#silver week 24

[amyrosedaily]

Day 66: Dream (Silver Week day 1)

It’s Silver week!! (Thanks again to @speeding-fox for finding the prompts for me!! That was so nice of you!!) Silver and Amy are my two fav Sonic characters so I’m just gonna take Silver week to draw my fav two charas together for a week.

Uh…if that’s ok? The point is to appreciate Silver so maybe this isn’t fair to Silver?? If you guys think I shouldn’t let me know.

Anyway fusion au again today haha. I promise I won’t just fusion au all the time though.

PLEASE! Donate to help save Safaa and her family! | Main post | Gofundme

[psychictimestone]

Tomorrow marks the start of #SilverWeek24

Hope you're all ready to celebrate Silver for a week straight 🤭🦔🤍

From tomorrow the event will be hosted over on @absolution-orchard and I will try my best to repost any submissions I find in the #SilverWeek24 or #Silver Week 24 tags 🤍

Master post:

[astrophysician]

i don’t have any new art to post yet but consider celebrating silver week by giving our fic a read!!

warm up sketch, thinking about this fic.... yall aren't ready

[wonderinc-sonic]

Day 1 of Silver Week 2024 - Dream

I realise when you can fly being in the clouds isn't as cool as it is for the rest of us, but never mind!

[absolution-orchard]

🤍🤍 ITS SILVER WEEK! 🤍🤍

As a quick and easy place to find the prompts for the event This is a pinned post for this account (a copy of the Silver Week Masterpost) to act as a reminder for the prompts if anyone should need them or any assistance!

I will update with other links if needed too!

UPDATE FOR A03 USERS: There is a silver week collection if you wish to join it!

🤍 #SilverWeek24 prompt list 🤍

Silver week will run from November 7th 2024- November 14th 2024 📅

You can submit to as little or as many prompts as you would like! Any creative mediums (Art, writing, photography etc.) are allowed!

You may include other characters in your submissions, as long as Silver is there/the focus ✅ You may also submit early/late submissions

tagging submissions with #SilverWeek24 is advisable to make all submissions easy to find 👍

If you have any questions, feel free to ask me, @absolution-orchard (or my main, @psychictimestone), and i'll be happy to answer!

Most importantly, have fun!! 🤍🦔

Prompt starters to get your imagation started ⭐:

Day 1: Dream ☁️

Day 2: Delivery 📦

Day 3: Music 🎵

Day 4: Apples 🍎

Day 5: Knight ⚔️

Day 6: Super 🌟

Day 7: Psychic 🔮

Day 8: Happy Birthday 🎂

[speeding-fox]

Day 1: Dream

My first piece for Silver Week!

Sonic told Silver of the time he became Hyper Sonic, and now Silver can't help but imagine what he might look like if he went Hyper Silver, even in his dreams.

[lonesome-dreamsss]

steve plays tony sappy love songs from the 40s!!! he also ventures into the 50s and 60s, hits ALL the old time-y songs. he's so in love and this is how he shows it best (along with his art of course, he has an entire sketchbook dedicated to tony).

the first time he does it, they're in the kitchen, steve's making them breakfast and tony is at the table with a coffee. steve's phone is set up, playing music, soft, quiet songs, mostly instrumentals. once he has the pancakes on a plate, he changes it to a billie holiday song. it's something so, so sappy and tony grins and is like "he's playing me love songs now?" and steve grins back and says "maybe. are you complaining?" the tips of tony's ears are pink but no, he isn't complaining, not one bit. when the song ends, tony kisses him and says "i love you too, y'know." and steve does know.

the next time, they're in tony's work shop, tony's playing around with some new suit ideas for the team and steve's drawing (tony as he is then, stained with oil smears, hair askew, absolutely beaming). steve smiles softly and requests that jarvis play this dean martin song. tony turns to look at him, that same grin he had the first time spreading across his face, "you're ridiculous." steve gives him his best who me? face and tony throws his head back and laughs.

tony takes them out of nyc, some place in upstate new york, so they could stargaze. he knows nothing about the stars, and steve is just as clueless, but it's less about that and more about just being with one another, experiencing the world's beauty together. though steve spends most of the time looking at tony because well, he's more beautiful then any star or moon. steve goes for bing crosby, and tony laughs into steve's shoulder, eyes shining in the silver lighting, "i'm starting to think you have a playlist all made up." steve presses a kiss to tony's head, "maybe i do." "sap." steve laughs, "only for you." tony then gives him the softest look, love so plainly there, and it leaves steve breathless, "aren't i lucky." steve thinks he's the lucky one.

they're in bed, tony had woken up from a nightmare and can't fall back asleep. steve's running his fingers through tony's hair and using his other hand to rub his thumb over tony's own hand. it seems to mellow tony out to some extent, but he's still tense and his eyes are glazed over, he's somewhere in his head, lost to whatever thoughts are consuming him. steve picks nat king cole now, though this time, he sings it himself. he's not a singer by any means, but he doesn't let that stop him. it pulls tony back to the present, and he cracks the tiniest of smiles. steve takes that as a win.

tony's hurt. he's hurt and he's unconscious and looks oh so pale and broken laying in the hospital bed. it's been nearly two days now, and steve is exhausted. he hasn't left the hospital chair, despite the rest of the team telling him he needs rest too. nat had almost dragged him out of there and to a shower and his bed, but he's nothing if not stubborn. she gave up, in the end, and told him to at least eat something, before leaving, saying she'd be back in the morning. steve clutches tony's hand, fighting the urge to cry yet again. he does the only thing he can think to do, the only thing that might be able to fix this in some way. he starts to sing. it's ella fitzgerald this time. his voice is dry, cracking with each word, but he keeps going. it's comforting, in a way, and he hopes it's comforting for tony too, hopes tony can even hear him. the tears come anyway, despite his best efforts, and the lyrics catch in his throat. then, in an answer to his prayers, tony squeezes his hand. it's weak but god, it's there and steve chokes out a sob, relief coursing through him. tony'll be okay.

"are you ready?" steve asks, moving to wrap his arms around tony's waist. "i was born ready, capsicle," tony says back with a wink, settling his arms around steve's neck. they fit together perfectly. frank sinatra starts to play, they had picked this one together, for this moment, and they start to dance. with the way tony's looking at him and the way the ring sits snug on his left hand, steve feels his heart swells in his chest and he can't help but lean in to kiss tony. tony smiles into the kiss and then laughs as everyone around them cheers. this is what pure happiness is, steve thinks, and rests his forehead against tony's. the song comes to a close and tony kisses him once more before tugging him towards the cake with a grin that rivals the brightness of the sun.

