PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

*INCOHERENT SCREAMING*

First super mini teaser for “A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms”!!!!!

The Favorite, pt. 4

summary: Let us embrace, even though we are doomed. From this point onward, the war becomes much more contentious among maesters. Some insist princess reader was kidnapped by prince jace, others say that it was love for the prince and loyalty to the queen which sent her to dragonstone by her own leave. The only thing anyone can agree on is that from henceforth, this is a war of queens. Whether one of black and two of green or one of black, one of green with a turn-cloak black princess in between is anyone’s guess.

cw: threats of kidnapping though no one is actually kidnapped, mentions of murder, little bit of angst, misunderstandings, jace sent someone to kidnap you but he's like really sad and stuff so its okay probably

notes: it’s just not poor helaena’s night at all

part 1 /part 2/part 3

word count: 3.1k

Alicent entered your chambers, her hands clasped and her face somber as she wondered how to deliver the news. It wasn’t you she needed to be concerned about with your father’s death but somehow she found herself thinking of consoling you. Perhaps it was because she found it to be the more comfortable task of the unpleasantness she’d had to endure the previous night and what she’d have to endure that day. She hated the very idea of your sadness but she loved the idea of caring for you in it. She loved the thought of taking you into her arms and shushing you like a babe. That would bring her such peace, help her reconcile everything. If only she could spend an hour or so comforting you.

You looked up as she entered, without word and with an air of sullenness about her. She sat perched on the couch near the window of your chambers, the dull light streaming in and illuminating your face, her reverent and tired eyes met yours. “Your father…” She managed to speak as she gently cupped your cheek.

It only took you a second to realize everything that needed saying. “He’s…gone on, has he not?” You take a breath, having anticipated this for a long time. You wait for grief but it does not come. Nothing does. Not even relief. His presence, as horrible as it feels to think, was as impactful in death as it was in life. Alicent was slightly disappointed that you’ve handled it so well and caught on so quickly. But at the same time, she is proud of you for your resilience and grace. She only wished you had just a little less, so as to need your mother a little more on this day. “My dearest love,” she says, stroking your hair.

You give her a weak smile. “Now what?” You asked because you know very well that there is certainly more to that statement. Your father is dead but everyone around has anticipated this for years. Your mother has been least subtle of all of them in her planning.

“Now…” Alicent hesitated, looking into your eyes. “We put things together and we crown you queen.”

Even quietly as Alicent had tried to keep the decline of Viserys’ health and his impending death, Rhaenyra was not blind. She knew her father was not long for this world. And so she had left to assume her seat as Princess of Dragonstone shortly before his death, narrowly avoiding becoming hostages without leverage. Alicent had hoped this could all be done easily, if she and her children had been trapped in the red keep swarming with green allies, negotiating her surrender would come quickly and hopefully without need for bloodshed. But likely on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra would be able to freely prepare for her ascension. They were running out of time before they could no longer keep Viserys’ death secret and although Alicent had made the most of it, there was still much to do. They needed the advantage, they needed to show Rhaenyra there was no need to fight against them.

You sat, your hands trembling as you watched your children at play, wondering how this would play out. You did not want your nephew robbed of his birthright nor killed nor made a hostage but it was your mother’s hands weaving this fate. What would you be now? A daughter of Queen Alicent or the wife of Prince Jacaerys? The two things seemed in conflict, now more than before. You’d have to deny one to claim the other. The middle ground of a brewing war was simply a place for people to fall through the cracks to one side or the other anyway.

To be honest, all love and duty aside, you were a mother and thus a pragmatist by necessity. You had to choose which you believed would be the winning faction so that your children would live and be crowned. The distinction didn’t need to be made just then. It couldn’t be, anyway. You’d play the role which most befitted you. But that did not relieve the knot in your stomach at the thought that for one side to prevail, it would mean the death of your mother or the father of your children. Neither of which you could imagine giving up even with the blade above your head. You knew it would come to bloodshed, you could only hope morbidly that when it did, it was only the blood of people you could live on without. You could only hope that the blood of your children would be spared if nothing else held sacred.

