#oc: dreamer
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In the end
All I hope for
Is to be a bit of warmth for you
When there's not a lot of warmth left
To go around
#httyd fandom#httyd oc#my art#httyd fanart#oc: draugr#oc: dreamer#httyd death gripper#httyd deathgripper#A little something something for my beloved boy Draugr#I need to start writing for him tbh#I love him more than words can express
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„ Miss me? ”
#final fantasy 14#gposers#ffxiv gpose#ff14 screenshot#male miqo#miqo'te#ffxiv oc#ff14 oc#ffxiv rp#ff14 rp#ffxiv screenshots#wol#ffxiv edit#ffxivedit#gpose#final fantasy xiv#ffxiv miqote#m miqo#daydreams#oc: dreamer
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An amnesiac who was taken in by Prince Chrom and his shepherds. She’s an airheaded genius tactician though she puts people on edge due to her strange hypotheticals, fascination with death/decay and voracious appetite. Primarily shipped with Chrom but also shipped with Tharja.
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Some fate's fury trio doodles using the bases from this post
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owlet's first flight... or so they thought 🪶 happy father's day!!
#french comics#french comic#barn owl oc#owl oc#fathers day#father's day#french illutrator#french illustration#barn owl#grass owl#eastern grass owl#ocs#oc#aheran#reim#dreamers comic#dmsi#myeart
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In a situation in which you were stuck in a room with your OCs/AU characters and they knew you were the person who wrote their stories
...would you be worried about your well-being?
(I saw this trending on IG and YT a time ago. I think its an interesting scenario to think about. Sorry if people already asked you that XD)
#zu art#zu animation#aim!sans#adult!aim#zu sona#song: Kate Bush — Army Dreamers ☆#I've seen the creator vs oc trend on YouTube and been thinking... x)#my sweet boy is kind enough to forgive his cruel creator (I HOPE—)#(thank you for the question AC! <3)
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APOLLO x DREAMER
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soft yandere dream boy whose existence suddenly manifested through your dreams. you didn't know how or when, maybe it's because of how lonely you are that you unconsciously created him inside your mind. but in the midst of your sleep one particular night, he barges in. inviting himself in the land of your slumber.
soft yandere dream boy who didn't know how to explain why he seems to be the only person in your dreams who doesn't act and resemble the others, standing out from the rest of them. it was almost like he was a person with a mind of his own, having his own thoughts and colorful personality, sometimes even getting sassy with you through his remarks.
soft yandere dream boy who likes to scare and surprise you by appearing out of nowhere when you finally allow sleep to lull you into your dreams. he's always playful with you, eyes filled with mischief. a complete contrast to your more gloomy and quiet personality. he makes comments about it from time to time, not really understanding why you're like that at the moment.
soft yandere dream boy who likes to play pretend with you, especially when the setting is inside a school. he assumed you had some odd attachment to it with how frequently your dreams would end up in a school building. he never leaves you alone. joining you in random classes and pretending to be a student there as he never fails to take the spot as your seatmate, stringing you along into his troublemaking ways which always leads to the both of you getting scolded by the teacher.
soft yandere dream boy who is beginning to notice something weird is happening within your dreams. the places looks a little darker than usual, the gloominess of each area resembling pieces of your personality. the people in your imagination grows more and more unfamiliar to what is once human. some bearing grotesque expressions that are so deformed that he could only describe them akin to being a monster in someone's nightmares.
and when he asked you about it, he finally understands everything. you told him that you find it much easier to compare their appearances to monsters, because no human is more evil than them. you've forgotten how human they actually looked like because of how they treated you.
it's the reason why your dreams only consists of you being in the school. why you're constantly nothing but a floating dark cloud of somberness. every single little thing inside your dream is a reflection and parallel of your miserable life. only, you expressed it more creatively in your dreams. he felt awful for not realizing it sooner.
soft yandere dream boy who defended you against those monstrosities when he bumps into you in one of your dreams, being cornered and surrounded by those deformed images of your classmates, his eyes seeing red as he watches them litter your poor little mind with such horrible thoughts.
