a world in which

fire's made flesh https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444945/chapters/140688544

[a-song-for-ages]

Navigation

|

A Game of Thrones

|

House of the Dragon

If yall wanna read Aemond Targaryen/Tyland Lannister stuff click right on over here!

Yall I'm crying idk why the link isn't working (for me) - I'm gonna have to remake the masterlist and put all the other links there for it

|

Through A Song of Ice And Fire

|

In The Roots of The Weirwood Trees

|

Character Vibes

[a-song-for-ages]

Convinced that everyone creates targ oc's bec they want a dragon

[murdershecawed]

Eris Vanserra at the end of ACOWAR, because for some reason him taking a sword to the face and walking it off is so hot to me lmao

“Eris was bruised and cut up enough to indicate he must have been in terrible shape after the fighting ceased yesterday, sporting a brutal slice down his cheek and neck—barely healed.”

Including the non-scarred version as well for vibes

[a-song-for-ages]

Okay but imagine: if Eris and Lucien are the only brothers who have the exact same hair colour and maybe as a means of mental manipulation/torture/banishment or whatever Beron cut Lucien's hair off? And Eris kept his brothers hair while it was meant to be thrown with the rotting fruit (not even burned to ash because Lucien in Beron's eyes are not worthy an "honourable, cleansing" end by means of fire?) and Eris going into battle with some of his brother's hair always weaved into a small braid/underneath his pony, if only so that he can feel his brother close to him? Imagine he has small trinkets made of his brother's hair? He gives his mother the braided bracelet and lies and says it's his hair - she knows it's Lucien but she lies to Beron and states that she is not to be blamed for having a weak heart of a mother (ignore this whatevs) and just Crying

[grayghostofthenorth]

Artist Riccardo Albiero "Quiet the Room" Oil and Watercolour on Board (2025)

[my-maasverse]

This is what I imagine Eris’s smokehounds are like lol

[a-song-for-ages]

Different colours of ash/what's left scattered on top of dying embers

[eatsbooks]

beron who hears autumn but does not listen. its groans and sighs are toneless, hollow things to his ears despite that they carry words below. the howling on the wind meets him as would that of any other beast to be yolked. he knows the intent. he can follow the patterns. if he made effort to, he could parse the meaning—but he never makes the effort. the land is meant to serve him; why should he bend his ear to listen? he doesn’t notice when it begins to withhold its voice from him. not until its favor is lost to him entirely. by then, it is far too late for him to do anything to win it back.

eris who hears autumn and who listens from birth. he can only intuit at first, for the land tries for so very long and with such intent focus to snag the attentions of its high lord. he catches at fleeting echoes between the branches and plucks mutters from between the fallen leaves until it finally notices him. but once it does—words take tentative form. the more he listens, the more tangible they become. whispers, then murmurs, then outright guidance. he hears the canopy laugh with delight for the first time over something he does and nearly unseats his horse. the court speaks to him constantly: the wind and the trees and the brooks and the vines and the roots and the seeds and the crops and the soil. never alone with autumn around.

autumn which loves and favors its heir so much because he, unlike his father, is someone who listens.

[xanderc-t]

Stopppp This makes me so sad for my baby Eris 😭 I can see him sleeping next to dying trees to comfort the forests that are fading away (Because Beron is litterally poison) surrounded by forest animals.

[a-song-for-ages]

Autumn gives dead seer vibes

[erin-bo-berin]

Something that’s always interesting to me is how Lucien is described multiple times to have worn his hair pulled back, thrown up or even braided back.

Then there’s Eris who’s always let his loose and not gonna lie I kinda love that.

[lady-of-dusk-and-bones]

No but can yall imagine Eris and reader getting in a cat fight kicking, clawing, hissing, pulling on each other's hair - Eris throws all respect for women out of the window once his hair is pulled on because BITCH YOU DID NOT MAKE MY HAIR STATIC COME HERE YOU BITCH

[a-song-for-ages]

Eris: full on intending murder

Reader: screeching (in excitement? Fear? In trepidation of what is to come?) and running fir the hills giggling because wOW, eris, you're such a girl! (But also reader getting pissed when her nail gets bitten off/torn/snapped)

[mercurygray]

Wing And Cloud - Part 2

Rating: Mature Relationship: Maekar I Targaryen/Original Female Character(s) Tags/Warnings for this chapter: aftermath of the Aerion joust; graphic animal pain Word count: 5,283 words

It’s been a long road to get to Ashford Meadow - and not just from Summerhall. Too much planning and preparation has gone into this to have it be anything but a success. Now, with their guests arrived and the tourney starting, Lord Ashford’s sister-in-law is sitting back on her laurels and enjoying the party for once - and the attentions of some of their guests, if the gods are good.

--

It was going to be an exceptionally long day.

Meri had left Maekar’s room in the small hours of the morning. Sleeping there was out of the question - it was one thing to bed a prince and another to be found in his bed, and she did not wish the latter. Tongues were running enough already as it was with the fervor of the royal visit without that complication to add to them. Servants would make it what it was not and she knew full well what it was - an evening’s entertainment, a way to pass the time. A few hours of sleep in her own bed, and then she was up again to the sound of the maid fixing her own hearth so that she could see to the preparations for breakfast and the tourney day ahead.

Read the rest on AO3 or here under the readmore!

The tilts were to start at a more reasonable hour, after lord and peasant alike had had a chance to shake off the revels of the night before. They had already finished late, but like as not there had been a party in the Baratheon tent, for their lord had been very successful in the opening tilts, and some others besides, and more than a few revelers would need the time to return to their own tents and to a state of more appropriate dress. It was an accepted part of the tourney, that some should wake up in beds that were not their own - had been for as long as Meri could remember. Accepted, too, that it was good manners not to speak of the night before, unless there was some understanding there between the two parties. She knew already what she would say at breakfast, to Maekar, and what she wouldn’t - strategy born of long practice.

But once downstairs, it appeared that she needn't have worried - it was only Baelor at the table, resplendent in his customary black, a sheaf of papers to hand while he began to break his fast.

“Ah, Lady Merilinde,” he said, putting down his food. “You will have to forgive us - we are a slightly smaller party this morning. It appears my brother has ridden out with the Kingsguard to search for Daeron. I hope I am sufficient for the day.”

Strange that he didn’t say. Perhaps that was a late decision, made after she had left. Well, princes hardly needed to explain themselves to their bedfellows. “Never only sufficient, your grace,” Meri replied, smiling gently. “You exceed in everything.”

What the Prince thought of that compliment he did not say, only went on buttering his toast. “Have you been down to see your champions this morning, Lady Gwinifred?”

Gwin looked startled to have been noticed by the crown prince. “Yes, sir - my lor- your grace.”

If Baelor noticed the slip, he did not call attention to it. “I hope Valarr does you credit today - I understand that tilt last night with Abelar Hightower jarred him a bit.”

“He seemed in good spirits this morning, my- your grace.” Gwin had been down at the lists with her brother Robert and her nursemaid while the sun was still coming up. Meri might not have allowed it but that Robert had gone with. Ser Humphrey Beesbury had unhorsed him last night after some three lances - not an especially robust show, but he was still able to keep to his feet without stick or crutch, and that counted for something, even if his pride had taken a more severe beating. It was Beesbury who would be riding this morning as one of the five champions, rather than Robert.

The prince nodded. “And he has your favor for his armor?”

“His squire tied it on,” Gwin assured him. “It looked nice, the orange and the red and black.”

“I’ll let his mother know he wore it well,” Baelor said with a smile. “She will be keen to hear my report.”

