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doxypsychlean · 2 years

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Hello, recently found your tumblr and I really love the way you write!! I have a request for Aegon being betrothed to someone a bit older (late 20s/early 30s) and therefore wouldn't be afraid to stand up for herself and wouldn't take his shit - but at the same time being a nurturing person. This combined with Aegons mommy-issues would just be a divine dynamic that I would love to read!

Oof, sorry for taking this long to post it! Hope ye like it:)

Wisdom

Aegon II Targaryen x Older!Reader

Headcanons

Warnings: mention of childbirth

Thou shan't repost/copy/ translate any of my work or I'll sneak into your home late at night and bite your nose off!

English isn't my first language. I don't proofread. I slap commas wherever I feel they're needed.

Alicent was against it from the very beginning. You were much older than her son. She'd heard all the tales,all the rumors about the monster you were. She believed them, there was no other rational explanation as to why you, a woman of noble descent, hadn't taken a man to marry. But there was nothing she could do. The King had made his decision.

Now that your father was gone from the world, you had taken over as Lady of the Eyrie and Warden of the East.

You were a strong, fierce woman and an excellent fighter.

Why you'd stayed alone for so long, no one could tell.

No one, except you. You'd spent your entire life fighting to secure your claim, so what was rightfully yours wouldn't be taken away from you.

It'd been long since the people had started spreading rumors about you being barren, some kind of a monster, even a man...

You paid them no mind. You knew why they did it. They wanted answers. They had none. So they created their own versions of your story.

You knew what you wanted- power.

Going against the Crown wasn't a safe, nor a wise choice. Though the prospect made you feel less than excited, you knew the next best thing was getting to the damned iron chair through marriage. But to whom...

You received a letter from your king not long after you'd put your father in the ground.

Viserys had heard enough about you. He couldn't afford a rebellion. Not now. So he'd decided you might as well join the royal family.

You didn't even bother with sending a letter back, but instead gathered your most trusted men and headed for the capital.

The Prince was confused. There were no horns and hooves, no spiked tongue, no tail. You were actually quite the beauty, if he had to be honest.

He tried to be smug about it, chest puffed out and all. He truly did.

Except you didn't blush or try to hide your face when he approached you, like most girls did. You weren't some clueless girl, but a woman grown.

"Don't test your luck, boy. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"I- Well...I-"

He turned into a blushing mess, walking away with his head hanging in defeat.

Aegon had never met anyone like you before.

From that moment on, all he could think about was you.

Soon after the wedding, his mother stopped nagging him.

Scratch that, she avoided him like hell for a while.

Well, the prince also stopped giving her reasons to do so.

The first time he came back home drunk, you sat him down. After one long,long talk in which you explained how you won't stand around and watch him drink himself into an early grave, you sent the prince out of your shared quarters, so he could think about what he'd done.

Yep, he never made that mistake ever again. You made sure of it.

Your feelings for the young man grew with time.

He never left your side for too long, always trailing close behind.

You'd started giving him lessons in politics.

He couldn't deny it, you had experience in ruling.

As well as other departments.

Whenever in doubt, Aegon would run straight to you.

"I can't do it. I'll be the worst king there ever was or ever will be..."

"Not with me around, you won't."

On one particular night, the prince dragged his feet into your bedroom, tears streaming down his face.

You were quick to jump from the bed and take him in your arms.

In a fit of rage, his mother had screamed at him how the only thing you cared for was the Iron Throne and how he was the only one that didn't see it. How you'd toss him to the side the moment he becomes King, for then you'd have what you've always wanted.

Aegon asked you if what his mother had said was true, his voice faltering.

You confessed your love for him that night, your hands wiping at his tears as he held onto you tight.

Not long after, you had to call the Grand Maester to your chambers.

To say you were scared would be an understatement.

You weren't sure if your body could handle it. Maybe ten or fifteen years ago, sure. But now...Most women your age had two or three by now. You weren't old, but you also weren't stupid. You knew how wrong something like this could go.

You'd started considering getting rid of the child that was growing inside you.

And who could blame you? A self-made woman like you to succumb to childbirth would be unthinkable. After all you've done, you couldn't allow yourself to go in such a ridiculous way.

After a few days of contemplating on your side, the Grand Maester's presence was requested to your chambers once more.

"Princess, are you sure? The Prince Aegon-"

"Prince Aegon cannot and will not know about any of this."

The old man nodded, agreeing to keep his mouth shut.

Or so you thought.

That same night, instead of him arriving with your cup of moon tea, it was your husband.

The small teacup Aegon held in hands was shaking uncontrollably, threatening to spill everywhere.

He placed it on the table and stormed out without saying a word.

You were left there to make your choice. He knew he couldn't stop you. It was up to you to decide.

On the next morning you found him in the training grounds, the straw dummy he was swinging at almost completely torn in half.

"I have faced many a foe in battle. I have risked my life more than once, Aegon. And yet, I am not as brave as people make me out to be...I am afraid."

"Then let me be there for you, just like you've been for me."

The boy you'd given birth to months later was a carbon copy of you. He had the same hair, the same nose, the same smile.

The only thing that he didn't get from you were his eyes. They were the same shade of crystal blue as those of his father.

#aegon ii x reader #headcanon #hotd fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #dance of dragons #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd #game of thrones #requests open #accepting requests

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lady-villain-imagines · 1 year

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Dead By Daylight Ladies & Cuddling

The Artist

Surrounded by the cawing of crows roosting all around, You were in the middle of the enormous nest in the middle of the Artist’s realm, the Eyrie of Crows. You were not alone, as the Artist herself was laid besides you. She was on her side, carefully brushing and playing with your hair as you were on your back looking up at her. Others would find her shiny black eyes boring into them intimidating, but there was only warmth when it was for you.

Her lack of words never bothered you, she was expressive in everything she did. With the way she was tenderly preening your hair and the soft clicking coming from her throat every now and then while she moved her needle like claws across your skin it was easy to see she had affections for you.

Carmina, as you had found out was her real name, carefully laid her head on your shoulder. Nestling her nose into your neck, soft murmurs came from her throat. You could feel the ink from her mouth and eyes dripping on your skin, leaving thick dark trains in its wake. As her lithe body pushed against your side, she pressed kiss like tar to your collar bone that would surely stain you for days. Not that you minded.

The Huntress

To say Anna was bigger then you would be an understatement. The woman was a mountain, which made it all the better when she pulled you on top of her to cuddle. She didn’t hesitate to hoist you up with her onto the cottage bed and settled you on her. It was serene to be wrapped in her thick, warm arms in such a cold and dreary forest.

A deep hum came rumbling from above you, you felt the vibrations run through her chest . It was a song that struck fear into everyone else, and admittedly it used to do the same for you. But now it only comforted you as Anna ran her hand up and down your spine, her uneven and claw like nails sending shivers through you. It was both soothing and threatening to known those strong hands that held you so close to her body could easily break you, but she chose to just rub them across your back instead. The soft lullaby sent you both into sleep, you truly felt the safest you’d ever been in the arms of a murderess.

The Pig

The couch was uncomfortable at best and it was cold as usual in the meat plant, but the warmth coming from your side made you try to get even closer to the woman next to you. Amanda let you, her arm around your shoulders as you leaned heavily into her with your arm around her torso.

The two of you were just quietly listening to the rock music Amanda had provided, the noises of the machines endlessly pumping in the background. She’d wordlessly taken off her usual robe and put it around you to keep you warm before you’d both gotten comfortable on the dingy couch that was the only remotely comfortable thing in the entire building.

