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beautifulsnake2162020 · 2 years ago

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Higher Intervention: Aemond x FemReader (House of the Dragon x Sandman fanfic) Part 13

Disclaimer: This is a fanwork to show appreciation for the intellectual properties used. I also haven’t read Fire and Blood and most if not all that I know is from the TV show.

Premise: Alys Velaryon, older twin sister of Jace Velaryon is the only member among Rhaenyra’s children whom Aemond cannot completely hate. As their love story progresses, a newer and larger threat complicates things and reveals discoveries that neither the greens or the blacks had ever imagined.

AN: We are now at war, and the battle of the Gods and of men has officially begun. This version of the Dance of Dragons involve both men and the other worldly and is now not just a Westerosi concern. This might seem a bit rushed because I'm trying to finish the story before my next semster classes officially begin. Or at least before I officially become focused on it. Also while there is background geopolitics, I'll mainly still focus on the love story aspect.

If you wish to read the previous parts (which I recommend you do if you haven’t read them yet):

Part 1 / Part 2/ Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11/ Part 12 Taglist (comment down below if you want to be included): @winxschester @memento-mora @mxrgodsstuff @thepowerstoner Also tagging:

@lady-phasma @aemonds-war-crime @adderess @princeaemonds because some of their ideas of Aemond have undoubtedly influenced my work.

You find yourself in a strange state of unconsciousness. Not awake enough to fight back against the Storm God, but not deep enough to be able to enter the Dreaming. Credit where credit is due, whomever thought to keep you in this state was wise and that you were practically useless in this state.

All you can do is somehow hope that Aemond had heard your cry as you were kidnapped by the Storm God and Balerion. You remember that you thought initially it was just a thunderstorm. You should have known to be skeptical of a thunderstorm suddenly appearing so conveniently once Aemond's party has arrived in the North, far away even on dragonback, to return to King's landing right away.

You hope that Aemond either heard your cries or that he would learn of it soon, You hope that your dragon children are fine and have managed to escape the conflict somehow. You wouldn't put it past Balerion or the Storm God to also capture and to use them as leverage against you and against your family.

You steady yourself as you check on your unborn child. If either Balerion or the Storm God has caused any harm on your fetus then you will be more than pissed and you would ensure that these two would suffer a fate worse than death. Fortunately you feel it still getting your energy and to your relief, it didn't seem to have suffered any injury.

"You are not going to die." You tell your unborn child.

"Your father and I have worked hard to conceive you." You say to it mentally as you reach into yourself to give it a little more life force - more vitality - for your peace of mind. After awhile as you rest and recuperate whatever energy you can, you hear voices as you slowly find yourself waking up.

"How dare you do this to my muña?!" Meraxes?!

"I don't expect a child like you to understand."

"I understand that she loves my kepa very muchand he loves her too. Why can't you understand that?!"

"Oh? Let's see if he still loves her when she is over here, and he is back in Westeros." You hear Balerion leave wherever it is you and Meraxes are in.

"Mera...Meraxes?" You call to her softly as you awaken in a sparsely covered room. The bed you were laying in was decently warm and comfortable amidst the cool winds that were coming from windows that were too high up for you to be able to close down. As you move to sit up you realize that the room was gently rocking. You and Meraxes were on a boat somewhere. Probably shrouded - making wherever you are hard to find.

"Muña?" You feel her go to you as she settles on your lap. You finally look down on her as she gives you a look mixed with expression of relief mixed with worry.

"Meraxes, what are you doing here?"

"Balerion aslo took us muña."

Oh no.

You feel dread and fury rise in you.

"All of you?"

"No mama, just nyke, Araea, Rhaegar, and Shaena. Uncle Luce and a Yi Ti magic person saved the others. They fought for awhile and somehow Uncle Lucerys was able to slash Balerion's eye. This distracted him while the Yi Ti magic person grabbed the others before they ran away."

You are relieved, better than having all of them kidnapped but you were still concerned that some of them were with you as captives.

"How did the four of you got captured? I'm not mad, I need to know how so that I could inform your kepa."

"I screamed when I saw you being taken and Balerion heard me. Rhaegar, Araea, and Shaena were beside me as we tried biting and attacking him but he put some type of sētera on us that turned into chains. Araea got really mad when Balerion said that he knows she and the rest of us couldn't make dragonfire yet because he created her and we were his sacred animal. She tried biting his finger off. Uncle Lucerys tried getting us but we were dragged away by Balerion."

Oh dear. It was sweet that they tried to do something to save you but this was one of the times when impulsive actions were a bad idea.

You pick her up and bring her to your eye level. You notice that you were no longer shackled as of now, but you don't want to assume anything. You, your unborn child and four of your dragon children are now officially prisoners of war. You now need to play your cards right and ensure that all of you survive this war and return home.

"Meraxes, ñuha tala, we will need to be very careful now because we are now currently in the hands of our enemies. Understood?"

"Issa muña." She says both remorsefully and intelligently at the same time.

"Now where are the others?" She turns her head and you see your three other children slowly waking up. The first to wake up was Aerea, the nameday dragon that Balerion gave you. She chose the name because it was the closest to the Andal word for air. Next was Shaena, the sole ice baby dragon, she chose the name because she loved the way it was distinctive compared to the other names that other women in your family had. And finally Rhaegar awoke as he joins his sisters in sitting on your lap.

"Muña? Where are we?" He asks.

"It appears we are in a cabin in a boat."

"Ugh, I think this is why I feel dizzy." Says Shaena as she puts her light blue divinely iced head on your lap in trying to control her dizziness.

"So you've finally awakened." Balerion says as he appears from the fire.

"Balerion."

"You stay back from my mama!" Aerea says as she quickly goes on front of you.

"Aerea let muña handle this. Alright tala?"

"Issa muña." She says reluctantly before you face Balerion's violet flaming eyes.

"If this is your plan on stopping me from punishing you, it's not working."

"Honestly Glaesēt I fail to see why marrying me won't solve the problem. You get to monitor me while I ensure you'll be in power."

"Are we really going to argue like this again? Your power came from me when you were only a minor war God. You cannot offer me something I already have Balerion. I may only have a fraction of it now since the rest of it would only be incompatible with my mortal shell but the moment this shell dies, you will no longer escape the punishment I should have brought upon you long ago."

"You mean 'if' your mortal shell dies." He says sinisterly as he goes closer to you and your children press themselves closer to you.

"You may have forgotten Glaesēt that by giving me some of your Divine vitality several centuries ago that I have managed to imbue it on some of the flora here. I have it hidden in the depths of Sothyros along with the other creations of mine that you have despised. And I have begun gradually feeding it to you ever since we have boarded this ship. You are too beautiful in that form, even now when you are gestating the mortal's child. But mark my words, you cannot punish me if you cannot die, and then your only choice would be to bind yourself to me in marriage."

"Have you no remorse left within you?!" You ask with disdain.

"Have you not learned what happens when you break the laws we the Endless are made to enforce? Do you really not mind losing Meraxes -"

"Don't you dare talk about my mother." He says with a dangerous tone. But you didn't care right now.

"She was the one who convinced me not to punish you. Of course we are talking about her. Isn't losing her enough? This is what happens to you and the world if you continue this way. The Doom of Valyria is what happened when you broke my laws and you were left unpunished. Now you want to break the laws of both my mother and my aunt just to avoid punishment from me?"

"We are currently in the midst of change Glaesēt." He says as he stands up and heads for the door.

"From what I know of your father's story since his imprisonment by a wizard, even the Endless cannot avoid change." With that he leaves.

"You're right Balerion, we too are susceptible to change, just not like this." You mutter as you stand up to stretch your legs.

"Mama? What do we do?"

"For now Aerea, we must stick together. We were forced apart from our home and family, I'm not allowing that to happen to us again."

They nod as you feel the ship stop and you and your little family was escorted into the territory of Ibben. One of the Storm God's major cult centers, though he is not the only God worshipped here. As you were escorted into their control you see some of the Ice Dragons in your periphery coming out of the shrouded mist to bow before their master the Storm God. So that's why you were placed here. Ibben was protected by the Storm God's Ice Dragons. Even if spies were to report back to Westeros, it wouldn't change that any violent rescue mission would mean getting through at least ten Ice Dragons from what you could see.

You were essentially placed under house arrest and not allowed to step foot outside of the gates of one of the more luxurious places available. Even though you weren't shackled, you could feel your movements being stifled.

You understood why they placed you in a luxurious place, and it had nothing to do with the fact that you are a Queen. It had more to do with the fact that should you change your mind and marry either the Storm God or Balerion then this was also going to be the place wherein the marriage would be consummated. Perhaps both of them were still traumatized and took pity on you when you voluntarily submitted to the Faith Militant.

No matter, it seems you and the little ones will be here for awhile. And you need to rest once again. Your unborn child needs some energy, and it's easier to do that passively as you rest. After you make sure all of your dragon children were comfortable on the couch near the fire place that was more than enough for all four of them to sleep stretched out; you then allow yourself to drift to relax as much as you can.

"Alys? Alys can you hear me?" You heart leaps as you finally hear his voice in what seemed like a while.

"Aemond darling, I'm about to sleep. Can we meet in the dreaming?"

"Of course, I'll see you there."

Not long after, you both meet in the Dreaming, you find yourself sleeping on top of Fiddler's Green in a beautiful starry sky as Aemond rushes to you holding a torch.

"Alys!"

"Aemond!" He quickly tosses the torch and it turns into a campfire as the two of you embrace and kiss in longing.

Once the two of you settle, you tell him what happened the day you were kidnapped by Balerion and the Storm God.

"I should have known that our defenses was not enough. Maybe if I had given more investment to the Alchemists' Guild -"

"Aemond darling, we all thought that way. But even the finest guards and the finest defenses were nothing compared to the strength of Gods."

"We also had Gods on our side. Even your family is on our side."

"Balerion and the Storm God have my aunt and my relative on their side too. And they are still more powerful than the five of us combined. My siblings and I are still in our adolescence - maybe we are even still children - in the age of the Endless. Aemond my love, don't blame yourself. At least Ayrmidon is safe with you." He sighs.

"Your instincts were right. I'm still trying to see how to best explain to him what's going on."

"He doesn't know yet?"

"He does." Aemond brings you closer as the two of you snuggle by the fire.

"He has yet to understand what's going on."

"Tell him I love him alright. Right now I'm focusing on protecting our unborn child and our four dragon children here with me."

"Hmph, to think that the same move that cost me my eye has saved the other five here now." He runs his fingers through your hair as you feel him relax from his worries even just briefly.

"I'm not sure how much time we have left here so I'm going to tell you plenty of things that you might want to look into. We are currently in Ibben, in a luxurious dungeon since they have us in house arrest and we are not allowed to step beyond the gates of our little area. From what I briefly saw, Ibben is surrounded and guarded by at least ten Ice dragons. Balerion plans to make my mortal shell an immortal shell."

"Hmph? How?"

"I don't know the specific plant, but he says he has cultivated a plant with the Divine Vitality I gave him when I first bestowed on him his powers over fire and vitality energy. He plans on feeding it to me to lock me inside this mortal shell. If I can't die, he cannot be punished."

"Wouldn't that be breaking-?"

"That's what I told him but it seems he hasn't learned. If the Doom of Valyria is the consequence of him going unpunished for breaking my laws, I'm not sure the world would survive if he broke the laws of my mother and aunty Death."

"Then I shall have to make sure that you do die." He says with an underlying dangerous tone as he gives you a kiss on the forehead.

"The plant is somewhere deep in Sothoros. But be careful, that's where all his other blood experiments are aside from Valyria itself."

"Oh fuck." He curses as he leans back.

"What is it?"

"The slaver's cities, Mereen, Yunkai, and Astapor have all sworn allegiance to Balerion. And according to the new batch of Yi Ti magic users and soldiers, their ships were blocked and attacked by the ships of New Ghis. They were saved mainly by the magic users who have brought some of their own water dragons and by the Drowned God and the God of the Seven."

"Oh no." He looks at you grimly before continuing.

"They were forced to travel along the coastlines of Sothoros to avoid any more attacks toward their naval caravan. Fortunately they were able to rest and recuperate in the summer islands before travelling to the ports of Old town and of Flint's finger."

He takes your hand in his as he leans in till your foreheads touched and your noses brushed.

"Alys, this is war now. And I promised that I would protect you." Even if I have to do things that you don't agree with or find detestable, is what he was trying to tell you. He wasn't asking permission, but gently reminding you that there was no turning back and everyone involved would have to bear with the sins that you're all about to do.

Such was the realities of war.

Of protecting what one loves.

"I know, just make sure not to forget our own people." You say reassuringly before leaning in for a kiss.

You knew that falling in love with him would not change his ways. But you also didn't want to. He is who he is and you love him for it.

It's just that now he has an opportunity to unleash it.

After all, what King wouldn't protect his Queen?

And that was how the first year of the war began.

Fortunately, Pentos, Norvos, and Qohor are all on your side. With Aegon and Daeron staying in Qohor in exchange for security and for the forges of Qohor to wield and your father on standby with Caraxes in Norvos.

Unfortunately Lys swore allegiance to Balerion. You couldn't blame them, they shared interests after all in restoring Old Valyria. Plenty of Old Valyrian blood runs in Lys and they were the closest free city to Volantis, Balerion's city.

This in turn caused Tyrosh and Myr to be neutral in the face of war. At the heart of it these two cities would rather engage in trade than get involved in an ever increasing world war.

"Be careful my love." You tell him through the ring as he dresses in his armor as he prepares to mount Vhagar and lead the charge against Lys. Wisely so, since your family did not have much experience no matter how much studying they did with the ice dragons and the water dragons, they knew their way more around a regular fire dragon. Their strategy was to target Volantis and Ghiscar. Since these are the areas that both sides rely on for their supply lines, if they control this area they could monopolize the area for supply lines for your side.

"For you and our children I will. The sooner this war ends, the better." He says with determination. From what you have been hearing from your father, your Endless family as well as other beings are all waiting for the actual fighting to begin. If they act too early, it would give themselves away to your relatives, Desire and Despair, and would make them vulnerable.

That is not to say that they didn't do anything though.

Sensuality improved Vhagar's senses and brought it back to her prime when Visenya was still her rider. She has also given those riding the Ice Dragons on your side provided by the Drowned God heightened senses that were compatible with the cold, increased warmth and heightened vision among others. Not too much because the better and more heightened the senses, the greater the pain when it's exploited against them. The price of sensitivity.

Connectivity strengthened the bonds in your side, especially the ones working together as a team in fighting your enemies. She worked hand in hand with Knowledge in helping spies from your side to stay loyal and to lure other strategic persons to your side among enemy areas. Once the fighting actually begins she plans to weaken certain strategic bonds to weaken your enemies.

Imagination from what you have understood, has already done some preliminary work. Playing to the fears among your enemies while playing to the motivation to act in your side.

They were all waiting for the actual fighting to start before they could go wild in their fury.

You feel him mount Vhagar.

"Sȳz biarves Aemond. Avy jorrāelan."

"Kirimvose, avy jorrāelan Alys."

And so began the first battle of this Dance of Dragons.

While he lead the charge against Volantis, he assigned Baela (and also Jace but he would never publicly admit it so Baela is taking charge) to lead the attack against Lys.

While the three of them were fighting, as expected attacks from Lorath and Saath towards Norvos and Qohor also began. Specifically the Storm God's Ice Dragons. Hopefully having your father, Aegon and Daeron waiting there would finally payoff.

"The Greyjoy navy is delighted to finally be fighting. Though I don't understand why they won't have some of the Yi Ti magical practitioners with them as they fight an Ice Dragon with a Saathi mage as a rider." Knowledge tells you through the dreaming.

"They are filled with pride in their skills brother, even though they may die doing so, it's in their culture among the Iron Born."

"Hmph, at least the other Iron Born have at least two Yi Ti mages with them on their ships." You laugh as you take a sip of milk laced with nectar in the dreaming.

"Speaking of mages, I hear that you have some involvement with an intelligence mission regarding Balerion's plants of divine vitality?" He nods at you grimly.

"Meleys is actually heading that but I am present when they need to clarify a few things. As much as I hate to admit it, Balerion was wise to invent a new plant that contained the Divine Vitality you gave him. That way his only being is not his only source of it should he find himself suddenly in need of turning a mortal immortal."

"Damn I was hoping this wasn't the case." You say as you place a hand on your eight month belly. You know that he hasn't begun feeding it to you yet, but you now worry if he does it would lock you in this shell till some sort of antidote or your aunt helps you find a way to die.

"There is some hope dear sister." Knowledge says as he gets up from his seat.

"The brew that he plans on force feeding to you will require also the involvement of Ghost grass to ensure nourishment to the spirit. The mages in collaboration with the alchemists' guild have now begun experiments on making any people we send there more durable and more aware of the possible dangers of Sothoros." This gives you mixed emotions. You knew very well what he was implying.

"Are...are they making magical mutants?"

"I suppose you could call them that." He doesn't need to see you for him to feel your conflicted feelings about what they are currently doing.

"I just fret at what happens after the war. I'm thankful that there is effort in getting to the mysterious plant that has Divine Vitality but even this will have consequences afterwards."

"In war dear sister, everything has a risk and it's price."

"I know Knowledge, I just wish there was another way."

