#myr legacy

[honeysulani]

[lazarish]

Dr. Hickory: Allow me to make the introductions. This is Sir Campion Rose.

Campion: It still feels strange to hear myself called that.

Mr. Grove: A pleasure. I am Hemlock Grove, and this is my associate, Dr. Myrtle Watsonia.

[novaursa]

Legacy (winter is coming)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Events of the canon don't match the timeline in this story. The plot is purposefully altered to fit the narrative of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: but you will fly

- Next part: cold winds

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The wind howled across the hilltop, carrying with it the earthy scent of the Riverlands mixed with faint smoke from Viserion’s great form. The dragon's wings spread wide, kicking up gusts of dust and loose leaves as she settled onto the ground. Her talons dug into the earth, the weight of her landing reverberating through the earth beneath you. You winced, gripping at the ridges of her neck as the last shudder of movement rattled your already battered frame.

The journey had been hard. The strain of staying mounted on Viserion without a proper saddle left your thighs raw, your hands blistered, and countless thin cuts etched into your skin from her scales. Blood smeared your palms, and you could feel it trickling down your legs, staining the fabric of what remained of your riding clothes. You leaned forward for a breath, whispering, “You’ve done well, Viserion. Rest now.”

Viserion’s molten-gold eyes turned to you briefly, softer than one would think a dragon’s could be, before she slumped down onto her haunches. Steam rose faintly from her nostrils as she exhaled, her body coiling protectively near the clearing.

The hill of High Heart rose before you, crowned with its circle of ancient weirwood stumps. The air here felt different—thicker, heavier, as though steeped in old magic. You could feel it settle into your bones. But before you could take another step, the soft sound of footsteps reached your ears. Then voices.

“She said we’d meet her here,” a familiar young voice said, and you turned sharply, your heart skipping.

A group crested the hill—the Brotherhood Without Banners—led by Lord Beric Dondarrion with his ever-present grim determination. Thoros of Myr followed close behind, his robes dusty, the ever-burning faith in his eyes. Behind them trudged men in mismatched armor, and there, to your surprise, stood Arya Stark.

Arya saw you first. Her expression froze, her wild grey eyes widening in disbelief before she broke into a run. “Y/N!”

“Arya?” Your voice cracked, disbelieving, but she was already on you.

The girl flung herself into your arms, her thin frame shaking as she hugged you tightly. The force of her embrace nearly knocked you off balance, and you stumbled back, suppressing a wince as the cuts across your body protested. You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, pulling her close, ignoring the pain.

“I knew it! I knew you’d come back,” Arya whispered fiercely into your chest, her voice muffled. “I tried to find you before… but they took you.”

You smoothed a hand over her tangled hair, the gesture calming, though your voice wavered slightly. “I’m here now, little one. And so are you.”

As Arya finally stepped back, her brow furrowed, and she gasped softly. “You’re bleeding.”

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the streaks of crimson that marred your hands and thighs. The ride had taken a greater toll than you realized. “It’s nothing,” you murmured, though Arya clearly didn’t believe you. “Cuts from dragon scales—nothing more.”

Behind her, Lord Beric watched the reunion silently, his one good eye assessing you, but there was no shock in his expression. If anything, he looked unsurprised—as though he had expected this very moment.

“You’ve traveled far,” Beric said at last, stepping closer, his gruff voice low but steady. He glanced at Viserion, whose massive form loomed behind you like a mountain of scales and power. “And brought something the world thought lost.”

You turned to face him fully, your posture straightening despite the pain thrumming in your body. “The world’s forgotten much about dragons. But they are not gone.”

Beric tilted his head slightly, the flicker of a smile almost touching his lips. “I imagine she led you here for a reason.”

“She did,” you replied, casting a glance back at Viserion, who watched the group warily, the muscles in her wings twitching. “This place called to me. There’s something here I need to see. To understand.”

Thoros of Myr finally stepped forward, rubbing his hands together as he regarded the dragon with curiosity and awe. “The Lady of High Heart said the past walks again… and here you stand.”

Arya’s fingers tugged at your torn sleeve, pulling your attention back to her. “Why are you hurt? Did someone do this to you?”

You crouched down to meet her eye level, despite the pull of pain through your legs. “No, Arya. Dragons aren’t made to carry riders, not without saddles. Viserion’s scales are sharp, and I wasn’t prepared.”

Arya glanced back at the dragon cautiously, though her fear seemed to be overshadowed by awe. “She let you ride her?”

“She did,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Arya’s face. “Dragons are not slaves, Arya. They choose. And she chose me.”

Arya’s face twisted in thought, but before she could say more, Beric’s voice cut through the moment. “The Lady awaits us. She will want to see you.”

You nodded faintly, rising back to your feet. Arya moved to your side immediately, like a shadow, her hand brushing against your arm protectively. Beric turned to Thoros and gestured for the others to stay back.

Before you could follow, Viserion let out a low growl, her wings rustling like thunder through the air. You turned back to her, lifting a hand to calm her.

“It’s alright,” you whispered. “Stay here. I’ll return.”

The dragon tilted her head, her eyes locking with yours, unblinking and deep. For a moment, you wondered if she would refuse to let you go, but then Viserion exhaled sharply and slumped back onto her haunches. Arya watched the exchange wide-eyed.

“She listens to you,” Arya murmured, half in wonder. “How do you make her do that?”

You gave her a faint smile as you turned to walk alongside her. “I don’t make her do anything. We understand each other.”

As you followed Beric and Thoros toward the circle of weirwood stumps, Arya’s voice whispered next to you. “You’re like a storybook hero now. Riding dragons and saving the day.”

You smiled down at her, though it was tinged with sadness. “I wish it were as simple as stories, Arya. Dragons aren’t just fire and wonder. They’re war, too.”

Arya looked up at you with a quiet determination in her gaze. “Then I hope you burn the ones who deserve it.”

The hilltop of High Heart loomed before you, its crown of ancient, weathered weirwood stumps standing silent and watchful, steeped in magic older than memory. Each step forward made the air grow heavier, heavy with something unseen but deeply felt—a presence that seemed to pull at you like invisible hands. Arya stayed close at your side, her grey eyes flicking between you and the path ahead.

From behind, the sound of hurried footsteps and clanging armor broke the stillness. “Seven hells,” Hot Pie’s voice carried, breathless and wide-eyed as he pointed toward Viserion, who lay coiled at the base of the hill like a great golden-creamed sentinel. “Is that a real dragon?”

Arya spun around and shot him a glare, her voice sharp as a whisper. “Shush, Hot Pie!” She turned back to you, her expression exasperated. “Ignore him. He’s like that.”

You suppressed a small smile, though your focus remained fixed ahead. “It’s alright. It’s a fair question. Dragons don’t walk this world often anymore.”

Gendry joined them, his usually steady demeanor unsettled as he kept glancing back toward Viserion. “It’s… huge,” he muttered, half in awe. “Does it bite?”

“Only when threatened,” you replied quietly, though a glint of amusement softened your tone.

Hot Pie stared at you in disbelief. “How’re you so calm? That thing could swallow us whole!”

“Because she’s more than a beast,” you answered, your voice steady as you moved forward again. “Come. We’re nearly there.”

When you reached the summit, the chill in the air was sharper, though no breeze stirred. The Lady of High Heart was waiting at the center of the ancient weirwood stumps, her small figure perched atop a gnarled root like a bird of prey. Her milky-white eyes turned toward you the moment you approached, unblinking and all-seeing, as though she had known you would come.

“Child of fire,” she rasped, her voice thin and reedy, yet carrying like a whisper on the wind. “You’ve come at last.”

You stepped closer, Arya hovering protectively near you while Beric and Thoros lingered just behind. “You called me,” you said softly. “Why?”

The ghost of High Heart tilted her head, the corners of her mouth twitching in something like a smile—or a grimace. “I did not call you. He did.”

You frowned, your brow furrowing. “Who?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her small, wrinkled hand rose, pointing a bony finger toward the circle of stumps. The world seemed to shiver as the light around you dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally. A voice whispered faintly, so close it might have been in your ear. “Come, cousin. Walk with me.”

The voice belonged to him—Brynden Rivers.

Suddenly, the world shifted, and you felt yourself pulled, weightless and untethered, into something else. The hilltop dissolved into mist, the figures of Arya, Beric, and the rest swallowed by shadow. When the haze cleared, you were no longer standing on the hill of High Heart but walking through a vast forest of frost-covered trees, their branches clawing at the grey sky.

Beside you strode a figure draped in shadow—a tall man with a pale face, his one red eye gleaming in the cold. Brynden Rivers, the Three-Eyed Raven, walked silently at your side, his heavy cloak brushing the snow-covered ground.

“You came,” he said at last, his voice both gentle and knowing, as though you were old friends meeting after years apart.

“I didn’t have much choice,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Why am I here?”

“To see,” he said simply, gesturing ahead. “To understand.”

The scene around you rippled and changed like water. The forest blurred, replaced by a stark, endless expanse of white. You were standing on the edge of the world—or so it seemed—as a howling wind swept across the frozen tundra. Shadows moved in the distance, dark shapes that sent an icy chill through your bones. The wind carried a sound that made your skin prickle—a shriek, inhuman and terrible.

“What is this?” you asked, your breath visible in the freezing air.

“Beyond the Wall,” Brynden murmured, his red eye fixed on the horizon. “The storm gathers, child of fire. The Long Night comes again, and with it, death.”

You shivered, not just from the cold but from the weight of his words. Shapes became clearer as they emerged from the distance—figures shrouded in frost, their blue eyes glowing like frozen stars. They marched forward, relentless and silent, as if nothing could stop them.

“And why do you show me this?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Brynden turned his head slightly, his gaze sharp and unfathomable. “Your son carries the blood of fire and gold. He is more than you yet know. Protect him, for he will shape the future of this world—and the war to come.”

Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “What do you mean? Damon is just a child—”

“Not forever,” Brynden interrupted, his voice cold as the air around you. “And your husband, Tywin Lannister—he is a man of stone and will. You must keep him close, for the choices you make together will determine whether fire or ice consumes this world.”

The vision rippled again, shifting abruptly. The tundra melted away, replaced by a campfire crackling in the dark. A group of figures sat huddled around it, their faces weary but familiar—wildlings. And there, standing among them, was Jon Snow.

