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[dragonwyne]

DragonWyne’s Writing Hub!

Welcome to my corner of the world! I write mainly for Stranger Things and ASOFAI. (Many eras).

🚨 PINNED POST: DragonWyne's Masterlist 🚨

What you'll find here:

One-shots, occasionally.

AUs.

Personal stories.

Other platforms: Wattpad + AO3

[dragonwyne]

This is like a small (massive) shove to anyone who hasn't read my probably majorly fucked up fanfic, WYNE OF FYRE, and if not. Go read it.

[alysannetarggg]

Baelor and Rhaenyra short story - Chapter 4:

Aelora hurried back toward the royal apartments, the rustle of her silk skirts sounding like a frantic heartbeat against the stone.

Ser Harwin remained a silent, towering shadow at her back, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade.

She found Valarr and Aerion in the solar, hunched over a map of the Blackwater. They looked up as she burst in, their faces tight with a gravity that didn't belong to children.

"Aemond was in the Godswood," Aelora said, her breath hitching as she dropped her book onto the table.

"He's... he's worse than before. He spoke of debts, Valarr. He spoke as if the sun were already setting on our family."

Valarr's mismatched eyes darkened, and he exchanged a sharp look with Aerion. "He's bold for a boy who hasn't seen a real battlefield," Aerion spat, his hand tightening on the back of a chair.

"He thinks Vhagar makes him a king, but a dragon is only as strong as the mind that commands it."

Valarr stepped toward his sister, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Did he touch you, Aelora?"

"No. Ser Harwin saw to that," she whispered. "But it wasn't just the threats. It's the way they're moving, Valarr. The Hightower guards have doubled their patrols in the lower bailey. They aren't just guarding the King anymore, they're marking their territory."

"Then we stop playing at being guests," Valarr said, his voice dropping into that low, princely coldness.

"Aerion, find Matarys. Tell him to stay with the girls. We need to show a united front. If they want to loom in the shadows, let them see us standing in the light."

Aerion nodded, his silver hair catching the morning light. "I'll see it done. And Valarr? If Aemond comes looking for a debt... I'll be the one to remind him who truly holds the ledger."

A floor above, a heavy silence hung over the King's chambers.

The smell of milk of the poppy was thick, but Viserys was conscious, his eyes flickering with a weary spark as he watched Rhaenyra and Baelor approach his bedside.

He was a man held together by sheer will and the skill of his Maesters, yet he was still the King.

"Rhaenyra... Baelor..." he wheezed, his one eye lid fluttering open as they reached his side.

"We are here, Father," Rhaenyra whispered, taking his hand. It felt like dry parchment, but his grip was surprisingly steady.

Viserys looked at Baelor, his gaze drifting down to the Valyrian steel dagger tucked into the Prince's belt.

A ghostly smile touched his lips beneath the gold mask. "You wear it well, Baelor. It looks... right... on a man of your stature."

"It is a heavy honor, Your Grace," Baelor replied, bowing his head slightly.

"It is a burden," Viserys corrected, his voice a dry rattle. "But it is one you must carry. The court is a nest of vipers, and they have grown bold in my long illness. They whisper of 'right' and 'tradition' when they truly mean power."

He squeezed Rhaenyra's hand, looking deep into her eyes. "You are my Heir. Never forget that. And Baelor... you are the shield that ensures that truth remains. There is a storm brewing outside these doors. I can feel it in the air. You must be the anchor that holds the Realm together when the winds finally pick up."

"I will put her on that chair, Viserys. I swear it on my life and the lives of our children," Baelor promised, his voice sounding like iron hitting stone.

Viserys let out a long, shuddering sigh, his head sinking back into the pillows. "Then I can rest easy for a while longer.

Go now... show the court that the Dragon has more than one head. Let them see that the heart of the House is still beating."

Rhaenyra stood slowly, her face pale but her eyes filled with a terrifying resolve. She looked at Baelor, the weight of the King's words settling between them.

The war hadn't started there were no dragons in the sky or blood on the floor but the battle lines had been drawn in the silence of the King's room.

"Gather the children," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice sounding every bit the Queen she was born to be. "We go to the gardens. If the Hightowers wish to stare, let us give them something to look at."

The gardens of the Red Keep had become a battlefield of aesthetics and whispered threats.

The morning sun hung high, glinting off the polished breastplates of the Hightower guards who stood like green-and-grey statues along the perimeter.

But as the heavy oak doors to the royal wing opened, the garden's atmosphere shifted. It wasn't just a family walking into the light, it was a phalanx.

Rhaenyra and Baelor led the procession, walking with a measured, regal pace.

Flanking them, however, was a figure that made the Hightower guards visibly stiffen. Daemon Targaryen walked with a loose, predatory grace, his hand resting on the pommel of Dark Sister.

He didn't look like a prince out for a stroll, he looked like a wolf surveying a pen of sheep. He leaned in toward Rhaenyra, whispering something that made her offer a sharp, knowing smile.

Behind the three elders came the next generation the "Six Heads of the Dragon."

Valarr walked at the center, his expression one of detached, princely ice. To his right was Aerion, whose hand stayed near his sword hilt, his eyes scanning the balconies for his uncle Aemond.

Matarys walked with a restless, coiled energy, while Aelora walked between them, her head held high, clutching her book as if it were a shield.

Baela and Rhaena followed, their presence completing the circuit. Baela wore riding leathers, her dragon-whip coiled at her hip, looking like she was ready to leap onto Moondancer at a moment's notice.

