#oc: raven fury

[fangirl-1st-class]

I'll be your guardian angel

Till my last breath

[pumpkinraventrick]

My night fury self and my viking self!

[fatoomie2801]

finally designed haru's fit yippeee (it's just a bunch of scribbles but my main focus was getting a design down so idc how messy it looks LMAO)

i'm so bad at designing stuff but i love his post-fury fit so much omg

it's heavily tsubasa and johannes inspired (more johannes than tsubasa cause johannes is the one he grew up with so he really looks up to him)

he wears kiara's bracelets and he has gloves like motti in which one of them covers his entire hand and the other is fingerless

tsubasa and kiara are his blood siblings and johannes and motti are the kids he grew up with so he sees them as siblings too

he's basically the ultimate lil bro and so i incorporated a bunch of pieces from all their character designs into his

the black sun tattoo is something i want to give all the members of the organisation that work with pluto and rago as an identification sort of thing

also post-fury haircut because hair holds memories and as someone who grew up with rago as their father and was basically lied to and brainwashed into believing he was doing the right thing when in reality he was working towards world destruction, he doesn't want to keep the long hair he had because it reminds him of a darker time

kiara and tsubasa on the other hand don't ever cut their hair because it was the last thing their mother touched before she passed

haru still keeps his hair long enough to be able to use the golden bracelet / hair clasp his mother left him so his hair will always look very similar to young tsubasa's hair but he won't ever let it grow out again

very much a toby / faust situation with the hair

next thing to do is properly draw it out i'm so excited it looks so cool omg okay bye

[damneddamsy]

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!

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 1: Of Dreams and Deliverance

This is a Morpheus x oc fanfic. I keep the descriptions of the oc very minimal so it could be read as a self-insert as well. I did change some aspects of the story so not everything will be the same as the show. Thoughts and suggestions are always welcome! 🩷🩷🩷

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

~Unveiling The Nightmare~

For a decade, the world had been muted. Ten years since the foolish mortal, Roderick Burgess, had torn him from his realm and bound him in this glass prison. Suspended by thick, dark chains from the ceiling of a damp basement, Dream of the Endless sat in silent, unyielding stillness. He was a sculpture of pale skin and raven hair, a being of cosmic power held captive by chalk lines and mortal arrogance. He had sealed his eyes against the jeers and demands, retreating into a fortress of patient rage.

Outside the globe, the world had aged. Alex Burgess, the Magus’s son, was no longer a boy. The terror of that first day had metastasized over ten years into a corrosive guilt that poisoned his every waking moment. It was a secret he had carried alone for a decade, and tonight, the weight had become unbearable.

His confidante was to be Eleanor Vance, Nora, a friend of a few years from the university. She was drawn to Alex's quiet melancholy, never suspecting its monstrous source. He had decided to trust her, to finally let someone else see the horror that lived beneath his feet. He chose a night he thought was safe, a rare evening when his father was supposed to be away in London on Order business.

The promise of a secret had been a tantalizing lure, but as Alex led her down the stone steps, a chill unrelated to the subterranean air crept over Nora’s skin. He pushed open the heavy cellar door, and the sight that greeted her stole the breath from her lungs.

It wasn't a dusty altar or a collection of forbidden books. It was a man, hanging in the air in the center of the room, encased in a sphere of glass like a grotesque specimen in a jar. Thick, greasy chains held the prison aloft, and a perfect circle of chalk on the floor seemed to hum with a silent, menacing energy. Nora took an involuntary step back, her hand flying to her mouth. Her romantic notions of magic shattered, replaced by the brutal reality of a dungeon.

“Alex…?” she whispered, her voice trembling as she stared at the gaunt, still figure. “What is this? Who is he?”

“My father… he called him many things,” Alex stammered, his voice thick with years of unspoken horror. “An angel fallen. A demon caged. He is Dream.”

The words hung in the air, obscene and absurd. Nora’s shock began to curdle into a hot, rising anger. She tore her eyes away from the captive and fixed them on Alex.

“Dream?” she repeated, her voice low and venomous. She stalked closer to the chalk circle, her fists clenched, her eyes blazing. “And you have him hanging there… like that?” Her voice broke with disgust. “Unclothed… like some morbid trophy hung on a wall for anyone to gawk at?”

“Nora, listen…” Alex began, but she cut him off.

“How long?” she demanded.

“A decade,” Alex admitted, his voice barely audible.

“A decade?” Nora’s voice rose, cracking with disbelief and fury. “He’s been like this for a decade? Stripped bare and displayed for your father’s sick amusement? This isn’t a secret, Alex, it’s a desecration! It’s perverse!”

“You don’t understand!” Alex pleaded, his face pale with fear. “My father… the magic… it’s not safe!”

“Safe?” she shrieked, gesturing wildly at the sphere. “Is he safe? Stripped of his dignity, denied any shred of decency? My God, Alex, how can you stand here every day knowing this is beneath your feet and do nothing?”

“What am I supposed to do?” he cried, his own desperation bubbling over. “I’m terrified!”

“I don’t care!” Nora shot back, her moral outrage eclipsing any sense of fear. “This is wrong, and it ends. Now.”

Her eyes darted around the damp, cluttered basement, frantically searching for anything, a tool, a weapon, something to undo this horror. Her gaze locked onto a long, rusted piece of iron—a crowbar—leaning against a stack of rotting crates in the corner.

With a cry of grim determination, she scrambled over to it. The metal was heavy and cold in her hands, a solid, tangible solution. “Nora, no!” Alex yelled.

She ignored him, turning from the corner and taking a determined step towards the suspended sphere. Just as she lifted the crowbar, Alex lunged from behind. He wrapped both of his arms around her, pinning her own arms and the heavy iron bar against her body in a desperate, panicked embrace.

“Nora, please, don’t!” he begged, his voice cracking, his cheek pressed against her hair as they struggled. “He’ll hear you! He’ll kill us both!”

She fought against him, twisting and trying to break his hold, the crowbar digging painfully into her ribs. “Let go of me, Alex! Let me go!”

It was at that exact moment, as they were locked in a frantic, desperate struggle—one fighting for freedom, the other for fear—that a voice of pure, cold fury boomed from the top of the stairs, cutting through their cries like a shard of ice.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

Next Chapter

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated! 🩷

[melswifeasf]

Safest in your arm pt 3

|| series page || previous chapter || next chapter ||

Pairing: Georgia Miller x Fem!OC

Warnings: (18+) minors DNI, cursing, drug use, age gap relationships.

IT WASN'T IDEAL having to be the oldest daughter.

Especially not when you had to pick up your siblings from school every day. Samantha was never the type to complain but it was getting hard to do so when Maxine wouldn't get in the damn car. With not much of a choice she had to park and wait for the girl to be done talking to the girl she now knew was named Ginny. It was all she could talk about on the way to school and Samantha had already grown tired of the name.

Thankfully Marcus went out with Padma so she did not have to worry about having to hear him complain about how their sister takes too long. The girl was listening to the song playing through the speakers that was being controlled by Jade. Nia and Mathew were in the back. Oliver and Natalie had a date so they weren't planning on hanging out with them.

"Seriously, how long does it take for your sister to say goodbye," Nia complained from the back seat as she scrolled through her Instagram feed. Samantha rolled her eyes in annoyance, she wished she could just honk until Max got the hint and hurried the fuck up but she did not want to draw any attention to her.

"She's lucky I'm not leaving her ass behind," Samantha muttered and threw her head back against the back of the seat.

"Why don't you?" Matthew chuckled. The boy was sitting in the middle and watching whatever it was Nia was doing on her phone. At first, she glared at him until he looked away but after a couple of seconds, he would just pry again so she gave up.

"Because I don't want to hear her nagging about it for the rest of the day." The raven-haired girl answered with a huff. Jade was in the passenger seat also scrolling through her feed and every once in a while she'd show a picture to Samantha and make a sly remark about the post.

At one point the girl laid her head on Jade's shoulder Through the console to see what she was looking at. Maxine was taking her sweet ass time and she figured they'd be there a while. She was caught up on Jade's phone and didn't realize a certain someone had pulled into the school parking lot across from them. That is until a whistle sounded from the backseat.

