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just-some-random-blogger · 1 year

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Scale Soother

Daemon Targaryen x Reader + Cregan Stark x Reader

Summary: "Fine," the king quips, "tell me, then, how it is you managed to tame this dragon?" He looks off to the side and watches as the creature stares at him, as if unwilling to let him out of his sight. "The secret is, your grace," I shake my head, "I did not."

Word Count: 10k+

Warnings: Fem!reader, VERY alternate universe, very self-indulgent fic, made up lore, internet translated high valyrian/Astapori Valyrian, ye old misogyny, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: if you have any quarrels with my made up lore or my high/astapori valyrian, i'll tell you right now, youre right im wrong, so just roll with it ok. also i made a song for this fic cos im a music student and i well wanted to (very self-indulgent as i said) and YES my pronunciation in it is inconsistent and i missed some syllables but its fine shhhhhh roll w it. Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @slavyanskiyahui

dārilaros se zaldrīzes

(princess and dragon)

konīr iksin iā zaldrīzes bona glaestan isse se guēsin (there was a dragon that lived in the forest) konīr iksin iā dārilaros bona vāettan iā gevie vāedar (there was a princess that sung a beautiful song) se lanta sia mēre isse Perzys Ānogār (and two were one in fire and blood) se mēre tubis kessi udrāzma se tegun (and one day they will rule the land)

I lick my lips as I blur the dark line on my paper. I look up and move to throw some mutton to the fox I was drawing, but perk up from my spot when I see that I would not be able to feed any beast, as I was now by myself.

Immediately, my instinct is to turn over my shoulder. I look behind me and roll my eyes at the man walking over to me, "sȳz syt doru gine." Good for nothing rat.

The tan skinned man shakes his head, making his longish, dark hair brush against his angular jaw, "ao ōdrio nyke." You wound me.

"Why are you even here?" I eye him, "you know nature despises you."

He sits down next to me on the ground and shrugs, "you know, just because the name of your house means 'red beast', doesn't mean you have to make it a point to draw foxes every single day," he eyes me and says the name of my house rather mockingly, "Milidyni."

I throw my head back and scoff, "this again?" I raise a brow at him, "you do know you are the worst perpetrator of living up to your name, Gael Valzȳrys," I stand and brush off my skirt, "and besides, I am helping my father as a beast scholar to catalog the creatures of the woods. You do nothing of the sort."

Gael watches me and I give him a look.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he frowns as his thick dark brows move close together.

I knit my own brows at his expression and look up at him as he stands and towers over me, "are you seriously pretending you don't 'wife up'--" I look away and begin to walk off, "or at least attempt to-- every woman you set your eyes upon--" I turn back to him and give him a look, wording sardonically, "Husband?"

Gael scoffs, "it's hardly my fault women are willing to give up their maidenhoods to me. It's not like I make myself look as though I would actually be their valzȳrys," husband.

I cringe as I begin to navigate through the forest on the path back home, "no you are too correct," I clutch my notebook and my skirt in hand, "belonging to house Valzȳrys was too generous a name of the gods to bestow upon you," I look over my shoulder and raise a hand, "you should have belonged to house Live." Whore.

"Asha," Gael exclaims and makes a face, "how original."

Gael and I walk through the forest, bickering over names as we did. I smack him in the shoulder for insulting the name Kotova.

"Kotova is a beautiful name!" I point a finger at him.

He looks at me as though he is actually pained, and I do hope he is, as he should. He rubs his arm, "ao brōstan zirȳla se ēlī run bona istan ezīmagon aōha bartos!" You named her the first thing that went into your head!

"Sīr?" I quip, "ao ydragho hae ao ȳdra daor qogralbar se ēlī run ao ūndegon."

So? You speak like you don't fuck the first thing you see.

Gael laughs and moves close, "I have yet to fuck you, my s--"

He does not get to finish as suddenly there is a loud shriek from overhead, followed by the sound of long strides of large wings.

Gael flinches as we both look skyward. I grin where he exclaims out to the Harpy for deliverance. I turn to Gael as he grabs onto my arm. I laugh at him, "serves you right, cretin."

"Fucking cock block."

The assembly hall smelled like oranges, for the king had been haughtily eating them in the middle of his meeting. He looked like he was paying more attention to peeling the skin of his citrus rather than the droning report of Otto Hightower. But then again, that would not have been too out of the ordinary; he never liked him. It's a wonder he's still on the council.

Daemon had his feet up as sucked on an orange bud, unsure if he appreciated the fact it was wholly sweet with no hint of tanginess. He let out a soft belch and turned to his side, "cupbearer."

Rhaenyra straightens and turns to his uncle.

"Mirri averilla, riñītsos," says the king. Some wine, little girl.

Daemon raises his cup to his niece as she walks over with an ewer of wine. He pulls his legs off the table and assesses his cupbearer's dress, the one he gifted her for her recent nameday just a few night ago.

"Se ēnka iksis sȳz va ao," the king utters in their shared tongue, the color is good on you.

Rhaenyra smiles at him, "kirimvose, ñuha dārys."

Thank you, my king.

Daemon smiles as Rhaenyra pulls away after pouring him some wine. His smile flattens when his sight catches the cunt-Lord turning from the other Targaryen to him with pursed lips.

"I don't remember asking you to stop your report, Hightower," he raises his brows and shakes his head expectantly.

Otto shifts from where he stood, "no, your majesty."

Daemon leans on his chair at the head of the table, downing a large gulp of wine. It's bitter and sour, just as he hoped, and it complimented his oranges exquisitely.

"And then there is a matter of a dragon, your grace," Otto says rather gravely, out of character even for his usually tedious demeanor.

The rest of the council members turn to him while Daemon looks out the window and thinks, 'ah, yes, I would so adore to ride off with Caraxes at this time'.

"Many of our trade partners from Essos have given consistent and wearisome accounts about the dragon in the area nicknamed Forest Fire."

"Huh," the king chuckles, turning back to Otto. He finally has Daemon's attention.

"How quaint."

"Yes," Otto speaks flatly, "the quaint abomination has burned down forests for sport and left a great many casualties in its stead, hindering trade and damaging goods, our trade goods"

Daemon puts his cup down and shrugs slightly, "so? There is a lose dragon in Essos. My business with the savages that live there are as far and few as my business with the dragon toying with them. We do not rely on Essos. Cease trade if you must."

Otto rolls his shoulders back and clutches his hands in front of him. He clenches his jaw and allows for the faintest of grins to pull on his lips. Daemon was actually unsure if it was a grin or if he was in pain.

"That would have been my own thoughts as solution, my king, had that dragon not had a rider."

Daemon blinks.

Otto relaxes his shoulders.

Rhaenyra from the side looks between her best friend's father and her uncle with a lowered jaw.

A chorus of utterances fall from the lips of the Lords at the table, things along the line of 'a rider?,' 'impossible,' and general grumbles of disbelief.

Daemon reaches his hand out to the marble sphere before him and tilts his head at Otto. He swirls his tongue on the roof of his mouth, savoring the remnants of snack, then tilts his head to the lord, "are you implying that someone from my family has adopted one too many mounts in their keep and has made a game of toying with some low lives in the east?"

"I am saying," Otto shifts on his leg, "that there is a dragon out there whose mount is not from your family."

Daemon stills.

Rhaenyra's mouth falls wider.

The lords lose their shit.

And for a moment, there is a continous streak of worried mumbles.

Lord Velaryon from across the table, in fact, adopted a deep line between his brows upon hearing this.

But then suddenly, the king laughs and silences everyone.

Daemon laughs so hard that he clutches his stomach as his amusement echoes around the room.

Rhaenyra is extremely agitated by the response of her uncle and how the council reacts to him.

Daemon lets out a sigh once he's satisfied himself and slumps on his chair, "my," he lets out a deep breath, "I do say I believe a thanks is in order, chum," he wipes a tear, "That is, in all honestly, the funniest you have ever been the entire time you've been at court," he straightens up, "or, methinks, your entire life," he chuckles.

Otto Hightower does not share the sentiment. He does not find himself particularly fond of being called chum by the king either. "I assure you, your grace," he shakes his head, "I do not jest."

Daemon's smirk does not falter.

"You would agree with me when I say I do not know how," the lord adds.

Otto sees no change or belief in the king's expression so, he instead turns to the king's hand, Lord Strong, "this issue has come to my attention less than week prior, and since then, I have been securing information about the so-called Forest Fire so that I could raise the matter to the king."

Lord Hand meant speak, but the King beats him to it, "and why did you not notify me of this the said week prior?"

Otto turns to the king.

Daemon is now hard and unamused. He leans on his elbows and raises his brows accusingly at him.

Otto narrows his eyes, "I did not wish to add to the flame of a mummer's farce, my king."

"Then humor me, Hightower," he raises his brows, "in detail," he leans on the table, "what do you know of this Forest Fire?"

"Kiba," I huffed as I entered my home through the back door, "I spied four horses come down the road on my way here. Did you-"

I halt in both my steps and my words when I am face to face with a tall man in a deep green coat. The scent of his oils and perfume are poke into my nostrils as though it was done with a stick.

I walk back and let out a breath, "skoros se qogralbar?" What the fuck?

"Five horses," someone mutters. I hear a laugh and turn to my side, "my, I see the lady has come just in time."

I move back at the sight of the devious looking man with alabaster hair and purple eyes. I clutch my skirt and turn away from him, finding my father holding cups and a pitcher, same with our servant.

Immediately, I rush over to the man and mutter in a low voice, "kiba, issi ao isse pelrar?" Father, are you in trouble?

My father hands me a cup and cocks his head to the side, quickly muttering, "daor, ñuha prūmia, issa ao qilōni iksis isse pelrar." No, my heart, it is you who is in trouble.

My eyes dart to the silver haired man muttering something to a silver haired girl. My father pours into the cup in my hand, then the one in his.

"King Daemon," my father says and offers the drink to him.

I wordlessly follow suit and offer the cup to the person beside King Daemon.

"Thank you," she says to me.

The man beside her raises a brow, "will you not greet the princess?"

I turn to the king then the princess, offering a curtsy, "princess..."

"Rhaenyra," he adds.

I turn to him and repeat, "Rhaenyra."

The king tilts his head. The high collar of his leathery black tunic was adorned with an eccentric ruby necklace and the fingers that were gripping the bronze cups we only used when we had guests were all clad with golden rings, "do you honestly expect me to believe you don't know who she is, who we are-- who I am?"

"Kepus," mutters Rhaenyra. Her dainty hand comes to the arm of her uncle. Her violet eyes and rosy cheeks move to his duller face in comparison. Her features are complimented by the deep velvet red of her dress and the intricate braids of her light hair.

I smooth out my orange corset and red skirt, "you are King Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen," I smile softly.

I can practically feel my father tense in anticipation of my next words.

"You are all guests to our humble abode."

Father lets out a soft breath.

"I am here for your Forest Fire," the king replies quickly.

I pull my head back and frown, "forest fire?"

King Daemon narrows his eyes and looks past me.

"We have reports-"

I turn and find the odorous man was speaking.

"-that a dragon has been going about burning through trees and people, thus the nickname, Forest Fire."

I suck in a breath and feel my breathing tighten at the insulting words of the man, "I assure you, ser," I knit my brows and frown, "I have no knowledge of this monster which you speak."

The tall man looks down upon me and tilts his head, "no?"

I hear my father call out my name lowly. I ignore his cautious tone, for he knows my words are true.

"Then tell me, Lady Milidyni," the man steps forward, "would you deny it still if I tell you your father has told all of us," he raises a hand, "that you came from the riverbank after riding upon the back of your dragon."

"I do not deny riding a dragon," I retort quickly, "but I say to you, whatever talk of forest fires you know of was not the doing of my mount."

"Pār emilā nyke pāsagon bona aōha zaldrīzes iksis rāpa se sȳz?"

I turn over my shoulder and find the raised brows of the king. He taps his finger on his cup and looks at me expectantly.

The princess watches me as I stare. She starts, "my uncle said, 'y--"

"Then you will have me believe that your dragon is soft and kind," I repeat the words perfectly. The silver haired princess presses her lips together.

"Nyke ȳdra daor gimigho skoros sȳz zaldrize emā isse Vesteros lo ao odabagho konir sagon skoros nyke nūmāzma," I retort.

I don't know what kind of dragons you have in Westeros if you think that is what I mean.

The king laughs through his nostrils then takes a sip of his wine. He pulls the cup away from his mouth and looks at it before saying, "you are amusing, little girl."

"I am not a little girl," I reply simply.

I hear my father call out my name. I turn over to him as he give me a look, "he is a king."

"Well, he's not our king."

"Beza tala kessa sagon se murgho yno," he sighs. This girl will be the death of me.

"Daor vasīr." Not yet, says the king, making me turn to him with a scowl. He hands my father his cup as he steps forward, "you will take us to your dragon at once."

I look up at him as he stands far too close to me for my liking. I raise my hand up to his chest and step back, "all of you?" I turn to the man in the green coat, the two armoured guards, the princess, then back to him, "my dragon is not used to seeing so many people."

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, "ah, are you afraid he might hurt us?"

He turns to my hand when my palm connects with his sternum. I slightly push him back to prevent him from drawing any nearer, "I am afraid you might do something to taunt her."

"You think so-" he grabs my wrist, "-lowly of a king."

"No," I tilt my head up, "I assume what I know of your nature, Valyrian conqueror."

He seems to be pleased by that name. His lips curve into a lopsided smile, "then do not make me waste my time any further by stalling."

We stare at each other for a moment then I pull my hand away from him.

I turn about and gather my skirt, "lēda nyke." With me.

"Ñuhe kepe hobrenke usōvegon syt otāpagon bona ao lī daor shifang Valyrio Eglie," princess Rhaenyra offers as she walks up next to me.

I must apologize for thinking that you would not understand High Valyrian.

I turn to her as we walk over some branches on the ground.

"Gaomagon daor qubemagon aōla, dārilaros," the king mutters behind us, "ziry ȳdrā iā nādrēsy lūs hen īlva ēngos."

Do not lower yourself, princess. She speaks a bastard kind of our tongue.

"Kepus," she mutters, looking over to the king.

The king turns to me as I do the same. He raises his brows at me as he marches over a large rock, "iksin nyke pirta?" Am I wrong?

I ignore him and turn to the princess, "your uncle is correct. Astapori Valyrian is a branch of Bastard Valyrian languages. It has remnants of Old Ghiscari, which may be why you won't understand some of my words. I however I can understand you perfectly."

The man called Otto Hightower, as I was told, swats a bug flying over to him.

I turn to him and the two Kingsguard tailing after him just as the princess excitedly says, "that is so fascinating. I suppose that must be why your mount listens to you."

I chuckle at the words of the girl and push back a branch in our way, "my dragon does not merely listen to me because I speak Valyrian."

"Pray tell," the king steps between us, "do explain how why Forest Fire listens to a lowly wench like you."