After a mad scramble to cobble together everything necessary for Aegon’s coronation, including his presence, plans proceeded. Dressed in a fine, deep green gown to match your mother’s, you stood at Aegon’s side, anxious. You had not seen him all day, whatever emotion he wished to hide from you out of shame, it had mostly cleared away and left some semblance of a man who’d be able to stand on his own at your side looking not like an unworthy older brother but a husband— save for his eyes which you knew had shed tears recently. You could almost pity him if only you didn’t have much more to cry about. Your mother, who had not mustered a genuine smile during the whole farce, managed to sincerely smile as she placed a crown on your head and knelt to you. “My queen,” she murmured, taking your hand in hers and pressing a kiss to the emerald ring on your finger. That was the only brief moment wherein which you felt comfort that day. When her lips left your hand and you were made to stand only next to Aegon as his queen, you felt what you had been desperately trying to avoid since birth; alone, bare, defenseless. It was then that all the implications of what was unfolding hit you at once and a tear slipped down your cheek.

You looked back at Helaena whom you had not seen until now because you were being prepared for coronation in a lavish fashion. Her face read the same dread and fear, her eyes met yours and flashed with wariness. With warning she was desperate to hear spoken but could not. Her voice was lost, her words devalued long ago. All she had was the frenzied gaze she gave to you before a horrible rumble shook the ground.

Through the floor with a sickening crack rose Rhaenys astride Meleys, her expression solemn and unimpressed. The peasants climbed over each other for whatever exit they could find, stepping on the bodies of those killed and screaming for the terror of being faced against a kind of beast they only ever saw in flight, for being crushed under rubble or sent falling. They sought their escape and went without Rhaenys’ halt. But there was no such escape for you, who was cornered in with the rest of your family. Alicent stood in front of you, Aemond stood to the side trying to appear unafraid even then as though he’d draw his blade and strike Meleys with a sword smaller than one of her teeth, Helaena hid behind him but her expression read as almost relieved, Aegon was glued to your side, uncharacteristically brave as though his body would shield you from dragonfire; all of you, the whole wretched lot, looked up at her and waited for flame.

It did not come. Rhaenys retreated which relieved you as much as it frightened you. You saw it in her eyes, she contemplated burning you all alive but when her gaze found you, there was a certain… pity. You got the sense you were what held her back in the moment, but what was next? What could be done when you were not there, teary eyed and pitiful? Your mother brought you into her arms, trembling herself, muttering placations that you could not hear over the ringing in your ears. Your mother could not protect you and inevitably you would lapse in protecting her. You held her tightly, your mind going numb with grief for the future. This was the first time you saw it, the utter helplessness of war. It had begun before your eyes.

The red keep had taken on a dimness, even drearier than before. Shadows cast up and down the halls, no candle could brighten the heavy atmosphere, though that did not stop anyone from trying. Your mother had the servants light candles all over. The night had begun to come earlier, the daylight stark and scarce. You now resided in your mother’s old quarters and she in Rhaenyra’s. You didn’t like the change, your mother’s bedroom felt haunted for as long as you could remember, but especially now. Your sister had said something eerie about it when you’d had her in your company. “It is all awash in red,” She’d gasped upon entering with her children holding to her skirts.

The atmosphere everywhere was indeed awash in blood, if that was what your sister meant. The death of your nephew at the hands of your brother hung in the air everyday as a reminder that there was surely more blood to be shed. That war had not only begun but had begun with a bitterness, a recklessness that would reflect on them surely. Precarious grounds, bloodsoaked. This was a desperate melee wherein which you could see the white of your opponents eyes. Feel the warmth of their blood.

Therefore, it was laughable that your mother was trying so hard to comfort you. Her eyes plead with you to believe in her rather than the cover of lasting night which had blanketed all of you. But you no longer believed in her as you once did. And that was a horrible thing. There was no more safety in your mother’s arms. No place to hide. You had been exposed like a festering wound opened up to the air. All of you had been. There was no more safety in anyone in the keep. Your brother had not yet realized this. He thought himself a fully fledged king now and presumed this war would be his victory, for everything was done for his sake. More so than anything in his life before. He reveled in it, despite everything.