Samantha looked behind her slightly confused only to see Matthew staring at someone outside with a huge smirk, the girl's head whipped around. A silent and thankfully inaudible gasp escaped her lips at the sight. The woman she had shared a blunt with the night before was a couple of feet away from her. Georgia was wearing an all-white pantsuit and a black sun hat along with glasses, it all really made her look like a housewife and if Samantha were being honest, she loved it.

Memories of her laugh and voice and everything they said just a couple hours ago flashed in a fury. The blonde was staring at her daughter who was just wrapped up in a conversation with Max. Up until Brody approached them staring right at the blonde mom, all of Maxine's friends following his eye sight. Samantha could see Ginny storm away angrily, she seemed to have said something to her mom before she got in the car as quickly as possible.

Her eyebrows furrowed at the sight. She wondered if they had a bad relationship and if they did, why. Last night she smoked weed with the mother as if it were nothing which made her believe she wasn't a strict mom. Or maybe she just didn't care because Samantha wasn't her daughter.

"God i'm in love." Nia sighed out dreamily taking Samantha out of her mind.

The raven girl chuckles at her friend, "Id expect that from Matthew but not from you." She said looking at her friend from the rear view mirror. Nia shrugged carelessly.

"What? I would literally let her run me over and then i'd thank her for her charity." The curly haired girl said with a smile.

They all laughed at her words, "yeah, okay" Jade chuckled.

The events that took place the night before hadn't been mentioned to the group and Samantha was starting to wonder if she should say something. On one hand she needed to tell someone desperately but on the other she knew they'd be disappointed. They didn't do anything wrong or inappropriate but Samantha didn't exactly have the most reliable track record. It was stupid though.. right? She could tell her friends they smoked and that's that, it's not a big deal. It's not like they could be mad at her for simply going with what the blonde said.

"Can I tell you guys something and you all won't freak out?" Samantha said turning her body to the side so she was looking at all of them. Jade looked at her friend slightly worried.

"Of course." She said quickly.

Samantha swallowed nervously, she had promised to not make the same mistake again. but they were her best friends, they would never judge her. "So I kind of had a smoke sesh with her last night." She rushed out her eyes moving from one face to another to see how they'd react.

They all looked equally confused by her words and one second turned into two and then three and four until finally Matthews loud laugh reached their ears. "Holy shit. No way. How'd that even happen?" He asked extremely amused.

The raven haired girl shrugged, "Honestly? I don't even know. I was just smoking up front like always and she was just chilling on her balcony. I went over there to ask her if she'd keep me smoking on the dl and she said she would but only if I shared and yeah that's pretty much it." She nodded.

Nias eyebrows raised in surprise before she sighed, "Babe. again?" She asked. There wasn't any judgement in her voice but Samantha could tell when the brunette was trying to not hurt her feelings and that was what she was doing then.

"It isn't like that. At least I don't think so. It was just casual. She didn't like.. come onto me or anything." She tried to explain but she could tell by her friends faces that they weren't exactly buying it. even if she wasn't lying.

"Please just be careful. I love you so much but we both know what happened last time." Nia said and Samantha knew she was right.

Matthew nodded in agreement, "She's right." He said pointing at her.

Soon the conversation was changed by Jade. Samantha wasn't paying much attention all she could think about was if Nia was right. it wasn't a big deal for the girl to have an older friend, it's not like she was much older. Eight years wasn't a lifetime and Georgia seemed fun. She didn't really act like all of the moms Ellen was friends with. Although she wasn't sure if that made things right.

Five minutes later Samantha realized they were still waiting on Maxine and decided she had enough. The girl buckled herself in and put the car in drive. The white Camry slowly pulled up to the front and the older sister rolled her window down. She saw Nora point at her and Maxine turn quickly after. "Let's go." She said.

Max groaned, "but i'm still talking to Nora"

Samantha shrugged, "I don't care. I have to drop you off and then I have a shift at six so get in the car, Max"

The brunette rolled her eyes, "whatever." She sighed and said her goodbyes before marching toward the car angrily.

Her shift was from six to ten. It was like any other work day and the three friends she drove home from school kept her company for an hour before Oliver dropped by since Natalie was busy. Once it was eight Oliver and the other three friends left making him drive them all home. It usually always consisted of either the twins or Samantha driving them around. Matthew always offered to take his car but they didn't fit (and they were always afraid of fucking it up) and even though Natalie had one, no one liked riding in her beat up honda. Jade was the only one that didn't have one.

Even though it was like any other work day she did see Ginny on a date with Hunter Chen. No idea how that happened but as soon as she got home Max bombarded her with questions, asking if she had seen them and what had happened between the two. In all honesty it looked like any regular date, they got fries to share and they seemed to be talking freely. There really wasn't anything to say about them, it was kind of disappointing. she would've loved to see one of them embarrass themselves or catch them making out in the bathroom.

Samantha shook her head at the thought, not everyone's first date was like here, she thought. The girl was in her room, she had just taken a shower and was in shorts and an oversized shirt. Ellen and Clint had gone to the school board meeting meaning Samantha and the twins went out to eat and she had to hear Max rant about how hot Georgia was and how Hunter and Ginny would make an amazing couple. It was just weird seeing Marcus so uncomfortable at everything Max was saying. She tried not to read too much into it though, if anything did happen between the two she'd rather not know about it.

The girl laughed at Matthews message from the group chat.

The Real housewives of Wellsbury

Matty

you gonna have another

smoke sesh wth the milf Sam?

Sam

ha ha. i'll make sure your the

last to know if i do ;)

She felt her phone flood with more messages but decided to ignore them as she went to her closet and got out another blunt. She already had two rolled, she was going to smoke one at work but she was too distracted by her friends talking about Ginny to do so. Now she had an extra and she wasn't sure what to do with it. truly she did but she wasn't sure if the blonde woman was still awake at this hour.

The raven haired girl walked up to her window and pulled back the curtain, the house across the street was dark, much like it had been the day before. She bit her lip deep in thought, chances are she's asleep or simply not in the mood to stay up getting high. But what if she was awake? And what if shes just waiting for her to come out. She groaned in frustration and walked away from the window, she grabbed the sweater she had worn the day before and threw it on before going back to the window and unlocking it. Without much of a struggle she slid it open and began to climb down.

She hit the floor with ease and turned around, the girl sprinted down the street and toward the quiet house. The blonde woman wasn't there like she had been the day before and she figured she would just smoke alone. It was always better to have company, especially considering Samantha was rather talkative when she was high but she could always just facetime Nia. She was sure the brunette was probably awake. With that the girl turned around ready to walk back to her house but she was quickly stopped from doing so. A light flickered on and a door opened behind her. she furrowed her eyebrows confused at first but any questions were quickly answered by a familiar voice.

"You got more weed?" The voice said making a smile turn on the tan girls lips. She turned back around and looked up to see Georgia looking down at her with an amused smile.

"Had an extra, better than smoking alone, right?" She answered holding up the two blunts in one hand for the woman to see. Georgia rolled her eyes in slight amusement and motioned for her to come up. Samantha did so with a grin. Maybe she was making the same mistake and maybe it wouldn't matter because things would be different this time. Old habits die hard and all.

She climbed the railing a lot easier then she did the day before and when her feet landed she didn't let out a dramatic sigh of relief, even though she really want to. The blonde was sitting with her legs folded to the side, she had on a robe and a pair of shorts like the day before. And just like last night they didn't leave much to the imagination. Samantha tried her best to not stare, though. She sat down next to the blonde with a shy smile and took out the two rolled up blunts. She handed one to Georgia who grabbed it happily.

"I see you've upgraded." She commented as the younger girl took out her lighter.

The shorter girl shrugged, "had one left over and your a good smoking buddy." She said and motioned for the blonde to put the blunt up to her lips. Georgia did so and watched intently as Samantha flicked the lighter on and brought it up to it. She could see the freckles litter the girls skin, she didn't have any makeup on just like last night and she could see the slight eye bags under her eyes. The shorter girl trapped her lip in between her teeth as she focused on getting the blunt to burn. She could feel Georgias eyes on her and she was trying her best to ignore her.

Finally the blunt lit and she pulled away almost instantly, she brought the one in her hand to her own lips and burnt it a lot quicker than she did with Georgia. She inhaled and then exhaled the smoke, a wave of calmness setting inside her. None of them spoke, all that could be see between them is the smoke they were each letting out of their mouth. They waited until they smoke about a fourth before Georgia decided to talk, she could see how anxious Samantha was and figured she wouldn't be making the effort to initiate a conversation like she did last time.