I stop in my tracks and furrow my brows. He purses his lips and gives me a look.

"I wonder if you think I am inclined to give a courteous response to your crude words, Daemon Targaryen."

The corner of his lips twitch into a smirk, "King Daemon Targaryen."

"King," I repeat dryly. I turn away and walk off, releasing the branch, hoping it hits the man on his way.

Judging by his grunt, it does. I smile to myself.

"Insolent bitch, I ought to--" the clamors of the king are silenced by the shriek that causes a flock of birds to fly away.

I hasten my movements and secure my skirt in my hand, "I do suggest you calm yourself, king."

He does not respond as we all continue to the tread deeper into the thick, green forest. By the time I spot the flowing river, I turn to the king and mutter, "we're here."

I take the same route I always do, feeling the man follow closely behind me. He catches my arm when my shoe slips from a damp patch of soil and eyes me darkly as I turn to thank him out of instinct. I still thank him, but do so rather reluctantly.

"Do not do anything that will startle your ride," he mutters, releasing me.

"She is not extremely jittery like you, your grace."

Before he can respond, I am walking off.

"Iksan kesīr, Kotova," I call out as the familiar scent of dragon hits my nose, "eman sindita ragero lēda nyke."

I am here, Kotova. I have brought friends with me.

I turn to Daemon as he looks around. I cannot help but chuckle at the solemn look upon his face as he anticipates the dragon.

"She will not eat you," I hold back a smile, "I swear it."

"I am no fool," Daemon turns to me, "she does not have to eat me to kill me."

There is then a crescendo of crackling screeches. From the far off side, comes out then a largish, white winged beast, head cocking left and right as she slowly crawls out toward us. She was, in truth, only so much bigger than a carriage but her wings made her look larger than she really was.

I smile as I walk over to her while she lifts her head up and roars with jaws wide open.

"Asha," I exclaim and raise a hand to her.

The dragonling stops her cries and lowers her head a fraction, turning to me. She bleats gutturally and stretches out her wings, beating them rapidly, much like how she usually greets me. She then rolls her long neck over and under then settles down and inches near me.

She huffs and rests her wings beside her. Her snout comes me as reach out to her.

Daemon watches the pearly white creature submit to her rider. He sees the shine of her blistering white scales and the shape of her head. There was something about the creature that made him think she did not look right, something about her snout and the shape of her body. He was unsure if it had to do the ghastly lack of color her or the rather bird-like demeanor it had with the wing-flapping.

"Kotova," I speak as I caress the face of my dragon, "rytsuragon se dārys se dārilaros." Greet the king and princess.

Kotova pulls her head up and steps a few paces back. She then stretches both her wings, rather effectively blocking a good amount of sunshine and bares all her teeth as she screams at the Targaryens.

Rhaenyra's jaw parts into a small open mouthed smile as she brings her hands to her ears. Daemon steps one pace back and averts his gaze as the gush of hot dragon breath hits his face. He huffs and waves his hands by his nose.

I laugh as Kotova bleats once more for approval as she curls up and turns to me. I laugh and stroke her wiry scales, "olvie sȳz, ñuha jorrāelagon." Very good, my love.

Rhaenyra watches our exchange and pulls away her hands from her head, "her name is Kotova?"

I turn to the princess and smile. I nod "she is my Kotova."

"A quaint name for a dragon," she notes, lightheartedly.

I laugh and raise a hand to her direction, "it is the Astapori word for strong, princess," I turn to Rhaenyra then to Daemon, "I shall introduce you to her, your graces, yes?"

Rhaenyra turns to her king for approval. Daemon nods then motions for her to follow.

The moment the princess nears, Kotova instantly begins to stir with curiosity and heavily sniff the air.

"Asha, Kotova," I mutter as I take the hand of the princess, "ȳdra daor sagon tolī olvie." Hush, Kotova, don't be too much.

Kotova does her best to contain her excitement as I gently lead the girl's hand to the dragon's snout, "bisa iksis Rhaenyra." This is Rhaenyra.

"Rystas, Kotova," she greets hello with a breathy tone.

I catch Rhaenyra's smile as Kotova huffs and moves her head a bit in acknowledgement of the contact. I watch how Kotova turns her head in a telltale manner. I immediately stop her from continuing what I know she was planning to do.

"Daor, Kotova," I speak 'no' sternly.

She huffs in response.

Once I feel the dragonling calm, I release Rhaenyra's hand and allow her to touch as Kotova as much as she'd like. Her hair, strikingly like the tint of my dragon scales, blows back with the wind. She turns to me and smiles, moving towards me, "she is a sweet and kind thing."

"Indeed," I smile and nod, "she is precious to me."

Rhaenyra turns to the side, "uncle, it's your turn now."

Daemon looks as I circle around his niece and reach out to him.

He waits for a few seconds to pass before walking over to me, taking my hand in his. He confidently strides to my dragon and it makes her pull away from Rhaenyra. She then raises her head and tilts it to the side as looks down upon us. The spikes on her hair raise as she breathes in and huffs.

"Kotova," I warn.

Rhaenyra smartly backs away slowly.

I sense no agitation from Daemon, save for how he tightens his grip on me. I turn to him and inhale deeply, "it's because you smell like dragon," I mutter to Daemon as I raise hand, "gīda ilagon, Kotova." Calm down, Kotova.

He mutters without tearing his gaze away from Kotova, "I did not ride my dragon here."

"Didn't you?" I turn to her as Kotova cautiously lowers her head, "you must not have washed properly."

Rhaenyra chuckles from the side.

I continuously hush Kotova until she is comfortable enough to near us.

"Rysta, Kotova," Daemon says hello to the dragon.

I release a soft snort as I turn from the king to the head of the dragon. I bring our hands to her snout and "bisa iksis Daemon, Kotova." This is Daemon, Kotova.

Daemon is shocked by the coolness of the skin. He furrows his brows as Kotova huffs and leans into us.

I pull away from the king and allow him to touch her as much as he wants. I watch him as he scrutinizes the creature before him.

Kotova leans into Daemon's touch and shakes her head. I step away and withhold a smile, doing nothing to hold her back from what I know she's going to do next.

Kotova darts her tongue out and licks Daemon's arm, coating it in thick slober.

I instantly break into a laugh as Daemon curses and pulls back. He turns to me as Rhaenyra joins in with my giggles.

"Ah, so you meant for her to do this," Daemon dryly states, swatting his hand in my direction, making Kotova's saliva splash to my dress. He does not allow his niece to laugh with no repercussions either and baptizes her with dragon spit.

Rhaenyra is hit straight on the cheek, immediately halting her laughter. She growls at her uncle, "Daemon!"

Daemon shrugs, grabbing my skirt, pulling me into him, then wiping his arm there. I grip onto his shoulder as he bends down and dries his dripping arm off on my dress.

I grunt as I lean into him, falling a tad out of balance because of his yanking. I watch as Kotova examines us but makes no attempt to defend me. I nearly scoff at her passivity. She was normally did not take kindly to people touching me. I wonder if it's because she recognizes the dragon in him.

Once he is done wiping the dampness, he straightens himself up and looks down at me, "that was quite amusing."

I shove him away with my hips, "a honor to bemuse you, dear king."

Daemon's shoes dig into the dirt as he keeps himself upright. I move to the other side of Kotova's face, leaving him standing in front of Kotova by himself.

He startles when Kotova huffs as he leans into him.

This time, I hiss in displeasure, "daor, Kotova."

She huffs.

I repeat, "daor."

Kotova pulls back obediently. She tucks her legs in, proceeding to then curl into herself, around me, and rest her head on the ground.

Rhaenyra watches as the dragon's neck curls over to her tail. Kotova pushes me into her body, tucking me under her wing. I grunt as I am covered by the heavy thing, "Kotova!"

She does not respond as I push her wing up and escape the leathery prison.

Upon seeing how I carelessly lean into Kotova and step over her neck to get out of my spot, Daemon furrows his brows and wonders if he would ever to the same with his own dragon. He moves to the side of the glimmering white beast and stops when he sees her face, one eye looking back at him. He only now realized it blue and gold.

He turns to me with furrowed brows as I walk over.

"Fine," the king quips, "tell me, then, how it is you managed to tame this dragon?" He looks off to the side and watches as the creature stares at him, as if unwilling to let him out of his sight.

"The secret is, your grace," I shake my head, "I did not."

Daemon turns to me, an unimpressed expression on his features.

"Kotova, as much as she is dear to me," I raise my brows, "does not belong to me." I look at the dragon as she buries her head into her wing and sighs deeply.

I smile at her catlike action and turn back to Daemon, violet eyes glued on me already. "She is free, king. I do not confine her, I do not stop her from flying far off without me; she is her own keeper.

"Between us, I think, is a bond of mutual respect and affection. I found her when she was no larger than an overgrown lizard and cared for her, thinking she would grow no larger than a small dog." I cross my arms and turn to Kotova.

Rhaenyra walks over to us. I look over to her and, in turn, catch sight the other three men with us, looking out from a far enough distance.

I turn back to Daemon as he says, "surely as the daughter of the Master of Beasts, you would know the difference between a lizard and a dragon."

I ignore his incredulous tone, "Kotova's wings barely resembled what they are now when she was a hatchling, and her skin was translucent," I give him a look, "trust me, king, you may think yourself a dragon expert, but you wouldn't have thought she was a dragon then either."

Daemon does not appreciate the way his title is said.

"I think she was rejected by her clutch, which was why she ended up here in the green lands."

King turns to Kotova, thinking it made sense, considering his own thoughts about her and how she did look like an odd-one-out.

"So, she is amicable," king Daemon utters, "but only borne out of your presence. It does not solve my concern with the forest fires, nor does it change the fact," he turns to me with raised brows, "you are a dragon rider outside of my blood."

I look at Daemon and he clutches his belt and scabbard. A gush of wind blows between us as I asses the man's face. His violet eyes looked almost clear because of the sunlight, and though his expression was blank, I knew better than to mistake it for something like kindness. I turn to Kotova and find myself thinking about how similar they appeared. Even now, the connection between Targaryen and dragon was uncanny.

I speak, "allow me to solve one of your problems then, Daemon."

Rhaenyra pulls her head back at the lack of use of king and looks at her uncle, who narrows his eyes at me.

I whistle then call, "Kotova."

Kotova ignores me.

I suck in a breath and walk over to her, pulling my skirt up, placing my sole on her body, shaking her with my leg, "bē, tala." Up, girl.

Kotova peaks through her wing then huffs, before giving a dramatic protest, throaty and loud.

"Asha," I hush, "rȳbagon," obey.

Kotova stands, and if she could, rolls her eyes as she did so. She stretches her wings out for effect, incidentally pushing both Targaryens in her side away as she did so.

Daemon and Rhaenyra grab each other and move back to the side as Kotova raises her head and flairs her short, stubbly, leathery horns. She gives a shrill squawk then shakes her head.

I call out her name and she rolls her eyes again.

I extend my arms out to the side and crane my neck up at her, commanding, "drakarys."

Daemon and Rhaenyra stiffen with wide eyes. Instinctively, Daemon reaches out for his niece and pushes her behind him as he too steps away, "are you mad?!"

Kotova lowers her head to me and shoves me back with her snout. I am nothing against her strength and nearly topple back. I shake my head and regain my footing as Kotova begins to walk past me slowly, absolutely done with my bullshit.

"Keligon, Kotova," I command 'halt' as I walk in front of her again, "rȳbagon," I mutter 'obey' again once in front of her.

Kotova twists her long neck and hisses.

I recoil when her spit splashes on my cheek. I wipe my face and then rip out a bunch of weeds from the ground and throw it in front of the dragon, "drakarys."

Kotova growls as I point to the weeds.

Daemon watches the dragon huff through her nostrils and shake her wings in annoyance. So, her point is to get herself killed and be done with it?

"Drakarys, Kotova!"

Kotova, after a loud cry that made everyone, including the lord and the two knights, step back at the shrillness of it, finally obeys. A great many flock of birds fly overhead as the dragon breathes onto the tiny strands of grass. She gives out all the air in her lungs, in turn making the weeds shoot off in various directions.

Her exhale is so aggressive, spit splutters out.

Air, spit and more spit, but no fire. No fire at all.

Once Kotova was done, she looks at me and screams.

I recoil at her ear piercing cry and cringe, raising my hands up to her, "krimvo, tala. Emā dohaertan nyke sȳrī." Thank you, girl. You have served me well.

I reach out to her face and she opens her mouth, threatening to nip at me. It was an empty threat I knew, but a threat no less. I pull back and give her a look, "asha," I drop the tone of my voice, "keligon." Hush. Halt.

Kotova shakes her head and wags her slender tail.

"Sȳz!" I wave her off, "Henujagon. Jikagon va." Fine! Leave. Go on.

Kotova gratefully yelps and rather quickly takes off. She makes sure to hover over me, and cause dust and dirt to fly all over my body, as well as my skirt and hair to whip all over, before ultimately ascending, up until she was so high you could barely make her out, especially with how white she was in the sky. She blended well in the clouds and the harsh sun light.

Once she was gone and all of us were reeling with the sand in our eyes and mouths and ears and folds, I turn to Daemon and find him spitting out dirt in between spitting out curses.

I walk over to him and wipe my face, "as you can see, Daemon, Kotova is incapable of breathing fire."

I glance to the face of the lord from the distance, "whatever you and your company know about this Forest Fire is not about my dragon," I turn back to Daemon, "and as for your other concern. Like I said, she is free creature," I shrug, "she barely answered to me, as you bore witness."

Daemon dusts himself off just as Rhaenyra did.

"Of course, you could always wed me-"

The two royals halt.

I raise my brows, "or kill me and my fireless friend."

The king stares at me for a moment. He watches as I brush off my corset and roll my shoulders back. He feels ire prick into his veins, "gaomagon ao mīvindigon nyke, asp?" Do you taunt me, bitch?

I pull my head back and chuckle, "se ānogar hen zaldrīzes dakogon qumblie. Sīr adere naejot zālagon." The blood of the dragon runs thick. So quick to burn.

Daemon struts over to me and leaves little space between us. "Gaomagon daor ȳdragon hen zaldrīzes ānogar naejot nyke," he quips between his teeth. Do not speak of dragon blood to me.

He leans into me, "daoruni gīmī hen drakarys."

"You know nothing of dragon fire?!" I repeat his incredulous words, "ñuha gierion issi se ñuqir hen aōha drakarys, zaldrīzes āzma." My people are the ash of your dragon fire, dragon born.

I shake my head, "Astapor knows more about dragon fire than you ever will."

Daemon chuckles dryly, "you excite me with such pretty notions."

"Then forgive me for putting ideas in your head," I retort, grabbing my skirt, then curtsying dismissively. I then curtsy to Rhaenyra, and look back to her uncle. I stare at him for a moment before walking off.

I hear him scoff and angrily march, catching my arm, "I did not dismiss you, impudent wench."