Your breath hitched. Jon looked older, worn by the harshness of the North, but his face was unmistakable. He stood beside the fire, his sword strapped to his back, his expression contemplative. Suddenly, as though sensing your presence, he froze and turned his head sharply.

Jon’s grey eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, it was as if he truly saw you. His mouth parted in surprise, his brow furrowing as recognition dawned across his face.

“Y/N?” he whispered, his voice carried on a wind that seemed to reach you even across the vision. “Is it you?”

You tried to speak, to call his name, but the vision shattered like glass. The sound of Jon’s voice still echoed in your ears as you fell back into the present, the hilltop of High Heart solidifying around you once more.

You stumbled, the weight of what you’d seen pressing on your chest. Arya grabbed your arm to steady you, her voice tight with concern. “What happened? What did you see?”

You blinked, your breath ragged as you looked at Arya, then at Beric and Thoros. The ghost of High Heart was watching you still, her expression unreadable.

“I saw…” You swallowed, the words thick on your tongue. “I saw what’s coming. And Jon.”

Arya’s eyes widened in disbelief, but you had no chance to explain further. 

The stillness of the hilltop was shattered as a sudden, sharp pain tore through your body, pulling a cry from your lips. You stumbled forward, clutching at your side where the cuts from Viserion's scales had deepened, raw and angry. The warmth of fresh blood seeped through the torn fabric of your riding clothes, staining your palm crimson.

“Y/N!” Arya’s voice rang out, her hands grabbing at your arm as you faltered. “What’s happening? Are you alright?”

The ghost of High Heart watched silently, her small, withered frame framed by the ancient stumps, her white eyes turning milky pink in the faint light. Without another word, she stepped back into the shadows, her presence dissipating as though she were never there.

“Wait—” you gasped, reaching weakly toward where the ghost had stood, but the pain twisted again, doubling you over. You felt as though fire licked at your skin, the wounds stinging deep with every breath. “The vision—The Others—”

“You’re bleeding too much,” Beric Dondarrion interrupted sharply, stepping forward with urgency. His single eye narrowed as he surveyed your injuries, his gloved hand catching your shoulder to keep you upright. “Thoros, see to her.”

Thoros of Myr nodded and immediately knelt beside you, his movements quick yet careful. “She’s been riding without stopping,” he muttered, his hands tugging at the torn edges of your clothing to get a better look. “The cuts are filthy—dragon scales are sharp as knives, and they’ll fester if we don’t clean them.”

Arya, her face pale with panic, hovered near you. “Then fix it!” she snapped at Thoros, her voice high-pitched and desperate. “Can’t you see she’s in pain? Hurry up!”

“Calm yourself, girl!” Thoros barked, though his tone wasn’t unkind. “Shouting at me won’t help.”

The Myrish priest rummaged through the pouches at his belt, pulling out flasks of water, strips of cloth, and an old salve that smelled of herbs and something faintly bitter. He looked up at Beric. “Hold her steady.”

Beric crouched beside you, his grip strong yet careful as he braced your shoulders. “This will hurt,” he said simply, his eye locking with yours.

“I’ve felt worse,” you managed through gritted teeth, though the sweat beading on your brow betrayed you.

Thoros poured the water over your wounds without warning, and you hissed sharply as the freezing liquid hit your raw skin. Arya flinched at your cry, her small hands curling into fists. “You’re hurting her!”

“I’m saving her,” Thoros replied firmly, his expression set with grim determination. He worked quickly, his fingers skilled as he pressed the salve into the open cuts. The sting burned deep, worse than dragonfire, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood.

“Talk to me,” Beric said, his voice low and even. His hand tightened ever so slightly on your shoulder, grounding you. “Focus. What did you see? What was it?”

You swallowed thickly, your breath coming in shaky bursts as Thoros continued his work. “I saw them… The Others,” you whispered, your voice faint. “The storm beyond the Wall. They’re marching.”

Arya’s face twisted in confusion, though her concern didn’t waver. “The Others? What’s that supposed to mean?”

You nodded faintly, though every muscle in your body trembled with exhaustion. “The dead, Arya. They’re coming—endless and cold. And they won’t stop.”

Thoros exhaled sharply, as if unsettled by your words, but he kept his hands moving. “Visions are dangerous,” he muttered under his breath. “They bind us to things we’re not meant to understand.”

“She understands more than you think,” Beric said, though his gaze remained fixed on you, searching your face for clarity. “And if the dead are marching beyond the Wall, the world will need to know.”

“Let her rest first,” Thoros interjected gruffly, wrapping the last of the cloth bandages around your thigh with quick precision. “She’ll not be spreading any news until she can stand without collapsing.”

Arya hovered close, her worry etched plainly across her young face. “Is she going to be alright?” she asked Thoros, her voice quieter now.

The Myrish priest sighed, wiping his hands clean against his tunic before rising to his feet. “She’ll live,” he said, though his tone carried a note of weariness. “But she needs rest. Proper rest.”

You shifted slightly, testing the bandages as the pain dulled to a throb. “Thank you,” you muttered, though your voice was hoarse.

Beric offered his hand, helping you back to your feet with care. “Easy now. You’re strong, but don’t push yourself.”

“I don’t have time to rest,” you said quietly, glancing toward the direction where Viserion waited below the hill. “There’s more to this… more than I understand.”

“You won’t understand anything if you bleed out,” Thoros shot back, though his tone had softened.

Arya clung to your arm again as you steadied yourself. “You have to stop them. If the dead are coming, we have to do something, don’t we?”

You smiled faintly, brushing a hand against her tangled hair. “We will do something, Arya. But we need to be ready.”

Beric nodded grimly. “Then let us see to it that you survive long enough to face what comes.”

As Thoros gathered his supplies and the Brotherhood set to making camp, you allowed yourself to glance back toward the edge of the hill. The golden shape of Viserion was visible below, curled like a sleeping cat, though her head was lifted, ever watchful. A sense of calm settled over you—fleeting but real.

The vision of the Others, their frozen march and their glowing eyes, still burned in your mind. The world felt heavier now, the weight of what you had seen pressing on your chest. But you had faced storms before. You would face this one too.

The cold wind howled across the frozen expanse, carrying with it the whisper of something unseen. Jon Snow stood at the edge of the camp, his chest rising and falling as he turned his head sharply, his eyes fixed on the emptiness before him. He felt it again—that strange pull, that phantom connection, lingering like a breath of warm air in a place that knew only ice.

“Y/N!” Jon shouted suddenly, the name tearing from his lips before he realized he’d said it aloud. The sound echoed into the silent tundra, scattering the nearby ravens into the pale sky. The wildlings nearby turned to look at him, murmuring in confusion.

Ygritte’s voice cut through the wind, sharp and teasing, though concern underpinned it. “What are you doin’, Crow?” she asked, striding toward him, her red hair wild in the breeze. “You callin’ ghosts now?”

Jon didn’t answer immediately, his brow furrowed as he stared at the emptiness in front of him. He swore he had seen her—standing there, pale as the snow, her silver hair whipped by the wind, her violet eyes filled with something heavy. And she had looked hurt.

Ygritte stepped closer, gripping his arm. “Jon Snow, what in the name of the gods are you shoutin’ at? There’s nothin’ there but wind and ice.”

Jon blinked, breaking out of his daze. “I saw her,” he said quietly, though his voice trembled with uncertainty. “I saw Y/N.”

Ygritte’s brow creased. “Who?”

Jon turned to face her, his breath visible in the freezing air. “The woman who raised me.”

Ygritte tilted her head, skeptical but curious. “Thought you didn’t know your mother, Crow. You always said as much.”

“I don’t,” Jon admitted, his voice rough. “But Y/N—she was the one who cared for me when no one else would. She was like my mother, even if she wasn’t.”

The wildlings nearby shifted closer, their interest piqued. A few murmured amongst themselves, but Ygritte ignored them, narrowing her eyes at Jon. “And who is she, this woman you’re seein’ in the middle of nowhere?”

Jon exhaled, the weight of the answer settling over him. “She’s a Targaryen princess.”

Ygritte stared at him for a long moment, then scoffed, her lips quirking into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A Targaryen? A bloody dragon princess? And you’re just tellin’ me this now?”

Jon shook his head, the ghost of the vision still haunting his thoughts. “It’s not something I talk about. She raised me in Winterfell when Lord Stark brought me back as a babe. She didn’t have to, but she did. Now, Tywin Lannister took her as his wife.”

“And now you’re seein’ her out here,” Ygritte said, her tone laced with doubt. “Beyond the Wall. You think the cold’s gotten to you, Jon Snow?”

Jon turned his head sharply toward her, his expression serious. “I know what I saw, Ygritte. She was here. She looked hurt.”

The smirk faded from her lips, and for a moment, Ygritte studied him in silence, her eyes searching his face. “Hurt, you say?”

Jon nodded slowly. “Aye. Something’s happened to her, and I felt it.”

Ygritte let out a heavy breath, crossing her arms as she glanced back at the wildlings watching from a distance. “You’re tellin’ me a woman raised you like her own and she’s a dragon princess… and now she’s married to a Lannister lord?” The disbelief in her voice was clear, but it was edged with curiosity.

Jon’s jaw tightened at her words. “I don’t believe she wanted that. Tywin Lannister is a man of ambition. He doesn’t make choices without a purpose.”

“And yet you’re here,” Ygritte said, her tone softening just slightly. “Far from your wolves and castles. What do you think it means, Jon Snow, seein’ her like that?”

Jon looked out at the vast, empty horizon, his dark eyes troubled. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”

Ygritte watched him, her expression unreadable before she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low murmur. “Ghosts and visions won’t help you out here. Keep your head where it belongs—on the living.”

Jon glanced at her, a flicker of gratitude passing over his features, but his mind was still far away. “I can’t ignore it, Ygritte. She’s out there, and something’s wrong.”

Ygritte sighed and shook her head, muttering under her breath as she turned to leave him standing alone again. “Bloody Crows and their ghosts…”

As Ygritte moved away, Jon remained where he stood, the cold biting at his face. He looked once more at the empty air where he’d seen you—your pale hair, your wounded stance. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light. It had felt too real. You were calling to him, somehow.