But even then, the realities of war had it's price. You knew this as you hear reports of your family, both mortal and immortal, causing devastation in the lands of your enemies. You hear about how Vhagar decimated the fields providing food and resources to those inside the Black walls of Volantis, while the fields dedicated to the Red God was ever as fertile for the followers of R'hllor. Causing a civil war inside the capital of Volantis.

You hear about how under Baela's leadership and diplomacy with Vermax hovering not too far away, Lys changed it's stance from being in Balerion's side to being neutral. While many of Old Valyria seeks to return home, even they don't want their island paradise destroyed after living in it since the Doom of Valyria.

And of course, you hear about the new dragonriders of Volantis duelling with Vhagar, Moondancer, and Vermax above the naval battle below them. Vhagar won, while Moondancer and Vermax were at a stalemate with theirs. But according to Aemond, both of them were able to inflict serious injuries on their opponents who were both larger than they were but not as large as Vhagar. His begrudging tone through the ring suggests that it was true.

"Who is leading the attacks against the Storm God's ice dragons?"

"Cregan Stark is my general there. You've been feeling the attacks there...haven't you?"

"I have, it has begun snowing and being a lot more colder than usual. Or so that's what my Ibbennese captors and caretakers say."

"Mmm hmm I hope they have been treating you and our children kindly." You couldn't help but snort a little bit at that.

"Think of it more as reluctant kindness. They know of the consequences that will happen if anyone deliberately hurts me, but their hatred for me - for us - is quite obvious. I'm suspecting that there are plans to assassinate me once I give birth."

"If that happens then I'll tell Mui Lan that she and the other Ice and Water dragon riders have my permission to be harsh toward the Ibbennesse."

"Still, even our children are feeling that something is not right and I agree. I'll need to find someway to escape here after giving birth. Maybe even with the umbilical cord still attaching me to our child." You sense a presence going inside your room.

"Aemond, I'll meet you in the dreaming, someone is here to see me."

"Be careful raqiarzy."

You quickly put down your ring as you quickly gather your dragon children close to you as the Storm God makes his presence known.

"What do you want Arari?" You try to keep your tone as neutral as possible. You know what Balerion wants, but you have yet to hear what the Storm God wants beyond simple desire for you. But now having experienced the powers of your relative first hand, you know better than to underestimate what Desire mixed with some sort of Despair could do.

"I have come to present to you my offer. An offer I believe would be more appealing than Balerion's."

"You would really betray your ally when you both already know that I would still choose Aemond over both of you?"

"We'll see if that remains true once you hear my modified proposal." He settles himself on front of you as you feel your children snuggle to your side. Both wanting comfort and to somehow feel they are also protecting you.

"Once you give birth and once you have finished nursing your child, I propose that you marry me. Become my wife and Queen of the Heavens and I shall help you punish Balerion for breaking your laws, and I shall willingly enforce them by your side."

"And if I still refuse?"

"Then the deaths of the innocent shall be in your hands for what I am about to do." He adds a thunder at the end of his voice. It still surprises you but you refuse to budge.

This was war, nobody but the farmers and other small folk providing for the very sustenance are innocent. You could only hope that someday their souls would understand or at least give you mercy for not giving in.

You are an Endless.

You are bound to the Universe.

Not to anyone who seeks to possess you.

Balerion was your obligation to punish. And no one else should interfere with that. It was your laws he broke, it is therefore you who should deliver the punishment on him for using the very gifts you gave him to violate them.

"With all due respect, I still refuse."

"Then I hope you can live with yourself for the incoming deaths that are now on your hands."

He disappears and once you sense his presence is gone, you take a breath in relief.

"Muña, what do you think he will do?" Rhaegar asks looking up from your womb.

"I think he's going to make the entire world freeze. Or perhaps he and Balerion together will make a firestorm. This time attacking what is crucial for us and not just to shroud their crimes."

"Daor, daor, daor." Shaena says in despair as she shakes her head. You pet her head to comfort her as her eyes starts to tear up.

"Mama, I'm sorry my creator is doing this to you."

"It's alright Shaena, you do not control what your creator does."

"Muña, I think kepa is in the Dreaming now." Meraxes says as she looks at the now glowing hands on your watch.

"Would you like to join us?" You ask softly and they all nod. Your heart breaks a little as they were now more cautious than they were before. They've been angrily stared at and almost screamed at when they were just playing around being themselves. You miss their enthusiastic replies when they didn't have anything to fear.

But this was the world now, and you need all need to adapt accordingly.

You gather them into your arms as you lay them on one side of the bed as you draw the translucent curtains around the bed's canopy for warmth. Then the five of you settle down and allow yourselves to dream.

As you feel yourself enter the dreaming, you find yourself and your children in the library. Roughly you were near the entrance from the throne room. As the five of you make a turn, you spot a familiar figure with your immortal parents and Lucienne.

"Kepa!" Meraxes and Aerea excitedly say. Aemond turns with a smile he reserves for you and your children.

You chuckle as they fly to his arms and in his embrace. They may not be able to fly in the waking world but in here they could fly as high as they want without being harmed.

You take your time walking towards them as your parents go to your side.

"Sit, whatever you need just dream it up and summon to you." Your father says as he makes a lazy boy chair appear for your comfort.

"The little one is going to arrive soon, rest while you can." Your mother says as she summons some of the foods you have been craving, mainly apples and hard boiled quail eggs.

"By any chance, is there a way that you could be the one to help me give birth, mom? I'm suspecting my child won't be safe with the midwife they give me."

"That is actually what we were talking about before you arrived." She says with an assurance that at least there was a plan in place.

"Kepa, my creator threatened muña. He might do something to you." You hear Shaena say as her siblings fly off to where your other dragon children were in the dreaming.

"Oh? What did he say?"

"He says that if mama doesn't marry him then the deaths of the innocent people will be on her hands."

"Shaena, don't worry it's not your muña doing those things. He's just trying to convince her that it's her fault, when really she has just been protecting you. You did a good job by telling me, alright?"

"Issa kepa." He embraces her before he releases her to join her siblings.

They all inform you of the plan and what ideally is going to happen. Since the Yi Ti mages along with the Iron fleet simultaneously with the Ice Dragons and the Water dragons on your side will be making an aggressive attack soon. They cannot tell you when just in case someone was secretly reading your mind.

It is then that you will be making your escape.

"How is Ayrmidon?" You ask Aemond after your parents and Lucienne discuss more logistical matters.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" And soon you hear your little boy racing towards you.

"Muña!"

"Trēsy!" You embrace him as he carefully embraces you and your pregnant womb.

"I miss you muña. I shouldn't have left with kepa."

"Daor Ayrmidon." You have him sit between you and Aemond.

"I'm the one who told your father to take you on that trip. It would be more difficult and more stressful if you are physically with me right now. Our enemies might kill you." You gently but firmly say.

"Also you would break our heart if you were suddenly gone trēsy." Aemond adds as he adjusts Ayrmidon to face you.

"Oh I'm sorry muña."

"It's fine darling. Now tell me, what has been going on? Tell me while we have this brief time together."

For the rest of your dream, you listen to the stories Ayrmidon tells you about his life since your kidnapping. How he and his dragon siblings have been studying on reading and writing, and mathematics much to his chagrin.

"Aelyx and Rhaellor really like mathematics. But I prefer the stories Uncle Imagination or Grandpa Dream tells us."

"Oh another thing that you inherited from me."

"Oh you have no idea raqiarzy." He says teasingly until you both notice that Ayrmidon is starting to wake up.

"No! Daor I just started!"

"Don't worry trēsy, this won't be the end."

"How come kepa is not waking up yet?"

"I was tired Ayrmidon, but don't worry just go and start eating breakfast. I'll be there soon."

And with that Ayrmidon fades away as he wakes up.

"He was sleeping beside me. It turns out none of us could sleep alone without you. And so the seven of us are in the same room almost every night."

"Same here with us." You say as your hands find each other.

"I told them that we are going to stick together and none of us are going anywhere without the rest of us. It's already horrible that we have been kidnapped and kept as captives among people who hate us. We can't afford another forced separation."

"With what we have planned, ideally there shouldn't be."

"You be careful too. I don't know what Balerion and the Storm God have in mind but it's not going to be good." You notice him beginning to fade.

"Take care of them." And then he fades away as he wakes up.

Unfortunately you didn't have to wait long to know what the Storm God was threatening to do. And you were right, he and Balerion worked in tandem to deliver what has now been called "The plague of the skies."

It started when the largest volcano of old Valyria made a massive eruption. An eruption so large that it had lasted for one week. During the eruption, there was an unusually strong wind that was able to spread the ashes and heated volcanic rock all throughout Westeros, and the western side of Essos covering the rest of the Free cities. The large ash clouds had covered the sun for several days. It reminded you of one of the ten plagues the Almighty sent to liberate the Israelites from a very stubborn Pharoah. Fire literally raining down for awhile from the skies. Or so the story goes at least.

Even Ibben was not spared from the flaming volcanic rocks coming from Valyria. If you and your children were hated before, now it became increasingly dangerous for you to remain in Ibben longer than necessary. Volcanic ash was prevalent in the wind and was frightening for you for the sake of your unborn child.

The moment the ash began to fade, the Ice Dragon and Iron Fleet began it's attack.

And that was when your parents in disguise finally came to aid you and your children make your escape.

Your father placed your captors to sleep while your mother places a charm over you and your children to hide you from the consciousness of everyone else. Knowledge was waiting with a boat to port that all of you use to travel to the mainland of Essos. Still concealed your family makes your way to the shelter Knowledge made among the woods of Ifequevron.

And just in time, your labor has begun.

Your other siblings arrive soon after. They explain that the Gods are mainly on duty in Westeros now. You were just glad that you and your children are not alone.

Imagination, Knowledge, and your father concealed your living area and had even recruited some spirits to work with them. You cling to Sensuality's hands as the all too familiar pain of giving birth has now arrived. Your mother was acting as the midwife and Connectivity was assisting her by helping you bend your legs.

"Is muña going to be fine?" You hear Rhaegar ask as he and his siblings watch from the side.

"Don't worry ñuhys trēsy, I'm not going to die today."

"Don't look away children, this is part of life. If ever you plan on having children in your human form, this is what the mother will have to go through. Don't push yet." You hear your mother say as she checks to make sure that the umbilical cord was not choking your baby.

"Everything is fine. If you feel the need to push -"

You pushed.

You kept pushing amidst the pain.

"Argh."

"Good good keep going."

Oh my, this felt to you to be larger than Ayrmidon.

Or at least this baby had a larger head.

"UGH!"

"Alys?!"

"Not now Aemond, I'm giv - AGH FUCK!"

"Good good, keep pushing."

You pushed.

You screamed.

You cursed.

And before you know it, your mother was placing your newborn on your breast as your child was kicking and crying.

"A baby girl."

"WAAH! WAAH!"

"Riñītsos...ñuha tala." You say in relief as your mother helps you to breastfeed her and give her nourishment. You feel yourself push out the placenta as you feel your mother and your sisters clean you up.

"Is she healthy mom?"

"Very much so. She has your hips, which is why you had a bit difficulty after the crowning."

"Īlva tala?"

"Oh issa Aemond. would you mind if I named her Maegella?"

"After Princess Maegelle for entering the sept?"

"In a way, this entire pregnancy has been affected by the divine. But she will still have her say in how she interacts with them as they put us through hell in this war." He chuckles at that. Now that you have your daughter in your arms his laughter now soothes you.

"Then I shall do my best for this war to end so I can bring you all home."

"Tell them for me. According to my mother she has my hips which is why I was still cursing after the crowning."

"Nyke ryptan ao. Especially when you were cursing. I'm just glad both of you are safe."

"Children come, meet your little sister." Connectivity says as she gathers them in her arms and sits beside you.

"Ooh, she's bigger than Ayrmidon." Shaena says as she observes Maegella still suckling your breast.

"She's so round and cute!" Maegella then cries out releasing your breast.

"WAAH! WAAH!" Still hungry, you reposition her as she quickly begins suckling your other breast.

"Is she still cute Meraxes?"

"Issa Aeraea. Skoro syt?"

"She's really loud."

"Of course she's loud, she's a baby."

"Ayrmidon wasn't this loud Rhaegar."

"Maybe it's because she's bigger?"

"Daor Meraxes. Maegella is just really hungry right now. She's not louder just because she is bigger." You say firmly before any body shaming implications might possibly arise unknowingly.

That night in the dreaming, Aemond and all your other children who has not yet seen your daughter is introduced to her for the first time. You take this momentary moment of peace before you need to move again. You relax in your bed surrounded by your dragon children and Ayrmidon sitting beside you. Aemond held her as she enjoyed playing or chewing on his eyepatch.

"See even she prefers you without the eyepatch. And she's only a few minutes old." You tease as they return to your side with Aemond being careful around your dragon children.

"I'm not surprised. She's starting to take after you."

"She has your nose kepa. How come I didn't get your nose?"

"Huh? Ayrmidon your nose is fine." Rhaellor says confused as Maegella reaches out to you and Aemond places her back in your arms.

"But I want to look like kepa."

"Hmm? Ayrmidon you already look a lot like me."

"Ñuha trēsy, you are handsome the way you are."

"Really?" Maegella blows a bubble from her saliva at Ayrmidon, then giggling after.

"See, Maegella likes you already."

She plays with Ayrmidon's fingers before she begins playing with your hair. You spend the rest of the evening catching up with your family before you all wake up and continue fighting on.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm not going to lie, this was a mix of Trojan war/WWI/The ten plagues from the Prince of Egypt.

#Higher Intervention #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #the sandman #hotd #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond x original female character #aemond x original character #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #crossover fanfiction

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ladysunbite · 9 months ago

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@fallesto

Orianna nodded approvingly, taking in the deliberate distance between them, the calm way his denial was given. The vampiress eyes grew slightly as she met the charming ataman's gaze. No fear and no stupidity. It was more pleasing to her than a well-build form on the other side. However, both seemed not to deny themselves a pleasure of a look, once the permission was given. "A genuine chivalrous man. Why, master von Everec, your kind is more rare than a true dragon. And a much more intriguing company." How many would be led by her charms out of crude foolishness, out of fake wisdom, out of the assurance they could best the monster and enjoy the spoils, cleansed by a little prayer afterwards. Yet not the heartless man before her. It was no wonder to her why both the gentle woman and the sly devil took interest in him. The sun-eyed herself was wondering about if she should prolong the time he spends by her side, if she should collect him along with the van Rough. It did not escape the cultured vampiress how his pride suffered, while doing the tasks any man would deem only natural in Toussaint. To be denied a small service to a lady would be considered an offence. The northern customs were clearly different and she noted it down. "It was my plan to test you, yet not to offend you," making sure that the jug contained wine, not some other liquor - it would be curious to see the effects of human blood upon him, but not now - she took the goblet and extended it over the empty stretch of water between them. No man's land. A charm against the creatures of the night. "Let there be a peace between us." As the fumes cleared the sun-eyed's eyes went wide for a second. Not because the sight was awakening her hunger, or the blood sang to her. The body on the other side was a tapestry of scars. The one on the face could be a sign of age, some warrior's sign of efficiency from young age, yet to have so many, willingly. The statues of knights and warriors praised no bodily deformities. Her kin bore such only for one purpose. "Are these marks of priesthood? Do they bear a meaning?" the question was asked without the usual courtly languidness, yet with a strange mix of respect and revulsion at the edges. "Answer me not, if you are prohibited."

"Let us move to our plan, if you deny me a story. Would you use it as a lure? How do you know which world you are creating an opening to?"

“Tsh …” That was it right there, that was the most right there she was going to get out of him right now as he felt as if he has been dragged from one mess right into another without a single shred of a chance in having a moment to himself.

Jumping from one land to another with her, but at least in a way it was what his wish was, he wished to live and for so long he has not been able to do that at all, he was alive, that much was the truth, but living he has not been doing as all the amusement of life, has drained from him.

“People like her, will not last long, trust me on that, I know people and I know the land, this king will find this place and everyone here, will burn.”

As he would turn his back to her then, to give her a moment to herself, he was many things that was the truth and he did enjoy the fair company of a women, who did not, but he was still a lord, fallen and without a title and a place, but a lord none the less.

Tempting.

That much was noted, tempted to turn and look at her, as he doubted she was grey scaled, with claws, sharp fangs a face like a muzzle and wings that stretched out and blocked out the sun itself, but he did not, immortal as he was he did not wish for his head to be knocked away from his body and sent flying across the room for being bold and daring enough to spy on her while she was changing into well, nothing at all, merely getting ready for the warmth of the bath that was on offer.

Despite her efforts to what, lure him, charm him or no doubt test him, when she walked towards him to try and pass him by, to steal a glance, to look at her, to slap her backside as she passed, hardly. He would lose a hand and many other pieces of himself, so instead of that, he merely turned around again and would show her his back and little else, only when he knew that she had reached the edge, climbed into the bath and sank herself down into the hot water, did he turn back around.

“Finally.” She took her sweet time, getting into a bath of all things, these vampires will be the end of him one day.

“We will not be staying for long.” As he would stand there, moving to walk closer and looking at the bubbles within the water, the endless foam that has formed as well and the lines of heat that raced up throughout the air as well. “So you don’t need to pretend for long.” Not when the smell of ash within the air, has reached even here of all places.

“What …” What on earth did it remind her off this time, he thought he knew it all, but compared to her and his long life, he knew nothing it seems. “You and that land of your own, you put a regal spin on everything, you know what it is, people .. burning in there hundreds, every single night, here and all across the land.” And she would be next along with him, what a sight that would be.