I turn to him and smile twistedly, "oh, apologies, your grace," I pull my arm away. He does not release me. I huff, "I had already given you solutions to your problems. I did not think it would make you so taken by me so quickly."

"OH HA!" someone calls from afar, making all of us turn to whom called rather carelessly.

The two knights are immediately alerted and unsheathe their weapons as Gael storms over to us.

"Unhand Lady Milidyni this instant," he barks, pointing a finger our way.

"Valzȳrys!" I quip as Daemon releases me and unsheathes his own sword.

Daemon does not hesitate to meet him and surely enough, Gael is quickly cornered at the tip of 3 swords.

"Ao doru-borto qogralbar," I grunt, you stupid fuck.

"If you want to keep your head on your shoulders, you will keep your mouth shut, peasant," Daemon bristles, both hands on his hilt, fully intent to strike.

Before Gael could speak, I bark and point, "shut up, Gael!"

Gael looks at me then Daemon.

Daemon watches as Gael clenches his jaw and raises his hand up in surrender. He scoffs, lips tilting into a smile, "good to know your mutt is obedient to you as well."

Gael turns to me, "skoros gaomas bisa timpa ōghar orvorta jaelagon lēda ao?" What does this white haired cunt want with you?

I roll my eyes at his attempt to speak freely.

Daemon laughs manically and presses closer to him, bringing his blade against Gael's cheek which then rips into his skin, "iderēbagon aōha hembar udra wisely, syt kostis sagon aōha mōrī." Choose your next words wisely, for they may be your last.

"King Daemon!" I call, running towards him, grabbing hold of his arm, "ignore the fool. He's good for nothing."

"Finally something we agree on," retorts the king, although he does not withdraw his weapon and instead shoves me away from him.

"My king," Rhaenyra calls, storming over to him, "please! That's enough."

"Yes," Daemon mutters, "I am king," he words firmly, "and I decide what happens and what does not."

Gael flinches when his ear is poked.

"I say, I might enjoy making your ear into a necklace," Daemon mutters, pressing his blade into the side of his head, making blood drip down his neck.

I curse under my breath.

"But for now, I use you as leverage," he mutters, turning to me, "if you want your dear husband to remain unmutilated, you will make no fuss and obey me. Understood?"

"Understood," I blurt quickly.

Gael lets out a shallow breath when the king pulls away his blade, prompting the knights to do the same.

He then takes my arm and eyes Gael as he drags me off.

"Well done, Hightower," Daemon says, as we pass the bearded man, "though your information is skewed, it seems you shall keep your head after all."

Rhaenyra watches her uncle drag me off then turns to Otto who sighs, "most generous of you, my king."

Gael looks out to the king and heaves, "where are you taking her?!"

"King's Landing," Daemon mutters, looking over his shoulder, "come on then, Rhaenyra."

"Rhaenyra!" Alicent calls the moment she spots her friend, undoubtedly walking this very corridor in order to speak with her.

When the two girls meet, they clutch each other's hands affectionately.

"I am most remorseful for not greeting you the day you arrived. My father was strict about making me finish my lessons on bookkeeping before releasing me."

Rhaenyra makes an amused face of disbelief, "and what exactly where the ledgers that took you three days to finish?"

"The Hightower logs."

The princess laughs, "lessons? My dear, I think you were duped into doing the work meant for Lord Hightower."

The Hightower raises a brow, "you think?"

The two share a laugh.

The princess and the lady immediately link arms and begin to walk off to nowhere in particular.

"So my father has returned with his head," the red haired girl speaks, making Rhaenyra look at her incredulously, "I wouldn't have let Daemon kill him, Alicent. It's why I joined the trip, if it wasn't already obvious."

The girls lean into each other as they walk leisurely.

Alicent releases a breath, "oh yes of course. It was not to see whether or not there was, in fact, a non-Targaryen dragon and a rider in Essos, no?"

Rhaenyra grins and leans into Alicent, "well of course, there's that too."

"I hear it was a woman who tamed the beast, and that she was at the back of the king's horse as you came home."

Rhaenyra presses her lips into a flat line, "a funny thing, Lady Milidyni-- her name. She said she never ridden the back of a horse before, and it both made a lot of sense and no sense at all."

Alicent thinks then shrugs, "perhaps she is accustomed to riding in a carriage."

"Or her dragon," Rhaenyra looks at Alicent's dark eyes with her lighter ones, "you know, her dragon is, perhaps, about as old as Syrax, and a ghastly shade of white."

She nods, "father told me the thing looked like a monster who fled the burn of winter for a taste of spring."

The princess pulls her head back, "Otto Hightower said that? He is quite the poet."

Alicent looks off and shakes her head, "he is not."

Rhaenyra laughs, shaking her blonde hair as she did.

"What does the king plan to do with Lady Milidyni?" Alicent turns to Rhaenyra, "wouldn't it have been easier to kill her to avoid any sort of trouble with the dragon?"

Rhaenyra sighs as she looks at the curve of her friend's cheek and the blush on her lips and cheek, "the day I understand the way my uncle's mind works is the day your father starts liking him."

Alicent holds back her laugh.

"Oh but did you know her name means red beast in Astapori Valyrian?" the princess says excitedly, "Mili is red, and dyni is beast," she smiles, "and the animal of her house is a fox! I think it's rather smart."

Alicent is more fixated over the fact her friend was telling her there was a variant of Valyrian being spoken in Essos.

At this point, there is a vague, far off sound of a gatekeeper announcing the entry of a Lord. It takes a moment for the princess to think of who could possibly be coming to King's Landing at this hour for a visit. Then she remembers.

Instantly, Rhaenyra grips her skirt and yanks Alicent along with her as she runs to the side of the entrance from the floor they were on.

She grins from ear to ear as Alicent hastily keeps up with her, unsure of why they were running and who they were going to see.

They look out the window and the two girls behold a large man with a broad build and dark hair. Rhaenyra gleefully looks down as the Lord with a pointed nose and a thin beard dismounts his equally massive mount.

Alicent looks at the handsome man and then finally notices the emblem on his horse. "Ah, that must be Cregan Stark."

Rhaenyra grins, leaning into her, though her eyes do not leave him "he is quite a looker."

Alicent turns from the man to her princess, watching as her lips curl in delight and her hair blow with the wind, same as hers, "quite."

The two girls turn to each other, "shall we greet him?"

Alicent turn back to the lord, "if it pleases her grace."

Rhaenyra grins and leans against the window, "Lord Stark!"

Everyone from below looks up to the caller, each of them paying dutiful regard to the princess. The Lord Stark himself lifts his eyes upon the two looking out to him, nodding his head when the red haired girl greets him as well.

"My young princess," he bows, "my young lady," he nods, then looks back up at them.

He takes kindly to the eager look upon the Targaryen's face as she asks, "did you bring one of your direwolves, my lord? I would so love to see them."

Cregan grins, lopsided and wolfish in his own right, "I did not, princess. I do not think any of my wolves would appreciate the balminess of your palace, especially at this season," he leans on his leg, "see, I, myself, am already quite fussed by the temperature."

Rhaenyra laughs, "well, I say. I do hope you do not find your stay here too uncomfortable."

He tilts his head, "with two fair maidens greeting me at my arrival? Impossible."

Rhaenyra gives a pleased grin. Alicent smiles softly.

"An honor most high, fair maidens," he bows, "I must now see to the king."

Cregan is directed to take a certain hall in order to where the king would be at the moment. He walks to the end of the corridor as he was told and stops before a door.

He promptly knocks and announces himself.

He listens for a moment, then clears his throat upon hearing the moan that seeps through the cracks.

He presses his lips and moves away from the door, eye twitching at the crashing sound that comes next, along with 'ah yes, more, fuck, yes-'

He clenches his jaw and walks down the corridor, deciding to wait there, leaning by the window.

Cregan pulls at his collar, feeling his sweat clump in the corners of his flesh. He wonders if it would be too improper to remove his coat. He decides it won't and feels better after a layer of clothing was now off his body.

His attention is commanded by the beastly cry from across the grounds. He looks out to the far off area, narrowing his eyes at the vague sight of what he could tell was a dragon. Even at this distance, it was a mighty sight to see. He thinks about what it would feel to see the thing face to face.

He wonders who the red creature's master was. Perhaps the king's? Or was it the princess's?

He then thinks of the rumors of a wayward dragon flying under the ward of a rider not of royal blood. Perhaps this was the very dragon, now captured and under the keep of the crown.

He wonders if one of the people surrounding the behemoth was the rogue rider, now also in the clutch of the king.

"Lord Stark?"

Cregan turns and sees a woman with tan skin, glistening with sweat, and brown hair, wild and unkempt, cascading down past her shoulders. It appears as though she was tying her laces from behind her, "is that you?"

"Yes. I am Lord Stark."

She smiles as she pulls on her laces, "the king says you may enter now."

Cregan nods, "thank you."

He watches as the woman walks off as she tightens her corset from behind.

He blinks and finds himself asking as she makes a strained sound, "do you require assistance?"

The woman looks at him from over her shoulder, lips curling into a smile, "that depends. Will you be undressing me as well, sire?"

Cregan licks his lips and thinks, "No. I don't think I will."

"Then best not keep the king waiting, milord," she says, turning away, walking off.

Cregan thus enters the room, finding the king sat at the end of a messy bed. Tables and chairs were disarray, things that should not be on the floor were, and the king, himself, was not with a shirt.

Though, in truth, he probably should not be looking at the lilac eyed man, and his scars, and his messy hair, both blown out and sticking to the sides of his face, still he does and thinks enviously about how he could freely let himself cool down at present.

He grips the coat he hung in his arm, "King Daemon."

"Wolf man," Daemon says as he drinks from a cup, "how do you do?"

Cregan knows he could not care less about how he does but he answered curtly nevertheless, "I am well, your grace."

Daemon downs his drink and then stands. He walks over to the table, out of place where it was, and pours himself another cup, "thirsty?"

"No, thank you."

Daemon empties the ewer in his cup then turns to Cregan, "Alina," he says andwalks off, grabbing his garb that was thrown on the bedside table, "a pretty little distraction, the whore, very good with her mouth," he puts on his top, "though greedy with coin," he slips one sleeve on, "but I doubt you'll have problems with that."

Cregan watches as the king clothes himself. A moment passes.

"I doubt you requested me to come down from the North to discuss your favorite whore, your majesty," the lord says.

The king chuckles, raising a brow, "just a whore," he adjusts his collar, "they're all the same after you've emptied your balls."

Cregan chuckles.

The king walks over to his drink and takes it, "though I will say we are to discuss something of a whore."

Daemon walks past Cregan. The man follows suit.

They walk down the hall silently while the king drinks and ignores everyone that greets him.

They then arrive to a room and Daemon opens the door to it, pulling his cup away, swallowing heavily. He walks in deeper and Cregan follows suit.

He is then certain the room is empty and chucks his cup to the side and screams, "SERVANT!"

Cregan watches the king as he storms to the door, just as a servant girl comes running over. Daemon seethes, "where is the Astapori bitch that I put here?"

"My king- I- I-"

"You mean you lost her?!" he grabs her face, "you let the cunt escape?"

The servant cannot respond.

Daemon shoves her away.

Caraxes screeches out, tongue flicking as he did, and my heart races at the sound. I clutch my chest as the dragon keeper orders him to heel.

The king's mount reluctantly follows, jowls dripping with slobber as he is continued to be inspected and groomed. I think about Kotova everytime I bask in the glory of the Blood Wyrm, suddenly realizing my dragonling was immensely kinder, more patient, and warmer than what I thought she was. Never have I seen such a bratty, dramatic, and spoiled creature such as Caraxes. Not only was he a picky eater, ten times that of Kotova, but he was a whiny thing, and threw tantrums at every moment he got.

There were times when I spectated that I even called out to him myself, unable to contain the command from my lips as he terrorized the keepers.

Of course, Caraxes could not care less about me, but there was a moment, I swear that he did heed to my call.

I clutch the paper in my hand and hurriedly sketch Caraxes' profile as he is lead on by the dragon keeper to one side of the pit.

Say what you will about him though, he, regardless, was a kingly steed. His blood red scales were vibrant and so reflective of the house Targaryen that even if its rider was not the king, you'd think it was. Though I found penchant to be excessive, it echoed the fact that he belonged to Daemon Targaryen.

I rip my paper into my chest and gasp when I hear a voice mutter right into my ear.

"You are overly comfortable with your stay here," the king quips. He then rips out the object in my clutch, making the charred pieces of wood I was using to draw with drop to the floor.

"Your grace, please-"

"I warned you not to leave your room again, did I not?" he says as he eyes me.

Caraxes makes a huffing noises upon recognizing his rider.

Daemon inspects my sketches as I make futile attempts to snatch them back. He chuckles, "very good."

I heave as he turns to me with a grin, then to his dragon, "Caraxes," he calls loudly, "māzigon valītsos!" Come boy!

Caraxes immediately pulls away from the dragon keeper, who nearly shoots off as he could not release his rein on the dragon quick enough, and comes to his master.

I freeze as Caraxes nears, both in great awe and fear of the creature.

"By the gods," a voice calls from behind, making me turn over my shoulder, finding a man with dark hair and wide eyes, stepping back in fear.

Daemon throws the paper off to the side and walks back, haphazardly pushing me along with him as he did so. He blurts, "drakarys,"

I yelp and jolt back, shielding my face with my arms when fire the shoots out of the jaws of the mighty creature.

I peak past the shoulder of the king, thinking Caraxes was overly dramatic for exhaling that much fire for a few measly pages of paper. It goes without saying, there is absolutely no remnants of my sketch at all.

I release a sigh as Caraxes ceases his fire and looks at his master who sings him quick praise.

"Bisa iksis skoros iā real zaldrīzes jurnegon hae," Daemon says as he turns to me with a soft but utterly pleased smile.

I scoff at his words. This is what a real dragon looks like.

"Was the slobber stain on your tunic not enough?" I retort, furrowing my brows, "Kotova is a dragon no less real than Caraxes."

Daemon takes his turn to scoff, but he does not get to retort for Caraxes, seemingly recognizing his name, moves close to us, huffing as he did.

"Keligon," stop, we both command with a hand raise, making Caraxes cease his pursuit and whine as he pulled his head back.

Daemon snaps at me, "I do not take kindly to you commanding my ride."

"I am merely trying to not be devoured by him," I snip back.

"Then maybe you shouldn't keep sneaking out of your room to draw beasts, fox cunt!"

"At least my pastimes are not uncouth like yours, dragon spit."

Daemon laughs, "dragon spit?" He looks at me like he was predator surveying his prey, "that's somehow disappointingly unoriginal of you."

"Your grace," the dark haired man interjects, seemingly disinclined for a brawl to spring up between us.