"Ginny went on a date." She said and blew the smoke out of her mouth. Samantha tried her best to not show a reaction, she was looking down at her shoes. Her knees were up to her chest and she was hugging them with her arms.

"Oh." Samantha nodded calmly, almost as if this was the first time she had heard about it.

Georgia raised a brow at the girl who still wouldn't look at her, she didn't buy it that Samantha wasn't already aware of it. She had seen first hand how much Max talked and there was no way it didn't come up at least once. "You didn't know?"

Samantha finally glanced at the blonde and shook her head, "oh no I did, I just wasn't sure if you knew." She shrugged.

Georgia looked at the girl even more confused if that was even possible. It took her a second to realize what she meant by her words, "you keep your dating life from your mom?" She accused, her eyebrow still lifted in question and Samantha chuckled.

"Dating life? Not really. Other relationships? Yes." It didn't take a genius to understand what she was hinting at.  The blonde was slightly shocked not only be her answer but by how carelessly she said it, almost as if it wasn't a big deal at all. Samantha looked at Georgia when she realized how quiet she went and laughed at her reaction. "It's just easier," she shrugged "I can bring girls home and say they are just friends."

"And you think she believes you?"

Samantha shrugged again, "probably not but she'd never ask." She said and took a long drag.

Georgia nodded, "so you're obviously the favorite?"

Samantha raised a brow, "what makes you say that?"

"Ginny knows I would never believe that bullshit." The blonde said.

Samanthas back shook as she let out a humorous laugh "I just earned her trust, I never gave her a reason to have to ask questions so she just doesn't." She said and ran her hand through her hair lazily.

Georgia nodded in understanding. She watched the way Samanthas free hand would tick every couple of seconds, it seemed to be uncontrollable and Samantha didn't seem to be aware she was even doing it. That made her think about her conversation with Ellen a couple hours earlier. They were in the same spot she is now with her daughter smoking the weed she confiscated from Marcus. The irony. She thought about how Ellen told her Samantha and Max were gay and how she and Clint were supportive of it. She never mentioned either of them having a girlfriend though and that made her wonder about the girl Samantha was always in the car with. The girl she was sitting beside at Blue farm when they first met or on the hood of her car when they were with their friends. There were so many times she saw them together and wondered if they were together. "Are you dating that girl with black hair?"

Samantha looked at the woman in question, who was she talking about? The only girl she could think of that Georgia had seen her with was Jade but that was ridiculous. They'd never done anything to make anyone think they were dating. "Jade?" She asked with furrowed brows.

The blonde finally pried her eyes away from the raven haired girl and glanced down at her hand. "I don't know." She said simply.

Samantha chuckled at the thought of anyone thinking they were a thing. It's not like Jade wasn't her type but she just never wanted the group dynamic to get messed up. It was already feeling really weird with Matthew and Nia, she didn't want to add onto it. "No. She's my best friend." She explained.

The blonde nodded and blew the smoke out of her mouth, it was godly. "She's pretty"

Samantha nodded in agreement, "oh incredibly so," she confirmed, "but that would fuck up our friend group dynamic and we just don't care for it."

The blonde hummed, "so you're not dating anyone?"

With a shake of her head the girl responded "Not right now. I don't really date if i'm honest." The words were leaving her mouth with a lot more ease, she was high to the point in which she didn't really think about her answers before saying them. In fact by now she had put out the small blunt and left it in the ashtray between them. She wondered if Georgia smoked cigarettes as well. She was never a fan of them or the smell but simply the thought of the blonde beside her holding a deadly stick in her hand and smoking it made her stomach twist.

The blonde looked at the girl confused, "why not?"

Samantha shrugged, "it takes up a lot of time." She sighed with a slight shrug. She dropped her head onto her knee caps for support.

Georgia laughed "aren't you, like, twenty?" She asked almost as if what Samantha had just said sounded unbelievable to her.

"Twenty-one," she corrected, "and there's a lot of stuff I wanna accomplish. Getting into a good law school, save enough money to rent a place with Nia and make the most out of the last year I have with my friends."

"Law school?" The blonde questioned.

The girl nodded, "I want to be a paten lawyer."

She looked impressed, her brows had risen up and the look in her eye made it all the more obvious. "And you work? That's impressive." She said knowing how much people complain about college being hard, she couldn't imagine adding work to the mix.

She chuckled "Im saving up to buy a house after I graduate this year. Nia and I want to move in together." She repeated her words from earlier.

Georgia smiled with a nod, "so you've got it all figured out huh?"

Samantha shrugged a bit sheepish "I guess," she said and watched as Georgia placed the halfway smoked blunt on the ashtray. She was taking her time smoking and even though Samantha didn't know, it was because she still felt a slight buzz from when she smoked with Ellen. She realized Georgia wasn't going to talk, maybe excepting Samantha to elaborate more so she did, a lot more serious now. "I don't know, I dated someone throughout college but that ended a couple of months ago."

Finally Georgias attention was intently set on her at her previous words, "and who would that be?"

Samantha almost laughed, she wouldn't be getting an answer this quickly or at all, really. "Wouldn't you like to know."

The blonde pouted, "oh come on, i'm not one of your friends, like i'd know or tell anyone." She looked incredibly cute and a part of Samantha was burning at the thought of Georgia begging her to know something about her life. It was almost ego boosting.

"Exactly, you wouldn't know who they are."

Georgia rolled her eyes, "just show me a picture."

Samantha looked at the blonde slightly amused at how she reacted, "true"

The blonde looked at Samantha intently expecting her to add to her sentence but the raven haired girl simply looked at the blonde with a smile that even though she shouldn't, she found incredibly endearing. "So you're just not gonna tell me?"

Samantha shook her head. "Nope." She said and stood up. "I'll see you around though Georgia." She said and winked at the blonde. Georgia looked at the girl climb down her balcony in slight bewilderment, not expecting her to just up and leave her alone in the middle of a conversation. The raven haired girl glanced at the blonde one last time before running to her house. Maybe she'd find the way to tell her the most heartbreaking part of her life or maybe she wouldn't.

The rest of the week passed in a flash and friday came faster than expected. All four girls decided to get ready at Samanthas house. Oliver and Matthew had gone to the store to pick up a bottle to pregame and Samantha was more than ready to get wasted and not have to think about anything else other than who she's taking home. The raven haired girl was curling her hair, makeup already done. Nia had helped with her eyeliner and even offered her lipstick but Samantha declined. Nia only looked at the girl with a knowing look and continued on with her own makeup.

Jade and Natalie were already done, Jade was vaping on Samanthas bed whilst Natalie was talking to her. It didn't take long for the bedroom door open and Matthew and Oliver walk in with a black backpack. "What'd you get?" Samanthas asked and set the curling wand down. She ran her fingers through her hair to break the curls and make them look more natural. Once she was done she stood from her vanity chair and looked at the two boys.

"Vodka and fireball." Matthew said with a huge grin. He took the bag off his shoulder and threw it on the bed, the bag landing beside Jade who straightened up and began to unzip it.

"Seriously? Fireball? What the fuck?" Jade asked holding the bottle in her hand, practically reading everyone's thoughts.

"What?" Matthew chuckled, "It's the quickest and easiest way to get drunk." He said with a slight shrug.

Oliver laughed and hit the boy on the back twice, "yeah, the quickest way to end up on Anna's bed." He said referring to Matthews crazy ex. The boy shook his head with a horrified look.

"Fuck no. I just didn't have any cash on me." He said and Samantha laughed.

"You could have told me, I have money." She said holding up a fifty. Matthew shrugged and sat down on the girls bed, his eyes lingered on Nias frame for a second too long before he craned his neck to look at Jade.

"You look very pretty." He complimented the girl with his signature smirk.

Jade laughed loudly, "Fuck off. There'll be plenty of girls willing to have sex with you there."

Matthews mouth fell open in shock, "Ouch. I was just giving you a polite compliment."

"To get into her pants." Natalie murmured bringing the vape Jade just had up to her lips. Oliver smiled proudly at his girlfriend and sat down on her lap, who was sitting on the beanbag at the corner of the room.

