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@auranes
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑 𝐆𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐍 ⸻ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒 , 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐓 , 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 .
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𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙶𝙰𝚁𝚈𝙴𝙽. 𝙳.
LOCATION: dragon dream. DATE: 300 A.C., shortly after daenerys’ arrival to westeros. WITH: aurane waters.
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. ’
𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽: traveling along the kingsroad. 𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙴: second seed, 300 a.c. 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷: little fawn ( @steggr ).
𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝙰 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙻𝙳 𝚆𝙷𝙾 𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂, 𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽. what good deeds enacted will die in isolation with shireen baratheon. his fingers are too thick, unfittingly scarred and callused to be wrapped about the bridle of an intended queen. his coarseness was not charming, his likeness bereft of what the bards sang of knights. his eyes, his heart, his liver — all pierced by a long and sharp actuality. he was made to hang his head and quietly bleed. the road to king’s landing is lengthy, prolonged by the brief blight of bandits, made greater still by the evening terrors which have besieged his slumber. rest that is already hard won on his better days, now plagued with ominous visions aurane deems should belong to someone of grander distinction, of unfouled blood: a stygian egg splintered through the middle. the prior night has left him hot and swathed in sweat, snared in a fog of tension that leaves him bruised and dragging. if his ward - fawn has been garrulous whilst he keeps alongside their chestnut mare, the words have been lost to the wind.
something congests a ceaseless line of ambling men, shies the chargers a yard ahead and startles the one beneath shireen. the bastard butcher lowers back its snorting head, strokes a velvet muzzle and soothes its unrest in whispers of an ancient tongue learned in a dream. a hand brought back over right shoulder, the sword is silent as it leaves its scabbard in an expert draw. stannis did not hire his hands to pray. ‘ fuck. ’ the hood dropped from his head pools around the neck, vision free to perceive what subsequent horror may lurk down trodden path. growling his command, aurane grants the young stag a severe glance, aware of the blatant disregard which will follow even as he speaks it into being. ‘ wait here. ’
Hands are very large and you can leave an entire being on some hands, / But hands almost never know how to stay open, they always long to seize, to close, claiming precisely what you don’t want anyone to have of you
Pedro Salinas, tr. by Ruth Katz Crispin, from Memory in my Hands: The Love Poetry of Pedro Salinas; “Long Lament (Forgive Me If I Wait A Few More Years)”
Henry Cavill as Geralt of Rivia in The Witcher 1.01 ‘The End’s Beginning’
“do i still taste of war? can you still feel the battles on my skin stitched across my back am i still rebuilding bone by fragile bone?”
— what does forgiveness taste like? (r.n.)
Geralt of Rivia in 01.07 (”Before A Fall”)
the nerves are cut. the signals have nowhere to go. your body feels static, like sand shaking in an hourglass. you can’t feel a thing. the temperatures feel so extreme- you can’t even move to fix yourself, it’s all falling out of you.
Geralt of Rivia The Witcher, 1x03 - Betrayer Moon