"They're staring," Aelora whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Let them," Daemon's voice cut in from the front, loud enough for the guards to hear. "If they stare long enough, they might actually remember what a real dragon looks like before they go back to worshiping stone stars."

They reached the center of the gardens, near the great stone fountain. Standing on the opposite side, beneath the shade of a sprawling weirwood, were the Greens.

Aegon was slumped against a bench, already nursing a cup of wine. Helaena was distracted, tracing the veins of a fallen leaf.

But Aemond stood at the front, his sapphire eye fixed solely on the approaching group. Otto and Alicent stood behind them, their faces masks of strained diplomatic courtesy.

"A lovely morning for a stroll, Princess," Otto called out, his voice smooth as oil. "It is rare to see the entire... extended family... gathered in such a fashion."

"The King wished for us to be seen together, Lord Hand," Rhaenyra replied, her voice carrying across the garden. "He felt the court needed a reminder of the strength of his house."

Baelor stepped forward, He didn't say a word, but the way he adjusted the belt, making his weapon more prominent, it was a louder declaration than any speech.

Daemon stepped up beside Baelor, his eyes landing on Otto with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. "He also mentioned how quiet the halls have become," Daemon added, his hand tapping Dark Sister. "Too much whispering, not enough fire. We thought we'd bring some of the latter back to the city."

Aerion stepped up beside Valarr, crossing his arms. "We were just discussing the dragonpit, Uncle," Aerion said, looking directly at Aemond. "Valarr and I thought we might take the younger ones down. It's been so long since the keepers have seen a full flight of Targaryen riders."

Aemond's jaw tightened. "The pit is crowded, nephew. Perhaps you should stick to the beach. The sand is softer for those who... struggle to stay on their feet."

Matarys took a half-step forward, his eyes blazing, but Valarr placed a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder.

"The sand is where we learned to fight, Aemond," Valarr said, his voice a low, terrifyingly calm rumble. "And we learned our lessons well. Don't you agree?"

For a moment, the air grew still. The guards tensed, and even Aegon looked up from his wine. Daemon's hand went still on his sword, his eyes darting toward Aemond's throat.

Alicent broke the silence, her voice tight. "The children should play. There is no need for such... intensity... on a feast day."

"We aren't playing, Alicent," Rhaenyra said softly, her eyes locking onto the Queen's. "We are simply existing. If our existence feels like a threat to you, perhaps you should ask yourself why."

As Rhaenyra turned to lead her family back toward the keep, Baelor lingered for a second, his mismatched eyes meeting Otto's.

He didn't speak, he simply tapped the pommel of the King's dagger once a rhythmic, metallic clink that sounded remarkably like a heartbeat.

Daemon walked at the rear, pausing to give Aemond a wink that was more a threat than a greeting. The war hadn't started yet. No blood had been spilled.

But as the "Black" faction walked away, leaving the Greens in the shadow of the weirwood, everyone in the garden knew the peace was nothing more than a thin veil waiting to be torn.

The tourney

The air above the King's Landing tourney grounds was thick with the scent of crushed grass, hot horseflesh, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel.

High in the royal box, King Viserys sat ensconced in furs despite the heat, his golden mask catching the midday sun. To his right, Rhaenyra sat with a regal, stony calm, flanked by Baela, Rhaena, and Aelora.

Matarys sat at his mother's feet, his eyes darting between the knights on the field.

Across the floral divide, Alicent and Otto sat with Helaena, who was busily braiding a piece of blue silk, her eyes never once lifting to the tilting strip.

Baelor stood just behind Rhaenyra's chair.

The trumpets had only just ceased their blaring when the tension on the field shifted from martial display to a calculated, cruel theatre.

Before the jousting could begin in earnest, the Green princes Aegon and Aemond wheeled their horses toward the royal box. It was not a gesture of chivalry, it was a declaration of mockery.

Aegon, swaying slightly in his saddle with a lazy, lopsided grin, leveled his lance toward Baela. "Cousin," he called out, his voice loud enough to carry to the commons. "Since my own wife is busy with her insects, perhaps you would grant me a favor? A bit of red to brighten up this dull green armor?"

Beside him, Aemond moved with the cold precision of a stalking cat, his destrier stopping directly beneath Aelora and Rhaena.

His sapphire eye glinted like a shard of ice. "And for me," Aemond drawled. "A token from the daughter of Driftmark and the daughter of Dragonstone. So I might carry a piece of the 'True Heir' into the dirt with me."

The insult hung in the air, thick and foul. Rhaenyra's hand tightened on the arm of her chair. Suddenly, a voice cut through the arena like a whip-crack.

"I'm afraid that is not permitted!"

Aerion spurred his horse forward, breaking the formation of the Black knights.

He rode between the Green princes and the royal box, his silver hair streaming like a banner of defiance. "My sisters do not grant favors to those who cannot even sit a horse straight," he snapped, his jaw set in iron.

From the sidelines, Daemon didn't move. He leaned against a wooden pillar, his arms crossed over his chest.

A smug, dark smirk pulled at his lips as he watched his son take the field. He looked at Baelor and gave a slow, satisfied nod the wolf was teaching the pup how to hunt.

With a flourish of his reins, Aerion turned his horse toward the center of the royal box, stopping directly in front of a startled Helaena.

