💌 my inbox is open for requests and asks about any ASOIAF/HOTD characters 💌 a little place for my asoiaf/hotd fanfiction ♡ my OCs: lady ophelia and lady odile 🦢 lady doe 🦌 lady mira 🐚 lady emerald 📗 lady primrose 🌸
Making up Valyrian steel weapons for houses that would have them but don’t
House Velaryon
Voyager: a long curved blade with a golden guard and a sea horse shaped grip carved from a single massive pearl.
House Redwyne
Little Black Bird: a short sword with a golden hilt wrapped in vines and an oval garnet in the center of the guard.
House Arryn
Talon: a two handed great sword with a golden guard molded after a falcon in flight, holding a moonstone in its talons.
House Beesbury
Stinger: a thin dagger with a black hilt and a gold hexagon pommel. A small gold bee with opal wings is imbedded in the center of the guard.
House Manderly
Riptide: a trident with silver ripples through the dark steel of the tines. The body is silver, with a sea shell shaped tail cap and scales cut from mother of pearl covering the shaft
House Rowan
Harvestman: a long sword with a silver guard and a gold grip etched with a relief of a beautiful maiden with long golden hair. The pommel is a golden apple on a silver disk.
House Bolton
Fair Maiden & Mercy: a set of two skinning knives with dyed red blades the length of a finger, and hilts carved from weirwood.
Alicent saying that Aemond couldn’t sleep without spiced wine is interesting to me.
spiced wine is hippocras; a medieval drink that is suspected to have been drank while warm. It was made with sugar and cinnamon.
people of medieval times believed that hippocras held medicinal properties, Alicent isn’t saying that Aemond was drinking in the same way Aegon does- it’s medicinal, a reference to the pains he would’ve felt as a child after the loss of his eye and damage to the nerves.
When Maekar arrives on the battlefield, he seeks solace in letters meant for another...
Inspired by @lady-doe-eyed and this post:
a thought: your husband sending you letters while away at war, letters you always have to burn in case of spies and thieves...but not his name.
Never his name, simply initials scrawled at the end of the parchment in black ink.
You always rip that little piece away and save it, keeping the scraps in a wooden keepsake box with a few other tokens. Dried flowers, little trinkets, love notes you had gotten to keep...and scraps of parchment, some stained with your lipstick, his name over and over and over again.
TW: WAR, death, bloodshed, deception, angst, mutual pining, angst, kind of adultery
TW for whole fic: eventual smut, masterbation, 'soiling a widow', more tags to come, age gap, 'innocent!'reader
If there was one thing Maekar Targaryen hated, it was war. Eager foolish young men vying for titles, good men lost to petty scrimmages over land and borders. Nonsense. Unnecessary bloodshed, wasteful, and stupid. The isolation, the loneliness, the constant pounding bludgeoning fear, fear of death, of his brother's death, of slipping into the infamous Targaryen madness, and perhaps he would have, if it weren't for your letters.
His fingers drift over the small pile of them; thin strips of parchments, no less precious to him than gold itself.
It had startled him, and your husband, when the goshawk landed on the Lannister banner pole outside their tents; Maekar had only meant to being staying the night while his own pavilion was set up (he had arrived a day earlier than expected), and he had almost taken the queer orange eyed bird for a bad omen, when it cocked its head and stuck its leg out to reveal a small roll of parchment on its leg.
“Oh, for fuck’s sakes,” the Lannister boy had griped, embarrassed. “It's my fucking wife again, hold on.”
He had said it like it was a chore, a bother, a bad thing, to have someone pine for you, to have someone warming your cold bed while you waded into mud and shit and gore-
Gods, in that moment, Maekar missed his wife, and hated the Lannister boy, with all his heart. Dyanna had been gone for nigh on five years now, and he still missed her every day, and moreso, every night. Nights were always so much more difficult than day…
It was no real loss, really, when the arrow pierced the brat’s slender neck that mid-day. Maekar hadn't thought twice before taking over the young man's tent. While he hadn't set out to find them, he had stumbled upon a few pieces of your correspondence scattered around the Lannister boy’s small desk, and couldn't help himself.
They were crumpled up, and he feigned disinterest as he smoothed them out, telling himself he had to read them; they could have been important messages from their allies, they could have been updates on the enemy, but deep down he knew they were not.
