THE DREAM STARTS AS IT ALWAYS DOES. its beginning is familiar, almost comforting, but it still slips through her fingers like water, like smoke. her arrival is announced by pouring rain, an omen most would find menacing, while she deems it warm. she usually finds herself alone in these visions, walking through the halls of a castle both strange and forlorn: a cruel reflection of the only world she knows, copying the harsh light reality brings with every morning, every moon. daenerys targaryen is alone as she walks the halls of dragonstone. shadows morph, they twist, into the shape of monsters unborn. she is alone ⸻ until she is no more. before the perpetually empty throne stands a man, though she can see nothing of his features, only the silver hair resting upon his shoulders. this presence is not accidental, however foreign it may seem. it is uncomfortable, distressing, a guest uninvited who has settled into your home, the incomplete insight into something you know hides more. * YOU ARE A CREATURE OF THE UNKNOWN, @auranes. FOR A HEARTBEAT SHE THINKS YOU MIGHT BE HER BROTHER, THE ONE WHO IS SPOKEN ABOUT WITH LOVE AND BROUGHT ABOUT THE END OF YOUR WORLD. YOU TURN AROUND AFTER A THOUSAND YEARS HAVE GONE AND SHE KNOWS, YOU ARE NOT RHAEGAR, THE SHADE OF YOUR EYES IS ALL KINDS OF WRONG. THE DISAPPOINTMENT LEAVES HER COLD YET EMBERS REMAIN, THE REKINDLING OF A DYING FIRE ONCE FORGOTTEN OR STOLEN AWAY. when she speaks, notes echoing across the empty walls, her voice carries the soft curiosity of a previous life, in which she had been unhurt, kind. ❝ who are you? ❞
𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼𝚂 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂. but then again, they’d never been much more — stygian - stoned, nightmare - fueled turnings. he had long since resigned himself to eves devoid of slumber, rousing in the flush of first light to bone - deep aches his body no longer felt post an exacting fray. and he tires of the pattern. it is not the first time he has traveled ancient shores and companioned rock. dragonstone belonged to the dead — its claimants had fell from their winged beasts or perished across the narrow sea, their bodies blistered bones in exile. but it is the first time he has not traversed its vacant halls alone. well - trained habit reaches rearward for a blade that is not in its sheathe. like his waning lucidity, the ire of his vision has stolen another part of him. its peculiar shift guides him straight to her, the intruder — whom he now eyed from obscured luminosity, the clench of his jaw sharp and discerning. he is not sure how she managed to enter his forbidden realm so effortlessly, or him perhaps the encroacher of hers, but he is certain the answer will not stray far from the likeness of their forms. she speaks in curious defense. who is he ? a bastard, a butcher, an imprisoned orphan of a self - proclaimed king ? even the veracity of his name lacked in candor. ‘ aurane. ’ he spoke low and calm as an evening wind, but stood before her an unyielding pillar forged of dragonglass, unreadable, unpredictable, impliable. the torch flames burned in the blue and dying shades of starlight, faintly lighting the meandering, dark - iron walls of basalt and volcanic stone. ‘ your turn. ’
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