“Lady Jena was the queen of Love and Beauty herself many times,” Meri said, smiling at Gwin. “And tied on none too few favors of her own - and not only when your Grace was riding,” she added with a nod to the prince and a small smile. Though we would all say that purple pennants looked striking on black armor. Some said that it was strange, for a Marcher girl to favor the son of a Dornishwoman, but a prince is a prince, and a dragon a dragon. No one could compete with him for lances, and no one could compete with her for beauty. “And some of those even at Ashford,” Baelor confirmed with a fond smile. “A beauty then, and a beauty still. She remembered Lady Alysanne, when your letter came, and you, Lady Merilinde. It must have been when your sister was newly wed the last time she was here. It will please her to know she has not been forgotten either.”

“It is a shame she could not join us, too, your grace. Had I known you might attend I would have written so.”

“It would have been a chance for her to see something of home,” Baelor mused. “Alas. Valarr and I may yet go home by that road - his uncles have not seen him for a while.”

“Ser Manfred is here, I think,” Meri supplied, thinking of the ruddy-haired knight who’d bumped into her in the stands the evening before. “Though I doubt he will ride,” she added, glancing at Baelor with the knowledgeable gaze of two adults who do not want to share certain information with younger ears. The Prince nodded, returning the look. Ser Manfred was a cousin of Lady Jena’s, and more well known as a devotee of the wineskin rather than the tiltyard. His attendance was more for the festivities and the drinking than the sport.

“Doubtless you’re right,” he said lightly. “Is Lord Ashford joining us this morning?”

“Papa’s man said there was bad wine in his chamber last night and he has been retching all morning,” Gwin offered quickly, before realizing that was perhaps too much information to share with their guests.

“It happens,” the price said, unperturbed. “Well - shall we go down?”

Meri could not recall the last time before this that she had been at a tourney of size. A few passes to celebrate a name day or the birth of a son, the quick sport of a few assembled men and a likely field, but not a full field and stands. Kevan did not travel overmuch, and Androw and Robert were not sufficiently blooded to merit the money it would have taken to send them to the lists at Lannisport, or Highgarden, or Oldtown, let alone somewhere like Storm's End. This was for them as much as it was for Gwin - a chance to prove to their father that they were worth the coin it would take to let them go on the road. There was a lot of gold at stake there - for pavilions, and men at arms, and horses, and the feeding and care of all of them, to say nothing of what it would cost to ransom back armor and horse if a man lost.

But boys never saw that - only a father too tight-fisted with his stags and dragons to let them have their fun. Well. Robert, of course, had done what he had done, but Androw had held his own last night, and might yet do more. Only the day would tell.

The Prince took Gwin's hand to lead her up the steps to the seat of honor in the middle of the stands, letting her bask for a moment in cheers that were really meant for him before turning to face the crowd himself and give a modest wave. The full-throated roar that echoed back left little to chance - They love their prince, Meri thought to herself. Perhaps there was a little of that in why Maekar had ridden out this morning to miss the jousts - no desire to hear the cheering for his elder brother when there was none for him. She'd heard one of the servingmen say this morning that the Prince's baggage had held both Maekar's armor as well as Aerion's - had he really intended to ride?

I hear his father's a deft seat with a lance. The memory of the night before brought a pleasurable twinge. Nothing made a man more amorous than a joust - it would have been a rare treat to get Maekar after he'd been in the lists, especially if he’d been successful, and she saw more of the dragon than the thundercloud. But that was no more than a passing fancy - it was too much to hope he'd want for more of the same tonight after he'd been out on the road looking for his son. Still, perhaps a bath…

She glanced quickly around the box, making sure that the refreshments on the back table were sufficient and there was a servant there to mind them. Baelor had complimented one of the wines they'd served at luncheon the other day, so she'd made sure that there was more of the same, and the little stuffed dates that Cook was so good with, and savory cakes, and plenty of grapes brought over from the vineyards at Longmeadow, little things to pick and chose at as the day went on. Plenty of extra cushions, too, and furs in case the wind turned and the day got colder. She could do nothing about the quality of the riding - but sitting in the box was a battle she could win.

When she was satisfied that everything was ready, she took her seat at Gwin's far side and gave her niece's hand a squeeze. "Are you having fun, Gwinnet?" she asked with a conspiratorial whisper. Gwin nodded, beaming with pleasure. "Good."

The horn sounded for the contenders to assemble, and Meri's heart still did a little thrill as all five champions - Lord Tyrell, Humphrey Hardying, Lyonel Baratheon, Humphrey Beesbury, and Androw - sallied forth from their tents at one end of the lists to assemble in front of the stands, the little silken scarves with their embroidered white suns flashing in the breeze. Androw was wearing the first one that she and Gwin had worked on - the stitching was not as fine and even, and the pennant she'd set aside for Valarr had been all of Meri's own work. (Princes had their pride, and even courteous ones should not have had to wear shoddy things. That was what brothers were for.)

All of them raised their lances in salute, and Gwin, with a little urging from Meri, stood up and haltingly blew a kiss, which made the crowd cheer harder and the birthday girl flush with pride, her hands clasped tightly together.

"To the queen of love and beauty!" Lyonel Baratheon shouted with characteristic flair, grinning through the wide gated front of his helm, which only made Gwin blush more and the crowd cheer louder still.

"Rather bold," Baelor said lightly, turning to glance at Meri over the top of Gwin's head as she sat back down, pressing herself back into her seat, positively pink with pleasure. Lyonel was a splendid rider and a man with just the sort of smile to turn a maiden's head, but also rather well known for his string of lovers, to say nothing of the wife he had back home in Storm's End. He hadn’t been one of Meri’s first choices as far as champions were concerned, but Kevan had been insistent - great names and good jousters, he’d said.

There was a clearing off throats at the top of the box stairs - a distinguished looking man with gray hair cut to his ears and a small, trim beard, his face marked by several scars and a fresh cut on his face, clad in the unmistakable red and gold of House Lannister, with a golden chain surmounted with a snarling lion's head around his throat. "Your Grace, if I might beg a word."

Baelor knew him at once. "Lord Damon, you are most welcome. Please, sit. I trust you are not too bruised after last night's bout."

The Lord of Casterly Rock did as his prince bid, his descent into the chair at the Prince's side only a little unsteady. "The Gray Lion should remember he is grayed, your Grace. My seat is as fine as ever but I think it is time I remember that tilting is a sport for younger men. I don't know how Longthorn does it," he added, gesturing with a chin towards the Tyrell tent at the end of the lists with its verdant green pennants and golden flowers.

"Your son is riding today, is he not?" Baelor said, looking expectantly towards the other end of the field

"Tybolt, yes, my eldest. Gerrold's here, too, though he'd rather bet on men than ride against them."

"We all have our talents," the prince said graciously. "You'll have to tell me who you like among the field," he said, leaning in a little closer to the older man. "I confess some of these names are not known to me. It's been a little while since I was in the lists myself."

Damon looked pleased to be asked. "Well, your grace has other concerns these days apart from tourneys, I've no doubt. Speaking of which, your grace, there was one matter I had hoped to discuss concerning Pyke and Dagon Greyjo- oh, thank you, Lady Meri, most kind."

Meri had silently risen from her seat after Damon had sat down and fetched the cup of wine that she now put into his hand. This was the other half of tourneying - men traded blows down in the lists, and traded information and news up in the boxes.

Baelor silently took the cup she offered him as well, his eyes never leaving Damon's, nodding politely as the Lord of Casterly Rock outlined various abuses, shoreline raids and stolen sheep and missing daughters who were now doubtless saltwives, and how even Lord Stark had sent a raven asking for his council. It was masterful, watching him work - the way he had of observing the tourney, passing comment on it, and still managing to capture (Meri thought) a fairly good picture of what Lord Damon was describing.