And somewhere, across the snow-covered expanse of the North, Jon Snow swore he would find the truth. 

The large stone chamber of Casterly Rock was cold, the long table surrounded by men who wore the weight of Tywin Lannister’s authority like heavy cloaks. Maps were spread before them, marked with quills and tokens, outlining routes traveled and territories searched. 

Kevan Lannister stood closest to him, his voice steady but edged with hesitation as he finished his latest report. “Our men scoured High Heart, my lord. The hilltop was deserted when we arrived—no trace of the lady or her dragon.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the hearth. Tywin’s fingers drummed slowly on the arm of his chair, the sound unnervingly deliberate. “No trace?” he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. “Are you telling me that a dragon—a creature large enough to blot out the sun—simply vanished into thin air?”

Kevan shifted uneasily under his brother’s cold stare. “It would seem so, my lord. The locals speak of the hill as a cursed place. Some believe the dragon is… of magic.”

Tywin scoffed sharply, the sound laced with scorn. “Magic.” His gaze flicked over to the other men at the table, daring them to echo such nonsense. None met his eyes. “Find me practical answers, not old wives’ tales.”

Mace Tyrell cleared his throat from the far side of the table, leaning slightly back in his chair. “It appears, Lord Tywin, that the princess and her dragon move with a will of their own—elusive as the wind. Wherever they go, there are whispers, but no proof. It’s as though she has disappeared.”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to Mace, and for a moment, it looked as though he might explode with anger. “My wife does not simply disappear, Lord Tyrell,” he said icily. “She is out there, and I will have her found.”

Kevan, unwilling to relent, pressed cautiously. “Brother, we’ve exhausted nearly every path. Riverlands, the Reach—our men are spread thin, and this search is leaving us vulnerable. We are bleeding resources for a single woman—”

“A single woman?” Tywin’s voice cracked like a whip, his face hard as stone as he rose to his feet, towering over the room. “She is worth more than every man sitting at this table, Kevan.”

The room tensed at his outburst, even Mace falling silent. Kevan took a step back, his expression one of wary resignation. “Tywin, I only meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant,” Tywin snapped, his sharp tone cutting through Kevan’s attempted apology. “You think I should abandon her. Cast her aside as though she were nothing.”

Kevan held his ground, though the weight of Tywin’s fury bore down on him. “She’s your wife, yes, but she is also a Targaryen. A dragonlord with a beast at her command. She is not loyal to our banners—can you be certain she will return to you willingly?”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table, his gaze cold enough to freeze steel. “She will return.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Kevan pressed softly, though the tension in the room was palpable. “What then?”

“She will,” Tywin repeated, his voice a growl of absolute conviction. “Because she knows what is at stake. I will not repeat myself again.”

Mace Tyrell, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet through the exchange, finally leaned forward with his hands clasped. “You trust her, then, my lord?”

Tywin turned his gaze to Mace, and for the first time, there was no hint of mockery in the Reach lord’s question. It was genuine curiosity. Tywin straightened, smoothing his hands over his doublet, his composure slowly returning. “Trust?” he echoed, almost as though testing the word. “I trust in her understanding of duty. In her resolve.”

His voice dipped slightly, though there was an edge of finality to it. “And I trust that no one in this realm—not one man—understands what it means to bear the weight of a kingdom on their shoulders better than she does.”

The room fell silent once more, the men around the table avoiding his gaze, their earlier protests buried under the weight of his words. Tywin settled back into his chair, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face.

“Double the patrols in the Riverlands,” he ordered, his tone calm once more but no less commanding. “Send word to every loyal bannerman between here and the Wall. She is not to be harmed. If they see the dragon, they will report to me. No one moves without my word.”

Kevan hesitated for a moment but nodded. “As you say, my lord.”

Tywin turned his gaze back to the map before him, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. His mind was calculating—always calculating. Y/n was out there somewhere, with Viserion at her side, and he would not allow uncertainty to erode his grip on her or their future.

“Dismissed,” Tywin said curtly, and the room began to empty, the scrape of chairs and shuffle of boots echoing through the hall. Kevan lingered for a moment longer but thought better of speaking further, following the others out.

When the door finally closed, Tywin’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly, though his face remained as still and impassive as ever. His gaze lingered on the map, on the Riverlands where her trail had last been seen.

For all his composure, a single thought gnawed at him: Where are you? And why haven’t you come back to me?

The corridors of Casterly Rock were unusually quiet this evening, the heavy tapestries and thick stone walls muffling the sounds of the stronghold. Tywin walked with a measured pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of cold authority. The day’s frustrations hung heavily on him, but he would not allow his weariness to show. His men doubted, Kevan questioned him, and whispers of dragons had begun to snake their way into the ears of his bannermen. But Tywin Lannister had weathered far worse storms.

He reached the door of the nursery and paused briefly before stepping inside. The warmth of the room greeted him—the hearth crackling low, the glow of candlelight casting soft shadows across the walls. A nursemaid rose from her chair and bowed her head as Tywin entered. “Leave us,” he ordered quietly, and the woman scurried away, closing the door behind her.

His son, Damon, lay in a cradle fashioned from carved gold and dark red oak, the Lannister lion emblazoned on its side. The boy stirred softly, his silver-gold hair glowing in the firelight as he let out a content sigh in his sleep. Tywin moved toward him, his usually rigid posture loosening just enough to betray the rare flicker of vulnerability he reserved for moments like this.

He stopped beside the cradle, his sharp gaze softening. The boy’s tiny hand curled around nothing, his peaceful face a sharp contrast to the chaos surrounding him. His blood. His heir. For all the trials of the past moons, here was proof that his efforts had borne fruit. Damon was a future secured, a legacy given form.

As Tywin watched his son, the door creaked open, and the maester entered hesitantly, clutching a scroll in his weathered hands. “My lord,” he said in a low, deferential tone, “Ser Jaime is en route from King’s Landing. He should arrive within the week.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to the old man, a faint narrowing of his eyes the only indication of his thoughts. “Jaime?”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester confirmed, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “It seems Queen Mother sent him. She… insisted.”

*Of course she did. Tywin’s jaw tightened briefly. He could already picture Cersei’s smug defiance, her desire to tighten her grasp on Jaime now that Y/N’s absence had destabilized the fragile peace. She would be hoping for support—perhaps even plotting. Tywin would deal with her when the time came. For now, his focus was elsewhere.

“You will prepare his quarters,” Tywin instructed flatly. “And ensure that no one else is disturbed by his arrival.”

The maester bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He shuffled out of the room, leaving Tywin once more alone with his son.

Tywin sighed softly—an uncharacteristic sound—as he sank into the chair beside the cradle. His gaze returned to Damon, who still slumbered peacefully, oblivious to the weight of expectation placed upon him. For the first time that day, Tywin allowed himself to relax, though it was subtle. The sharp lines of his shoulders eased, and the hard edge in his stare softened.

“You are stronger than you know,” he murmured quietly, his words almost lost to the crackle of the fire. “And you will need to be.”

Tywin leaned back in the chair, watching the boy as he slept. There was something about this small, helpless child that grounded him, even now. Damon was a mix of two powerful bloodlines—Lannister and Targaryen. His existence was proof that Tywin’s plans, for all their trials and conflicts, were succeeding.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. The Targaryens had once been his family’s greatest rivals, and now their legacy was entwined with his own. Tywin’s gaze lingered on the soft silver sheen of Damon’s hair, a reminder of Y/N’s, her fire. He frowned faintly, the thought of her absence stirring something uncomfortable within him. She had left, vanished with her dragon to gods knew where, but he refused to believe she would abandon this—their son, their future.

“You will know her strength,” Tywin said softly, his tone carrying a strange note of conviction. “And mine.”

Damon stirred in his sleep, letting out a small, quiet sigh as though in response. Tywin allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to cross his lips, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He reached into the cradle, his fingers brushing gently over the boy’s small hand. Damon’s fingers twitched instinctively, curling slightly against his father’s.

For a long while, Tywin sat there, silent and still, watching the child. Outside, the Rock’s great halls were alive with whispers of dragons, absent wives, and unstable alliances. But here, in this room, there was quiet—a moment of peace that Tywin would not allow the world to shatter.

When he finally rose, the hardness of his expression returned, but his movements were careful as he tucked the blanket closer around Damon. He lingered one last moment, his gaze lingering on his son.

“You will inherit a world stronger than the one I was given,” he said quietly, his voice firm with promise. “And you will endure.”

Tywin straightened, his full composure restored as he strode toward the door, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor. When he opened it, his features were a mask of calm authority, the face of a man who controlled everything and allowed nothing to slip through his grasp.

And yet, as he stepped into the corridor and the door closed softly behind him, the image of Damon’s small, sleeping form lingered in his mind—an anchor in a storm that refused to calm.

[paeliae-occasionally]

HI PAE PAE! 👋👾🙇‍♀️

how was laith’t (i’m not trusting myself with that spelling) impacted by paeliae’s death?

Great question! It is true that Laith’Tielere highly honoured Paeliae, in the way that any society honours a rare good politician. The caveat here is that Paeliae didn’t just die, he died carrying a peace treaty and ending a war that had been tearing Tielere apart for years. Like genuinely if the treaty didn’t happen, Tielere probably wouldn’t exist today and even now it is much less prominent than it once was.

When news of the Accords came out, Paeliae was treated like a saviour who single handedly saved the lives of everyone who lived in that city, so obviously his legacy was loud and long lasting.

So Tielere became a minor city under the control of Myr, but Myr honoured Paeliae like a god or a folk hero. There were friezes on temples of him speaking to Azhan and statues in all of the major cities of him carrying the treaty. There were a whole bunch of Paeliae cults who would pray to him to end their conflicts or to guide politicians into wise choices.

In the inauguration of new members of the Miras council they would read a section of one of Paeliae’s philosophical writings and would be told to go and serve as well as he did. He was seen as a role model for any politician or leader to base their decisions off. The council also was revered as speaking with Paeliae’s authority.

While most of this was considered legend by the people, his influence did cause democracy to continue in Miras for all of the hundreds of years that it ruled.

It got a little weird but his writings were really important to the development of Myr and likely did more good than harm.

Thanks for the ask!

