see the training yard. Father said they’ve swords made of Valyrian steel here.”

“You only want to hit things,” Daena shot back, wrinkling her nose. “Butterflies don’t fight.”

“They would if they could,” Tyland muttered with a smirk, earning a dramatic sigh from his sister.

Aemma cast a sharp look over her shoulder, her tone calm but firm. “Stop bickering. You’re embarrassing us.”

Daena huffed, though she obeyed, while Tyland rolled his eyes. “You’re starting to sound like Leona,” he muttered under his breath.

“Good,” Aemma replied smoothly. “She’d say the same.”

As they rounded a corner, the group passed a lone figure standing near one of the tall windows, his presence almost hidden in the dim light. Aemond Targaryen stood with his arms clasped behind his back, his pale silver hair catching the soft glow of the sun. His eye—one of vibrant violet—flickered subtly over the children as they moved past, his gaze lingering on Aemma for a heartbeat longer than the others.

Aemma ignored him entirely, her amber eyes fixed forward with practiced determination, though a slight wrinkle appeared between her brows. She strode forward with an air of quiet authority, her hand lightly guiding her youngest siblings onward as they passed. If she noticed Aemond’s lingering look, she gave no sign of it.

Aemond tilted his head slightly, a faint, unreadable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched her disappear down the hall.

“You’re staring, uncle.”

The voice broke the quiet, sharp and cool, as Leona and Loren stepped into view from the opposite end of the corridor. Their arrival seemed to cut through the air like a blade—their presence commanding as they approached.

Aemond turned slowly to face them, his smirk fading into something more guarded. “I greet you, Leona. Loren.”

Leona inclined her head just slightly, though her posture remained rigid and unwavering. “Aemond,” she replied curtly, her voice as cool as her tone. Beside her, Loren studied Aemond with a gaze that was less hostile but no less watchful.

A tense silence settled between the three, though it was Aemond who broke it first. His eye flickered toward Leona’s mask, lingering there for a moment longer than was polite before meeting her gaze. “I see you’ve come armored for war.”

Leona tilted her head slightly, the faintest edge of amusement lacing her tone. “Better to be armored than to leave oneself vulnerable.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint smirk, though it lacked true warmth. “And do you intend to go to war, cousin? I imagine your father would rather fill the throne room with gold than swords.”

Loren stepped forward then, his smile sharp but charming in that distinctly Lannister way. “You sound disappointed, Aemond,” he said, his tone edged with mock curiosity. “Would you prefer we come to blows? I’d hate to think you miss the days of chaos.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly, though he said nothing for a moment. Instead, he returned his gaze to Leona, the tension crackling faintly between them like a spark waiting for flame. “It seems the lions have claws after all.”

Leona met his stare evenly, unflinching. “And dragons do not frighten us, cousin,” she said softly, the weight of her words settling heavily in the space between them.

Loren’s smile widened slightly at that, though he said nothing, content to let his sister’s words linger. Aemond, for his part, said no more. Instead, he gave a faint incline of his head—a gesture that was neither submission nor concession—before stepping back into the shadows.

“Welcome back to the Red Keep,” he said finally, his voice low but laced with meaning. “I imagine we’ll be seeing more of one another.”

Without waiting for a reply, Aemond turned on his heel and strode away down the corridor, his presence fading like smoke.

The once bustling corridors, where servants bustled and lords whispered, now seemed cloaked in silence. Even the walls felt colder, the familiar warmth of home long since replaced by the stiff air of piety and dread. Jason walked ahead, his steps purposeful, the rich cloak of Lannister pride trailing behind him. At his side, you moved with quiet grace.

Behind you, Leona and Loren followed. Leona’s mask of golden filigree caught the light, her scar hidden but still remembered in every tilt of her head. Loren walked protectively beside her, his dark gaze stern, always watching. Aemma trailed between them, her smaller hand nestled in Loren’s palm, her curls bouncing as she tried to keep up.

As you neared the king’s chambers, the scent of smoke and milk of the poppy hung thick in the air. The guards outside gave you wary nods before pulling open the heavy doors. Jason strode through first, his chin high, ever the lion of Casterly Rock.

Inside, the room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn to block out most of the light. Candles flickered in uneven clusters, their wax pooling across the tabletops. The sharp, acrid scent of medicines lingered, mingling with the faint odor of decay that clung to the air.

King Viserys Targaryen lay propped up in his great bed, though the man before you now was only a shadow of the king you once knew. His once-strong form had withered, and his face was gaunt, half-hidden beneath bandages that covered the ruined side of his face. His breathing came ragged and uneven, though his remaining eye brightened faintly as he turned his head at the sound of your approach.

“Father,” you murmured softly, breaking the silence as you stepped forward. Your voice, though steady, held a note of quiet grief as you took in his frail form.

Viserys’s lips curled into a weak smile, and he reached a trembling hand out toward you. “Y/N… my daughter,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but thick with affection. “Come… come closer.”

Jason placed a steadying hand at your back as you stepped forward, lowering yourself to kneel gently at the side of Viserys’s bed. You took his frail hand into your own, cradling it carefully.

“It’s been too long,” you said softly. “We came as soon as we received word.”

Viserys’s eye flickered up to Jason then, and despite his state, his smile grew. “The lion… of the Rock,” he said, his tone light despite his weakness. “You’ve come back to torment me with your boasts, no doubt.”

Jason chuckled, though there was an unusual gentleness in his voice. “Would you expect any less, Your Grace?” he said, stepping closer and inclining his head respectfully. “But I’ve brought you something far better than my arrogance today.”

He stepped aside to allow the twins and Aemma to come forward. Loren offered his grandsire a respectful nod, while Leona approached carefully, her masked face angled downward with reverence. Little Aemma clutched her hands together, her wide violet eyes filled with curiosity and caution.

“Your grandchildren,” you said quietly, gesturing toward them. “Leona and Loren have grown into fine young lions, and little Aemma has missed her grandsire dearly.”

Viserys’s gaze settled on Leona first, lingering on the glint of her golden mask. A faint shadow of pain passed across his face, but he smiled faintly all the same. “Leona,” he murmured, his voice soft. “You’ve grown strong, my girl. Fierce as the dragons your blood shares.”

Leona dipped her head slightly, her voice calm but steady. “I ride for House Lannister and House Targaryen, grandsire. I am proud to carry both.”

Viserys’s smile trembled slightly, and he turned his gaze to Loren. “And you, Loren. Your father’s pride is evident in you. The West has its strength in you both.”