"Princess Helaena," Aerion said with mocking gallantry. "Since your husband is so eager to seek charms elsewhere, perhaps you would grant your favor to a knight who actually intends to stay in the saddle?"

Helaena blinked, her unearthly gaze drifting. Slowly, she untied the blue silk from her hair and let it flutter down. Aerion caught it on the tip of his lance, his eyes locking onto a fuming Aegon.

But the air was truly sucked from the lungs of the nobility a moment later. Valarr moved swiftly.

He didn't ride, he walked. With the grace of his father and the coldness of his mother, he ascended the steps of the royal dais, walking straight to the center of the box.

He stopped before Queen Alicent.

The Queen Mother recoiled, her breath hitching.

Valarr bowed, low and perfect. "Your Grace," Valarr said, his voice a cool, low melody. "In the spirit of this... unified house, surely the Queen would not deny a favor to the son of the Heir? It would be a tragedy for the court to think there was any ill will."

Under the watchful, dying eye of King Viserys and the predatory stares of Daemon and Baelor, Alicent had no choice.

With trembling fingers, she unfastened a small green ribbon from her sleeve and dropped it into Valarr's hand as if it were a burning coal.

Valarr tucked the green silk into his belt directly next to where the King's dagger would one day hang and turned back to the field.

"The games have truly begun now," Matarys whispered, grinning widely.

The herald's trumpet blasted, and the first pair took their marks Aegon against Ser Harwin Strong.

The sound of the impact was like a crack of thunder. Harwin's lance exploded against Aegon's shield, nearly unseating the Prince. Aegon wobbled, his own lance dipping uselessly into the dirt.

Next came the grudge match. Valarr, wearing the Queen's green ribbon, rode against Ser Criston Cole.

The horses bolted. They met in the center with a deafening crack. Valarr's lance caught Cole squarely in the throat-piece.

The Lord Commander swayed, his horse rearing, but he stayed seated. Valarr, however, lost his stirrup and had to snap his reins to stay upright.

"He held his own," Rhaenyra whispered, her hand clenching Baelor's.

The final tilt brought the most bloodlust. Daemon rode out on a lean, grey mare, his movements fluid and mocking. At the other end stood Aemond, looking like a specter in his dark green armor.

"Be careful, Uncle," Aemond called out. "The ground is hard for old men."

"Then try not to hit it too fast, boy," Daemon shouted back.

They charged. It wasn't a joust, it was an execution of intent. Daemon aimed his lance high, seeking the head.

Aemond aimed low, seeking the horse's chest a dishonorable move. At the last second, Daemon swerved his mare, his lance glancing off Aemond's shoulder with enough force to spin the Prince around.

Aemond's lance missed entirely, buried deep in the turf.

Aemond snarled, throwing his broken lance aside and reaching for his sword. "Yield!" he screamed.

Daemon simply laughed, signaling for a cup of wine. "In a tourney, Aemond? You have much to learn about patience."

Viserys raised a trembling hand, signaling the end. "A fine display!" he wheezed. "One house! One family!"

Below, the competitors gathered. Daemon, Valarr, and Aerion stood in a cluster of black and red, while Aemond, Aegon, and Cole formed a wall of green.

Baelor stepped to the edge of the royal box.

"The sun is setting," Baelor announced, his voice booming with the authority of the King's shield. "The games are over. We feast tonight as one house."

As the families dispersed, the peace felt like a thin veil waiting to be torn.

Hours later

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavern of flickering torchlight and deceptive warmth.

The air smelled of roasted boar, spiced wine, and the underlying scent of old grudges.

Long tables groaned under the weight of the feast, but the real centerpiece was the tension radiating from the high table.

Aerion sat with a predatory grace, the blue silk of Helaena's favor tied conspicuously around his upper arm.

Beside him, Valarr looked every bit the future king, his expression cool and untouchable, the green ribbon of Queen Alicent pinned to his black doublet right above his heart, a mocking placement that made the Queen's eye twitch every time she looked his way.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, swirling a cup of wine, his eyes dancing with a chaotic delight.

Beside him, Baelor sat like a mountain, the Catspaw dagger gleaming at his waist, a constant golden reminder of the King's favor.

The meal passed in a series of forced pleasantries. King Viserys, buoyed by the "success" of the tourney, was in high spirits, oblivious to the way Aegon was glaring at Aerion for wearing his wife's silk, or the way Aemond sat as still as a statue, his sapphire eye fixed on Matarys.

"A fine day," Viserys wheezed, splashing wine into his cup. "To see my grandsons and nephew competing with such... vigor. It warms the blood."

"It certainly spills it well enough," Otto Hightower remarked dryly, his gaze lingering on the green ribbon on Valarr's chest.

As the servants cleared the platters to bring out the heavy cakes, Aemond stood up. The scraping of his chair against the stone floor sounded like a blade being drawn. The hall fell into a sudden, expectant silence.

Aemond raised his silver chalice, his face a mask of pale marble. "A final tribute," he began, his voice smooth and carrying to every corner of the room. "To the health of my nephews."

He turned his gaze toward Valarr, Matarys, and Aerion. "To Valarr, Matarys, and... young Aerion. Each of them a credit to their house."

He paused, a cruel, thin smile playing on his lips. "I have never seen such... boldness. Such tenacity. It is a rare thing to see such qualities in boys so... young. It makes one wonder where such strength comes from."

Rhaenyra's posture went rigid. Baelor's hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger.