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

Corlys Velaryon NSFW Alphabet

summary: it's in the title :)

notes: why is writing fanfic so easy compared to original works :///

warnings: written with afab!reader in mind, smut, mentions of corlys' god complex

tagged: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins @levithestripper @cookielovesbook-akie  @a-beaverhousen @ilikeitbetterangsty (hmu to be added/removed!)

masterlist | requests are OPEN!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He knows his size. That’s all I’m gonna say. Takes care of you real good, massages you if you feel sore.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes his hands, especially his fingers. Also knows exactly what his ringed hands do to you, and uses it to his full advantage.

Loves your ass. Corlys is definitely into spanking, and it shows.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

All this talk of legacy makes me 100% sure that he always cums inside.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Wants to fuck you on every centimeter of Driftmark, and then some.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s seen the world, of course he’s experienced (also he’s a dilf so…)

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

It’s a tie between anal and doggy. He really does love your ass, and anal is a way to be super super close to you. Doggy is just for the view tbh.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s a serious person, and that translates into the bedroom.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Definitely has a manscaping kit from Lys.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

I think he’d be surprisingly romantic and gentle with you, but then he notices the size difference between your head and his hands and…

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

While he’s away, he does it to relieve himself, but he doesn’t need that when you’re there.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Size kink, breeding kink, bondage and dom/sub dynamics

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere really, as long as it’s not public

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

A display of power from you gets him a little bit excited tbh. It’s more pride than anything, but he still finds it hot.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Share you. You’re his, and it should stay that way. Also, he wouldn’t enjoy subbing or being tied up, but he loves it on you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Prefers giving, like the man he is. He’s also disgustingly good at it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Look at him. He does whatever gets your brain mushy.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Seldom, if there’s been a long time period without seeing each other.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

As long as the risks aren’t any of his No’s he’s okay with experimenting (on you)

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Lasts forever. He needs a little rebound time, but he could go at it all night.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s traveled the world, so I’d assume he’s brought some stuff back.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Loves to tease you. As said, he wants you to be a little cockdumb. Especially if you’re very powerful normally, there’s something about you being a babbling mess for him that just gets him going

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Silent and deadly

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Brings you lingerie from Lys and Myr to tear it apart

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He knows his size, and his size is big :)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty high I’d say. He needs it, especially if he’s had a long day.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He takes care of you for a while, but as soon as you’re cuddling together, he’s gone

[jones-friend]

MH3 is dropping and while its a bloated set of raw power to keep legacy sets cycling with some truly heinous new cards I’ve seen zero buzz over the coolest new print Herigast.

You might get sidetracked by red’s lack of self preservation enough to forget that monored is one of the best artifact builds in the business. Sacrificing artifacts is their bread and butter with lots of spicy death triggers and artifacts have built in ways to recur creatures to hand and cast them again. Plus all your relevant emerge creatures are artifacts so there are no color costs to keep up with!

Imposing Grandeur wheels out your hand for a whopping 9 cards.

Scrap Trawler lets emerges recur older sacrifices to keep the engine going.

A T2 mana rock, T3 solemn, T4 cast Heri and draw a card.

Metalwork discounts itself with your artifact support AND sacrifices artifacts from the gy AND recurs itself.

Junk Diver is a 3 mana recursion, here overpaying for Myr Retriever (run both) actually benefits you.

Wurmcoil has a good mana cost AND sac effect.

Myr Battlesphere puts a whole field out for you.

Su Chi gives you 16 mana. 8 from its mana value on emerge and 8 when it dies.

[diamondperfumes]

Analysis on how Daenerys is the antithesis of Old Valyria, which somehow leads to the conclusion that her death is the rightful ending because it'll signify the "true end" of Valyria, is odd for two main reasons:

House Targaryen aren't the only ethnic Valyrians left in the world. In Westeros there is still House Velaryon and House Celtigar. In Essos there are countless ethnic Valyrians, a diaspora spread across Lys, Volantis, Myr, Tyrosh, Pentos, Qohor, and Lorath. Volantis fashions itself as the inheritor of the Valyrian legacy. And even if Dany defeats the Old Blood of Volantis (which I believe she will), ethnic Valyrians aren't going to drop dead just because Dany dies. (Whether the idea that all Valyrians should die is truly progressive is a question I leave up to fans––personally, I think GRRM depicts the Westerosi murdering Rego Draz after blaming him for the spread of The Shivers, during Jaehaerys I's reign, and the Westerosi alienating Larra Rogare of Lys, prompting her to leave her husband and children, as bad things––but even logistically and practically speaking, Dany is not the "last Valyrian.")

What is a "progressive" culture in Westeros? Braavos, a capitalist city, seems to be the only place that fits the ASOIAF fandom's standards of progressiveness. I suppose Dorne does too, if fans steadfastly ignore all the ways George problematizes that (which fans tend to, at least on here). Most, if not all, the cultures and ethnic groups depicted in Planetos have perpetuated a combination of slavery, conquest, genocide, mass murder, wars for dominion over the land, feudal casteism, exploitation of the commoners, and of course, patriarchy. Can fans even identify concrete "progressive" traits of the different Westerosi regions, from the North to the Iron Islands to the Westerlands to the Stormlands to the Riverlands to the Crownlands to the Vale? If the idea is that Daenerys has to die to put a rest to the oppression of Valyrian culture, which cultures are left that inherit a progressive mantle?

Again I don't have a grand conclusion to this post. Consider these as questions to ponder over.

[westeroslive]

when  the  sun  rises  in  the  west,   the  gods  eyes  are  drawn.  may  the  seven  have  mercy  upon  you  as  we  welcome  you  to  court,   prince-admiral varunan moraqos, princess mayari dagareon !   now  a  victim  of  the  court,  the  bards  compare  your  beauty  to  dev patel, jane de leon  as  you  play  the  game  in  the  midst  of  seasoned  nobles.

behave  and  follow  the  queen's  word  written  in  our  checklist  and  submit  your  account  within  24  hours.  

࣪𓏲ּ ֶָ 𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗 ⁝ dev patel, thirty-four, cis man, he / him. announcing the arrival of VARUNAN of house MORAQOS, the PRINCE-ADMIRAL OF MYR. whispers among the court name them to be both VIGOROUS and MERCILESS in disposition, and those closest to them speak to their interests in hobby. if we bards could compose a song for them, it might tell stories of you exist a truth seeker—your mind is a scalpel designed to cut through the mendacity and take inventory; you probe and push pressure points—unrelenting in your desire for answers, to you , everyone is a riddle that you must decipher by tearing away the flesh and exposing the viscera; you assess their internal structure for any signs of decay and lie in wait —ready to strike when least expected, there is glory to be had and it is yours for the taking—insatiable ambition coupled with the moreish taste of legacy and all of its golden entrapments; you have inherited your father’s unwavering dedication to power. the seven whisper to their most devout queen as she sleeps, making her question where their loyalties truly lie. are they right to whisper? for their loyalties truly lie with HOUSE MORAQOS. ( ooc : day )

𓏲ּ ֶָ 𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗 ⁝ jane de leon, twenty-six, cis woman, she / her. announcing the arrival of MAYARI of house DAGAREON, the PRINCESS OF ESSOS. whispers among the court name them to be both REFINED and ILLUSORY in disposition, and those closest to them speak to their interests in hobby. if we bards could compose a song for them, it might tell stories of you belong to the pantheon—inherited godliness; born of ichor and nectar—excellence comes organically, you are your begetter’s gilded weapon; designed to beguile—to act as both the serpent and the forbidden fruit, you are idealization given form; both galatea and pandora—you were chiseled and forged, you are treated as one would a possession; something to be coveted and hoarded away—they do not see you for what you truly are; they do not notice the blade—flowing silks hiding poison-laced steel. the seven whisper to their most devout queen as she sleeps, making her question where their loyalties truly lie. are they right to whisper? for their loyalties truly lie with HOUSE DAGAREON. ( ooc : day )

[beyondmistland]

Do you think Robert Baratheon was actually haunted by the memory of Elia’s children in the Lannister red cloaks, in the same way Ned Stark and Thoros of Myr were?

"I see no babes, only dragonspawn" sounds like a pretty firm no, which is important for a whole host of reasons. One, it further complicates the legacy of Robert's Rebellion, which would be pretty cut-and-dry were it not for Tywin's involvement. Two, it shows us one of the important ways Ned differs from Robert, thereby setting up a number of Ned's actions later in the book (resigning the Handship in protest, warning Cersei to flee, making a false confession, etc.). Three, it shows us that Robert is neither The Good King nor The Caligula but something closer to real life, which can also be seen in how the aforementioned quote contrasts with what Tywin says in Tyrion VI of ASOS ("And Robert's relief was palpable. As stupid as he was, even he knew that Rhaegar's children had to die if his throne was ever to be secure. Yet he saw himself as a hero, and heroes do not kill children.") as well as what Robert himself says on his deathbed in Eddard XIII of AGOT ("The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right … that's why, the girl … the gods sent the boar … sent to punish me …").

Thanks for the question, anon

[emcads]

some notes on my newly minted a/soiaf au, mostly for my own reference

Lord Rafael de Sevilla is a warlord of Braavos who commands a respectable fleet of ships and pays allegiance to the Sealord. He himself commands a large, 2-deck dromond as flagship named The Talion, which formerly belonged to the royal fleet at Dragonstone as (under the name Sea Falcon) but was abandoned in the stepstones with her entire crew lost to the butterfly fever. she still bears Targaryen colors, with a dark hull and sails dyed red rather than the traditional Braavosi purple –– as such, she can occasionally be mistaken for a royal Westerosi ship. Esmeralda remains with Rafael almost constantly, and serves as an officer on The Talion when at sea. Rafael's right hand is a Tyroshi lieutenant by the name of Luis Montoya, who has died the tips of his mustache and beard maroon.