Daemon grinds his teeth the turns to him, "yes, wolf man," he says, "I've not forgotten you." He then grabs my arm and shoves me toward him, "meet the Astapori bitch-"

I topple over into large man because of the king's excessive use of force.

"-your bride."

The two of us turn to the white haired dimwit as he laughs and claps his hands, "congratulations, Stark."

The man, presumably Stark, helps me to stand upright, though his eyes are locked on his monarch, "your majesty?"

He giggles under his breath, not unlike a child that was found in the middle of a chaotic act meant to amuse him, "I do think it a happy pair, a wolf and a fox."

I brush myself off roughly and Stark stares blankly.

"Actually," Daemon shakes his head, "I could not care less not if you do not marry the wench. You may keep her as a plaything, or a slave," he waves his hands, "just keep her."

"I do not understand, your grace," he speaks, "you've summoned me to tell me-"

"To command you," Daemon raises a finger, "to keep this thing under your paw," he turns to me, "lest she thinks of doing something with her mount."

"Her mount?" he knits his dark brows.

"Yes," Daemon turns to him. He watches the man scrunch his nose in confusion. He makes a face, "oh you slow, slobbering pup. This is the dragon rider from Essos-"

Stark turns to me.

"-the scale soother herself," the king chuckles dryly, turning from me back to him, "why even now you witnessed how she tried to command my own mount, Caraxes, as though she had the blood of a Targaryen."

I glare at him, "what insult to compare your blood and mine."

The king gives one loud, exaggerated laugh, "agreed."

Stark blinks as Daemon slaps his arm and walks off, "I cannot keep her here, as you can tell. She grows more confident around my dragon by the day. Though I do not doubt his loyalty to me, I much more do not trust the mind of a plotting woman."

Caraxes makes a sound as Daemon nears him, "I trust you will invite me to your wedding feast, if you ever find her useful enough to marry," he gives a look to Stark, "and do inform me if she poses to be too difficult."

I look at the dark haired man as he looks at the floor.

In truth, I was shocked by the news as well, but then again, I was rather expecting to be kept in a prison cell for the rest of my days, and so this was a rather mellow note to conclude with. It sure beats being dragon food. I do wonder why he did not think of making me into a snack for his dragon.

I take in the man's pressed lips and large frame. I then wonder if this Stark fellow is much more unsavory than his Targaryen counterpart.

I decide not let myself believe this and to start with no ill feelings, "Lady Milidyni," I curtsy, as I tell him my first name.

He turns to me with knit brows, "you are a lady?"

I am partially confused and offended by his shock but I play it off. "We do have nobility in Essos, sire," I look at him then off to the king that was now cooing to his dragon. I scoff, "though I'm sure your king would make us all out to be barbarians with no wits and no governance."

The man finds himself letting out an unexpected laugh. I turn back to him as he chuckles. I watch as his lips curl upward. He is rather handsome like this.

"Cregan." He nods to me in regard, "Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell."

"My father is Lord of Woodway. He also the Master of Beasts."

Cregan slowly nods his head at the information.

I chuckle, recognizing his confusion, "he studies animals and catalogues them accordingly. I think he would be something like a maester here."

"Ahhh," he nods more surely, "I see. Is that were you get your love for animals and why you risked your life for a glimpse of this terror?"

I chuckle under my breath, "yes. I do think I get my love for animals from my father, but he says I get my insanity from my mother."

He chuckles again, covering his mouth as he did, "your mother reminds me of my own."

"Is she also dead?"

He lifts his head to me with a surprised look, "... aye."

"Then they indeed they are the same. May the gods rest both their souls."

I turn to Caraxes as Daemon dotes on him. At the very least I can respect they way he treats his magnificent ride, "he is not so much a terror, I think."

"The king?"

I scowl and shake my head, "Caraxes."

He lets out a breath as he surveys the said creature, "I will take your word for it."

I turn back to the man and offer a smile, "I would say it is good to meet you, but it really isn't and I would much have rather not meeting you at all."

Cregan chuckles again, though this time, it is much louder.

I purse my lips and give him a look.

Daemon, who was stroking Caraxes by the cheek turns upon hearing the sound. He makes a face at the sight of laughter across him.

"Are all the ladies in Essos as honest as you, my lady?"

I snort and cross my arms as I turn to him, "no. Only me."

Cregan laughs. I chuckle under my breath, decidedly thinking he was far too easy to amuse.

He catches his breath and he turns to me to offer out his arm. I hesitate momentarily, in disbelief of his actions. I take his arm nonetheless, and he then leads me off.

He speaks my name softly, as if measuring the way it rolled off his tongue.

I says his name in return, though with less care and more inquiry.

"You are a scale soother?"

I roll my eyes, "your king mocks me with the title."

"Ah," Cregan nods, "that does seem to be a rather unbelievable skill to be had outside the royal lineage."

I let out a half-amused sound.

"Is it correct of me to assume that your dragon is being held here in the dragon pit?"

I watch as he raises a brow. I shake my head, "Kotova is not held anywhere. Her company is her own to keep."

He knit his brows, "I do not follow."

"Kotova," I explain, "the dragon I have bonded with, is not a dragon that I keep the way the Targaryens do. I do not ask of her to do anything for me, save, perhaps, to keep me company and to scare off some men, in exchange for venison or rabbit."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "I am in disbelief."

"Fortunately, I do not mind if you cannot believe me."

"No, I believe you," he says, "I merely think it is a tale you would tell a child," looking off as he pushed his chest, "a beautiful maiden, friends with a dragon."

"Asha," I snort, "I see you are no less insolent than your king."

Cregan holds back a laugh, "it will do you well not to speak of the king all together if you do not have anything well to say, vixen."

Well, he's not wrong.

"I wonder, then, why your dragon has not come to you here to save you from your captor?"

I shake my head, "Kotova sometimes leaves for months at a time. She may not have noticed my absence at all. I doubt she would even look for me, in all honesty."

"Well, how long have you been here?"

"A good four days, including this one."

Cregan nods, "then let us not wait for a fifth then and depart for the North after a meal."

I look at him as he turns to me, "I am loathe to stay in such weather for too long."

I raise a brow, "is the north very cold then?"

His eyes glisten, "worry not, I will not allow you to perish in the cold."

I am inclined to believe he means to protect me, that he means not to harm me, and those words of his were proof of it. But I do not allow myself to be deluded by his pretty smile. He is a man, and men rarely know how to do anything but harm.

Still, I smile back at him and nod, "of course, Lord Stark."

"Cregan," he corrects, "I wish you to call my name, as I wish to call yours."

I nod once more, "Cregan."

#daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon fanfic #daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #cregan x reader #cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #cregan fanfic #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark fluff #hotd fanfic

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vanhelsingapologist · 2 months

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Peer pressure works.

#curse of strahd #the amount of “where's rahadin..."#his longer answer is that he is passive aggressive about the amount of time it took to get his broccolini #pidlwick ii #sasha ivliskova #strahd #strahd von zarovich #rahadin #doru #escher #volenta popofsky #ludmilla vilisevic #anastrasya karelova #barovian battle royale

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arcielee · 1 year

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She Walks in Starlight

Summary: He is the darkness and she is the light. Paring: Aemond!Hades x OFC!Persephone Word Count: 4615 Warnings: Mention of character(s) death. It’s HotD and Greek mythology, so there will be incest. Author's Note: Thank you @aspen-carter for being my beta reader! Her work is absolutely amazing, so when she says it is good, I post. The artwork is by brina ♥ Also! Gō vys is Valyrian for Under world and Doru-borto valītsossa is dumb boys. Enjoy! Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @schniiipsel @watercolorskyy @aaaaaamond @iiamthehybrid @deltamoon666 @dahlias-and-marigolds Series: Act I - Act II - Act III

ACT II

Aemond remembered how his brother’s silver words spilled so seamlessly from his lips and he, in return, wore his own apprehension on his aristocratic features, always sharp and always untrusting when it came to Aegon.

His brother was unfazed by his stoicism, undeterred as he continued to paint the pretty portrait of possibility with the Gō vys. He had sworn he only meant to honor the sacrifice Aemond had made, that ended the Titanomachy that had ravaged the cosmos for the last decade.

“It would be a kingdom all your own,” Aegon had finished with his always rakish grin.

The sacrifice. The word ignited the subtle burn that would flit the length of his scar; it would be just a dull ache beneath the sapphire stone gifted by Helaena, but more often it spread with a fiery vindication. Right now, it paired with a sense of ambivalence with what was said, but Aegon added how he would remain in Mount Olympus and Daeron would rule the seas, so of course order must be brought to the shadowed realm.

Aemond accepted this and left to find the pathway that weaved into the depths of the cosmos, towards the infinite void of the Underworld.

It seemed barren, only littered with the damned, both good souls and the bad, along with the spirits of the gods who lost more than just an eye during the war. All of them were just shadows of their former selves and all equally aimless in the tenebrosity of his new kingdom.

He watched and one wafted past him, through him, and he felt a shuddering cold that cut into the bone.

My kingdom, was the grim thought to his mind. All my own.

With his lordship came the condition and he heard the only other occupant he was aware of.

Their grandsire.

It began with the flutter of unease that gripped him when he heard the guttural cries that rose from the infernal abyss below; the throb of his scar from the endless dissonance that spewed from Tartarus. There was no structure, nothing for it to ricochet and return, just the ceaseless roar for vengeance that began to permeate within him.

His unease, the pain, grew into an overwhelming hold, the anxiety tight in his chest and a searing fear that burned alongside his own ichor.

It did not stop; it was a wrath that was palpable, a sound that buried and began to rot. It was his constant reminder that though they managed to usurp their grandsire and he was imprisoned below, he lived still.

“It is maddening,” a velvet tone spoke one day. “Almost.”

Aemond remained stoic as always, despite the lurch in his chest to hear another voice within the Gō vys, and he turned to see a woman standing, her kohl-smeared eyes watchful. Alys, he assumed, the goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, and the aimless spirits that surrounded them with their gelid presence.

His iced kingdom.

“His unceasing wails have brought me to you, Aïdōneús,” she continued, her painted lips smirked. “I come to help you, my king.”

This was the realization of his burden, the exhaustion to claim the unorganized chaos of the Underworld and instead it pushed him to the precipice of his own sanity.

Aemond said nothing and left.

Time, he realized, was different in the Gō vys. He recalled the warm tones of autumn back when his brother presented his gift and now noticed the floral scents that accompanied spring. He relished in the warmth of the sun that settled over the mortal realm and the vivid colors of new life for the healing cosmos.

The quiet was almost unsettling, but it allowed him to find clarity with his thoughts, to decide on what he must do.

He would go to Mount Olympus and he would beg Aegon for another role, to tell him he could not return to that dreary realm.

What he had not expected was his sister, Rhaenyra. Though the bloomage that surrounded him should have given her away, it still took a moment before he realized how she teetered the edge of the plane of the mortal realm to where it touched the shadows.

She watched him, her brow quirked over her lavender eyes.

Aemond stepped towards her and into the sunlight. “Mandia,” he greeted her, a forced smile to his lips. “What brings you here?”

Her expression was similar to his own, a severity in that moment. She was aware of how the bit of color to his complexion had blanched since he had gone, how the shadows were more prominent to his sharp features. “I had come to check on you, lēkia,” Rhaenyra took a tentative step closer, still wary of the imaginary border.

Brother.

Her hesitation aside, the familiarity of their old tongue spoken warmed his chest.

“I came to see how you were, how it is in the Underworld,” but her words were slow, her eyes still searching.

She softened with the spoken concern and it bloomed the hope that perhaps she would be able to rescue him from this dark fate. He shared his embittered thoughts of the shadow realm, the so-called kingdom that Aegon claimed to be a gift.

Rhaenyra listened to him, wordless and her eyes glassy. When he finished, her palm slipped into his own and she pulled for him to follow her. His steps were slow and she looked back to admire how the sun soaked into his ethereal beauty, how his silver hair glimmered in the sunlight. They continued to walk throughout the garden of Herspirdes until she was satisfied to see his godly aura returned.

“I had not realized I had been gone so long, I had not realized it was spring already,” Aemond breathed, his eye wide to admire as Rhaenyra continued her flowering and the lavender of laconian thyme that now sprouted in her steps. “Truly, this is your best work, mandia.”

She smiled with his compliment. “I believe that beauty was forgotten with the war,” her eyes sparkled. “But I thank you.”

They did not go to Mount Olympus, but instead remained so he could relish in the life that sprouted around him.

As the day waned away and the golden glow of the setting sun began to roll over, she looked to him. “I cannot imagine this burden our brother has placed on you, Aemond.” They were back at the edge and she turned to face him and placed her hand onto his shoulder; he almost shuddered from the touch. “Aegon and Daeron do not carry the strength, they lack the omnipotence that resides with you, lēkia.”

His gaze dropped, his arms crossed and his one hand cupped his elbow, his fingertips careful to touch his jaw and trace until he came to the bottom of his scar.

“They could have just asked it of me,” there was a tightness to his tone, the hint of betrayal. “They know I would have done this for them, for all of us.”

She nodded her head and her golden waves spilled onto her shoulders. “I know this and so does Helaena, but Aegon needs a sense of control. Allow him to remain in Olympus as some ornate for the mortals to fawn over, but,” she stepped closer, moving her palm to rest on his chest, “know you are not alone. I know Alys came to you. Myself, the others, we do not wish for Otto to ever return and we will help you create your kingdom.”

Aemond hummed. “Can she be trusted?”

“Helaena sees that she will be a powerful ally for you,” and her lavender eyes shone with her words.

He returned to the shadow and was greeted by Alys, her expression as smug as earlier. She held up her hands to present a crown, iron and ruby, and gestured to him.

Aemond leaned forward, the silver spill of his tresses with the movement, and he allowed her to place it on top of his head.

“Fit for a king,” she declared. “Shall we get started, Aïdōneús?”

Aemond would grow grateful for the companionship and all that Alys offered. She showed herself to be the mediator of the other inhabitants of the Gō vys; she managed to convince them, to coerce them to recognize their new king and they served him as such.

Rhaenyra returned with the others, as she had said she would, all with the same visceral shudder entering the realm, the same he was growing accustomed to.

All seemed willing to assist him and help organize the eternal chaos of the Underworld. They created and built until the cries were smothered below; the grey earth was dug into and it allowed the Styx to meet with the Lethe and Lamentation, while slate stone was stacked within the marsh, creating a castle worthy for a king.

+ + + + + + +

There was a sense of pride from the eerie beauty that now loomed from his created kingdom, but it was lonely still.

His sister returned to the grey shores of the Styx and gifted him Vhagar, just a pup with a large set of eyes for each of the three heads. In return, he followed her to the surface, finding comfort in the consistency of spring and wanting to admire the new sea of bloomage that would be spread over.

Though there was a twinge of pain with how it came to an abrupt end to the edge.

“It cannot bloom in the shadow,” she spoke as if it was obvious and he nodded his head with solemn understanding.