Loren nodded, his voice low and respectful. “We’ll not falter, Your Grace.”

Finally, Viserys’s eye settled on Aemma, and for a moment, a new light seemed to flicker within him. “Little Aemma…” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “You look… so much like her.”

Aemma blinked, tilting her head curiously. “Like who, grandsire?”

Viserys’s gaze grew distant, the faintest hint of tears welling in his eye. “Like your namesake. My queen. My Aemma.” He turned to look at you, his trembling fingers brushing against your hand once more. “She is a gift… all of them. You have done well, my daughter.”

You nodded softly, though a lump formed in your throat as you watched him. “They are our pride, Father.”

Jason, unable to keep himself entirely silent, added lightly, “The pride of the West and the dragons’ fire combined, Your Grace. The realm is stronger for it.”

Viserys gave a faint, wheezing laugh, though it turned into a cough that shook his frail form. You pressed your hand gently against his, concern flickering across your face.

“Rest, Father,” you said softly. “You need your strength.”

Viserys looked at you fondly, his eye softening. “It brings me peace… to see you here. All of you.” He turned back to the twins, his voice lowering to a whisper as if imparting a secret. “Remember who you are, my loves. Blood of dragons. Strength of lions. You will endure.”

Leona and Loren stepped closer, bowing their heads as their grandsire’s hand trembled. “We will,” Loren said firmly, his voice carrying the quiet conviction of someone older than his years.

“Always,” Leona added softly.

Jason watched the exchange with an expression somewhere between pride and melancholy, though he quickly masked it with his usual confidence. He stepped closer to you, placing his hand lightly at your shoulder. “Come, my love. The king needs his rest.”

You hesitated for a moment, unwilling to let go of Viserys’s hand, but you knew Jason was right. You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your father’s forehead. “We’ll return tomorrow, Father. Rest now.”

Viserys smiled faintly, his breathing slowing as he sank back into the cushions. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, as though it were a promise.

As you stood, Jason’s hand lingering at your back, you glanced once more at the frail form of your father—the man who had once been so strong, now reduced to skin, bone, and pain. Your heart ached, but you forced yourself to keep your composure.

Leona and Loren bowed once more before stepping back, flanking little Aemma as the three children moved toward the door. Jason lingered just a moment longer, his green eyes flickering with something softer as he regarded Viserys.

“Rest easy, Your Grace,” Jason said quietly. “Your daughter and I will see to the future.”

Viserys’s lips twitched faintly, though his eyes had already begun to flutter shut.

The heavy doors closed behind you with a soft thud, and the silence of the hallway felt deafening after the stillness of the chamber. Jason exhaled softly, his arm slipping around your waist as you walked.

“He looks…” Loren began, but he trailed off, unable to finish.

“Like a ghost,” Leona whispered, her voice heavy.

You nodded faintly, your voice low as you said, “He is still our king. Your grandsire deserves your love and respect.”

Jason, walking beside you, muttered softly, “And yet they let him rot, surrounded by shadows and leeches.” He cast a dark glance down the hall. “The Hightowers should be ashamed.”

You placed a hand gently on his arm, shaking your head. “Not now, Jason. Not here.”

Jason sighed but said nothing, his arm tightening protectively around you as you walked. Behind you, Leona, Loren, and Aemma followed in silence, the weight of their visit pressing heavy on all of you.

And as the doors to the king’s chamber remained shut, you could not help but feel that time was slipping away faster than ever—that Viserys, the rock of your childhood, would not remain for much longer.

The next day dawned clear and bright, though the atmosphere within the Red Keep remained far from serene. The sunlight streamed into the Hand’s chambers, pooling across the polished table where Jason Lannister sat, his posture relaxed yet deliberate as he leaned back in the high-backed chair. Beside him, you sat poised, your expression composed and unreadable. Across from you both sat Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, his demeanor as cold and calculated as ever.

The chamber was a stiflingly quiet place, heavy with the distant noise of the keep below. Jason’s green eyes glimmered faintly with irritation, though his lips curled into an almost mocking smile as he watched Otto carefully. You could feel the animosity rising, though your husband’s nonchalant air barely faltered.

“Summoning me like a wayward squire,” Jason drawled, his tone rich with sarcasm. “I hope you have a worthy reason, Lord Otto, for pulling me from my morning wine.”

Otto’s fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table, his expression unmoved by Jason’s barb. “The matters I wish to discuss, Lord Jason, are of considerable importance. For the stability of the realm.”

Jason lifted a brow, exchanging a brief glance with you. “Is that so? The realm must be in dire need if its Hand must court the lions so early in the day.”

Otto ignored the taunt and straightened slightly, his measured gaze falling on you before returning to Jason. “You are a man of great influence, my lord. The Westerlands have always been vital to the crown—gold, steel, and steadfast loyalty. I would see that relationship strengthened further.”

Jason smirked, though the sharp edge in his voice was unmistakable. “And what does your lordship propose? Speak plainly, for I’ve no love of riddles.”

Otto exhaled softly, as though indulging a child’s impatience. “A match,” he said simply, his tone crisp and unwavering. “Between your daughter, Lady Aemma, and Prince Aemond.”

The words settled in the air like a blade being unsheathed. Jason’s easy smile faltered for the briefest of moments before returning—only this time, it was colder. He leaned forward slightly, placing his hands deliberately on the table. “A match?” he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief and quiet ire. “Between my daughter and the boy who cost Leona half her face?”

Otto’s face remained impassive, though his jaw tightened faintly. “What occurred between the children was… regrettable. But alliances forged through marriages heal old wounds.”

Jason barked out a short laugh, though there was no mirth in it. “Heal old wounds? Is that what you think this will do? Aemond maimed my eldest daughter, and now you want me to hand another of my girls over to him as though the scars mean nothing?”

“Lord Jason—”

“No,” Jason cut him off sharply, his voice dropping dangerously low. “You mistake me for a fool, Otto. I’ve no desire to tie my bloodline to yours—least of all through Aemma.”

“Surely you see the wisdom of this,” Otto pressed, his voice harder now. “It would unite your house with the crown, solidifying your position as an ally to the king. The Westerlands would—”

Jason slammed his hand onto the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber like the crack of a whip. “The Westerlands are not yours to bargain with, Lord Otto,” he snarled, his green eyes flashing dangerously. “Nor are my daughters pawns for you to play. I’ve tolerated much from House Hightower, but I’ll be damned before I let you sink your claws into my family.”

You reached out discreetly, your hand brushing Jason’s wrist in a calming gesture. He glanced briefly at you, exhaling through his nose, though his ire did not fade.