The Sevillas have a legacy as an ancient family of Myr, having built their wealth through trade, particularly in lace, fire wine, and fruit. Unlike much of Myr, the family did not utilize enslaved or Unsullied labor, which attracted attention from freemen and fostered rebellions among other enslaved populations in Myr. Although Rafael did not campaign for the end of slavery personally, considering such revolutionary sentiment as a threat to his own power, the lord's influence, along with the richness of their holdings, threatened the rule of the magisters. When Gabriel chose a formerly enslaved Naathi bride, Zephyranthe, and named his daughter his heir, the magisters were incited to turn against Rafael (though unwilling to dirty their own hands) Hired sellswords killed Gabriel and Zephyranthe, and razed their home and set fire to Rafael's fleet, of which only one ship survived. Rafael escaped with Esmeralda, only a child, and her Naathi nurse, on this ship and fled to Braavos.

The Sevilla family have worshiped R'hllor for generations, Esmeralda included. After the fire, from which they were both reborn, their faith grows ever-stronger: Don Rafael believes that Esmeralda's unlikely survival marks her as uniquely protected by the Lord of Light, and sends her to study in Volantis as a ward where she becomes practiced in the arts of the faith. But she rejects the prospect of giving herself over entirely to the Temple and flees to Braavos to find freedom with her grandfather as a teen. Having since grown to adulthood in Braavos she also acknowledges deities such as The Merling King, The Moon-Pale Maiden, and the love goddess of Lys, although they rank far below the Red God. she tends to believe in their suspicions, rather than dutiful practice.

While in Braavos, Esmeralda trained extensively in the water dance style of swordfighting, and became a better swordsman than even her grandfather (who was schooled in a heavy-handed, old-school warrior style of combat, as opposed to the deadly elegance of Braavosi dueling). though she is not technically a bravo (as Lord Rafael cherishes her much too closely to let her be so reckless in silly fights) she adopts many of their attitudes, including their sense of style. Esmeralda tends to either dress traditionally, in the style of a Myrish lady, or crossdressing as a swaggering bravo with sword on her hip. she has a Volantene flame of R'hllor tattooed on her hip, in commemoration of her faith as well as the slaughter that lead to her true birth.

Politically, the pair of them seek to enact revenge on the magisters and their abetters, within Myr and the other Free Cities. Lord Rafael is very careful to maneuver through channels of power and to leave the chosen target vulnerable before any physical violence is enacted; Esmeralda tends to err on the side of bodily impulse, whether that be violence or seduction to achieve what she wants. Rafael also wants to see Esmeralda restored to the proper status owed to her, and aims to marry her well, which is easier achieved as they grow more successful, restore their wealth, and ruin their opponents in Myr, but occasionally threatened by their forays into less-legitimate violence and piracy. Esmeralda has less ambitious goals in that regard, and would much prefer to find love than power in her own hand. but she serves first and foremost her loyalty to Lord Rafael, and though occasionally rebellious, opposes him openly on very little, including marriage schemes.

She's distantly related to Bellegere Otherys through her mother: among the few memories Esmeralda has of her are hearing her stories of the pirate queen.

[honeysulani]

[mykpopwire]

media release: EXO’s CHEN announces highly anticipated 2024 FAN-CON "Beyond the DOOR" in KUALA LUMPUR

IMC Live Global is thrilled to announce the 2024 CHEN FAN-CON “Beyond the DOOR” in KUALA LUMPUR!

Best known as a member of the popular K-pop group EXO, CHEN’S highly anticipated fan-con, the 2024 CHEN FAN-CON “Beyond the DOOR” is set to continue its journey to Kuala Lumpur following stops in Seoul, Taipei and Bangkok. Scheduled to take place at the Mega Star Arena on November 8, 2024, this fan-con marks CHEN’s very first tour as a solo artiste and offers fans a special opportunity to connect with CHEN through live performances and fan interactions.

Following the release of CHEN’s latest solo album, DOOR, which debuted in May 2024 with the title track “Empty,” fans can look forward to hearing live renditions of songs from the album during the fan-con. The album’s themes, “Blank” and “Stack,” explore the emptiness and filling of the mind while the album’s title DOOR invites listeners into CHEN’s musical world. In addition to these new tracks, fans can also enjoy CHEN’s past hit songs and beloved drama OSTs, providing an immersive experience of his captivating vocal talent and musical versatility.

In addition to showcasing his music, CHEN will also engage with fans during the fan-con through specially planned events, including games and activities. Notably, he will also be performing a track from his newly released single, making this fan-con even more special.

“All-round vocalist”, CHEN has been making a significant impact both as a member of EXO and as a solo artiste. His distinctive powerful voice and heartfelt music have captivated audiences, and his solo work further enriches this legacy by offering a more personal and intimate look at his artistry. With each release, CHEN delves into new musical landscapes and emotional depths, continually reinforcing his status as a standout performer in the K-pop industry.

Tickets for 2024 CHEN FAN-CON "Beyond the DOOR" in Kuala Lumpur will be made available on 11 October 2024 via ETIX.MY. Ticket prices are going at MYR 758 (VIP), MYR 598 (CAT 1), MYR 498 (CAT 2), MYR 398 (CAT 3). Ticket holders can look forward to a variety of exclusive fan benefits, including a special sound check experience, a group photo opportunity with the artiste,  a memorable send-off on stage, exclusive photocards, and signed posters. Visit IMC Live Global’s social media platforms for more information on these exclusive fan benefits.

2024 CHEN FAN-CON "Beyond the DOOR" in KUALA LUMPUR is proudly brought to you by IMC Live Global. For the latest updates and detailed information about the concert, follow IMC Live Global on Facebook and Instagram.

*photos courtesy of INB 100 and IMC Live Global

Don’t forget to like, follow and subscribe to MY K-POP WIRE for more K-Pop interview, debut, comeback and event updates!

X (Twitter): mykpopwire

Instagram: mykpopwire

TikTok: mykpopwire

Facebook: MY K-POP WIRE

YouTube: MY K-POP WIRE

[novaursa]

Legacy (what burns)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (description of injuries, slight adult content)

- Previous part: friends at heart

- Next part: what whispers

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The great hall of Casterly Rock was warm, lit by roaring hearths and filled with the low hum of conversation among soldiers and servants. Despite the oppressive winter outside, the air here carried a faint warmth, thanks to the presence of the dragons resting below. Damon, sitting at a table near the far end of the hall, rested his chin on his small hands as he observed the group of men seated near the center.

Beric Dondarrion and his band of followers were a curious sight to the boy. Their weathered faces and ragged cloaks set them apart from the polished Lannister guards who moved around the room. Damon had heard whispers about them—of their exploits, their brushes with death, and Beric’s own unnatural survival. He was drawn to them, his wide eyes taking in every detail.

“Lord Damon,” one of the guards said softly from behind him, “your mother and father would not wish for you to linger here.”

Damon ignored the guard, his curiosity outweighing his usual obedience. His gaze remained fixed on Thoros of Myr, who caught him staring and raised his flask in a mock toast. The red-robed priest whispered something to Beric, and the older man turned his single, weary eye toward the boy.

“Come here, lad,” Thoros called out, his voice carrying a friendly tone. “No need to skulk in the shadows like a ghost.”

Damon hesitated, glancing back at the guards, who shifted uneasily.

“Stay close, my lord,” one of them urged.

Damon nodded and slid off the bench, his small boots tapping softly against the stone floor as he approached the group. The guards followed at a careful distance, their eyes steady and watchful.

As Damon reached them, Beric leaned forward, his gaze level but kind. The firelight cast flickering shadows across the scars that crisscrossed his face. “How are the nightmares?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

Damon froze mid-step, his heart skipping a beat. He looked up at Beric, startled. “How... how do you know about that?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Beric exchanged a glance with Thoros, who gave a slight nod. “You carry the look of someone haunted,” Beric said, his tone understanding. “I’ve seen it before, in men who’ve faced things they can’t forget.”

Damon’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer. “But I’m just a boy,” he said, almost to himself. “I haven’t fought anything.”

Thoros chuckled, leaning back in his chair and taking another swig from his flask. “Nightmares don’t care how old you are, lad. They’ll come for anyone, given the chance.”

Beric gestured to an empty stool near the fire. “Sit, if you’d like. Tell me about them.”

Damon hesitated again, glancing back at the guards, who gave him a reluctant nod. He climbed onto the stool, his small frame dwarfed by the towering men around him. For a moment, he said nothing, staring into the fire as if searching for the right words.

“They’re... dark,” Damon began, his voice quiet. “There’s snow everywhere, and it’s cold. I can’t see much, but... I know something bad is coming. I saw my mother and father, and they... they were gone.” His small hands clenched into fists as he stared at the flames. “And there were spiders. Big ones. They were going to eat them.”

The room grew quieter as Damon’s words lingered in the air. Thoros and Beric exchanged a glance, the weight of the boy’s fears settling heavily between them.

“I’ve seen such creatures,” Beric said finally, his voice grave. “The spiders of the Long Night. They’re real, Damon. But your mother and father—they’re strong. They won’t fall to the darkness.”

Damon’s gaze lifted to Beric, his expression a mixture of fear and hope. “Do you think so?”

Beric nodded solemnly. “I do. And you, boy—you’re stronger than you think. Facing nightmares, even in your dreams, takes courage.”

Thoros leaned forward, his tone softer now. “The fire in you is a gift, Damon. You carry your mother’s blood, and your father’s will. Don’t let fear take that from you.”

Damon sat silently for a moment, processing their words. “I don’t want to be afraid,” he admitted. “But the dreams feel real. Like they’re going to happen.”

Beric rested a hand gently on Damon’s shoulder, the weight of it steady and reassuring. “The future is always uncertain, lad. But remember this—you’re never alone. There are those who will stand by you, no matter what comes.”

Damon looked up at him, his young face filled with a quiet determination. “Like you?”

Beric smiled faintly. “Like me.”

One of the guards stepped forward, clearing his throat. “My lord, your mother will be looking for you soon.”

Damon nodded reluctantly, slipping off the stool. He turned back to Beric and Thoros. “Thank you,” he said earnestly.

“Anytime, lad,” Thoros replied with a wink. “Now, off you go. And don’t let the nightmares win.”

As Damon walked back to his guards, he glanced over his shoulder one last time at the men by the fire. Beric raised his cup in a silent salute, and Damon gave him a small, hesitant smile before disappearing into the hall.

Beric watched him go, the faint flicker of the flames reflecting in his weary eye. “That boy has a fire in him,” he murmured. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”

Thoros took another swig from his flask, nodding in agreement. “Let’s hope.”