Aemond had come to accept his role within the cosmos. He was the god of many monikers. Hades. Aïdōneús. The king of the Underworld and the god of the dead.

He was all too aware of the hushed whispers and the skittish looks of the mortals, the nymphs, and the new gods, but it did not deter him from this annual endeavor. Every new spring seemed to coincide with the heartsick, the ennui that would settle into his bones from the company of death and he would go.

His steps were slow, deliberate as he allowed the warmth of the sun to revitalize him, pressing the boundaries to see how long he could go before the ache would come with its ice grip, its pull back below to continue his role, dutiful as always.

On this day, something caught his eye.

Peonies.

He marveled how their red bulbs were vibrant still in the shadows, only a few that lined the pathway that led towards the sunlight.

Aemond gazed around and realized that this new season looked different, felt different. There was a vibrance of color that engulfed the realm and a sweetness to the air he never noticed before or else it was lost to his dreary jurisdiction.

“Lēkia!” He turned to see Aegon walking towards him, a gilded goblet in his hand and red stained lips to frame his smile. “Have you come to celebrate this new era of spring?”

His brow quirked at his words and Aegon was quick to further explain. “Our dear sister has finally revealed the goddess of spring and she is a gift to the cosmos!” His arm clasped around his shoulders, his other arm gestured towards the vibrant swell of gloxinias and begonias and more.

This was the moment that Aemond saw her.

She did not flit like the nymphs that trailed in her wake nor did the earth blossom with her steps, as her mother would do for show, but instead she walked with purpose. Her brow was furrowed with her concentration and her touch deliberate with each bloom.

He found himself enraptured with her subtle movements, the grace of the goddess of spring.

“I believe she is another bastard from that mortal Rhaenyra had kept,” Aegon made a show to whisper, his exhale was the bittersweet wine. Aemond was grateful they were far enough to avoid any prying ears with where the topic headed. “Those same dark curls, but it suits her more than her brothers.” He giggled.

His jaw tightened as he stole another glance, admiring her curls that cascaded enticingly on her milky backside that showed through the peplos that was wrapped around her curves, how the freckles dotted in stark contrast to her porcelain skin. “I suppose,” was all he managed to say.

Aegon only continued. “I pitied our sister when Daemon decided to put an end to their tryst. Do you remember how he annihilated that temple? If anything, I am sure you remember the soul intake on that day.”

What Aemond recalled were the tears that spilled from their sister’s eyes when she came to him and begged him to bring Harwin back to life. Comfort was never his strong suit, long before his isolation to the Gō vys, but he was patient to explain that once a soul crossed his threshold that the body began to decay and it was irreversible, even if the spirit was returned.

He remembered the horror on her face when he explained how it would corrupt the soul, how bitter it would become as they finally had a true understanding of their mortality. She was rooted in his throne room and he allowed her to stay, while Vhagar lapped her tears until she had no more to spill.

Rhaenyra looked to him and all he offered was, “Kesan jorrāelagon ziry.”

A promise in their family tongue, I will take care of him.

“Kirimvose,” her voice was hoarse, but grateful with new tears that glittered.

Thank you.

And she was gone.

“What is her name?” Aemond asked, his gaze remained.

Persephone. The goddess of spring, the embodiment of vitality. A comely contrast to their sister’s golden hair and lavender eyes, but a beauty all her own. A grace with her motion, in tandem with the breeze that allowed the sweet blossom scent roll over the cosmos.

A new era of spring.

He was watchful, etching the details of this moment, down to the pink hues that glowed and complimented her complexion, for something he could revisit when he returned below and when the swell of the dead would begin again to erode away his psyche. This moment would be cradled to his chest and remain with him until he would resurface the following spring, returning as a shadow amongst the living and quietly enjoying the serenity she ardently created.

Aemond was pleased to see more peonies that littered the pathway, but he had not expected Aegon to be waiting on the cusp.

“You are very predictable, lēkia,” he teased him, his brows raised and his rakish smile on his lips. “I assumed you would return to pluck the perfect flower.”

His jaw steeled in response and Aegon only laughed, pulling him to the sunlight again so he could renew his vision of spring, to savor, to rekindle this moment until the following year.

+ + + + + + +

There was comfort back within the slate walls of his forged castle.The day had ended, though there were no differentiating features to his pallid realm, but still he leaned onto the ornate balustrade and looked below, reflecting.

He felt a tightness in his chest from his brother’s jest, I assumed you would return to pluck the perfect flower, but he pushed the words from his mind.

Alys was at his side, as she often was, quiet with her own contemplation but he never would ask what was on her mind. Ahead they saw a golden beacon that striked through the shades of grey.

He peered at her and she had a mischievous smile on her painted lips. “It seems your fate beckons you, my king,” Alys said to him.

Aemond left for the shores of the Styx.

Fate was a fickle thing from what he learned from the Moirai, with far too many variables that must align and allow something to fall so perfectly into place. He had scoffed before when they spoke of the inevitable golden glow for him but now he choked on their words when he saw her and how she walked in his realm, her soft steps that allowed indents in the grey sand.

With his role within the cosmos, all too often he found the pitied looks more tiresome than the scornful ones, but she held neither. She looked at him with a sense of reverence, an almost awe, as if her dark eyes were etching the details of him into her mind.

Perhaps to revisit when she returns to the mortal realm, was his wistful, intrusive thought.

The same serenity he felt when he watched her above followed her proximity; there was a warmth, a comfort with the lilt of her voice to the golden halo that danced around her irises. He noted that with the sweet smile splayed on her pink lips, that she also had a veil of sorrow that seemed to drape over and touch her subtle mannerisms.

“Who did you lose?”

He had seen this loss, in the eyes of the living, in his sister’s eyes. Though he mourned when she left, he could not help but admire the sway of her hips with her every step.

Aemond returned and found Alys awaiting him, smirking still. Though he knew that Persephone would never dare return to the Gō vys, he still wished to do everything within his power to find her friends, to remove the burden that she so blatantly carried with her.

“She will come back, my king,” Alys whispered to him, before she left to do her part.

And Persephone did just that.

There was an intimacy of the moment that was not lost to him; he brought her to the Asphodel, to bring her a sense of comfort for the afterlife her companions would have, something he would personally see too. His chest swelled with pride when she asked for more, to see his kingdom and how she so willingly went to his arms. His touch was firm, but gentle to cradle her and he could feel her ichor thrum beneath as they toured the Underworld, the genuineness as she admired his kingdom.

“It is beautiful, Aïdōneús.” She had said before she left.

He was left to curse himself to not correct her, to not offer that she could simply refer to him as only Aemond, just as she said to call her Kore. He wished to see her again and hoped he would be given the opportunity to correct this.

She would return to him and time seemed to slip so easily between his fingers, moments so perfect and now a plethora to choose from, something he would revisit when he would inevitably be left alone. He was still aware of her sorrow, the guilt? How it shadowed behind her dauntless gaze and he knew he had to ask, that he needed to understand what brought her to his realm to begin with.

To see if fate was what the Moirai claimed.

He listened as she shared her grief, her sorrow spilled from her lips and she paused to swallow her tears.

“A flower,” Aemond had hummed, the white sear of anger that scorched through his mind.

I assumed you would return to pluck the perfect flower.

“It should have been me.” She finished and he knew he could not correct her.

Persephone agreed to return the following night and when she left, he began at once. The mortal names, Baela and Rhaena, were given to Alys with the explicit instructions for when she found the souls. She nodded, doleful as she listened, and left when he finished, quick to do her king’s bidding.

As well as her queen’s.

Aemond then placed his crown, iron and ruby glowing, on his head, his cape to his shoulders and checked the pin of the snapdragon he now always wore, before he left for Olympus.

His movements would match the anger he felt; a flash of white, the streak of fury that landed at the steps with such force, the marble splintered beneath. He stopped a moment, his fists clenched with his ire, before his gaze slowly rose to see Aegon, who was wide eyed at the arrival.

A nymph was pushed from his lap as he stood, forcing his same rakish smile as he greeted him with, “Lēkia! Have you come to thank me for the gift I so graciously gave to you?” His hesitation had a hint of hope, which diminished as Aemond’s gaze darkened.

Fate, he now knew, was such a fickle thing that was filled with happenstance to allow happy endings throughout the cosmos.

It would be a fate that would elude him, he now realized.

“You have killed the granddaughters of Corlys, Aegon,” he replied, his tone was low and lethal and his eye narrowed onto his brother.

Aegon paled with this news and then he scoffed. “What are a few mortals in exchange for the happiness of a king?” Though his words wavered, the same arrogance remained on his features as he dared to press closer to Aemond. “Surely, you know, as I know, that you would have spent eternity to silently pine for the goddess of spring? You should be thanking me for allowing you the opportunity to know her more intimately.” Aegon raised his brow.

“Doru-borto valītsossa.”

The venomous hiss took them both by surprise and they turned to see Rhaenyra, storming towards them. Her golden hair billowed with her steps and reflected the gold fire that enveloped the lavender of her eyes; her sharp features narrowed from one to the other, before settling on Aemond.

“I have come to demand your witch to release the hold you have on my daughter.”

Aemond fell back a step, the accusation cut into him and his own anger abated. “Rhaenyra, I do not know what you mean…” he began, but her tone was hot and cut through.

“She returns to me and babbles this idea of love, Aemond,” she cried.

Aegon took the moment and slipped away, abandoning his siblings to quarrel alone in his throne room. Aemond grit his teeth, his jaw worked as he listened to her accusations thrown.

“She returns to me and smells of death, with these foolish ideals of living in the Gō vys-” she stopped, her hand pressed to her mouth.

As hurt as he felt, he also understood the unspoken fear. Rhaenyra was well aware of the burden that came with the realm of the dead, the constant fear that Otto, though captivated and chained away, still lived and how his evil forever tainted the realm.

“Aemond,” she exhaled and his attention returned to her. “Please, you cannot truly believe Kore would be content with such an existence. You are the darkness and she is the light. Do not damn her.”

Her words cut deep, but his expression remained stoic, as always, and he hummed to acknowledge her cruelty, the truth spoken. “I have a debt I must repay her, mandia,” his voice was still low. “After I right this wrong, I will let her be.”

Her lips were pressed into a thin line, then she gave a quick nod and left him alone.

Aemond knew it was laughable; the goddess of spring dare love the king of the damned, to give up her life and birthright only to become queen regent of the dead? His steps were slow to return below, his thoughts a dark and suffocating cloud that followed.

There was the echo of her words. You are the darkness and she is the light.

He knew what must be done.

He returned to find two small vials waiting, an iridescent blue glow emitting through the glass, but he was more surprised to be greeted by the aura that Kora held. She turned at the sound of his steps, her eyes bright with the golden fire that danced around her pupils when she looked at him. “I know we did not set an exact time,” she seemed flushed with her rush of words. “You said to return at nightfall so I came as soon as the sun set.”

Aemond hummed, his jaw steeled as he reached for the vials and tucked them away. He looked and saw how her brow knitted with his silence, so he choked, “You have impeccable timing, Kore.” He faltered, then reached for her hand. “Please, come with me.”

The glee on her features caused a hitch in his chest, the spark of their touch when her fingers interlaced with his own, a perfect fit. He accepted he would never see her after this night, save the shadows that crept with each spring, and he chose to indulge, allowing himself to pull her to his chest. She nestled close to him and he moved, the gleam of white of two gods escaping the shadows and embracing the night.

The moon was full and its silver light touched everything, lighting the way as he brought her to the east pillar of Hyperion, to a ledge that bore from the mountainside. They came to the edge and admired the view of amber hues of the manmade lights that rose from each kome settled throughout, while above the stars competed with the moonbeam radiance.

When he stepped back, she turned to look at him. “I am right here,” he soothed. “Trust me.”

She remained but her head tilted to watch as he pulled the first vial; he poured the silky smoke that fell into a misty form of Baela, then Rhaena. Aemond saw her lips part, her eyes wide as the spirits smiled from seeing their friend once more.

Kore looked at him and he focused on his hands, rubbing his palms together until the familiar glow pooled between. He reached forward, the bolt of cold to touch and laughter filled his ears as the girls began to run towards the edge and then leaped, each metamorphosing into a ball of fire that shot out against the night sky.

She watched, her eyes still wide. “They are comets,” she whispered, turning to face him.

He nodded his head and his tongue wet his lips. “I did not want them to aimlessly wander the Asphodel.”

In this moment, he felt he truly saw her; the veil of sorrow had been removed and tears stilled in the corners of her eyes. There was a serenity that smoothed her features and she was graceful to curl her legs beneath and sit, her head tilted back and it allowed the silver light to emphasize her beauty.

Kore looked at him again and beckoned to him.

There was a reservation that held him still for a moment, the thoughts that he should go and allow her the privacy of this moment, that he should just return to his kingdom and yet…

His steps were deliberate and brought him to her side before he sank down next to her. His posture was rigid, with a newfound tension with her proximity, but she seemed unaware. Instead, she lifted her hand from the grass and rested it on top of his own, her head turning to look at him and he dared to look back.

There was a flush of pink that touched her porcelain skin, an inviting sight, and her eyes bore into him, the golden flame bright. She then shifted, pressing closer, and he relished in the soft touch of her body as she melted against his chest.

Aemond remained rigid, still as stone and unwilling to pressure, to coerce her into anything outside her own volition.

And then he felt the fullness of her lips touch to his own.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc #greek mythology hotd au #hotd au #aemond!hades #hotd fanfic #slow burn #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond fanfic #thanks for reading #♥

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fure-dcmk · 5 months

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About movie Movie 27 setting: Hakodate

The title 100 Million Dollar in the title 100 Million Dollar Signpost (or 100 Man Doru Michishirube), refers to 100 Million Dollar nightview (100万ドルの夜景)

From my understanding, in Japan its somewhat a local myth and saying that there are 3 major stunning nightview in the world Hong Kong, Naples and Hakodate.

Seeing Hakodate's photos always stuns me so i kinda want to share my thoughts.

The hakodate image as seen overlaid almost everywhere ever since the first trailer "Isn't it because of the kiss?"

Hakodate's icon the Goryokaku (literally five point-fort)

the star shape seems to be a regular theme

from the second trailer

The Gogyokaku tower

To be honest I expected this the location of Kid and Heiji fighting, but it seems like it's not.

A building with huge stain glass art installed that would be reasonable for a bike to jump into? I have yet to find one. (If you know a location in hakodate please let me know)

Pretty amazing Heiji brought his bike all the way to Hakodate. From Osaka, this area is MUCH further than Tokyo.

Heiji's Kawasaki might be next year's action on a vehicle allotment but perhaps there is a chance a ropeway will also get involved:

Gosho did promised Conan will skateboard in a dangerous place in that Black Crow Sing event after all.