Aemond stepped forward, his eye glinting. "Let us toast these three... Strong... boys. They are the Strongest nephews a man could hope for. Truly, their Strength is beyond compare. May they always be as Strong as they are today."

The word hit the hall like a physical blow. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.

Matarys was the first to move, his chair flying backward as he surged to his feet, but Aerion was faster. Aerion slammed his goblet onto the table, the blue silk of Helaena's favor fluttering.

"And a toast to you, Uncle!" Aerion shouted, his voice ringing with a sharp, dangerous edge. "To the man who lost an eye to a child and a favor to a cousin! A man so lacking in his own strength that he has to borrow it from a dead knight's name!"

Aemond's face contorted with fury. He moved to vault over the table, but Valarr stood up, placing a calm, heavy hand on Matarys's shoulder while stepping into Aemond's path.

Valarr adjusted the green ribbon on his chest, his mismatched eyes boring into Aemond's. "Careful, Uncle," Valarr whispered, his voice a lethal chill.

"You're wearing green, but you're starting to look a bit yellow. If you have something to say about our father's blood, say it to the man wearing the King's steel."

Baelor stood then, his massive frame dwarfing the table. He didn't speak.

He simply rested his hand on the dragonbone hilt of the dagger and let the golden light of the torches reflect off the Valyrian steel.

"What is this?" Viserys asked, looking around in confusion, his mind clouded by the wine and the poppy. "A toast? Yes! To the Strong boys! They are indeed strong!"

Alicent grabbed the King's arm, her face pale. "Viserys, please... they are tired. The tourney has overtaxed them."

"I am not tired," Aemond hissed, his hand on his sword.

"Sit. Down." Daemon's voice was a low growl from the end of the table.

He hadn't stood, but his hand was on Dark Sister, and the look in his eyes promised a massacre if Aemond took one more step.

The tension was a cord pulled to the snapping point.

Finally, Aemond sat, his jaw working in silence. Aerion remained standing for a moment longer, a triumphant smirk on his face, before Valarr pulled him back down.

"The feast is over," Rhaenyra announced, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. She stood, signaling to her children. "We shall seek our rest."

As the Blacks filed out of the hall, Valarr stopped beside Aemond.

He leaned down, the green ribbon brushing Aemond's shoulder. "Keep the name, Uncle," Valarr whispered. "We'll keep the throne."

The heavy oak doors of the royal guest wing slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the stone corridors.

Inside the solar, the air was thick with the adrenaline of the feast and the sharp, metallic tang of the Strong insult still hanging in the air.

Daemon didn't sit. He paced the length of the room like a caged dragon, his hand resting habitually on the pommel of Dark Sister.

He finally stopped, turning to look at his three children Baela, Rhaena, and Aerion.

A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face.

"That," Daemon rasped, his eyes gleaming with a chaotic pride, "was a masterpiece of provocation."

Aerion was still vibrating with energy, his chest heaving as he began to unbuckle his sword belt.

The blue silk favor of Helaena was still tied firmly to his arm, a trophy of the day's psychological warfare.

"Did you see Aegon's face, Father?" Aerion asked, a sharp laugh breaking from his throat.

"He looked like he wanted to vomit his wine back into the decanter. To have his wife's favor on the arm of a 'Black' prince while he sat there clutching a cup... it was worth every glare from the Kingsguard."

"It was reckless," Rhaena murmured, though she was smiling as she unpinned her cloak. "But necessary. They have spent years treating this keep as if the dragons had already died out. Seeing you take Helaena's silk... it reminded them that they own nothing, not even the loyalty of their own."

Baela, who had been leaning against the window ledge staring out at the dark silhouette of the Dragonpit, turned around.

Her eyes were hard, reflecting the torchlight. "Aemond won't let the 'Strong' comment go, Aerion. He's been nursing that grudge since the day he lost his eye. You didn't just poke the beast tonight, you drew blood."

"Let him bleed," Aerion snapped, his jaw tightening. "He hides behind Vhagar and a sapphire stone. If he wants to talk about 'strength,' let him find it in a blade, not in a whispered insult at a dinner table."

Daemon stepped forward, placing a heavy, approving hand on Aerion's shoulder. The pride in his gaze was unmistakable he saw himself mirrored in his son's defiance.

"You did well, boy," Daemon said, his voice dropping to a low, serious register. "And Valarr... the boy has a colder heart than I gave him credit for. Taking Alicent's ribbon was a stroke of genius. It was a public shaming she couldn't refuse."

He looked at his daughters, his expression softening only slightly. "We leave soon. This city is a tomb, and the air is poisoned with Hightower ambition. But tonight... tonight we reminded them why they fear the name Targaryen."

Baela stepped away from the window, her hand resting on her whip. "Next time we face them, it won't be with favors and toasts. Aemond's eye wasn't the end of the debt. It was the down payment."

"Exactly," Daemon whispered, pouring a final cup of wine and raising it toward his children. "Sleep with your boots on, and your dragons close. The 'Last Supper' is over. Now, we wait for the dawn."

[dragonwyne]

CONTINUATION OF MY CONSUME ME RANT

So like.....what if...I changed the entire plot of Daenys but this time. She knows her mama.???? Like but like you can never escape the angst with my fanfics.

And Jacaerys?!?!

Idk it sounded like a great idea earlier.

[dragonwyne]

I know like no one care about Consume me, my Dragon. But I do and I seriously hate the concept right now.