The study in Casterly Rock was lit with only a few candles, the shadows of the towering bookshelves casting long, foreboding shapes across the walls. Tywin Lannister sat at his desk, his eyes scanning a parchment that one of his men had delivered earlier that evening. His jaw tightened ever so slightly as he finished reading, the faint flicker of unease in his expression barely perceptible.

Across from him, Varys, the ever-watchful Spider of the realm, stood with his hands clasped neatly in front of him, his face betraying none of the intrigue or concern that might linger in his mind.

“This is the fourth report in two moons,” Tywin said, placing the parchment down with a deliberate motion. “Entire settlements gone. Houses, livestock, people—all vanished without so much as a trace.”

Varys tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Gone without a trace, my lord? Or left behind a trace too gruesome to mention?”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to him, his irritation flaring at the eunuch’s cryptic tone. “I’m not in the mood for riddles, Varys. Speak plainly.”

Varys inclined his head slightly, a thin smile tugging at his lips. “Of course, my lord. I only meant to suggest that these disappearances may not be as... clean as they seem. Perhaps what is left behind is something so horrific that those who find it dare not put it into words.”

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepling as he regarded the spymaster. “You have a talent for sowing doubt and fear with your words. Tell me—what do you truly know of these vanishings?”

Varys’s eyes flickered with a hint of something unreadable. “I know that such events are not isolated to the Westerlands. There have been whispers from the Riverlands, the Reach, and even the Stormlands. Small villages and hamlets—places too insignificant to warrant much attention—simply cease to exist. And always, there are rumors of shadows moving in the night.”

“Shadows,” Tywin repeated coldly. “You expect me to believe that these vanishings are the work of some supernatural force?”

“I expect you to consider all possibilities, Lord Tywin,” Varys replied smoothly. “After all, the Long Night brought with it horrors beyond comprehension, as you already have witnessed some yourself. Who’s to say they haven’t returned with something more?”

Tywin’s fingers drummed against the desk, his expression hardening. “Horrors or not, this realm does not run on tales of the Long Night. These people—my people—are disappearing, and I will have answers. I won’t allow this winter to strip me of my strength.”

Varys nodded, his gaze sharp despite his measured tone. “Your strength is unquestionable, my lord. But strength alone may not be enough if what we face is truly from beyond the Wall.”

Tywin stood abruptly, the movement commanding the room. “What do you propose?”

Varys spread his hands in a placating gesture. “I propose vigilance, my lord. Send riders to investigate the settlements that have gone silent. Ensure that the lands around Casterly Rock are watched closely, especially during the late hours. And perhaps... consult the one person who has seen the truth of what lies beyond.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “You mean my wife.”

Varys nodded. “Lady Y/N saw the Long Night in her visions. If there is anyone who might understand what is happening, it is her.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, his displeasure evident. “She has done enough, Varys. This family has done enough. I will not risk her or my sons over shadows and whispers.”

“And yet, my lord,” Varys said softly, “the shadows may come for them, regardless of your will. As they did before.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the edge of the desk. “Send out scouts,” he ordered curtly. “I want every corner of these lands searched, every whisper investigated. If there is a threat, I will find it and crush it.”

Varys inclined his head in agreement. “Of course, my lord. Your resolve is, as always, unwavering.”

“Spare me your flattery,” Tywin said coldly, turning back to the parchment on his desk. “If you hear anything—anything—I want to know immediately.”

“Consider it done,” Varys said with a bow, his silken robes rustling as he stepped back. “I will leave you to your thoughts, my lord.”

As Varys exited the study, Tywin remained standing by his desk, his gaze fixed on the flickering flame of the nearest candle. The room was silent save for the faint crackle of the fire, but his mind churned with a storm of thoughts.

He would not admit it—not even to himself—but the mention of shadows, of whispers in the night, stirred something deep within him. A faint unease, a memory of the horrors he had seen in the dark. But he pushed it aside, steeling himself as he always did.

This was his land, his realm, and he would see it endure. No matter the cost.

The heavy furs of the bed provided warmth against the biting cold that crept through the stone walls of Casterly Rock. The soft crackle of the fire in the hearth filled the room, its light casting specters over the entwined forms beneath the covers. Tywin’s hands, strong and commanding, gripped your waist, his movements deliberate as he made love to you with the same intensity he commanded in battle or council.

Yet, even as you arched against him, gasping at the pleasure he brought, you could see it—the weight in his eyes, the distraction etched into the furrow of his brow. It was rare for Tywin to falter, even for a moment, but tonight, his mind seemed elsewhere.

“Tywin,” you murmured, your hands smoothing over his shoulders as he leaned over you, pressing soft kisses along your neck. “You’re not here.”

His lips paused briefly against your skin, and his breath fanned across your collarbone before he spoke. “I am here,” he said firmly, though his voice carried a faint edge of defensiveness.

You cupped his face, tilting his head so his gaze met yours. His green eyes, keen and calculating even in intimacy, betrayed the storm of thoughts raging behind them. “No,” you whispered, brushing your thumb along his jawline. “You’re distracted. What’s troubling you?”

Tywin sighed, his weight settling beside you on the bed as he pushed himself up. He ran a hand through his thinning silvered hair, his other hand absently tracing patterns on your hip. “There have been... concerning reports,” he admitted finally, his voice low and measured. “Settlements vanishing. Entire villages gone without a trace.”

You frowned, propping yourself up on one elbow. “You mentioned nothing of this at dinner.”

“Because it’s not a matter to discuss lightly,” he replied, his tone sharp but not unkind. “I’ve sent scouts, but so far, we’ve found nothing definitive. Only whispers of... unnatural things.”

“Unnatural?” you pressed, a knot of unease forming in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling against the fur-lined mattress. “There are rumors of shadows, of creatures moving in the night and their increased activity. And now this...” He hesitated, glancing at you as if weighing how much to reveal. “The hunters found evidence of more giant spiders moving in groups. Tracks. Webbing. And worse—signs of something larger, more dangerous.”

A chill ran through you, but you masked it with determination. “Then let me go,” you said firmly.

Tywin’s gaze snapped to you, his expression hardening. “Absolutely not.”

“It makes sense,” you argued, sitting up fully and pulling the furs around your shoulders. “Viserion can cover ground faster than any scout. If there is a threat, I can find it and return before it spreads further.”

Tywin’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a controlled strength. “Do not even think about it,” he said coldly. “You will not risk yourself flying into the unknown.”

You placed your free hand over his, your touch soft but resolute. “And what would you have me do? Sit here while our people vanish? While the realm falls into chaos?”

“You are not expendable,” he growled, his voice rising slightly. “Do you think I can afford to lose you? To have our sons lose their mother?”

“And what of you?” you countered, your voice steady but filled with emotion. “You rode out into the dark with your men not long ago. You faced those horrors head-on. Did you think of what I would do if I lost you?”

Tywin’s grip loosened, and he exhaled sharply, his shoulders stiffening. “That was different. I am—”

���You are not invincible,” you interrupted, your gaze unwavering. “Neither of us is. But I have a dragon, Tywin. Viserion can protect me in ways no guard or army can.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. “You don’t understand the danger.”

“And you underestimate me,” you replied softly, leaning closer to him. “I’ve seen what’s out there. I’ve faced it before, and I survived. Let me help, Tywin. Let me do this.”

Tywin’s hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with surprising tenderness. “You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known,” he muttered, his tone a mix of frustration and admiration.

You smiled faintly, placing your hand over his. “And you love me for it.”

He didn’t deny it, but his expression remained conflicted. “Promise me,” he said after a long pause, his voice low and firm. “Promise me you’ll be careful. That you’ll return.”

“I promise,” you said, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “I always return.”

Tywin closed his eyes briefly, as if steeling himself, before pulling you into a fierce kiss. It was a kiss filled with all the things he couldn’t say—his fears, his anger, his love. When he finally pulled back, his gaze was as resolute as ever.

“Go,” he said quietly. “But do not make me regret this.”

You nodded, your heart heavy but determined. As you lay back down beside him, you felt the weight of his arm drape over you, holding you close as if trying to memorize the feel of you before you left.

In the quiet of the room, as the fire crackled softly, you both lay there, the enormity of what lay ahead settling over you like the winter’s chill.

The cold air of the endless night bit at your skin as you stood in the courtyard of Casterly Rock, the eerie quiet broken only by the occasional howl of wind. The darkness stretched on endlessly, save for the soft glow of torches lining the walls. Your breath misted in the frigid air as you waited, your fur-lined cloak pulled tightly around you.

From the depths of the mines beneath the castle, a low rumble echoed, followed by the sound of heavy, deliberate steps. The ground seemed to tremble faintly as Viserion emerged, her massive form glistening with a pale sheen under the torchlight. Her golden scales, lined with hints of cream, caught the flickering flames, making her appear both majestic and otherworldly.

The she-dragon stretched her wings as she stepped into the open, her eyes locking onto you. She let out a low, guttural growl, almost as if to remind everyone present of her power. Lannister guards along the walls stiffened, their hands gripping their spears and swords despite having seen the dragon countless times before.

Tywin stood a few paces behind you, dressed in a dark cloak lined with sable fur, his gaze fixed on you and the dragon. He exuded his usual commanding presence, but there was a tension in his shoulders that only you would notice.

He stepped closer, his boots crunching against the frost-covered stones. “You are certain this is necessary?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with an edge of concern.

You turned to face him, your expression resolute. “We need answers, Tywin. Settlements don’t vanish without a trace. If we wait too long, we risk more lives.”

He studied you for a moment, his green eyes sharp and calculating. Then, with a sigh, he reached out, his gloved hand brushing against your arm. “You know I despise this,” he muttered.

You placed your hand over his, offering a faint smile. “I know. But I’ll be fine. Viserion and I can handle this.”

Before either of you could say more, Beric Dondarrion approached, his long cloak trailing behind him. His piercing gaze flicked between you and Tywin, his expression grim. “Lady Y/N,” he said, inclining his head. “Viserion looks ready to take flight.”

“She is,” you replied, your voice steady. “But I need you to ensure the Rock is ready for anything, Beric. If the Others make their move, you cannot hesitate.”

Beric nodded, his weathered face serious. “You have my word. But if you don’t mind me saying, this seems a dangerous mission to undertake alone.”