They were odd, short and sweet. Little notes about how you were thinking of him, how his mother was fairing, how you prayed for his protection, how you couldn't wait to start a family with him, and Maekar had felt…regret, for his snooping.
But that hadn't stopped him from reading them over and over and over again, hadn't stopped him from bringing the scraps up to his nose and inhaling desperately, as if he could smell you on the page, but alias, they only ever smelt of parchment and ink…
If it weren't for your letters, he would have let himself be overcome by the blood lust and savagery around him. Days blurred briefly. There was nothing but violence from dawn ‘til dusk, and even then, they had to be on alert for sneak attacks in the dead of night, but every night, for the few blissful hours that he had to himself, he belonged to you.
In the following week, you sent two hawks a day; it took Maekar most of said week to realize they were two different beasts, their speckled feathers almost identical, their orange eyes the same shade, but the one that always came just after dawn was a shade smaller and only ever carried strips of parchment. The one that came in the afternoon always carried a letter attached to his chest, and on the last day of the first week, there was a small bag looped around its leg.
With great care and slow movements, Maekar took it from the bird. Without thought, he opened it, and the sight inside made his stomach knot.
A ring, a gold ring, a wedding ring, complete with the Lannister lion sigil stamped in the center. The letter was only a few lines, and he read it twice as he rolled the gold ring between his finger and thumb, scowling at your excitement about the blacksmith finally finishing the custom rings the Lannister boy had requested, and he wondered what kind of empty headed boy would go off to war without a token of his lady love, why he wouldn't have it arranged before the wedding, but it didn't matter, because the ungrateful brat would never wear it.
No one would, Maekar decided, throwing it into the simple pine box he kept your letters in.
And so they came, day after day.
Your letters always began the same, My Dearest Husband, and Maekar was thankful for that, if only because of how much easier it was to pretend he was yours when you didn't use your husband's name. True, it was printed with care on the envelopes, but he always burned those. Gods forbid someone found it and questioned what he was doing with them…
But then, what could they say? That it was a sick cruel thing to do? To accept letters, love letters at that, from a young woman who had yet to learn of her dear husband's death? To be found playing pretend like a simple child? How pathetic he would seem, how feeble they would say he was, if he was caught pretending they were for him?
But so what if he did? Was it really such a perversion? He thought, telling himself there was no harm in it, no real victim, and maybe he could have rationalized that, until he stopped the messenger from alerting the new widow Lannister of her husband's death.
“I'll write it,” he had grunted, and no one on the council had dared argue with the surly Prince. Perhaps he simply wanted to add a personal touch to the message, as he had known the boy personally, but in the end, it didn't matter, no one questioned him, not even Baelor.
And thus Maekar sealed his fate, as he wrote you his first letter of reply.
Oh I just love this so much!! I've been in a Maekar mood lately and this is just, oh, perfect. Thank you SO MUCH for writing this, I cannot wait for the rest of the story!!
gwayne my pretty princess my skittish horse my frightened gazelle nobody's doing the medieval romantic knight renaissance painting serve like you are i love you
♡ he loves astronomy and the stars. One of his favorite things to do is to fly off on clear, bright nights and find somewhere quiet to watch with his telescope.
♡ hates apples.
♡ loves grapes, but especially green ones.
♡ has a fondness for birds, crows and owls in particular. He thinks they are pretty and clever creatures.
♡ secretly, he's a very talented writer of stories and poetry, but he never dared to let anyone even KNOW that he writes, much less show them anything. He's a private man.
♡ a series of moles and freckles on his back that, if you look at them and play connect-the-dots, can be little constellations.
♡ loves forests and trees and the quiet of them.
♡ very charming and sociable but it's merely a facade. He's an introvert with an easily drained social battery.
♡ keeps a collection of small, pretty things he finds...rocks, feathers, shells, stones, lost items, pressed flowers, just little things.
♡ suffers awful headaches on the left side of his head, likely due to the attack and loss of his eye. Most can be ignored or dealt with but some have him hiding in his quarters for days...no one bothers him at this time but, secretly, he always wished someone would (especially his mother).
♡ loves the snow and the cold.
♡ keeps a journal where he jots down his favorite bits from whatever he is reading/studying.