The prologue is an absolute mess, but it has potential I guess?? 🤷🏼‍♀️ Maybe the real conflict is Daenys' face claim? Because I see Holliday Granger fitting one of the Vaelaryx descendants! While also not knowing how I want to write the Vaelaryx Chronicles...

All at the same time I don't want to scrap Daenys, Jeyne, and Jocelyn.. I've been thinking about where I could put them in the different eras of ASOFAI but I'm genuinely slumped.

Reasons why I am slumped?:

• Daenys, I love her character concept sm!! And the tension forbidden lesbian love with Jocelyn? Omg. Chef's kiss to me.

• Jeyne Baelish! SHES A BAELISH OKAY!? I LOVE HER AND THE OWL IMAGERY....

• Just the complete AU gives me so much to worm with, yet that is also overwhelming cuz what if people don't like a AU theme/plot??

Why am I for scraping it lowkey?:

• Jocelyn's face claim is very limited... Like trying to find an face claim for a Septa/Nun character?? INSANE, like right now her face claim is someone from the show called Crown of the King and that character doesn't wear the head coverings all the time...

GODS, this is the worst part about attending to my neglected fics.. PLEASE if anyone has opinions or advice, help me.

[fyrelvr]

Tom and Odette edit I made I’m gonna post here also not just TikTok cause I love them smmm!!!

And I had to cut the longer version of TikTok’s caption (TikTok fucking made me shorten it with their fuckass limit...), but here is the extra writing on them that I didn’t get to put in the caption!!!

Tom stood silently behind the worn, velvet-covered couch, tilting the brass lamp slightly so that its warm, amber glow cast soft pools of light across her face and shoulders.

The illumination felt protective, almost intimate, compelling her to meet his steady gaze—so even if she tried to look away, her eyes remained fixed on his.

Odette’s breathing grew ragged, each breath burning in her lungs as she averted her gaze to the large, antique window behind Tom, who had effectively trapped her against the rigid wooden frame of the chair she sat in.

“You dare to look away from me?” Tom’s voice was low and commanding as he tightened his grip on her chin with his thumb, the sharp edge of his fingernail digging into her skin. His sneaky, almost predatory hands snaked around her like a hunter cornering prey, creating a horrific scene to watch.

“Don’t slouch so much,” he murmured softly, his tone laced with authority. Deep down, Odette sensed the dangerous edge—an inescapable, commanding presence that demanded obedience.

She was right. She often was, especially when she heard him continue to speak, or more accurately, correct her: “Sit up. Don’t hide from me.” His hands moved with calculated precision, gently yet insistently lifting her shoulders and coaxing her spine straight with tender, deliberate touches.

Each contact was purposeful, guiding, controlling, and she flinched but did not pull away, reluctant to defy him completely.

Tom leaned in from the other side, pressing a lightly calloused hand softly against her knee. His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles, as if marking territory or feeling her pulse through the thin, stretchable fabric of her leggings. “Don’t fidget,” he said, his voice low, teasing, almost playful, but with an undertone of suffocating dominance.

“Stay still. We want to see you. All of you.” His smirk was gentle, almost reassuring, but the commanding aura he radiated made her feel both secure and vulnerable.

This carefully crafted expression was an extension of him, one that he had perfected over the years, born with the innate ability to fake emotion and intimidate without remorse.

Odette’s breath hitched. She wanted to shrink inward, to vanish into herself. Yet, the layered touches, the calculated closeness, and the deliberate posture adjustments left her caught in a fragile tension, a mix of panic and reluctant submission.

“Look at me,” Tom commanded, tilting her chin upward with the pads of his fingertips. “Eyes on me, Odette. I need to see that you’re paying attention. Not to anything else. Only us.”

She obeyed almost automatically, trembling. He offered a slight smile enough to reward her compliance and reinforce the growing connection he sought to establish.

Tom gently tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingertips brushing her neck in a soft, lingering caress. “You know deep down that you prefer this,” he whispered, almost a secret. “Letting us take care of you when things get overwhelming. You secretly like it…Don’t you?”

Odette’s lips parted in a quiet gasp, a flicker of realization showing in her eyes as her hands clenched her thighs and her shoulders trembled. “I… I…” she tried to speak, but her words faltered.

Tom crouched slightly, reaching for her hands and holding them gently but firmly in his own like a cage of warmth and dominance. “Shhh. Don’t speak yet. I’ll get you there. We’re here to help you. Just… let us lead.” His gaze inspected her, reading every twitch, hesitation, and nervous glance, gauging how far to push, how much control to assert without breaking her completely.

Just like he always did.

He pressed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her now subtly forward, shifting her slightly from the couch so that when she turned her back to him, he could reshape her memory. Since his gentle anchors on her mind weren’t enough, this physical reminder would have to suffice. “Good,” he murmured. “Right here. This is where you belong. With me. With us.”

A new memory began forming within Odette’s mind, one cast with an almost hypnotic spell. She didn’t even realize how far she had drifted from her original roots, with her parents becoming an unwitting enemy, her identity subtly reshaped by this unyielding influence.

[dragonwyne]

Tonight's vigil bothered Élise deeply. She fed, but only because Louis denied her him -- His taste, his scent, ever so faint but addicting. It was all she craved.

She walked the same path she walked every night, after every visit with death. In through the back door, up the main foyer's grand staircase, make a right turn, then left, and right into the last door at the end of the hall -- And he would be there, Louis, sitting in the same chair he always sat in, reading or just simply staring at the fire he would light. As he did tonight.