#100 million dollar signpost #tagging all future theorizing and m27 spoiler with that so mute as needed 🫡#detective conan

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mylordshesacactus · 2 months

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Also, after talking down the local priest's recently vampirized son and helping him reunite and reconcile with his devastated father, etc, before we left (and after restocking on incense from the church) Atri flipped through her prayer book and tore out a relevant passage for him.

The prayer book is a little conceit of mine for playing Atri, a genuinely tender and devout cleric of the Raven Queen who takes her duty of care to the living, dead, and undead very seriously. There should be a sense of awe and religiosity to her, you know? She's got a deeply intuitive working knowledge of all her sacred texts because they mean something to her.

So I write little in-the-moment prayers to serve as verbal spell components, I write her blessings to say over the dead both in and out of combat, etc.

Anyway, the page she tore out for Doru:

[...that there be no baser evil nor deeper heresy than that most perverse art of necromancy which is to bind a soul. For such sacrilege, for so profound a violation of all which is known to She the Queen of Ravens, there can be no reconciliation. May none who wear Her seal forget nor in their presence allow to be forgotten: To bind a soul is not anathema because the Mistress of Fate forbids it. She forbids it because it is an abomination. For the Raven Queen commands that all souls find peace, and all chains be broken.]

#d&d #strahd campaign #atri's prayerbook

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tea-with-eleni · 3 months

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Ludmilla Vilisevic

Pastel pencils on black paper with metallic gold watercolor, white acrylic for the brightest highlights.

My take on Ludmilla under the cut, from Ireena's point of view (aka "the least sympathetic point of view in Barovia, probably")

Ludmilla still doesn’t look directly at you, but she touches your knee. She probably understands why you fear Strahd as well as anyone. Hells, she…

“Why did you marry him?” You ask, before you can think better of it. Ludmilla slumps slightly.

“You won’t believe me, but he isn’t the same without you. It’s difficult to describe. It helps, I think, that I was alone when I came here. I wanted to learn, and he is the most brilliant man I’ve ever met. He was also lonely.” She isn’t telling the whole story. You try to drag your mind out of your past lives enough to figure out what you might be missing. The fact that you’re trying to figure something out about Strahd makes it difficult after centuries of lies and flattery and, if you believe Ludmilla, only seeing him a certain way. Ludmila seems to notice the shift in your demeanor and forces a smile. You can see her fangs. You try not to shudder. You hate Strahd, and you intellectually know that she’s a monster, but it’s easy to forget that right now.

You look back out the window. “Were you only ever alive or a true vampire?” You ask. Ludmila doesn’t answer for a long time.

“No,” she says with a sigh. “I was spawn for decades. He didn’t know how to even create true vampires; how would he? He was the first.”

Your stomach twists. “That must have been horrible,” you say. You shouldn’t. You don’t want to sympathize with her. She’s a monster. She made and sacrificed plenty of her own spawn in Vallaki. She made Doru. You should not sympathize with her.

“It could have been worse,” she says. She’s gone still. You’re suddenly conscious of how much living things move. She no longer resembles a living thing. She resembles a statue. “I did love him, after all. In his own way, he loved me. He didn’t know to what extent I had to obey him.” Her voice is flat. You watch her with growing concern until she shakes herself a little and forces another smile. She doesn’t try to meet your gaze but looks back towards you. “He learned with us. He would never make you spawn. When you were Marina, you would have been a true vampire if your horrible burgomaster hadn’t staked you. You wouldn’t have ever been spawn, not for a moment.”

It isn’t comforting, not if you think about what that means you must have done. She can tell, because she apologizes. Then, abruptly, she’s gone.

The mist is rising again outside. You shudder and retreat to the fireplace. You are grateful that there are some things you cannot remember.

#curse of strahd #dungeons and dragons #ludmilla vilisevic #brides of strahd #my art

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nevermoretoleave · 6 months

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dead, and dying, and dead again. — on doru donavich.

12.3.21, silas denver melvin / dead air, chvrches / save a prayer, duran duran / icarus, the crane wives / murder song (5, 4, 3, 2, 1), aurora / the lion in winter / space dog, alan shapiro / baldur's gate 3 / @ inkskinned / personal inventory: fearless (temporis fila), kaveh akbar / all the king's horses, karmina / decode, paramore / sunlit lovers, m. j. pearl / a life worthy of our breath, ocean vuong / @ roach-works / is it okay to say this?, trista masteer / courtney love prays to oregon, clementine von radics / fallen debris from the burnt out roof structure sits near the high altar inside notre dame cathedral in paris, christophe morin / @ rbhvleo / rapture, m. j. pearl

#curse of strahd #ravenloft #web weaving #doru #doru donavich #npc: doru donavich.#our doru's gone through Some Stuff and he will continue to go through Some Stuff #but at least he's alive (?) and well (?)#and was sent along with the party to serve as bait for rvr! :) fun!#(feel free to ask how the heck this happened i'm a hair away from spilling all the beans at any given time)

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apricotzel · 7 months

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wrote something short for my beautiful dnd party in the CoS campaign i run because i wanted to add some depth to doru and father donavich, and also wanted to post it here. if anything contradicts canon its because i forgot or decided to change it my bad. if there are any mistakes please be nice. beware here be spoilers and also a 2nd person pov !!

“Are heroes real?”

There’s a clatter of dishes; a knife slips from your hands and back into the sink, it disappears below the surface.

There’s a pause at the table. Your son sits there, bright-eyed and wondering. He needs a haircut, you think. Maybe spend less time in that watered down sunlight, and he wouldn’t ask silly questions.

You clear your throat, resume the motions. “The Morning Lord is real.”

“And heroes?”

You don’t answer. It could be better like this, better to just ignore and lock away all of foolishness. He’s only young, only a couple handfuls of years, and he’s missing so much in his life. He doesn’t know the sun, and you didn’t either until you had him.

You turn to grab another dish, and he’s there with his eyes that are yours, and he is staring at you.

“Heroes, Father.”

You can’t silence your way out of this one. You put down the knife, dry your hands - pale hands, shaking ones - and grab his face gently.

“There are no heroes, Doru.”

His face doesn’t fall, he grins like he was expecting you to say that. “Is the Morning Lord not a hero?”

“He cannot reach us,” You say gently. You must’ve told this story to him a thousand times, never has his grin wavered. “The curse of the Devil Strahd blocks him. We wait for his return.”

“A hero could bring him back.”

You had trained anger out of yourself years ago under the training of the Morning Lord, under your own father. You open your mouth as if to argue, but your sun continues.

“Have hope, father,” He says. “I could be the hero.”

You know what happens to heroes, you have told him a thousand times, never has he stopped.

“I could protect you,” Your sun insists. “I could banish the Devil.”

You waver, because you love him.

“I could,” He insists.

“Do your reading,” You straighten up, “Stop this nonsense, Doru. You’re too young.”

He opens his mouth as if to argue, but you are a priest, and you know how to control faith in your hands. You reign him in, harsh and gentle like a dog to a post.

He stomps away with perhaps too much attitude than you should allow, but there are dishes to do and prayers to be said.

A service is interrupted by his singing. He does not realize, in the way he never realizes how loud he is. He moves unabashedly through the world, twirling and singing. He would jump on tables if you let him.

You try to carry on with the word. It’s a quiet service today, and those in the pews are familiar with you and Doru. Your voice wavers, caught on a laugh. It’s rusty and scratches out of your throat, you try to hide it, coughing and stammering over the holy text.

Someone in the front row coughs to stop their chuckle. A gentle, sputtering giggle comes from somewhere else.

A waltzing note follows, off-key and hectic. You duck your face, letting the laughter take you. Foreign noises fill the air as the company does the same. Laughing fills the still air and gets lost in the mist. You glance up and catch him standing in the entrance to the chapel, shoulders shaking and a hand barely covering his smile.

Years later, he asks you the same:

“Are heroes real?”

“What?” You ask. You’re doing something, you don’t really have time for this. He sits next to where you lean over his desk, reading his writings on the Morning Lord, gently pointing out flaws and molding it until it makes more sense.

He fidgets with the quill, shoving the feather into your face until you bat it away. It’s his favourite quill, so you do so gently.

“I found a sword,” He starts.

You try not to sigh. He has never wavered.

“And someone to teach you?” You mutter.

He deflates slightly, head lolling back to stare at you. He needs a haircut. He has a faint tan that you don’t. Always running around in the field, through town, through the graveyard, never praying. You worry, as you ought to do.

“I can teach myself,” He says.

You waver, he sees you do it.

“Have hope,” He presses gently.

You shouldn’t look at him. He will only be looking up at you with those eyes that you can never argue with.

“Hope is for fools,” You say.

“And the pious.”

You give him a disapproving glare, and fall right into his trap. He’s grinning up at you, mischievous and boyish. How does he find the energy to do that? You don’t know. Even at his age you had given up on this land, and so you turned to the gods to hope for some salvation. He seems to be his own God, your own sun.

“There’s a mage in town,” He continues despite your glare.

You frown. “Many mages come through here.” They all die.

“This one is different,” He insists, because he is young and you had never let him meet the mages that would later die.

Instead, you sigh. Run a pale, shaking hand through his too-long hair and settle it on his shoulder. “Don’t be foolish, Doru. There is a reason no one here has hope.”

He reaches up and clasps your hand, strong as iron at first and then it settles light as dust; you try not to think of a dying breath, how every ghost up on Castle Ravenloft fought until it was over.

“Please, Father,” He looks at you, imploring. You stare at the mirrors in his skull, and waver. “I could do it. I would make sure that nothing could hurt you ever again. Not a devil, nor vampire, nor zombie, nor hag. You wanted a God and I am your son. Have faith in me.”

He is the brightest thing in this valley, and you vow to never let the curse that suffocates it harm him.

“I forbid it,” Gently, like a prayer.

His face darkens like a cloud passed over it. Without a word he lets go of your hand. You expect him to charge off, to yell, to do anything, but he just turns back to his work. This worries you more than anything.

Later that evening, you pray that the entire world will become weaker because you know you cannot be strong.

He knows more songs than you do, and you’re not sure where he learned them. They echo from his room to yours, out his open window, down the valley like he’s a siren. Even when he is quiet, his voice haunts the house. Always under his breath, songs of love and victory. Of sorrow and a life lived to its fullest.

You stand outside his door now, hearing him hum and dance, bumping into things and swearing under his breath. Always a pause after every curse where he sends a brief prayer for forgiveness, you can see him without seeing him, the way his body freezes in realization and his eyes flit to the ceiling as his hands fumble to put themselves in the right position.

You knock on the door gently, and a second later it swings open. He smiles seeing you, as if he hasn’t in a while. His hair is wild, brushing his shoulder and sticking to his face, eyes bright.

It’s not his birthday, it’s not a holiday. There’s no reason for you to unveil a curved dagger from underneath your robes and present it to him. It’s beautiful, even you know, and you are not versed in metals or blood. Wrapped around the hilt and falling down to the pommel is a chain adorned with beads and the symbol of the Morning Lord.

He looks as if you had just given him the world, and takes it with a gentleness usually reserved for children. As if in a trance, he walks over to his window to look at it better. The shine of the metal dances across his face.

He looks over at you, you who are still standing in his doorway like an unwanted fiend that can’t cross, you bathed in shadow, you the priest.

“Why?” He asks with an unsure laugh, like he is waiting for you to snatch it back.

“I don’t want you to use it,” You clarify immediately, “Look at me, Doru. It is not for you to charge to battle with. I just- I want you to know. That the Morning Lord will protect you.” Softer, “I will protect you.”

He turns to stare at you as if lost, light weakly haloing his hair and casting his face in darkness.

“Nothing will hurt you,” You scramble for the words. “I won’t let it happen to you. What happens to those people - the heroes - it won’t happen to you. Not while I’m here. I asked for a God and I got a son. I won’t lose you, too.”

Your sun’s hand reaches up, shaking, as if to grab you. Your own hand twitches at your side, but does not go forth. He grabs his own shoulder and turns back towards the light.

“Thank you,” He says, and his voice is thick and breaking at the edges. You wonder, briefly, how heavy it is to hope. You wouldn’t know.

You nod, and go to retreat. He opens his mouth as if to say something, inhaling sharply and leaving the room breathless.

You waver, because you love him.

His gaze trails down to the dagger in his grasp, shaking hand to meet it like you grab onto the rosary, and you feel like he isn’t yours anymore and hasn’t been in a very long time. He needs a haircut, and you love him.

The door creaks when you shut it.

The door to your room is locked and there is a man in your church. You do not know what is happening and you are afraid of it. They are taking away your son.

That’s not right.

The door to your room is blocked and there is a man in your home. You do not know what is happening and you are afraid of it. Your son is letting himself be taken away.

You wish, briefly, you had spent less time praying and more time swinging swords like he did. As it is now, all you can do is claw at the wood and at the door handle. You kick, feel the jarring follow up your knee and it aches like everything. You were not built to handle such tragedy as the one you were born into, you are just a priest.

“Doru,” You screech again and again and again, and you can imagine blood from the inside of your throat trickling down and choking you with how much it hurts. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this.”

You are just a priest, and all you know is how to beg for someone to listen to you.

Your window lays broken, but people wait outside of it with threatening stances and weapons they grab tighter every time you walk closer.

You hear his voice from the other side of the door.

“I’m sorry,” He says again and again and again, and you can imagine him with his hand laid flat against the door, wincing everytime you ram your body into it. Head laid sorrowfully on the wood like this hurts him more than it hurts you. “I have to. I must fight.”

You scream, guttural and wordless, and slam into the door again. You have never felt fear so potent. All hero stories end the same in Barovia.

Suddenly the fear leaves you, and you quiet down, hands laid flat against the wood.

“Listen to me, Doru,” You whisper, because all secrets must be whispered, “I love you. You can’t do this. Do you hear me? Please, they have enough people. They don’t need you. Stay here. Let me out.”

He pauses, as if his resolve flutters.

“I have to do this,” He says. You scream once again, but he pays no mind. “I have to have hope. We must have hope. If only you could see that is what the valley needs.”

You know what the valley needs. It is not another dead child.

“I’m sorry, Father,” He says, and his voice wavers, because he loves you. It breaks right down the middle. “I’m so sorry.”

You beg, plead, and scream. To him, to the Morning Lord, to Mother Night. To the other gods, those you do not believe in but are desperate enough to try.

“I’ll be home soon,” He whispers, and it is almost drowned out.

His footsteps retreat from the door, and you slide down it, on the floor. Your breath comes quickly, gasping, choking. You think you might vomit, or your heart might stop, or you might just stop existing then and there.

You can see him running down the hill to the army, led by the mage. Your fingers wrap around shattered glass. You cannot cry out, but you do not look away until the mists that surround Castle Ravenloft swallow him whole.

He is sent home by the Devil himself. Your son, your beautiful son who has never hurt anyone. You put the key where no one else will find it, and begin to pray. Your mind unravels, and in the darkness, the frayed edges of his reach out to it, and meet.