They would be burning for quite some time.

“Once, but not here, not now, you don’t know this land, the people, the kings and the endless wars that have been fought, this king is different than all the others you have known, he has killed many, witches and mages, the strongest men and women alive, and it has all been so easily done for him.”

He did not respect him, no chance, but he could nod his head at the skills of someone else.

“Enough of that.” As he would fan his hand back and forth for the moment then, no more talking about kings, no more talking about fighting them, no more of any of that.

He sighed, being commanded by a higher vampire, how many would have slit there palms open for such a thing, but for him, he was not interested, but he did it anyway as he walked, grabbed the goblet and would fill it up for her, grabbing the small table as well and making sure the legs would scratch and scream all the way across the stone floor as he plopped it down beside the bath and placed the goblet down next. And then well, unlike herself, he did not make a song and dance out of it, no fancy show for her, as his sword was removed and tossed to the ground, and then no sooner, was boots and everything else he had upon him thrown into the mix and added to the pile as he got into the bath with her and sank down on the opposite of her.

“You are tempting me, to be another notch on the handle of my blade, another conquest that ought to be impossible.” As he would share her waters with her, her time, her space and if further, so much more, because for everything she was and all the harm and horror she could do, he was no little meal for her to sink her fangs into, he was something else and whatever she wished to throw right at him, he was more than suited to take it. As he was not interested in telling her stories, he was more interesting in staring right at her and taking her all in.

#well done olgierd well done!#fallesto #lullaby of woe (ladysunbite rp answers)

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fandom-puff · 2 years ago

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I'm constantly switching between thoughts about those three men whenever I'm thinking of Westeros. I just can't decide between being cuddled and protected by Sandor, him just treating you like a fragile little kitten he needs to take care of, or being Lady Lannister and having one of the most powerful and stoic men wrapped around my finger, being his Lady wife and royally pissing off Cersei. On the other hand though, riding Ned in front of a fire sounds great too. 👉👈

Omg 😵‍💫😵‍💫 I went a liiiiitle bit overboard. There’s some reference to smut but nothing too explicit.

Living a peaceful life in the country with Sandor, far far away from the political cess pit of the capital. Raising chicken, maybe a cow or goat, travelling for miles on Stranger to trade goods with other farmers. Perhaps raising a few children of your own, or a dog or two… or both. Peaceful and rustic, without having to worry about saying the wrong thing or making a misstep in court. Not being a Ser and a Lady… just being Sandor and YN

Entering an arranged marriage to a man old enough to be your father, or even grandfather. Stepping into Casterly Rock or the tower of the hand as a meek as a kitten, afraid of the power your new husband (and his adult children) wield. Your marriage beginning with dutiful formality; a hand tucked into the crook of his elbow during walks; murmurs of ‘Lord Husband’ and ‘Lady Wife’; occasional late night visits to your chambers, for the purpose of procreation. But a frightened little kitten has no place at court, or the Rock. So Tywin has handmaidens and squires present you with bolts of rich red velvet, regal gold brocade, delicate lace imported from the Free Cities. He sends tailors to fit you with gowns more befitting of a noble lady rather than a maiden, Smithies to fashion intricate metalwork like belts and pendants, jewellers to craft stunning pieces with the rubies and gold that represent House Lannister. He has you meet with the Castellan of the Rock, the Maester, the cooks, the blacksmiths- all to teach you how to run Casterly Rock in his absence. He hosts meetings with the vassal houses of the West to ensure they respect you. To disrespect the lady of Casterly Rock is to insult Lord Lannister himself. What starts as a formal, cordial arranged marriage soon turns into Tywin fashioning you into Lady Lannister- not a trophy wife to sit pretty and sew, but a political force to work in tandem with him, slowly earning the respect of the Old Lion of Lannister.

Marrying Eddard Stark (because his honour would not allow him to take a mistress) after the death of Catelyn Tully. Initially your role is to run winterfell while Ned runs the North, and to see to it that the five stark children have a maternal figure to aid them through their grief. He won’t even share your bed for the first few months of marriage, and even then, the consummation was brief, done out of necessity to the gods to legitimise the marriage. But as the frigid winter sets in and the farmers leave their fields for the warmth of their homes, you and Ned spend more and more time in one another’s company. In silence, but nonetheless together. As the months pass, Ned’s grief begins to fade as he watches you with his children. Robb turns to you for advice and reassurance, the burden of being the heir hanging over him; Sansa begins to follow your every move, learning the ways of being a noble lady as she matures; Arya likes you, because you let her run around with her brothers, and had promised to teach her about the dragons of Old Valeria; Bran is keen to show you how high he can climb, and he enjoys the stories you and Old Nan make up; young Rickon enjoys your company, nuzzling to your breast when he is tired. Even Jon Snow seems at ease around you, and the bastard of Winterfell is allowed to sit at the high table with the rest of the Starks. Seeing you with his children awakens something in Ned. He realises your commitment to House Stark, despite being closer to Robb’s age than his. He begins to invite you to his chambers at night, to share hot ale and talk in front of the fire, or to read in comfortable silence. Months of waiting and restraint comes to a head when a gentle, dutiful kiss Goodnight just outside his door descends into one of passion and longing, and passing squires and servants watch in knowing amusement as Ned gathers you in his arms, his cloak enveloping you and guides you back into his rooms, kicking the door shut. You make love that night, on the thick fur skins on the floor in front of the fire, and afterwards you lay, entwined with one another as the warm orange of the flames bathes your naked skin in its glow. As the dull ache of his passion begins to bloom in your muscles, he helps you up and guides you to bed. Within minutes he has you again, and as you nuzzle into his side, fast asleep, he sighs softly, rubbing your hip, his fingers tracing over your belly. Perhaps his seed will take root in your womb. He has five children already, but he would like some with you. You deserve children of your own, and with winter coming, survival of the young is not always guaranteed.

#game of thrones #game of thrones headcanons #Tywin Lannister x reader #Sandor Clegane x reader #ned stark x reader #eddard stark x reader #got headcanons #Tywin Lannister headcanons #sandor clegane headcanons #Ned stark headcanons

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youngster-monster · 3 years ago

Text

Doctrine of Worship

Merry christmas, seren <3

It starts, as all terrible things do, with the invasion of England by France.

No, that is untrue; it starts, Laurence has to admit, when he agrees to take the cloth. Everything which happens next flows down from this single event.

But it becomes troubling — and, as such, interesting — when the French invade. Laurence inhabits the small church of Dover: much of the fighting happens on his doorstep. The French dragons darken the sky like a swarm of locusts, stirring in him an old sentiment of bitter powerlessness. If I were there, if I had joined the navy, things would be different; I could help; I could save—

It is a prideful thought, unbecoming of a man of the cloth. Laurence pushes it out of his mind. Besides, one does not need to carry a sword to help in time of war. He shelters the people of the town in his church, the old pews groaning under the weight of all these people crowding inside the sturdy building to weather the conflict. He leads them through prayer in the hope of keeping them calm in such uncertain times.

Every so often, the distant roar of dragons and cannons comes to break the tenuous peace brought on by common faith. Laurence does not need to look out to know what’s happening. The church overlooks the sea to bless the ships passing by the port town; he’s seen enough already glancing through the stained glass windows.

Prayer does not change the world; it does not stop London from being overtaken, nor the King from fleeing. If God has listened to Laurence’s petition for peace, either He ignored it or He chose to see it fulfilled in the manner of the pax romana; the peace of empires.

Prayer is from the people, for the people. It keeps them focused and connected in times of uncertainty, hopeful when so little hope is to be found elsewhere. It’s all Laurence can offer; his own prayer is for it to be enough.

If there are negotiations, news of them do not reach Dover. Laurence’s role is not one that lends itself to politics beyond the limited scope of his parish, and frankly he doesn't care to change the fact. Let them pick England’s bones clean; what else is there for him to do? He already has his hands full keeping his people from panicking.

They get some news from the soldiers passing through Dover — the few soldiers who speak English share what they know of the situation easily enough — and gossip makes up for any gap in their knowledge, trading accuracy for sheer quantity. Laurence might not have the ear of kings and dukes as his father would have liked him to, but he is sure the political knowledge he would have gained then doesn’t hold a candle on what he can learn from the grapevine of little old ladies coming out of Sunday mass.

Although he keeps an ear out for trouble, Laurence tries to keep his nose out of such things. He’ll gain nothing out of eavesdropping on the private matters of the soldiers in Dover. Just seeing them out and about, with their French uniform and easy confidence of an occupying force, awakens in him the ages-old longing to join His Majesty’s service himself and fight for his country.

He gave up these dreams a long time ago. It’s pointless to agonize over it now.

(Dover is the only concession he made to this self-imposed embargo on daydreaming. It overlooks the sea; most days, it’s enough.)

The dragon is harder to ignore.

Whatever innate fear of dragons Laurence used to have has been cured by years spent so near a covert, however he hasn’t exactly become comfortable with them. It’s still a strange, ominous feeling to have huge winged shadows cast over you in the street. The formations stationed in Dover have lost their menace to familiarity; he cannot say the same for the French.dragons that fly past the town. Laurence can name a few French breeds off the top of his head, but it doesn’t make them any less strange.

One in particular has his concerned attention. It’s no breed Laurence recognizes; he mistook it for a Fleur-de-Nuit, at first, but the blue markings were too distinctive to belong to the night-stalking dragons, even if one doesn’t factor in the fact that this particular individual was out and about in broad daylight. Although he’s seen it fly by a few times it never seems to land anywhere near Dover, and so Laurence never gets a better look at it. The worry that the French may have obtained dragons unknown to the English lingers, though.

He should have been more careful with his wishful thinking, Laurence thinks faintly, when that very same dragon lands in front of his church.

It is polite enough to make itself known after Sunday service. The arrival of an unknown — and, at first glance, unmanned — dragon in the middle of mass would probably have been interpreted as some kind of ill omen by the congregation.

Although, opening the doors to its gigantic black body curled on the pavement of the forecourt is hardly a peaceful experience.

“Please stop screaming,” it — he? — says in surprisingly unaccented English, sounding flustered and perhaps a bit long-suffering. “I am not going to do anything to you!”

Blinking furiously in hopes of clearing the surprise that briefly overtook his mind, Laurence is not fully aware of moving until he has already made a few steps towards the dragon. Squaring his shoulders, he waves the few remaining congregants away with a hurried see you next Sunday God be with you.

It’s only mildly successful.

While most are glad to take the easy way out of leaving Laurence to deal with this particular trouble alone, the dismissal is lost entirely on Ronald Norton.

Fear incites two reactions in man: fight or flight. Dragons tend to awaken the latter; their size speaks to the animal part of human brains that still worries about being eaten whole. Ronald Norton, though, has never backed up from a fight in his life, and fear in him usually translates to outraged anger that he inflicts on anything he considers responsible for the feeling to begin with. He’s been known to yell at thunder for spooking him. It’s no surprise that he decided to give the twenty tons beast of flying death a piece of his mind.

“What kind of behavior is that, crashing into town and frightening good people? Have you no shame? Why, I ought to—”

“I did not mean to frighten you,” the dragon replies, affronted. “It’s hardly my fault you are so small. Besides, I don’t see what you could do—”

Laurence steps in before Mr. Norton can work himself into a full lecture. He doesn’t get the time to speak up before the dragon does.

The beast swivels his head towards Laurence, and an eye half the size of a grown man swallows his field of vision. The slit pupil widens until it becomes a smooth black mirror.

“Oh, are you a priest?” The dragon’s voice rumbles out of him, surprisingly light for a beast his size although still deep and loud enough that it rattles the bones in Laurence’s body from so close.

Laurence throws Mr. Norton a look that is as much confusion as it is a silent injunction to depart. For a moment the man looks like he’ll argue back, but Laurence glances quickly towards the heavens with an aborted movement of his hand, mouthing God be with you as is his habit after mass. Mr. Norton crosses himself mechanically in his usual reply to that farewell before catching onto the trick. Huffing, he nods to Laurence and walks away.

Before he can linger on the wisdom of asking to be left alone with a strange, lone French dragon, Laurence catches a movement in the corner of his eyes. It’s the tip of the dragon’s tail, twitching in impatience slightly above the ground. The gesture is minute in comparison to the beast’s mass, meaning it still could easily sweep a man off his feet.

Yet the dragon remains perfectly still and quiet — for now.

Not that it matters in any way. It’s simple curiosity, to distract himself from the even stranger situation at hand.

“I am Father Laurence,” he confirms. It took him years to get used to being called father, especially by people older than he is, and saying it to a dragon does not make it any less strange.

“I didn’t present myself, I’m sorry, that is terribly rude. I am Lung Tien Xiang.”

Laurence quirks a smile at the unexpected politeness. Do all dragons speak with such learned fastidiousness? Laurence has only ever interacted with couriers, and then only briefly; he wonders if this dragon’s behavior is due to him being a different breed, or to the French way of doing things.

He does note that the name sounds distinctly foreign — Chinese, he assumes. It might explain his demeanor. They do things differently there. How Lung Tien Xiang came to the French corps, though, remains a mystery.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Laurence considers repeating the name, but he’s sure he would butcher it. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, see, my companion mentioned the Bible, and since I had never read it I asked him to read it to me. I had a few questions that he thought would be better answered by a scholar of the text — on the matter of souls, you see, and whether dragons have one…”

“Allow me a moment to collect my Bible,” Laurence says dimly, and goes.

The discussion with Lung Tien Xiang goes… as well as could be expected, really.

The dragon is clearly an intellectual — which Laurence did not know was possible — and too good company for Laurence to begrudge him his greater intelligence, not that he’s ever been prone to jealousy in that regard.

And it is a greater intelligence: Laurence is no ignoramus himself, but finds himself stumped by so many of Lung Tien Xiang’s questions he doubts he could reliably follow a discussion with the dragon had he taken the time to study the Old and New Testaments at length before coming to Laurence. His answers are more often than not educated guesses, unless they concern the text itself rather than the subtext or context. Then Laurence can simply read through a passage again — his only advantage on Lung Tien Xiang is his possession of opposable thumbs.

That berth of knowledge means he has no hope of giving clear and straightforward answers to the dragon’s theological conundrums. Laurence has never been a scholar of the scriptures, only a student, and he finds that his understanding of the Bible cannot compare to Lung Tien Xiang’s boundless curiosity on it. What are souls? Why are all creatures not made equal in their possession of one? If God made dragons — which Lung Tien Xiang only grows more sceptical about as time goes by, to Laurence’s horror — why not give them an immortal soul?

He seems fascinated by his own position in God’s design, and in government and law besides; Lung Tien Xiang’s desire to be involved in all manners of debate and decision-making rivals Lord Allendale’s own, Laurence notes with mild amusement. It makes sense that a dragon would be interested in knowing what God’s plan entails for his kind. They are not expected to partake in Communion, Lung Tien Xiang argues, but their ability for speech ought to at least allow them to be present at mass, and perhaps even baptized.

It seems heretical to Laurence, but trying to explain why distracts him so thoroughly that the sound of the church bells makes him jump nearly out of his skin.

“Is it two already?” He muses, counting the rings.

A glance above reveals the sun has traveled well past its zenith already. Laurence was so engrossed in their discussion that he did not notice the light moving from one end of the plaza to the other.

Despite Lung Tien Xiang doing most of the talking past a certain point of fact-checking with Laurence’s Bible, the company was surprisingly enjoyable and Laurence is sincerely sorry to have to excuse himself. Lung Tien Xiang seems to deflate, his ruff drooping dramatically around his sharp face.

“Oh, but I had so many more questions!”

Habit speaks before Laurence’s conscious mind. “I am always if you require guidance.”

A priest’s words, repeated countless times to countless people. Never have they been met with as much enthusiasm as by Lung Tien Xiang. The dragon thanks him profusely before departing, shooting straight up in the sky.

Left to his own device, Laurence wonders what he got himself into.

All things considered, it’s unlikely they’ll talk again. Dragons cannot possibly have that much free time in war, after all.

Days pass and Laurence has already written that strange day as a fluke when Lung Tien Xiang comes back. The feeling in Laurence’s chest might be mistaken for relief, but he swears it is nothing but joy at finding a dragon so eager to follow the word of God; although Lung Tien Xiang probably has never been accused of faithfully following anybody’s word before, argumentative as he is.

(There is something, Laurence thinks in the privacy of his mind, about being so wholeheartedly chosen by something so uniquely strange as a scholar dragon— something so unlike this life he has found himself living. The work of faith is one of routine and relentless upkeep of one’s moral mind, in prayers and actions, and it is so rarely disturbed…)

“I have been so busy,” the dragon bemoans as he tucks his limbs under himself like a cat at the hearth. “I came as soon as my companion said he could spare me for the day. Oh, Father Laurence, I have thought of so many more questions since last time—”

So he has. He’s even found the time to read the Ecclesiastical Conferences which Laurence had off-handedly mentioned as a possible avenue of research. Or rather he found the time to have it read to him, as he tells Laurence.

“I never would have expected a dragon to have a taste for theology,” Laurence admits. In truth he would never have expected a dragon to have a taste for anything besides meat and gold, let alone academics, but he would rather not tell such a thing to Lung Tien Xiang, who delights so in the work of a scholar; clearly his earlier presumption has been well and truly proven wrong.

“All knowledge is worth having,” Lung Tien Xiang replies philosophically. “And I do find it fascinating, although mathematics remains my favorite.”