[violinfantasy]

i desperately need ksu to change their system for domestic competitions

[snowshinobi]

I can now say I've drawn blood during a makeout sesh how much does this up my cannibalism cred

[chimerahh]

my eyes hurt i dont want to do this anymore

[temiizpalace]

☆┊DEAR FUTURE HUSBAND..

SUMMARY: little things he does that remind you you’re going to marry him someday.

CHARACTERS: all dorms (-ortho)

GENRE: fluff

WARNINGS: none

reader gender is not mentioned, reader is not mentioned to be yuu

MAKING YOU MEALS

he makes sure you eat RIGHT. no more skipping meals throughout the day on his watch. every lunch he’ll make you a cute little bento box so you don’t have to wait in line. and when i say cute, i mean cute. it doesn’t matter what gender you are your rice balls will have cat ears. dinner? come over to his dorm and he’ll make something for you. don’t feel like it? he’s going to your place and cooking there. breakfast? he makes something quick yet delicious for you. he’s like your own private chef, and you can only imagine what it’d be like to see a ring on his finger someday.

trey, ruggie, azul, jamil, lilia (good luck), silver

CLEANING YOUR ROOM (and everything else)

it doesn’t matter if your room is messy, tidy, or anything in between, every month he’ll make sure it is SPOTLESS. is there dust on your shelves? nuh uh. are there random stains on your floor that you thought were impossible to get out? he’s rushing to your rescue and somehow got the stain out. did you not want to go through your homework? everything is suddenly organized in its respective subject, going from A-Z. you’ve never seen your room so tidy before, it was like an epiphany. please just marry him on the spot, he’s begging.

riddle, deuce, jade, jamil, vil, sebek

LEAVING LITTLE POST-IT NOTES ON YOUR BELONGINGS

without fail, you’ll find a cute little sticky-note on your almost all of your belongings. sure, it gets annoying once in awhile, but reading the sweet message on it changes your mind almost instantly. “you’re going to do great today! stay strong. :)” “don’t forget to drink water! love you 🫶” “can we go out soon? my treat. text me when u see this!” it’s almost frightening to see how much yellow papers you keep inside your desk every time you opening it, but can anyone really blame you? you’re going to keep these til the day you die, and that grand total might be at the very least over 100,000.

ace, deuce, cater, jack, floyd, kalim, epel, rook

RANDOM GIFTS

expect to see a neatly wrapped gift on your doorstep almost every week. seriously. it’s like a delivery service except the company is literally your boyfriend. “dear, did you get me this?” you ask as you enter the room. he looks up from his phone as he looks at the expensive name brand sweatshirt in your hands. “yeah.” he answered so nonchalantly!! like sir!!! this sweater was 1000000 thaumarks!! what!! while you do appreciate the gesture, you feel bad he’s spending so much money on you. he doesn’t care though!! he’ll spoil you rotten til your very last breath.

leona, azul, floyd, kalim, vil, idia, malleus

PREPPING YOU SNACKS

depending on who this is, he may not be some gordon ramsay level chef, but he’s definitely more than happy to cut you a some apple slices while you study. sometimes he’ll come into your room with a backpack full of your favorite snacks just left at the side of your desk so you can reach down and grab the one you want to eat that day. sometimes all you need is an energy boost and he’s more than happy to make some coffee or tea for you if you’re busy. he’ll press a kiss or two on your forehead before placing the plate of beautifully cut fruit down and continuing on with his day and going back to his thoughts. now, what will the theme of your wedding be?

ace, deuce, trey, jade, jack, jamil, epel, malleus

A/N: notice how jamil and deuce are in almost every category. (sorry this one was kinda rushed 😭😭)

date published: 7/30/24

© temiizpalace — do not copy, steal, or put my work into ai. thank you!

[psychictimestone]

A reminder there is TWO WEEKS TO GO until #SilverWeek24!

If you need a reminder of the themes and dates they are

Day 1 (7th November) - Dreams ☁️

Day 2 (8th November) - Delivery 📦

Day 3 (9th November) - Music 🎵

Day 4 (10th November) - Apples 🍎

Day 5 (11th November) - Knight ⚔️

Day 6 (12th November) - Super 🌟

Day 7 (13th November) - Psychic 🔮

Day 8 (14th November) - Happy birthday 🎂

If you need further information, the master post can be found here. Have fun!

[sl-ut]

too sweet

pairing: rhaenyra targaryen x fem!targ bastard!reader

description: y/n heritage was plain as day–she was a targaryen bastard forced to work in the brothels just to scrape by, so when the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms calls for her illegitimate kin to join her in dragonstone, it is nearly impossible to ignore.

warnings: hotd typical warnings, reader’s appearance slightly described (hair colour and its mentioned that she had lost weight due to malnutrition but that's it), slight smut like literally just the beginning, slight reference to rhaenyra as mommy but not really she’s just a mother with maternal instincts and im horny mbmb

words: 4.2K

date posted: 05/09/24

The lower streets of King’s Landing had quickly dwindled into a dangerous cesspool of violence, hatred, and poverty in the months following the death of King Viserys II. The line of succession had been a heavily debated topic across the nation ever since Queen Aemma lost her first boy, even among the common folk, and especially after the Hightowers usurped the throne in favour of Prince Aegon before Rhaenyra could even attempt to lay her claim.

In truth, Y/n felt no loyalty to either side of this war. She was, afterall, one of the many Targaryen offspring left to rot in the streets of Flea Bottom, and though she felt morally tied to Rhaenyra solely through her sex, she also knew that the world was designed for men and men alone, so there was no possible way that Rhaenyra Targaryen could ascend the throne without some sort of political pushback. Her loyalty, at this point, was something to be earned from either side, but now with Prince Aemond acting as Regent, it was almost impossible to feel any sort of loyalty towards the Greens with how poorly the common folk were being treated, and though Rhaenyra’s attempts to share food among the masses in King’s Landing was most certainly nothing more than a ploy to earn their fealty, it was working. 