"I love you." He admitted and kissed her lips.

Everyone let out a dramatic groan at the sight, "get a room." Nia said and grabbed the closet pillow near her and threw at her brother and his girlfriend. Oliver laughed as he held his hand up and caught it easily.

"You guys are so single. Seriously, every single one of you needs to get laid asap." He said pointing at each of them.

"Oh god, I know." Samantha admitted with a frown and walked toward Jade. The taller girl welcomed her with open arms, a genuine smile on her lips as she caught the girls body with her own and let her stay there.

Nia glanced at them and then turned to Oliver who was already looking at her. A second later Matthew stood from the bed and grabbed the bottle of vodka. "Who's up for shots?" He asked and held the alcohol up.

Samantha's ears perked at the statement and she pulled away instantly, not fully just to the point in which she wasn't practically laying on the girl under her. "Fuck yes. I need to get drunk as soon as possible." She said and took one of the plastic shots Matthew was handing out.

The dark haired boy went around with the bottle pouring everyone except for the twins a shot. They were both driving and they all had an agreement that the designated driver could never drink, even a drop of alcohol. Once they all had their cup filled Matthew held his up in the air. "To our last year together." He said making Jade and Samantha laugh.

"You are so corny"

He rolled his eyes, "come on, i'm serious"

The two glanced at one another with an amused smile before they turned toward Matthew and held their cup up as well. "To our last year together." They repeated Matthews words and all hit his cup before bringing the cup to their lips and downing the liquor in one go.

Once they had all swallowed Matthew put the bottle away and slung the bag over his shoulder. "We ready?"

They all nodded, each grabbing their perspective things and following the boy out of Samanthas room. The raven haired girl was wearing a long cardigan over her black mini dress. She'd rather not have her mom see her wearing a dress that barely covered her ass.

"Hey guys," Ellen said smiling at each of them who greeted the woman back enthusiastically. "You're leaving?" She asked directing her words to her daughter.

"Yeah." She nodded with a smile.

The blonde nodded, "Okay. Be home at a reasonable hour." She said earning a nod from her daughter.

"Okay, Nia will probably bring me home." She said pointing at her friend who held her hand up in a slight wave at Ellen. The blonde mom smiled at Nia in appreciation.

"Okay honey, just please be safe and call if you need anything." She said and Samantha held up a thumbs up. She kissed her mother's cheek and waved at her dad who recuperated the gesture. They each said goodbye to the woman as they shuffled out of the house.

"I love Ellen." Oliver said with a huge grin.

"You say that every time you come to my house." Samantha rolled her eyes.

"And I will never get tired of it. She's the best, I mean she asked no questions and you don't have curfew. I mean seriously, im in love with that woman." He concluded making his girlfriend smack his arm softly with a shake of her head.

"Yes, Oliver. We know you have mommy issues now get in the damn car." Nia rolled her eyes at her brother and shoved past him.

Samantha got in the passenger seat of her friends car whilst Jade got in the back. Matthew had decided to ride with Oliver considering he had been victim of having to listen to their 'girl talk' more than once. The raven haired girl let out a cloud of smoke from her nose and mouth as she rapidly texted Marcus to leave the back door open.

"So," Nia spoke glancing at her friend who threw her phone on her lap. "Have you talked to her?"

Samantha felt her chest tighten. She knew who Nia was talking about without needing a name. It was the only constant in her life since a part of her soul died. A constant Nia despised. She didn't care that her friend was hooking up with someone new, that didn't bother her, it was who she was doing it with that did.

"No," she shook her head. "You know we haven't spoken since June." She said looking down at her lap.

"Have you thought about maybe meeting new people?" Nia glanced at the girl. "Chloe was nice." She said referring to a sorority girl Samantha had met during the summer. It was at some kind of rush for her house and Natalie had invited Samantha and Nia.

Samantha sighed. Truthfully she was nice and she was gorgeous too but every time she looked at her all Samantha could see was her. "I don't feel like doing all of that stupid bullshit." She shook her head.

Nia frowned, "you did it with Lay-."

"Don't." Samantha snapped immediately cutting the girl off before she could even get another syllable out. Nias mouth closed shut in that instant watching as her friend turned to look at the road with her arms crossed.

The girl sighed heavily, "Look, I just think it isn't healthy that your caught up on her. I know you miss her. We do too but Laylas just using you."

Samantha scoffed and Nia wished she could make her best friend see things from her shoes. Layla was a huge bitch and Nia hated her. She wished they had never worked at that stupid country club to begin with.

"Layla and I haven't spoken since June." Samantha repeated. "And it doesn't count if I was using her too."

There was some truth to that but Samantha had caught feelings way before January and going back to her after such a huge heartbreak only made those feelings grow toxic. "Just think about it. Chloe is simple and she's nice. There wouldn't have to be any drama or sneaking around. You can just be two people hanging out."

Nia didn't understand, she never could.

"Maybe." Samantha replied simply.

The brunette looked through the rear view mirror, locking eyes with the girl in the backseat. They both knew Samantha was lying. She wasn't even considering talking to anyone knew and neither of them knew how to help her anymore.

The abandoned park shed little light. The only street lamp that illuminated the large area was dimmed and it flickered momentarily. The suddenness of it all probably would have scared the only two in the lot if they weren't so engrossed in each other. The black Porsche was on, the headlights off making it almost impossible for anyone to notice its even there. The lights inside the car were off too, hiding the fogged windows.

Samantha moaned, her hands laced in long hair as she felt open mouthed kisses being littered around her neck. Her black dress had ridden up exposing her lower half completely, her laced panties had been shoved to the side. She pulled away for a second, her eyes meeting a pool of brown. The familiarity of it all was comforting and even though she was doing the one thing she said she wouldn't, she didn't care.

Layla's hair was straightened—although slightly disheveled caused by the girl on top of her. Makeup still adorned her face and she looked flawless. Her diamond necklace would shine under certain lights and Samantha knew she had just come from some kind of party. The moment she stepped inside the expensive car and saw Layla wearing a black gown, she knew wherever she had come from was important. Samantha wondered if she had snuck away and if she'd have to go back.

"I missed you," Layla whispered and leaned up to capture Samantha's lips in her own. Against her better judgement, the younger girl believed her. Even if she simply missed her in a sexual way, she believed that Layla missed her and it made her moan at the thought.

"Yeah?" Samantha whispered, a moan ripped from her throat when Layla curled her fingers, hitting the spot in Samantha that always made her see stars. "How much?"

The older woman smirked, she knew the younger girl enough to understand what she wanted. She needed to know that Layla wanted her, that she missed her, That spent sleepless nights thinking about how much she regretted calling things off that summer. "So much baby." She responded.

Samantha moved her hips back and forth, intensifying her pleasure. It was a sign that she was close, Layla knew all of the things that made the raven girl her. So she knew to wrap her hand around the girls neck and pull her closer. "Your gonna come?" She asked making the raven girl nod. "Beg."

The simple command made Samantha quiver. "Please. Please let me come." She said, not caring how pathetic she sounded. It never came out of her that easily, whenever Layla demanded anything she'd always be met with silence or some kind of back talk from the girl. Samantha didn't like to show how much she needed Layla, she never wanted to look desperate or humiliated so she'd fight it—even if she'd always concede in the end.

The hand that was wrapped around Samantha's neck squeezed just a little, "come for me baby." Layla finally said making the girl on top of her moan loudly. the older woman held the girl close, softly kissing her lips and jaw as Samantha shook. Her orgasm crashed through her body intensely, it had been months since they last saw each other and she hadn't been with anyone since then.

Samanthas leg shook softly with the aftershock, she remained quiet as she let her head fall on Laylas chest. She smelled like her usual perfume, the one she'd always said she loved. The raven woman gently caressed the girls back until she pulled away.

There was silence afterwards, nothing was said when Samantha fixed her dress and moved back to her seat. Not when Layla fixed her hair and then started the engine. Not even on the ride back to the younger girls house. The only thing filling the tense air was the radio playing softly in the background. It didn't ease the tension and it only made the silence feel louder.

Samantha didn't look at Layla for the rest of the ride. She couldn't. She could still feel the mark on her neck that had been made from the woman's ring finger. The stupidly huge diamond that she'd never take off, not even when they fucked. It felt like a sick reminder that she was married and Samantha would never be anything but a nice time. Layla never cared that it bothered the girl, she never took it off, not when the raven girl would stare at it with tears in her eyes or when it would always leave a mark on the girls neck.