He should have known better. But why would he? He might have expected you to praise and uplift him as well, for he tried to appear very kingly in your eyes but you were in no mood for it. You wished to be alone with your children much of the time or with Helaena and her own; and your mother permitted it. The news of Rhaenyra’s stillbirth had reached your mother, she worried that somehow it would be retributed through you so she pleas with anyone with a modicum of influence to keep him busy. The council did indeed answer to her in this regard, they did keep his head swirling with vague responsibilities which kept him from your bed. You had already given him sons and a daughter, there was no need to chance the gods again. There was no need to risk losing you on top of everything slipping out from under her. It was vaguely suggested by Criston that it would lift your spirits to see him win their family’s safety which was the only thing that caught his attention fully. Yes, to fight this war valiantly, to bring his poor lady wife peace, to have you looking pleased with him again. He would be a hero in your eyes and there was no greater ego boost than that.

That was why you were alone in your chambers that night. Aegon was somewhere gloating in his new rise to power, languishing in the war effort and fantasizing about spilling more blood for sake of your safety. There were spies among you, no doubt. Sympathizers to your half sister or those who were simply easily bought. You had not, in your mounting fear, considered that. Not until, in the silent dark of night, a hand pressed to your mouth and your eyes flew open with a surge of fright.

“Princess,” A man’s voice whispered from just above you, his breath stinking of ale. “You’d do well to listen to me. I am here on behalf of Prince Jacaerys. He has bid me bring you and your little ones to him. I intend to do so with as little force as you will allow. Tonight, danger is afoot this keep, I am not the only one who has come on behalf of a prince. There are men who’ve come to claim your brother’s life, mayhaps any one of your lot who try to stop them. I come to spare you from seeing their heads dashed off. Do you understand me, Princess?”

You could not see his face in the dark. A little candle remained burning in the corner of the room on a table but it only illuminated his hair just slightly. His face was a void. You trembled with the effort of trying to calm yourself enough to think about what you were to do.

“Do you understand, Princess? I’m not here to harm you but I do intend to lead you safely to the prince at Dragonstone as I am command, I come to spare you from what will occur whether bound and gagged, dragged out of the keep by my own hands or without a single mark of struggle and on your dragon, can only be your choice. Me, I do prefer the second so I only bid that you nod to show me you understand.”

You nodded, still searching the darkness for anything you might recognize in his features. You saw the glint of a long blade in the dim light and shivered.

“I’ve cut down all those who might stop me but if I lift my hand and I hear you scream, you’ll make my choice for me, I’m afraid— at the risk that other ears that might be sneaking about, close enough to hear you. If you can manage to remain quiet, I'll allow you to wake your children calmly and leave at your own will. I'll spill no more blood than I already have. I will allow you to spare them being dragged barefoot down the streets.” He then lifted his hand from your mouth and you took a shuddering breath as he gradually released you from his grasp. You turned to your children, gently rousing them from their sleep and bidding them be quiet. You hadn’t the patience or mind to craft a sweet lie for them, you didn’t tell them anything, you only took advantage of their sleepy confusion as you prepared them for leave.

You, clad in a thin nightgown and clinging to your children who were still half asleep, rushed down the hall with the man right at your heels. Your guard was missing, your ladies in bed, your mother…you were alone in this. He was herding you down to the dragonpit, you thought that to be a good sign, had he any inclination to hurt you, he would not want you in sight of a dragon who would turn him to ash should you so much as scream. Maybe he truly was sent at Jace’s will, for who else but someone from his faction would call you “Princess” rather than Queen? You couldn’t fully consider it with your mind overwhelmed by fear. Fear always set your mind to an endless buzzing, no thoughts ever completed or followed to conclusion, only half suppositions of frightening ends.

When you reached the dragonpit, it was as though the man disappeared into shadow, for you could no longer hear his steps nor see him over your shoulder. Still, you were set upon a task asked of you, you would not forsake and risk everything. There is danger afoot this keep. Fear made you docile, a lamb to slaughter. You strapped Viserra, who had begun to whine for sleep and confusion, to your chest before chaining your sons in front of you on the saddle. Mother, please…you thought before taking flight. You didn’t even know what you were asking for. For your mother to appear now? In the presence of a man who would surely take her head off before you could say dracarys if he were to be interrupted? Perhaps there was still just a part of you which believed your mother could still save you. Maybe you were only begging her forgiveness for fleeing like a coward and leaving her to the yet unrealized danger the man had spoke.