Amanda’s arms were spread across the back of the couch, letting you embed yourself into her side. She was stiff at first, eventually forcing herself into relaxing. No one else could get away with how close they were to the woman behind the Pig mask. She even pulled you into her more when you tried to adjust yourself, clearly not entertaining the idea of you getting up anytime soon. She had you caught in a much more domestic trap than her usual ones.

The Plague

She was… hesitant, when you brought up trying to cuddle. For obvious reasons, physical touch was very dangerous for you considering the sickness that radiates from her. But you were adamant, you wanted to show her you weren’t scared of her (and those fountains were there for a reason, right?)

Adiris relented, but insisted that she always be facing away from you just in case she vomited on accident. It wouldn’t be very romantic to have puke all over you. That just meant you wrapped your own arms around her, holding her to your body. This surprised her, your willingness to be so close to her despite her condition worried her for your well-being but the lonely, selfish part of her after all these years couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of human contact.

Pressing your face against her back, you felt her let out a contented & slightly wheezing sigh as she relaxed against you. Her considerable height made it look a little silly to try to wrap around her as her long legs stretched far past your own. The simple act of it, however, made her feel so loved. Cuddle her more.

The Spirit

Cuddling her was difficult to say the least. Cutting yourself or impaling yourself on shards of glass was not what either of you wanted. Outside of trials, of course. Instead, Rin settled her head in your lap, her hair floating upwards towards you as she looked up at you. Playing with her hair will have her slightly icy exterior melting immediately. Not to mention it’s very fun to mess with the wild, flowing tendrils as they tickled at your face.

A little trial and error and some med kits were used but eventually you reached a way for Rin to cuddle you back. You rested your head on her abdomen, a hand curled against her rib cage. It was one of the only places without many glass shards to rub against you. Her ghostly hand detached from her arm ran over your skin, goosebumps immediately breaking out wherever her freezing fingers touched. She will put her cold hands on the back of your neck to make you jump.

#dead by daylight #dbd #reader insert #slasher x reader #dbd x reader #anna dbd #the artist dbd #the pig dbd #the plague dbd #the spirit dbd #the huntress dbd #amanda young #rin yamaoka #adiris #carmina mora #I wrote this instead of sleeping :) hi #it was rushed and in one weed induced go so sorry if it sucks

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lemonhemlock · 1 year

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My all time favorite angle of the Valyrian gods versus the Faith debate, is that a lot of the fics/takes around it by Team Black seem to like the Old Gods (which fair enough, I too like the creepy trees. team stark 5ever) or at least play lip service to it to make the Faith of Seven seem less cool (no one has the vision for how insane fantasy Catholicism can be except for GRRM himself) but also including Targaryen characters being respectful/kinda into the Old Gods, which KILLS me. I blame the wildly non-canonical weirwood in the Red Keep’s godswood in the show. It drives me INSANE. What is that doing there!!!!!! The Red Keep has no weirwood!!! Who planted it there???? You telling me that Maegor or Jaehaerys took the time to plant a weirwood for the Old Gods???? If I see one more fic where a Targaryen marries someone not of the old gods under a weirwood tree I’m going to kill someone.

I’m SO defensive of the weirwoods because I know none of them have delved into the fucked up human sacrifices that likely created weirwoods plus the rich symbolism that they create (hello Sansa in the Eyrie, I love you), the erasure of the North-South religious and cultural divide, and acting like the Targs would be so cool with the Old Gods for no reason is driving me nuts.

I just hate the show’s weirwood tree, it makes no sense. I will never find peace as long as I keep seeing scenes from the show set under it.

(Sorry for being insane in your inbox again )

Don't worry about it, your inbox drops lead to interesting discussions! 💚

Totally agree with you on the Old Gods & the unsavory blood ritualistic imagery (like hanging entrails from the branches of weirwood trees). I mean, it may sound heavy metal, but if we're supposed to be critical about religion,* this should definitely come under the magnifying glass, too. As is the super creepy idea that Bloodraven is spying on everyone using the weirwoodnet and manipulating historical events like that.

I also don't see why Targaryens should be Old Gods fanboys either - what could they possibly gain from this? It's such a fanon interpretation, because the old religion doesn't have any organized structure that could act as a political actor. There's this projection happening, because Christianity has flaws IRL and a fraught history, when people encounter its fantasy equivalent, they automatically think any other religion is better. I'm waiting for Cult of Starry Wisdom acolytes to come out of the woodwork and preach how much better Nyarlathotep is than the Seven Gods puts together.

As for the godswood in the Red Keep - Ned tells us it has an ancient, huge oak. That kind of tree can only grow like that over a very long period of time. There's no mention of a weirwood in KL that could have been cut down; also I don't think you can plant weirwood trees? Else I think people would do it more often in the North. I honestly think it's there just for nostalgia reasons for the audience. Though I wonder if George agreed with this addition and why. Maybe the lack of a weirwood in KL was an in-universe limitation he imposed on Bloodraven's power?

*at least that's what they think they're doing, by writing all these critical essays on how problematic the Faith is, but they never bother to do a comparative analysis with the other religions available in-universe. Or they peddle their own headcanons as fact, like how supposedly Valyrian society would have been so much less sexist than Faith-worshippers, ergo their religion should reflect that.

#faith of the seven #and i say all these things as an atheist lmfao #a godless wanderer on earth!!!

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willtheweaver · 1 month

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Character voice tag

Thanks for the tag @kaylinalexanderbooks That looked like a crazy (and fun) chain. Now the torch is in my hands.

My phrase was: I can’t do that, I have too much work to do.

Characters from A Feather in the Forest

—————||||—-*u*—-|||||———————————-

Fen: I wish I could help. Unfortunately I’ve got my hands full.

Playa: I wish I wasn’t so busy at the moment. Otherwise I would be glad to help you.

Sorrel: Wish I could be of service. Sadly, my duties as a hunter leave me indisposed for the time being.

Caine: Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment. (To himself: it would be a different story if my leg wasn’t bothering me)

Opal: I’m afraid I am quite busy at the moment. You can come back later.

Lord Halley: Don’t bother me. This eyrie won’t run itself. See yourself out before you get on my bad side. Now.

Captain Hesper: Can’t you tell I’m busy? Setting patrols, training recruits, inspections… all of it needs to be done. So stop wasting my time and get out.

———————————————————————

Tagging @smudged-red-ink @gottestod-writes @theeccentricraven @mk-writes-stuff @somethingclevermahogony , plus an open tag for all who want in. No pressure.

Your phrase is: Quiet down, I’m trying to sleep.

#tag game #open tag #writing #creative writing #writer #writers #writers and poets #writing community #writer on tumblr #writeblr #current wip #the crow and foxfolk series

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dwellordream · 1 year

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The Lovers Inverted

Margaery/Sansa

Sansa ought to pity the queen.

When she was young- eleven or twelve- and the news had broke about the Old Queen, the Lannister woman, and how her children had not been the King's at all, and they cut off her head and sent the firstborn son to the Wall and the younger two to the Faith... Sansa had no real recollection of the King, and in her mind he was as her father described him- young and handsome and strong, towering over other men, with curly black hair, bright blue eyes, and a booming laugh.

When she finally does come to court, seven years later, nineteen, and newly married to Harry Arryn, she finds the King is not at all how her father described him. He is hideous. She thought to find him terrifying in a magnetic sort of sense, a proud, dangerous, beautiful monster, willing to kill a wife for cuckolding him and take another, cool as you please. He is fearsome, but more in the sense of a half-starved old shadowcat or lion. His danger is more pathetic and desperate than anything else. She feels a pang of vindictive sympathy for the Old Queen, though she was a traitor and a foul sinner who laid with her own brother. At least the brother got glorious death in combat. Somehow, the men always do, at least the ones anyone bothers to remember. The Queen, they just threw her down and cut off her head.