Otto’s voice was colder now, his mask of patience beginning to slip. “You tread dangerous ground, Lord Jason. This is an opportunity—one that many other houses would be glad to seize.”

Jason leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, as though bored of the conversation already. “If other houses are so eager, perhaps you should go knocking on their doors instead. The lions of the West will not be so easily swayed.”

Otto opened his mouth to reply, but Jason held up a hand to stop him, his tone darkening. “And let me make myself clear, Lord Otto. If you press this matter further—if you even so much as hint at a claim over my children again—there will be consequences.”

Otto narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me, Lord Lannister?”

Jason smiled sharply, the look of a predator baring its teeth. “A promise, not a threat. Should you test me, I will ensure the flow of gold from the Westerlands slows to a trickle. No gold, no coin, and no kingdom. You’ll find it difficult to wage your little wars without Lannister gold lining your coffers.”

Otto’s face darkened at that, the flicker of anger evident despite his attempt to mask it. “You would dare defy the crown?”

“I would dare protect my family,” Jason shot back, his voice cool and unyielding. “Your House may wear the crown now, but remember this, Otto Hightower—gold crowns kings and feeds armies. You would do well not to forget it.”

The silence that followed was sharp, the anxiety in the room almost suffocating. You could see the faint twitch of Otto’s jaw as he fought to rein in his temper, his gaze flickering between you and Jason.

“Very well,” Otto said finally, his tone clipped. “I see you will not be moved. But consider this carefully, Lord Jason. The day may come when the crown’s favor will mean far more than your stubborn pride.”

Jason pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, towering over the Hand with that unmistakable Lannister arrogance. “Let that day come,” he replied, his voice low and final. “And when it does, you’ll find the lions of the West waiting with teeth bared and claws unsheathed.”

With that, Jason turned to you, offering his arm as though they had just concluded a pleasant visit. “Shall we, my love? I tire of this room.”

You rose gracefully, taking his arm with practiced poise as you offered Otto a fleeting glance. The Hand’s face was a storm of thinly veiled anger, though he said nothing more as you exited the chambers.

As the heavy doors closed behind you, Jason let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “The gall of that man.”

“He will not stop,” you murmured quietly, your voice low as you glanced up at him. “You’ve humiliated him, and he doesn’t forget slights easily.”

Jason’s expression hardened as he guided you down the hall. “Then let him remember it well,” he said darkly. “The West is not his to control. He’ll learn that soon enough.”

You squeezed his arm gently, though the unease in your chest lingered. The game in King’s Landing had grown far more dangerous, and you both knew the Hand would not forgive Jason’s defiance. The only question that remained was what Otto Hightower would do next—and how soon the lions would need to bare their claws once more.

[ilreleonewikiart]

TDIOBCB challenge - day 22:

Aegon and Daenaera's wedding in 136 AC

"The highly anticipated union between Prince Aegon Targaryen and Lady Daenaera Velaryon was a grand spectacle, unparalleled and captivating the hearts of all fortunate enough to bear witness. The Dragonpit, the sole edifice in the entire capital city capable of accommodating the nearly seventy thousand guests, overflowed with exuberance and anticipation as the two young lovers made their entrance. (…) The clamour was momentarily silenced by the resounding roar of a dragon, signifying the arrival of the bridegroom. The world seemed to hold its breath as Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen, adorned in a simple yet regal ensemble of dark blue velvet and golden filigree, strode into the Dragonpit.(…) Innumerable songs and artworks would emerge in the years that followed, all striving to immortalize that precise instant when every soul, from the foremost to the rearmost, pivoted to behold the entrance of the youthful and graceful bride. Nevertheless, words alone proved feeble in capturing the awe-inspiring spectacle that unfolded within those grand walls on that spring morning. The bride, the only child of the late Lady Laena, with her flawless visage adorned with clear, brilliant blue eyes and a cascade of the purest silver hair, appeared as if plucked from the pages of a tome, her very presence an embodiment of beauty.  (…) But it was the magnificent gown she wore, concealed mostly beneath her house's sigil-adorned cloak, that attracted all the bulk of the attention, stirring deep envy and boundless admiration among many a lady and noblewoman. It was clear to all, even the most unrefined, that the gown was an exemplar of craftsmanship and quality; a far cry from the pedestrian attire donned by noblewomen in the countryside, woven from fabrics procured from merchants of dubious repute, in their delusion of appearing as capital ladies. This exquisite creation was hewn from genuine and precious white silk sourced from the distant isle of Leng, wich under the sun's gaze, gleamed with blue and silver hues, akin to summer sea waves. The fabric, inherently precious, was adorned throughout with intricate undulating silver embroideries, reminiscent of the tranquil ebb and flow of ocean tides, a testament to the artistry of Myrish weavers; even the jewellery was of an exceptional nature, forged from the most precious shells, the whitest mother-of-pearl, and the most delicate corals, all procured from the shores of Driftmark, specially presented by her cousin, the Lord, for this momentous occasion. (…) The prince and his princess looked ethereal, as if they were celestial beings brought down to grace the mortal realm. The splendor of the late morning light, filtered through the large oval opening in the center of the colossal stone dome above them, bathed them in a radiant glow, making them shine like stars in the night sky. The mere sight of the kiss they exchanged sent the whole arena into raptures."

 - from TDIOBCB chp 2

(warning: these illustrations are inspired by an AU Divergence and have nothing to do with canon (book or tv show) events and are not meant to be reposted outside of their contest)

[arkivsantorina]

The Black Pearl: Chapter Four

Pairing: Dalton Greyjoy x fem!Lucerys Velaryon

Word Count: Around 3400

Chapter Three

Like most days during this trip to Driftmark, the skies over the island were heavy with clouds the morning of Laena’s funeral; it was as if the heavens were holding a mirror to the somber mood of those gathered. The waves crashed unrelentingly on the rocks below, the sea’s roar an echo of the sorrow that filled the air. The cliffside was alive with a quiet tension as nobles clad in black assembled to pay their respects to Lady Laena Velaryon, who returned to her ancestral home for her final rest far too soon.

Lucerys stood beside her family. Rhaenyra had wrapped her arms around both her and Jace tightly; too tight for Lucerys normally, but on this occasion it seemed like her mother’s hand was keeping her from floating away. Jace, however, stood tall and quiet in complete opposition to Lucerys’s fidgeting. She wanted to reach her father, who stood apart from them, having retreated in on himself further when they saw Laena’s coffin perched on the rock. He was entirely adrift now as if he too was carried away by the same waves that would soon be his sister’s final resting place. 