When they pulled up to the Bakers residence Samantha took off her seatbelt and grabbed her purse. She didn't look back to say goodbye or even meet Layla's eyes—not until she was forced by her. Layla grabbed the younger girls wrist making her turn as she was opening the passenger door. "Don't call again." She said simply.

Samantha chuckled bitterly, any other time it would have made tears form in her eyes but she had mastered the game. She knew how to prevent them, how to turn her sadness into anger. "Fuck you." She responded. There wasn't a chance for a response as she stepped out of the vehicle and slammed the door behind her.

Layla Khalil was the worst fucking person Samantha had ever met. She didn't care about anyone, no one but herself. She used anyone and everyone she could, she used Samantha when she needed to get off or when her husband was away on business trips. Every single time it would end she'd remind Samantha that she didn't love her, that she didn't care and she never would. Layla only loved her husband, even if she had a fucked up way of showing it.

And even then, Samantha still entered her home with tears in her eyes and the stupid reminder that she had been fucked by a married woman.

Neither one of them had noticed the curious eyes across the street.

[twisted-confessions]

I just found this really cool picrew and wanted to try and make an Overblot version of my Twst/HTTYD OC Bella and it turned out SO GOOD!!! (Lore dump about her Overblot below the cut)

Anyway, new tag game! Use this picrew to make your own Twst OC's before and after their Overblot then tag some fellow twst friends to make theirs as well!!

Tagging: @oyatochie @oya-oya-okay @boopshoops @sweetbunpura @kirexa @valy-gc @winterwriterstudios @hyp3rf1xat10ns @idiazhroud @masked-tornado @patchyegg87 @teapot-tyrant @unity-obj

And then Open Tags for whoever wants to try!!

In my au, Bella's Overblot is inspired by a few different characters, however the main elements for her outfit are Dire Crowley and Toothless while her attitude would match Drago Bludvist since all three of them triggered major life changing impacts, 2 negative and 1 positive. She also gets two set of wings (Night Fury and Raven) to mimic her mother Valka's dragon, Cloudjumper, while gaining some white horns to match Valka's Alpha Bewilderbeast. In the Overblot image she's doing the hand pose Crowley does when he pulls someone out of the coffins and I can totally hear her saying "Aren't I just sooo kind to lend you all a helping hand?" to mock the Bird man lol. The first one is ironically just her genuinely wanting to help someone out lmao. I love making parallels.

I can imagine her Overblot rampaging including her Bewilderbeast Abilities with her commanding all dragons nearby (including Malleus rip-) to capture NRC students so she can steal their magic to force the Mirror of Darkness to send her home, as well as to capture Crowley so she can kill destroy him for using her and lying about letting her go back to New Berk, while also using her Ice Breath to tear down the entire school. Her Phantom though, despite her Night Fury design and wings, would actually be The Bewilderbeast soul inside of her taking physical Blot-form so unlike the other Phantoms, this one is tied to her life in a very different way, keeping her soul(s?) protected while still draining her life force the more she uses it's powers. So destroying Bella's Phantom might have some very negative consequences...

>:)

[starogeorgina]

Violent delights

Warnings: Swearing, violence, mentions of SA, character death

Pairings: Jacaerys Velaryon/oc

1.13

Dragons soared in the skies above, guarding Dragonstone, while you made your way towards the throne room. The lump in your throat became more painful; you’d never felt so guilty before. Your heart sinks when you finally see your mother sitting on the throne with tears glistening in her eyes and your husband standing by her side. His hands were classed behind his back, his jaw clenched tightly shut.

“Mother, Jacaerys.” You try to sound confident, but your voice is meek, making you sound like a child. “I don’t even know how to start. I’m sorry for leaving and going to the keep without telling you, either of you.”

Jace’s response was a mere hum.

“I’m glad that you’ve come home,” your mother says, a faint smile on her lips. “But praise tell us, how in the gods did you manage to leave Dragonstone, get into the keep, and get back on your own?”

You were confused by her question at first, but until it dawned on you, Daemon never told them the plan after you left, like he promised. But before you can say anything, Jace snaps, “How could you think that was a good idea? Do you have any idea what we went through? How would a mother have felt receiving a raven saying her daughter has handed herself over as a hostage to the same people who made her life hell?”

“I’m sorry.”

Tears shone in his eyes. “Not once has my loyalty to you ever been faulted. I love you unconditionally, and yet you didn’t trust me enough to tell me what you were planning.”

The look on Jace’s face broke you. It was never your intention to hurt him so much. All you wanted to do was keep your family safe. You attempt to reach for his hand, but he backs away. “Jacaerys, please.”

He storms out of the room without looking back.

You lock eyes with your mother, and mentally, you pray for her to understand what you have to say. "I was trying to do the right thing and protect my family.”

Your mother was starting to lose her patience. “It was admirable but incredibly reckless; you could have been killed. As your mother, I’m overjoyed to have my daughter home safely, but as your queen, I forbid you from leaving Dragonstone again without my permission. From now on, you are not to leave Prince Jacaerys' side, and if you do, there will be consequences.”

Tears spill from your eyes. “He won't want to be around me right now.”

“You left without telling anyone, Lyarra; how did you think Jace would react? We’re lucky the raven arrived when it did, as Jacaerys and Daemon were making arrangements to send out every dragonrider they could to look for you.”

“Daemon did?”

“Yes,” she says, taking in your surprise. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I only went into the keep to allow assassins Daemon hired into the castle.” You were shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and anger. “He knew where I was the entire time. He said he’d inform you and Jace of the plan in the morning.”

Her gaze burns into you; you've never seen fury in her eyes like this before. She licks her lips. “What plan?”

You explain in full detail everything that happened from the moment you left Dragonstone to returning. You expected her anger, but for her to look so disappointed in you.

Your mother's expression hardened. “You may go and find Jacaerys.”

“Thank you, your grace.” You go to leave, but turn back to look up at your mother, who was fighting to hold back tears. “Is my grandmother really dead?”

She looks up and nods. “Princess Rhaenys died a true dragon rider's death.”

Your lip trembles as you leave the throne room, but instead of following your mother's orders, you go looking for your stepfather to demand answers.

—

You find Daemon in his study, holding his head in his hands as he stares down at the map in front of him. His forehead creased as he no doubt thought about what his next move would be. He lets out a sound of annoyance. “Did you do as I asked?”

His question left a sour taste in your mouth. Daemon didn’t even turn his head to look at you or ask if you were actually okay. “Yes, I kept my word, but why didn’t you? Jacaerys thought I had been kidnapped, and my mother was beside herself that I was gone!”

“You did leave,” he says plainly.

You storm to the opposite side of the table as him and slam your hands on top of the map, which causes him to finally look at you. “Jace looks up to you as a father; how could you not tell him?”

He cuts you off; his tone is sharp and authoritative. “Jacaerys' anger would have been directed at me, not the greens. He would have lost focus on what is important.”

“Nothing is more important than family! I could maybe understand not telling them right away, but you were going to allow Jace to send out the very few dragon riders to look for me!” Feeling warm and flustered, you remove the thick black cloak you’d yet to remove since arriving home and toss it over one of the chairs.

Daemon practically snarls at you, “Why are you wearing a green fucking dress?”

“Because Aegon wanted me to wear it and have my hair styled like Alicent’s for when he decided to visit the bedchamber I was being kept in.”

Disgust crept into his features as Daemon thought about how disturbing it was that Aegon wanted you to look like his mother. “I let Jacaerys and Rhaenyra focus on you being taken because it was the distraction I needed.”

You didn’t understand Daemon’s reasons for doing things, but you did know he loved his family, and the loss of two sons and a daughter would have broken most men but not him. He was going to fight with every fiber he had to defend his house until the end. “The only way we can win this war is if there are no more lies and secrets between us. I’m going to tell Jacaerys everything, including things that I haven’t even admitted to myself.”

“I shall do the same with our queen; I just hope she is a little more merciful than I imagine the prince will be.”