It’s not a taste Laurence can claim to share.

“It is good, then, that your… companion has time aplenty to read to your heart’s content.”

“Oh, yes, isn’t it! Napoleon is dreadfully busy, but does not sleep much at all, and he will often spend the night reading to me—”

Laurence freezes, and stares, and thinks—

Of course. It couldn’t be that easy, could it.

He goes through the rest of the discussion in a kind of dismayed confusion, which Lung Tien Xiang either doesn’t notice or mercilessly does not comment on.

Laurence has heard about Lung Tien Xiang’s so-called companion before, of course. The mysterious man seems to pop up every other sentence; my companion said this or it was read to me by my companion. The dragon spoke of him in a manner that suggested a relationship of equals rather than of captain and dragon; a quirk that Laurence attributed to his Chinese origin or perhaps his French upbringing.

If he did wonder what kind of man could inspire such passionate loyalty from a beast as formidable as the Celestial discussing theology with Laurence — having never talked at length with another dragon, he thought of Lung Tien Xiang as unique in that regard — their bond seemed as deep and as affectionate as any English pair Laurence had heard of, and he did not question it further.

Figures it should be the Emperor of France himself. The man does seem to inspire near-fanatical devotion in those that follow him. And there were mentions of Bonaparte riding into battle on the back of a black dragon…

It simply, perhaps foolishly, did not occur to Laurence to draw that connection himself.

Who would? No one expects the Emperor’s dragon to come here, without so much as a single man to guard him, to talk to an unremarkable Anglican priest. Half of what Laurence has heard of the front was gossip exaggerated hopelessly past credibility, but there must have been some basis to the rumors of Lung Tien Xiang’s abilities. Surely if any of what he heard about the dragon was true — bringing down entire companies in a single shout, all but single-handedly assuring the French victory — he would not be allowed to go alone in enemy territory.

Even if a twenty tons dragon hardly needs any defending from English merchants and fishermen, it stands to reason that Bonaparte would not want to be parted from him.

Is the Emperor near, then? Perhaps even in this very town? It sounds ludicrous — yet no more than him letting his dragon fly the distance between London and Dover and back again on his own, unharnessed and unprotected. Bonaparte cannot be that overconfident.

It leaves Laurence uneasy, thinking of what Lung Tien Xiang’s presence here means. That Bonaparte is near, or the equally unenviable possibility that he is not and that Laurence is committing treason by his mere presence. He serves England; should he not insure her victory over the French by alerting someone of the dragon’s presence so that they can capture him and rob the French of their greatest asset?

Yet Laurence finds that he cannot — will not — betray Lung Tien Xiang’s confidence in that way. He does resolve to ask the dragon not to come again, if he did so intend. He did all he could, and does not wish to see his loyalties so torn again.

He’s sure it will be no trouble. How many theological questions can one dragon have?

Many, it turns out, and at Lung Tien Xiang’s eager farewell and until next time Laurence feels his resolve crumbling. He watches the dragon fly away with an odd sense that he is stepping onto a dark path with his eyes wide open.

Lung Tien Xiang does not come back in the following days, which is not to say Dover does not get any strange visitors that week.

Most notable is a single French soldier, whose uniform Laurence notices at the back of his congregation. The soldier must have snuck in after everyone else: Laurence did not see him enter through the doors.

He keeps to the shadows between the door and the stoup in a clear effort to go unnoticed, and it seems to be working. Laurence spots only a handful of people casting worried glances down the nave, and those few do not dare disturb mass to bring more attention to the stranger. Mrs. Fisher’s rosary goes forgotten as she glares at the Frenchman, and it takes it nearly slipping between her fingers for her attention to snap back to Laurence’s sermont.

Although he watches the Eucharist with a hawk’s attention, the soldier does not dare to join the line that forms between the pews all the way to the apse, and leaves before mass is over. Laurence is too busy offering each the sacramental bread and wine to see him slip out the door. He thinks nothing of it.

Out of all the French soldiers that crossed the channel, it makes sense that a few would be devout Christians. If they are willing to quietly and respectfully sit through an Anglican sermon he sees no reason to chase them out of his church. Wherefore receive ye one another, as Christ also received us to the glory of God, as the scripture says.

He appreciates the lack of a fuss; obviously, it does not last.

Laurence sees neither hide nor tail of Lung Tien Xiang for a fortnight, at which point he almost believes this strange interval of his life has ended already. He gladly accepts this return to normal. He has duties to attend to that simply cannot be put off by drawn out debates with a dragon; and if a part of him regrets the loss of that company, well.

No one is going to ask him about it, so it might as well not matter.

Then, just as he’s getting used to his briefly-interrupted routine again, Lung Tien Xiang literally lands back into his life. His arrival kicks up much more than a cloud of dust. The people of Dover have long grown used to the coming and going of huge winged beasts; the figure atop this particular dragon is novel, and terrible, and as such a perfect reason to gawk as Lung Tien Xiang settles aground, folding his giant wings against his sides.

Napoleon Bonaparte — for it can be no one else — is instantly recognizable, for all that he barely resembles what the caricatures made him out to be. He stood on Lung Tien Xiang’s back as soon as the dragon had four limbs on the ground, as sure as if he were on stable ground, and the wind kicked up by Lung Tien Xiang’s wings whips his coat around himself but doesn’t make him so much as stumble as he steps down his dragon’s foreleg to the ground.

With dawning horror, Laurence finds him immediately familiar: he is the same soldier that observed mass with them those two weeks ago. Now that Bonaparte is out in the open he wonders how he could ever mistake him for anyone else. There is something unmistakably distinctive about the Emperor even when he wears a mere aviator’s uniform, something which only becomes clearer as he comes closer.

It’s the eyes, Laurence thinks dimly, and perhaps some of the regal bearing; the piercing, hawkish gaze, the way it settles on you and doesn’t let go. It holds a sense of indescribable humor, as if Bonaparte is perpetually one step ahead of you and not only aware of but deeply amused by the fact that he knows more than you do.

His heels click on the pavement, overly loud in the hush that has fallen at his arrival. Laurence stands frozen in place, the sedate, confident pace of that sound like the incessant ticking of a clock towards his doom.

Bonaparte’s eyes never leave his face; he has no choice but to hold his gaze as the man approaches and then slows to a stop, so very near Laurence.

“Father Laurence, I presume?” Bonaparte asks, pleasantly enough, gesturing loosely in a way surely meant to encompass the cassock and surplice that mark Laurence as a priest, unless he sees some other invisible sign of Laurence’s office.

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir; you know my name, yet I do not believe we were ever introduced.” Formally, that is.

Laurence doesn’t know where the words came from. Certainly they got away from him: the sentence seems unbearably rude now that it has left the confines of his mind. Bonaparte only smiles, the slightest quirk of his lips. A fox in a chicken coop.

“That is my companion, Napoleon!” Lung Tien Xiang says excitedly, lowering his great head so that his eye is level with them. “I have mentioned him before, have I not, Father? Napoleon was so curious about our discussions that I couldn’t help to bring him along to meet you…”

The ever so slightly anxious edge to the dragon’s words distract Laurence from his uncomfortable stare-off with the Emperor. He glances up, a half-sincere dismissal of his concern already on his lips, but Bonaparte beats him to the punch and he has no choice but to bring his attention back to the man.

“What Lung Tien Xiang has told me about these discussions seemed fascinating. One cannot blame a man for his curiosity.”

One can blame this particular man for a great many things, none of which Laurence feels like voicing now, when he is not altogether sure he hasn’t committed some kind of capital offense by monopolizing the Emperor’s dragon’s attention, however accidental it was.

“I assure you, these talks were purely of a theological nature,” he says carefully, as openly outraged as politeness will allow. He did not like Bonaparte’s suspicious tone in the least. As if he would try to seduce Lung Tien Xiang to England’s side!

(Most likely he ought to have tried, at the least. To tell the truth it never occurred to him. It stood to reason that he would try to correct Lung Tien Xiang’s understanding of some scripture, or convince him of the morality of an argument over the other; but no more than he would another priest in a similar context, surely.)

Bonaparte waves a lazy hand his way, dismissive. “I have no doubt about it. It is curiosity alone that brings me here, nothing less and nothing more.”

“I would not have expected Your Majesty to have time to spare for a country priest such as myself.”

Surely the war could not have been won so easily, sosoon; surely the King is still fighting.

“And yet, here I am.” Eyes meaningfully darting around the small crowd gathering around them, Bonaparte adds, “Shall we?” as if his presence has been discussed and agreed on previously, and allows him the liberty to pull the discussion whichever way he so chooses, and to carry it on somewhere else.

Yet Laurence is not going to argue with the Emperor of France himself, let alone in front of such an audience; and so, with one last look to his puzzled parish, he says, “Let’s.”

Laurence leads their strange trio to the small cloister garden of the Dover church. It is secluded enough to offer some privacy from prying eyes while still open enough for Lung Tien Xiang to settle comfortably, as long as he is willing to have his body and his head on two sides of a wall with his neck crammed through the door — which he is.

Bonaparte follows him with a quiet, watchful curiosity towards his surroundings, hands clasped behind his back. Part of Laurence thinks of how easy it would be to get rid of the tyrant here and now; even without any sort of weapon, even with Lung Tien Xiang so closely watching, the man is too proud to expect an attack from a humble priest and Laurence could—

He puts a stop to that line of thinking before it gets away from him. It is a very small part of himself that holds on to the fantasy; not so small that he doesn’t feel queasy, though, at how easily his mind could invoke a justification for such unprompted violence.

Unsure of whether to sit or stand, Laurence waits for Bonaparte to choose, but the man is apparently distracted by his examination of the small herbs garden the matriarch of the Smith family grows there with Laurence’s slightly bemused blessing.

“Lung Tien Xiang tells me you have been quite agreeable in discussing all manners of theological minutiae with him.”

“I have, yes. He has been a most welcome company in these dark times.”

Bonaparte faces him then, nothing of him moving but his head and his sharp gaze that settles on Laurence — a gaze that refuses to let go of him, dizzying by its full attention.

People pray at Laurence, not to him; rarely does he feel quite so… watched.

“Dark times, truly?”

The slight edge of mockery in Bonaparte’s voice has Laurence on edge, although he thrives to hide it.

“The glaive of war is always wicked, no matter the hand that wields it or the enemy it is wielded against.” In Lung Tien Xiang’s curious, hopeful presence, he dares not comment on the nature of Bonaparte’s enemies to the man’s face.

“What verset of the Bible is that?”

“Only my own thoughts, I’m afraid.”

The man’s attention sharpens at that, whole body turning slightly to face Laurence as he sheds his act of distracted curiosity. “Indeed, the scriptures could hardly make claims to pacifism in the face of the Lord’s belligerent crusade against non-believers,” he says, his mockery dulled by his overly agreeable tone. “Go on, then; your thoughts are exactly what Lung Tien Xiang has come here for, and I am curious to hear more of it.”

It is a tremendously awkward affair, that discussion. Laurence cannot help to meet all of Lung Tien Xiang’s eager questions with caution rather than the hesitant candour the dragon has managed to shock out of him many times before. Any time he finds himself drawn by some argument, say on the nature of the Holy Spirit, his enthused response is caught halfway up his throat by the net of Bonaparte’s single-minded focus, leaving him reeling and mute except for what vague reply he can dredge up from the wreckage of his own abruptly-derailed thoughts, answers that aren’t answers at all.

The Emperor doesn’t speak up, doesn’t share whatever thought Laurence can see circling behind his dark eyes. It might be better if the man did speak his mind. Quiet, he gives an air of calculating judgment Laurence finds wholly insufferable.

Spurred by frustration after half an hour of pointless, non-committal dithering, Laurence finds himself asking, “What about you, Your Majesty? What are your thoughts on the matter?”

He regrets it immediately. Surely whatever Bonaparte has to say will be worse than all that he is pointedly not saying. Is it treason, Laurence wonders, to even entertain the thought of conversing with the Emperor of France? Surely his civic duty would be to put an end to the man’s conquest by any means necessary.

The man only tilts his head, a great bird of prey, considering.

“I cannot say I have ever studied the scriptures at length. As Lung Tien Xiang can attest: my answers to his questions have been nothing short of heretical. It’s what brought him to your door, you see; although I did send a letter to the pope, the reply to which might have shed some light on his questioning had there been one.”

After that, Lung Tien Xiang is so busy defending his appetite for knowledge, and Laurence so busy gasping in apoplectic rage at the thought of this man drafting a letter to the Pope, that the conversation does not get any more opportunities to stall.

Life goes on, as it is wont to do; in fits and starts, relentlessly, while Laurence watches it go, helpless to control it.

There is a treaty, he hears. He doesn’t know who signs it, or what it precisely entails; only that England has, finally, bent the knee to the French Empire, which is more than enough.

Laurence takes the announcement as he would the death of a distant, beloved relative: with grim determination to go on despite the dark pit that opens in his stomach. There was nothing to be done about it. It is all as God wills it. Laurence’s loyalty is not to King and country but to the Lord above and his faithful down on Earth first and foremost.

This mantra has taken on the desperate plea of a prayer after so much repetition, and is no more convincing now than it was a thousand times previous. It’s all he has, though, that and the worried looks on his people’s face as they turn to him for guidance. It has to be enough.

Laurence has never been a particularly passionate speaker, but his sermon is particularly subdued that Sunday. He speaks of hope and defiance in the face of adversity; he speaks of God testing their faith, of Him being the only Lord they truly serve, beyond mortal men; he thinks he draws a somewhat ill-advised parallel with David and Goliath at one point. It’s hard to tell: so much of it passes him by in a blur. He spends the rest of the day alternating between standing stock still at the altar and pacing through the pews, listless, unable to focus on the menial tasks of upkeep when the world outside has fallen, when the war has been lost.

He is at the altar again when the church's open door opens, letting in a ray of winterish sunlight. The candle flames gutter and threaten to go out in a gust of cold wind. When it closes — loudly and with no care given to the devout atmosphere inside — Laurence does not need to turn around to know the identity of the one who has just stepped into the sanctuary. He ignores the footsteps that ring on the cold stones and keeps to his task of painstakingly lighting candles for tonight's vigil.

The steps slow to a stop near the altar — though he notes the newcomer is not brave or foolish enough to climb the steps.

"I must have missed the procession on my way in," Emperor Bonaparte notes wryly, "For I do not remember a funeral service being held here today, yet I cannot imagine a regular Sunday mass taking place in such a sorrowful atmosphere."

Laurence resists the urge to retort that the Emperor would not know sorrowful if it punched him in the face. It would be unchristian, and would satisfy the man all too much besides.

"Grief is seldom as simple as the mere reaction to a personal loss, Your Majesty," he notes instead. Knowing his fussing over the cierges is nothing but avoidance, and will be seen as such by the other man, Laurence turns to face him. He makes an effort to school his face into a mask of neutrality befitting his station. The smug glint in Napoleon's eyes as he finally gives the man his undivided attention nearly makes him regret it. If there is a way to win with him, Laurence has yet to find it; he always finds himself playing right into the man's hand.

Tilting his head to the side like a hunting bird, Napoleon offers the priest a thin, carefully-neutral smile. "Do you grieve, Father?"

For England? Yes. But Laurence is a man accustomed to grief. If Napoleon sought to get a rise out of him with this, he will be sorely disappointed.

"Do you not?"

Napoleon's eyes drift from Laurence to glide over the painted saints at his back. Far from fleeing eye contact, it feels like a deliberate reprieve, and it infuriates him more than if the Emperor had kept staring at him with his hawklike attention. "Grief is a longing for the past, for things lost that cannot be found again. I am not so easily defeated that I find a lot to long for."

That, Laurence notes, is not a no.

“What is it that you mourn, I wonder? England is still there, however subjugated; besides, are you not a servant of the Lord, beholden to no other kingdom but His own?”

Laurence does not offer a response for a long moment. He flattens the fabric covering the altar with both hands and looks down at the faded pattern, refusing — unable — to hold Bonaparte’s gaze, if the man were to turn and look at him again.

He does not like how much of him the Emperor sees.

“Whatever you came seeking here, Your Majesty, I am afraid you will not find it.”

“Not even GOd’s guidance, in His very own house?”

“You did not come here looking for God.”

“You seem wiser to my designs than even I am. Pray enlighten me: what did I come here looking for?”

“I cannot hope to tell. I only know that men like you always want something; often what they cannot have, and ought not to covet.”

“There are very few men like me,” Bonaparte says in a tone that suggests he does not believe any other such man exists.

It is that smugness that slips like a knife through the cracks in Laurence’s composure, prying him open until a note of bitterness slips through and out into his voice. “There are altogether too many, all more selfish than the last.”

Bonaparte latches onto that small falter of Laurence’s hard-won serenity with vicious hunger. Laurence can hear the twist of his smile in his next words, in the whisper of his gloved hands over the altar, so very near.

“You do not strike me as a man well versed in selfishness. Perhaps you ought to try it; you might find it easier to understand my presence then. Tell me then, Father, what do you see in the cold, lonely house of God?”

The silence lasts and lasts, as long and empty as Heaven, until Laurence hears a soft sigh followed by the heels of Bonaparte’s aviator boots clicking down the nave. He does not watch the Emperor leave. He listens to it, though, and the heavy thud of the door closing out the world once more shudders all the way down to his heart.