The Velaryons and the Targaryens stood around the stone bier where Laena’s coffin rested. The carved driftwood reflected the visage of Lucerys’s aunt hauntingly, stark, and weathered befitting the customs of their house. The knights of House Velaryon prepared the coffin with the utmost dignity as others held the banners of their liege with a stiff upper lip.

Vaemond Velaryon began the ceremony, his voice carrying over the smoke from the burning fires.

“We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King where he will guard her for all the days to come.”

Lucerys couldn’t help but let her eyes wander as her great-uncle spoke. She watched the faces of those around her, noting the way grief had settled into each expression. Her grandfather had set his gaze upon the coffin the moment they all reached the cliffside procession and had yet to remove it. Beside him, her grandmother—stoic and regal with her black veil obscuring her expression, though her trembling hands betrayed her grief—held Baela close to her chest. Rhaena stood close to her twin. Lucerys admired her cousins’ strength; if it were her mother who had died, Lucerys would surely be much less composed.

“As she sets to the sea for her final voyage, the Lady Laena leaves two true-born daughters on the shore. Though their mother will not return from her voyage, they will all remain bound together in blood. Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.”

The solemnness of the atmosphere was broken by Daemon’s laughter ringing out, though it did not make it any less tense. Lucerys had no idea why he was laughing at his wife’s funeral. That was not how she was taught to show respect for the dead and it infuriated her even more because she saw how it tore her family’s attention away from the service. Corlys and Rhaenys were glaring at the Rogue Prince; Rhaenyra tightened her grip on her children; and even Laenor was spurned enough to shift closer to Lucerys, managing to take her from her mother. 

Glancing up towards her father, her heart aching for him, Lucerys whispered as softly as she could to not interrupt as Daemon had done. “Father? Are you all right?”

Laenor’s face relaxed as he looked down at Lucerys, pulling her tighter against him. “I will be once this is all over, my pearl,” he murmured, a voice as low as hers. Vaemond continued to speak and Lucerys stayed where she was, letting her father draw comfort from her presence.

“My gentle niece. May the winds be as strong as your back, your seas as calm as your spirit, and your nets as full as your heart. From the sea we came.”

The ropes holding Laena’s coffin loosened and it began to slip down the rock towards the water.

“To the sea we shall return.”

Lucerys watched as her aunt tipped into the sea and sank beneath the waves to her final resting place. The splash of the water, once associated with frolicking in the waves free from any rules, now felt heavy to her. 

They didn’t remain there for long as the family and those in attendance were ushered away to a nearby courtyard for the reception. Lucerys was quickly pulled to the side by her mother and directed to express her symphonies toward her grieving cousins.

Not one to disobey at a time like this, Lucerys headed toward where her cousins were lingering near the edges of the courtyard, swiping a few cakes on her way. She caught sight of Aemond but took her assignment too seriously to be derailed. Her uncle seemed perturbed the she didn’t acknowledge him, stomping away to where his mother and grandfather were standing.

Baela and Rhaena were whispering to each other as Lucerys approached. They watched her as she got closer, eyes wary and assessing. 

Lucerys reached out with a peace offering: the cake. “Cake always makes me feel better when I am upset. I know it's not much, but it may help a little bit.” She shifted awkwardly, unsure if she was welcome. “I am sorry about your mother.”

Baela was the first to respond, her eyes red-rimmed and face tight. Rhaena, in contrast, seemed more fragile, her gaze dropping to her lap. After a moment, Baela nodded. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Lucerys hesitated before sitting down next to them. She glanced out towards the sea. The wall around the courtyard obscured her view of where they had just been but the image of the coffin dropping into the water was a fresh memory.  “Do you, think she’s happy? Out there I mean?”

Rhaena’s lip tumbled and Lucerys flinched. She had not meant the question to cause more pain, but Baela spoke up. “She loved the sea, and she always told us stories about Driftmark. I think she would be glad to rest here.

Lucerys nodded solemnly. The three girls sat in silence, their shared grief and comfort creating a quiet bond between them. 

The bond was tested quicker than Lucerys expected. She had been in the room her parents had deposited her in after dinner with Rhaena, Baela, and Jace when the roar of a dragon drew them to the window. From the shadow that flew across the moon, the children knew it could only be one dragon of that size: Vhagar. 

Infuriated that someone would try to claim their mother’s dragon on the night of her funeral, the twins snuck out undetected by the guards stationed around High Tide. Lucerys, eager to support her cousins, followed quickly after them. She rationalized that this was still providing support to them, just as her mother had instructed her to do at the funeral. Jacaerys followed after them, feeling a sense of duty as the eldest and content to be the protector should anything happen. 

“It's him.” Lucerys could hear Baela say as she ran to catch up with them in the cavern. Being a head shorter than her brother meant she tended to arrive after him; apparently, it was the same for her cousins.

However, the next voice she heard caused Lucerys’s blood to run cold. He couldn’t have, she thought.

“It's me,” Aemond responded cooly.

This infuriated Rhaena. “Vhagar is my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena’s voice shook with righteous fury. “She was mine to claim.”

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now.” Aemond continued to advance on the group. There was pride adorning his face, and something sharper—a sense of triumph that made Lucerys’s stomach twist uncomfortably. Yet when Aemond’s gaze landed on her, there was also hesitation.

“She was mine to claim,” argued Rhaena.

“Then you should have claimed her,” lobbied Aemond. “Perhaps your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

Lucerys could not believe how cruel Aemond was being. Not only were they all family, but she knew he had been victim to cruel teasing at his expense. Mocking Rhaena for not claiming Vhagar quickly enough and rubbing his status as her new rider in the girl’s face immediately after Laena’s funeral was a cruelty that Lucerys struggled to affix to Aemond. She had stuck up for him, comforted him, fought for him—only for him to do this. It rendered her speechless.

A primal screech from Rhaena drew Lucerys from her familiar crisis. Lucerys could only watch as her cousin lunged for Aemond, only managing to grip his tunic before he shoved her to the side.

Baela was quick to jump to the defense of her sister, surging forward with her fists raised to punch Aemond in the face. Not hard enough to subdue him, it seems, because he quickly returned her punch with one of his own. “Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon,” he snarled like a wild beast. 

Lucerys’s heart pounded as she stepped out from behind her brother. “Stop it!” she shouted, her voice cracking with the strength of her emotions. “Just stop! This isn’t…this isn’t how we are supposed to be.” She turned to Aemond, her wide eyes searching the face of her friend. “Why would you do this? You knew how Baela and Rhaena would feel—how we would all feel.”