—

Your eyes sting as more tears fall from them. All you wanted was to keep your family safe, if only your husband would fully let you explain that. Since arriving in your bed chamber, he has given you the cold shoulder and only spoken when necessary. Jacaerys would often need to be alone to process things properly, but he no longer had that option. Neither of you spoke as the ladies prepared a bath for you; the first time you speak again is when you thank them as they leave.

“Fuck,” you hiss when you finally start to remove the horrid green dress. The tight fabric rubs against your breasts, which have become increasingly swollen and sore due to not being able to nurse your son.

Jace, who was sitting on the bed, let out a deep sigh and uncrossed his legs. He mumbled something before leaving the room.

Frustrated, you end up ripping the dress off before quickly throwing on your robe to make your way to the bath in another room within your quarters. You hear footsteps behind you but don’t look, assuming that Jacaerys has returned. It’s not until a figure steps out in front of you that you realize how wrong you were.

“I’ve been waiting hours to get you alone.”

“Ja—” you try to scream for your husband but are stopped when Aemond wraps his hands around your throat and begins to squeeze.

“You’ve made a fool of my brother for the last time.”

You try to fight him, but it’s no use since he’s much stronger than you. Jacaerys had probably left to go speak to your mother or Daemon, so he wouldn’t be back for some time. He wouldn’t be back in time. You would never see your babies again. Gods, Jace would return and find you dead. Black spots appear in your vision, and memories of your children, your sweet children, flash before your eyes, but then everything is a blur as you abruptly land on the ground with a thud. It takes a moment for your vision to return to normal, and you see Aemond lying in a puddle of his own blood with a sword sticking out of his back.

You try to scream, but nothing comes out. When you feel someone touching your shoulder, you try to lash out at them until you notice it’s Jacaerys. He pulls you into his arms and says, “You're safe now; I’ve got you.”

You sob into his chest. “I didn’t think you were coming back. I thought I’d die without getting to tell you how sorry I am. I should never have left without telling you.”

“None of that matters now,” he says. Gently, he tilts your head back so he can inspect your neck. “It’s bruising already.”

Jace promptly stands and lifts you to your feet. You glance down to see that your uncle's blood was spreading across the ground and had just reached where you were sitting seconds prior.

There’s a soft knock at the door, then it’s pushed open. “I’ve brought the tea to help relieve the princess’s pain that you asked fo—”

Elinda Massey, one of your mother's ladies in waiting, dropped the tray of tea in her hands and began to scream at the sight in front of her, causing the knights who were guarding the halls outside your quarters to rush inside.

“Tell the maester to come immediately; the princess has been attacked!” Jacaerys orders. “The queen and prince Daemon must be informed of what’s happened at once!”

—

You reposition the cold compress that’s loosely wrapped around your neck to help reduce swelling. Elinda insisted on having another bedchamber prepared for you and Jacaerys to sleep in, but you declined and announced you’d be spending the night in the nursery so you could feel close to your children.

Jacaerys kisses your forehead, your nose, and then your lips softly. “I was only so angry because I was scared.”

“I was terrified I’d never get to see you again,” you confess. “And I don’t think the gods will ever forgive me, as no man or woman is as accursed as the kinslayer. But I’d do it again; I’d do it a thousand times over and over because I love you and our children.”

“Why did it need to be you, though?” He whispers.

“Anyone else would have been slaughtered on sight,” you say, taking his hand in yours as tears roll down your cheeks. “Aegon told me how he wanted to torture you. He said he’d find Aemma and take her from us, then kill our other children. He said he’d have Ser Criston hold you down as he and his brothers took turns forcing themselves on me before sending our heads to our mother as a gift.”

Absolutely sickened by his uncle's words, Jacaerys didn’t know what to say to comfort you, so he held you close as you waited for your mother and Daemon to arrive.

[graceofhearts777]

Pov: you challenged Raven to a race

(And Skipper isn’t really that bothered lmao)

Finnnnaaally did a somewhat decent piece for Raven, my Httyd OC and her dragon, Skipper. My version of Light furies are very similar, just extra bells and whistles lol

[mattsmithinawig]

✍🏻️!!

thank you so much for your ask !! I know you said that you don't really read got-era stories/ocs so I have a hotd/fire and blood one for you!!

"Maega Targaryen, named for Maegelle or for Maegor, it is still unknown. The former sworn by her mother Lady Rhea Royce and the latter by her father, the Rogue Prince. Born and raised in the Vale, after her mother's unfortunate demise when she was only four name days she was trained by her Uncle Waymar Royce to hold a sword in the face if her father's impending usurpation of her seat.

Tall, bulky, manly in the face that even Aegon the Conqueror was not, she was far from the epitome of a perfect Targaryen even with purple eyes and silver-gold hair. Instead of gowns she was often seen in armour, carrying around live steel and a great bow. Brought to court on her twelfth nameday, Maega never met her stepmother Laena Velaryon and letters from her father were infrequent. She slotted neither into the Princess's Blacks or the Queen's Greens, dragged between the two women through ill-fitting gowns, awkward family dinners and never agreed upon betrothals.

It is not known if she was involved with the maiming of Prince Aemond with her half-sisters and cousins, but she returned to Dragonstone with her father, and new stepmother Princess Rhaenyra. In the following years, alone and isolated, she was unable to from close relationships with any of her half-sisters and step-brothers. However, in her sixteenth year she mounted the Bronze Fury, the only dragonrider able to rival the One-Eyed Prince.

Her most essential role in the Dance of Dragons was her wedding Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, just a year shy of death of King Viserys. It is reported she flew her great beast across Westeros before landing on Pyke, slipping from her saddle into one of the many towers. She took one of the Lord's salt sons with the promise of a dragon ride, a move her ancestor Queen Visenya would have been proud of. By the time Lord Greyjoy saw his screaming son a top his dragon, his fate was sealed as the soon to be husband of the Targaryen Lady. She reported told him that "like a salt wife, she would throw him over dragon back, willing or not".

However, as these things often do, the Greyjoy Lord became deeply infatuated and in love with his wife, and if tales are true, this was reciprocated by her with ease. By the time they received the raven informing of Prince Lucerys' death and the call to war, she had already birthed a healthy son, Euron, with his own hatchling, Stormbreak.

once again thank u for the ask <3 i love all your ocs as well!

[fangirl-1st-class]

Like father, like daughter Raven Fury doodle dump || BAD END

[pumpkinraventrick]

It's me with my viking sona, Raven! Trick needed a rider, so I thought that I'd just make a viking sona for my night fury sona!! <333

[fatoomie2801]

REIVUN DEBUT I GUESS???

HOW I HAVEN'T DRAWN HIM UNTIL NOW IS BEYOND ME ANYWAYS HERE HE IS

youngest otori sibling and the one with the most tragic story actually

he needs to meet todoroki and zuko asap so they can be left side burn bros

anyways i forget haru is an oc of mine cause i only ever talk about kiara but with art fight coming up and me suddenly deciding to participate i realised i gotta include him too so i did a rough sketch of him

i actually did not fully design him until this point all i knew is that i wanted his hair to cover the burnt half of his face and it needed to be short but long enough to be in a ponytail for that golden clasp their mother gives them

except he never actually gets it from her because she passed when he was 2 so he doesn't get the same experience his older siblings do :(

he's a character that debuts in fury and is working for pluto and rago because rago's his dad meaning he's also tsubasa and kiara's dad but that's a whole other thing that i could get into if y'all are interested

i'll defo be tweaking around with it but i just wanted to share it because i hate that i'm only just now drawing him i love him so much ><

i was debating whether or not i wanted to give him a mask and i think i do want him wearing a full mask but for this rough sketch thing i wanted to style his hair and draw some features so i gave him half the mask

very similar to jack's one in metal masters just plain black to go with the whole raven vibe he's supposed to have cause he has a corvus bey (the raven)

[ohmy-zabrak]

Jealousy

Sandor Clegane x Lady Alice (oc)

Summary: The Hound makes an interesting discovery about his new bedmate

Word count: 611

Author's note: Have some Sance fluff & slight humor! The Hound can only stay nice for so long lol. Tumblr wouldn't stop crashing when I went to my drafts so this is very late 

Cw - Brief implications of abuse in the Hound's childhood (though it's only one sentence)

***

He eyes her. All barely above five foot of her. "Little bird," He says again.

Alice tenses. All contained fury.

The corner of Sandor's mouth twitches upwards in a smirk. "What's wrong?"