Y/n had lost a considerable amount of weight in the few weeks since rations had been cut back even further, and many of her regular customers had complained that her curves and plush thighs had thinned out, and anyone who gripped her tight enough could easily feel the grooves of her bones beneath the once pillow-soft flesh. Her silver-white hair appeared to be dull in colour, and her skin was more tender than ever before–not only was she more susceptible to bruising due to her malnutrition, but her clients were also rougher when they came to her; men were could hardly afford her services anymore, so they were taking her as they pleased whenever they could. Despite the neglect to her physical form, she still needed to perform her duties at the brothel each night, and had to hold her tongue in disgust each time any member or affiliate of the royal family requested her services. Y/n knew that, if she were to remain in King’s Landing for much longer, she would end up starving to death, so long as she was not brutally murdered first. 

So, when she overheard two of her clients whispering about Rhaenyra’s call for all Targaryen bastards to flee to Dragonstone, she only hesitated for a brief moment before packing the few belongings she had into a moth-eaten sack and fleeing to the shore along with many of her brothers and sisters. On the journey, they shared their stories–who they were, who they may have descended from, why they had answered the Queen’s call… Each and every one of them were there out of sheer desperation, and many of them could not even be certain that they had any Targaryen blood, they were there based on rumours and hope of escaping starvation, even if it meant that they were going to be eaten alive by one of the largest dragons in the world. 

Y/n had always been complimented for her Valyrian features, silver hair and purplish eyes, but nothing had prepared her for the unearthly beauty of Queen Rhaenyra. She was the pinnacle of how a Targaryen should appear in physicality and in presence. The moment she set foot in the regal library of Dragonstone, she commanded the attention of everyone inside, and as she argued with the dragon keepers in High Valyrian, Y/n could feel her heart beating against her ribcage. Her mere existence made Y/n nervous, similarly to how one might feel in the presence of a god, the woman watching in awe as the Queen commanded a dragon to serve her, reaching out to lay her hand upon his snout and close her eyes, feeling the energy transfer between them. 

Her awe was quickly broken, though, as Vermax rejected the first man who stepped forward to claim him, then turning to spray fire at the remaining group rather than offer any acceptance. In truth, Y/n could not be surprised; she had willingly walked into the dragon pit in hopes of claiming a wild dragon, something that was rarely done by those with the purest of Valyrian bloodlines, let alone by someone who would never be recognized as a true Targaryen. She was only glad that she was able to flee and hide herself behind a large broken piece of stone before the dragon could swallow her whole. She could not remember how long she had been cowering behind the stone before she could feel the dragon’s presence behind her, feeling the force of his exhale around the stone. She finally pushed herself up on shaky legs, turning to find herself staring into the open jaws of Vermithor as he stared down at her. She trembled at his sheer size, her entire body scarcely comparable to the size of one of his long, sharp claws. Closing her eyes, she accepted her fate–this could not be any worse than the slow death of starvation she would have faced had she not left King’s Landing to begin with. This way, the pain would be worse, but her death would be instant, and her bones would not be left to rot in the streets. She let out a shaky breath, waiting for the heat of his fire, but it never came.

Instead, she felt her body fall back, landing against the jagged stone of the dragon pit from the force of his snout meeting her chest. Her eyes cracked open, peering up at him fearfully, only to be met by his curious stare. His jaws had closed, no long seeming to be interested in harming her as he laid his head down onto the ground, grumbling impatiently as he waited for her attention. 

She turned her gaze upwards, finding the queen staring down at her amidst the chaos and smoke. She wore a small smirk on her face, appearing proud that someone was finally able to claim the wild dragon. Y/n felt a warmth in her belly at her attention, chest heaving as Rhaenyra nodded at her, as if giving her permission to finally lay claim to the dragon that had chosen her to ride him. His nose was scaly beneath her touch, but his flesh provided her with a comforting warmth that was so different to the uncomfortable heat of the still-burning flames all around her. She carefully pressed against him, resting her head against his nose, feeling the connection form between them–she could feel his emotions, how he was quickly calming from her touch, and she wondered if he could feel her heartbeat slowly decreasing from its rapid pace. He nudged her to climb up his wing, slowly raising her to step back up onto the platform and meet the queen face-to-face. 

“What is your name?” Rhaenyra spoke, her tone firm but welcoming.

Y/n lowered her head, dropping into a poorly attempted curtsy, “Y/n, Your Grace.”

The queen nodded, “I must admit, I am surprised that you have been able to claim a dragon at all, let alone one such as Vermithor, but I cannot describe the relief you have given me today. You should be proud, having claimed the second largest, and arguably the fiercest dragon in the world.”

“I-I cannot tell you how this feels, Your Grace. I am but a common girl from Flea Bottom–this is my first time even leaving King’s Landing.”

“And now you are a dragon rider. How you have risen.” Rhaenyra smirked, dragging her violet gaze down the length of her body, “Come, you must be tired and hungry from your journey. I will have my ladies prepare you a bath and bring you new clothes. I need you strong, if you are to ride a dragon.”

Her night in Dragonstone had not felt real. For the first time since she was a small child, she had others taking care of her. The ladies were gentle as they massaged soap into her silver hair and dull skin, pressing rose-scented oil into her skin and braiding her hair into a style she had never had the pleasure of wearing–she typically could not afford proper hair care, as her clients tended to tug and rip at her silver curls while seeking pleasure, making it pointless to wear anything more than one simple braid. Her dress was simple, but still the finest quality she’d ever worn. It was black, with red stitching along the hem, almost as if Rhaenyra was claiming her as a member of the Blacks, which she supposed she likely was. Her mouth watered at the sight of the food, forgoing the utensils on the table and instead ripping pieces of meat apart with her bare hands, moaning at the taste and savouring every last lick of flavour, washing it all down with the sweetest red wine she had ever tasted. 

She was on her second plate when Rhaenyra came to her chambers, silently slipping through the secret passage and motioning for the handmaidens to leave the room. 

“I hope it is up to your standard,” She spoke, smirking as the girl flinched in surprise at the queen’s voice, “I’m afraid we have had to give up some luxuries in order to prepare for the coming war, but I figured that you would be wanting for a proper meal.” 

“My queen,” Y/n spoke, wine dribbling down the corner of her mouth, “I cannot even remember the last time I have been able to taste meat at all, and I’m sure I’ve never been afforded something such as this.”

“I’m glad,” Rhaenyra took the seat across from her at the small round table, “I understand that you are tired and wish to retire soon, but I could not deny my curiosity. Tell me, do you know of your heritage?”