Laurence lifts his eyes to the altar cross, the Christ’s carved eyes gazing down on the empty church in sweetly forgiving torture. Dead eyes set in the dead face of a dead icon, a statue of bronze that has only ever watched as Laurence struggled in the heavy silence of His church. His fingers tangle in prayer almost without him noticing, grasping the beads of his rosary like a lifeline.

If the Lord hears his plea, no sign of it comes down from above; only the same eternal silence. A peaceful quiet; a quiet like Heaven, like the tomb.

Laurence closes his eyes in prayer and does not allow himself to doubt.

#writing #temeraire #william laurence #napoleon bonaparte #priest au

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music-of-dragons · 3 years ago

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ACOK Dany II

● Summary ○ My Thoughts

● Daenerys and her Khalasar arrive in Qarth to a grand welcome. There are three thick walls that encircle the city; the first is a 30 ft red sandstone wall with depictions of animals, land and sea, snakes, wolves of the Red Waste. The second is a 40 ft grey granite wall with depictions of war, sword and shield, babes being butchered, pyres for the dead. The third and innermost wall is a 50 ft black marble with depictions of pleasure and love that make Dany blush. The city itself is fantastically colored with tall towers, elaborate carved fountains, gemstones everywhere. The Qartheen themselves are tall and pale, each extravagantly dressed as a lord or lady in silk and beads. ~How savage we must seem to these Qartheen.~

○ I think that the three walls of Qarth are symbolism for Dany’s journey similar to her three awakening in AGOT. The first wall depicts animals of the world, symbolizing the travels of Dany throughout the books and her time on the Dothraki Sea and Red Waste. The second wall depicting war is Dany’s life after Qarth, fighting righteous wars to end slavery and later against The Others, hardship, loss. The third wall with depictions of men and women in pleasure and lust is what I think Dany will eventually find with her third husband; peace, love, pleasure, and happiness. Dany knows how worn and drab her and her people must look to the Qartheen, but she thinks to herself, ~how savage WE must seem~. Dany does not separate herself from her people, they are one Khalasar.

● Pyat Pree and Xaro Xhoan Daxos set right to showering Dany with flattery. Xaro offers to buy her anything she sees in the market while Pyat tells her that Qarth itself is hers. Dany quickly rebutts that she only desires the red castle at King’s Landing or swords and ships to take her there. Pyat reassures her that she will have what she desires and that she should come to the House of the Undying while Xaro claims that a warlock’s house is built on bones and lies. ~”Then why do men lower their voices when they speak of the warlocks of Qarth? All across the East their power and wisdom are revered.” Xaro says they were once great, but no longer. He gives her an entire wing of his castle to stay in while he explains that on the morrow all of Qarth will come to pay her homage. ~All the great of Qarth will come to see my dragons, Dany thought.~ Quaithe only tells Dany to beware of all because her dragons are power, which people lust for.

○ Daenerys does not let the flattery of Pyat and Xaro get the best of her, she keeps her mind on her goal and does not let them distract her. I think Dany was quite clever to bring up how the warlocks of Qarth are spoken of to Xaro, she’s calling him out on the “mine is bigger than yours” squabble that him and Pyat are playing to impress not her, but the “Mother of Dragons”. Dany realizes that it is not her that Qarth is interested in, just her dragons. I fully believe that Viserys would have fallen for their flattery had he lived, but just like Dany was suspicious of Illyrio, she remains suspicious of the Qartheen and their superfluous generosity.

● Once left alone in the castle, Dany immediately sets to work. She tells her bloodriders that they will keep their own watch while in Qarth, no one enters her wing without her leave, then commands them to take men and women to the parts of Qarth left unseen. She commands Jorah to go to the docks for tidings from Westeros since he has more languages than the Dothraki and they don’t trust sailors. Once the men had gone, she entered the cool pool to bathe and reflect on her next steps. ~The Dothraki sacked cities and plundered kingdoms, they did not rule them. Dany had no wish to reduce King’s Landing to a blackened ruin full of unquiet ghosts. She had supped enough on tears. I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. I want my people to smile when they see me ride by, the way Viserys said they smiled for my father. But before she could do that she must conquer.~

○ Daenerys is wary of the Qartheen because she is familiar with this falseness. She remembers Mirri Maz Duur and her treachery, she remembers mistrusting Illyrio. She efficiently sends out scouts to find the secrets of Qarth that Pyat and Xaro did not want her to see and recognizes that Jorah is the best man to send to the docks because of his experience. I love the quote of Dany thinking about conquering Westeros, she does not want to destroy what she believes will become her home (what destiny is pushing her towards) because she knows firsthand what it is like to suffer and does not want others to suffer as she had, however, in order to rule she must conquer. The duality of wanting peace and needing to conquer is very much a theme in ADWD that makes its first appearance here.

● ~Viserys had believed that that the realm would rise for its rightful king… but Viserys had been a fool, and fools believe in foolish things.~ Once she leaves the pool she reflects on her purpose in Qarth. ~The Bleeding Star led me to Qarth for a purpose. Here I will find what I need, if I have the strength to take what is offered, and the wisdom to avoid the traps and snares. If the gods mean for me to conquer, they will provide, they will send me a sign, and if not… if not...~

○ Daenerys knows that the smallfolk of Westeros do not care who sits on the Throne so long as they are left in peace, Jorah taught her that. She will not allow herself to go down the path of Viserys and thinks of him as an example to not follow. Daeners does not feel entitled to conquer Westeros immediately, she feels she must earn it through hard work and intelligence. She must grow strong and learn more before she will allow herself to go home, however much she longs for it.

● Ser Jorah returns with the captain of the Cinnamon Wind who bears great news for her. He tells her King Robert is dead and his young son sits the Iron Throne while his brothers and “allies” fight amongst themselves. Daenerys is pleased with the news since she had lived in the shadow of the usurper and everything he took from her for so long. She tells him that he has brought her a precious gift to which he replies he has been amply repaid by seeing the dragons. She promises him great reward when she comes into her father’s throne and sends him on his way with well wishes. Jorah counsels that she should not reveal her plans but Dany does not care if it is spread. ~”Before the Seven Kingdoms were like my Drogo’s Khalasar, a hundred thousand made as one by his strength. Now they fly to pieces, even as the Khalasar did after my Khal lay dead.”~ She knows that she still needs to build strength, alliances, and armies, but Robert’s death will still work to her advantage. Jorah tells her that even dragons can die, to which she replies, “Dragons die. But so do dragonslayers.”

○ Daenerys understands that the death of Robert Baratheon will splinter the Seven Kingdoms and that unity is stronger than division. Now that he is dead, she doesn't care if news of her plans to conquest Westeros are spread around because she is far from the only one vying for the Throne. She is now able to gather allies in all the mess that is Westeros through the tales of her plans and soon enough people begin to root for the Dragon Queen and drink toasts to her health (although she personally doesn’t let herself believe it lest she end up like Viserys) in Westeros by AFFC.

Art by Richard Hescox!

#danymonth2021 #daenerys targaryen #a song of ice and fire #dany #asoiaf #book!daenerys #book!dany #my meta #arereadofdaenerys #acok #a clash of kings

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amaya-writes · 3 years ago

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Myriads of memories. A PJO one-shot of how Sally and Poseidon met.

A/N: I’ve decided to post my one-shots, etc. on here as well. This is actually my first one-shot, which I wrote when I was 12, so it might not be very good but I’m still proud of it.

It had been a long, tiring week at work, the customers had been rowdier than usual, and all Sally wanted to do was get away to her beach cabin in Montauk. Her life had been going down the rabbit hole for quite some time, and all she needed was a little time to get herself together. She rushed off to the local supermarket to retrieve supplies for her week off and then drove off to the cabin.

After thoroughly cleaning the cabin and putting away the food, she made her way to the beach, packing a book, towel, and sunglasses in her handbag. She put on her bathing suit and made her way down the peninsula shaped beach, making sure not to go too far away from her cabin. Sally was an ordinary human in every aspect of the word, except for her wild imagination.

Ever since she was little, Sally would always dream up these weird creatures, things like three-headed baby dragons, lizards with human features, stuff like that. She even spoke to a shrink about it, but they said it seemed not to affect her in any harmful way and might be an overactive imagination.

No, you are not going to think about any of that, this week is going to be nothing short of a peaceful, serene vacation away from everything.

With that thought, she proceeded to read her book and sip her water in peace, occasionally looking up to the sea and smiling. After a bit she could feel her eyes drooping, not wanting to get a terrible sunburn by sleeping out on the beach Sally decided to head back.

See that wasn't so hard, it's just the strain that caused you to think you saw a boy fight dragon of sorts'

No sooner had she thought that she passed by a (very handsome) man, his wavy brunette curls fell to his remarkably deep green eyes, oh those eyes, she could stare into them all day. Her eyes scanned over his partly unbuttoned shirt and khaki shorts, admiring the way he looked as she walked towards him.

He was holding something in his hand, as she got closer, she couldn't believe what she saw and was positive her previous thoughts had jinxed her, for the man was holding a trident.

No Sally, stop it!

She groaned and walked on, not noticing the man's curious stare or the things he muttered under his breath as he sighed and walked into the ocean.

*~*~*

A scream pierced through the cabin as the woman thrashed around, ripping the sheets as she tried to escape the horrors her dream portrayed, she let out a final screech before falling off her bed and successfully awakening.

She shivered on the hardwood floor, reminiscing her nightmare's events. It had been the same thing ever since she saw that man on the beach side. It started off in a dark and empty room with voices resonating around her, throwing insults that would make a sailor baffled.

The room would then light up, blinding her each time as a dark and generally evil man stood by a man surrounded by lighting, torturing her and a boy who she had come to realize was her son.

They would stop and mutter in a language fairly similar to Latin and start the torture once again, causing her to awaken. Sometimes a wave of water would wash them away and bring her back to the beach, but that had only happened once. Sally muttered profanities and headed out of her little cabin, heading to the beach.

You could call it a gut feeling or destiny, but something pulled her towards where she last saw the man with the trident.

This is stupid, I should go back in, who's to say he'll even be there?! oh..

She noticed an outline of a figure holding a trident while gazing at the sea.

"It's beautiful isn't it?"

He questioned her as she came into hearing distance.

"Um yes, sorry to intrude."

Sally smiled shyly, still unsure whether she should question his little...instrument, she decided against doing so and instead stared at the peculiar object.

“Oh of course not-"the man trailed off and followed her line of sight before letting out a chuckle, "-how curious, you can see through the mist! Is that why you rushed past me the other day?"

"Why would you carry such a thing around? Are you one of those Greek god fanatics?"

This evoked a hearty chuckle as the man dug his trident into the sand, facing her and sighing.

They spent the next few hours sitting in the sand and discussing the apparently real Greek gods, occasionally laughing and bickering over little details. Poseidon summoned a bunch of sea creatures and manipulated the water to convince her of his godship, causing her to stare and coo at the water-works.

As dusk faded to dawn the both parted ways, promises of meeting the next day being exchanged. And feelings (unbeknownst to them) being developed and reciprocated. If you would have told Sally she'd spend the entire week romantically with the Greek sea god, she would have scoffed and sent you off to a shrink. But currently the past week was all she could think of as she packed up her little cabin, walking down the beach to visit him once again before her leave.

She approached his surprising disheveled form and set down her bags, watching as the waves grew higher than trees before collapsing.

"What happened?"

She questioned him as she knelt down in the sand, pulling him to face her. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and clutching onto her hand for dear life.

"You are with child; do not question how I know this. My brothers, if they find out they'll be furious and possibly attempt and harm you. We must never meet again until our son is grown, you have to hide away and promise not to come back here or reach out to me until his birth, I will contact you when it is safe."

Sally's face flashed through an array of emotions before settling on sad, she had lost enough people in her life, she didn't want to lose her lover and son as well. She gripped onto his other had and bowed her head, contemplating on informing him about her repetitive nightmares and how they'd gotten worse since they interacted.

"Your brothers, I- I've had nightmares about them, they torture our son different way in each of them, I thought nothing of it at first but, but now I can't risk his life for...this."

Poseidon looked at her in shock, having expected at least a little fight over 'how selfish he was to put her through this' yet here was the woman he loved, kneeling beside him and ready to sacrifice everything for their unborn child's safety.

As he stared at her, the sea god came to realise he truly had fallen in love with Sally Jackson, and, leaving her would be harder than witnessing the Trojan War. He had never felt the loss of a loved one, after all gods lived forever and loved no one except themselves, yet here he was, wishing to be a mortal and experience such mundane events just to be closer to her.

Sally felt a sudden weight around her neck and looked down to see a gorgeous necklace made of silver, its centerpiece being a blue seashell with a trident imprint.

"Hold onto it and think about me if you ever need me, I'm always here, my love," he hugged her closer and slowly dissolved away, watching as she sobbed into the sand, holding onto air and cursing the mere existence of the gods. Get up Sally, he's not coming back, he probably never will, get your shit together, you have a lot of explaining and planning to do young lady.

It had been a month since he left her on that wretched beach, but Sally couldn’t quite get over Poseidon.

The usually cheerful woman was down in the dumps, the daily morning sickness not making it better, she presumed the child would mature faster due to being part god, and she frankly couldn't wait to have her little Percy with her.

“What if he looks like his father?”

The question made her smile as she leaned against a wall.

“...then I'll love him as unconditionally as I did his father.”

A/N: I’ll come back and edit this at some point.

#percy jackson #sally jackson #poseidon #greek gods #how sally met poseidon #magic and mythology #percy jackon and the olympians

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

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Why in ADWD Jon dreams of killing Robb and ygritte? He also once beat one NW brother in rage when he remember the memory of Robb saying he won't get lord of WF as he is bastard. Do you think his guilt made him dream of these nightmares and future foreshadowing for kingslaying? Like ygritte represent his violent lover and Robb represent his kin. Or it means something else?

Hi anon!

I think in this dream and how it is echoed in other parts of the books, we see Jon’s inner struggle with his role as Lord Commander immediately before his biggest political act ever: inviting the enemy to cross over into safety.

And it is the enemy. And Jon is struggling. In the violence of the dream, and in how it contrasts with Dany, and in the decision they both make in its aftermath, we see their true selves revealed and get a glimpse of what this means for them as enemies eventually.

Jon’s nightmare opens ADWD Jon XII, right before he wakes up to The Big Day, the most massive breach of protocol by a Lord Commander in living memory. He’s letting thousands of wildlings past the Wall. The very thing he had fought a vicious battle to prevent, because he knew it comes with massive risks.

Lots of quotes ahead:

That night he dreamt of wildlings howling from the woods, advancing to the moan of warhorns and the roll of drums. Boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM came the sound, a thousand hearts with a single beat. Some had spears and some had bows and some had axes. Others rode on chariots made of bones, drawn by teams of dogs as big as ponies. Giants lumbered amongst them, forty feet tall, with mauls the size of oak trees.

The boom DOOM boom DOOM theme is present in the Red Wedding in Catelyn VII and with Theon in A Ghost in Winterfell, moments of intense transformation. Catelyn turns into a wrathful weirdwood image and murders and innocent in her failed attempt to sway Walder Frey to spare Robb. A dark promise kept, and then she dies in despair, only to rise again as Lady Stoneheart three days later. But that will not be the end of her story.

Theon has become Reek, and longs for the sweet deliverance of death in the face of Stannis’ siege. He “gave the girl away, he played his part”, he may have earned death as a reward now. But he is drawn to the godswood, where Bran’s voice calls his true name. And there he is found by Rowan, who insists on one last service. It it the act that will lead him back to himself. To Theon.

Jon's dream places him back in the battle at the Wall, holding it against Mance’s assault. But unlike then, he is alone, his battle is as lonely as it is intense.

“Stand fast,” Jon Snow called. “Throw them back.” He stood atop the Wall, alone. “Flame,” he cried, “feed them flame,” but there was no one to pay heed.

They are all gone. They have abandoned me.

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. “Snow,” an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard and a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared.

This part of the dream mirrors Dany’s nightmare before her own fateful decision to “free” the unsullied with dragonfire.

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper's rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. The other was a nightmare, and I have only now awakened. (ASOS, Daenerys III)

Waking the dragon, indeed. Unlike Jon, Dany’s experience of the dream is an experience of satisfaction and empowerment for her. Her enemies are slain by distance weapon, they have no faces, the melt away by the power of dragonfire. It appears these two may be facing off - the tongues of fire attacking the black ice.

Unlike Dany, Jon uses his sword, and he sees every face, names those he knows. He had considered killing Ygritte in battle, and he does it here, in battle between wildlings and Night’s Watch.

The world dissolved into a red mist. Jon stabbed and slashed and cut. He hacked down Donal Noye and gutted Deaf Dick Follard. Qhorin Halfhand stumbled to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood from his neck.

Same with these men, Qhorin in the Frost Fangs, the other two during the same attack that saw Ygritte die. But these are his brothers in arms now. The fight turns to them. A red mist. Then it is his true brother facing him.

“I am the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon screamed. It was Robb before him now, his hair wet with melting snow. Longclaw took his head off. Then a gnarled hand seized Jon roughly by the shoulder. He whirled …

Just like Jon couldn’t kill Ygritte in life and rejected Stannis’ offer, he is doing the opposite here, his darkest emotions bubbling up in a red wrath - but unlike Dany, it’s clear the experience is not euphoric. He is wrestling alone, with his enemies, his brothers, his entire self.