"Isn't that your nickname for Sansa?"

Sandor snorts. "That's what I call all you highborn ladies."

A flurry of emotions goes across her face in seconds. Like clouds reflected across a pond's surface. Tiny expressions that Sandor's not sure that he's interpreting correctly. Relief. Annoyance. Disappointment. Jealousy.

He chuckles softly. "You're jealous," He says. "Jealous of a little girl."

The highborn lady won't meet his eyes.

"Look at you, jealous of a child," The Hound croons.

She cocks her head slightly. "Is she a little girl to you? The amount of men that I've seen lately, drooling over the tits that she's just grown."

He scoffs softly. "Do you think me such a foul beast as that? To go after a maid not even flowered?"

Alice watches him with those storm gray eyes. Quiet as cat's feet.

"I would kill any man that touches her." Sandor gently grips her chin in calloused fingers. "Look at the pretty raven, getting her feathers all ruffed up because of the direwolf." He tucks a strand of hair behind the young widow's ear.

"So you do not care for her?" The words are slow, measured.

He shakes his head. Honest as a dog, as always.

"I'm sorry," She murmurs. "I know that was irrational of me."

The Hound slides his hand along her jaw, so he's holding her cheek. Stroking the soft skin with a thumb. "You should spend less time with the court. You're starting to think the way that they do, little bird. Always expecting the worst of me." His tone is low and teasing.

Footsteps. Coming down the hall. Lady Alice hears them first. With her ears that haven't been slammed into walls by older brothers or fathers. Or struck by weapons in the practice yard or on the battlefield. She steps back so he's no longer touching her, and then further still. Until they're at an appropriate distance. The passing serving girl gives them a cursory glance, but no more.

As soon as the footsteps have died away, they're back together again. The Hound watching the funny little widow, who against all odds seems to care for him as more than a quick tumble...

He takes a step closer to her. "You should see how the other men around the keep look at you. Drooling over you like a piece of meat. Drives me half mad." He captures her chin again and forces her to look up. "You have nothing to fear from Sansa Stark, girl. You shouldn't worry about her or any other lady. They all have nothing on you. Nothing. You have beauty and brains both. And that's more than what can be said for most people." He presses a soft kiss to her forehead. "You know what I like, and she could never give it to me."

She looks up at him with a soft, adoring expression that makes his heart clench.

"No," Alice says slowly. "She wouldn't know how you like it soft one minute and then like I hate you the next."

He gives a grunt of agreement. "The girl is innocent and soft. All blushes and dreams of dashing princes," He says. "She can't give me what I need."

Alice smiles at him and goes up on tiptoe to kiss him. He obliges and bends for her. When he parts from her, he smirks wickedly at how happy she looks. 

"So when are you getting rid of Ser Henry?"

Her smile instantly dies.

**Ser Henry is Lady Alice's main suitor (much to the Hound's annoyance)

[writers-melancholy]

Two Moons [Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Female!OC]

Trigger Warning: Incest/ Twincest (its game of thones)

word count: 1017k

Check out part 2: a tattletale and moon tea

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It was early afternoon having just finished her mid day meal, she sat on her favorite cushion in her favorite seat practicing her needle point, her maids bustling around her doing their menial tasks when without warning her guard suddenly announces “The Prince Aemond Targaryen.” as he abruptly enters the room. 

“Brother?” she questioned softly, glancing up expectantly.

Aemond approached her, standing a mere two feet away, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, his jaw clenching as he spoke “You've been sending Ravens to Dragonstone, why?” with a calm but demanding tone.

Her eyebrow raised ever so slightly, startled she asked “How do you know about the ravens?”

He stared at her intently “I followed one on Vhagar.” he paused, shifting slightly, adjusting the placement of his hands. “Now answer me.” he continued with a subtle impatience, a tone that Viserra knew all too well this was her que so she calmly looked to her lady’s maid and with a silent glance excused her and the others wanting to be alone with her dear twin. 

They were silent as the room emptied only once the last member of staff had exited she gently replied, “I wrote to Jacaerys Velaryon.” her head skewed slightly, a small grin crept across her lips “Does that make you uncomfortable?” she inquired, setting her needle point onto the seat next to her shifting slightly before giving him her full attention.

He paused for a moment, baffled but stoic, before urging eagerly “Why are you writing to him?” He stood unmoving, wanting so badly to join her, to take up space next to her.

“I want to see him.” came flatly as she stared him down, her expression unchanging as she stood up moving closer to him trying to conceal her growing anxieties over this obvious integration. It wasn't the first time her dear twin was bothered by something she did but this time was different ‘does he know?’ she thought ‘no, Aemond would be more direct than this.’

He too knew his sweet sister and knew she wasn't telling him everything, cleverly hiding his shock he probed urgently “What reason could you possibly have to see him?” he could feel his tempers rising.

Yet flatter still, she responds “Only that I love and wish to marry him.” she playfully ended trying to soothe her own temper growing irritated at this game of twenty questions.

He sputtered incredulously “You cannot be serious.” pausing to try and control the fury bubbling up inside “He's a bastard!” he bellowed, losing control of himself, his cheeks gaining a distinct red flush to them.

Taken aback she retorted “He may not be a Velaryon but he’s  just as much a Targaryen as we are!” her eyebrows furrowed in frustration, her own temper daring to strike back.

“We are pure!” he shouted, grabbing onto her arms tightly “They are dirt!” shaking her slightly  “We are born from the same blood from the same womb and he is a filthy Strong! You cannot love him, not him and not you!” he stated with a fierce finality

“He isn't dirt!” she yelped ”He loves me!”

“And what do you know of love?!” he demanded, staring into her eyes for an answer, loosening his grip.

“I know more than you!” she all but screamed, taking a step back to free herself “You don't love anyone, Aemond!” As they both took a moment to catch their breath in the now silent room Aemond quickly stepped forward and caught Viserra in a gentle kiss. 

“I love you.” he whispered gently after parting. “You and I are meant to be, we were born for each other and no one else.” his breathing hitched as he reached to caress her cheek, his thumb gently rubbing over her bottom lip still wet from the kiss. His body felt frozen wanting so badly to kiss her again, and yet longing for more than just a mere kiss. 

Viserra hadn't moved, too scared to ruin the moment “Aemond..” she whispered.

“Viserra..” he breathed as he slowly bent down to kiss her once more.

Before the kiss could be executed she interrupted him with a guilty whisper “I bedded him..”

she didn't dare to move away, but instead searched his eye for a hint at his next move. 

He took a sharp step back, his face twisting with disbelief, confusion and then finally settling on anger. “Avy Mittys!”/ “You idiot!” He hissed in High Valyrian “when!?” he asked, losing his temper once more.

“two moons ago..” she again whispered. If she had been able to look at anything other than her feet she would have seen the anger on his face turn to confusion as realization hit. “Two moons..” he recalled, taking a brief pause before continuing “Viserra, are you with child?” His voice fell flat waiting for her response but once he saw the corners of her mouth curving into a smile he knew, his heart felt like it was sinking. He stumbled back catching himself on a nearby chair.

“Aemond..” she spoke softly but he lifted his hand swiftly, silently shushing her before his hand rubbed over his nose and mouth as he tried to think. “Who knows?” He questioned

“Only you..” she beamed. “I wanted to tell Jacaerys in person.”

“We can fix this…” he mumbled “there is still time to correct this mistake! We must-” he was interrupted by a slap to the face. 

“My child is not a mistake that needs correcting!” Viserra spoke angrily before she turned to walk away being stopped by a forceful grab of her arm. 

“Viserra!” Aemond pleaded “Don't do this..” 

She turned to look at him and the utter devastation on his face melted her heart but she simply smiled before taking his hand with hers and gently removing it from her arm before walking out of the room. 

Leaving a devastated Aemond in her wake 'how could she!' he thought, his mind desperately trying to find a solution. After all he was her protector and he would protect her from this at whatever costs.

[amaris-whisperer]

MOONFIRE l Aemond Targaryen x Reader (EP.8) l Mature content (18+)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen and OC Warning: Mature content (18+)

Episode Vlll – “The Nightmare Beneath” In fire they were bound—not by fate alone, but by the choices that scorched the soul. --

Rickon Stark left not with a bow, but a blade of words to set the court aflame with his fury. His accusations rang through the stone halls—venomous and loud. He called the match between Emberyn and Aemond a farce, a political conquest. He named her a traitor to the North and Aemond a usurper wrapped in silk and silver.