Y/n shrunk in her seat, unsure of whether her lineage may cause the queen any upset, “I cannot be certain, Your Grace, but I am told I come from either of two Targaryen men.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, “Your mother could not be certain?”

Y/n pursed her lips, “I did not know my mother. She died in her labours, I’m afraid, but her employer took in and put me to work as soon as I was old enough.”

Rhaenyra nodded, the solemn look in her eyes making her understanding clear, “I am sorry to hear that. I can understand the pain of losing a mother, though I was fortunate enough to know her for a while before she was taken from us.”

Y/n bowed her head, “I was only a young child when Queen Aemma died, but I remember my household mourning her greatly. I’m told she was the finest of ladies.” 

“Thank you, she was.” Rhaenyra gulped down the lump in her throat, “Enough about me, tell me of your lineage.”

Y/n nodded, “Some tell me that my mother was the bastard daughter of Prince Baelon, your grandsire. I’m told her hair was light in colour, not so much as mine, but her own mother was dark of hair. Others tell me that my father may have been…Prince Daemon.” She watched as the queen raised her brow, “I’m told he was a regular customer of my mother’s before she fell pregnant, though I cannot be certain where my Valyrian blood comes from.”

Rhaenyra sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I am aware of my husband’s indiscretions, but do not fear. We cannot be to blame for the misdoings of our parents.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Y/n smiled at her softly, “Forgive me for asking, but I was under the impression that Prince Daemon was here with you, I had assumed that he would be more present in the claiming of the dragons.”

Rhaenyra frowned, “Daemon has claimed Harrenhal in my name, or so I’m told. In truth, I was so determined to find riders for my remaining dragons because I am not certain whether he fights for my claim or his own. I fear he still resents me for my father replacing him as his successor, and the last time we spoke he did not seem to be very pleased with me or the way that I wish to conduct this war.” 

“I am sorry to hear that, Your Grace.” Y/n frowned, “My apologies, I never should have asked.”

“Nonsense,” Rhaenyra swiped a singular tear from her cheek, “You are one of my dragonriders now, blood of the dragon. You are privy to the internal quarrels of my council if you are to risk your life for my cause.”

Y/n nodded, unsure of what else to say. She opened her mouth, uncertain of what was about to come out when Rhaenyra stood, staring down at her with sharp violet eyes. 

“My apologies for keeping you, my lady. I shall let you rest now, I need you at your best to begin your lessons in the morn.” She hesitated for a moment before finally rounding the table and pressing a firm kiss to the crown of her head, then finally fleeing through the secret passage that she had arrived through, leaving the girl stunned at the affection she had just received from the Queen. 

In the following weeks, Y/n’s bond with Vermithor had grown more than she could have possibly imagined. She was far from fluent in High Valyrian and still had much to learn in the art of dragon riding, but she was now able to use basic commands with her mount and was growing more confident while flying. 

She had also found herself acting as a confidant for the queen, at first mostly for political matters–Mysaria had been very helpful in the beginning when it came to pulling the commoners to her side, but Y/n had lived through the cruelty forced upon the masses by the Greens, she was able to give Rhaenyra a first-hand perspective. Then, she began coming to her for other matters, even just to talk, though Y/n understood how lonely she must feel among her counsel of men, especially now that she was forced to deal with the icy attitude of her own son, who had been entirely against the recruitment of the Targaryen bastards and now seemed to be punishing his mother for giving not one, but three fully grown dragons to those who had no rightful claim to them. 

Y/n found comfort in the three other bastards that had joined Rhaenyra’s team. Hugh was a gentle soul in a tough vessel, always prepared to fight and protect those he cared about. He had quickly become quite close with the younger woman, viewing her almost as a younger sister (which they very well could be, for all they know). Ulf was, well, Ulf. He was rough around the edges, exactly the type you would expect to find in the lowest and poorest areas of Flea Bottom, the type to hang around brothels and bars for the majority of his life, spending the only coin to his name on booze and only the cheapest of whores. Addam was quieter than the other two when dealing with the queen and their newfound duties, but seemed to be the most endlessly confident man that Y/n had ever met. He was loyal to his core at the very least, but like the rest of them, he was nothing more than a commoner whose fate lay in the hands of those born into power, though he certainly had much more faith in Rhaenyra than the other two, mainly because of her greater amount of trust in him considering that he was able to claim a dragon without any help or even any effort–while the others had all come to Dragonstone to bond with a dragon, Seasmoke had chosen Addam on his own without prompt. Though, as much as he seemed to be the queen’s favourite amongst her new “army of bastards,” none were aware of the fact that Rhaenyra made nightly visits to Y/n’s chambers and would now consider her to be one of her closest confidants. 

Rhaenyra had found herself being quite clingy when it came to Y/n. Every night after she crept through the secret passageway, she would sit and talk for hours with Y/n regardless of what state the young woman may have been in. She sat with her while she studied High Valyrian, while she bathed, even while she slept sometimes, silently stroking her silver-white locks as her breathing slowed and deepened, perhaps overstaying her welcome for an hour or two before leaving through the same passage in which she had come. 

Y/n was among the few who could understand her frustrations. Everyone around her were men, none of whom considered her intelligent enough to lead their forces to victory; Daemon refused to correspond with her, despite the fact that he had travelled to Harrenhal in her name; her son resented her for bringing in these bastards and allowing them to claim dragons; her council rejected her ideas and undermined her rule as much as they possibly could. Y/n, however, was able to understand the sheer anger that she was feeling–to be ignored and criticised simply due to her gender. Rhaenyra knew fully well that everyone there would gladly turn their shields to Daemon should he press for his own claim to the throne, all except for her sweet Y/n.

The silver-haired queen could not be certain exactly when her affection for the young woman had grown past the point of decency. During their usual evenings together, Rhaenyra found herself reaching for her, laying a hand over her own or to scratch gently at her scalp or to stroke her cheek affectionately. It was something that Y/n had grown accustomed to, feeling Rhaenyra’s weight next to her in her feather-plush bed, her nimble fingertips soothing over her skin until she fell asleep. So much so, that the one evening that Rhaenyra did not come to her chambers, she found herself lying awake late into the night, waiting to feel the comforting, almost maternal presence of the silver queen. 

This longing for the woman’s wandering of the halls of Dragonstone, thanking the gods for the many lit torches lining the walls–otherwise, she would be left to wander a labyrinth of blackness with no hope of finding the queen. Rhaenyra had been spending a large majority of her time in the castle’s vast library, which is exactly where the new dragonrider found her, slouched over dozens of large, dusty books that had likely gone untouched for the last century.