He has been trying to save lives, but it isolates him, he is battling alone, unable to trust anyone, sending his friends away, hacking away at his own soul by not being able to help Arya. Betraying everyone, the wildlings (Ygritte), the Night’s Watch (his black brothers), his family and the North (Robb), and it is chaotic and endless. A red mist, a carnage.

But he is interrupted.

… and woke with a raven pecking at his chest. “Snow,” the bird cried. Jon swatted at it. The raven shrieked its displeasure and flapped up to a bedpost to glare down balefully at him through the predawn gloom.

Snow, the magic word that made the decision for him the last time, does it again. Unlike Dany embracing the dragon, Jon has an exit route: Snow. His true self is not inside the dream. Just like Theon’s true self is not in serving the Boltons, just like the tree calls to Theon, the raven calls to Jon. Snow. During the hour of the wolf, for both. He wakes and the nightmare fades. His path is before him. It is not battle. It is far more complex. Dangerous but life-giving.

The hard decision he has come to make, the transformation, is very different from Dany’s decision. She makes a false trade and burns her enemies, has them slaughtered in the streets, including children age 12 and up. Jon is about to embrace his enemies because they have a common foe. Peace after war.

The day had come. It was the hour of the wolf. Soon enough the sun would rise, and four thousand wildlings would come pouring through the Wall. Madness. Jon Snow ran his burned hand through his hair and wondered once again what he was doing. Once the gate was opened there would be no turning back. It should have been the Old Bear to treat with Tormund. It should have been Jaremy Rykker or Qhorin Halfhand or Denys Mallister or some other seasoned man. It should have been my uncle. It was too late for such misgivings, though. Every choice had its risks, every choice its consequences. He would play the game to its conclusion.

This decision is massive and Jon is trembling before it. “Madness.” He is making a trade that is fragile but honest. With the people he had battled. His enemies. But the time for war between them is done. If Jon doesn’t want to see the world end in ice, if he wants to protect the North and all that he loves, he has to break with tradition - and have faith.

“All is in readiness,” Bowen Marsh assured him. “If the wildlings uphold the terms of the bargain, all will go as you’ve commanded.”

And if not, it may turn to blood and carnage. “Remember,” Jon said, “Tormund’s people are hungry, cold, and fearful. Some of them hate us as much as some of you hate them. We are dancing on rotten ice here, them and us. One crack, and we all drown. If blood should be shed today, it had best not be one of us who strikes the first blow, or I swear by the old gods and the new that I will have the head of the man who strikes it.”

Jon’s gamble will end up costing his life at the very hands of Bowen Marsh, but it remains the right decision. It will cost him, it will not make him more powerful in the short term. But it will pay off in the long term. It reveals who he is.

Dany emerged from betrayal transformed into a dragon. Jon’s transformation is still coming up. He will be a wolf for a while, but his path is not Dany’s path.

We see their true selves in this. For Jon, the battle is a nightmare he can wake from because he is not ice nor fire nor fully a wolf. He is Snow. His own person. Someone is calling his name. Like Bran calls Theon and helps him return to himself. Like Arya will call Catelyn by her true name: mother.

For Dany, the battle is her true self, and there will be no turning back. Who is calling Dany? Quaithe. Dragon dragon dragon.

When they face off, this will be crucial. It will be carnage. But one of them will emerge, and the other will not.

#asoiaf #jon snow #wildlings #anti daenerys targaryen #black ice #dragonfire #nightmares #foreshadowing #parallels

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arcaeda · 1 year ago

Text

caeda's eyes widen in surprise as she looks to ellie, the saintess collapsing to the ground as if in slow motion.

she barely feels fatigued at all, but the saintess—

the state of the oasis filled with what seems like miasmic water is completely ignored as caeda collapses onto her knees and tries to wake the woman up. "lady ellie—!" she looks up in surprise when altena picks ellie up.

and as soon as altena puts her back down, the villagers all stand protectively in front of ellie, surrounding the both of them at the same time. caeda frowns as she slowly stands up, her hand cautiously snaking to the lance on her back in case a fight interrupts. it should surely still be possible to get through to them with words first. "i promise you we did not mean to do anything to her." she tries slowly. "acting rashly could only harm the saintess, don't you think?"

altena next to her does not reach for her lance as caeda does, holding her hands out in front of her as if to display no intent to attack. "fools. did you not all just watch her help you? help ellie?" her frustration with the situation was rather palpable.

Altena may not be reaching for her weapon, but the villagers are, meager though they may be.

"Shut up, monster. We let you in by the saint's good graces. How could you…?"

monster, they call her. caeda has had enough. "i'm sorry but i can't just sit back and let you insult altena like this anymore." caeda's expression turns into a firm glare as she cuts in, anger just barely cutting into her tone. "why are you so insistent that she's a monster?"

and then they stare at her with wildeyes as if the answer was obvious. caeda glances back at altena and noticeably pauses in her actions, momentarily seeing the monster they claim her to be. "if you're with her, you must be one too!"

"this is riduclous." caeda outright scowls now as she looks back at the villagers. though she saw the appearance of monster, it did not change what kind of person altena was on the inside. she was surely not a threat to the village like they thought she was. "do you not feel guilty ostracizing those different from you?" she asks, remembering how ellie had wished to reunite dragon and human. "lady ellie would not have wished for this."

it barely seems to get through to them at all. "please come quietly. for lady ellie's sake." caeda's eyes narrow in suspicious. "and if we come quietly, then what?"

"… We shall see once the saintess awakens."

“so you ask us to follow you to an unknown fate? you can’t think that is an easy choice to accept for us.”

Ellie stirs, somewhat, on the ground. "Please… don't fight…"

"…" caeda goes silent, as she glances behind the villages where ellie begs for peace. the woman's voice stirs her heart and she brings her hands hand away from her lance. “alright i’ll follow you on the condition that you leave altena alone. the only one here who really could have potentially done anything to her would be me. i shared my energy with her after all.”

The villagers nod. Fine. And thus begins the procession back to the village…

[END]

exposure therapy

#long post #toasabbamvitatham2023 #svnabata2023 #{ ic. }#{ altena thread 01. }#{ goin through it }

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sweetestpopcorn · 3 years ago

Note

whats your opinion on aenys?

Hi there!

So so so (5 years later) sorry about this huge delay! 🙏 It hasn’t been 5 years since this ask but there has been too many months XD

My opinion on Aenys hum... 🤔 let me work my popcorn brain around this...

While he isn't one of my favourite kings or Targaryens there's definitely things about him I do like and think are quite interesting. I love that he was basically raised by Aegon who was like a single dad (very unusual) and I really like how close the two of them were. My heart honestly broke for baby Aenys when he lost his mama Rhaenys - who he was also very close to - so I was so glad the Conqueror stepped up and showed everyone why he was the OG daddy of House Targaryen 🤗 #haterscry

I also really like the relationship between Aenys and his lady and queen Alyssa. They are almost like the highschool sweethearts of Fire and Blood and I really enjoy it. Like they met, fell in love (or in lust at the time which later became love), and got married, and had a LOT of babies (we stan, we stan 😌 those silver haired chunky babies aren’t making themselves am I right?). They seemed genuinely happy and I am all for it! It's so nice to see just a happy family!

At the same time there are a lot of aspects to Aenys I don't really like. To a point he sort of reminds me of Walserys aka Viserys I, though I think even Viserys knew how to "awaken the dragon" better than Aenys. Aenys overall was too much of a person pleaser and didn't know enough of how to stand up for himself.

That said, he was not a complete pushover I feel in so much he should have been stronger and more decisive. A bit less forgiving and peaceful too.

I believe that in this universe every ruler has to find the right balance between kind and just king and cruel and unforgiving tyrant, and on this regard Aenys failed. How much? Yes.

He should have learned from Aegon the Conqueror that you can't always be peaceful. Sometimes you have to lay down the law and cut a few heads, else you won't be taken serious - and spoiler, he wasn't taken serious. Especially not by his family - Visenya and Maegor - nor by the Faith.

Another dire mistake of Aenys trying to be friends with everyone and avoid conflict, was how he indirectly carved a path for Maegor to take over after he died, and we all know how badly that ended up for his wife and children, in particular Aegon, Viserys, and poor Rhaena.

I think his intentions were good but he just didn't have what it took, and I also feel he was very lucky to have inherited the prosperous kingdom his father left him, else things could have gone a lot (LOT) worse for Aenys.

In sum, Aenys was a good man. I like his relationships with his parents, his wife and his children, but our boy failed to learn an important lesson (a few actually):

1- To want to do good is not enough;

2- You can't please everyone, and you shouldn't want to in any case;

3- Sometimes you have to take on conflict, stare it in the face and say "Bring it on and let's see who leaves this fight in worse shape!" 😤

Thank you so much for your ask, Anon, I hope my answer is satisfactory. All the best to you 😘

#aenys targaryen #my thoughts #fire and blood #house targaryen #targaryen kings #popcorn answers #I have a lot more asks about my takes on other Targs so stay tuned

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heyitsmejona · 4 years ago

Text

Jona’s Story

background reference

Story under the break!

TABLE OF EVENTS:

Backstory

Zhaitan

Mordremoth [HoT]

Break [LW3]

Balthazar/Joko [PoF]

Kralkatorrik [LW4]

Jormag [IS]

Warning: Some big spoilers for every single story part in GW2 ahead!

1. Backstory

She was born and raised in Divinity’s Reach and had a more or less protected childhood. It was always her dream to become a member of the Seraphs. But her parents died really early into her teenage years because of a bandit attack on their bakery. Then it was only her older sister and her, who had to make due by themselves. Her dream was slowly moving away from her, they had to sell the bakery and she started to work as a barmaid in one of the taverns. As she reached adulthood her sister met her future spouse and moved to Queensdale a few years later. Jona remained in Divinity’s Reach, until she spit up a bar fight between a group of Seraphs and citizens. That is when she first met Logan, her life made a full turn afterwards and she soon carried the armor of the seraphs proudly. Her name grew after she saved the Village of Shaemoor, helped her Quaggan friends and became a member of the Vigil. Still unaware of future events, her life began to enter a downward spiral as her sister got captured by the Harathi. She managed to save her just in time but after she brought her to safety she had to depart, to save Lion’s Arch from an unknown threat.

2. Zhaitan

After joining the vigil, she fell in love for the first time. It was truly magnificent for her. She wasn't on to make friends easily, so this pretty much surprised her. After she saved Lion’s Arch from the first Undead attack. The massacre of Claw Island was a blink away. Her love died on that island, she would never return to. Her anger and rage was short, but her grieving began. She went to Orr, fought the Undead and their master Zhaitan. But her heart grew empty. So many good people died there, her groll was mostly aimed at Trahearne. She could not even look him into the eyes anymore. She always wondered how he could lead so many people into their wet graves with the look of excitement on his face. But she also gave herself a load of guild too, she didn’t stop it. She knew you weren’t able to save everyone but she could have at least tried a bit harder. That was when she entered another turning point in her life. She left her friends behind and disappeared. She wanted to help people but this was not the way.

3. Mordremoth

The expedition into the Heart of Maguuma and its failure happened. She couldn't just close her eyes about the whole event, so she went to help. But not as the commander, just as a mere soldier with a new face and name. Maguuma was hard and unforgiving, she did not stay until the very end. She could not, the thought that her friends were captured and might die just because she didn't offer her help, broke her. During all this she only met Aurene only briefly one time. She made a beeline for the Shiverpeak Mountains.

4. Break

One of her sister’s friends, an old norn woman owned an abandoned homestead not far from their own. She offered it to Jona in exchange for a little help with the Dolyaks and the Sons of Svanir. Almost no one from her former life knew where she was, or if she was still alive. Until she began to exchange letters with Zojja. Who wrote her about all the things that happened in Maguuma and Trahearne’s and Eir’s death, that Logan and her were still recovering and what all her other friends were up to. They build a strong friendship over the many letters exchanged. It helped them both, to tend to old wounds and give each other a helping hand as they built themselves anew again out of their broken parts. After a while Jona made the decision to travel again, see where she could help folks out. And maybe she slowly got her mind ready to finally stop running.

5. Balthazar/Joko

With the “discovery” of The Crystal Desert and Elona her travels were bound to end up there eventually. She met her friends in a fight against the Forged and helped them out. Both sides were not really ready for the sudden meeting, but when is one ever ready for something. The climate was tense and the remaining trust only a thin strand. But Jona stayed and the old nature of their friendship started to shine through. But she was a different person now, not entirely, her essence was still the same but some parts changed. She was wiser now and more collected and ready to die for everyone. Which eventually happened by the hand of Balthazar. She didn't really mind, it was peaceful? She had to return of course, there were still things to do but it brought to her a certain comfort. She didn't have to fear death anymore. Joko, the master of the Awakened was only a mere wood lump in her way, which she stepped over easily. He was a bit funny, I think they could have been friends in another world. But her next problem wasn’t far ahead.

6. Kralkatorrik

The third elder dragon she met ate Balthazar? And she was off to fight a new threat to the world. She didn’t go by commander anymore though. She was just Lady Jona to her colleagues and subordinates. Many still called her commander of course, and just blatantly ignored her request. The title was a form of respect to them. She wondered if her suffering would ever find an end. During all of this she got finally introduced to Aurene. Aurene knew that Jona was her champion, it was supposed to be this way. But Aurene also saw that Jona would not easily be swayed into this position. It took a lot of trust and many personal talks to accept that this was her destiny. She liked Aurene, and saw her more like her little sister over time. She planned to introduce her to her older sister, once this was over. Because let’s be real, Aurene’s original family totally sucks. They deliver Kralkatorrik from his pain together. But another war was as always about to start soon.

7. Jormag

After Kralkatorrik’s defeat, the relationship between the Charr legions began to boil slowly but surely, and soon the blood legion attacked and Bengar's betrayal would let the galaxy fall into disarray. (I’m sorry) Jormag whispers weren’t far away and grew louder and louder. They wanted Jona to become their champion. Jona was prone to listen, these times would expose themself to be another straining experience on her mental wellbeing. She almost gave in a few times, would not have others been there to help her find a way through the snowstorm. Almorra’s body was discovered, another friend and lost love gone.But she was stronger this time and Aurene and Taimi got her back. Braham and her still didn't talk about Eir much but Rox grew to be a new friend and ally in dangerous situations. Gorrik turned out to be funny and she almost adopted him, she loved that little guy and would always listen when he told her about Blish. She isn't really one to hold grudges, so when she found out that Rytlock released Balthazar and Ryland was his son or that Gorrik was a former member of the Inquest she almost toppled over from laughing so hard. She even forgave Braham for blaming her for Eir’s death, even though he didn’t talk to her about it. He wasn’t so wrong after all but not justified either. But damn, did she hate Ryland.

To be continued?

#gw2 art #GW2 characters #GW2 OC #gw2 #gw2 spoilers #spoilers #spoilers for everything #gw2 character story #gw2 writing #i did it you guys #damn #i finally wrote it sdown #my art #my commander #jonas story #added a break if ppl dont want to rb a too long post

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kadeu · 4 years ago

Photo

Accepted — Al-Farsi Leila

♥ Leili Al-Farsi aka. Leila Mori looks like Ivana Alawi (actor) ♥ She was born December 25, 1814; making her 206 but she appears to be 25 ♥ This Succubi is Heterosexual and a Jack of Hearts ♥ She is the owner of The Secret Room

Biography

The Al-Farsi Family is a family greatly known for their secrecy. A reclusive family whose only presence is felt through the various charities that the family was connected to. It was rumored that the Al-Farsis were wealthy enough to become Kings, if only they would stop their habit of excessive spending for the poor. However, this was the only way the family stayed relevant over the past century. As what the rumors circulated, the Al-Farsis remained a neutral family in the years of peace within Kadeu. Their founding matriarch was a woman whose roots were traced from the City of Umibe. She had come to Kadeu for a better life and found work in The Red Dragon. Gradually, she rosed up the ranks and became the brothel’s owner in less than a decade. Her name was Lamia Mori. She was the great-grandmother of Leila Al-Farsi, or so what the family introduced her to be.

The truth was that the matriarch Lamia Mori and the great-granddaughter, Leila Al-Farsi, was one and the same woman. She was a succubus who have crossed over from the Demon Realm more than a century ago and has skillfully hidden herself undetected in the public eye, all the while feigning to be a human. However, something had changed when the succubus decided to clothe herself in the finest of tulles and satins and adorn her body with glistening jewels. That same day, her own father appeared before her. It was then that she knew of her mother’s death. Her father spared no expense on sharing his bare intentions. First, he found her current abode quite atrocious and second, he abhors the fact that her own daughter had decided to cowardly hide in the facade of a human instead of being proud of her demonic origins.

But Leila still remembers the day she was forcefully thrown out of the Demon Realm by her very own clan. It was the very reason why she could not bear to go back. It was her forty second birthday, way past her puberty and still no signs of her ‘awakening.’ It well-known in the Demon Realm that the younger a concubi would stop aging, the earlier would be its awakening and the stronger that concubi would be. Records had reported that these were the cases for those born with concubi parents. But Lamia was a daughter of a succubus and an arch demon and little had been known of the children of this kind of union. It was a pride for her father that Lamia stopped aging by the age of 24. To her clan, this was a promising sign that she would become one of the strongest concubi due to her lineage. They have made plans specially catered to her education, with the goal of making her the perfect hidden weapon of the family.

