[Headless Beach]

AO3 🎁 [X] Sardinelady' Collection!

[sontiypontiy]

precious prince meowkar and his evil demon baby

[sayuyu995]

“My brother wasn’t always a monster”

[islafigs]

Doodlessss

Another grandmaekarling has been added to my collection, my precious Vaella 😩 sorry I haven’t been active, I’ve been on clinical placements and I fall asleep at 7 💀

[baeibby]

first son, first grand son, first nephew baby maegor is so loved

[baeibby]

17 yo egg and his mini me and his mama

[maekarart]

By ssalsima on X

[maekarart]

By StoriesWeaver on X

[sardinelays]

Valarr looks traumatized af

[darinaursus]

Little Maekarlings

[whentherainfall]

Biblically accurate Dunk and Egg, and Maekar.

[ka4lina]

Fem! Maekar Targaryen

I think I can understand why she has 6 children 👀

[sardinelays]

Johnny: Why are you so hung up on that? Not everyone wants to f*ck me, man.

Peter: I'd beg to differ.

[sardinelays]

Fic: then there's you

Summary:

Johnny slapped Peter's arm, but the man didn't even react to it. Johnny let his hand linger as he glowered at him again. “Yeah, well, you should have told me beforehand. Now, I just feel like an idiot.” Far from his side, like a swinging anchor, he heard him before he saw him—the thwip of his webs and the landing of both his feet. Johnny ought to have known better. Peter does have a habit of showing up at the most inconvenient time. “Cause you were jealous of nothing?” Peter said smugly with a smirk. “I’m not jealous,” he glared. “Who says I’m jealous?” “I just did,” he said. Then he kissed him, and Johnny, helpless, kissed back.

[sardinelays]

How to tame a dragon:

Main Pairing: Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen/Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen

Summary: 'Brat tamer' Baelor does his thing and reins Aerion in.

“—When he threw him on his back and nearly broke his arm, hm?” Maekar leaned on the table with a penetrating and sharp sneer.

He saw Lord Ashford squirming uncomfortably in his seat from the looks alone, but what he heard then—when he instinctively tugged at a strand of Aerion’s hair—was what really caught his attention; his nephew’s moan, which could have been mistaken for a yelp, stole the air from Baelor's lungs, leaving a familiar, heavy coil in his gut.

Well…

[sardinelays]

censure

Main ship: Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen/Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen

Summary:

Valarr was not blind; he was his father's son.

Chapter 1: son of a wretched man

Notes:

Important Note: Targaryens gender could [a rarity if it does] change when they hit puberty [Loosely based on Protandrous sequential hermaphroditism/protogynous hermaphroditism]. Ciao 😘

Their eyes met for the fifth time since the moment he arrived. Stolen glances and meaningful stares when the other wasn't looking. 

It is his mother's funeral, and his father is already salivating after Aerion like a dog after a bone. 

He was too drained over his mother's death to rage at them. 

Matarys had not stopped crying since this morning.

Valarr did not ask of the babe born from his mother's decomposing womb. Knowing very well, just as the rest, that the newborn would not live long. His father didn't even bother to name it, and his mother, already weakened after the birth, probably died before she could.

“Calm, Matarys; Mother would not want to see you despair over her.” She’s always been selfless like that, caring for others before herself; it must be why her husband strayed from their bed and sneaked in with his brother’s second son instead. 

Matarys wept, a painful sob that gathered pitying glances and murmurs of sympathy. “Mother should not have gone then; if she had wanted me to rejoice, she would have stayed.”

“The Stranger does not care much for our opinions,” Valarr replied. “It takes without prejudice, and there’s not much to be done then.”

“I miss her,” his brother vowed with grief. “There won’t be a day that I won't.”

Valarr wished that their father felt the same, for their mother loved him so; even with her last breath, it was his name that she called for.

(He didn't ask if he felt for her too. He was too afraid that his father’s expression would betray the truth behind the lie Valarr so desperately wanted to believe.)

“While I understand your concern,” the king said with a glance towards his eldest. “It is not fully in my hand to decide for my own blood. Baelor is a man of his own words; it is his opinion that the council should be wise enough to receive.”

He already had an heir, Valarr, and a spare, Matarys. What more could the council ask for? Another woman to share his father’s bed to create more spawns? It was a shit excuse. No doubt they're already hard on the thought of one of their daughters being wed to the crowned prince.