Aemond looked at her, and for a moment, the pride in his expression faltered, the fight in him deflated. “I…I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he said quietly, his voice lacking the defiance and bravado it had just carried. “I could not wait. Vhagar was calling for me. Didn’t you hear her song? I have been without a dragon my whole life. Vhagar..she is the greatest of them all. She chose me, Lucerys. Don’t you see?”

Lucerys’s throat tightened. She understood his longing; she had seen it in his eyes whenever dragons were discussed, in the way he would watch the skies with a mixture of envy and despair. But this…this felt like a betrayal. 

“It was not your place,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Not tonight, not like this.” 

Aemond took another step towards Lucerys but was blocked by Jace. “Don’t go near her,” her older brother shouted as he shoved Aemond back and threw another punch.

Aemond fought back, kicking Jacaerys in the stomach and causing him to fall back against the ground. Seeing this, Rhaena and Baela rallied to Jace’s defense and attacked Aemond again.

Seeing the three hitting and kicking Aemond with all their might, Lucerys worked quickly to intervene. She ran toward the fight, grabbing Aemond by his arm in an attempt to pull him away, only to be hit in the nose by his elbow and subsequently fall to the ground. 

The blow disoriented Lucerys. Black spots swam across her vision when she managed to lift her head again. Reaching her hand up to wipe at her face, Lucerys pulled her hand back and stared in disbelief at the sticky blood now covering her fingers. Such was the force of the blow that Lucerys barely caught the words Aemond spouted next. “You will die screaming in flames just as your father did! Bastards!” Even with the head injury, she did not understand this. Her father was still alive, and they weren’t bastards; her parents were married.

Panicked shouts drew her attention away from her injury to the image of Aemond standing over Jace with a rock over his head, poised to strike. Lucerys frantically racked her brain for anything she could do to stop her uncle from killing her brother. Spotting her brother’s dagger on the floor where it had fallen from its holster, Lucerys darted forward to grab it. With one fluid motion, she pushed herself forward as she swiped her arm up. It sliced right across Aemond’s face.

Lucerys dropped the dagger in shock. She couldn’t believe what she had just done as she watched Aemond writhe in agony on the ground, clutching where she had just slashed. 

Finally, their shouts drew the attention of the guards, and the children were pulled apart. All were escorted back toward High Tide. It seemed like all the adrenaline had seeped from their tiny bodies, as the children provided no pushback to their treatment.

As they were led away, Lucerys glanced back toward Aemond, regret lacing her expression as she tried to express her apology without using any words. She even tried to reach him once they were bundled into the Hall of Nine, but was blocked by her mother holding her back. 

The great hall was a cacophony of raised voices, all competing to be the loudest; the echo of an earlier, bloodier confrontation lingered in the air. There was a clear divide—each side stood huddled around their children. If one were to look from above, one would see a sea of black lapping against a shore of green. At the front of the room, King Viserys loomed, his face ashen with exhaustion and fury. 

Lucerys stood near her mother, her head bowed and blood still dripping from her face to splatter on the ground near her feet. The guilt and fear weighing on her small frame were almost tangible. Jace stood protectively beside her, his face a mask of defiance, while Corlys and Rhaenys hovered close with Baela and Rhaena in their arms—their grief over Laena’s loss now compounded by this fresh turmoil. 

On the other side of the hall, Alicent seethed, her green dress shimmering in the torchlight, not content to wear black even at a funeral. Aemond sat bloodied nearby as the maester worked on his wound. His face was pale, but his lips managed to curve into a faint, smug smile whenever his gaze flickered to his adversaries. 

“It was her beastly daughter who did this,” Alicent hissed pointing towards Rhaenyra before turning her crazed gaze onto Lucerys. “And she—“ Alicent’s voice broke with emotion. “Lucerys mailed my son in cold blood.”

Lucerys was pushed farther behind her mother. “It was a fight,” Rhaenyra countered, her voice strong and resolute. “One in which all children were involved after a great injustice was done against House Velaryon by Prince Aemond and slanderous words were spoken against my children. The blame cannot be squarely placed on Lucerys.”

“She used a blade!” Alicent’s voice rose, her desperation palpable. “What kind of young lady wields a dagger? This is an outrage!”

Viserys slammed his cane against the floor, drawing silence from the gathered around him. “Enough!” he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber. His shoulders shook with anger and exertion as he looked toward Lucerys. Her wide, tear-filled eyes and bloodied face met his gaze. “Tell me the truth, Lucerys. Did you strike Aemond with a blade?” Alicent scoffed, enraged that Lucerys was being given the opportunity to explain what had happened.

Lucerys swallowed hard, her voice shaky. “I…I did, Grandsire, But it was to protect Jace. Aemond was going to strike his head with a rock. He was going to kill him.”

The bitter laughter of the prince in question broke through the questioning. “They attacked me,” he said, his tone mocking. “All four of them. I claimed Vhagar, and they could not stand it.”

Viserys’s eyes narrowed. “You provoked them, then?”

Aemond’s smirk faded, and he did not answer.

Alicent stepped forward, her face contorted with rage. “This cannot go unanswered, Your Grace. My son’s eye is gone! The guilty one responsible stands here still. Justice must be served!” Rhaenyra scoffed, “Justice? The birthright of my children was loudly called into question. They will inherit great seats one day and to question the validity of their claims besmirches not only them but the history of our houses.”

Viserys raised his hand to silence them both. “Justice will be served. Once we have returned to King’s Landing, I will have the origin of this disgusting rumor investigated. Anyone revealed to be spreading such slanderous lies will have their tongue removed. Additionally, for insult given to House Velaryon by claiming Laena Velaryon’s dragon at her funeral, I will not allow Aemond Targaryen to fly for three months.”

Rhaenyra was not satisfied entirely by this but she swallowed her pride, unknowing of what was to come. “Thank you, your grace.”

Viserys could not meet Rhaenyra’s gaze as he turned to his granddaughter. He looked at her with disappointment clouding his face. “Lucerys Velaryon, you have acted recklessly and caused great harm to a prince of the blood. While I understand you intended to protect your brother, in doing so, you have brought shame to your house.”

His words propelled Rhaenyra forward, body tense with agitation. She forsook royal titles as she addressed the king once again. “Father, she is a child—a little girl. Surely you cannot hold to the same standard as an adult.”