Great joy and merriment occurred on her thirty fifth birthday. Her clan had invited others to witness her awakening. However, none of that happened. No stubby spiked tail, no primal feeding ensued. Lamia caused her clan to lose face that night, but they still had patiently waited for her awakening. A year turned to two, then three yet there was still no sign of that stubborn tail. This frustrated Lamia to the core. If only she was born as a demon instead of a concubi, her mother would have been the grand consort of the clan but alas she was anything but. Without even much of an opportunity to say her farewells, Lamia was thrown off to a realm far too different than what she was familiar of. That was when she found herself at the depths of the sea of Umibe. A sudden change happened with her as she crossed over the portal, Lamia found herself growing a stubby spiked tail. How she hated her tail for years after, if only it had grown sooner. Little did she know, this was the least of her problems.

A rude awakening soon followed, enraging Lamia down to her very core. She learned of the poor treatment of the townsfolk towards concubi the hard way, through her own fault. Lamia once let her guard down and her origins as a succubus spread throughout the city like wildfire overnight. By morning, she lost the reputation she painstakingly established over a couple of years. She hated the smell of potent distrust, hated it even more that she had to feed off on those disgusting emotion. In a fit of rage, she openly hunted at The Docks until she was fully satiated. During this primal hunt, Lamia learned that aside from lust, fear became her most favorite meal. The next morning, reports on spoilt goods and missing sailors grazed the covers of the newspapers and rumors blamed such incident on the succubus whom no citizen has seen ever again.

Her overfeeding was proven to be useful nonetheless as the succubus was able to traverse the 10-mile distance from the City of Umibe to Kadeu in just a little over two hours. She must admit that the air in Kadeu was much fresher compared to the City of Umibe. Here, Lamia could easily feed without many complications as she could freely feed off in the streets. She noticed that on her inner left wrist, the once prominent 1 symbol that mystically appeared after she crossed over from the Demon Realm now became a 3. Lamia learned upon further coaxing from her clientele that the more she gathers her wealth and store it in the Zuihuo Bank, the more she would rise in the rank and this was the window of opportunity for her to have a new life. A life where she could live in peace, where the scent of distrust is absent and only pure lust and greed filled the air. The scent of greed was something Lamia had not thought of to be served in this place. The more she consumed it, the more she was influenced by it. Soon, the news of a lucky sex-worker on the streets reached the ears of the warden of The Red Dragon. There were not many blatant sex-workers brave enough to flaunt themselves on the streets, especially near his establishment, he wanted to have that worker for himself.

It was then that Lamia Mori was known as the Lady Mori of The Red Dragon. The mystical tattoo on her inner left wrist became a 5 and later a 7 as she became a high-end sex-worker for the brothel. By then, she had skillfully hidden her identity as a succubus. But this was not enough, not when the brothel was rumored to be auctioned off as its previous owner had plummeted down to bankruptcy and a deadly combo of gambling and drugs. This was the window of opportunity that Lamia was waiting for. In the depths of the night, a woman was found standing at the gates of the abode of the previous owner. Nobody knew what had transpired that night, but the fact remains that the Al-Farsi family had purchased the brothel.

With the change of ownership comes the influx of patrons. The title “Lady Mori” was bestowed for a decade to a favored sex-worker of the brothel, paying homage to the first Lady Mori who was said to have been favored by a patron and was gifted of the brothel itself, earning her favor. The first Lady Mori was the same consort of the Al-Farsi family that had graced society of her presence just a few months after the family purchased the brothel. Little did the society knew that the head of the Al-Farsi family was Lamia Mori. The man whom she claims to be her ‘husband,’ the man rumored to be the patron who was enamored by her beauty was no other than the previous warden of The Red Dragon himself.

It had been several decades since Lady Mori, now known as Madam Al-Farsi, had graced society herself. However, the tales of her glory days was still known in Kadeu. She once loved to throw charity balls for various causes she could think of, to a point that she had almost endangered her family’s status as a facecard. The last time she was seen was the day she announced her pregnancy. It was said that she had died during childbirth. And news of the family could only be seen in the papers, not a shadow of their beings was in sight. One recurring fact that always appeared in the paper though, the women married to the Al-Farsis had always died of childbirth. This was rumored to be a curse plaguing the entire family.

But the rumors of the curse did not stop the family finding a new bride. The 3rd generation head of the Al-Farsi, known by many as Khalil Al-Farsi, was one whose beauty once rivaled the family’s founding monarch, Lamia Mori herself. He was the great source of pride of the family as he had single-handedly beaten their once rival strip club, The Golden Faerie. Although not a brothel itself, the strip club also caters to all ranks like The Red Dragon. Thus, the news of its upgrade followed by the new that it would now only be catering to ranks 7 and above had delighted the family.

Following the good fortune that The Red Dragon had received in the past few months was the tragic death of Khalil Al-Farsi. The scene of finding the child she once raised to be the family heir was now dead pushed Leila to seek vengeance for him. To distract the ton from his death, Leila spread the news of her debut in society. Gossip columns in the newspapers were filled with testimonies of the once loyal patrons who were too old to frequent the brothel and those who have seen Madam Al-Farsi in her glory days both of whom confirmed that the next of kin of the Al-Farsi looks just like the madam. And with this, the curiosity of the ton followed wondering of the beauty that daughter of Khalil Al-Farsi holds. A satirical laugh could be heard across the mansion. Indeed, she picked the ripe time to reintroduce herself to society as Leila Al-Farsi.

Personality

Leila is a socialite which led to her being hyperaware of the rankings. She made it a self-priority to maintain a facecard rank for survival as she had witnessed the dark side of the lowranks and abhors to be in that same situation twice. Thus, she maintains strong relations amongst the highranks, at the same time, she is kind to lowranks, even to a point of offering them jobs in her brothel to keep them off the streets. She made it her mission to get sex workers off the streets and into her brothel, in return, she asks for their utmost loyalty, which had become her unknown weakness in the long run. Using the excuse of finding a husband, Leila is at a stage seeking revenge for her father, Khalil Al-Farsi. The culprit behind his death is still at large.

Congratulations Tamara your app has been accepted and your first plot drop will be sent to you soon.

Please follow and welcome @leilamori to Kadeu!

#follow;#accepted;#lsrp #hearts

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volganic · 4 years ago

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Song of Awakening

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] || [AO3] || [discord]

i didnt mean to take two months to update but ive been playing among us and now i have ideas for an among us au that i’ll never write

“I have to go back to the woods!”

“Absolutely not.”

They spent the better half of the morning bickering with each other: Link needed to complete his mission — the sole reason for leaving the castle — and Volga wouldn’t allow it. The dragon argued he was unconvinced that Link’s grief had fully passed for his fallen comrades; a wandering mind would only land him into more trouble if he wasn’t careful. Pinks and oranges of the early dawn bled into blue, and Link was growing impatient with Volga’s stubbornness. He folded his arms and stared the dragon down.

“I’m going back.”

“I won’t allow it.”

“I’m flattered that you think I need your protection, but I really don’t,” Link huffed. “If I don’t finish my tasks in Faron Woods, even you can’t protect me from the general’s wrath.”

“I would never keep you from your duties as the hero, but you are no hero yet,” Volga snapped. He rose from his seat with his spear in hand, drawing closer to take his turn to intimidate his smaller companion. “One Manhandla sapling is of no danger to you or your army — let it sprout. You are lying. There’s nothing in those woods for you except another death wish.”

The Hylian refused to listen, bristling in his spot. “That’s where you’re wrong, Volga. There’s something else in there too, and after I kill the sapling, I’m going to find it.”

“Then I shall accompany you—”

“No!” Link put his foot down to interrupt Volga from spouting out another excuse or insult. “I can handle it alone from here. If I can’t do it, it only goes to show that maybe I’m not worth bearing the Triforce. I have to prove myself worthy.”

Their eyes fell downward to Link’s gauntlet. Where Link might have considered the outcome of his last venture into the woods as cowardice, Volga saw it as means to survive. The Triforce was a sign of status; if this was how Link wanted to prove (to nobody but his goddesses) himself as worthy, Volga could allow it.

The spear in his grip slackened. With a grumble, he spoke. “Very well. If it puts your mind at ease, I will honor your decision.”

Link’s posture relaxed as his face broke into a sheepish smile. Maybe he’d win a lot of arguments from this point on if he used this excuse. He adjusted the holster holding his blade behind his back. “I’ll hold you to it; don’t think I forgot how you managed to sneak up on me last time.”

Volga turned away and grunted in response.

“Hey now,” the Hylian approached, placing a tentative hand on Volga’s arm, “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I also need supplies from the village below. As much as I like suffocating against your dragon body at night, I think I can manage a night of sleep with a decent bedroll!” Volga shot him a glare. Link smiled a bit wider, but his expression softened. “In all seriousness, thank you. You’re really a great friend.”

Link gave the dragon’s limb a quick and gentle squeeze — a wordless promise to return when his mind was clear.

——

The sun had yet to reach its highest point when the Hylian managed to enter the deepest part of the grove. The environment was serene, peaceful — a little too quiet for his liking. There were dangerous creatures that lived in these woods, he knew, and to not even hear the song of a bird or the buzz of an insect’s wings through the air perturbed him. The only sounds that reached his ears were the leaves rustling against the breeze with the occasional sound of twigs and gravel being crushed under his boots.

The wooden bridge that led to an old Hyrulean outpost creaked underneath his weight, threatening to give out from the lack of use. It was useful back when he and Impa had led their small brigade when they had first encountered Lana, but the lack of upkeep since those few months had left the fortress withered and decaying, succumbing to the depths of the forest. Even if it had been months ago, the magic that lived in this place left it looking as if it hadn’t been used in centuries.

Careful to cross the bridge through the other side of the outpost and to another keep, Link found what he was looking for — sort of. A Manhandla sapling in bloom lay in the center of the clearing where sunlight could seep through the branches overhead. Upon closer inspection, Link found that the bud itself had been ripped cleanly out of the plant. He took his sword in hand and approached it even closer, leery of finding it in hiding. The tip of his blade poked and prodded and turned the leaves over to find any evidence of the carnivorous creature.

From the looks of it, either someone had done his job for him, killing the Manhandla sprout — or someone was bold enough to pluck it while in its sapling stage and grow it elsewhere.

While he was no botanist, the Hylian knew that it had to come to either of those outcomes; Manhandla in its sprouting stages weren’t mobile yet at this size. His mouth fell into a puzzled frown. Mission accomplished? As an added measure, Link staked the tip of the Magical Sword into the ground underneath where the Manhandla should have been, uprooting it from the earth. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure there's no chance of another one growing in its place, he thought, covering his nose and mouth with the folds of his scarf as his heels dug into and tore the leaves of the plant, cautious of its toxic dust.

Now it was mission accomplished.

——

The doors to the fairy fountain deep were heavy as Link pushed them to open. Clearly they haven’t been used since Farore knows when, kudzu and overgrowth nearly sealing the doors shut. If it weren’t for his sense of direction leading him astray from the forest path, fear of getting lost in these mysterious woods, and the crumbling staircase leading him there, he would’ve never found it.

The air inside the fountain was... different. It smelled wet, but held a crisp clean air about it as if unbothered by time outside of its doors, even with the scuffle with evil forces not so long ago. The Hylian tentatively stepped inside with sword in hand, half-expecting to be ambushed by something. Or someone. He couldn’t shake the feeling of someone watching him as he moved to the middle of the room, watching for any shadows that moved behind the stained glass window on the fountain’s wall. When there was no promise of a threat, Link sheathed his weapon and approached the edge of the fountain. Despite the withered and crumbling rock around the edge, numerous flowers floated across the water as if they were freshly picked.

Strange, he thought. Rumor had it that the Great Fairies often made themselves known to those of pure in mind and soul – something he would definitely argue he possessed. His ears picked up the faintest echo of a woman laughing, but paid it no mind – whoever it was, she was too far away for him to consider her an immediate threat. Delicately Link splashed his hand in the water, pulling some of the flowers toward his direction. The tips of his fingers barely grazed its petals before the water in the fountain began bubbling.

Uh oh.

Link staggered backwards as a torrential wave of water erupted from the shallow water of the fountain. An infectious and jovial laugh assaulted his ears and a large shadow obscured the streaks of sunlight that poured the window. He felt dazed for only a moment, clothing soaking wet from the eruption and the water that dripped from the ceiling before he lay witness to a rather giant woman now in front of him. She studied him with a sultry eye and hummed pleasantly.

“O, hero of Hyrule,” she cooed, beckoning him with a manicured finger, “come into my fountain! Don’t be shy.”

His face flushed in embarrassment with the sudden realization that this was the Great Fairy. He never expected her to be not only outrageously “tall”, but voluptuous and seductive; the stories he had heard from merchants who had set up shop outside of the castle walls about the fairies did her no justice. Link pushed himself up and brushed off any rubble (he had to look at least somewhat decent in front of a lady) and obeyed, stepping over the edge of the fountain into its cool waters. Immediately whatever worry that lingered in his body seemed to wash away much more effectively than the springs on Death Mountain.

“What brings you here, my hero?” The Great Fairy invited him to sit closer to her. Link inched over and brought his hands up to sign. She leaned forward and delicately pushed his hands down. “There’s no need for that,” she winked. “I know what gifts the goddesses have bestowed upon you, and your secret is safe with me.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but quickly quashed it. Inhale, exhale. “How do you know about it?”

“Oh, my love,” she laughed cheerfully, “I know many things. I might be the closest thing to Hylia herself! It’s a wonder that people pray and come to me for guidance.” The Fairy stretched out on her stomach, hovering only inches above the water and giving her undivided attention to her guest. “I know that the guardian of Eldin is the one to have awakened your divine gift, and that he is keeping a close eye on you as your mentor. I can only hope that he continues to treat you well.”

Link sighed wearily at the mention of his friend — Volga would have easily objected to coming into any fairy fountain. “He does… in his own way.” A pause. “Do you know anything more about him?”

The Great Fairy chuckled softly. “That I am not inclined to say, dear hero.” Link then decided she knew more than she was letting on if she knew that they were friends in the first place. “You’ve come to seek me for guidance, have you not?” she asked, changing the subject. “How may I be of service?”

“Do you know anything about the witch, Cia? And Lana? What are their goals? What can I expect?” The Great Fairy cupped her hand under the water to slowly pour it over his head, sensing his unease. Nervously, he rubbed the back of his neck, shivering with the feeling of the cool water trickling down his collar as it alleviated his nerves slightly to prepare him for any life-changing revelations. “Do you think I’m prepared enough to take the role of the legendary hero?”

“My love,” she began, “I offer guidance and assistance, not opinions or visions of the future. I cannot tell you exactly what you must do to fully prepare yourself for the coming battle. I will be here to assist you when you need me the most in your most dire hour. What the goddesses have intended for you is out of my control. Your fate is in their hands.”

Link feared for the worst, expression growing downcast with the answers he was given. “However,” she interrupted, “I can tell you that it is more than admirable that you have come so far in your ordeals. You make a fine hero as you are now. I have no doubt that you will do only the best for Hyrule… even if you are grounded on his mountain.” She winked, her pink lips spreading into a sincere smile. Link could only smile back feeling how infectious hers was.

“Thank you.”

“Always a pleasure,” she purred, reaching out to affectionately prod his cheek. The Great Fairy then rolled onto her back, dramatically throwing an arm over her face. “You must go now if there’s nothing more I can do to assist you, as much as I’d love to keep you here for myself. Your soul is bound to another, after all.”

Link felt his cheeks burn with the thought that the Great Fairy – the Great Fairy! – had found him appealing, but shook those thoughts out of his mind. Of course, legend always had found the hero bound to the princess. At least, it always presented itself that way. It wasn’t a destiny he would have personally chosen for himself, as he hasn’t had much interaction with Princess Zelda in the first place, but if the goddesses dictated it, so be it. As long as he served for Hyrule, he would serve for her. He stood silently and stepped out of the fountain with that in mind.

“You will find your other half in the most unlikely of times, my love — in fact, you might have found it already!” she exclaimed suddenly when Link neared the entrance. He blinked and turned to look at her to ask what she meant, but she cut him off. “Please, do not hesitate to come see me again. It gets awfully lonely here.”

The Great Fairy made her exit with a dive and a splash into the short pool of water, laughing all the while. Link turned away to save himself from getting drenched again, finding that the woman was indeed gone, nothing but freshly picked flowers and a few silent fairies fluttering over the water’s edge in her wake.

——

“Massster! Human isss back! He bringsss thingsss!”

Volga turned away from the ores he had been attending to when the sound of the younger Lizalfos scouts pattering after their chieftain echoed off the rock walls. Their arms were filled with items that definitely had no place in his caves. He grumbled at the sight; Link might have been simple at first glance, but the items he had gathered in excess proved that he was going to be a pain in Volga’s side.

“Where is he now?”

“Bottom of mountain! Climbing ssslowly!”

“He may be a friend to our clan, but he will not treat you like his dogs,” he scowled, gesturing for them to drop whatever items Link had pushed onto them to the side. The scouts obeyed without a second wasted while their chieftain apprehensively drew to Volga’s side.

“He asssk nicely. We help.”

“The boy is more capable of carrying his own rubbish up the mountain.” Volga’s frown remained. The chieftain stood patiently for any more orders. The dragon released a drawn out sigh and waved his kin away. “You have my leave to go. I will take care of the rest.”