The silver haired woman paid no mind to the new presence in the room, instead continuing to rake her eyes across the page mindlessly.

“Your Grace,” Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered up at the sound of the young woman’s voice, “You did not join us for supper.”

The queen sat back in her chair, rolling her neck to remove some of the kinks out, “My appetite did not find me this evening, I’m afraid.”

“And you did not come to my chambers,” This caused her eyebrows to perk up, her violet eyes drawing down her robe-clad body. Y/n shifted her weight from leg-to-leg, heat rising to her cheeks as her next admittance fell from her lips, “I admit, I found it difficult to find sleep without your presence.”

A small chuckle fell from Rhaenyra’s lips as a tired smile crossed her features, “My apologies, my sweet. How thoughtless of me to neglect you so.”

“Neglect,” Y/n muses, rounding the edge of the desk to lean against the lip just next to Rhaenyra’s seat. “I fear the only one of us that is facing neglect at your hand, Your Grace, is you.” Her fingers reached for the queen’s pale cheek, ghosting over the soft skin and admiring the pink that grew beneath her touch, “You look tired, and you have not eaten since breakfast–and do not even try to argue, I asked your handmaiden.”

“My sweet keeper,” Rhaenyra smirked, “I fear comfort is something I cannot afford at the moment, not until this war is won and I take back my rightful inheritance.”

“A war will not be won tired and hungry,” She retorted, “You must take care of yourself–or at least, allow others to care for you.”

This caused Rhaenyra to scoff, “I’m certain that my council would not care for me, even if they had to. In fact, I may be doing them a favour by allowing myself to waste away as such.” 

“Then allow me to care for you.”

Rhaenyra’s purple eyes widened in surprise, then settled into the familiar affectionate stare that she so often wore when dealing with the young woman, “Sweet girl, I fear you may be far too kind for this world. Or, for me, at the very least.”

“For the world, mayhaps, but I do not feel there is enough kindness in the world to treat you as you deserve, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra stood from her chair abruptly, her own hands coming to settle over the young woman’s cheeks. A glaze of tears appeared in her eyes as she stuttered for a moment, mulling over her words to ensure that her point was as clear as possible.

[wonderinc-sonic]

day 2: delivery - an attempt was made at that iconic silver pose on the tree. not a good one, but an attempt!

[absolution-orchard]

🍎 Hello and welcome to the Orchard! 🍎

After seeing the postive response to making a version of this on twitter, I've decided to bring this over to Tumblr too, as we could all use more Silver postivity!

So what is Absolution Orchard exactly?

Absolution Orchard is an account dedicated to being a safe space for Silver fans and spreading postivity of our favourite hedgehog! Art will be reposted, Postivity will be shared and silly posts made for Silver!

I will leave the ask box of this account open if you wish to submit any Silver postivity to be shared; anything goes! (I am trusting this to be used in good faith 🙏)

We also hold Silver Mondays! A weekly event dedicated to sharing something you love about Silver. Anything goes!

#SilverWeek24 Will also be hosted here!

If you decide to join the Orchard, I hope you enjoy your stay!

[novaursa]

A Union of Ice and Fire

- Summary: After your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, approves of the marriage between you and Cregan Stark, you marry under watchful eyes of gods of old. And one week later, a raven arrives carrying dark news.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra and her second born child. The reader is also a dragonrider. These events happen right after The Dragon and The Wolf. For the full list of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 663

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

- A/N: since the last part have gotten more then a hundred likes in less then 24 hours, here is the continuation of it. Your guys are awesome. I have not slept for days as I'm trying to push everything out on schedule, but you are making it all worth it. ❤️

The godswood is still beneath a canopy of winter's fading touch, its ancient weirwood tree standing tall and ominous. The red leaves shift in the cold wind, whispering the secrets of ancient times as you, Y/N Velaryon, stand before it. You can feel the eyes of the old gods upon you, watching from within the carved face, its mouth twisted in a silent scream. The eyes of the heart tree, pools of deep crimson, look upon you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

You are dressed in the finest gown Winterfell could muster—one that suits both a dragon’s daughter and the lady you are to become. Your gown is silver and red, reminiscent of your lineage, shimmering in the dim light of the godswood. Your silver hair, braided with strands of black wool, cascades down your back, and a simple circlet rests on your brow, a mark of your high birth and future station as the Lady of Winterfell. You feel the weight of history and duty pressing down on you, yet within that weight lies a spark of something new—a bond forged with the North and the man who now stands beside you.

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, is a figure of rugged strength, his presence commanding yet not overbearing. He wears a heavy black fur cloak over his dark grey tunic, the stark wolf sigil prominent across his broad chest. His dark hair is tied back, exposing the harsh lines of his face—his strong jaw and storm-grey eyes that have a softness only you seem to have unlocked. Though his expression remains solemn, the corners of his mouth twitch as he glances at you, the unspoken warmth between you growing stronger with every passing moment. 

You stand together in front of the weirwood, surrounded by the Northern lords who had pledged their loyalty to your mother. Despite their stern faces, there is respect in their eyes. These are not men given to idle chatter or false pleasantries. They value loyalty, honor, and oaths—things your union represents.

The wind howls softly through the trees as the words are spoken. An elderly man, one of the old greybeards Cregan trusts, steps forward to perform the ceremony. He bears the weight of tradition in his voice as he begins, "Before the eyes of gods and men, here in the presence of the Old Gods, we witness the union of Lord Cregan Stark and Lady Y/N Velaryon."

The words reverberate through the godswood as the old gods bear silent witness to this union. You feel the chill of the North seeping into your bones, but beside you, Cregan’s warmth is a constant presence. He takes your hand, his grip firm yet gentle, a silent vow of protection and partnership. You look up at him, catching his eye, and in that moment, everything else fades away—the whispers of the leaves, the weight of duty, even the biting cold.

He speaks his vow, his voice deep and resonant, “By the laws of gods and men, I take you, Y/N Velaryon, as my wife. In the warmth of summer and the depths of winter, I am yours.” His eyes remain locked on yours, and there is no doubt in his words—only sincerity.

You return the vow, your voice clear and strong despite the flutter of emotions within you. “I take you, Cregan Stark, as my husband. I am yours in joy and sorrow, in strength and weakness, until the last breath leaves my body.”