So she does pity the Old Queen, that's true, and she expects to pity the New Queen, Margaery Tyrell, who was just six-and-ten when she wed the King, and he old enough to be her father, and full of wrath, and hating all women for what his first wife did to him. But Margaery Tyrell, if she was ever a terrified girl of sixteen, dreading a marriage to a man who might be determined to punish her for the misdeeds of another, is no longer that child. She is three years older than Sansa, two-and-twenty, and in her six years as queen consort she has borne Robert three children, just like the Old Queen did, only her children are clearly his, black of hair and blue of eye. Gods preserve her if they were not- even the slightest trace of Tyrell in them might be enough to set him off, Sansa thinks. Like the Old Queen, Queen Magaery is said to be very close with her beautiful brother Loras, and like the Old Queen, he is a member of the Kingsguard, fervently protecting his sister. She wonders if they are ever even allowed to be alone together, despite the rumors about his tastes. But if Margaery is not allowed to be alone with her brothers- any of them- she is allowed to be alone with Sansa. They are on a pleasure barge on the river; the spring sunshine is warm on their upturned faces, someone is plucking at a harp, and a puppy is dozing in Margaery's lap. The serene surroundings are at contrast with the hot anger on her face. "You cannot leave," she says. "Do not tell me such a thing." "Your Grace," says Sansa, pretending at shocked dismay, though she will admit some sick part of her is enjoying this- Harry is lovely, yes, but he doesn't actually seem to care much how she comes or goes or what she does- "You know my lord husband must return to the Eyrie. The mountain clans are emboldened by his absence, and I have to tend to my own household." "Lady Waynwood runs your household," Margaery snaps. "The only thing you need tend to, my lady Arryn, are your duties here. You are not leaving. I will not have it." She could couch it in pleasantries, appeal to Sansa's vanity and ego- she does not. She is brusque and demanding, like her husband. She is- still so beautiful, with those gleaming chestnut curls and big brown eyes- a little bit intimidating. She twists the rings on her fingers in sullen anger. "Would you stop me?" Sansa murmurs. She watches a loon swoop down over the river. "If I tried to leave anyways?" Margaery says nothing. She reaches over and squeezes Sansa's hand, viciously. It hurts. Sansa wants her to soothe the pain with a kiss. She also wants to push that poor harper overboard and make the queen call her by her name, not Harry's. The puppy whines, and rolls over.

#margaery tyrell #sansa stark #prompt fill

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tathrin · 7 months

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btw for anyone worrying that the zombie story is Too Much Gore And Grimdark Horror for them, I would like to just take this moment to reassure you that it also contains scenes like these, in which Gimli is the unwitting protagonist of a Teen RomCom, as was pointed-out so delightfully by @estel-of-the-eyrie that I haven't stopped giggling about it since:

Soft voices in the gathering room are followed by plodding footsteps that the frail walls of wood are too thin to muffle, and then by a sharp, rickety knock on the door of his room.

"Gimli, lad?" Fiar calls softly through the wood. "You have a visitor, if you're up for it."

Gimli blinks and levers himself up onto his elbows. He stares, bewildered, although the smooth wooden door does not offer any answers. Those are not the words he expected to hear. He had thought, if he was to be called on at all, that it would have been something more along the lines of So-and-so has dropped by to chat and wanted to tell you how sorry he is about your dad, or I'm off to the park with my friend what's-his-name, would you care to come along and get some fresh air? Something where the visitor had come here to see his hosts, and was including Gimli out of politeness or sympathy.

To hear that this visitor is here for him, in this valley where he is a stranger…

Gimli realizes who it must be, and groans.

He throws down the pillow, pushes himself up off the bed, and stomps to the door. There he musters a polite nod for Fiar before he looks past him, already tilting his face upwards with a scowl, and says brusquely, "What is it now, elf? Have you not pestered me enough, that you must hound me in my—"

His voice falters; his scowl dissolves. It is not Legolas at whom he is glaring, Legolas who always somehow seems to appear whenever he leaves the front door of this house but who has, so far, never passed the threshold to intrude upon his mournful solitude here. It is instead Elrond, the great nestando of lore and legend who oversees much of the work at the Imladris Teaching and Research Hospital and who seems to have taken the lead on investigating this strange, terrible new disease.

Gimli goes silent, his tongue sticking numbly to the roof of his mouth.

* * *

Gimli lies awake late that night, staring up at the dark rustle of leaves overhead and the faint shadow of Legolas sitting up on watch among the branches of his trees. Gimli cannot sleep. It is not the restlessness of travel like that which plagued him on his journey from Erebor that keeps his eyes open in the dark; then, it was sometimes a struggle to fall into slumber after a day spent crammed into a small car, his mind tired but his body itching to move. Tonight it is his mind that reels, spiraling like the glimmer of bright stars passing above in between the shapes of the clustered trees.

He cannot sleep, because he cannot stop hearing Calim's words repeating in his head, over and over, like the echo of a distant voice in some endless mine.

Are you not? Calim had asked when Gimli protested being named as part of a pair with the strange elf of Mirkwood. He sticks as close to your heels as a burr most of the time, and when he isn't, your eyes do little but trace after him until he returns. Haven't you noticed?

Gimli rolls over, tugging his sleeping bag up over his shoulder, and scowls into the darkness.

Haven't you noticed?

No, he has not noticed, because there is nothing to see. Only now that Calim has drawn his eye to it, Gimli cannot help but admit that the nassë has a point. Legolas does stick to Gimli's heels, and has ever since their separate arrivals in Rivendell. Gimli noticed that much himself, and even asked Legolas about it before; fine, he will grant Calim that much. But to think that Gimli himself notices when Legolas is not there, as though he cares—as though the elf's absence bothers him—and watches for him until he returns…!

Surely he does not. Surely.

And yet…

Gimli growls into his pillow and rolls over the other way, scowling into the darkness on the other side of him now.

All right, so he does. What of it? He has grown so used to the irritation of the feckless elf's presence that he notices when Legolas is not there, that is all. And having seen how ill-equipped the elf is to look after himself in a land so different from his own strange uncivilized forest, Gimli cannot help but pay mind to him, in case he gets himself into some sort of trouble. That is all.

Surely, that is all.

Gimli closes his eyes and presses his hands to his face and groans into his palms.

Damn that ridiculous, flighty, nonsensical Wood-elf, anyway!

#gimleaf #lotr zombie au #my writing #lotr fanfiction

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yeseniaegen · 1 year

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where: somewhere in highgarden

the reach, it’s... nice. enough, she supposes. it’s beautiful, sure, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not? and this beholder just doesn’t quite see the appeal. mayhaps objectively, yes, but to her places like moonhill and the eyrie are infinitely more so. a melancholic sort of beauty, but beauty nonetheless.

still, she makes her way through the gardens back up to the keep in search of the vale’s quarters. this place is big, she will certainly give them that. that also means it is easy to get lost.. which is a problem. maybe even a problem she is currently experiencing, as much as she hates to admit it.

turning to look over at another, she sighs. “excuse me,” she begins. “i don’t mean to bother, but could you by any chance point me in the direction of the vale’s quarters? i’m still adjusting, and it’s a little too easy to get lost here...”

#open starter.