Damon stayed for three tilts before making his departure - Humphrey Hardyng against Joseth Mallister, a name Meri didn't know well but Damon apparently did, and then Leo Tyrell against Pearse Caron, a splendid bout that broke only two lances but quickly moved to ground and battleaxes. The two men were sending chips of shield and mud in every direction until Caron, a Marcher lord just as well known for his singing voice as his skill with a lance, split Longthorn's shield with a blow of his axe but lost just enough speed that Lord Tyrell was able to break the weapon's shaft, and the Harp of the Marches was on his knee in defeat. The third was less easy to talk through - Valarr had received his first challenge, from Ser Gawen Swann, and the crowd was ecstatic with it.

Meri watched Baelor inch forward a little in his seat, manners forgotten for a moment while he put aside being a prince and attended to the duties of a father, worrying one of his signet rings around his finger as the two men lined up their horses and waited for the word.

In the end, it was a quick bout, and a decisive one - both lances broke, on the first pass, but the second rung so hard that it forced Swann's lance from his hand and the knight from his horse. Valarr was quick to draw for his sword, but the knight on the ground knew he was finished and held up his hand to withdraw.

"Oh, that was splendid," Gwin said to Baelor, clapping all the while, her own manners lost a little bit in the flush of the moment as Valarr trotted around to give his salute, the little orange pennant still holding fast to his armor.

"Splendid," Damon Lannister repeated, obviously not as well taken as Gwin, seeing what Baelor and the rest of the box would have noticed well before a girl would - that Swann was old and hardly likely to keep his seat to any man, regardless of experience. He'd picked to challenge the young prince as a fitting ending to a long career, and would doubtless go home to his fireside to say that the last man who'd unhorsed him had been Valarr Targaryen himself.

"A fine show," Baelor said aloud, though he did not sound like his heart was really in it. Kevan had said something similar last night when Robert had been unhorsed - for what else was there to say? There would always be another lance and another bout but it would be for other men to fight, at least for now, and a father might take solace in that even if his son's pride did not.

Damon Lannister took his leave, and the Prince was granted a short reprieve from talking just long enough to take another sip of his wine and a bite of one of the cakes Meri had moved closer to his elbow.

"My thanks, Lady Meri," he said in aside, seeing her trick for what it was - a chance for him to take what little nourishment he would be able to fit in between conversations. There would be no long luncheon for him today, she thought - and even princes needed sustenance. "I think it will be a very long day," he said quietly, glancing again at the stairs and yet another lord in white and blue. "Will you tell me which -

"Edgerran Florent, your grace," Meri supplied quickly, making a bit of business to plump the cushion on the chair in which Lord Lannister had been sitting. "Easily confused with his brother. He has a daughter your son's age, I think."

The Prince nodded in clear gratitude. "I should have brought Jena," he murmured, before turning his attention quickly to the stairs again as if he had known the man there for the entire time. "Lord Florent! So good to see you. How long has it been?"

And on the day went - an endless parade of lords and their families, anxious to speak firsthand with the Hand of the King. A few had brought gifts for Gwin, but that was the exception, rather than the rule. (The pattern there, it seemed, was for families with daughters who might be of a match with Robert or Androw, or brothers who might be for her - a way to keep their names high in Gwin's mind when she was speaking with her father, perhaps.) Most came only with problems to be solved, and Baelor heard them all.

As the sun hit its zenith, the horn sounded and everyone retreated away from the field for a bite to eat, including the whole box to the covered pavilion below where the kitchen staff had laid out a luncheon spread that went on for days. Baelor still hadn't managed to get more than a few bites of anything. Valarr joined them briefly for a few bits of this and that, the clear apple of his father’s eye as Gwin made him sit through a breathless retelling of how she’d felt during all of his matches, and the older boy smiled and nodded in all the right places. The Prince's fondness for his son was on full display, a proud father to the hilts.

And here, too, was something interesting - more and more of the visitors inquired after Maekar.

Well, he has four sons and two daughters and none yet married. For all that he's far down the line after Aerys and Rhaegal his children have fine chances. And he's a widower as well. That had been interesting to see - the older daughters in their house colors and sigils, trailing behind fathers and brothers and uncles asking after Maekar as well as Daeron, coming to the forefront when their names were called as if it were only an afterthought that they'd come with, virtues named and presented while they stood by and looked pretty - only twenty, a window at twenty nine but with two strong sons, and likely to get more, seven and ten but tall for her age and her mother gave me five.

What Baelor thought of these she was sure she didn't know, for he offered no comment and begged no commentary, only smiled and nodded and continued to draw from a seemingly endless well of courtesy so that all might have a taste.

Kevan finally hobbled down to join them, begging pardons from Baelor and assuring him, in no uncertain terms, that he was quite sure he was recovered and it was only a matter of the wine.

Pleased with the progress of the afternoon, Meri ducked outside to see to other matters, going around the back of the tent to where the servants were having their lunch. Several of them tried to rise when Meri approached, and she gestured them all back to their seats, conscious that they would hardly like having their meal disrupted.

"Yhon, how goes it?"

The herald set up a little straighter at the question, a napkin spread over his white and orange livery so he would have a good showing this afternoon, sleeves tied back so he would not ruin them in the sauce. "Well enough, lady. ‘Tis gratifying to see all that copying gone to good, and all those quills."

"And your voice? Fine to carry on for the afternoon?" She glanced at the table beside him, gratified to see a beaker of small beer rather than the heavy Arbor red that was being served to the lords. It wouldn't do to finish the day with a drunk herald - tourneys had failed for less.

"Sound as a bell, lady," Yhon reported. His face clouded over a little, and he stood up, walking off a little ways and glancing back at the others when they were a sufficient space away. "I had Prince Aerion's man to see me, Lady. He said he will enter the lists this afternoon and means to have the first bout."

"We knew he would." He is a prince and a good lance.

The herald hesitated. "Is that ...wise, Lady?" He seemed to search for words. "It is said there is little love lost between him and his cousin. I would hate to have them say we invited an ill wind to the royal house."

"Well, we cannot well stop him,” Meri decided. “Introduce him as you would his cousin and the grandson of the king. He is owed that and we will give it. Who he chooses to challenge we cannot change." The crowd cheered loud for Valarr this morning, and Gwin did also. It wouldn't be the first time a boy's gotten his blood up for something the other has.

"Tis said he..."

"Yes?"

The herald was choosing his words carefully again. "His father is said to moderate his mischiefs, lady."

"And his father is not here," Meri confirmed grimly. When a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin - isn't that what they say? "Let us hope his uncle is sufficient, then, and if not we will pray we get the right side of the coin today."

The sky seemed to have darkened a little as the call of the horn drew the crowds back to the tourney field. The sun was drawing her skirts in as though she expected rain.

"The maesters did predict it," Kevan was telling Baelor, as the crown prince drew his cloak in and glanced at the sky. "We had hoped it would hold off until the late afternoon, but one never really knows, you know, your grace, with weather."

But Baelor's frown was not about the rain, Meri thought - it was at the knight in black at the end of the field, scarlet cloak billowing behind him, his helm crowned with yellow and orange wisps as though it had been set aflame. The visor was not a grill or grid, as other knights were wont, but a terrible burned face with slitted eyes and bared teeth, more monster than man. Even his armor is cruel, she thought.