With those words, you feel a binding, something deeper than mere words can convey—a connection woven with the strength of dragon and wolf, the blood of Targaryen and Stark, old and new. The old gods seem to hum in approval, the wind growing still for just a breath as if the gods themselves acknowledge your vows.

A simple silver ring is placed upon your finger, and you do the same for him with a band of dark steel, forged in the cold depths of the North. The greybeard raises his hands to the sky, sealing your vows. “It is done. By the Old Gods, let this union be blessed.”

Cregan leans in, his breath warm against your cold cheeks, and presses his lips to yours—your first kiss as husband and wife. His kiss is firm and sure, unyielding yet tender, a promise in itself. The lords of the North around you nod in approval, murmuring words of congratulations, and you are aware of the new title you carry now: Lady Stark of Winterfell.

The feast is held in the Great Hall, warmth radiating from the roaring hearths. The long tables are set with rich food—roasted meats, thick stews, and dark bread—simple fare compared to what you’ve known in King’s Landing, but rich in flavor and warmth. The hall echoes with laughter, the booming voices of the North pleased with this rare celebration in the harshest season.

You sit beside Cregan at the high table, your hand resting near his, fingers occasionally brushing as you speak with those who come to offer their congratulations. The conversation flows easily now, the tension of duty replaced with the comfort of companionship. Cregan leans in at one point, speaking low enough that only you can hear. “I never expected that a dragon would bring warmth to Winterfell, but here you are.”

You smile softly, feeling that warmth within you too. “And I never imagined the North could feel like home,” you reply, and there is truth in your words. Despite the cold stone of the castle, there’s a fire kindling here, one that grows every time your gaze meets his.

As the night deepens and the mead flows freely, the toasts begin. The lords raise their cups, shouting their oaths of loyalty to House Stark and to the new Lady of Winterfell. Cregan raises his cup as well, his voice clear over the noise, “To my wife, Y/N, who brings fire to this cold land. May our union stand as strong as the walls of Winterfell and burn as bright as the flames of a dragon.”

The hall erupts in cheers, and you lift your cup in return, the warmth of the mead settling in your chest. Your gaze meets Cregan’s again, and this time, the unspoken promise between you is undeniable.

This is just the beginning—a union of ice and fire, of dragon and wolf. And as you take another sip, the sound of laughter and joy surrounding you, you can’t help but feel that, together, you might just weather whatever storms the gods have yet to send your way.

The Great Hall of Winterfell buzzes with life as the feast reaches its height. The low, flickering light from the blazing hearths casts dancing shadows over stone walls, illuminating the gathering of lords, bannermen, and their kin. The long tables are laden with Northern fare—boar roasted to perfection, trout caught fresh from icy rivers, steaming bowls of mutton stew, and bread so dark and hearty it could sustain a man through the longest winter. Jugs of spiced mead and strong ale are passed freely, filling cups to the brim. The warmth of the hearths contrasts sharply with the cold that clings outside, yet the room feels alive with the camaraderie of the North.

You sit at the high table, beside your new husband, Lord Cregan Stark. The feast is different from the courtly banquets you grew up with. There is little of the polished elegance and courtly games found in King’s Landing—no fine silk hangings or delicate dishes of fruit and honey. Instead, the feast here is raw and primal, filled with the hearty laughter of men and women who understand that life is a harsh, fleeting gift, to be savored when they can.

The Northern customs are as stern as the land itself. Men challenge one another to bouts of strength, arm wrestling contests, and tests of drink—seeing who can down the most ale without falling over. Women engage in singing competitions, their voices strong and clear, carrying the melodies of old Northern ballads. There’s a rugged, unrefined beauty in the festivities, a sense of unity born from shared hardship and deep-rooted traditions.

A few of the Greybeards who pledged to your cause earlier have gathered near the hearth, exchanging old tales of battles and victories. Occasionally, their eyes glance your way, nodding approvingly, as though silently acknowledging the part you now play in their world.

As the night deepens, you feel the weight of more eyes upon you, lords and ladies watching with growing anticipation. The atmosphere shifts subtly, laughter and talk giving way to murmurs. You can almost sense it coming—the bedding.

The first to raise the call is Lord Umber, his face flushed from drink, his booming voice ringing out across the hall. “It’s time!” he bellows, slamming his fist on the table. “Bring out the bride and groom to the bed! Let’s show the lady how it’s done in the North!”

The hall erupts with cheers and laughter, the men pounding their fists on the tables, ready to tear away the finery and see the marriage consummated in the rough, loud tradition of the North. A few women cackle, egging the men on, while others smirk knowingly.

You tense instinctively, your eyes darting to Cregan. You see the storm flash in his grey eyes, a deep frown pulling at his features. He stands, and the hall quiets, expecting him to give in to the custom, to allow the lords their entertainment. Instead, he raises a hand, his voice cutting through the din like a sharp blade. “There will be no bedding tonight.”

A ripple of disbelief courses through the crowd, followed quickly by grumbles of dissatisfaction. Lord Umber, unsteady on his feet, glares at Cregan with drunken indignation. “What’s this, Lord Stark? Denying tradition? Are we to let the lady keep her gown on, untouched and unproven?”

Cregan’s gaze hardens. His voice remains calm, but there is steel beneath the words. “I am Lord of Winterfell, and I will not have my wife paraded like some prize sow for your amusement. The old gods have blessed our union, and that is enough.” His tone brooks no argument, and a dangerous quiet settles over the hall.

Lord Bolton leans forward, his voice dripping with condescension. “It’s not the way things are done, Stark. We’ve had our feast, our drink, and now we demand our right to the bedding ceremony.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you stand beside Cregan, lifting your chin proudly. “There will be no ceremony, and I stand with my lord husband in this. I am not some maid to be stripped and gawked at for your sport. If any man thinks he can force his will upon us, then he can come forward now and see what the Midnight Fury and Winterfell’s wolves think of it.”

The hall falls utterly silent. Your words, carrying a trace of the Valyrian fire that flows in your blood, hang in the air. The image of your dragon, Thraxata, looms over their thoughts, the Midnight Fury’s violet eyes mirroring yours. Your defiance reminds them that you are no meek Southern bride, but a daughter of House Velaryon, with the blood of Rhaenyra Targaryen in your veins.