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tbtgtr-incorrectquotes · 8 months

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What would have chagando if Daella had been married to Rodrik's heir instead? So Naerys and Aemma are Rodrik's granddaughter instead of daughters

Jon and Daella would be interesting. Viserys would’ve married Gael for starters, I could see Daemon and either a Lyseni or Tyroshi for a wife. Aemma and Naerys would be ten compared to their now sixteen (in Gael I)

If we proceed as canon then Jon would be dead and Daella too. Aemma would become Lady of the Eyrie much to Jaehaerys delight because that’s been bothering him and Naerys might actually be betrothed to Laenor if not then her and Tyland’s relationship still happens but it’s for Aemma’s benefit.

Daemon kind of wants to fuck her which would be super uncomfortable for me to write but as it goes to show with Rhaenyra he would still offer despite being married.

Anyway, moral of the story. Lady of Eyrie Aemma Arryn.

#the red falcon #trf au #naerys arryn #aemma arryn

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xlstriker38 · 10 months

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NEOPET STAR TREK CREW.... I SHOUDLVE THOUGHT OF THIS SOONER

Captain Saryla Marcohn the robot Eyrie

Captain Marcohn and her crew joined the Neopian Federation of Worlds' deep space exploratory and defense service, Starfleet, pretty much by accident. Originally a Sloth robot, Saryla was freed from her evil overlord's control by her now first mate and commander, Barwyn, somewhere deep in the Neopian beta quadrant. With a stolen Sloth ship, the two escaped back to Neopia where Saryla was granted the honorary title of Captain and permission to fly in Starfleet's name. Her ship was modified to meet Starfleet regulations, and christened the NSS (Neopian Star Ship) Happenstance.

First Mate/Commander Barwyn the alien Aisha

Originally one of hundreds of alien Aisha abducted by Dr. Sloth and forced into labor camps deep in uncharted beta quadrant territory, Barwyn acted as a liaison between Sloth and his people in order to get close to him and, hopefully, find a way to free everyone. He got his chance when an important Sloth robot Eyrie came in to his station for repairs.

Chief Engineer Glorbil the 8-bit Grundo

Actually a fully sentient AI Engineering Assistant™, Glorbil is completely capable of self-diagnostic and repair utilizing an advanced system of robotics, hydraulics and magnets. In only rare cases is a Neopian engineer even needed on board at all! Designed this way so Sloth wouldn't have to bother himself with ship repairs, he never expected the technology to get loose, and never to reach Starfleet. Oops!

Navigator Zirax Arnora the starry Ruki

Despite graduating top of her class at Starfleet academy, and setting a new record for the fastest any cadet earned their interstellar pilot's certification, Zirax insisted on joining Captain Marcohn's crew instead of a promising-- safe-- position aboard a research vessel in the alpha quadrant. Young and headstrong, working and living aboard the Happenstance isn't everything she'd hoped for, but it's certainly not boring.

Dr. Pricari the ghost Yurble

Once the first licensed medical practitioner in Neopian space, Dr. Pricari originally died over a hundred years pre-warp era in a tragic shuttle accident. For some reason he returned as a spirit, but got right back to work doing what he did best in life. He doesn't like to talk about it.

Chef Ringo the jelly Zafara

Able to morph and change their shape at will, the NSS Happenstance's chef and resource proprietor Ringo is often roped into using their abilities in dangerous situations. All they want to do is cook and chat with the crew, but they keep getting turned into props and weapons and thrown about like a toy.

#neopets #star trek

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impossible-rat-babies · 7 months

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caveat here of how none of this really matters and it’s my opinion, but I’m kinda just. :standing-man: about how divorced m!viera are from masculinity in fandom spaces. like how they’re always referred to as “cute” and “adorable” and even the term bunboy kinda just makes me feel ick. there’s always this stereotypical box of feminine/gay man that they get shoved into—cutesy and demure and pretty. like express gender and such in your own way and find freedom in that—I’m not gonna be upset about that. it’s the overall opinion that these characters—and by extension their players—are only part of this stereotype

#it bothers me playing eyrie who is queer—they are non-binary #but they are still very much connected to being masculine #best way to say it is that They are a Man #using they in a very gender neutral way but calling them a man in a very defining their gender way #it bothers me too as a queer person where my own identity relates a lot in part to eyrie #i get part of it is how they are designed and some of the faces #what I’m getting at is that the stereotype drives me bonkers as a player of this character #it’s the root of the frustrations that fem roe or fem viera players deal with #of their character being shoved into a stereotype #this instance of it w male viera just bothers me a lot as a queer person #this is gonna sound really rude here for a sec #but I can only see so many viera in little dresses with the poses with the ass and chest out #talking about how much they bottom for their much larger and taller SO #before I’m just closing the tab #owen plays ffxiv #like if you’re into that then please by all means continue rocking all of that #im just Some Guy on the Internet in my own lil space here

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reginarubie · 2 years

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Sansa month 2022, day 16 ~ magic

So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it. — Jon III, ACOK

The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head." (...) That's stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells — Arya XIII, ASOS

Behold, the magic of Sansa Stark (allegedly accused of bullying her half brother, Jon Snow, and her sister, Arya Stark) managing to be associated to music, and sweetness and magic by her bother and sister. — she cannot have killed Joffrey, she's too sweet to have done so, knows only songs (— Arya Stark); oh look, there's magic here, Sansa would be in wonder of it (—Jon Snow).

Sarcasm aside:

In art, music, magic, trade, all that makes us more than beasts (...) — Daenerys III, ADWD

Music and magic are tightly interwoven, spells are often chanted (and it happens even in the span of the books — Mirri chants as she does her spells; Mel chants when she does her spells and her prayers; the prayers are often done in chants and we all know that Sansa's wishes and prayers somehow comes true). And with LF consideration that a harp can be as deadly as a dagger in the right hands...

... music is magic and magic is music, they are very interwoven as they were in the real history; and this can also be considered so for the simple reason that creating music is an act of creation of emotions and melodies and if there is one thing that Sansa Stark is, it's a creator. She knows how to play the bells, she wanted to learn how to play the harp, she knows how to sew and compose poetry and sing, all acts of creation, most of which connected with music and in history of mankind music and chants have always been connected to magic.

Sansa lost her connection to the old magic all Starks seems to be drawn to very early when she lost Lady, but not everything is lost, she keeps dreaming of Lady and her wishes and prayers do come true; maybe her magic is softer... and maybe it's also not magic at all but that of someone capable of working magic, someone capable of inspiring loyalty and empathy in others even in horrible circumstances (there are some instances in which people try to comfort Sansa even during her stay in KL, even if it's a poor excuse for them not acting), capable of acting de facto Lady of the Eyrie while posing as a bastard and yet managing to not be opposed by the lords and ladies who don't like the man they think it's her father. That's working magic in a way.

So, imo, wether Sansa has still some magical residual abilities or it's simply her capacity to create lasting emotions in the people around her and thus learning to create something solid between them to move forward (get people to work together), Sansa is soft magic. As opposed to blood magic, dark sorcery and aggressiveness as a method of creation, that we see in the books.

And thus, something my grandad used to say come to mind ‘you don't have to be a volcano, you can and should be the tree. There is dignity and honour in being a tree and magic is surviving the wind and offering shelter to those who come under your fronds to seek refuge just as much as annihilating those who would hurt you’, and I think this fits Sansa and her brand of magic and softly wielded capability of creation.