Valarr poured wine for Lord Penrose, his eyes straying to where his father sat quietly next to the king. He appeared like the very husband that the realm was mourning with; black on black, with the scent of incense clinging to his tunic. 

Another visit to the Fourteens then.

“I loved my wife,” his father murmured, and the council stilled from his words, eager and waiting for the fish to be thrown. 

How much? Valarr wanted to question him. It’s been two moons of this same conversation circling around the council and the castle walls. 

‘You say you have no room for marriage, and yet you let them think that there is. You hesitate, and your words are filled with cracks that the lords are sniffing out like hounds.’ 

“And she had already given me two beautiful sons during the duration of our marriage. It would have been an insult to her family for me to look elsewhere so quickly right after the passing of their lady," his father continued.

He stepped back, his grip on the pitcher tightening until his knuckles were white.

Lord Blackwood shook his head, “While I admire your—consideration and respect for your late wife’s family. It’s best we consider your brother's lack of spouses and children. Prince Maekar already has four sons and two daughters, so there’s not much to be said there. Prince Rhaegal has yet to have a wife because of his condition, and Prince Aerys would rather sleep under stacks of books rather than in his wife's bed.”

“Where exactly are you going with this? ” Lord Lannister barked with a laugh, “We are all aware of the prince’s brothers and their own brood. For fuck's sake, Rowan, if you want to present your daughter, then just say that! ”

"That is the least of my concerns," Lord Blackwood said, his eyes narrowing to flinty slits. "My Rhylla is already betrothed; that bird has flown. A king cannot sit easy on a throne without another by his side to share the burden. No, my concerns lie with the crown."

“Which has not yet passed, my lords.” Brynden leaned back on his chair, clearly amused at the squabbles of the lords. “The king is still here, and his sons are neither sick nor withering with age. Baelor’s heirs are not in jeopardy, and neither are his brothers.”

Brynden tapped his glass, and Valarr steadily poured him a glass. The man’s eyes used to terrify him as a child; they were always so cold and unyielding, and at that moment they were pointed towards him. 

Valarr shivered, his back straight, refusing to be the first to look away. 

Rivers huffed softly, long fingers grabbing at his cup and staring right at where his father sat with his attention pointed at the rings on his finger. 

Grandsire sighed heavily, “This council seems to have forgotten whose words are most important to be heard here. Baelor, you are quiet; speak your mind, my son, and settle this argument for everyone to hear.”

As you’ve failed to do so in moons since your wife's death.

His father twisted one of the rings, lips curling into a grimace, revealing nothing as he surveyed around the council table before it landed where Valarr stood. Baelor’s eyes softened. “I have not changed my mind, my lords.” His father stared directly at each of them, his words stern yet soft, demanding respect and no room for another row of dispute. “My wife had already given me my heirs. I have no need for more.”

The council said no more after that, but Valall was sure that it would not be the end of it. It never was with his father. 

“Your mother was a fierce and strong woman,” his father told him later in their walks to the garden. “She could never be easily replaced.”

Valarr wanted to believe him. 

But just as he dreaded, his father’s gaze strayed to the lush lavender—flowers planted years before his mother’s death and long before Valarr had begun hearing whispers of a young dragon with his own blood and their trip to the Street of Silk.

He scowled. “Not easily, but a possibility still.”

“Valarr.”

“Why won’t you accept it? ” Valarr turned to him sharply. “They are right. You are still young; it should not be a king's burden alone to rule the realm without a queen by his side. Grandfather would not say it, but he still thinks it nonetheless.”

Baelor paused. “You speak of me with your grandsire behind my back? ”

“He’s burdened by his eldest’s grief and inability to decline. If you do not truly wish to marry, then why do you always make your words so easily twisted? ”

Maekar arrived with his sons with a flourish of excitement, greeted by a welcoming feast that same evening.

His uncle stepped forward first, his back as rigid as a soldier ready to throw hands, receiving his brother’s embrace with a stiff acceptance. His eldest came second: Daeron, who surprisingly lacked the usual scent of wine as he greeted Valarr with a wide grin. Little Aegon—or Egg, as he liked to be called—happily accepted Matarys’ head-ruffles, running toward them with a steadiness his father had no doubt drilled into him.

His ears started to ring, and his mouth became so dry that he couldn't swallow, even though he tried several times.

Aerion arrived last, bringing the usual flourish he favoured for every gathering. He wore the colours of their house, featuring intricate pearls and gems sewn into dragons that met at his chest. His hair was swept into elaborate braids, and a silver necklace set with a deep red ruby rested heavily against his exposed collar.