You glanced at Viserion, who watched you with an intensity that felt almost protective. “I’m not alone,” you said firmly. “And there’s no one better suited to this than a rider and her dragon.”

Beric gave a faint, approving smile. “Fair enough. Just make sure you come back.”

Tywin’s voice cut in, sharp and unyielding. “She will come back,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to you once more, his expression softening slightly. “Do not make me regret letting you do this.”

You stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his chest over the rich fabric of his cloak. “I won’t,” you promised, your voice gentle but firm. “You’ll see me again before long.”

Tywin inclined his head, his jaw tightening. “You had better.”

With that, you turned and approached Viserion. The she-dragon lowered her massive head, allowing you to run your hand along her snout before climbing into the saddle strapped to her back. Her scales felt warm beneath your fingers, a stark contrast to the icy air around you.

“Fly swift, Viserion,” you whispered as you secured yourself in the saddle. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl in response, spreading her wings wide.

You looked down at Tywin one last time, your gaze lingering on his familiar, stoic face. He gave you the faintest of nods, his way of saying goodbye without words. Beric stepped back, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he watched you prepare to leave.

With a powerful beat of her wings, Viserion lifted off the ground, the rush of wind scattering snow and ash across the courtyard. The guards shielded their faces, and Beric took a step back as the dragon rose into the sky, her mighty roar echoing through the still air.

As you soared higher into the darkness, you cast one last glance back at Casterly Rock, its towering walls illuminated faintly by the torches below. The sight of Tywin standing there, his figure resolute amidst the swirling cold, stayed with you as Viserion carried you into the endless night.

Two Days Later

The cold, dim morning light filtered through the high windows of Casterly Rock’s great hall, reflecting faintly off the gilded lions etched into its stone walls. Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the hall, his posture as rigid as the stone throne beneath him, his piercing green eyes fixed on the towering double doors at the far end.

Ser Barristan Selmy stepped into the hall, his white cloak trailing behind him, his expression as calm and measured as ever. “My lord,” he said, bowing slightly. “We have visitors.”

Tywin’s brows drew together faintly, his expression sharpening. “Who?”

Barristan hesitated for just a fraction of a second before answering. “Your son, Lord Tyrion, with an escort of Unsullied.”

The hall seemed to grow colder. Tywin’s jaw tightened, and he stood, his fur-lined cloak settling heavily around his broad shoulders. “So, the dwarf has finally decided to crawl out from whatever rock he’s been hiding under,” he muttered, his tone laced with disdain. “And with Unsullied, no less. Clearly, this is Daenerys’s doing.”

“Shall I summon additional guards, my lord?” Barristan asked, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

Tywin waved him off. “No. If Daenerys wanted a fight, she wouldn’t have sent him. This is a ploy, a game. Have them brought to the great hall. Let us see what he wants.”

Barristan bowed and left, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous space. Tywin returned to his seat, his fingers steepled as he considered the implications of his estranged son arriving unannounced. The Unsullied’s presence suggested desperation, but the nature of Tyrion’s mission remained unclear.

The heavy doors creaked open minutes later, and Tyrion Lannister entered, flanked by a dozen Unsullied soldiers. Their spears gleamed dully in the firelight, and their expressions were as stoic as the statues lining the hall. Tyrion, however, was anything but stoic. He strolled in with his usual air of irreverence, his mismatched eyes sweeping over the room with a flicker of amusement.

“Well,” Tyrion began, spreading his arms as if he were addressing an audience. “I must say, Father, you’ve done wonders with the place. The Rock looks as cold and unwelcoming as ever. Quite fitting, really.”

Tywin’s gaze was like a dagger. “I did not summon you here, Tyrion. Spare me your theatrics and state your purpose.”

Tyrion tilted his head, his smirk unwavering. “Straight to the point, as always. Very well. I come bearing an offer—or perhaps a plea, depending on how you choose to see it.”

“An offer,” Tywin repeated flatly, his voice betraying no emotion. “From your self proclaimed queen, I presume.”

“From Daenerys Targaryen, yes,” Tyrion said, stepping closer. His height made him seem insignificant next to the towering Unsullied, but his confidence never wavered. “Dragonstone is running low on supplies, thanks to the unending winter and the charming little creatures that have begun crawling across the frozen sea.”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly in a mockery of a smile. “So, the ‘Mother of Dragons’ finds herself at the mercy of others. How poetic.”

Tyrion’s smirk faltered, but only for a moment. “Let us not waste time trading barbs, Father. The situation is dire—for all of us. The Others are spreading. They don’t care for allegiances or past grievances. They will come for Dragonstone, just as they will come for the Rock, King’s Landing, and every other corner of this forsaken land.”

“And what does Daenerys propose?” Tywin asked, his tone icy. “That I open my stores to her, feed her army, and strengthen her claim to the throne?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Not quite. She proposes an alliance. Resources for protection. Her dragons, along yours, can be formidable allies against the threat that looms over us all.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened. “And what assurances do we have that she won’t turn her dragons on us once her supplies are replenished?”

Tyrion met his father’s gaze squarely. “You have me. If she betrays you, I’ll be the first to face your wrath. And believe me, I have no desire to see the inside of a dungeon again.”

Tywin leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable. After a moment of tense silence, he said, “And why are you here, Tyrion? Surely this is not the sole reason.”

Tyrion’s smirk returned, softer this time. “Ah, you’ve caught me. There is another reason. It’s been years since I last saw my… half-brothers.” His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity. “I’d like to meet them properly, if that’s allowed.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Damon and Maelor are not your concern.”

“Perhaps not,” Tyrion replied, his voice softening. “But they’re still family, aren’t they? And given the state of the world, it seems prudent to reconnect with what little family we have left.”

The tension in the hall was palpable. Tywin’s gaze bore into Tyrion, weighing his words and motives. Finally, he rose from his seat, his imposing figure towering over his son.

“Your queen’s proposal will be considered,” he said coldly. “As for your request to see my sons… we shall see.”

Tyrion inclined his head, his expression neutral. “Thank you, Father. That’s all I can ask for.”

Tywin turned to the guards stationed near the doors. “Escort him to the guest chambers. And ensure the Unsullied remain under watch at all times.”

The guards saluted and began to usher Tyrion and his escort out. As Tyrion reached the doorway, he paused and glanced back at Tywin.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Father,” he said, his voice almost wistful. “It’s a shame it took the end of the world to bring some semblance of peace to your life.”

Tywin said nothing, his gaze unwavering as Tyrion exited the hall. Only when the doors closed behind him did Tywin allow himself a brief exhale, his mind already racing with the implications of his son’s arrival and the queen’s proposition.

The air under Casterly Rock was damp and heavy, carrying the faint tang of sulfur and the echoes of shifting stones. Damon Lannister descended the narrow, winding path into the abandoned mines, his small footsteps light but determined. Shadows clung to the jagged walls, and faint warmth radiated from the heart of the lair where the dragons rested.

The boy’s heart pounded with a mix of fear and excitement as he managed to escape gaurds once more. Arraxes, as he named the black dragon, loomed in his thoughts. He had been in the dragon’s prrsance before sevral times, its massive form both terrifying and awe-inspiring. But this time, he wasn’t here to merely observe. He had a purpose.

“I will claim him,” Damon whispered to himself, the words trembling but resolute. “Like Mother and Viserion.”

He crept deeper, guided by the faint glow emanating from the dragon’s resting place. As he approached, the soft rumble of breathing filled the cavern, a sound so vast it seemed to echo in Damon’s chest. There, in the low firelight, lay Arraxes.

The dragon was magnificent. Its sleek, black scales shimmered faintly, the red undertones glinting like embers. Its eyes were closed, but its massive chest rose and fell with each breath, exuding a primal power that made Damon’s knees wobble.

Gathering his courage, Damon stepped closer. “Arraxes,” he called softly, his voice quivering but determined. “I’m not afraid of you.”

The dragon stirred, one eye sliding open to reveal a fiery red iris that locked onto the boy. Damon froze, but the creature didn’t move to attack. Instead, it shifted its head slightly, studying him with an unsettling intelligence.

Encouraged, Damon stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “You’re mine,” he said firmly, as if trying to convince both himself and the dragon. “I’ll be your rider.”

For a moment, it seemed as though Arraxes accepted this bold claim. The dragon’s massive head lowered slightly, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed at the boy, like it did many times before. Damon felt a flicker of triumph, his heart soaring with the possibility that he could truly bond with this creature.

But then, without warning, Arraxes’s demeanor shifted. Its eyes narrowed, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within its chest. Damon froze, his outstretched hand trembling. The dragon reared back, its wings unfurling slightly to cast massive shadows across the cavern walls.

“Arraxes, no!” Damon cried, stumbling backward.

The dragon’s roar shook the mine, a deafening sound that sent rocks tumbling from the ceiling. Flames erupted from its gaping maw, a torrent of fire that engulfed the boy before he could fully retreat. Damon screamed as the searing heat licked at his left side, the flames catching his tunic and charring the flesh beneath.

Suddenly, voices echoed from the mine entrance. Ser Barristan Selmy, accompanied by several Lannister guards and Kevan Lannister, rushed into the cavern, their torches casting chaotic shadows against the fiery backdrop.

“Damon!” Barristan shouted, drawing his sword as he sprinted toward the boy. “Hold on!”

Kevan’s voice boomed behind him. “Form a line! Shields up! Protect the boy!”

The guards hesitated, their courage faltering in the face of the enraged dragon. Barristan didn’t wait for them. With a fearless charge, he reached Damon and scooped the boy into his arms, using his cloak to smother the flames that clung to the child’s body.

Arraxes roared again, its fiery breath narrowly missing the retreating knight as he darted back toward the mine’s entrance. The dragon lunged, but the guards moved to intercept, their shields raised as they shouted and waved their torches to drive it back.

“Go! Go!” Kevan barked, covering the retreat as the dragon hissed and snapped at the men. The flames receded as the group scrambled out of the cavern, their breaths ragged and faces pale.

Once they were clear, Kevan turned to the guards. “Stay here! No one else goes in, understood?”

The guards nodded, their expressions grim.

Kevan’s eyes locked on the wounded boy cradled in Barristan’s arms. Damon’s face was contorted in pain, his left side blackened and blistered where the dragon’s fire had kissed his skin.