Sansamonth2022, day 16 ~ magic

Day 24

#sansamonth2022 #sansaappreciationfest2022 #day 16 #music and magic #magic #sansa and magic #sansa stark #Sansa Stark love

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rememberences · 1 year

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who: @wcrdsarewind (domeric) where: the eyrie, the kingdom of the vale

The treacherous journey was only further heightened by the recent snowfall throughout the various bases upon the Giant's Lance; and yet, it was one he knew Domeric had traversed before in his youth, accompanied by two members of the most notable members of the Queen's guard. It seemed as though the stability of the Vale had once again come into question, with the likes of the young King and a disease that no maester seemed able to treat; an assumed regency was what the Small Council had assumed would naturally follow, and yet, it was a total transfer of the crown that had been the King's word.

The crown had passed entirely lawfully to a head of raven curls that had been dead inside far longer than the likes of the Falcon King they needed to bury, raven curls and cold, ice orbs and a voice that seemed to consist more of shadows than any form of sweet honey. He wondered whether all the upheaval within the Kingdom of the Vale had been a result of their own sins and their own choices, whether the Gods above sought to punish or test them further.

"My Lord Hand - the bastard of House Grafton is due to arrive." The Hand of the Queen made no effort to correct them; what was there to correct?

How much would he try to hold together? How much would a flicker of shock cross over dark orbs, before his mind moved into a sense of inherent, automatic damage control; calling the meetings of the Small Council, writing to their banners and allies alike to summon and extend invitation to the Eyrie to witness the coronation of the Queen and bend the knee; it was a Queen who ruled the Mountains of the Moon now. He did not give himself the time nor the space to contemplate on what that meant, only knowing there was much that needed to be done for the sake of legitimacy.

Interestingly, one of those who seemed to have emerged from the shadows and into the truth was the likes of the former Lord of the Dread; Domeric was no stranger to the Vale of Arryn. Domeric Stone of House Grafton; a bastard. The judgement had weighed upon Graham's shoulders, for he knew there was no denying or dancing around the fact what the man was; that he would not be treated the same any further. And yet, there remained the same mind, the same Domeric. He knew of these lands and knew of the people, of the customs and the values, of the most mighty of the banner houses; his shadow was one that was familiar with the dizzying heights of the Vale of Arryn.

And so, Graham Royce had an offer that needed to be discussed before he brought it to the Queen directly; knowing the matter to be a prickly one. It made sense, considering their established closeness with the Free City of Braavos and the Sealord would only further be exemplified through Domeric's own connections; it made sense, which only bothered him more. It was for that reason he had been the one to wait to welcome Domeric to the Eyrie upon his invitation, prior to continuing down to Gulltown - a mighty stop, and yet, he knew what he wished to achieve from it.

Axell would need to know now. Now they were all back where it started.

The man did not talk as he watched the Valeman slip from his steed, accompanied by a smaller amount of people than he had expected - the rest had gone forward to Gulltown no doubt. Dark orbs, the orbs of Malcom Royce himself, looked upon Domeric in utter silence as he watched the man; the secret was finally out, and yet they needed to tread carefully. For his questionable birth was known, House Royce's affiliation with the boy was not.

A bastard had returned to where he belonged, where his talents could be best utilised and trained; and Domeric had returned home. His true home. He would have called him brother, if they were not within the public eye; still, he took steps forward to close the physical distance between them. "Domeric." He addressed him, the word Stone on the tip of his tongue; he could barely bring himself to utter it. And yet, that was what he was, was it not? Stone. Domeric Stone.

#c: domeric #domeric 002 #so i took what's mine by eternal right my lord; took your soul out into the night brother (graham&domeric)

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asoiafdrabbles · 1 year

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Is it so far from madness to wisdom? Chapter 7

Summary: A year passes at Runestone for Jon.

AO3 Link

Chapters on Tumblr

Notes: This chapter is sort of an info dump, but I set up a ton of stuff for later in it, so I decided not to cut too much lol

I'm debating actually getting a beta reader for this, though, not for proofreading (god knows I have no patience to sit around handing the chapters back and forth), but because I've now redone the future timeline like five times as I go back and forth about what ages I want certain events to happen at lol If anyone is interested in me bouncing future plot points off of you lmk lol

XxXxX

Eventually, everyone who wasn’t staying at Runestone left it: Laenor returned to his pregnant wife and child, Aunt Ysilla and her family to their home, Aunt Theia to seducing the bored wives of lords. And life continued, the excitement of Prince Maegon claiming a dragon and Lady Rhea dying the only noticeable event for many people there.

When news came of Daemon running off with Laena Velaryon without even bothering with a mourning period, Jon had to pretend like his complete lack of surprise was, in fact, overwhelming shock. Ser Gerold took him out on a three day hunting trip, surrounded by knights who had pages and squires he thought would get on well with Maegon, to “distract” him.

None of them had seen Maegon in the two years since the King had him brought to live in the Red Keep and none acted suspicious of how he now seemed. Jon could bring up memories and emotions that Maegon had felt, could answer their questions about King’s Landing and Dragonstone, about the royal family and all that Maegon had experienced while there, and it was enough to convince most that he was simply growing up, growing differently than most of the boys around him because of his experiences.

It felt less and less to Jon like he was stealing Maegon’s life and more as though they were sharing this life. He knew, because he knew Maegon Targaryen as well if not better than he knew Jon Snow, that Maegon would even be relieved that he was not fully in command of what they did, now that he knew what was coming.

Jon, too, would have sacrificed his very being if it meant his family had lived, if it meant the North had been well and whole and the dead had never been much of a threat. That would have been a paltry cost.

And while the Cannibal may have slipped into his dreams to mock and deride him, to encourage him to consider even worse outcomes than in history, Jon knew this was still his chance to save the dragons–both sets of dragons–and save the future far better than he had.

A full year at Runestone went by in what felt like a blink of an eye. Between learning, training, and trying to remember all he could of the upcoming tragedies that befell House Targaryen and the realm, he’d had little time to notice.

With years of experience living in harsh lands, the Vale seemed quite mild to him, but also a land not nearly utilized enough. He set his Maester to looking up farming techniques from other parts of the world and from distant history, vaguely remembering Samwell mentioning something for mountainsides when he’d been researching food production in harsher climes.

Having a dragon was a boon in this and in other ventures, as even during his casual rides he could study his lands and those around him. He visited Strongsong and his mother’s maternal family and the Eyrie, where Lady Jeyne would always grant him an audience (as her lover, Lady Jessamyn, gave heavy hints about getting to ride a dragon) to discuss the possibilities. They were more distant relations, as Jeyne did not share blood with Aunt Aemma, but Jon believed she had a soft spot for the “little lord” and sympathy for his position.

Jon also set about learning as much about the runes that House Royce was so known for as he could. Every Royce learned the basics, their meanings and which ones to use on their armor, but Maegon had been taught more thoroughly than that as the heir, even if those lessons had been interrupted. Now Jon had access to a mass of scrolls and etchings left by Royce ancestors and knowledge that even Winterfell before it was lost to the Starks might not have held.

Even if the magic of the First Men was waning at the moment, by the time of the next Long Night it would be waxing, and such knowledge being available to whomever might be fighting in it could only help.

He began correspondence with many of the prominent Houses remaining that had kept to their First Men roots to see which runes they may use (or, at least, still see signs of around their keeps and crypts) and for what purposes. To himself, Jon could admit the excuse was partially to come into greater contact with House Stark–to fulfill the longing within him for his old family, but also because of the influence the Starks, and particularly Cregan Stark, may someday wield.