Yhon's voice was ringing from the tower for his announcement, drawing the crowd from near and far to the field - "Son of Maekar, grandson to King Daeron the Good, and Prince of House Targaryen - Prince Aerion Brightflame!"

Aerion's horse skittered and pranced, her restlessness a good counterpoint to her rider's eerie calm, and the crowds only cheered louder for it.

"What a singular armor, your grace," Kevan remarked to Baelor as Aerion spurred his mount down the lists, the blackened plates of the chanfron and crinet covering its face and neck giving the appearance, as he drew closer, of scales and wings - a dragon for the dragonless.

Baelor said nothing, only watched his nephew raise his lance in salute to the royal box and gave the curtest of nods in return, watching as Aerion cantered off to the end of the field where the champions' tents stood. (He was worrying his ring again, Meri noticed, the heavy signet made of dragonglass.) Aerion paced his horse back and forth for a few steps, as if he were deciding which he should like, and paused for a moment in front of Valarr's tent with its dragon headed poles. Valarr stood up, helmet under his arm, and it seemed like for a moment that would be his choice - for a moment they seemed to be speaking - but Aerion did not raise his lance, and eventually moved off to Humphrey Hardyng's tent with its white and red diamonds. "Come out, come out, Little Knight." His voice was chilling and sharp, a mockery. "It's time you faced the dragon."

The crowd went wild, and Hardyng went for his horse as Aerion spurred his mount back to the rail, grinning for a moment before the monstrous visor came down and hid his face. Meri looked over and saw that Gwin was nervous in her seat, and reached over to take her hand. "I'm not sure I like him, Aunt Meri," she said quietly, turning to face her aunt. "Shall I have to give him my favor if he strikes down Ser Humphrey?"

Meri glanced down at the end of the lists, to Aerion and Hardyng both. The knight from the Vale had acquitted himself very handsomely, and he had seven or eight years of experience more than Aerion, at least. But the prince was determined, and his father was a champion, his teachers some of the best knights the realm had ever produced. Who was to say how many hours Maekar had made his sons practice, broken how many lances and weather how many bruises and blisters? "Let us see how it goes, Gwinnet. Ser Humphrey is a fine lance and has not lost a bout yet."

Gwin nodded, trying to keep her chin up, but it was hard, against the roar of the crowd that seemed to be ready to cheer for either man, to keep one's mind focused on the desired result. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and for a moment there was only that, and the sound of wind, ripping at the pennants on the field.

Hardyng, as the challenger, could choose the moment for the start; he gave a cry and spurred his horse and the tilt was on, both men hurtling towards each other at wild speed. Hardyng's form was perfect, a flash of white and red, and Aerion, too, was holding his line, but then at the last minute the princeling swerved away from the rail, and Hardyng, leaning forward for the hit, dropped his lance. A boy's mistake - they'd seen too much good riding this morning to take it in stride. The crowd roared in disappointment, and the two challengers raced back to their respective ends, Aerion to gather his reins and Hardyng to collect another lance, swiftly charging back down the rail again for a second pass like a seasoned veteran.

Meri found herself clinging to her seat, knees locked and arms stiff. Behind her, her nephew Robert made a noise of anguish. "Up," he was saying, "up, you fool, up!"

They were riding - riding - and then Aerion seemed to lunge, but there was no crash of shields or splintering wood as Aerion's lance drove straight into the neck of Hardyng's horse. The crowd gasped. The sound of the wounded animal screaming in pain seemed the worst noise imaginable, and the poor frenzied creature tore through the next rail, circling in terror, until it had lost too much of life and collapsed, taking Hardyng straight down with it, its body collapsing on top of his leg so that he, too, screamed in agony. Even from the stands they could hear the bone break. Gwin's hand flew to her face, her other gripped tightly around her aunt's, whiteknuckled and in pain.

It was enough. Meri pulled Gwin's head into her chest, not caring a moment for the jewels in her hair or the way her new earrings would snag her dress. No girlchild needed to see such a thing. "His lance was too low," Robert was saying behind his father and the prince. "He needed to bring it up."

But what Baelor thought of any of this he did not say - his eyes were too focused on the crowd on the other side of the field, the mass of smallfolk writhing and seething against the fence making angry noises of their own. Hardyng had ridden well that morning and become something of a favorite after breaking 14 lances against one of the Lannister boys. And here he was, in the mud and in clear pain, his horse dying on top of him, while a green boy in black armor looked down from his horse like he'd actually won. Victor or not, it was not good or gallant, that was for certain - and the crowd was letting them know it. The voices grew louder, the front row standing up against the rail and one man even went so far as to pick up a rock and throw it at Aerion. It connected with his helmet, rattling his visor, and, it seemed, the boy underneath as well, for he startled a little in his saddle as if in surprise. That was no mischief. That was cruel and low. Did you think there would be no consequences for that stupidity? Meri wanted to ask. Did you think that they would take your side and cheer for the killing a horse?

Men at arms were moving swiftly to the fence - the crowd seemed out for blood now. Injuries they could take - an acceptable consequence of jousting - and it was known that every now and again a horse might be injured. That was the way of games. But this had seemed unnecessary - cruel. And still Baelor said nothing, his face set in an angry, disgusted wince, hard to read underneath.

The Kingsguard charged out of the side gate, horsed and armed, their white armor glinting in what was left of the sun, placing themselves between the crowd and their prince.

Thunder rumbled through the sky again, and a light rain started to fall, picking up pitch and tempo against the canvas awnings overhead.

"Inside, I think," Meri heard Kevan say, his voice wavering a little. "Enough for today. A bad business, that."

Meri kept hugging Gwin’s head to her chest, making sure to cover her ears as one of the stablemen came out to the yard, a poleaxe in his hand, the crowd nearest now surged over the fence, still screaming for blood even as they pushed back the men at arms trying to hold them in place with their spears.

The poleaxe rose, and fell, and the beast screamed its last. Meri found her whole body was stiff with anger. What sort of justice is that, when a boy stands there and says nothing? And another thought, for which she did not have the answer: What sort of justice will there be when his father returns?

Notes:

This chapter wasn't actually going to be a thing, guys. I was just going to skip all of this, and actually, I'm so glad I didn't. Apologies for the bit with the horse - it hits just as hard in text as it does onscreen. I did a little bit of rearranging of the tourney that's presented in the books against what's on the show; Tybolt Lannister, Damon's son, is actually the person to oust one of the Ashford boys in the book, but there's only one Ashford son in the show, so I did a little shuffling. I suspect there's a very small audience for this particular pairing, or for OCs in general from this fandom, so if you're enjoying this fic, a little comment goes a long way! Comments of any size are gratefully received, read, and re-read on bad days.

[a-song-for-ages]

This is great like actually

I wanna read more because the writing is actually teaching me stuff? Like the description of Aerion's armour - the plates and the other c-words that I can't quite remember? How are you so smart? I'm lowkey so jealous?

[unfortunate1313]

Is this healthy?

Don't ever ask where I get some of my worst (evil) villains names from...

[arcana-greenleaf]

Ok, ok, I hope you don't mind another. Your writing is just amazing and the way you write the characters is just PERFECTION!!

I've had this one idea floating around and I'm itching to share it!

A girl ends up in Volterra after deciding to go on a solo trip. She's mated to either Alec or Demetri or maybe even Felix(I'm open!) BUT the twist is this: she is Aro's great(however far down the line) niece. I'm thinking something about her triggers his memories of his human family(I know Marcus was with his sister but I'm thinking one sibling survived and stayed human).

I'd love for her to be a bookwormish type of girl again, maybe she traveled there to see the historic sites or something and ends up being pulled into something supernatural!