“She is a child of royal blood,” Viserys sighed heavily. “And with our blood comes responsibility. Lucerys, you are to be confined to the island of Dragonstone until I decide otherwise. And I mean solely Dragonstone. No sailing or dragon riding is permitted.”

Lucerys gasped, her eyes welling with tears for the umpteenth time that day. “But…Grandsire, please.”

“It is not only that,” Viserys continued, his voice grim. “You are hereby stripped of your inheritance to Driftmark. It will instead pass to Joffrey Velaryon.”

The room erupted into chaos once again. Corlys was cursing the king, claiming that he had no right to meddle in the affairs of House Velaryon. Lucerys was crying, the combination of blood, snot, and tears causing her to choke. Rhaenys took the girl into her arms to try and soothe her while simultaneously trying to pull Corlys away from what would soon be an act of treason.

Rhaenyra’s face turned white with fury. “Father, this is unjust! This is not justice, it is excessive punishment for an act of defense.” she protested. 

“Enough, Rhaenyra!” Viserys bellowed. The strength in his voice caused Rhaenyra to step back in shock, the astonishment clear on her face from the rebuke. “This is my degree, and it is final.”

Lucerys reached out towards her mother from Rhaenys’s arms, her tears now spilling over. “Mother, I didn’t mean to…”

Rhaenyra pulled her daughter back into her arms, holding her tightly. “You are not to blame,” she whispered fiercely. “This is not your fault, my sweet girl.”

Corlys advanced to the center of the room as the king retreated. The kingsguards gripped the pommels of their swords, prepared to defend Viserys if necessary. In response, the knights sworn to House Velaryon mirrored their defensive stance. “There have been many insults levied against my family and my blood tonight. I can see exactly where it comes from. Anyone of or sworn to House Hightower must depart from Driftmark by tonight. They are no longer welcome within my halls.”

The king floundered at this, his energy already drained. “Corlys,” he gestured towards Aemond in exasperation. “The boy is injured severely. It would be unwise to travel in such a condition.” The Sea Snake showed no signs of stepping down. “You may have disinherited my granddaughter, but you do not have a say over who I welcome into my home. I show the same care to them that you have shown towards Lucerys’s future.” The king recoiled from this verbal sting. 

Corlys continued, his voice booming as he rotated to meet the eye of all in the room. “Should anyone bearing a relation to House Hightower be here come sunrise, they will be struck down. Should any ship bearing the sigil of House Hightower be at my docks come sunrise, it will be set ablaze.” He sneered at Viserys. “Here is your justice, Your Grace.”

Those in the hall dispersed shortly after, leaving the room heavy with the weight of what had transpired. Lucerys, her heart shattered, clung to her mother’s hand. Though she tried to be brave, the sense of betrayal from her grandsire and the enormity of her punishment threatened to crush her spirit.

Chapter Five

[zorawitch]

wip wordsearch

tagged by @windsweptinred love u bestie thank you this was so much fun

my words are red, free, lips, cool, and sweet

Red

“I will. I saw some red sky this morning.” Daeron takes his old sailors’ rhymes far more seriously than anyone else Alicent knows.

“Thank you for telling me. I’ll be sure to look out for any ships on their way home tonight.”

Daeron gives her a funny little salute before walking off. He wants to join the Navy one day, even if most everyone on Dragonstone considers such a thing a betrayal. Alicent is more concerned about the harsh Navy regimen breaking her littlest child into bits.

Free

It’s September, which means the sea is cooling down, but it still feels warm to Alicent. Perhaps it’s the way the sea is an embrace, keeping her in its arms. She floats on her back, looking toward the sky and toward the light that is busy casting her gaze across the sea, and she is at peace. She feels free when she is in the water, and sometimes she thinks about diving down, joining the drowned. She doesn’t know if her lungs would burn the way they should, if the lack of air would break her the way it’s supposed to. Not when the waves hold her so gently when her face is above the water.

Her peace is in the sound, the waves crashing on the beach, and in shutting her eyes. It is her alone time, and it rejuvenates her. She dives below the surface, into the dark. She moves her legs and her arms like some sort of leaping frog, but it’s always been what suited her. It’s not quick, but she does not care about being quick now. The sea is calm tonight. Even the storm last night was short - that was easy to discern. There will be no wrecks tonight, unless Larys begins mooncussing.

Lips

Agnes’s lips flattened into a thin, tight line. “I don’t think I will. There is a bit of me in it, Gabriel, and I would not sacrifice that for a cause I don’t believe in.”

“You aren’t losing your vision, are you, Mrs. Nutter?” Doubtless Lord Gabriel thought he sounded kindly for his concern over the older woman, but as usual, he came off only as patronizing. “The man looks nothing like you.”

“No. He does not.” She put down her paintbrush and removed her glasses. “You misunderstand me. But if you are so certain that you must show off the young man’s visage…” She trailed off, distracted. In truth he was not very young, and neither was Lord Gabriel, but Agnes Nutter had considered herself eighty years of age since her tenth birthday, and therefore everyone was young to her. 

Cool

As Aponoia shuts the door behind her, Lucienne immediately sobers up. She hasn’t cried in front of someone in years. It’s not that she doesn’t want to - it’s that she can’t anymore. She’s just incapable of it. Something about being cool and collected all the time. “I’m sorry,” she says, sitting down on the bed. “It’s just been a really odd few days.”

Aponoia’s room, unlike Morpheus’s, is decorated with a clear aesthetic, and that aesthetic is miserable. Everything seems to be various shades of gray, except a series of paintings of birds lining the walls, which are permitted splashes of red every once in a while. There is a rat enclosure sitting atop her dresser with four visible rodents inside. Aponoia hands Lucienne a box of tissues. “My family has been known to have that effect on people. But let it all out.”

Lucienne shakes her head. Even when given permission, she cannot resume her tears.

Sweet

Eventually, dirt path gives way to cobblestone road, where there are a number of booths set up outside the storefronts of Dragonstone. Nearly every speck of paint is peeling, and the hinges of every door groan with rust, and the air is sharp with salt, as it is for miles, but it is all familiar. It has not changed once throughout Alicent’s lifetime, and that is incredibly comforting. The market by the wharf still has the exact same nauseating yet sweet scent of dead fish and low tide that it always has, and Velaryon wares are still given pride of place, and poor, dead Laena Targaryen (neé Velaryon)’s beloved skiff Little Vhagar is still in the water, even if it hasn’t been used in years.