It was a long flight with the man’s words echoing in your ears again and again. You were in no place to make sense of it, only to feel your chest tighten with dread, to gasp the thin air of the sky into your trembling body as you replayed the memory obsessively. As the red keep disappeared, you did not dare turn back as though danger were still at your heels. What would become of those you left behind, you could not even bring yourself to wonder. All you could bring yourself to do was pray, spending the air in your lungs to whisper prayers your mother taught again and again

Shortly after you’d taken flight, Helaena went to your room with Jaehaera in her arms, panicked and searching for you. She called out to you and when you didn’t answer, she grabbed the candle and went to your bed where all she found was the imprint of where your body once laid on the bed. She let out an anguished breath, stunned into a surprised stillness. She shouldn't be surprised, she had known this but why did it hurt so much? If she knew, why did it hurt her? “She has abandoned me, finally…” She thought and a horrible emptiness took her over. Several minutes she stood there frozen, looking at the absence of your body before going to your mother.

When you arrived at Dragonstone, as promised, Jace awaited you. You wanted to demand answers from him for what you'd faced but he...he looked as though he'd been crying, his eyes flat as devoid of light like the dark of the dragonpit. And you, in desperate need of someone's arms and comfort, went into his. He accepted you gladly, stifling a sob as he buried his face in your neck. Fool as you were, you could not ask him, not yet. You took a moment to be with the grief of it all and the horror still ahead of you. Somehow, it was easier to bear in his arms even if you feared what had been done in his name. The relief that you remained alive with your children far outpaced your outrage and confusion in that moment and so you stood in his embrace, weak and war weary, not knowing that the worst was still yet to come. Stripped down to the barest of needs, the two of you.

The blood could be retributed later. Right then, you craved the sweetness of being held.

maybe it’s my wannabe main character syndrome or thirsty for love and attention but platonic fics just hit different 😭🧎like wym my fave characters love me 😭

i wanna be that light fixture so bad

TARGTOWERS SIBLINGS.

"WERE YOU ROLLING ON THAT? FANTASTIC."

the bard of riverbrook farm

aemond targaryen x gn!reader

ao3

summary | the people of the riverlands begin to find peace once more as the land recovers from the dance of the dragons. in an unremarkable village, a musician draws the attention of a peculiar stranger

tags | secret identity, soft romance, mentions of canon-typical violence, implied rhaenicent, gender-neutral reader, queer issues

wordcount | 3k

likes, reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated 💞 please let me know if this is something you'd like to read more of!

Days like this rarely fell on the Riverlands.

Days when the sun shone, the brook that babbled through your village took on a glimmer, and there was an air of ease about. The green of the leaves on the trees seemed richeron a day like this, branches growing heavy with fruit. The cobblers and tool sharpeners who wandered from village to village plying their trade only had to reach their arms overhead to pluck a golden apple to go with their lunch. Sometimes, they’d even pull down a spare apple to pass to a beseeching child, not because the child needed food but because they wanted it.

That was the best thing about days like this, times like this - the children weren’t hungry, not anymore. Only years ago - when you’d been but a child on the cusp of adulthood - these lands had burned. Your people and your fields had been fodder for dragons and great men playing at war. But then the dragons - and the men in armour - vanished. Travelling bards told stories of Good Queen Rhaenyra putting down her brother’s rebellion and striking a triumphant peace with the Dowager Queen Alicent, her late father’s wife. It had taken time for the Riverlands to recover - time when your stomach had felt hollow, and your father would have gladly sold the farm for a crust of mouldy bread - but aid had come when a peace was brokered. Food and seed from the Reach, timber from the North, builders from the Westerlands. It had taken time, but recovery did come, and your baby sister - born in the Year of the Dragon’s Peace - had never known an empty belly like you had.

So your steps were light as you made your way down the stony path from your father’s farm to the village. The evening air was warm and syrupy with the scent of summer blooms, and your lute bumped happily against your back. Up ahead, the village inn - The Fine Fool - was already buzzing with life, as tomorrow was a day of rest for most, and the townsfolk wished to make a merry start. You could hear a constant stream of chatter from the open doors as you approached the inn with its thatched roof and warm, glowing windows. You slipped inside and saw it was crowded already. The farmers and their farmhands had dirt under their nails and flagons in hand, smelling faintly of sweat from a day on the fields. The wives traded news and gossip, some with children underfoot or babes in arms. The innkeeper - a ruddy-cheeked man everyone called Good Beck - was yanking a wheel of presumably stolen cheese out of the hands of a wily boy with a grin on his face. You weaved through the villagers, smiling at all as you went, and a ripple went through the gathered throngs around you.