With the clear dismissal, the chieftain scurried off further into the chambers of the caves, leaving Volga with his hoard of ores — and Link’s hoard of belongings. The dragon turned to the discarded items with a look of disgust. He left his own pile to sift through Link’s things; what on earth could he possibly need? Underneath the pile of clothes including his green tunic, there were a number of small bottles of potions, larger flasks of fragrant soups and broth, a few rupees here and there, a mirror — useless, useless things!

“What are you doing?”

Volga turned back to the entrance of the cavern. Link stood there with an incredulous expression having caught the dragon red-handed going through his things. He looked so different outside of his uniforms, clad only in a longer sleeved shirt that made him look like someone he wasn’t: someone lost; someone vulnerable; someone who shouldn’t be within his domain. Volga carelessly tossed the small mirror back into the pile. “You’re able to handle yourself, so why, I wonder, you use my kin to transport your rubbish up the mountain, I’m curious. Clearly it wasn’t worth the time.”

Link’s mouth formed a small frown. “If I’m offered help, I’m not gonna turn it down.” He pushed the sleeves up of his shirt up to his elbows and pushed through Volga to tend to the bottles. As callous as they were treated, none of them were broken. “I could have brought more, you know.”

“Essentials, I understand and commend you for. The mirror, however, is excessive.”

“Old habits die hard,” said the Hylian with a small hum in his voice. “I like mirrors. Appearances are important to keep up within the castle walls: I can’t act my part as a captain if I don’t look like one.” Carefully he picked up the round mirror and looked himself over in it. He couldn’t bring himself to look for too long; his hair was in disarray and dark circles began to form around his eyes from lack of proper sleep or rest; the exact opposite image of a hero.

“If you have the strength to uphold your title, appearances mean nothing. As battered and broken as you look now, I’m well aware of what you are capable of.” The dragon strode back over to his own belongings, taking one long glance at the ores in their respective pails. He had more than enough to trade. “It’s well into the evening. You need to rest.”

Link nodded in agreement. “I also told you I’d bring my own bedroll. The caves are a little warm for me, and it’s not too cold out—”

“Sleeping outside?” Volga asked. “To leave yourself exposed? I think not.”

“You’re free to follow if you want, but I’ve already made up my mind,” Link announced, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck and tucking his bundle underneath his arm as he made his way back outside. The rest of his belongings wouldn’t move anywhere. It took a good amount of restraint not to laugh when he heard Volga’s heavy footsteps following him a few paces away, but that didn’t stop him from smiling at his companion when he found a decent spot to settle down. “I take it you’ve never slept outside of the caves?”

“Why would I?” he bit back, crossing his arms over his chest to brave himself from the gentle breeze tickling his cheek. The temperature wasn’t at its lowest yet; Link really was a fool if he thought only a blanket and scarf were enough. “They offer all the protection you could need.”

“That’s true, but only if you’re either a dragon or have the means to survive in the heat.” Even with the fireshield earrings, the caves provided a little too much warmth. Waking up feeling uncomfortably sticky from sweat wasn’t necessarily pleasant. “I’ve never thanked you properly for the earrings before, but you nearly burned my ear off when I had the chance. So thanks for that, too.” Link’s face twisted into a pout at the memory, but it didn’t stop him from patting the grass next to him to invite the dragon closer. “At least here outside you can see the sky.”

“And that leaves you exposed to the elements, too, boy,” Volga said with a tone that clearly painted him as annoyed. Regardless, Link took satisfaction when the dragon made an effort to humor him by taking the spot next to him at least an arm’s length away. The dragon removed his helmet and held it to his chest as he laid down. It felt strange being so close to home, yet so far away, left vulnerable to the bitter cold that crept underneath every crevice of his armor. A puff of smoke left his lips to try and regulate his body temperature. The sound of Link shuffling around in his bedroll couldn’t drown out his amusement. “Is there something you find funny?”

“No.” Though the scarf around his neck concealed most of the Hylian’s face, it was obvious that he was lying. Volga held his stare, but turned away when it was clear that Link wasn’t going to budge. This was stupid. He couldn’t fathom why he continued to play in Link’s games, but he never had also expected to take him under his wing. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, but keeping Link so close seemed to soothe it, and, despite the immaturity he displayed more often than he should, the Hylian was slowly fitting into his hero role. That enough was satisfactory.

“Have you ever been to the village below?”

Volga’s eyes remained closed. “No. I have no interest in mingling among those beneath me.”

“Do you even have friends?” Link propped himself up on his arms. “And before you say your scouts or chieftains, they don’t count. I mean anyone outside your tribe.”

“I have you,” Volga said, “but sometimes I wonder if I’ve made a poor choice in keeping you as a friend.” He tilted his head and cracked an eye open, knowing full well that his comment would strike a nerve. In a huff, Link turned over and pulled the covers up to his ears. It was Volga’s turn to laugh quietly. “I have you, and I have ties with the Goron Patriarch. I wouldn’t have as grand of a collection without him.”

“Alright, I’ll give you that one.” Link turned onto his back. “It wouldn’t hurt to expand your horizons. I heard that merchants are supposed to stop by and trade in the village tomorrow.”

“I’d rather not. They have nothing I could possibly want.”

“Now you’re just being a killjoy, Volga.” Link chided with a yawn. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Enough.”

“Oh, come on—”

“No,” he interrupted, “I mean to say ‘I’m old enough’. I doubt you would believe me should I reveal my true age to you, which is why ‘enough’ should be a sufficient answer.” Volga let the words hang in the air for a moment for Link to absorb it, followed by, “You should be resting, boy, not spewing whatever thoughts are bouncing around in your mind with answers you can’t comprehend. With your duties to your army fulfilled, we resume ours in the morning.”

“One more question?” Before being given the chance to be shot down, the Hylian asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

The dragon remained silent. Of all things, that’s what he wanted to know? Whether it was out there to annoy him, or purely out of innocence, Volga didn’t know — and didn’t know how to answer it himself. As a dragon, instinct had told him to curb the favoritism to ward off those with prying eyes, as thieves were around every bend to steal whatever he coveted most. As for favorites, he realized then he didn’t have many — a favorite weapon? A favorite meal? A favorite song? — much less narrowed down to a specific color. He lived in a world painted in reds and oranges and yellows and greens with splashes of golds and silvers and a bioluminescent blue, but none of it appealed to him.

Volga craned his neck to look back at Link, unsure of how to answer and unsure of how Link would react, only to find that either he had taken too much time mulling over his response, or the Hylian was more exhausted than they had initially thought. Link had succumbed to the fierce grip of sleep. Under the covers of his bedroll, Volga could see Link’s chest rising and falling, his breaths light and evenly spaced; finally at peace. Without the expanse of the ocean staring back at him waiting expectantly for an answer, clarity had struck through Volga, and he knew his answer. The words poured out just above a whisper:

“I’m fond of the color blue.”

#hyrule warriors #volink #YEAAAAAA #fic

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ask-de-writer · 4 years ago

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 51 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 51 of 83

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

written 2007

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story? Read from the beginning. PART 1 is here

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Yawning with fatigue, they retreated to their bunks to sleep. Up in the rigging the paddle-ducks became aware of the Sea Hawks that they were sharing their roosts with and fled in a small thunder of wings.

The Wide Wings, crests up, looked about alertly and then soared off. Shortly they returned, bearing trailing bits of seaweed which they began to tuck into the mainmast’s upper lookout. They kept it up, arranging things to suit themselves.

Watching from the deck a few hours later, Tanlin stopped a sailor about to go shoo them away.

“Let t’em ‘ave t’e Wide Wing’s nest. ‘T can be ane in trut’. Willnae ‘urt us t’ ‘arbor anot’er pair o’ refugees. Our lookoot can climb past t’em an’ use t’e bosun’s chair from t’e mast’ead, as we’ve been doing.”

A short while later, Tanlin herself climbed agilely up to platform and laid a pair of fish where the Wide Wings could reach them. They hissed at her and spread their wings in a threat display but took the fish. She came back later with more.

It was not long before the Sea Hawks were settled into their nest on the starboard side of the platform and taking bribes of fish without a thought. As long as the crewmen stayed on their side of the platform, the Wide Wings would tolerate their presence. If, that is, the crewmen remembered to bring a fish.

Tanlin spent much of her free time up in the rigging near to the birds. She even enticed one of them to roost on her arm. She didn’t flinch when its claws drew blood. Instead she gave it a small fish. The next time that she came up, her sleeves were padded and her shoulders as well.

It was while she was up high, working with the birds that she saw something down in the water near the ship. It was a long gray shape, ghostly in the depths. It was far longer than the Grandalor. She carefully put the Sea Hawk back into its nest and called down to deck, “Dragon, Ho! Off t’e starboard side!” She slid down a rope to the railing and jumped lightly to the deck.

Chapter 18: Frath

Barad ran forward across the rolling deck to Tanlin. “Did you cry ‘Dragon’?”

“Aye, Luve. Tis over t’ere,” she pointed off to starboard, “nae t’ree fat’oms under. Bigger t’an t’e ship by far an’ gray, wit’ light an’ dark patches.”

A hundred feet ahead of the Grandalor the water churned and boiled as an enormous head covered with spines and frills lifted from the sea. Large intelligent eyes regarded the ship carefully.

The Wide Wing Sea Hawks launched from their nest and swooped down at it fearlessly. They screamed a challenge which the Great Sea Dragon calmly ignored. They even dove and raked at the Dragon with their talons and claws. At last, defeated by the sheer size of the enemy, they flew back to the Grandalor and landed on Tanlin’s shoulders, facing the Dragon with raised crests and partly spread wings, hissing defiance.

A voice so mild that it seemed impossible to have issued from so fierce a visage said, “Welcome to the center of my storm, Barad, Captain of the Grandalor. You are well recommended by the fact that two of Dari’s favorite creatures defend you so.”

The Great Sea Dragon’s head tilted a bit to look more clearly at Tanlin. “Welcome to you also — Tanlin. I see that there is more to you than meets even the inner eye. You have, along with all aboard this ship made a choice that you must live with.”

Tanlin was standing legs braced, hands on hips, a Sea Hawk on each shoulder, the wind streaming her hair back. “I’ ye donnae mind m’ asking so mighty a bein’ as yersel’ a personal quest’n, just ‘oo are ye? Oi know o’ Blind Mecat an’ Dark Iren, o’ course. Are ye Frath, t’e Dragon o’ Storms?”

The huge Dragon seemed surprised by the question. “Of course. I go with the storm to steer it and make certain that it will meet all of its ecological goals.”

“Ecological goals?” Tanlin said in outrage. “T’is monstrosity,” she gestured all about at the racing, tumbling, gray and black cloud walls, rimmed white at the tops by late sun and lit internally by flashes of lightning, “came barreling t’rough a fleet! ’Oo knows ‘ow many ships ‘t ‘as sunk, ‘ow many lives lost?”

“I do,” said Frath with some asperity. “No ships were sunk. Twelve humans lost their lives, of which three were unrelated to the storm.”

“Oi’m sorry,” Tanlin apologized. “Oi’ve a temper wen ‘t comes t’ t’ose Oi care about.”

“I understand perfectly. Nor are you alone in that sentiment.” Frath looked over to port, where the water was cascading from another Great Sea Dragon’s head. This one was pure white and clearly blind, though equally obviously, it had no difficulty finding its way about.

Barad looked on, just a little awestruck. Nevertheless, he offered courtesy. “Blind Mecat, wisest of Dragons, I am glad to see you.”

“A few Gatherings ago, Barad, I would not have believed you, if you had said that. I know that you actually mean it, now. Do you know why I am here?”

“I suspect that you have been keeping track of what has happened to Kurin. I will not try to defend the fact that I was in on the start of the plot against her. I met Lady Tanlin afterwards, and she changed me — and my mind. I tried to stop what happened. I failed. I am sorry that Kurin was hurt and that the Grython sailor died.”

“I have never liked you, Barad. You know that. In spite of my dislike, I try to base my actions on reality, not my feelings,” said Mecat, looking just past him with her blind eyes in the disturbing way that he remembered from past meetings, when she had appeared as a human. “I have a question for you. How do you feel about the Lady Tanlin?”

“I love her,” said Barad simply, surprised at the inquiry. “I married her by Arrakan law and it was not for show.”

The huge white head tilted in curiosity, “Why did you choose Arrakan law? Was it part of fooling the Naral fleet about her origins and your violation of the Marriage Laws?”

Barad put an arm around Tanlin and replied firmly, “I know that you could read it so and many would. The actual reason is in the Third Great Law. Arrakan law allows marriage between any two who have no parents that share a ship name. Our parents are of different ships and fleets. When the Naral fleet agreed to our marriage by Arrakan law, it became completely legal. She is my wife until one of us dies.”

“Let me smell you, Barad,” demanded Blind Mecat. Her enormous head thrust forward through a gap in the rigging to where Barad stood. A seemingly endless breath was drawn in as she nuzzled him from head to foot, the tentacles about her mouth pulled back. “There is truth here; the last thing that I expected from you.”

The massive head turned to Tanlin. “Some say that I know all things but they are wrong. This I do know. You are a person torn. The role that you live is not the life of your birth. You must chose, your birth or your role. With either choice there will be loss.”

Tanlin wept. “Oi already know t’at, Mecat, an’ Oi ‘ave chosen. ‘Owever t’e world falls, wit’ t’is mon, m’ Ca’tain an’ m’ Luve, is w’ere Oi belong.” She looked the dragon in the eye and drew a breath to steady herself. “T’e Orcas sang for Kurti. She’s gone.” The Sea Hawks on her shoulders sensed Tanlin’s distress and stroked their beaks along her jaw and set to preening the hair about her ears.

Even though blind, Mecat appeared to look on in interest before saying, “I had heard from the Orcas that Kurti changed lives / died / and was celebrated. It was confusing. Now I understand that report.

“So be it. You have a Dragon’s Gift.” The breath of the Great Dragon was let out as mist over Tanlin and the two Wide Wings on her shoulders. Tanlin felt a sort of peace settle over her. Kurti and all of her life melted peacefully away until she was entirely gone. All that remained was a glimpse of a dying woman who sang a lullaby to calm a frightened cousin awakening from a long coma. Tanlin was a single, whole person, at peace with herself.

The Sea Hawks preened her hair serenely and nibbled gently at her ears with beaks that could easily have sheared her ears from her head. Tanlin reached up and ruffled their feathers with utter confidence. She turned to the huge, fang filled muzzle and said, “Oi know t’at ye did somet’in’ for m’ but Oi’m nae sure w’at. T’ese guys know ‘t, t’.” She stroked the feathers of two of the fiercest predators of the air. “Oi’ve decided t’at tis nae important t’ try t’ remember m’ past. Oi’m ‘ere in t’e present. Wa’ t’at yer gift?”

Somewhat sadly, Mecat said, “It is. You are a single person now.”

“T’ats an odd t’ing t’ say,” Tanlin said, tilting her head in curiosity. “‘Ow could anyane be more t’an ane person?

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Mecat replied.

Seeking to bring the conversation back to the Grandalor’s plight, Tanlin said, “Ye know, everane on t’is ship’s ‘ere because t’ey chose t’ follow Ca’tain Barad.”

“I do know. They would not all have followed him alone, and you know that, too. It was you as well,” the Great Dragon said crisply. “It is unfortunate that Captain Barad chose to flee justice. A human crime was done and fleet justice must be served.”

“Naral fleet Justice?” said Tanlin in scorn. “T’ey ‘ave convicted us wit’oot allowing us t’e right o’ rebuttal! T’at’s against t’e Law o’ ever’ fleet t’at Oi know o’! T’e Secund Groit Law requires ‘t! T’ey’re nae better t’an t’e Ca’tain o’ Ca’tains! T’at’s wye we fled. We knew t’at wa’ ‘ow t’ey’d deal wit’ us. T’ey ‘ad a chance t’ rid t’ t’emsel’ o’ t’e Grandalor an’ t’ey took ‘t wit’oot a second’s t’ought.”

“That is why, Little Bite,” said Mecat firmly, “that you cannot be allowed to flee over the pole. The Dragon Sea is closed to your flight. The fleets to the sides of you know of your conviction.

“The Naral fleet is my fleet, too. They have to have the chance to fix their injustice. If you succeed in fleeing, it will perpetuate the wrong and make an evil precedent. The Captain of Captains did rise to power on the strength of one such evil. It could happen again — to folk that I care about. You must deal with the Naral fleet’s law.”

Barad slumped, “Then it’s over. When the storm blows itself out, we surrender. They will drown me and her,” he gestured at Tanlin, “and all of the other officers before they get around to trying the crew. Then, perhaps, they will find their error. I doubt that much sleep will be lost over it. They don’t like me or my ship much. I don’t blame them.”

Tanlin gave Mecat a calculating look. “Perhaps nae, Luve o’ Mine. T’ere’s some quest’ns yet t’ be asked. Mecat, ye said t’at t’e Dragon Sea wa’ closed t’ our flight an’ t’e reason wa’ t’e Naral fleet’s violation o’ t’e Second Groit Law. Fair enow.

“W’at o’ refuge, w’ile tis sorted oot? T’e Dragon Sea belongs t’ nae fleet an’ wad be t’e perfect neutral woter for us, so long as we are actively seeking t’ get justice. Will ye allow us t’at bit o’ safety?”

TO BE CONTINUED

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#SEA DRAGON’S GIFT #Part 51 of 83 #World of Sea #Written by De Writer

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