soft yandere dream boy who decides he wants to help you. help you take your mind off of these horrible things in your life. somehow he can also change the scenery of your dreams. often times, he'll bring you to a beach where the two of you could just sit on the sand. he would encouraged a small activity between the two of you, giving you a small canvas to paint on while he has one of his own. then afterwards, the two of you will show each other what you painted.
he can't lie that he's doing this to prevent something predictably dreadful from happening after finally understanding what you truly feel. he's not quite sure if he is actually able to cheer you up in those moments when you're with him, but he's trying his absolute best just for you.
soft yandere dream boy who can only stand wide-eyed behind the forming crowd of deformities around your bleeding corpse. you had jumped from the rooftop of the school building, shattering your bones into pieces. he was too late. and he deeply regrets that he couldn't actually help stray you away from those agonizing whispers that pushes you to do this. if he only he had reach you in time...
soft yandere dream boy who didn't hesitate tackling you to the ground when you reappeared again in your dreams the next night after he just saw you die in front of him. you're alive! he scolds you for hours while tears are running down his face. he really thought you were gone! that you're never coming back to him and he'll be all alone.
but no matter what he does or how much he pleads, his words never reaches you. ever since your mind registered that you can't fully die in your dreams since you're afraid of feeling pain, you've somehow fallen into an addiction of trying different ways to end yourself before waking up back to your own world.
there's no doubt that sooner or later, he's just bound to snap. who knows what he would do. maybe he'll just take over your realm of dreams so he could stop you from doing this to yourself. he'll create you a new world where you won't have to suffer relieving the horrifying events of your reality. maybe you can even just start living here! where you don't need to wake up and can always be happy. living in everlasting sweet dreams with him by your side ‹𝟹
#𝐒𝐔𝐈 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍#𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇#reader is a lucid dreamer!!#soft yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x darling#yandere x you#yandere fic#yandere imagines#yandere oc#yandere#yandere headcanons#yandere x y/n#yandere concept#yandere x gn reader#yandere drabble#yandere writing#male yandere#yandere angst
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Favourite Uncle
Masterlist
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English is not my first language, please be kind
OC!Aemond x Fem!Reader - OC!Jace x Fem!Reader
•Warnings: oral (male), smut, kissing, taking of sexual themes, boobjob, tits licking, (basically worshipping breasts), mention of killing someone.•
To Jace, it almost seemed funny that he got to marry his niece just as Daemon did.
He was happy too, you were kind, innocent and sweet, the perfect wife, despite the father and the uncle.
He could still remember the glance the two brothers gave him when the engagement had been announced, and Jace kissed her hand.
But eventually, everything went good, he found himself satisfied with marriage, and also with his two young white haired boys his sweet wife gave birth to.
He had sighed loudly in relief as soon as he saw the white hair on the babies, happy that they would have never had to go through what he did, just because of his brown hair.
He smiled as he saw his wife come inside their shared chambers, her hair perfect as always.
“Have you already taken a bath, wife?” He asked as he stood up from the bed.
“Yes, I had, uncle.” She smiled up at him as he approached her.
“You don’t have to call me uncle anymore.” Jace smiled softly as he caressed her cheek. “Actually, not even husband. Call me simply Jace. We are family.”
She nodded with a sweet smile.
“It’s almost a shame your husband can't see you like this.” Aemond smirked as he kept pounding you from behind, your tits bouncing up and down as you gripped tightly the edge of the table. “Being fucked like a cheap whore.”
His hips snapped forward, thrusting deep into her heat. The feeling of her slick walls gripping him was intoxicating. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep to tangle with hers.
His hips slammed against hers relentlessly, the force sending ripples through the wooden surface beneath them. The wet sounds of their coupling filled the air, mingling with Aemond's low groans of pleasure.