“The bard!” A man called.

Good Beck looked up at that, “Aft’noon, bard!” He called over the sea of heads to you as you made your way to the little raised stage in the corner. You tilted your head in greeting at him.

“The Bard of Riverbrook Farm!” A woman this time called, and you winced at the name a little. You were no more a bard than a peasant with a pitchfork was a great army general. Just someone born with a halfway decent voice and a mind for melodies, courtesy of your mother. And a lute, of course, courtesy of your father - a gift he’d bought when he’d been courting your mother. You’d picked up the lute when your parents’ evenings had become filled with tending to the baby, and you’d been left in want of something to do. When the villagers complained of the lack of musicians on the Riverroad these days with the terror of war still so close to memory, your father had let slip what a good player you were becoming, playing gentle tunes before the fire in the evening and softening the babe’s worst tempers with a lullaby. Good Beck had been at your door within the sennight, offering fair coin and mead on the house. Honestly, how could you refuse?

It had been a tremendous success so far - Good Beck had music livening his common room, you had extra coin in your pocket to help about the house, and the village was near as cheerful as it had been before, in the halcyon days of your childhood.

You took to your stage, avoiding the gazes of the onlookers as you always did. You always felt nervous when you were cold. You pulled your mother’s loot from your back, took a deep breath to steady yourself and block out the noise, and gently strummed and fiddled with the pegs for a second, finding the lute singing sweetly - just as you’d left it. You hummed as you tuned, feeling your throat warm. Good Beck sent a serving girl over with your first tankard of mead. He was good to you, and the honeyed drink was smooth in your throat.

Once you judged yourself ready, you took in the crowd. Some watched eagerly, and some carried on their conversations. The melody leaping from the strings hushed more voices as you sprang into a lively rendition of The Bear and The Maiden Fair.

Before you were three songs deep, the townspeople were singing along and setting up impromptu dancing sets. The ale was flowing freely tonight, you could tell, and you quickly set out your cap for any coppers the townspeople might throw your way. The sound of music drew in more spectators and revellers, and soon, Good Beck and his serving girl were fighting to keep up with the flow of thirsty patrons at the bar.

During a particularly ribald song, you looked out upon your crowd, and your eye caught on a group of men unfamiliar to you in a darker corner of the room. It was a small village and faces totally unfamiliar were quite unusual, but the berth the villagers were giving the men told you all you needed to know. Their clothing was shabby, their faces sunburnt - they were former army men, the sort who still wandered the Riverlands. Likely Aegon the Usurper’s, but it could be some of Queen Rhaenyra’s Northmen who had no wish to return to their frozen homeland when the fighting was done. Many had sustained injuries to their person, many more to their minds, and had nothing to return to from whence they came. So they wandered, eeking out a living by offering help on the farms or sites of construction whenever needed. It was a hard life, and you felt for them, but the wariness of the townsfolk made sense - such men were known for causing trouble when they had nothing left to lose.

One of them caught your eye, and you looked away in a hurry.

By the time your song was finished, you were huffing and puffing for breath, and the villagers were no better. Dancing sets had turned into barely contained circles of swinging, spinning, and chaos. Everyone was laughing, and the mood was high, but it was also growing desperately warm in here, with many a man or woman wiping sweat from their brow with a yellowed sleeve.

Time to slow it down, you thought, as you watched the patrons join the queue at the bar, desperate to quench their thirst. Good Beck looked flustered behind the bar - pleased but flustered - so it was time to allow him to catch up and rake in the good custom. You sat on your stool for a moment and took a long draw from your tankard of mead. Now was as good a time as any to try something new you’d been working on, one of your first original songs. If it went over well with the townsfolk, that was great, but if not, at least you weren’t killing the good mood but giving them a well-earned chance to recover before they spun into more dancing.

You cleared your throat and drew a breath, striking a chord that rang clear above the chatter.

The river runs red, my dear, can you see it?

High in your tower, the earth is bleeding,

The home burns, the water breaks

Upon the tomb at our love’s wake

Is it too late for us? Your beacon, my fire,

We were just children drunk on sweet desire,

Where did that go? What did we do?

What has become of me and you?