#curse of strahd #cos #doru #father donavich #teddie be quiet!#who up writhing over family #for extra context in my game i've aged doru down to 16 #because i thought he was for some reason for the longest time #my boy :( his son :( HIS SUN :(

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doruwuwei · 9 months

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I'm devouring Ursula K Le Guin's sci-fi works and, tbh, I've never been more radicalised in my life.

Currently reading The Dispossessed and this one's taking all my tabs.

I'm gonna shower you with some of my favourite fragments.

All of these are from my category of philosophy. But this book has everything.

#ursula k. le guin #the dispossessed #the left hand of darkness #le guin #scifi #doru says

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hypovile · 9 months

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how did ur party discover jackie daytona vasili von holtz? im a dm that wants it to be a cool reveal, but not impossible to deduce

CAUTION TO THOSE WHO NEED IT— this will contain spoilers, both explicit and vague.

In this, I’m explaining our Vasili’s whole thing and how it made us suspicious of him. It’s just a big ol’ dive into him and my thoughts as a player. I also just fucking love talking about our campaign so I ramble like hell. If you just wanna skim through the whole thing— which is totally fine— i did add a little tl;dr at the end thats a little more question-specific so you can just go there :~]

When the party was off for about a week with Ismark and Co., Vasili, as he claimed, walked through the fog and entered the town of Barovia. He was a charming man who decided to take it upon himself to help the town, which was falling into ruin from the werewolves that ran amok every night.

He also took it upon himself to, by some miracle, revive Kolyan. This, I think, was the second red flag. The first was the normal suspicion that comes with a random stranger who claims to have walked through the fog and was suddenly Kolyan’s right hand man after only a week.

I think everyone was also very quickly suspicious of Vasili because the party +Ismark had expected his house to be completely empty. It was definitely a shock to hear laughter coming from inside.

When the party did go inside they had quickly decided to do an arcana check on him and very conveniently rolled well. So, we understood that inside Vasili was a suppressed dark energy, along with a dull sunlight. Vasili also referred to the sun god with a different name.

I think at this point, or a little further in, we had been saying that Vasili was Strahd. The more we said it, the more it became a little bit of a joke to me? Obviously, I considered the fact that Vasili was Strahd and kept it in my head as a definite possibility, and even argued in favor of it a few times in private with the DM (they were doing a very good job pretending to not understand why I thought Vasili was Strahd honestly), but I had never fully convinced myself that Vasili was Strahd.

I think the main reason I was never fully convinced was… actually because Vasili was very reciprocal with my characters flirting, and even initiated it somewhat (…yes, they slept together, and my character woke up to Strahd above him telling him he was a broken man 💀).

But anyways, after that first night, when everyone regrouped back at Ismark’s house, Kolyan refused to let Ismark come with us to find Doru. Vasili quickly volunteered himself to go… half of the party didn’t like that, but decided to let him come anyways.

After a day of travel and an experience with Strahd himself stealing the symbol of ravenkind while one party member was on watch, my character realized that he was missing his special item from Ezra. Everyone was instantly suspicious of Vasili and had my character go search him in private. As my character was about to touch him, he said “touch me and I fucking kill you,” in a completely different accent. There’s a bit of back and forth, but my character promised that he won’t tell anyone in the party. That was when Vasili morphed back into Strahd.

And, again, I was still shocked even though we had been saying Vasili was Strahd the entire time! I think that was part of the fun of it, being suspicious of him and making jokes about it and such.

But the shock isn’t only that Vasili is Strahd, but also that Strahd made his alter ego look exactly like Sergei. It’s a big double whammy that really emphasizes Vasili’s character and the meaning behind him.

TL;DR bullet point list on what made us suspicious of Vasili, leading to his… honestly surprisingly quick reveal:

Vasili’s sudden appearance and seemingly quick relationship with Kolyan in the time we were gone

Directly because of that initial suspicion, the various (and conveniently high-rolled) checks we did on him basically told us that Vasili was hiding something, not necessarily that he was Strahd, but that he was working with him

Him referring to the sun god with a different name (i think; maybe not necessarily important but i think it definitely made some of us a little confused)

An important magical item that connected one of the characters to Ezra going missing around the time they re-entered Barovia. This one only really added suspicion on Vasili because we already were suspicious that he was, at the absolute least, working with Strahd (also due to some conveniently high rolls).

All in all, your players will always surprise you. What may have been a red flag for us may not necessarily be a red flag for them. I think we were a little lucky with getting information on Vasili because we were rolling fairly well during our interactions with him. And I will reiterate, even with everything that made me suspicious, I figured that Vasili worked closely with Strahd, not that he quite literally was Strahd. And even though I guessed that he wasn’t as good of a person as he tried making himself seem, he still was technically making an effort to help us in our travels, which i think was also important.

I can’t give you very specific advice or anything because I don’t know anything about your Strahd or how your players view him. All I can say is to defy their expectations enough to make them think he’s somewhat of an ally, but keep some hints of Strahd’s key traits so he’s not a completely different character. Maybe there’s a little something Strahd is known to like or dislike and Vasili is unable to hide it. Maybe, if Strahd has already met some of them, Strahd dislikes or likes one of the pc’s more than the others and Vasili subconsciously reflects that!

Final reflection: Vasili, to me, has an inherent disconnection from other people. Whether it’s due to entitlement or due to just a flat out lack of understanding how other people work, there’s a disconnection. That’s what links him to Strahd, because when you don’t truly understand other people, it gets hard to pretend to be someone else. Unless, maybe, the thing you’re pretending to be is something you’ve always wanted... I also find it a bit comical

Whatever you come up with, no matter how it turns out or how fast your players solve it, I’m sure it will end up being very fun :~)

#this is probably so unhelpful im so sorry LOL #this is mostly just a reflection from a player perspective that i hope you might find useful #or maybe some bits might inspire you to do certain things #i dunno! i just hope it’s helpful in some way #or interesting #sorry its so long #curse of strahd #dnd #dungeons and dragons #dnd character #vasili von holtz #vasili

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rahadaddy · 2 months

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Blood Countess: A Summary

It occurred to me that other CoS blogs do great jobs at summarizing their campaigns and I never managed to sit down and say what on earth is happening in mine. I'm running a gender-swapped CoS that I call "Blood Countess". It explores Strahd not only as a woman, but as a bereaved mother, a weapon in her mother's quest for godhood, and as powerful a mage and general as "I, Strahd" envisions the character as. I'm going to put the summary below, but also invite people to ask me anything! I've been developing this version of the game for a long while now and I'm dying to talk about it! Thanks for reading!

When my “Blood Countess” game started, I had six players. It was far too many and not everyone’s play styles meshed. Two of the players left after the first session due to scheduling conflicts. Another left after fewer than ten sessions because he caused inter-party conflict. My three remaining players have been phenomenal. I will make a note to say that the player who left after approximately ten sessions left a lasting impression on the game, so he will be referenced as “Aarakocra Ranger”. The others, I will name by their characters, as well as character race and class.

The premise of this campaign is deceptively simple. What if Strahd von Zarovich was a woman? In the CoS community, a very popular fan module, "She is the Ancient” already exists, which does a similar reimagining. However, I excel at reinventing the wheel. I read “She is the Ancient” and found the author’s commitment to avoiding problematic representation simultaneously impressive and bothersome. Although I own it, I set it aside to build “Blood Countess”. The characters who began the game were the aforementioned Aarakocra Ranger; a Reborn Celestial Warlock named Sister Theodora, who was created by the Abbot of Krezk as a potential bride for Strahd; a Half-Elf Grave Domain Cleric named Alistor, who is the grandson of the dragon Argynvost and the love-child of Strahd von Zarovich (here reimagined as a Half-Elf) and Alek Gwilym; and a Human Spirits Bard, who was Actual Zak Bagans from the Travel Channel, who was meant as a short-term character and who would later be replaced by a Human Monster Hunter Ranger, Tam Mantigieri, who is the reincarnation of Sergei von Zarovich.

The party first encountered Ismark Kolyanovich in the woods outside Barovia Village, as they were under attack by a truly ridiculous amount of wolves. Accompanied by several villagers, including a grown Thorn Durst (who is Ismark’s ex-boyfriend and political rival), Ismark helped the party dispatch the wolves and uncover the body of his friend, Dalvan, who was trying to deliver a letter to the outside world on behalf of Ismark’s recently deceased father, Kolyan. The characters convened in the Blood on the Vine Tavern where Ismark and Thorn briefed them on the situation in Barovia Village: Ismark’s father, the burgomaster, recently died of a heart attack while the Kolyanovich manor was under siege by Countess Strahd von Zarovich. The countess has been attempting to woo and/or kidnap Ismark’s younger sister, Ireena, for the last year. She has attacked Ireena a few times, but never successfully seduced her or turned her into a vampire. Ismark wants to take Ireena to the next town over, Vallaki, which is a two-day trip, but there have been mysterious deaths in Barovia Village for the last year and he feels obligated as the burgomaster to put his people at ease before prioritizing his family. He and Ireena also need help burying Kolyan, which shouldn’t be a hard task, but a year ago, Doru Donavich led 75% of the village’s young adults in a rebellion against Strahd and all were slaughtered. Finding strong backs to carry the coffin has been a challenge. The party agreed to help Ismark with all three of his tasks. The funeral led the party to a church in utter disrepair, with a depressed and half-mad priest, Father Donavich. The event was also “crashed” by the countess herself. Strahd offered funeral gifts to Ireena and Ismark and insisted that she would come back to check their progress on solving the murders. During this meeting, several other things of note happened. First, the Aarakocra Ranger demanded that Strahd give him a gift. She cast “Suggestion” on him and commanded him to fly as high as he could for his gift. He flew into the mists, which give levels of exhaustion for each minute spent in them. This led to him falling out of the sky, very nearly to his death, and being immobilized until Thorn’s sister, Rose, used her druidic magic to heal him. It was a terrifying power move. Strahd also scored a Nat 20 on insight checking Alistor, thus realizing the uncanny resemblance between him and his father, Alek Gwilym, and realizing that he was her son. Lastly, when Strahd left, Theo discovered that Father Donavich was keeping his son, Doru, under the church as a vampire spawn. She allowed him to drink from her and the two bonded over being monstrous against their will/nature. Thorn also told Zak about the March of the Dead: the parade of the fallen villagers who reenact their failed rebellion every night.

The party decided to investigate the Donaviches and their role in the mysterious deaths in the village, but they also checked out the Durst Pie Emporium and learned that Rose and Thorn ran a pie shop under the patronage of their godmother, Morgantha. An investigation led them to learn that Morgantha was a hag and the pie flour was made of the ground bone dust of humans. Now that they had two leads, the party had to decide which to pursue when reporting to Strahd. Further complications ensue as Theo, who wears a full habit and veil, grapples with the fact that she was created to perfectly resemble Ireena to placate Strahd. Alistor spent his time trying to hide his holy magic as well as his kindness, which he failed to do. His selflessness impressed Ismark a lot. Theo spent more time at the church, bonding with Doru and the two briskly tripped into something like love… which is complicated by the fact that Theo is both promised to the countess and has feelings for Stella Wachter in her adopted hometown, Vallaki. The Aarakocra Ranger got kidnapped by the hags and Alistor rescued him. Then, the group devised a plan to stage an attack by Doru in Durst Manor to summon the hags and Strahd. They turned the hags over to Strahd for justice and she swiftly killed them. After she departed, Ismark turned leadership of Barovia Village over to Thorn. However, Rose insisted they should bury the hags by the family windmill. Since they would be traveling in the same direction, the party and the Durst siblings traveled together. They made it to Tser Pool and camped with the Vistani. There, Madam Eva insisted upon reading for the characters. She indicated the locations of the treasures they would need to defeat Strahd and hinted at character deaths to come, future allies, and secrets the player characters were trying to keep. Morning arrived and so too did a flood. The Dursts fled in one direction; the party in the other. They took the high road to avoid the swollen river and were ambushed by Rahadin and dhampir soldiers. While they could not defeat Rahadin, they dispatched the dhampir soldiers with surprising swiftness. However, Zak Bagans perished in the fight and the party pushed his body into the river. They continued to Vallaki.

Around this time, the Aarakocra Ranger player had caused problems with every member of the group. He demanded solo sessions, sold the party out, complained that his character was not narratively tied to the game despite not attempting to tie into the story, and refused plot hooks I offered him. He was not invited back. When the party arrived in Vallaki, I ruled that Izek Strazni shot Aarakocra Ranger out of the sky and killed him, believing him to be a spy from the city of Immol. The remaining characters (Theo, Alistor, Ireena, and Ismark) were welcomed into Vallaki with ease. The first person the party encountered upon arrival was Victor Vallakovich, who presented them with exposition about the town: the Festival of the Blazing Sun and Feast of St. Andral were due to fall on the same day in three days, but, more importantly, Theo’s adoptive father, Father Lucian Petrovich, had died during Theo’s absence from town. The funeral had already happened and Lucian’s former acolyte (and suspected biological daughter), Zinnadia Swilova, had taken over the Church of St. Andral. Theo, grief-stricken and rage-fueled, immediately booked it to the church to take over the services. It was awkward, but a very powerful moment for her. The party also met Tam Mantigieri at the Blue Water Inn. Before this - and don’t quote my timeline - Tam was making his way from his home in Mount Baratok to the town of Vallaki. On his way, he discovered a kidnapper with two children he intended to drown: a Vistana girl named Arabelle and a Dusk Elf boy named Kian. Arabelle is the daughter of the Vistani leader, Luvash, and the Vistani offered Tam a reward for his service. Kian is the first Dusk Elf child anyone has seen in three hundred years. Tam returned him to his mother, Patrina Velikovna, and though grateful, the Dusk Elves have little to offer him. Tam, modest by nature, insisted there was nothing he wanted from them. He immediately charmed the party and volunteered to help them solve the mystery of Lucian’s death, which seemed to be foul play. Because Tam and Theo are from Vallaki, they didn’t meet NPCs so much as interact with neighbors, friends, and enemies. Tam revealed that he had been in love with the coffin maker’s daughter, Valeria, before she left Vallaki to marry a wealthy man in Immol named Vasili von Holtz; before that, he had been romantic rivals with Nikolai Wachter over Elizaveta Vallakovich, the Vallakoviches eldest child who disappeared two years ago, right around the time Nikolai Wachter Sr. died of a mysterious illness. Tam also enjoys teasing Victor, who is Theo’s best friend and adoptive cousin. Izek Strazni has a crush on Theo that won’t quit. The Wachters, local menaces, were showing their out-of-town cousin, Lavinia around Vallaki, which prompted suspicion from characters who hailed from Vallaki. Theo sent letters to the clergy of Barovia to inform them of her father’s death. She did not expect to hear back.