“I always thought you had favourites, you know?” He smirked as he thrusted into her deeply, feeling her hot wetness envelop him. “I’m pretty sure I’m your favourite uncle, not that bastard husband of yours.” His hands gripped her hips tightly as he pounded into her, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the room.
"Fuck, niece." He growled. "You feel so good around my cock." His words were punctuated by swift, powerful strokes that sent shivers through her body. He could feel her walls clenching around him, trying to milk his release. “That dumb brother of mine married you to the wrong person.” He moaned as he pulled back slightly, only to slam back into her with renewed vigor, the force of his thrusts made the table creak ominously beneath them.
She moaned softly as she bit her lip, her back arching off the table as she straightened up. She threw her head back enough to see the expression of pleasure of her uncle as he fucked her unce again.
He gazed at her with burning intensity, purple eyes nearly black with lust. His free hand slid up her body to cup her breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he continued to drive into her.
"But it’s okay. We found a way to fix it, didn’t we?" He chuckled as he looked down at her, her short, petite form squirming as he kept fucking her raw against his table. "Let's give your husband another kid." The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through her, making her moan a bit louder.
“Yes, uncle… put a baby in my belly, please -��� She panted as his hand moved down to rub her clit. “Oh, I will, my sweet niece -” He smirked.
“Okay… Jace.” She smiled. “I have great news.” She said as a shiver went through her body as he felt Aemond’s seed starting to run down her thighs. “I’m with child.”
Jace’s eyes lightened up at the news and quickly hugged her.
“It's wonderful news!” He exclaimed happily. She hummed in agreement as she looked at the door ajar, where she saw Aemond looking right back at her.
“We shall celebrate tomorrow!” Jace hugged her tightly.
Aemond scoffed a laugh as he turned, walking back to his chambers.
“Imbecile.” He mumbled to himself.
Taglist: @ka1afbr @cynic-spirit @ladythornofrivia @zenka69 @queenofthekeep @adorewhatever @diannnnsss @kotadislikesthissite @iloveallmyboys @valyrianflower @dixie-elocin @gelacat0413 @quinquinquincy @mamawiggers1980 @darylandbethfanforever9 @rhaethoughts @believeinthefireflies95 @urfavnoirette @summerposie @sk1mah1 @queenofshinigamis @anukulee @chlmtfilms @m-riaa @p45510n4f4shi0n @malfoycassimalfoy @agoldenwoe @sapphirevhagar
#aemond smut#aemond fic#prince aemond#aemond fanfiction#ewan mitchell#hotd aemond#aemond targaryen#hotd s2#aemond one eye#hotd season 2#aemond x reader#aemond x y/n#aemond x oc#aemond x you#helaena targaryen#queen helaena#helaena the dreamer#helaegon#helaemond#aegon the elder#aegon ii targaryen#hotd aegon#aegon the second#aegon ii#aegon targaryen ii#aegon targaryen#king aegon#daemon targaryen#daemon x rhaenyra#hotd daemon
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In the end
All I hope for
Is to be a bit of warmth for you
When there's not a lot of warmth left
To go around
#httyd#how to train your dragon#httyd fanart#dreamings#personal#oc: draugr#dreamer (me)#httyd deathgripper#httyd death gripper#I did say I wanted to update Draugr's design in a new drawing 👉👈#I hope you guys don't mind the personal art#It's also getting posted to the other HTTYD blog if it makes it any better /lh
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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)
a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.
"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.
The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.
Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.
The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.
Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.
In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.
Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”
Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”
Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”
Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.
“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”
Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”
With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.
Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”
Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"
“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”
He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.
“We stand together, or our realm falls.”
Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.
The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.
“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”
But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.
Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.
Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.
Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.
"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.
Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.
“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?
The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.
Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!
The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.
And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.
The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.
Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.
“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.
She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.
“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”
X
Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.
Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.
Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.
"I want her to myself," he said to them.
Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.
She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”
He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”
A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”
Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”
The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.
Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.
“Did you fly all this way for me?”
“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.
“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”
Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”
A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.
“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”
“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”
Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.
“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.
"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”
She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.
“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.
“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”
His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.
“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.
“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.