I hope this makes sense! I appreciate all you've done so far! 😭😭😭

Hey hey!! I’m so sorry for the long wait I got super busy with exams, Valentine’s Day, and some family things. Hopefully, this chapter meets your expectations! As a history student, I really enjoyed writing the historical elements hehe. :) I focused mostly on Aro and his long-lost niece because I loved the concept and wanted to establish it properly, but I’m totally open to doing a part two where I explore the romance between the reader and their chosen character. That’s all from me for now and thank you so much for requesting, as always! <3<3

The cobbled streets of Volterra were everything she had dreamed of. Ancient, winding, whispering with the ghosts of the past. Ivy clung to weathered stone, the scent of fresh bread and aged parchment drifted from open-air cafés, and the warm Tuscan sun bathed the city in gold. She adjusted her glasses, brushing a stray curl from her face as she studied the guidebook in her hands. She had spent years dreaming about this solo trip, pouring over history books, sketching maps in the margins of her notebooks. It was an escape and an indulgence in everything she loved. History. Literature. The stories that old places told if one only listened closely enough. And Volterra, one of Italy’s most ancient cities, promised plenty of stories. The city was steeped in history, dating back to the Etruscans. She had always found herself drawn to ruins, to places where the past lingered in the air. This was her chance to walk in the footsteps of scholars and poets, of conquerors and commoners, of those long forgotten yet eternally present in the walls that surrounded her. She had spent the morning exploring the Museo Etrusco Guarnacci, marveling at the funerary urns and their intricately carved lids depicting figures frozen in time.

Now, she wandered aimlessly, allowing the city to guide her. What she never imagined was stepping into a story of her own. The feeling started subtly at first – a prickle on the back of her neck, the uncanny sensation of being watched. She dismissed it as the natural unease of being alone in a foreign place, but the weight of unseen eyes never left her. She glanced over her shoulder more than once, but the bustling streets carried only tourists and locals, none of whom paid her any special attention. Still, the feeling persisted. She chalked it up to paranoia. Or maybe jet lag. She had barely slept the night before, too giddy with excitement. That, combined with the heavy heat, was bound to play tricks on her mind. Her feet led her through the Piazza dei Priori, the heart of the city. She let her fingers trail along the cool stone of an archway, pausing before an iron-wrought gate leading into what she assumed was an administrative building. The emblem above it was an ornate crest that drew her in, the design strangely familiar in a way she couldn’t place. She turned away, intending to continue her exploration, when she collided with something, or rather someone, solid. A chill raced down her spine. The man before her was unnaturally still, his crimson eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. He was tall, statuesque, with dark hair and an aristocratic air that made him seem like he had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. “I- ” she began, but the man tilted his head, lips curving in a way that sent every nerve in her body on high alert. “Interesting,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “You have quite the resemblance to someone.” As he spoke she could feel it – some tether snapping into place, something irrevocable settling in the marrow of her bones. His gaze darkened, nostrils flaring as if drinking in her very essence. She didn’t understand the weight of the moment, but he did. “You should come with me,” he said, voice gentle, but there was no mistaking it for anything but a command. She took a step back. “Excuse me?” Before she could blink, another figure materialized beside the first, this one even more regal, draped in flowing black robes. His skin was translucent, his long fingers steepled in thought as he studied her. “Aro,” the first man murmured, as though she were an offering presented before a king. The second man, Aro, gazed at her in silence. Then as if compelled he reached for her hand. She jerked back on instinct, but something in the way his expression flickered made her pause. “You…” Aro whispered, his voice barely audible. His crimson eyes burned with something she couldn’t name. “I know you.” A cold dread settled in her stomach. “That’s impossible.” Aro’s lips curled into a knowing smile, and in that moment, she knew her fate had already been sealed. She had come to Volterra to touch history. She hadn’t expected history to touch back.

______________________________________________________________

In the hours that followed, she found herself swept away and led through a labyrinth of hidden corridors beneath Volterra. The walls dripped with age and the air was thick with something ancient, something beyond time. She should have been afraid, should have been struggling, screaming, demanding an explanation but instead, she walked in silence, her mind whirring. They finally arrived at a vast chamber where two more men were waiting. The silence in the chamber was suffocating. Aro stood before her, fingers still tingling from the momentary contact with her skin. His expression remained unreadable, though a storm brewed behind his red eyes. He turned slightly, exchanging a glance with Marcus and Caius, who observed the scene with varying degrees of interest. “My dear,” Aro’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea who you are?” The question sent a shiver through her. “I’m just… me,” she answered hesitantly. “I came here for a vacation, to see the historical sites.” Aro let out a low chuckle, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, fate is truly a fascinating thing.” He stepped closer, tilting his head. “You are more than a tourist. You carry the blood of my family, the last thread to a past long buried.” She shook her head, heart hammering. “That’s not possible.” “Oh, but it is.” His voice was velvet and as he circled her his robes whispered against the marble floor. “Centuries ago, before I chose this life, before immortality, I had a family. A sister.” His eyes darkened. “She did not join me on this path. She remained human. And her bloodline, it seems, has endured the test of time.” The words hit her like a blow. Aro, this ancient, powerful being was claiming her as kin. “You are my descendant, my blood,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary.” The weight of his words sank in, a dizzying sensation overtaking her. Her entire reality had shifted in an instant. She wasn’t just another tourist. She wasn’t just a visitor admiring Volterra’s beauty. She was tied to something far older, far darker than she had ever imagined. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to breathe. This had to be a mistake. “I don’t-” She struggled to form the words, to make sense of the impossible. “I don’t understand. How can you be sure?” Aro’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, but there was something almost wistful in his expression. “My dear, I have seen many things in my years but there are certain truths one does not question.” He lifted a pale hand, as if tempted to touch her again but refrained. “When I took your hand, I saw pieces of the past, fragments of what once was. The resemblance alone is uncanny, but the blood… it does not lie.” Marcus, who had been watching in silence, shifted slightly in his throne. His expression was unreadable, yet his eyes bore into her with a depth that made her uneasy. “It has been a long time since Aro has spoken of his human ties,” his voice barely above a whisper. “This is… unexpected.” Caius, on the other hand, did not look as pleased. His lips curled in distaste, his crimson gaze sharp with suspicion. “Blood does not always make one family,” he murmured barely sparing her a glance. “What does it matter? She is human. Fragile.” Aro didn’t seem perturbed by his Caius' dismissiveness. Instead, he clasped his hands together, his eyes still locked onto her. “Oh, but this changes everything, dear Caius. She is the last of my mortal lineage. A thread connecting me to the past I had thought lost forever.” His voice filled with admiration, and it made her stomach twist. The sheer gravity of the situation was suffocating.