The town is unchanging in everything but its views on Alicent, apparently. She has not truly been at home in Dragonstone since her mother died. She is the lighthouse keeper now. Her line is of guardians, perhaps sent by the gods, perhaps not - regardless, on an island dependent on boats who are, in turn, dependent on the whims of storms, she is something like a holy figure. She does not exaggerate. She recognizes a few faces in the market, how could she not, but all they see is her green cloak, a sign of her occupation, and so they trace a seven-pointed star on the backs of their left hands. It is a Dragonstone tradition - they performed it for her mother, and now they perform it for her, and one day they will perform it for Helaena.

Snippets 1, 2, and 5 are all taken from my as yet untitled WIP that started out as a lighthouse keeper and siren AU for House of the Dragon but basically just turned into a love letter to New England, where I grew up. Snippet 3 is from another untitled WIP, a Dorian Gray AU for the Ineffable Husbands ship. Snippet 4 is from an unreleased chapter of This Is Why I Don't Leave The House.

tagging @notallsandmen @ineffably-ryuu @orion-romanova-barnes-1945

if you want to play, your words are: bone, hand, water, myth, and hold

[wingmelts]

╰      ┈      [  kylie  bunbury  ,  twenty  six  ,  cis  woman  ,  she  /  her  ]  in  the  time  of  dragons  ,  VAERA  VELARYON  is  entering  the  game  of  thrones  .  said  to  be  forthright  +  faithful  ,  we  can  only  hope  that  is  the  case  as  regrettably  they  are  also  well  known  to  be  obstinate  +  arrogant  .  when  asked  about  them  ,  people  are  always  reminded  of  seashells  delicately  entwined  in  dark  curls  ,  the  luck  of  the  seahorse  —  but  how  long  until  it  runs  out  ?  ,  a  steadfast  gaze  towards  the  horizon  ,  and  an  unidentified  wispy  figure  hidden  within  a  misty  haze  .  though  they  are  the  LADY  OF  DRIFTMARK  ,  their  true  loyalties  lie  with  house  velaryon  and  rumour  has  it  that  if  given  the  choice  they  would  support  THEIR  FAMILY  above  all  else  .  those  of  us  in  the  shadows  wish  them  luck  and  can  only  hope  they  will  survive  what  is  to  come  .    ──  snooki  ,  twenty  ,  mst  ,  she  /  her  .

STATISTICS

FULL NAME:   vaera  velaryon

TITLE:   lady  of  driftmark

NICKNAME(S):   tba

AGE:   twenty  six

GENDER + PRONOUNS:   cis  woman  +  she  /  her

SEXUALITY:   bisexual

LANGUAGES:   common  tongue, high valyrian

FAMILIAL

FATHER:   ruling lord utp velaryon

MOTHER:   lady cella velaryon nee tbd ( † )

SIBLING(S):   laena targaryen nee velaryon ( † ), valaenys velaryon, rhaena velaryon, maelora velaryon

RELATIONSHIP:   unmarried  +  unbetrothed

CHILDREN: none

PHYSICAL

HAIR STYLE:   dark brown, curly + long

EYE COLOR:   dark  brown

HEIGHT:   5  feet  8  inches

SCARS + MARKINGS:   none

NOTABLE FEATURES:   hair always decorated with seashells and dried starfish

PERSONALITY

SOCIABILITY:     average

EMOTIONAL STABILITY:   a little below average

ALIGNMENT:   lawful good

PHOBIAS:   heights + death

TRAITS:   forthright,  faithful,  intuitive,  obstinate,  arrogant,  temperamental

BACKGROUND

vaera was always strong willed ever since girlhood. a bit of a terror — it's true — though she never failed to attend her lessons with the septa. when she agreed to something, she always followed through.

once her mother, the late lady cella, became ill, vaera was always finding excuses to be by her side. she was practically her little shadow. watching her beloved mother slowly become more and more fragile as the years progressed crushed vaera, yet at the same time she refused to believe anything was truly wrong.

when her eldest sister, laena, was married off to the heir of the iron throne, vaera was proud. her sister as the next queen of westeros — how could she not be excited ? however, not long after her darling sister's wedding, that feeling soon wore off.

the death of the velaryon matriarch took a toll on the entire family. vaera fell into a deep state of melancholy. she felt like her whole world came to a halt. she knew her mother was sick, of course, but she never figured death was an option. then went laena. grief had consumed house velaryon and shrouded vaera in a fog of pain.

now, she forces a visage of strength for her father and remaining sisters. attempting to return to her old self, but still she finds that some days all she can do is sit on the shoreline and weep for all they have lost.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

group of friends !! people that keep her sane, but also people to be insufferable with SJDHSJDH

past flings !! vaera isn't interested in marriage after what happened to laena, at least not right now, but i think she had a few flings in the past

confidant !! someone that vaera can tell anything to / lean on. she's putting up a front right now of being strong in the face of what's happened to her family as to not burden them further, but she just needs someone to See her

enemies !! people that just cannot stand vaera. enemies is a heavy word, so this could be from annoyances to full on nemesis for whatever reason JSHDSD just give me drama pretty pls

[forwithinthishollowcrown]

Joffrey held his breath as he ripped the black silk away, as his eyes took in the visage of the painting before him. His mother with her red curls and dark eyes which twinkled with something unknown to him, in her lap was a small boy that could be no older than five moons, with eyes of dark amethyst and silver curls. It was himself that he knew. His eyes settled on the young man whose hand had been placed upon mother’s shoulders.

His father.

Ser Laenor of House Velaryon.

He bore curls of pearl with dark eyes of sea green, he had been clad in the blues and silvers of House Velaryon. There was little doubt as to who the others in the portrait were, a boy with hair as dark as night and a girl with curls of silver.

Lucerys and Rhaena.

His elder siblings could have been no older than four name days old when this portrait had been commissioned, yet he could help the jealousy which filled him as he stared at the portrait. They had been lucky to remember their father something which had not been granted to himself. He had to listen to stories of his father, of this legendary man who was whispered to be so besotted by his mother that he wedded her in secret. His aunt Queen Laena had often said he resembled his father greatly yet Joffrey couldn’t see it. As Rhaena so clearly resembled the man in the portrait far more than he ever would, still he couldn’t help but feel a longing for the man in the portrait.

His father was a great knight. A warrior of the Stepstones struck down in his prime, leaving behind a widow and their three children. Then everything went wrong. Their mother had been married off to the Rogue Prince and departed for the Stepstones not long after.

The same man many suspected had a hand in his death stole his mother away just as the Stranger once done to the Maiden before him. Yet unlike their tale none would search for his mother as the Smith and Mother had the Maiden. Condemned to the Seven Hells and made a bride against her will. Whilst he had been alone.