In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.
Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”
Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.
Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”
Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”
“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.
“You came to kill me,” he said.
“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”
The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.
“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”
Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.
“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”
Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.
Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”
Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”
“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”
He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”
“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”
Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.
"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."
His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”
Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.
A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.
“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”
Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.
“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”
Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”
His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.
“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”
“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.
And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.
X
Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.
The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.
Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.
"Husband," she greeted quietly.
He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.
Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.
“What is that?”
She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.
He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.
“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.
He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”
Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.
"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”
For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.
Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.
“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"
She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."
“Are you mad?" he hissed.
She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.
He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”
He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.
“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”
The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.
“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”
A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.
Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.
He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”
Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."
His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.
“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”
Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.
"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."
She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.
Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.
He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.
“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”
For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.
Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.
When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.
“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”
Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”
He continued to prod. “That is all?”
“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”
He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”
She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”
Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.
The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.
“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”
“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.
“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.
“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.
She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”
“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”
She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”
His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."
X
Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.
His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.
Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.
He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.
Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.
The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”
Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.
But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.
“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.
With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”
He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.
X
thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(
question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.
[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!
#cregan stark#hotd#house of the dragon#house targaryen#fire and blood#hotd cregan#dragon dreamer#dragondreamer#cregan x you#cregan x oc#cregan x reader#cregan x y/n#cregan stark x female reader#cregan stark x y/n#cregan stark x you#cregan stark x oc#cregan stark x reader#cregan stark x fem!oc#cregan stark x targaryen!oc#cregan stark x dreamer!oc#cregan stark fanfic#cregan stark imagine#cregan fanfiction#hotd fanfiction#game of thrones x reader#winterfell#direwolves#dragon#dance of the dragons#house of the dragon fanfic
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me when the um the dream and it folly
took me some time to finish this,,,but im happy with the results :D
this was just my redesigns on both of them,,,actually idk about calling it that since it isn't major changes- :b but oh well ! i think i could've done a better coloring on Folly but,,,i don't do a ton of traditional art, mostly just doodles- however after kind of a while since i used my coloring pencils to like- color, shade and blend and stuff- i think i did a pretty good job :3
also, here's two process photos that i took while working on this !!
[some random info under this cut !! just info on my next art post which u can ignore ! :b]
i've had my concepts of halloween costumes for my regretevator ocs for weeks by now but i haven't posted them yet because i was planning to draw it digitally,,,so, here's a sneak peak to one of the concepts i drew while i continue working on drawing their costumes digitally !! :b
silly gal !! :3
#regretevator#regretevator roblox#roblox regretevator#folly#folly regretevator#regretevator folly#folly art#folly fanart#dreamer#dreamer regretevator#regretevator dreamer#dreamer folly#dreamer art#dreamer fanart#regretevator dream parasite#regretevator oc#oc regretevator#regretevator oc art#regretevator art#regretevator fanart#fanart regretevator#roblox#art#roblox art#fanart#artists on tumblr#traditional art#traditional drawing#traditional sketch#concept art
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Life moves too fast...
#final fantasy 14#gposers#ffxiv gpose#ff14 screenshot#male miqo#miqo'te#ffxiv oc#ff14 oc#ffxiv rp#ff14 rp#ffxiv screenshots#wol#ffxiv edit#ffxivedit#gpose#final fantasy xiv#ffxiv miqote#m miqo#daydreams#oc: dreamer
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Sooo I've been gone for a while and this is why (symptom of hanging out with like-minded hk fans who enable me — you know who you are 🫵)
Mixed pot. I had like 100+ doodles but these are the choicest cuts. It's mostly funnies but also more serious drawings. I hope some of you get a good giggle out of this or shake your head in disbelief 👍
#hk#dusky.art#pale king#hk pale king#hollow knight#hollow knight art#hollow knight shitpost#hk hornet#hk hollow#hk lurien#hk white lady#hk ghost#hk radiance#hk zote#hk herrah#hk monomon#my doodles#hk dreamers#hk oc#vessel oc
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Daydreamer character ref sheet!
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