This morning, she had been an ordinary traveller exploring the streets of an ancient city, marvelling at its history. Now, she was standing in the heart of something far older, something secret and dangerous. “I- I don’t know what you want from me,” she admitted, voice unsteady. “I’m not… I’m not special.” Aro chuckled, shaking his head as if the very idea amused him. “Oh, but you are, dear one. You are proof that my past did not die with my humanity. You are a living remnant of a life I thought lost to the sands of time.” His gaze softened, something almost warm flickering in his ancient eyes. “And I would see you protected.” Protected. The word rang in her ears like a warning. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Protected,” she echoed warily. “From what?” Aro exchanged a glance with Marcus before answering. “From the world, my dear. And from those who might seek to exploit what you are.” A chill ran down her spine. “And what exactly am I?” Aro stepped closer, his presence both commanding and unnerving. “You are my kin,” he said simply. “And that is not a thing I take lightly.” She searched his face for any sign of deception, for some hint of ulterior motive, but all she found was certainty. Whatever this was, whatever he saw in her, he truly believed it. And that terrified her. Alec and Felix, who had been standing in silent observation after entering the chamber, finally moved. Alec’s curious gaze lingered on her. Felix, on the other hand, exhaled sharply and smirked. “So, what now?” he asked, his deep voice breaking the tension. “Do we add ‘long-lost niece’ to the official Volterra records?” Caius scoffed. “This is a distraction.” Aro only smiled, clearly unfazed by his displeasure. “This is an opportunity,” he corrected smoothly. Then, turning his full attention back to her he gestured toward the grand chamber. “You must be exhausted, my dear. We have much to discuss, but you will need time to process all you have learned.” She hesitated. Was that an order or a suggestion? Her body screamed for rest, for a moment to breathe and process the sheer impossibility of what had happened. But the logical part of her mind, the part that still clung to reason, knew she wasn’t leaving. Not yet. Maybe not ever. With a deep breath, she nodded. “I… I think I need to sit down.” Aro’s smile widened, his crimson gaze gleaming with something unreadable. “Then allow me to extend my hospitality, dear one. You are, after all, family.” And as the doors to the chamber closed behind her, she knew with unsettling certainty that her life would never be the same again.

[diamonds-dont-sparkle-they-shine]

Now this just created an itch in my brain that needs scratching (vibes: young aunt, young nephew, sister murdered and covered up, aunt is like fuck this shit, and takes her nephew and RUNS LIKE HELL, it's proper illegal shit what she's doing, essentially kidnapping a child, but her sister was killed, and there is no way in hell she's going to go back on the promise she made to her sister - talk about getting new identities/fake passports/the stress of having to forge a birth certificate and passport, and then having to be able to manage traveling incognito with a one and a half year old who's too aware for his own good - then one day in broad daylight finding your sister's ex in a crowded spot in Italy, with some security Intel of his that has you running for your life, baby boy held in your arms, because he found you in the background of someone's Instagram story of some celebration held in Italy - fear and stubbornness to rather die than give yourself up or the last piece of your sister up to this monster, that you quite literally go to the church/abandoned building that's had far too many old folk tales tied to it about blood sacrifices, blood suckers, people with demon-eyes as a result from it, the type of stuff the old lady from the old book store you always visit warns you about when she hears that you pass it frequently to get to the shabby apartment you call home - being desperate enough to shout for help, knowing your end is near, before deciding to fuck it, and hide your nephew in some dark alcove/under a pothole and thinking to leave your phone with him so he can - but, oh no, he's a child, so fuck it, you're going down into the dark with him. And it's pitch black. And I only realised now how much cooler this idea of her essentially jumping down the little thing that leads her to darkness is because - at least here she can hear the water trickle down the stone, at least here she'll be able to hear the steps of the sister-killer, at least here she can hear her own voice that seeps into the stone walls and swallowed by the darkness as she offers comfort to her little boy, telling him to close his eyes and hold onto her tight and to shhh, it's going to be okay, she's not going to let him go, all the while she's thinking about the devastating act of killing the both of them, so that the ex won't ever be able to lay a hand on either him or her. She knows she's essentially a dead woman walking - but her sister's boy? She doesn't want to think of his future being brought up under a hand of cruelty - death would be kinder, no? But she doesn't have any weapon, no knife, no poison, she only has her hands, and she finds her hands too gentle, too soft, too warm against the flesh of her nephew. She can't bring herself to actually hurt him - but -

Then she hears footsteps.

And I think I may write this oops bestiesssss

[a-song-for-ages]

Gonna do one for Caius and one for Marcus (I'm not the biggest fan of Aro as a s/o so ya)

[arcana-greenleaf]

Ok, ok, I hope you don't mind another. Your writing is just amazing and the way you write the characters is just PERFECTION!!

I've had this one idea floating around and I'm itching to share it!

A girl ends up in Volterra after deciding to go on a solo trip. She's mated to either Alec or Demetri or maybe even Felix(I'm open!) BUT the twist is this: she is Aro's great(however far down the line) niece. I'm thinking something about her triggers his memories of his human family(I know Marcus was with his sister but I'm thinking one sibling survived and stayed human).

I'd love for her to be a bookwormish type of girl again, maybe she traveled there to see the historic sites or something and ends up being pulled into something supernatural!

I hope this makes sense! I appreciate all you've done so far! 😭😭😭

Hey hey!! I’m so sorry for the long wait I got super busy with exams, Valentine’s Day, and some family things. Hopefully, this chapter meets your expectations! As a history student, I really enjoyed writing the historical elements hehe. :) I focused mostly on Aro and his long-lost niece because I loved the concept and wanted to establish it properly, but I’m totally open to doing a part two where I explore the romance between the reader and their chosen character. That’s all from me for now and thank you so much for requesting, as always! <3<3

The cobbled streets of Volterra were everything she had dreamed of. Ancient, winding, whispering with the ghosts of the past. Ivy clung to weathered stone, the scent of fresh bread and aged parchment drifted from open-air cafés, and the warm Tuscan sun bathed the city in gold. She adjusted her glasses, brushing a stray curl from her face as she studied the guidebook in her hands. She had spent years dreaming about this solo trip, pouring over history books, sketching maps in the margins of her notebooks. It was an escape and an indulgence in everything she loved. History. Literature. The stories that old places told if one only listened closely enough. And Volterra, one of Italy’s most ancient cities, promised plenty of stories. The city was steeped in history, dating back to the Etruscans. She had always found herself drawn to ruins, to places where the past lingered in the air. This was her chance to walk in the footsteps of scholars and poets, of conquerors and commoners, of those long forgotten yet eternally present in the walls that surrounded her. She had spent the morning exploring the Museo Etrusco Guarnacci, marveling at the funerary urns and their intricately carved lids depicting figures frozen in time.

Now, she wandered aimlessly, allowing the city to guide her. What she never imagined was stepping into a story of her own. The feeling started subtly at first – a prickle on the back of her neck, the uncanny sensation of being watched. She dismissed it as the natural unease of being alone in a foreign place, but the weight of unseen eyes never left her. She glanced over her shoulder more than once, but the bustling streets carried only tourists and locals, none of whom paid her any special attention. Still, the feeling persisted. She chalked it up to paranoia. Or maybe jet lag. She had barely slept the night before, too giddy with excitement. That, combined with the heavy heat, was bound to play tricks on her mind. Her feet led her through the Piazza dei Priori, the heart of the city. She let her fingers trail along the cool stone of an archway, pausing before an iron-wrought gate leading into what she assumed was an administrative building. The emblem above it was an ornate crest that drew her in, the design strangely familiar in a way she couldn’t place. She turned away, intending to continue her exploration, when she collided with something, or rather someone, solid. A chill raced down her spine. The man before her was unnaturally still, his crimson eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. He was tall, statuesque, with dark hair and an aristocratic air that made him seem like he had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. “I- ” she began, but the man tilted his head, lips curving in a way that sent every nerve in her body on high alert. “Interesting,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “You have quite the resemblance to someone.” As he spoke she could feel it – some tether snapping into place, something irrevocable settling in the marrow of her bones. His gaze darkened, nostrils flaring as if drinking in her very essence. She didn’t understand the weight of the moment, but he did. “You should come with me,” he said, voice gentle, but there was no mistaking it for anything but a command. She took a step back. “Excuse me?” Before she could blink, another figure materialized beside the first, this one even more regal, draped in flowing black robes. His skin was translucent, his long fingers steepled in thought as he studied her. “Aro,” the first man murmured, as though she were an offering presented before a king. The second man, Aro, gazed at her in silence. Then as if compelled he reached for her hand. She jerked back on instinct, but something in the way his expression flickered made her pause. “You…” Aro whispered, his voice barely audible. His crimson eyes burned with something she couldn’t name. “I know you.” A cold dread settled in her stomach. “That’s impossible.” Aro’s lips curled into a knowing smile, and in that moment, she knew her fate had already been sealed. She had come to Volterra to touch history. She hadn’t expected history to touch back.