Save your prayers for your Gods, for I want none,

I only want the honeyed words on your tongue,

Fly with me now, stand with me at heaven’s gate,

Only love’s forgiveness can change our fate,

You trailed off in the soft, mournful ballad, for that was as far as you had gotten. There was a small round of appreciative applause around your stage, but most were more concerned about getting their drinks refilled. That didn’t bother you, though. You’d played it aloud now to someone who could offer more feedback than a squalling babe - as sweet as your sister was. It was time for you to take a quick break, and your mind buzzed with the possibilities of what you could add and change as you squeezed through the crowd to go and get some fresh air.

The sun had set outside and the sky was that soft purple it was before it was truly night. You stepped away from the throngs outside the inn and found yourself a quiet patch of wall to lean against and catch your breath. Your breathing slowed, and your heart settled as you took in the inky sky, the lighted windows in the village, the distant trickle of flowing water. On your leg, you tapped out the metre of your ballad and sang softly to yourself, thinking of the next words and the stories that had inspired them.

“I’d never heard that one before,” the accent was unusual for these parts - crisp - and it took you a second to realise the voice was speaking to you.

You looked up and felt your stomach lurch. One of the army men was approaching you in the quiet patch outside the inn you had chosen. His head was shaved to the scalp - probably lice - and his left eye was covered by a battered leather patch. He wore a sword on his belt - not unusual in these parts, but not exactly welcoming either. You didn’t want any trouble, and you certainly didn’t want any unwelcome attention.

“It’s mine,” you explained. It answered the question but didn’t invite more conversation.

“That explains it,” the man said. Your ears hadn’t been deceiving you - his accent was smooth, his tongue precise on the sounds. He wasn’t from here. He wasn’t from anywhere you had ever seen. “You have a talent for playing and for writing, then.”

His features betrayed no emotion, and you wondered if he was as insincere as he sounded or if you were just being paranoid. “You’re too kind,” you said in the absence of a better response.

“What inspired your work?”

The flinty look in his remaining eye was putting you on edge. “Stories,” you said, “from… real bards who have passed through. Their tales are a good inspiration. Otherwise, all my songs would be about harvests and plough horses. Not much going on around here, not much to keep a curious mind occupied.”

“You don’t have books?” He asked.

You scoffed like he’d just asked if you could fly. “What use are books if you were never taught how to read?” You asked. Who was this man, with his refined tongue, thinking that farmers have use for books?

He had the decency to look embarrassed at least, and the softening of his gaze, the flicker of his eye, and the way his cheeks darkened made you feel calmer. He wasn’t angry. Most men would be angry at being talked back to like that - your father had often warned you about it. Not because you tested his patience - he was a good man, a kind one. He just prayed his firstborn’s quick tongue wouldn’t cause more problems than it fixed. 

“That was foolish, I beg your pardon,” the man said, and you were so confused by his humility that you nodded your acquiescence without a second thought. He drew closer and leaned his shoulder into the wall by you. “My earlier question stands, however. What inspired your song?”

You raised an eyebrow. “A tale from a bard - the tale of the Dragon’s Peace,” you said. You swung your lute down by your side to trace your fingers over the strings, like a focal point for the frenetic energy you felt as the man asked his probing questions. “The tale is all over the realm - how Queen Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent came together to stop the war and the shedding of innocent blood. Words saved the day when swords could not - I guess I liked that.”

He raised an eyebrow. There was something deeply morose about him. His features betrayed no warmth - in fact, he was so still it was like he was cold-blooded. “It’s just that you… you sounded like you were singing of something more than just a peace accord.”

Obviously, you thought dryly, but you were still wary enough of this man not to provoke him outright. “A peace like that does not just happen. The two Queens were friends in childhood. I just thought… they could have been more. What if they were - still are - more? It must be a… special friendship to forgive what they have had to forgive each other of.”

His brow creased as his frown deepened. “Is such an unconventional… friendship not a dangerous thing to sing of? To even imply?”

You felt a heat rise in your cheeks. What a fool reason not to speak of it, to hide behind euphemisms and platitudes, you thought. “The only dangerous thing is forbidding certain loves for the form they come in. Love is the one thing, the only thing that ever saves us from ourselves.”

He hummed thoughtfully at that. It struck you as just another thing that was strange about him. Anyone else might have laughed, made fun or cursed you for an ungodly wretch. But he seemed to be thinking of your words with a deep seriousness. “Is it finished?” He asked. You must have looked confused because he clarified, “The song, have you finished it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m trying to find the words, the tune to express the betrayal but also the loyalty. The joy in spite of the suffering. I’ve only just begun writing my own songs in the past few moons - I think I’ll need to practice it.”