“House Rivendale has sold their daughter to dragonspawn,” he snarled in the great hall. “You’ll bring ruin to the North.”

But no one answered him. Her father said nothing. He did not stop Aemond when he placed a black-gloved hand on Emberyn’s waist in front of the entire court. Nor did he deny the prince’s right when Aemond declared:

“She is mine. Not as a prize. As equal.”

And so the Stark young lord left, defeated. Alone.

Three days later, the betrothal was sealed.

Aemond had not asked. He had informed. Her father, pale and disgraced, signed the agreement with a hand that barely held the quill steady. Aemond stood behind her, silent but radiating control. The ink had barely dried before ravens were sent to King’s Landing, bearing the news to Queen Alicent. A royal wedding was requested.

The very first night of their betrothal, Emberyn returned to the place where it all began—the chamber that housed the Ember Mirror.

The flames in the basin smoldered low, casting molten light on the obsidian walls. The heat wrapped around her like a cloak. She was barefoot, in a simple shift that clung to her like smoke. The room had once whispered secrets in fire. Tonight, it whispered something else—summoning.

The stone door opened behind her. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.

Aemond stepped in with a silence that cracked the air. He crossed the chamber as if led by instinct, not thought. She felt the warmth of his body before she felt his touch.

“You came here,” he said, voice low. “After everything.”

“I had to,” she answered. “This is where it began.”

His gloved hand trailed up her arm—slow, reverent. “She showed you something. The Mirror.”

“She always does.”

She turned then. Met him in the glow of firelight. Her breath trembled, but it wasn’t fear. He could see it. She wasn’t running anymore.

He kissed her. Not like a prince. Like a man who had waited long enough.

She pressed into him, gasping when he pulled her flush against him, his hands already working at the laces of her gown. There was no hesitation. No gentleness. Only fire meeting fire.

They fell together to the floor beside the Mirror, where ancient runes pulsed faintly with emberlight. He stripped her of fabric, laid her bare on the obsidian, and worshipped her like a storm—one that had always belonged to him.

When he kissed her, it was not a question—it was an answer to every unspoken thing between them. Emberyn responded with the same hunger, the same aching fire that had haunted her every time he looked at her as if she were already his.

He reached for her as if he had done so in another life, tugging loose the ties of her gown with a practiced urgency. The fabric slid down her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving her bare before the Mirror’s molten glow. His eye drank her in—not with possession, but reverence. Then his hands followed—tracing the lines of her waist, the curve of her hips, and up to her chest.

His palm splayed over her heart first, feeling its wild rhythm. Then he cupped her breasts, his thumb brushing across her sensitive skin until she gasped his name. His mouth followed—hot, demanding—leaving searing kisses along her collarbone, down the slope of her breast, until she trembled beneath his touch.

She reached for him then, tugging him down, pulling at the fastenings of his tunic until they were nothing but skin and heat and firelight.

He pressed her back onto the cool obsidian floor, her hair fanning out like ink in water. Runes shimmered faintly beneath her. The Mirror pulsed beside them, its flame rising in rhythm with their breaths. He touched her with the same precision he wielded a blade. Fingers first—exploring, coaxing, learning the rhythms of her breath, the tilt of her hips, the way her fingers clutched at his back. Then his mouth followed—soft, consuming, devoted.

She arched into him, every part of her singing with fire and fate. And when she looked down and saw the restraint trembling in his eye, she touched his face and whispered, “I want this. I want you.”

Only then did he allow himself to fall with her—into her—into the prophecy. And when he finally entered her—slowly, fully—she cried out. Not in pain.

In recognition.

It felt like something ancient had aligned. Like the prophecy itself curved inward at that moment, folding its wings around them. He filled her completely, his movements slow at first, as if memorizing every part of her.

Then the rhythm deepened. Commanding. Feral.

She arched beneath him, head thrown back, her nails clawing into his shoulders. Her moans echoed against stone and fire. She clung to him as if she were drowning and he the only air she’d ever known. He moved with a fury that bordered on sacred, his mouth finding hers again and again between breaths, between whispered oaths he had never spoken to anyone else.

He said her name like a vow. Like a promise in flame.

And when release took them both, it was not just of the body—but of soul and fire and prophecy. She saw it flash behind her eyes—the chained dragon, the flame-bound queen, the scream she had yet to voice. There, in the cradle of old flame, he bedded her. Fully. Finally. And she gave herself to him without fear.

Above them, the Ember Mirror blazed once more—no longer whispering, but watching.

Below them, buried deep in the mountain’s heart, Ignarax, who was called the Nightmare, stirred fully. Its ancient eye opened.

--

Later, while she rested curled beside him—marked, claimed, and glowing—Aemond rose and pulled on his tunic. At a desk in the shadows, he wrote in his sharp, immaculate hand:

To my lady mother, Queen Alicent of House Hightower, I have taken a bride before the formal marriage. The wedding will be held in King’s Landing andshall be held upon our return to King’s Landing. —Prince Aemond Targaryen

He did not ask for permission. He never would. And as the ink dried, he sealed it with black wax and kissed the edge of the page.

Then he turned to Emberyn, still wrapped in the silks he had pulled from her hours before. She lay watching him, unreadable.

"We will leave for King’s Landing before the moon changes," he said, slipping beside her. “You belong there. With me.”

She didn’t answer. That night, her dreams bled red.

The fire whispered again. But this time, it was not Emberyn in the flame—it was another woman.

A queen of old, cloaked in molten gold, her hair like cinders, cascading embers down her shoulders. Her eyes burned with power ancient and terrible. She stood tall before a line of dragons—massive, shadowed beasts with eyes like dying stars.

They were not ridden. Not tamed. They were bound with chains of obsidian and fire holding them to her will.

The queen lifted a dagger carved from dragonbone. With slow deliberation, she cut her palm and held it out. Blood dripped onto the blackened stone.

The dragons bowed. And for a moment, there was peace—terrifying in its stillness.

But the vision twisted.

Screams ripped through the air—high, desperate, inhuman. The queen turned, her golden robes burning at the hem. Her crown fell. Betrayal echoed all around her, faceless courtiers vanishing in flame.

Then the fire consumed her. She burned—limbs curled inward, mouth open in a scream that never ended. Her eyes turned to ash.

“The Queen of Cinders,” whispered the flame. “She trusted the wrong king.”

A beat. A breath.

“And so shall you.”

She jerked awake, her chest heaving, soaked in sweat. Her heart pounded against her ribs, wild and panicked, as though it might tear itself from her body. Her breath caught in her throat—ragged and uneven—her skin slick with the remnants of dream-fire.

The scream still echoed somewhere deep inside her. Not her own, but the queen’s.

Her trembling hands gripped the sheets. But they weren’t empty. They were cradled in someone’s warmth. 

Her Aemond

He held her even in sleep, his arm a band across her waist, his chest against her spine, his hand curled lightly beneath her ribs. His long frame encased her like armor—possessive, unyielding even in unconsciousness. And his face, when she turned slightly, was peaceful in a way she rarely saw. The harsh lines softened. The tension gone.

She didn’t want to wake him. Her fingers hovered just above his forearm, shaking, unsure if they should hold tighter or let go. The dream—the fire, the ancient queen’s betrayal, the dragon’s golden eye—it still danced behind her lids like a curse. But here, wrapped in Aemond’s arms, the world was briefly, mercifully quiet.

His breath stirred the loose strands of her hair. She closed her eyes and let herself lean back into him. Just for a moment. Just to feel him there, real and solid, against the unraveling in her chest.

His embrace held her like a promise. And Emberyn, though trembling, let it.

The chamber was still. No fire crackled. No wind stirred. But something else did. Beneath the mountain, deep below stone and secret, the earth murmured. The old tunnels groaned. Emberyn pressed her palm to the floor, her skin prickling.

But beneath the mountain…the fire was not done.

The heat from the stones below still throbbed faintly, matching the tempo of her blood. The name she had whispered—Ignarax—still hummed on the edge of memory.

Something ancient was waking and stirring beneath the mountain. Not just in her dreams—but in truth.

And it knew her name.