______________________________________________________________

In the hours that followed, she found herself swept away and led through a labyrinth of hidden corridors beneath Volterra. The walls dripped with age and the air was thick with something ancient, something beyond time. She should have been afraid, should have been struggling, screaming, demanding an explanation but instead, she walked in silence, her mind whirring. They finally arrived at a vast chamber where two more men were waiting. The silence in the chamber was suffocating. Aro stood before her, fingers still tingling from the momentary contact with her skin. His expression remained unreadable, though a storm brewed behind his red eyes. He turned slightly, exchanging a glance with Marcus and Caius, who observed the scene with varying degrees of interest. “My dear,” Aro’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea who you are?” The question sent a shiver through her. “I’m just… me,” she answered hesitantly. “I came here for a vacation, to see the historical sites.” Aro let out a low chuckle, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, fate is truly a fascinating thing.” He stepped closer, tilting his head. “You are more than a tourist. You carry the blood of my family, the last thread to a past long buried.” She shook her head, heart hammering. “That’s not possible.” “Oh, but it is.” His voice was velvet and as he circled her his robes whispered against the marble floor. “Centuries ago, before I chose this life, before immortality, I had a family. A sister.” His eyes darkened. “She did not join me on this path. She remained human. And her bloodline, it seems, has endured the test of time.” The words hit her like a blow. Aro, this ancient, powerful being was claiming her as kin. “You are my descendant, my blood,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary.” The weight of his words sank in, a dizzying sensation overtaking her. Her entire reality had shifted in an instant. She wasn’t just another tourist. She wasn’t just a visitor admiring Volterra’s beauty. She was tied to something far older, far darker than she had ever imagined. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to breathe. This had to be a mistake. “I don’t-” She struggled to form the words, to make sense of the impossible. “I don’t understand. How can you be sure?” Aro’s lips curled into something resembling a smile, but there was something almost wistful in his expression. “My dear, I have seen many things in my years but there are certain truths one does not question.” He lifted a pale hand, as if tempted to touch her again but refrained. “When I took your hand, I saw pieces of the past, fragments of what once was. The resemblance alone is uncanny, but the blood… it does not lie.” Marcus, who had been watching in silence, shifted slightly in his throne. His expression was unreadable, yet his eyes bore into her with a depth that made her uneasy. “It has been a long time since Aro has spoken of his human ties,” his voice barely above a whisper. “This is… unexpected.” Caius, on the other hand, did not look as pleased. His lips curled in distaste, his crimson gaze sharp with suspicion. “Blood does not always make one family,” he murmured barely sparing her a glance. “What does it matter? She is human. Fragile.” Aro didn’t seem perturbed by his Caius' dismissiveness. Instead, he clasped his hands together, his eyes still locked onto her. “Oh, but this changes everything, dear Caius. She is the last of my mortal lineage. A thread connecting me to the past I had thought lost forever.” His voice filled with admiration, and it made her stomach twist. The sheer gravity of the situation was suffocating.

This morning, she had been an ordinary traveller exploring the streets of an ancient city, marvelling at its history. Now, she was standing in the heart of something far older, something secret and dangerous. “I- I don’t know what you want from me,” she admitted, voice unsteady. “I’m not… I’m not special.” Aro chuckled, shaking his head as if the very idea amused him. “Oh, but you are, dear one. You are proof that my past did not die with my humanity. You are a living remnant of a life I thought lost to the sands of time.” His gaze softened, something almost warm flickering in his ancient eyes. “And I would see you protected.” Protected. The word rang in her ears like a warning. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Protected,” she echoed warily. “From what?” Aro exchanged a glance with Marcus before answering. “From the world, my dear. And from those who might seek to exploit what you are.” A chill ran down her spine. “And what exactly am I?” Aro stepped closer, his presence both commanding and unnerving. “You are my kin,” he said simply. “And that is not a thing I take lightly.” She searched his face for any sign of deception, for some hint of ulterior motive, but all she found was certainty. Whatever this was, whatever he saw in her, he truly believed it. And that terrified her. Alec and Felix, who had been standing in silent observation after entering the chamber, finally moved. Alec’s curious gaze lingered on her. Felix, on the other hand, exhaled sharply and smirked. “So, what now?” he asked, his deep voice breaking the tension. “Do we add ‘long-lost niece’ to the official Volterra records?” Caius scoffed. “This is a distraction.” Aro only smiled, clearly unfazed by his displeasure. “This is an opportunity,” he corrected smoothly. Then, turning his full attention back to her he gestured toward the grand chamber. “You must be exhausted, my dear. We have much to discuss, but you will need time to process all you have learned.” She hesitated. Was that an order or a suggestion? Her body screamed for rest, for a moment to breathe and process the sheer impossibility of what had happened. But the logical part of her mind, the part that still clung to reason, knew she wasn’t leaving. Not yet. Maybe not ever. With a deep breath, she nodded. “I… I think I need to sit down.” Aro’s smile widened, his crimson gaze gleaming with something unreadable. “Then allow me to extend my hospitality, dear one. You are, after all, family.” And as the doors to the chamber closed behind her, she knew with unsettling certainty that her life would never be the same again.

[a-song-for-ages]

Shiera, lying that she always wanted a baby sister:

Shiera, when said "baby" sister pitches up in the Red Keep:

[a-song-for-ages]

Cackling bec Shiera thinks Rhian is younger than her (I mean why else would Bloodraven and Daeron be so protective of her???) but Rhian's a few years older than her and doesn't look it ?? (When Shiera finds out she's torn between wanting Rhian's skincare routine but also wanting to stick to her blood-sacrifice routines and wants to drink Rhian's blood) (Rhian doesn't take kindly to being essentially assaulted in her unconscious state and have her blood be taken by use of leeches so she, too, now wants Shiera's blood but she wants to draw it from her with her teeth) (Bloodraven finds it hot, especially when Rhian lies to Shiera that she and Brynden fucked) (Shiera tells Rhian that Brynden doesn't like girls who give in easily) (Rhian said Brynden could barely ride properly once she was done with him) (This is all happening in the Counsel room once Daeron has dismissed all of the Lords save for Baelor bec that's his Hand) (and Baelor is not sure how to intervene because it is NEVER good to intrude on womanly matters but also Bloodraven didn't you just tell us this girl was your daughter but now you apparently fucked her?) (And Daeron is just covering his face because now he has to father his youngest sisters and he misses Daenerys because she wasn't at all like this) (Maekar would have loved to have been in the room) (Daeron is glad he isn't because he'll see him be a fail-dad to his fatherless siblings)

[a-song-for-ages]

Shiera, lying that she always wanted a baby sister:

Shiera, when said "baby" sister pitches up in the Red Keep:

[a-song-for-ages]

Who wants Bloodraven to claim a bastard of Aeg4 as his own (I'm cackling)

[a-song-for-ages]

It involves Daeron being shook because my lady how fares you? when Bloodraven brings his "daughter" to court because she's causing shit in the realm (soz dunk, egg, but this girly's gonna get yall killed) and girly is like??? Lady??? Tf does this man think I am? Meanwhile bloodraven is holding his head bec the king. The king is in front of you. I taught you better than this. Meanwhile girly is like you taught me shit.