It was in light of those more political thoughts that had him contacting House Dayne, as well. While there was a general uneasiness around a Prince of House Targaryen corresponding with a prominent Dornish house, the realm was not at war with Dorne and therefore it was not technically treason, any more than trading with a Dornish merchant would be. And House Dayne was famous enough, and old enough, that neither Gerold nor Maester Crius (a Royce cousin a few times removed, sponsored at the Citadel by Maegon’s great-grandfather and loyal to their house first and foremost) had protested much.

If Jon could, perhaps, divert near-future tensions with Dorne by having a favorable contact within the kingdom, he would do so.

He did not contact the Citadel for their knowledge on runes, despite his Maester’s recommendation, remembering too well some of the stories with which Sam had returned about their attitudes towards magic. Perhaps they were not actively working against it, but Jon could not trust that they would not sabotage his research in some way.

The only other major change in Maegon’s routine was his increased focus on swordplay and other means of fighting. Maegon had been as interested as the average boy, mostly dreaming of knighthood and glory while grasping little of the realities, but those around him would notice he was far more serious after his mother’s death. He used the excuse of King’s Landing (and made vague references to a certain worry over Daemon’s violent nature and the chance of a new war erupting in the Stepstones that the realm could get brought into) to explain away most of it and the master-at-arms and his household knights were more than happy to accept that.

Eventually he realized that over the course of the year he had reached a point where he trusted Gerold and Maester Crius, as well as the rest of the staff, enough to return to King’s Landing (and, he hoped, that he had adjusted enough, become Maegon enough, that those who had known him in King’s Landing would not notice the difference).

Jon planned on spending half of the year in each location for as long as it was feasible. He needed to be in the Red Keep to influence events and keep knowledgeable of what was happening, but he did not wish to be a poor lord. As a dragonrider, such a schedule was far more feasible than for anyone else and it was easy enough to receive agreement both from Gerold and King Viserys. Gerold, because they all feared the King would soon appoint Jon as a squire and trap him south, and the King, because he wished to have his nephew voluntarily back within his family.

On his last night, he sought out Gerold not for more business, but for the comfort of his familiar presence.

Gerold took one look at him and sighed, gently guiding him towards a seat and sitting next to him, a spread of Maegon’s favorite food and drink already before them. “You have a dragon, Meg, you can come home whenever you need to. If you must say I sent for you, I will not contradict you.”

“If I need to run away, I don’t think coming here would be a good idea, this would be the first location they searched,” Jon joked, though he did cling to Gerold’s words, and the knowledge that keeping a dragonrider contained was very difficult.

Especially when the Cannibal would not be in the dragonpit. He’d found a space on the cliffs, more overhang than cave, that he dwelt in at Runestone, and Jon was sure he’d work out something in King’s Landing. While he was not as large as he would grow to be, he was large enough that the dragonkeepers and the King could not insist on him staying in chains. The only real issue they’d had was with the saddle, though eventually Jon had altered it enough that the Cannibal allowed it to stay on most of the time, as the largest of dragons tended to do.

What Gerold thought he’d be running from, though, Jon had to wonder. Daemon had a hideous (and well-deserved) reputation in the Vale, but Viserys seemed to garner more annoyance than actual hate. Though, Rhea had raged about him ordering Maegon to his side, so it could simply be about the King, or others, trying to keep Jon there instead of some horrible event occurring.

“True, you have that friend in Dorne, now, you can break for the south first then send word.”

Jon laughed, trying to imagine showing up at Starfall on dragonback with nothing but the small travel pack he always kept ready for emergencies and what the few Daynes who knew about his correspondence with their heir might say to that. Or, more to the point, what those who didn’t know Ser Vorian was friendly with Prince Maegon would do.(1)

Though, perhaps Dorne would like to have a dragonrider, if he did end up at odds with the King (the Queen, he knew, was more likely–these scenarios would only make sense if something happened to Viserys and Alicent wrested control from the current Hand, Lord Strong).

“‘Friend’ might be optimistic, but certainly I have options should I need to make a sudden break from that side of the family.” He raised his eyebrows and continued, teasingly, “Perhaps they’ll decide to sacrifice their extra princes to their dragons for fell powers.”

Gerold laughed along, then sobered after a time, shaking his head. “I’d certainly not put that past Daemon! He tried to convince your mother you should be worshiping those Valyrian gods when you were young.”

Jon perked up, having not heard that story and having managed over the year to come to a point where he liked to hear about his mother instead of avoiding her mention. “Truly? Was that one of their arguments? What about the others about me?”

“Yes, one of them.” Gerold looked thoughtful as he recalled more. “They were always fighting about something to do with your upbringing. He spent the first few weeks insisting you should only hear Valyrian as a babe.” He snorted. “As if anyone but he and the Maester even knew it to speak it. He tried to take you to Dragonstone, though, when Rhea pointed that out to him.”

That both surprised him and didn’t and he was left wondering what Maegon’s life would have been like if Daemon had gotten his way. Would his father have actually raised him or just dumped him off on the servants there before still heading off to war? From what he understood, a good portion of the population spoke High Valyrian and there were even some priests of the Valyrian religion in residence.

“Not the Red Keep?”

“No.” Gerold hesitated, before reluctantly admitting, “He didn’t think it would be safe for you there. I never heard him say it myself, but Rhea mentioned it when you were first sent to the King–Daemon was convinced his nephews with Queen Aemma had been poisoned, perhaps that the Queen herself had been. Back then, the King had no sons, you would have been the likely heir to the throne. He thought you’d be killed.”(2)

A sobering thought…and one that could very well be true, given what ended up happening. “By some enemy of House Targaryen?” he asked, curious if Daemon had actually said who he feared, if Gerold would remember.

“Ah, well,” for a moment he seemed abashed, like he might not even say it, but then continued, “by the Hand at the time. Queen Alicent’s father.”

“Then I suppose it’s lucky that his grandchildren are before me in the succession.”

A dark look crossed over Gerold’s face at the muttered comment, but he gave a curt nod in agreement. “Enough of this! We shouldn’t spend the night so dour, I want you to desire to return to us!”

Jon shook his head, smiling fondly as Gerold bolstered his mood. “This is my home, cousin, and I am its lord. I will always return.”

***

Jon sailed to King’s Landing on one of the ships that House Royce kept for trade. While they were no great fleet, certainly would be scoffed at by the likes of the Sea Snake, the flagship was impressive enough to be worthy of escorting a lord (or a prince). It had been serviced only the week before and Gerold had been assured of its safety. Now it was as pristine as a ship in service could get, flying sails of black with bronze runes across it–not the runes of their arms, nor the runes from their armor, but runes that House Royce used for safety at sea.

He could not simply ride the Cannibal there because he would take a household with him, sourced from Runestone and his lands, along with a few gathered from trustworthy allies. While not all of them sailed with him, he needed enough to establish himself. Servants and guards, and one of Maester Crius’ acolytes, who would both be researching for himself and them in the library while also on-hand for any medical issues or discrete needs. While Jon didn’t foresee requesting anything as rumor-causing as moontea be made, it was always better to be prepared.

There were far more guards, perhaps, than one would normally take to guard a single person, but he could not help but think of his father, Ned Stark, trapped in the Lannister-controlled city. And he did not know exactly when politics would tip enough in the Hightowers’ favor to be worrying and bringing in a greater amount of guards later would be more suspicious than having them with him now.

If nothing else, he could say he wished to make sure the King did not feel guilty about Jon’s lack of Kingsguard while under his care.There were only seven (a foolishly small number, which Jon particularly resented whenever he thought of his Targaryen family in the last life, but that was how the Faith of the Seven was) and the King, the Queen and her children, and Rhaenyra and her current children were more than that.