She walked into his study quietly, lingering in what shadows the flames left for her. Her eyes never meeting his figure, she could already hear him, everything he did, each shallow breath and swallow as he sat there, waiting for her to break the silence. She refused, keeping her distance and silence, and he knew why.

"You're still hungry." His accent cut clean through the quiet. He didn't look behind him yet, where she stood only a few feet away.

Élise stood there, frozen, as she acted interested in the books he had on the shelf. Her breath caught in her throat as she finally looked over at him -- It hit her all at once, faint, but unmistakable. Not fresh blood, nothing else, just him.

She didn't deny what he had said, about her craving for more. She just watched him for a moment.

"I am fine," She finally muttered out.

A faint chuckle came from Louis, low, almost humorless, and then, with a quiet deliberation that betrayed him more than any word could, Louis let his wrist fall over the arm of the chair.

Not offered, not withdrawn.

She watched him, her eyes dancing between his wrist and the fire he was also watching. Her thoughts suddenly came to a halt when she focused on it -- His wrist, barely revealed by the fine lacing of his coat. The pale skin, highlighted by the blue veins.

She paused, her teeth digging into her lips without thought, and without thought she was moving through the room, towards him. She stopped when she reached his chair, one of her hands resting on the edge of the velvet chair.

He still refused to look up at her, even when she knelt down in front of him, grabbing his forearm with her bare, delicate hands. She brushed the lace out of her way before she leaned in before his voice caught her attention again.

"Only if you can stop."

She swallowed a moment, as if that alone would steady her. Her grip loosened rather than tighten.

Careful. She forced herself to be careful.

Her touch softened against him, almost reverent now, as though she were handling something fragile rather than something that could undo her entirely. She leaned in finally, her lips brushing against his skin.

The soft kiss caught Louis off guard, earning a shiver from him before she bared her teeth, and closed her eyes, almost like a twisted prayer.

The warmth, metallic taste flooded her mouth as she sucked gently on his wrist. She faltered when he flinched at first, her eyes flickering up to his.

Louis had gone rigid beneath her touch, not pulling away, no, that would have been simpler. Every inch of him had tensed, as if he were bracing against something far greater than the small, careful pressure of her mouth against his skin.

His breath caught quietly, but unmistakable. “Don’t..” The word slipped out before he could understand it.

She hesitated, just for a moment, her lips still pressed to his wrist, her grip loosening as if she might withdraw entirely.

That moment of restraint was all it took.

Louis exhaled, sharp and uneven, his other hand tightening, slightly, against the arm of the chair before, without quite meaning to, it moved -- Not to push her away, but to her. His fingers found the side of her face, not rough, not commanding. Just there, resting, as though he needed to confirm she was real… or ensure she wouldn't leave.

“Continue,” he murmured lowly. Not permission, something closer to surrender.

She obeyed, but her gentleness did not hold, not entirely. Her grip tightened again, slowly this time, her mouth pressing closer, deeper, drawn not just by hunger now, but by the way he had said it. The way his hand remained against her, not guiding, not stopping. Keeping.

Louis’ head tipped back slightly against the chair, his eyes falling shut at last, the last of his restraint slipping, not in action, but in what he allowed.

His eyes had just fallen shut when she slowed, then stilled. They flickered open again, looking down at her gentle eyes watching him. He flinched when she retracted her teeth from his wrist, blood threatened to spill from the wound, almost immediately.

Élise didn't retreat fully though, she lingered close -- Watching the blood build before she couldn't stop herself from licking at the wound she created, sucking gently at the bite mark. Her eyes heavy with the need for more, more of him, not just his blood, but his taste.

She began to trail her lips over the very veins she drank from, then across his palm, the trace of iron lingering on her tongue. She hummed when she reached the tip of his ring finger, her tongue memorizing the feel of his skin, smooth as paper, as her lips wrapped around his finger.

Her eyes memorizing his every reaction to her touch, how he threw his head back, ever so slightly, in pleasure.

She slowed again, mot from restraint this time, from recognition -- It wasn’t just her. The realization settled quietly, somewhere deeper than thought, as her lips loosened around his finger.

Louis exhaled, unsteady now, his hand shifting against her cheek once more, not to stop her, or guide, but to remain, and to answer. His eyes opened, at last, finding her, not questioning, not resisting -- Just there, with her.

Élise held his gaze for a moment longer before she finally leaned into his touch. Something that lingered, and neither of them moved. His hand remained where it had settled, her touch still resting against his forearm, the space between them altered in a way that did not demand words.

The fire crackled softly beside them, unnoticed and lost within their shared realm.

[dragonwyne]

Something about Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire....Makes me suddenly a freak... His big pouty lips,,,,,,

[dragonwyne]

PSSSTTTT....

MAJOR LORE DROP RN!!!

So I've been hinting at House Vaelaryx so much recently and I've actually been working on a lore bible for them lowkey so here it is!!

CURRENTLY A WIP, so it is being constantly updated.

House Vaelaryx

House Vaelaryx “We do not die. We wait.” The Line Carries… The Founder. Daena Redwyne, m. Aemond Targaryen. Issues: Alyssa Vaelaryx

[dragonwyne]

Childhood in the Reach.

Oneshot/Lore Dump.

Once a cheerful girl, Daena was. Always running through the gardens of the Arbor with her sisters and cousins -- Getting flowers, leaves, and thorns stuck in her wild auburn hair that was once perfectly tamed by her mother, Alla Tyrell.