[a-song-for-ages]

Not oc managing to knock Bloodraven out by hitting his head against a sharp bed because she wants to pull Shiera's hair out because she TOOK BLOOD FROM HER AND FED IT TO THE FLAMES while she was unconscious, and not oc taking Dark Sister from Brynden WHILE HE'S UNCONSCIOUS and then going to the King to ask for the rooms her mother stayed in while at the Keep.

(Bloodraven and Shiera and Oc who Blood raven called Raven's Blood once and then the nickname just stuck, being messy af siblings)

[caileeflavoured]

tw: dub-con/non-con

max hastings doesn’t do love. max hastings likes to keep you as his little accessory, likes to have you as a thing to spend his parents’ money on. max hastings doesn’t really care about you. he tells you he loves you, though. he’ll tell you with presents and flowers and secret dinners. but never with words. max hastings tells you you’re too needy, too demanding, when you ask him if he really loves you. max hastings sends another large bouquet of roses to your house when you’re upset. max hastings is calculated, only apologises when he can benefit from it. max hastings does all these things to keep you just happy enough to use you when he’s too lazy to make the effort to court another girl. max hastings takes what he wants. doesn’t care much for consent. you’re his girlfriend after all, aren’t you? max hastings is obsessed with your body. keeps his hands on you at all times. lets the whole town know you’re his. max hastings would never share, but doesn’t mind fucking other girls. he knows you’ll forgive him every time. you’re too attached to him. his intensity. cause getting attention from max hastings, getting to call yourself his girlfriend, is more than any other girl in little kilton has. so yes, you know max hastings doesn’t do love, but that is a price you’re willing to pay.

[but-i-write-so-i-must-count]

Is this about max hastings the writer bec he's the first person that's popping up when I'm googling max hastings (if it is for Max Hastings the British journalist and Military Historian writer dude then you do you boo)

[caileeflavoured]

I’M CRYINGGGGGGGGGGG

[a-song-for-ages]

NO BUT WHO IS HE WHO IS THE OTHER MAX HASTINGS

[a-song-for-ages]

Merax being Daenyra's midwife was not on EITHER of their lists

[a-song-for-ages]

I hate having a crush on a guy younger than me who knows I exist like why

[subrist]

A sweet kiss, undying

── How they kiss

— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Aerion Targaryen | “my lady” used as a title, try to guess which character is my least favourite to write

Word count: 1k, about 200 words for each character

─────────

— Dunk

Strong, competent hands, cradle your face with newfound care, poor fingertips dusted in earth, grazing a whisper of a touch upon your cheeks. With a caress so gentle, you forget the violence carved on his hands, the blood that stained those meek fingers. Dunk's breath is a lasting breeze against your skin, warm and tender, his lips parted in a plea that he's too shy to whisper. But you see it in his eyes, soft as they glimmer quietly, lingering on your mouth as if it's luring him.

In a wave of courage, he leans in, breath hitching at the taste of your kiss. His palm comes to hold the back of your head, unable to bear the thought of you pulling away. Each press is enduring, a vow of devotion bleeding into your flesh. The fleeting brushes of his lips grow to broad sweeps over your mouth, so hungry for more that he surprises himself. Dunk had been starved for so long — he can't help it, the desperation squeezing out of his throat in a vulnerable, feverish moan. "M'lady... I'm your man, as long as you'll have me," his voice quivers upon your lips, honest and blooming with utter affection for you, flowering in his heart.

— Lyonel

He pours his laughter into your mouth to drink, deep and rich in its velvet. Lyonel’s beard strokes like kinder thorns against your skin; his dimmed curls fall into your eyes from his sheer enthusiasm when he leans into you. His lips latch onto yours with delicious force, leaving no space wasted between you as he wants to savour you as much as the Gods will allow. And when he peels his kiss off your lips, it is achingly slow, making the loss all the more devastating. His forehead brushes yours while he stays locked close to you, his eyes warm and adoring as he smiles your way.

His hand lifts, the back of his finger tracing the curve of your cheek, then travelling down to touch the rim of your mouth. “There’s nothing sweeter,” he muses, voice low and rumbling in its passion. His thumb pulls gently at your lower lip, his gaze marvelling at its softness as he gives a burning glance. He breaks the tension with a light poke of his finger to the end of your nose — anything to make you smile. Lyonel hums out a chuckle when his arm wraps around you, nestling you against his frame as his lips find your ear, burrowing it with soft pecks and lovely nothings.

— Baelor

The tall frame of the realm’s prince cages you against a wall, his heat streaming into you hot enough to dull the cool surface of the hallway’s stone. His taut body nearly merges into yours, pushing and pressing in aching need for your comfort. Ever so careful and dutiful hands, now seek you through fabrics with increasing appetite unsuitable for the Hand of the King. His lips near tremble against yours, loving yet so shameless in the fervour he holds for you. “I apologise, my lady,” Baelor breathes out softly, eyes closed in awe even after he pulls back enough to whisper into the secrecy between you two, “you deserve to be cared for tenderly... But Gods know I don't have it in me.” his firm kiss crashes into your mouth, and the sound of his sharp inhale fills the echo in the corridor.

He bites at your lip, folding it between his teeth and pulling with a scorching sting on your flesh. Baelor is quick to soothe that nip, but the slick of his tongue only kindles that fire burning so bright. His hands close on your waist, moulding into its curve while he relishes your sculpture, fingers clawing at the material with a muffled groan.

— Maekar

His pale eyes seem to pierce you in silence. They're angry, as always, bitter in their muted glint. He stands unmoving, even if the weight of the unspoken looms over him. He doesn't have to be here with you, he's aware, but fuck that — he wants to be here, even if he doesn't say it. The space between you is noticeable, but too tight to be dismissed. His hands are still, frozen at his sides, his shoulders strained in a silent battle. A cramp in his fingers is as much movement as you get from him, along with the flicker of his gaze to your lips. He looks at them, then at your eyes, then your lips again, and his hands curl in frustration after dancing between the two for too long. “Kiss me, for fuck’s sake,” he spits, rough even in his affections.

And when you do, Maekar crumbles just a little. There's a catch of his breath, accompanied by a sound in his throat that almost tolls weak. His lips are initially tense underneath yours, nearly afraid to let you in despite his great desire to. But with patience, he eases, closes his eyes as he lets you guide him through this pleasure, wrecked by the terrifying void in his chest that he needs to fill with you. His hand wraps around your throat, tender in its danger as his thumb smooths your skin.

— Aerion

There is nothing gentle about how his hand cruelly clutch your cheeks to bare your lips to him, fingers digging into flesh without any restraint. His teeth mark them furiously, but not carelessly, not hastily. Every bite is deliberate, practised, and anticipated by Aerion — there are no mistakes nor accidents. His tongue slithers out of his mouth to coat your lips in hot spit, tasting the beads of blood he enticed in vain satisfaction. “Take it like the good little whore you are,” he drawls at your whimper, his voice almost carefree in its eerie softness.

He pulls back, handsome eyes roaming over your face as he licks your taste off his lips. His hand shoves your face after he releases you, like a capricious cat pushing another away. Instead, he grabs at your neck, tugging you back in merely to play with you more. A surprisingly soft kiss lands on your cheek, making you wonder if this is the same dragon that had just burned you, before you feel a nip join on your cheek, hard enough to bruise for sure.

⟡

[a-song-for-ages]

Maekar asking to be kissed is just - chef's kiss