(Even if there were a Kingsguard for every Targaryen, he would still prefer not to have one: the more one person stayed around him, the more likely they might piece together the influence he would attempt to have or the foresight he seemed to possess.)

High above, the Cannibal escorted the ship, keen senses stretched for any possible threats. At night, Jon would ride along in his body, observing the odd way the world stretched out around a dragon, so unlike how a human, or even a direwolf, saw it.

XxXxX

Notes:

(1) We don’t have the canon names of the Daynes right now, so I just took one from history.

(2) Just because Daemon didn’t necessarily care for his son doesn’t mean he’d let someone else kill him, either, especially not Otto lol But also this, and Jon’s paranoia around Maesters, stems from both ASOIAF itself and theories about it, where a lot of people think Old Town and those connected to it (Maesters, Septons, the Hightowers) were out to control and/or kill off the Targaryens (or all people with magical blood, or all the high borns, or whatever).

#character: jon snow #theme: house royce #verse: maegon targaryen #series: is it so far from madness to wisdom

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azvolrien · 2 years

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The Home of Dragons - Chapter Two

Part Two, in which our heroes settle in and do a bit of sightseeing. More interesting than it sounds.

~~~

Drekaheim didn’t have much in the way of hotels and none that allowed pets, so instead they had arranged to rent a house from a local merchant who was away on business for a few weeks. It was not huge, but it had enough space for Redbolt to sleep in the living room downstairs without breaking any of the furniture and a balcony on the first floor gave an excellent view down the fjord. Asta and Redbolt sat on the balcony while Roan and Bramble went in search of some groceries.

“You have to wonder what happened to them,” said Asta, gesturing out at the city. “The Eyrie Culture, that is. They were clearly an advanced and powerful civilisation, to build places like this, to harness dragons – dragons! – and stretch their empire from one end of the mountains to the other. And yet, they just… vanished. And it can only have been about five hundred years ago, if that was when the Harbinger and her dragon came to Stormhaven. You’d think somebody would have left a record of what happened, where the survivors went… But whatever writings they left, there’s nobody alive today who can read them!”

“Maybe whatever happened was so bad that nobody wanted to remember it,” said Redbolt. “Or maybe it was so bad that nobody survived to remember it.”

“Cheerful thought,” said Asta.

“So, then…” said Redbolt after a companionable silence. “You’ve been doing well up here? She’s been treating you proper?”

“What? Who, Roan?”

Redbolt nodded. “I like her,” he said. “She seems a good sort. And I can tell you mean the world to her. But, berserkers like her and her granda… They’re not always…” He flattened his crest and looked away. “Not always stable. Sometimes… things happen without anyone meaning them to.”

“I never knew her grandfather,” said Asta. “Bruide died before I ever met Roan. But she’s told me a lot about him; he spent a long time teaching her to keep it – the battle-madness – under control as she was growing up. She would never hurt me. I’m happy with her – we’ve built a good life together out here.” She sipped her tea. “And it must be said, the sex is amazing.”

Redbolt hunched his wings, drawing his head in close to his shoulders. “Didn’t need to know that.”

Asta just grinned.

Redbolt raised his head again, looking down towards the harbour. “So, this place – we know what it used to be, but what is it now? Part of the Empire?”

“I’m led to understand that’s something of a grey area,” said Asta. “The formal Imperial border is to the south of here, in the hills between Kaldrfjord and Myrkfjord – mainly, I think, because there’s not much here the Empire wants, to be perfectly honest; it’s not of great strategic value and there are more plentiful resources further south. Mines, fishing grounds and so on. The Emperor of the day wasn’t going to bother conquering it for a few interesting ruins. The local monarch – I think it’s a queen at the moment – owes no particular allegiance to the Emperor.”

“So from Kaldrfjord south is part of the Empire, but Myrkfjord is independent,” said Redbolt, nodding.

“Yes and no. They aren’t sworn to the Emperor, but according to the treaties from the end of the Raiding Period – which, old as they are, do still have legal weight – they are sworn to the High King of the Sea Lochs. Who, since the annexation of the rest of the Sea Lochs, just so happens to be the same person as the Emperor. So they pay some taxes and the Empire has a minor military presence here – you may have noticed the fort down the fjord as we were sailing in – but they aren’t necessarily subject to all the same Imperial laws.”

“Agh, that makes my head hurt,” said Redbolt. “Don’t know how you can wrap yours around it.”

Asta shrugged. “I am, technically, nobility. Even scions of minor branches are taught politics in our nurseries, even if we decide we want nothing to do with it when we grow up.”

“Sky above,” muttered Redbolt. “Doesn’t sound worth the trouble if you ask me.”

“Which is why I’m quite content to live with Roan at the broch and spend my days tending our vegetable garden,” said Asta with a small smile. “Whatever the rest of House zeDamar is involved in, I want no part of it.”

Redbolt opened his mouth, but whatever comment he had in mind was interrupted by a loud whistle from the street below and they both looked over the balcony railing. Roan was back from the market, with Bramble trotting at her heels and a canvas shopping bag slung over her shoulder.

“That dog’ll be the size of a pony when she’s full-grown,” said Redbolt.

“I know,” said Asta, getting up from her chair. “We’re making sure she’s well-trained before she gets that big. The breeder had some good advice there.”

“I found some really nice-looking bread,” was Roan’s immediate greeting when Asta opened the door, before leaning in to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “You know, that stuff with lots of egg in it? Looks more yellow when you cut into it. Should be nice with some jam. In, Bramble. In! Good girl.” She squeezed past Asta in the hallway and went to unpack her finds in the kitchen. “Have you had your breakfast yet?”

“Redbolt has,” said Asta, leaning on the kitchen doorframe. “He went hunting earlier. But no, I’ve just had some tea.”

Roan nodded and lit the stove with a click of her fingers. Soon the logs had caught and were burning brightly, heating the iron plate on the top. “There’s definitely something happening in the big square by the port,” she said, breaking a couple of eggs into a frying pan. “At a guess, I’d say someone important’s going to be there – they’ve gone all out with bunting and such, lots of food stalls around the edges and a stage for a band, but the city guard are out in force as well.”

“Hmm. Perhaps the local monarch making an appearance?”

“Aye, maybe. Could take a look later on, if it’s not too busy. But before that…” Roan rummaged in her pocket with her free hand and pulled out a crumpled leaflet. “Found this ad for a tour of some of the tunnels they’ve been exploring, ones they’ve kept as the dragon riders left them. Sound interesting?”

Asta read over the leaflet. “The wording is a little sensationalised,” she said drily. “Far more exclamation marks than is strictly necessary. But yes, it does sound worth seeing. Stories of dragons were… Well, I wouldn’t say they were a childhood obsession of mine, certainly not as much as constructs were, but I always liked hearing them. I’d like to see some of the places where they actually lived. Ones that are accessible without serious mountaineering, that is.”

“What, you don’t think you could scale Eyrie Spire?” said Roan with a grin.

Asta held out one slender arm, indicating her distinctly scholarly musculature with a sweeping gesture of her other hand. “Let’s just say, I think I would need some training.” She turned the leaflet over to study the drawing printed on the back. “It may have to be just you and me if we do go on this little tour. I’m not sure Redbolt would fit through some of these tunnels.”

They asked him about it after breakfast; he assured them he didn’t mind staying behind to watch Bramble – “They don’t interest me that much anyway.” – and they set off to investigate joining a tour.