When she turned four-and-ten; two years before her marriage, her father gifted her a white rabbit, who she never named. Most recall the girl calling him her dearest bunny, while she skipped through the halls of her home, her rabbit either in her arms or hopping right behind her.

One thing she never knew was that the rabbit was a mock gift to the young lady by her father, as he would poke fun at her stomping habit when she would get upset, often saying she was his own rabbit.

Though Daena, herself, claims that girl is gone when she is aged and a mother herself, her ladies beg to differ. Saying that girl is alive and well, and comes out often when she is with her children within their privacy.

[dragonwyne]

Lady Daena, of House Redwyne.

[fyrelvr]

A new fic…. I have no self control!!! I’m also a sucker for forbidden tropes!!

TikTok - Make Your Day

[dragonwyne]

wtf i just made a whole one shot post and everyhting twice and it wont upload???

[alysannetarggg]

Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen | One shot

❗️MATURE CONTENT ❗️BLOOD PLAY ❗️KNIFE PLAY ❗️18+❗️

"Uncle, do you think he'll be okay?" Aelana asked, her voice tight with a mixture of adrenaline and shock.

"The horse? No. The rider? Possibly," Baelor replied, his tone heavy with disappointment.

He rose from his seat, shielding her view of the wreckage. "Let us get you back to the castle. We don't need Aerion trying anything more... attention-grabbing today."

"May we go see the stands first? I want to see what the merchants are selling," Aelana said, forcing a cheerful note into her voice to mask her racing heart.

"You are a Princess of the Realm, we cannot. More importantly, your father would not be happy about it. Maekar is very protective of his little girl," Baelor replied, offering a small, tired smile.

Aelana frowned, pulling herself into the saddle of her mount. "Let's go, girl," she whispered to the horse, her mind already wandering back to the chaos in the pit.

Inside the Ashford castle

"Uncle Baelor?" Aelana's voice was small, almost a question, as she sat at the heavy oak table.

"Yes, sweet girl?" he asked, taking a slow sip of wine.

"When will my father be back?" she asked softly, her knife methodically cutting a piece of crusty bread.

"In two nights, Princess," he said, his eyes lingering on her with a soft, protective gaze.

"Good. So I can stay away from Aerion. He seems to think I need to be claimed and owned," she scoffed, though her eyes betrayed a glimmer of something darker than fear.

"I'm sure you'll be okay. If you'd like, I can have a Kingsguard placed at your door?" He smiled softly, rising from his seat and walking over to her.

"You may steal one from my chamber door, I don't need four of them," Baelor leaned down, kissing her head. "Sleep well, little one."

With that, he left the room, the heavy tread of the Kingsguard echoing behind him as they followed their commander.

Aelana was left in the silence, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows against the stone.

The door creaked open again. "I thought you were going to bed, Uncle Baelor?" she asked without turning around.

"I am not our uncle, sister," Aerion snapped. His voice was laced with a terrifying blend of annoyance and simmering rage.

Aelana's body tensed, a thrill of electricity shooting down her spine. "Aerion," she said flatly. "You're angry. I can hear it in your voice."

"And do you know why?" He moved like a shadow, his hand shooting out to grab her face roughly, forcing her to look at him.

"You did not cheer for me during the joust. Do you not remember our conversation? You promised me you would!" His voice rose to a roar, his eyes wide and manic.

"You willingly maimed that man and killed his horse!" she gritted out, her skin bruising under the pressure of his fingers.

"I did it for you, sister! A sacrifice for the dragon within you. We are the blood of the dragon!" he whispered, his face inches from hers before he threw her back into her chair with a violent shove.

"I did not ask you to. If you wanted to prove yourself a dragon... then you should have just claimed me like one instead," she provoked him, a dangerous smirk playing on her lips.

Aerion and Aelana were two sides of the same coin. Aerion was filled with a chaotic madness, while Aelana was a creature of mischief and a hunger that mirrored his own.

She played her games, knowing exactly how to stoke his fire.

Aerion yanked her chair back, circling her like a predator stalking its prey. He stopped directly in front of her.

"I know your games, Aelana. I am no fool. You think your slutty little eyes go unnoticed? If you wanted to ride a dragon... you could have just said so."

"If you want to touch me, you'll have to wed me first," she teased, slowly, agonizingly lifting her skirts to reveal the pale silk of her skin.

Aerion's breath hitched. His eyes tracked the movement of the fabric, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table.

"What's wrong, Aerion? Too much skin? Are you feeling unwell?" she taunted, her voice a low, melodic purr.

Aerion snapped. He lunged at her, pinning her against the table with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. "Do not speak to me like I am a child, Princess."

Aelana's hand hovered between Aerion's legs, her fingers finding him through the fabric. "Why? You act like one when you don't get what you want."

She squeezed him firmly, causing a ragged groan of pure pleasure to break from his throat.

"Aelana, please..." he rasped. She squeezed again, more insistently. "Aelana!"

He shouted her name, suddenly unsheathing his dagger and pressing the cold, sharp steel directly against the pulse of her neck. "Let go."

She released him, giggling as she bit her lip, her pupils blown wide with a frantic hunger. "Cut me, Aerion. Then you may lick it as a dragon would."

He didn't hesitate. The blade swiped across her skin a shallow, stinging line. A small gasp left her lips as a bead of crimson blood trickled down her throat.