“Maester Aldren!” Kevan roared as they crossed into the castle proper. “Someone fetch Maester Aldren, now! And find Lord Tywin!”

The commotion spread through Casterly Rock like wildfire. Servants rushed to obey, their hurried footsteps echoing through the halls. Kevan and Barristan carried Damon to the nearest chamber, where the boy’s faint whimpers filled the air.

“Stay with us, lad,” Barristan murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’re going to be fine.”

Kevan’s face was a mask of fury and worry as he turned to the nearest guard. “Where is my brother?”

“He’s in the council chamber, my lord,” the guard stammered.

“Then get him here,” Kevan snapped. “Now!”

As the guard bolted, Kevan turned back to his nephew, his heart heavy. “What were you thinking, boy?” he muttered under his breath. But the fear in his voice betrayed his anger, revealing the depth of his concern for the child now lying burned and broken before him.

The echo of hurried footsteps reverberated through the stone corridors of Casterly Rock as the guard rushed into the council chamber. Inside, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his gaze fixed on his son Tyrion, who had been speaking moments before the interruption. A silence fell over the room as the guard entered, panting and disheveled.

“Apologies, my lord,” the guard stammered. “It’s Lord Damon. He’s… he’s been burned.”

Tywin’s face tightened, his expression immediately darkening. “How?” he demanded, his tone ice-cold.

The guard hesitated, his eyes darting nervously toward Tyrion. “In the mines, my lord. The black dragon… it attacked him.”

Tywin rose swiftly, his movements precise and controlled despite the dread coursing through him. Tyrion, who had been watching the exchange with interest, leaned back in his chair, a flicker of concern flashing across his face.

“It seems I am not the only Lannister drawn to dragons,” Tyrion quipped, though his usual levity sounded hollow.

“Silence,” Tywin barked, his tone leaving no room for retort. “Tyrion, this discussion is over for now. You will remain here.”

Tyrion held up his hands in mock surrender, but his sharp gaze followed his father as he swept out of the chamber, the guard scrambling to keep pace.

By the time Tywin reached the chamber, Maester Aldren was already worked frantically over Damon’s small form. Kevan Lannister and Ser Barristan Selmy stood to one side, their faces etched with grim concern. Thoros of Myr lingered near the doorway, his usually jovial expression replaced with one of solemnity.

Tywin’s gaze immediately locked onto the bed where Damon lay. The boy’s left side was a ruin of raw, blackened flesh. Bandages had already been wrapped hastily around his torso and arm, but the burns extended to his face. The left side of Damon’s lips had been pulled into a permanent sneer by the tight, charred skin. His small frame trembled despite the efforts of the maester and servants to soothe him.

“How severe is it?” Tywin demanded, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.

Maester Aldren looked up briefly, his hands never stopping as he worked to clean and dress the wounds. “It is grave, my lord,” he said carefully, knowing better than to sugarcoat the truth. “The burns cover much of his left side. Infection is the greatest threat now. We must keep the wounds clean and ensure he remains hydrated.”

Thoros stepped forward, his voice softer but no less serious. “I can offer prayers and… perhaps aid. The Lord of Light has healed worse, but the boy’s spirit will need to be strong.”

Tywin’s eyes flicked to Thoros, then back to his son. He approached the bed, his movements deliberate. Standing over Damon, he took in the full extent of the damage. The boy’s small chest rose and fell unevenly, his breaths labored. His hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead.

“Damon,” Tywin said firmly, leaning closer.

The boy’s one unburned eye fluttered open. It took a moment for him to focus, but when he did, recognition sparked, followed by shame. “F-Father,” Damon whispered, his voice barely audible.

“You should not have been in the mines,” Tywin said, his tone hard but laced with an undercurrent of something softer—worry, perhaps, though he would never admit it. “You were told to stay away.”

Damon’s lips trembled, the effort of speaking visible on his young face. “I… I wanted to… claim him. Like Mother… and Viserion.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened. “And you nearly paid with your life for that foolishness.”

The boy flinched, tears spilling from his uninjured eye. “I… I’m sorry.”

Kevan stepped forward, his voice more measured. “Brother, he’s suffered enough. Let him rest.”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to Kevan, the briefest flicker of anger in his green eyes, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned back to the maester. “Will he live?”

Aldren hesitated. “If the burns do not fester, yes, my lord. But he will be marked by this. Permanently.”

Thoros interjected, his voice low. “There are deeper scars than the flesh, my lord. The boy may carry this wound in more ways than one.”

Tywin straightened, his composure unyielding. “Do whatever is necessary to save him. Spare no effort.”

“Of course, my lord,” Aldren replied, bowing his head.

Tywin’s gaze lingered on Damon for a moment longer before he turned to Ser Barristan. “You allowed this to happen.”

Barristan met Tywin’s stare unflinchingly. “The boy has his mother’s blood, my lord. He was determined. By the time I reached him, it was almost too late.”

“That is no excuse,” Tywin said coldly. “You were charged with his safety.”

Barristan inclined his head. “And I will bear the consequences of my failure.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned to Kevan. “Ensure the mines are sealed. No one enters without my explicit permission.”

Kevan nodded. “It will be done.”

As the room began to settle, Thoros stepped closer. “The boy’s heart is strong. It is a fire that cannot be easily extinguished.”

Tywin ignored the remark, his thoughts preoccupied with the weight of what had transpired. He stood over Damon’s small form, watching as the maester worked tirelessly to save his life. 

[paeliae-occasionally]

Can you rank the kingdoms on how strong they each are and what they're strongest in? (Even if they're different books or strong in completely different ways)

Ooh! This is fun.

It is hard to compare because these kingdoms span thousands of years of history and obviously the older ones are less advanced than the modern kingdoms, but I will give it a go.

The pieces I am taking into account here are:

Raw power, Stability, Magic ability

Strongest

Tiel’Drysar - 8 - 10 - 9 -

Emresian empire - 9 - 7 - 10 -

Onkairel/The sand walkers dominance -9 - 8- 8 -

Illeran - 10 - 8 - 7 -

Zaireli Empire - 7 - 9 - 9 -

Sessenics - 8 - 8 - 5 -

Ossena - 6 - 8 - 6 -

Myr - 5 - 9 - 7 -

Altic Kingdoms - 6 - 8 - 6 -

Opyri - 5 - 8 - 6 -

Tollenics - 6 - 6 - 2 -

Kaitere - 5 - 6 - 3 -

Korlan (Haemocrafters) - 6 - 1 - 7

Perias - 5 - 5 - 2 -

Mulai’Kaleppi - 2 - 4 - 6 -

Lower Essir - 4 - 4 - 3

Higher Essir - 3 - 4 - 2

Arinites - 3 - 5 - 1 -

Rhoenna - 2 - 3 - 4-

Isren - 1 - 2 - 5 -

Coelites - 1 - 2 - 2 -

Semlyns (Neysemle ridge) - 1 - 2 - 2 -

Weakest

Ok I have ranked them. Honestly it is not about who would win in a contest of power. I also took into account how long they lasted and how much of their legacy is remembered the modern day.

Thanks for the ask!

[littjara-mirrorlake]

This will be made more clear in the final version, but the ASIs on the homebrews I've posted are flavor suggestions. I personally prefer free +2/+1 or +1/+1/+1 increases, but these races were created before any of that was a thing, and I'd decided to keep the legacy presets around to indicate what the common archetype is.

I'm a strong proponent of not having fixed racial ASIs and I'll workshop some phrasing to see if I can keep a flavor suggestion while making flexibility clear.

Also, WotC's newer revisions of small races set their speed at 30 feet, not 25. Myr were first created before this change, and the speed of 25 feet is a legacy feature. It may be updated to 30 in the final version.

From my in-progress homebrew D&D 5e supplement, Plane Shift: Mirrodin/New Phyrexia: playable Myr!

They've been beloved in playtesting, with no fewer than three myr PCs appearing in the party over the course of a 3-year campaign. They are one of two new playable races in Plane Shift: New Phyrexia, along with the core-born Phyrexian.

Constructed Resilience and Sentry's Rest are abilities that previously appeared on the Warforged in Eberron: Rising from the Last War, and Regenerative Repair is a less restricting version of the ability Healing Machine from Astral Adventurer's Guide.

Text from the image under the cut!

Metallic, beak-headed myr inhabit Mirrodin, scampering at the feet of larger humanoids and largely considered below their attention. Few know of their true origin as creations of the mad wizard Memnarch, designed to be mechanized servants and his eyes across the plane. Following Memnarch’s fall, the myr found themselves with sapience and free will, though their core values of duty, community, and knowledge remain.

Myr Traits

Type. You are a Construct. You are also considered a myr for any prerequisite or effect that requires you to be a myr.

Ability Score Increase. Your Intelligence score increases by 2, and your Dexterity score increases by 1.

Age. As constructed creatures, myr don’t grow old in the traditional sense, and they are able to live indefinitely if well-maintained. You are immune to magical aging effects.

Size. Myr average about 3 feet tall. Your size is Small.

Speed. Your base walking speed is 25 feet.

Constructed Resilience. You have resistance to poison damage and immunity to disease, and you have advantage on saving throws against being poisoned. You don’t need to eat, drink, or breathe. You also don’t need to sleep, and magic can’t put you to sleep.

Darkvision. Your constructed senses grant you superior vision in dark and dim conditions. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You can’t discern color in darkness, only shades of gray.

Bonus Proficiencies. You gain proficiency in one skill and one tool of your choice. The tool you chose is integrated into your body and cannot be removed while you live.

Networked Minds. You can communicate telepathically with other myr within 120 feet of you.

Sentry’s Rest. When you take a long rest, you must spend at least six hours in an inactive, motionless state, rather than sleeping. In this state, you appear inert, but it doesn’t render you unconscious, and you can see and hear as normal.

Regenerative Repair. If the mending spell is cast on you, you can expend a hit die, roll it, and regain a number of hit points equal to the roll plus your Constitution modifier (minimum of 1 hit point). Spells such as cure wounds and spare the dying which restore hit points or preserve life, and normally don’t affect constructs, function as if you were a humanoid.

Languages. You can speak, read, and write Common and one other language of your choice.