However sensationalised the leaflet’s descriptions had been, the tour guide was nothing but professional; he explained that he split his time between studying the Eyrie Culture at the University of Duncraig and exploring the various sites they had left behind in the field, and led the tour group on a winding route up through the city and into the cliff dwellings that overlooked it, finishing up in one of the caverns that had been carved out for the dragons themselves. This usage, at least, was beyond debate, for the bones of a dragon still lay in the yawning cave-mouth, exactly where the beast had died centuries before. A small crew was at work near the entrance, cleaning off a crude emblem of a dragon that had been stencilled onto the stone in fresh white paint with some illegible text splashed beneath it.

“Apart from the skulls kept in Stormhaven, the Drekaheim remains are the best-studied of all known dragon skeletons,” the guide explained as the tour group gathered around for a closer look at the bones. “We’ve found other, smaller ones in the caves as well, but this is the only one that has been left in-situ – and bigger ones have been found up in the mountains, but, well, they’re a lot harder to visit.”

Roan carefully paced out the length of its skull – easily six feet even without including its horns. “What could kill something this massive?” she wondered aloud, not really meaning it as a question.

The guide answered anyway. “We don’t really know,” he said. “It’s one of the biggest remaining mysteries about them – everything we’ve found so far would suggest that only another dragon would be a match for one, but you can see for yourself there’s no damage to the bones, nothing to suggest they wiped each other out in a civil war.”

“Some sort of plague, maybe,” said Asta.

“That’s the leading theory at the moment, yes.”

The group disbanded in the cavern and drifted their separate ways, leaving Asta and Roan standing together by the dragon’s skull.

“It’s not as big as the one in Stormhaven,” said Asta, trying not to make that sound like a criticism. “The skull of the Harbinger’s dragon is at least three times as long.”

Roan nodded absently, measuring its front teeth against her hands. “Maybe it was younger when it died,” she said. “I think – well, Granda didn’t stop to measure the one he saw, but he always made it sound like it was bigger than this one. Makes you wonder how big they got. Even on a smaller one, those forelegs don’t look big enough for it to walk with. Must’ve leant on its wings like a bat.”

“Some of the stories suggest they never really stopped growing,” said Asta. “I… don’t think that can possibly be true, but they were clearly able to reach an extraordinary size.” She walked to the edge of the cavern mouth and peered down over the drop. The Eyrie Culture clearly hadn’t thought a safety rail was necessary, but one had been added more recently. “I do like to think there are still a few out there somewhere. Oh, look – you can see Redbolt on our balcony from here!”

“So you can,” said Roan with a laugh. “Come on, we’d better start heading back down.”

The sound of distant music reached their ears as they left the tunnels and walked back down through the streets towards the great plaza. Asta cocked her head to listen. “Is that… No, it’s not the Imperial Anthem. Similar, though.”

“Anthem of the High King,” said Roan without breaking stride. “I heard it enough times at uni.”

“‘Someone important’, you said earlier,” said Asta slowly. “You don’t suppose…”

“Surely not,” said Roan. “Even up here, we’d have heard if the Emperor was coming for a visit… Want to have a wee nosy, though?”

Asta gave her a careful look. “I expect it’ll be crowded. Will you be all right?”

“Mmm… I think I’ll manage if we can stay around the edges of it.”

Asta nodded and stood up on her toes to kiss the corner of Roan’s mouth. “Then… Yes, let’s have a ‘wee nosy’.”

It looked like most of Drekaheim had gathered in the plaza, all looking at the stage at the landward end. A woman in a long cloak of fine wool – presumably the Queen of Myrkfjord, if the gold torc around her neck and jewelled brooch securing the cloak were any indication – stood facing a curious metal archway in the centre of the stage, flanked by guards in colourful dress uniforms. Asta and Roan found a spot at the edge of the plaza that still gave them a decent view of the stage, in the shadow of a balcony and next to another dragon emblem stencilled onto the wall. This one was in blue paint rather than white, but otherwise the same as the one in the eyrie cavern.

Roan clutched Asta like a protective talisman, her breath quivering no matter how hard she tried to steady it. Asta wrapped one arm around her waist and held her tightly. “It’s all right,” she said over the murmur of the expectant crowd. “Just hang on until we see what’s happening here, then we can go home.” Roan nodded, swallowed hard, and remained silent.

Two people in long robes stepped up on either side of the arch and raised their arms. Immediately, light flared at the arch’s apex and the air within it began to shimmer and whirl.

“Oh, they’re Portallists!” said Asta. “Their work does not come cheap…”

The air stilled as the portal stabilised and people began to emerge through the archway. Six heavily-armoured soldiers came first, each one armed with the short sword and tall shield of the Legions, and took up stations along the front of the stage.

“God-soldiers,” Asta quickly explained to Roan. “They’re god-soldiers – highest elite of the Imperial military, trained for it since infancy.” Roan gave a small, sharp nod, but she was beginning to relax a little.

More official-looking people came through the portal and quickly stood aside. A new figure emerged alone. He was a tall, athletic young man, and while his only clear sign of rank was a simple band of polished steel around his brow, the rest of his clothes spoke volumes of wealth and power: he wore a short mantle of black bearskin around his shoulders, while a broad belt of carved leather cinched a long, well-tailored coat embroidered with silver thread and dyed a rich shade of blue.

“That’s not the Emperor, is it?” asked Roan, frowning. “He doesn’t look like the pictures I’ve seen…”

“No, but it’s the next best thing,” said Asta. “It’s his eldest son, Prince Leovar. Or Crown Prince, now. The heir to the throne. He’s a bit younger than we are – about twenty-five now, I think. His father must have thought he was ready to handle a state visit by himself.”

Two more people came to stand with the prince, a little behind him and to either side: another young man, the same height as the prince but slighter in build, fair-skinned and ash-blond with a brightly-patterned silk scarf around his neck, and a woman of about the same age, shorter and plumper than either man, a little darker-skinned than the blond, and with reddish-brown hair carefully braided into a style far more complex and elegant than Roan’s single long plait.

“No idea who they are,” said Asta at Roan’s questioning look.

A few more attendants filed through the portal as the presumed queen stepped forwards for an official greeting, her words magically amplified to reach the back of the crowd. Finally, six more god-soldiers emerged to stand guard behind the prince and his companions, and the portal was allowed to close.

Prince Leovar returned the queen’s greeting, saying something polite but essentially meaningless about how honoured he was to be welcomed to Drekaheim. The band struck up again, playing what was probably a local Myrkfjord anthem. Roan smiled a little, rolling her eyes at the formality, and released her tight hold on Asta until her hands were just resting on her shoulders.

Then the balcony above them exploded into flames, and the whole plaza erupted in sheer panic. Roan threw herself over Asta until debris stopped falling then scrambled to her feet, hauling her away from the fire with one hand clamped around her wrist. The plaza filled with smoke – fear-stricken voices – a crush of too many bodies all desperate to flee at once. Roan had her head down, crashing forwards like a charging elk, barely looking where she was going.

Too late, Asta spotted the claw-mark in the ground. Her toe caught in the deep gouge – she tripped and fell her length on the stone with a dizzying crack, yanking her arm from Roan’s grasp. Roan screamed her name and turned back, reaching out, but the crush dragged her away. Asta got her hands under her, tried to struggle off the ground – someone tripped over her, striking her above the ear with a hard-toed boot. They swore and almost fell, but caught themselves and skittered away without helping her up. She curled up in a trembling ball where she lay, covering her head with both arms, and waited for the chaos to stop.

Everything went black before it did.

~~~ Oh dear.

Confirmed: brioche.

#az writes stories

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