Cregan’s hand subtly brushes yours under the table, a silent reassurance. His voice, now low and firm, cuts through the tension. “Any man who wishes to question me can take it up tomorrow in the courtyard. We can settle it with steel if words are not enough. But tonight, I will not have my bride humiliated.”

Several of the lords look away, muttering into their cups. Lord Umber slumps back into his seat, cursing under his breath. None are fool enough to challenge Cregan, not with his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.

One of the women, Lady Mormont, raises her cup with a grin. “Well spoken, Lady Y/N. I’d wager no man here could match your fire, dragon-born as you are.” Her toast is echoed by a few others, and slowly, the hall returns to its revelry, though the grumbling doesn’t entirely fade.

You share a look with Cregan, a silent understanding passing between you. He inclines his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips, before he stands again, addressing the hall. “The night grows late. My lady and I will take our leave. Enjoy the rest of the feast.” With that, he offers you his arm, and together, you leave the hall.

As you exit the Great Hall, the distant sounds of merriment and music follow you down the stone corridors of Winterfell. The cold air bites at your cheeks, but you feel warmth bloom in your chest as Cregan’s hand covers yours, holding it close. He leads you through the winding halls, the firelight casting long shadows along the ancient stones.

When you reach your chambers, Cregan pauses at the door, turning to face you fully. There’s a softness in his eyes now, the hard edge he wore in the hall melted away. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice warm and sincere. “For standing with me back there.”

You squeeze his hand gently, meeting his gaze with a smile. “We stand together now, Cregan. In all things.”

He nods, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Then let’s face whatever comes next together—wolf and dragon, side by side.”

With that, he opens the door, and you step inside, ready to begin the next chapter of your shared life in the North. As the door closes behind you, the echoes of the feast are left behind, and all that remains is the quiet of the night and the warmth of the partnership you’ve begun to forge together.

The chamber is dimly lit by the soft glow of a single hearth fire, shadows dancing across the stone walls. The furs piled atop the bed emit a faint, musky scent of the North. The air is heavy with the lingering warmth of the feast, yet there is a different tension in this room—a tension born not of duty or politics, but of anticipation.

Cregan’s eyes are on you, dark and intense as he moves closer, the depth of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. There’s no rush in his movements, only a measured patience as he approaches you, one hand gently cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheek. His touch is warm against your cool skin, rough from years of sword work yet unexpectedly tender now. He studies you as if memorizing every detail—the gleam of your violet eyes, the curve of your lips, and the cascade of silver hair that falls around you like moonlight.

"You’re certain?" he murmurs, searching your gaze one last time, his voice a rumble that’s both reassuring and laced with a restrained hunger.

You lift your chin, meeting his eyes with unwavering confidence. “I’m no fragile maiden, Cregan. I won’t break. I know what I want, and I want you.”

There’s no fear in your gaze, only want—raw, unfiltered, and clear as dragonfire. A dark chuckle escapes him, his fingers tracing down the side of your neck, making your breath hitch. “Dragon’s blood runs in your veins. I should’ve known better than to treat you like some delicate thing.” There’s admiration in his voice now, mingling with desire.

He moves behind you, fingers deft as they untie the laces of your gown, the fabric slipping from your shoulders with a whisper. You don’t shy away, holding his gaze in the reflection of the mirror across the room as he lets the gown fall to the floor. The firelight catches the contours of your body, accentuating the smooth planes of your skin. You stand bare before him, unabashed and fierce, a vision of Valyrian beauty—both alien and mesmerizing in this land of cold stone and shadow.

Cregan’s eyes darken as they roam over you, a mix of reverence and primal hunger in his gaze. “You’re a sight to behold, Y/N. Fierce and untamed—a dragon among wolves.” His words are heavy with the desire he’s been holding back, and there’s a certain awe in how he takes you in, as though every curve and line is something to be worshiped.

You reach out, tugging at his tunic, impatient now. “Enough staring, my lord. I need you.”

There’s a flash of amusement in his eyes, quickly followed by understanding. He obliges, undressing with practiced efficiency, discarding his layers until there’s nothing between you but the warmth of your shared desire. His body is strong, every muscle honed from the harsh life of the North, but it’s his eyes—dark, stormy, and focused solely on you—that make your pulse quicken.

When he finally steps forward, he pulls you into a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s heated, his lips firm against yours, claiming and giving in equal measure. You answer with equal fervor, fingers threading through his dark hair, pulling him closer, wanting more. The kiss is a battle of wills—passionate, wild, neither of you holding anything back.

His hands move to your hips, lifting you with an ease that speaks of his strength. He carries you to the bed, laying you down on the soft furs as he leans over you, his weight pressing against you in a way that feels comforting, possessive, and thrilling all at once.

His hand trails down your thigh as he settles between your legs, eyes locked onto yours as he positions himself. There’s a pause, a moment where he searches your face for any sign of hesitation, but all he finds is your unwavering gaze, filled with want and a flicker of challenge.

“Hold on to me,” he whispers, his voice rough as he begins to push forward, entering you with a deliberate slowness. There’s a sharp sting as he breaks through your maidenhead, but you bite down on your lip, refusing to flinch. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him close, adjusting to the sensation as he stills, giving you time to accommodate the fullness.

His forehead rests against yours, breath ragged as he murmurs, “Easy… I don’t want to hurt you.”

The pain gradually subsides, replaced by a deeper ache that burns with need. You move your hips slightly, testing the new feeling, and when you find pleasure laced within the discomfort, you whisper, “Move, Cregan. I can take it.”

He grins, a low, appreciative sound rumbling in his chest as he begins to move, slow at first, letting you guide the rhythm. The first few thrusts are measured, careful, but soon the pace quickens as the heat between you builds. You meet him thrust for thrust, each movement sending a jolt of pleasure through you, until the initial discomfort fades entirely, replaced by a growing intensity that coils in your belly.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you encourage him to go faster, harder. “More,” you gasp, voice breathy as you ride the wave of sensation. He obliges without hesitation, his control slipping as the primal side of him takes over.

It’s wild and untamed, your bodies moving together in a rhythm as old as time itself. The room is filled with the sounds of your shared passion—breathless moans, the rustle of furs, the slap of skin against skin. There’s no pretense, no holding back. It’s raw, a clash of fire and ice, of dragon and wolf.

Cregan’s grip tightens on your hips as he drives deeper, his breathing harsh and ragged. “Gods, Y/N, you’re—” He breaks off, unable to finish as he loses himself in the pleasure, his focus entirely on you, on your gasps and the way you move beneath him.