“If I am any judge, I think you have made a good start.” His eye looked almost purple in the dusky light, reflecting the soft hues of the sky.

“And who are you?” You asked, bold all of a sudden. “To judge, that is?”

He gave you a smirk like you’d just told him a slightly amusing joke. “Just a man with an interest in that tale.”

“Because you fought in the war?”

He was quiet for a second, and you wondered if it was because he was considering lashing out or fleeing. “Yes,” he said instead. “I did.”

You nodded. “And now you have… nowhere to go?”

“I have… somewhere,” he said, considering. He looked far away, far into his own mind. It was not an uncommon look on the men who had seen war. “It was just never truly home. And now I don’t know how to return or how to be that person again.”

“You can never go home,” you said. It came out blunter than intended, but it was something you had found to be true. “Not really. Figuratively speaking. I… home to me is before. Before the hunger and the bodies and the fear. That home no longer exists for us; you can’t go back.”

“So what do we do then if we cannot go home?” The moon had emerged and cast shadows on his face. He was beautiful, you realised, with a thud in your chest. With his long nose and carved cheeks and strong jaw cast in sharp relief by the flood of moonlight. You wondered what colour his hair was when it was not shorn. Maybe chestnut, like your father’s plough horse. Or golden, like wheat at harvest.

You wished you had an answer to his question, but you didn’t. “I don’t know,” you said truthfully. “I don’t know.”

He looked a little crestfallen but nodded like he hadn’t foreseen any other answer. “Maybe I should just start anew, then. Build a home, sow a field, fall in love.”

You smiled. It was all any of you could hope for - a chance to start again. It was all any of you dreamed of. “There’s many an empty croft and field around here, since the war. And many a girl who wishes for a handsome husband with a good sword arm.”

He smiled back. It wasn’t like the earlier smirks - icy and guarded - it was warm, liquid. It nearly reached his eye. Nearly. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

You took one last look at his face before you turned. It was high time you were back on stage. No sooner had you turned away than a hand caught your wrist. You looked back. Like a thrice-damned fool, you looked back.

“You need to finish the song,” he told you. His gaze was so sure, so serious you felt that he must know everything about you. Like your every waking moment could be felt through the joining of skin, the index finger he was tracing on the inside of your wrist. “If you cannot go home, you must at least finish the song.”

He raised your hand to his lips and kissed it.

Like he was a knight. Like you were noble. Like the words passing between you carried the bond of castles and gold and histories and dragons.

“I will,” you said, and your voice trembled just a little.

“I truly hope it is not too late for them.” He spoke of the Queens in the song. He spoke of himself. He spoke of you.

“I hope so, too.”

i headcanon that king viserys had mini figures of his family to go along with his little lego kingdom, he has a miniature room where hed put little mini viserys and mini aemma in

also headcanon that he has a wooden carving of balerion and he makes it ‘fly’ around the miniature kingdom and once or twice alicent or otto has walked in and saw the king making little roars and tiny itty bitty screams of the people he imagines the mini kingdom has

completely neglecting everyone to play with his toys 😔

Give me your chaotic ideas of house of the idea, please. Like silly Headcanon or if you just wanna be fun. IT DOESNT JUSY HAVE TO BE HOTD.

when I find a brilliant, jaw dropping, amazing x reader fic but suddenly I’ve been given a first name, last name, hair colour and eye colour

Spot the Difference.

WOMAN SMOOCHER 🫵🏻🫵🏻🫵🏻🫵🏻🫵🏻🫵🏻

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (2022-) S02E06 | "Smallfolk"

i still mourn for lucerys oh my god 😭 i hope hes away having a house on the beach carving out horses and dragons out of wood for the local children bc my boy deserves everything and anything

imagine if the end credits scene of the last episode of the last season is just Luke somewhere alive and the entire war was for absolutely nothing (not likely but it'd be funny if it's aegon iii and jaehaeras wedding vows and it just pans over)

Imagine if Luke just spent his days as an amnesiac fisherman without even knowing that all the shit went down for absolutely nothing LMAOOOO

He really needs someone there to remind him that he’s a Prince, in case he was alive, frfr 😔