Abandoned.

His mother in turn had been made into the Rogue Prince’s broodmare and bore his children. Six children in twelve years. Whilst he did not begrudge his younger siblings he knew that he would much prefer that his mother had never wed the Rogue Prince.

Perhaps Cassandra would understand his position more so, than his grandfather ever would. She did not remember much of her own mother who had died struggling to bear a son for her lord husband who refused to wed again upon her death. Instead, Lord Borros decided to raise his eldest daughter to be the best heiress she could possibly be. He remembered that once upon a time when they had first been introduced to each other that he had hoped she would be just as wise and kind as his siblings spoke their mother of being.

Yet now all he could help but long for was a life that could never be. His father teaching him the art of swordsmanship, his sweet mother regaling them with tales of the Andals of Old, Ser Joffrey’s kind smile as he reassured him that he would be just as good a sailor as Lucerys. Lucerys and Rhaena jesting with him and racing their dragons together. A sad smile played on his lips as he thought of it.

It was the dream of a naive boy who knew nothing of the world. And Joffrey was no longer that boy anymore.

Perhaps that’s why he longed for a home that never was.

[legends-and-savages]

Tag Dump

[faithdevotion]

@therogueprincedaemon​ || [bridget/daemon]

The sight of a new, unknown dragon flying beside Caraxes astounded King’s Landing. It was immediately recognized as an ancient one with a rider that could be named a legend, one that didn’t succumb to dust. Shortly after the landing, Bridget whispered a few words in Valyrian to Terrax, asking him to remain calm as it was a foreign land filled with foreign faces. Carrying her family’s sword on her back, she followed Daemon to the main hall where the family was gathered around the King, stunned by the news they received that Daemon had brought a woman with a dragon, and were awaiting to learn about her ever since he had given information on where she came from. Bridget was not ignorant to their traditions and customs, so she dressed in clothing to impress, even though that wouldn’t be the main reason for their impression.

Once they stepped into the hall, she stood beside him for a few seconds as the family was stood around the table, awaiting to be seated and start the feast. Lilac hues observed their faces attentively & was quick to gather who were the Targaryens, Velaryons and the Hightowers. What she was told by Daemon about the snakes was no exaggeration & she could see it in their own eyes, how they seemed to regard her as an incoming threat. Her performance, the time where she would greet each one of them had arrived, and she would do so boasting her charm. With not a word leaving her mouth, she started with the youngest Targaryen, Rhaenyra. Approaching her, she placed a hand on her shoulder as a smile spread across her plump lips. “Rhaenyra, what a pleasure to finally meet you. I had learned many interesting facts about you, and I do look forward to aiding you in developing your true potential.” Her gaze left hers briefly to wander over the faces of the Hightowers and Viserys, hand sliding from her shoulder to the other as she strode behind her to Rhaenys and Corlys, confident on the steps she was giving towards each of the members. Hands folded together across her belly, skin brushing silk of her own dress. “Dear Rhaenys, tales of your family’s fierceness are spoken across the world. The depth of the sea with the heat of the fire.” Her gaze shifted from her to Corlys, humming almost quietly. 

The moment had reached Laena, who was standing beside her father. “Lady Laena.”  Her elbow bent and propped on the opposite hand, index finger rubbing her own chin gently. Bridget could say many things to her out of cockiness, how her husband found warmth in her bed, yet she would limit herself to a few sentences. “You are a woman that has been... graced by the Gods.” Tilting her head to a side, her orbs wandered across the room to Daemon. Images of the nights they shared emerged in her thoughts, repressing the urge to expose her grin of satisfaction. With Laena, though, the charming facade remained, a tint of smugness. “You have a strong, committed husband. I have nothing but gratitude to you for... borrowing him to me for this moment.”  As she left to head towards Viserys, her gaze, now narrowed, locked with Otto’s briefly, darting a subtle glare at him as well as Criston who stood behind him and had his eyes on her. Body turned to face Alicent and Viserys, with the King seated due to his health condition. Bridget's arms fell to her sides and hands reached for one of his, palms pressing his gently to the surprise of Alicent. "King Viserys." Her facade faded, concern & care washing over her visage, as she knew she was standing beside Daemon's brother and a King surrounded by some folk who weren't worthy of their titles. "We come from the dragonlords themselves. Valyria runs in our blood. It lives through us. Let your realm be an image of what Old Valyria has been. I am the daughter of Aurion, the dragonlord who was the Emperor of it all once. I survive my family and his name, joined by my sword and my dragon. And as a Valyrian, I offer you my protection and my aid in any danger that may come your way."

[imaginarianisms]

[imaginarianisms]

she rly is one of the most beautiful women in westeros of her time....

[imaginarianisms]

i& just think of her constantly rent free

[imaginarianisms]

thinking about Her again

[imaginarianisms]

thinking of Her TM

[faithdevotion]

❛    it would have been you if i met you first.  ❜   (For Bridget)

quotes that broke me starters.

Delicate slim fingers reach to curl around the cup and lift it to soft lips, wine filling her thirsty throat. Her gaze, as intense as ever, is locked upon the rogue prince's visage, observing him. Making sure she wouldn't miss any expression. It would have probably been difficult to digest for another woman, but Bridget felt no negative emotion, regret, nor the feeling of a lost opportunity. No matter if he had wed Laena Velaryon, she was aware by now the company he preferred was located across the Narrow Sea, and it was no other than herself, which gave her a satisfactory feeling over his wife. If anything, long years of solitude had taught her about uniting with someone worthy of her company. It also strengthened her personality, as she was previously a naive one; but the circumstances had made her someone to fear behind those innocent looking expressions of hers.

"Ao rigle nyke, dārilaros." (You honour me, prince.) The fascination he had with Old Valyria had granted her the upper hand. Bridget chuckled out of amusement, setting the cup down on the wooden table as a smirk drawn across her lips. "In Valyria, it was known that Lords would preserve two wives. One for company, another for pleasure. Which one would you assume was the dreadful one?" There was a mischief, cunning look upon her face while she tilted her head to a side. Running the tip of her tongue over her lips to wet them, Bridget exhaled almost blissfully. "I'm not meant to be someone's second wife. I don't support that tradition for myself. Yet, here we are. . . "

"i gīmigon iksan daor se ēlī, yn eman ao kesīr lēda nyke. " (I know I am not the first, but I have you here with me.) There was nothing pleasant for Bridget than speaking in their own language to prove she was powerful; that her ancient blood was there.