You arch against him, chasing the rising tide within you, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge. “Don’t stop,” you pant, your voice a breathless plea.

When your release finally crashes over you, it’s powerful, your entire body tensing as you cry out his name, fingers digging into his back. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure radiating outwards as you tighten around him. Cregan’s control shatters as he follows you over the edge, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he spills inside you, his pace faltering, then stilling as he buries himself fully in you.

For a moment, the world is nothing but the sound of your shared breaths, harsh and uneven, as you both come down from the intensity. He collapses beside you, pulling you against him, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

You’re both silent for a long while, simply savoring the closeness. Eventually, Cregan presses a kiss to your forehead, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed, Y/N.”

You smile against his chest, content in the afterglow. “And you’re everything I knew I wanted.”

The night stretches out before you, the fire crackling softly, and for now, there’s only warmth—no cold, no politics, no war—just the shared comfort of two souls bound by desire and destiny. As you drift into sleep in his arms, you can’t help but feel that this is just the beginning of something wild and fierce, something that can withstand even the harshest of winters.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow-covered courtyards of Winterfell. The icy air bites at your cheeks as you walk through the godswood, hand in hand with Cregan. The week since your marriage has passed in a blur of quiet moments, shared laughter, and the gradual weaving of your lives together. In those precious days, you’ve come to find comfort in the North’s cold embrace, and in the steady presence of the man who has proven himself to be more than just your husband—he is your equal, your partner, your anchor in this unfamiliar land.

But that newfound warmth shatters with the arrival of the raven.

You’re back in the Great Hall, lingering by the hearth, when the doors creak open. A servant rushes in, holding a sealed scroll. You don’t need to see the wax to know who sent it—your heart tells you. The servant approaches, bowing low as he hands the message to you. The dark wax bears the three-headed dragon of your house, sealing the words of your mother, Queen Rhaenyra.

You break the seal with trembling fingers, your pulse quickening with a nameless dread. Cregan stands beside you, his brow furrowed as he watches your face closely. He knows by the change in your expression that whatever this message holds, it isn’t good. 

The words on the parchment seem to blur as your eyes scan over them, each line a knife driven into your chest:

Lucerys Velaryon is dead. My sweet boy was slain by Aemond Targaryen, along with his dragon, Arrax. He did not survive the fall into the storms of Shipbreaker Bay.

The world tilts beneath you, and it’s as though the breath has been stolen from your lungs. Your vision narrows, the words echoing in your mind until they’re the only thing you can hear. Lucerys is dead. The little brother you helped raise, who smiled so sweetly, who always looked up to you with those wide eyes filled with trust and affection—he’s gone, stolen away by your cousin’s cruelty and Vhagar’s monstrous power.

Your hand loosens, and the letter slips from your grasp, fluttering to the ground. You’re dimly aware of Cregan’s hand on your shoulder, his voice low and steady, calling your name. “Y/N? What is it?” But you can’t form the words. The grief wells up inside you, sharp and overwhelming, until it’s too much to hold back.

Your knees buckle, and suddenly you’re sinking to the floor, your body trembling uncontrollably. Tears blur your vision, hot and relentless, as sobs tear from your throat. It’s not the delicate, quiet grief of a lady; it’s raw and fierce, like the storm you imagine your brother faced in his final moments. The cry that escapes your lips is a mixture of pain and rage, the sound reverberating through the Great Hall, silencing all who might hear.

Cregan is at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees, pulling you into his arms. “Y/N, what happened? Tell me—what did the message say?” His voice is firm, but you can hear the worry in it. He’s never seen you like this, never seen you break. You’ve always been the dragon’s daughter—strong, unyielding. But right now, you feel like nothing more than a shattered, grieving sister.

You choke out the words between sobs, your hands clutching at his tunic as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. “My brother… Lucerys… He’s dead. Aemond… Aemond killed him. He’s gone, Cregan. My little brother is gone.”

Cregan’s arms tighten around you as he processes what you’ve said. For a long moment, he’s silent, his jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with anger. When he finally speaks, there’s a steel in his voice that matches the ice in his veins. “The bastard. Aemond will answer for this kinslaying. I swear it.” But even his promise of vengeance can’t reach you through the fog of your grief.

You bury your face in his chest, letting the tears flow freely, uncaring of who might see. You’ve lost people before—friends, kin—but this is different. This is your brother, your sweet Lucerys, who still had so much life ahead of him. He was just a boy, trying to do his duty, and he was cut down for it. The injustice of it burns like acid in your veins.

Cregan doesn’t let go, even as your sobs wrack your body. He holds you through it all, his large hands rubbing soothing circles on your back, his presence a steady rock amidst the storm of your grief. He whispers soft words meant to comfort, though you barely register them, lost in your sorrow. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m here, and I won’t let you face this alone.”

Minutes pass—or maybe it’s hours—before the tears finally subside, leaving you hollow and exhausted. You pull back slightly, looking up at Cregan with tear-streaked eyes. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only unwavering support and a simmering rage on your behalf. His thumb gently wipes away the last of your tears, his expression softening.

“You’re not alone, Y/N,” he says quietly. “I know the North is not your home, but I am. I will stand with you, no matter what comes next. We’ll face it—ice and fire, dragon and wolf. Aemond will pay for what he’s done.”

You swallow hard, nodding, though your voice is barely above a whisper when you finally speak. “We’ll make them pay, Cregan. For Lucerys, for my mother’s grief… for all of it.”

There’s a hardness in your words now, a resolve born from the depths of your pain. You may be grieving, but beneath that grief lies a core of molten steel—a fire that won’t be quenched until justice is done.

Cregan leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, grounding you in the warmth of his presence. “When the time comes, we’ll fight—together. Until then, rest. You’re stronger than you know, Y/N.”

You nod, though the weariness of grief still clings to you. With Cregan’s help, you rise to your feet, your legs shaky but steady enough to stand. As you take a deep breath, you feel the fire rekindling within you, fueled by the love you have for your family and the support of the man who now stands at your side.

You may have broken in this moment, but you won’t stay broken. You are a daughter of House Velaryon, a granddaughter of House Targaryen. You are forged in fire, and though grief threatens to consume you, it also gives you strength.

The war has only begun, and you’ll see it through. For your brother. For your family. For all those who stand with you.