Aerion moved with a terrifying steadiness, his warm tongue meeting her neck, licking the blood upward.

"Mmmm," he groaned, pulling back to lock eyes with her.

Aelana's breath was heavy. She had never let another man touch her, but Aerion's touch made her blood boil with a feverish heat.

Without a second thought, she hiked her skirts high, opening her legs to him. "Claim me, Aerion."

Aerion stripped away his doublet until he stood only in his breeches. "Give me your wrists," he demanded. Aelana obeyed without hesitation.

He unbuckled his leather belt and bound her wrists together.

"You want to be claimed? Fine. You will be, and I'll make sure to leave scars," he growled, gripping her face once more.

"Tell me!" He yanked her forward by the hair.

Aelana said nothing at first, her chest heaving. "Tell me!" Aerion shouted again.

"Claim me," she whispered, leaning in to kiss him, but Aerion pulled back, denying her.

He shoved her onto the table, sweeping the plates and wine chalices onto the floor in a clatter of silver and glass.

"Lay there. I am not going to be gentle."

She settled onto the cold wood. Aerion used his dagger to slice through her bodice, exposing her to the cool air.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, his eyes consuming her whole.

"Hurry up, or I'm going to leave this room and have our cousin Valarr pleasure me instead," Aelana teased, her voice dripping with malice.

Aerion's grip tightened until she winced. "I dare you to say his name again."

"Valarr," she moaned.

In a fit of possessive rage, Aerion leaned down and bit her shoulder, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

"You fucking bit me!" she shouted, swinging her bound hands to slap him.

"Now you'll pay," he growled, shoving himself into her.

Aelana threw her head back, a sharp gasp of shock and pleasure escaping her. Aerion didn't hold back, his thrusts were fast, desperate, and punishing.

"Fuck yes! Aerion!" Aelana yelled, her fingers clawing at his wrists.

Aerion only grunted, watching her face contort and her mouth go agape.

"Look at me!" he demanded. Her eyes shot open, a wild smile breaking through her expression.

"You're... ah, fuck! You're bleeding," she gasped.

Aerion pulled her into a bruising kiss, ignoring the blood on his split lip. The sight of their shared blood only fueled his frenzy.

He pulled out of her, flipping her over so she faced the table. He grabbed her by the throat, shoving a finger into her mouth to muffle her cries.

"Look at you... such a mess beneath me," he grunted, maintaining a hard, relentless pace.

"Aerion... gods!" she muttered, the sensation becoming an unbearable peak. "I need you."

"You have me. Now ride the dragon." He stopped, seating himself in the heavy chair behind them.

Still tied at the wrists, Aelana climbed over him, straddling his lap. He guided her down roughly, a collective "Fuck!" escaping them both as they connected.

Aelana gripped the headrest of the chair for stability. Aerion took the chance to bite her again, drawing more blood from her skin before licking it clean.

Her movements became frantic. Aerion reached for a guttering candle on the table, tilting it until the hot wax cascaded down Aelana's chest.

"W-what are you doing...?" she asked, breathless.

Aerion only smirked, watching how the sting of the wax made her grind against him even faster.

He watched her in a daze of religious fervor, he knew the Old Valyrian gods would be proud of this union.

He untied her wrists, and Aelana immediately locked her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hungry, desperate kiss.

Their tongues fought for dominance until Aelana bit his lip hard.

Aerion hissed in disbelief. "Aelana!" He grunted, his eyes turning pitch black with lust. "Two can play at that game."

He bit her chest, her back arching as she continued to ride him with a feverish intensity.

Aerion rose from the seat, carrying her back to the table and clearing the last of the debris. He pinned her down, using the belt once more to tie her arms over her head, securing them to the table leg.

She watched him with pure, unadulterated excitement. Aerion was in full control. "You will take me whole, and we will make our ancestors proud."

"Have we not already?" she smiled. "Brother and sister, consummating out of wedlock?"

Aerion thrust into her one last time, using every bit of his strength. Dried blood and hardened wax covered their bodies.

His movements became sloppy and frantic as the end neared.

"Aelana... ugh, fuck..." he gasped. "You will carry our beautiful sin."

Aelana was unable to speak, her voice lost in a rhythmic litany of pleasure. As Aerion reached his peak, Aelana followed shortly after, her body convulsing against the wood.

The room fell silent, save for their heavy, ragged panting. Aerion began to dress himself, his movements cold and clinical now that the fire had been sated.

"Now you know what it feels like to be claimed by a true Targaryen... unlike our brown-haired cousin," he said, grabbing her chin and kissing her cheek lightly.

"Get dressed. You're a mess," he muttered, exiting the room and leaving Aelana alone in the dark, exactly as he had found her.

[dragonwyne]

Will forever adore Daena.

And her babies.

Would anyone, moots and readers, be actually interested in Daena's bloodline after Wyne of Fyre/In Essos??

[dragonwyne]

Letting yall in on this,

Wyne of Fyre is literally all my hotd ocs from like 2023 (chronic c.ai times...) -Present thrown together cuz I didn't know what to do with them...

[dragonwyne]

NEW PFP!!!

I love it sm, why? Because it's the fc of my absolute religious fanatic freak girl from my og story, The Forsaken.

ALSO IM WORKING ON THAT STORIES MOODBOARDS, THEME, INTRO, AND PROLOGUE!!! I laid in bed for hours just staring and thinking.