The party began their investigation of Lucian’s death at the Church of St. Andral. There, they discovered that the bones of St. Andral were missing, signs of a struggle (not a suicide) in Lucian’s office, and a vampire spawn in the coffin in which Lucian was meant to be buried. They at first suspected Zinnadia of the death, but after she helped them fight the vampire spawn, they figured they should do more research. They went to the coffin maker’s shop. There, Theo discovered some (but not all) of St. Andral’s bones and Alistor discovered a room filled with vampire spawn. Panicking, Alistor set the building ablaze and evacuated. The coffin maker, Mr. Vander Voort, did not escape, but Valeria did and reported to the burgomaster immediately. The party, who received invitations to various events, including “craft time” for the impending festival at Vallakovich Manor, used it as an excuse to come in and begin exploring. Alistor really enjoyed it! The other characters? Not so much. Alistor also caught the eye of a local nobleman, Rafael Buckvhold, which inspired the first stirrings of jealousy in Ismark. Meanwhile, Theo discovered that Lucian was alive and being held prisoner in a makeshift jail cell in an upstairs closet of Vallakovich Manor. She asked Victor to distract everyone (which he did, using Hypnotic Pattern), while the party smuggled Lucian back to the Blue Water Inn. There, Lucian revealed that for all his and Vargas’ political differences, the final nail in the proverbial coffin was Lucian’s discovery that Vargas was having an affair with Zinnadia Swilova, Lucian’s daughter, with the intent to promote her within civil service (possibly to baroness if Lydia met an unfortunate demise). The brothers-in-law fought and Lucian lost, ending up as a prisoner in his sister’s home. The party planned to stage Lucian’s return from the dead as a miracle and sought to find the remaining holy relics for the church.

The next day, they spent time at Wachterhaus and learned the details of Stella’s condition. Victor (accidentally!) made her think she was a cat. Fiona wants retribution for her poor Stella. Nikolai and Lavinia watched the party closely. The party decided to snoop and broke into Stella’s room and discovered her state was worse than they thought. They knew they would need a “remove curse” spell to put her right. Ireena and Theo also stole into Fiona Wachter’s room and stole an iron lockbox. Theo tried to open it, but it was trapped and so it knocked her unconscious. Ireena was able to put her right, using her paladin abilities, but Nikolai Wachter caught them. They admitted to wanting to help Stella. He said that if they could do that, he would help them with whatever they needed. What the characters didn’t know was that Fiona and Lavinia both heard them stealing the lockbox. Moreover, what the party suspects but does not know is that Lavinia is Strahd in disguise. She wants to get close to Alistor and/or Ireena for vastly different reasons, but cannot bring herself to speak to Alistor for fear of getting him killed. He is her last scrap of humanity that she didn’t know she still had. The party smuggled the lockbox out of Wachterhaus and returned to the Blue Water Inn. They discovered the remaining bones of St. Andral inside and a letter from the burgomaster of Immol, Dagmar Olyavna, proposing an alliance with Fiona if she takes over Vallaki, as well as thanking her for the item exchange. It is now clear that Dagmar has the Tome of Strahd. Theo relayed what she and Ireena discovered about Stella to the party and Alistor announced that he has a brother in Barovia (specifically Argynvostholt) who may be able to help cure Stella. They resolve to go to Argynvostholt after the festival.

That night, the characters have strange dreams. Tam dreams of being a man called Sergei von Zarovich and meeting a beautiful woman named Tatyana, who looks just like Ireena. Theo has her first dream ever of a blond man smuggling babies out of a castle. Alistor has a nightmare vision of his goddess, taunting him. Alistor and Ismark, who are sharing a bed, are awoken suddenly by Alistor’s night terrors and the party assumes they are having sex. This becomes a running joke but it’s painful because Alistor and Ismark would very much like to have sex with each other.

On the day of the Feast/Festival, the party stages Lucian’s reappearance in society as a miracle, and the townsfolk believe he is a saint. The festival itself is… odd. The party overhears the bard Rictavio telling a gruesome story about Strahd’s defeat of the Order of the Silver Dragon, which makes Alistor doubt that his brother and grandfather (Grand Paw) are alive. Izek meets Ireena and Theo at the same time and cannot tell who is his “true love”. He and Ismark almost come to blows because Izek will not stop harassing the girls. Vargas calls him off. Because Alistor killed all the vampire spawn in the coffin maker’s shop and Theo reconsecrated the church, they circumvented a larger attack. They accomplish some tasks in town for a day and then set out for Argynvostholt. Along the way, they come across Valeria von Holtz’s impaled body in the woods and are ambushed by one of Strahd’s brides/generals and her lieutenants. Alistor goes down but is revived. The characters barely escape with their lives and they reach Argynvostholt… which is in ruins. Undaunted, the party continues. There, they see a time- and war-ravaged castle that was once beautiful and briefly encounter Argynvost’s ghost. They seek out the fallen knights and Alistor is reunited with his twin brother, Godfrey, who has become a revenant. Godfrey explains the fall of Argynvostholt and the sorry state of the Order. Still, it is a bittersweet reunion, as neither thought they would see each other again. They spend the night catching up while the other characters explore the ruins and meet other fallen knights.

In the morning, there is a delivery to Argynvostholt: a coffin with Tam’s name inscribed upon it. Upon opening it, a swarm of bats fly out. When they fly away, a horse and rider, pursued by Vistani on dire wolves, appear. The woman on the horse rides with an attache, who turns out to be a very frightened Victor Vallakovich. His teleportation circle worked! And it teleported him to the gates of Ravenloft as Ezmeralda “Ez” D’Avenir was fleeing the vampires inside. She rescued him and rode a stolen horse to Argynvostholt. The Vistani who pursued her are led by Arrigal, Luvash’s brother, and he claims that he has come to mete out justice for Ez’s horse theft. The party refuses to give her up to Arrigal and in exchange, she reads their fortunes (a refresher course for the players). Stressed, Tam angrily hacks the coffin to bits, which alerts the hostile revenants to the party’s presence. Godfrey kicks them out for the time being to protect them. On their way back, the party examines Valeria’s corpse and discovers that she is a dhampir in the service of Strahd’s army, as evidenced by the brand of the von Zarovich crest on her side… in the same place that Alistor was branded with it as punishment by a commanding officer during his time on the Material Plane.

The party returns to Vallaki and receives letters. Theo receives sympathy and tenderness from Doru about Lucian’s death, so she writes to him to clear the misunderstanding up. She receives a strange, doomsday-esque letter from the Church in Immol as well. Alistor receives an invitation from Rafael Buckvhold to join in on making masks for the next festival: a masquerade. He agrees to come and Rafael kisses him in the garden and invites him to bed after arts and crafts time. Upon noticing Alistor’s brand, Rafael assumes Alistor is on the same side as the Buckvhold family. Tam confesses his dream to Ireena and they have a conversation about past lives and nightmares, which brings them closer together. Alistor comes back to the inn and tells Ismark he slept with Rafael, which Ismark tries to act normal about. Alistor also hears a creepy song from Rictavio that reminds him of his nightmare. At the church, Izek proposes to Theo. Theo writes to Doru to ask him to either pretend to be (or really be) her fiance to deter Izek’s advances. The next day, Alistor buys Godfrey a costume for the masquerade, so they can smuggle him into town to heal Stella. Tam and Theo go to lunch at Wachterhaus and learn Lavinia has left for the time being and Lady Wachter thinks the party should aid her in “getting rid of” Izek. Ismark receives a letter from Thorn detailing the situation in Barovia Village: people are getting weird without cannibal pies and Doru is refusing to feed, which means he is acting erratic. Thorn confesses to missing Ismark and tells him that Rose abandoned him. Ismark is conflicted about this letter. Meanwhile, Theo gets two letters. One is from the Abbot, Lucian’s father and her creator, expressing detached remorse for Lucian’s “death”. The other is from Doru, over-enthusiastically accepting her proposal. He writes her the horniest, most vampiric love letter and she is smitten. Ismark is uneasy but unsure how to tell her. Alistor and Ismark talk and are interrupted by Victor Vallakovich, who tells them something weird is happening at his house - that he thinks he heard his mother talking to his deceased sister. They join his investigation and discover that Lydia’s study is a cover for a Ba’al Verzi assassin’s headquarters. They find ciphers and letters, an eerie mirror that reeks of conjuration magic, and a dagger that, upon unsheathing, they realize is cursed. Alistor devises a plan: he teaches Victor the “spare the dying” cantrip and asks Ismark to stab him. It turns into a profound (and horny) bonding moment between Alistor and Ismark, which Victor takes as confirmation that they are sleeping together. Ismark stabs Alistor to death and Victor brings him back. Covered in blood, Alistor and Ismark return to the Blue Water Inn. Theo is at the church, which means Alistor and Ismark interrupt a nice moment between Ireena and Tam. Urwin draws them a bath (they take turns) and the two groups fill each other in on what they are experiencing. Sensing unresolved tension between Alistor and Ismark, Ireena elects to stay in Tam’s room with him. Alistor and Ismark have an intimate and vulnerable moment where they talk about how much they trust each other and how relieved they are that Alistor is okay. They embrace and the only thing that keeps them from kissing and falling into bed together is their certainty that Ireena will come in any moment. She doesn’t.

The characters are again plagued with weird dreams. Theo dreams of the blond man again, this time in a war tent, but the dream warps and twists every time she breaks immersion to talk to him. Tam has a nightmare of his and Ireena/Tatyana’s death, narrated by the same voice that tormented Alistor’s nightmare before. Alistor, however, dreams of his grandfather’s ghost. Argynvost tells him how proud he is of him and how grateful he is that he is home. Morning finds Ireena at the window, charmed and bitten by Strahd. Tam is freaked out and tries to keep her safe as the party ventures back to Argynvostholt to deliver Godfrey’s costume. Along the way, they are attacked by needle blights. Once back at Argynvostholt for the night, Tam insists that Ireena should sleep in a windowless room. When she thinks that’s odd, he announces that the whole party should sleep in a windowless room! He, Ireena, Ismark, and Theo do so. Alistor goes to sleep in his childhood bedroom. While Theo sleeps, she hears the voice of the blond man ask, “Ilona? Are you at Argynvostholt?” He tries to ask if Argynvost is there if there are children there, but she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. The dream fades out. The voice of The Morning Lord comes through and speaks to her. Theo is momentarily certain she is speaking to her god, but he slips up and sounds a little too human. She’s aware she’s in the presence of something holy, but something feels off. The conversation is cut short. Unable to sleep, Theo goes to find the knights, only to learn that Vladimir Horngaard keeps a night watch. Godfrey and the other nights help defend her. This occurs every time someone comes up the stairs during the next hour. Vladimir clearly does not remember Godfrey, only referring to him as a “soldier”. Theo joins the revenants and learns to play dice games from them. Godfrey sends the resident squire, Arthund, to hunt game for breakfast for their guests. Alistor gets up, has a confrontation with Vladimir, and then goes to the roof to talk to one of his old friends, Damian, about what happened between Godfrey and Vladimir and also to help him repair a broken ballista. While talking, Damian asks Alistor to deliver a wedding ring he fashioned for his beloved, Dame Almathea, to the memorial crypt for the Order of the Silver Dragon in Immol. Alistor agrees. Meanwhile, Tam comforts Ireena, who is cured of her charmed condition and is angry with herself. Arthund returns with a goat he killed and he is determined to impress Godfrey with his kill. He then confesses he doesn’t know how to cook and so Tam, Ismark, and Ireena take over. Ismark gathers everyone for breakfast. Over roasted goat, the knights tell the party their unfinished business. Sir Erich wants to hunt the roc of Mount Ghakis. Sir Robern wants to find out what became of his family. Dame Ragnelle wants her art returned from Ravenloft to Argynvostholt. Arthund just wants to be a hero. Godfrey takes Alistor aside and tells him that Argynvost’s skull has been taken as a prize by Baba Lysaga and he wants it restored to the mausoleum. The party agree to help all of the knights. On their walk back, Tam discovers a bundle of clothes, which the party surmises belongs to a werewolf. In leaving it alone, they are allowed to pass safely onward. They agree to visit the Dusk Elves because they are meant to have one of the items they need to fight Strahd (the Icon of Ravenloft).

Upon arriving at Huldefolk, the Dusk Elf settlement, the characters realize they are being watched oddly. The guards outside Patrina’s home ask Alistor who his mother’s clan is. He does not know his mother, but he can name Alek Gwilym as his father. This causes gossip to kick up and the elves search for his mother. Tam insists upon speaking to Patrina. She reluctantly allows the party into her home, where the other characters meet her ten-year-old son, Kian, who is studying to be a mage. Tam tells Patrina that he and Ireena are having unsettling dreams about lives together and Patrina confesses that one of the reasons she took to Tam is because she believes he is the reincarnation of Sergei von Zarovich. She declares that Ireena must be Tatyana and she is very sorry. Theo and Alistor examine the religious statues Patrina keeps and learn of the Lady of Shadows, also known as The Raven Queen, who was Queen Ravenovia von Royen von Zarovich in life. Alistor hates this, but Tam hates all of it so much that he goes outside to throw up. Ireena follows him. Patrina explains how Ravenovia ascended to godhood and the party detects resentment, maybe even hatred in Patrina’s voice. She tells Alistor that if they do not find his mother, out of respect for his father’s memory, she will claim Alistor for clan Velikov to give him permission to visit and remain in Huldefolk. As the conversation unfolds, it becomes clear that Patrina knows who Alistor’s mother might be but will not say. Theo asks Patrina about the prophesied item. Patrina eventually confesses to having the Icon of Ravenloft and needing it to protect Kian. She admits she has a dangerous mission at the Amber Temple she intends to complete to save her people, but that she cannot bequeath the item to the party until it is done because it is her only insurance for Kian’s safety from Strahd. The party agrees to help her with her mission in the Amber Temple in exchange for the item.

They return to Vallaki and Theo tells Ireena she has something important to tell her. She takes a drunk VIctor as moral (or “amoral”) support as she confesses that she looks identical to Ireena. Ireena seethes that the Abbot created Theo without considering her as her own person and she seethes that Strahd wants to harm them both. She insists that Theo is still her friend and that it isn’t her that she is mad at. Meanwhile, Ismark shares his letter from Thorn with Alistor, asking what to do. Alistor insists they should tell Theo. Tam sits in the bar with a bottle of wine and tries to ruminate on what he learned about Ravenovia. On a Nat 20, he accesses Sergei’s memories of Ravenovia: how hard it was to secure her love, how she pushed her children, how she drove her children apart. He feels sick. The characters decide to call it a night. Tam and Alistor stay at the inn. Theo, Ireena, and Ismark go to the church, which is now Hallowed ground. Ireena and Theo decide that everyone in the party should match someone else in the party to throw Strahd off everyone’s scent.

That’s where we ended tonight. It’s been WILD and it continues to get more and more interesting. There are a lot of miscellaneous facts I’d like to share, but they are spoilers and it’s almost 6 AM as I type this. I’m DELIGHTED by this game! Thank you for reading!

#curse of strahd #cos #g: blood countess

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