Valarr wanted him to trip or simply turn around and leave. 

His father’s eyes didn’t stray; they stared, almost boldly, just like the others in the hall, as Aerion came to Maekar’s side. He offered a bow so brief it bordered on disrespect, a delicate smile playing on his lips.

“Uncle,” he said softly.

“Nephew,” his father replied, his voice almost too rough as he caught Aerion’s hands and pressed a kiss—that stayed for more than was necessary—to his knuckles. “You’ve grown.”

Valarr averted his gaze sharply, a cold knot tightening in his chest. He could only hope Matarys hadn’t witnessed such a blatant display. 

His father should have known better with so many eyes watching them. 

Maekar scrutinised his second, then his brother, wrinkling his brow before instructing Aerion to greet his cousins; Aerion did not argue, gracefully carrying out his father's directions without looking back at Baelor.

Baelor’s eyes still did not wander; instead, they followed until Maekar cleared his throat, with Daeron nearly falling on his arse when Matarys spoke of a jest near his ears.

Aegon had long run off with his sworn knight, Dunk, chattering away until they stopped short before another lordling nearly his age—a Lannister boy.

“You look well, cousin.” With his fingers interlaced in a practised, courtly fashion, Aerion glanced at him with indifference. “How is the lady Kiera? I heard she’s carrying again; is she not? ”

“She is,” he replied shortly. The loss of their first was still fresh, and it had taken its toll on her health. She kissed him goodbye before he left, her eyes clear and warm as she rested her palm over her flat belly. Valarr shouldn't have left her, but for the most selfish reasons, he had to for his own sanity—if his father were to pull something, he didn't want to be surprised.

“You’re far too rigid,” Aerion replied with a huff. “One might assume that you’re not happy to see family again.”

Just you. 

“I hope the road wasn't as taxing as they say?” he asked. 

Matarys drifted to greet the Velaryons, one hand tucked respectfully behind his back while the other lifted Lady Lenora’s hand. He pressed a small kiss to her knuckles, drawing a flutter of giggles and a few jealous stares from the crowd.

Aerion rolled his eyes. “It was good enough.”

“Now who's acting stiff?” He said with just enough disdain to be unnoticeable.

“Father confiscated Daeron’s wine." Aerion glanced at his now laughing older brother just beside three lords from House Bracken and House Celtigar. “You can assume what happened during the duration of our trip.”

Valarr grimaced. “Should I worry about the wine cellar running dry in his presence? ”

Daeron did look a little unwell—manic, even, as he chatted with guests who wanted nothing but favours. It was a useless endeavour; Daeron would sooner drown in his ale than attend to the needs of the court.

“For his own sake,” Aerion said dismayingly. “Have guards stationed to block his path if he tries anything malicious.”

He snorted. 'Daeron' and the word 'malicious' in one sentence sounded wrong. That word fitted Aerion more than any of his siblings. 

“I don’t think that would be necessary,” he pointed out. 

The evening was already awash with wine, and Daeron was already on his fourth cup. It was hard not to keep count—especially as his rowdiness slowly faded and, lo and behold, Daeron the Charming became Daeron the Drunk once more.

Just then, the wide oak doors swung open, and the King was announced. They all bowed as he walked past, heading for the high table to sit with his wife.

Grandsire sent them both a warm smile, nodding as he gestured for the music to begin.

“I heard Lord Tully’s daughter was attending,” Aerion mentioned offhandedly. “Word is, she has finally come of age.”

Lord Tully had been making frequent, unnecessary trips to the Red Keep, much like the other lords with unwed daughters in tow. They trailed after the Crown Prince like hungry ducklings the moment they caught his scent. 

Even the gossip mill lacked its usual subtlety; it was being used openly to track his father's every move through the castle. No sooner was his location whispered than a relentless flow of noble ladies would "coincidentally" appear.

“Old enough to marry,” Aerion continued with a sneer as the girl in question—blissfully oblivious—drifted past with a partner in hand towards the dancing. “How is Uncle faring with all these w—... attention? ”

Whore. 

He almost slipped and said 'whore'. Of course he would; the only reason Aerion wasn't spouting insults and loudly shaming those girls was because of Maekar, who was still close enough to hear what his son might say.

Aerion never did care much for pleasantries.

“Vūjitsos dārilaros sōvegon issa, dāria.” He grabbed a cup from a passing server, tasting the bitterness with a sardonic smile as he took a sip. “Ziry sērion sōvegon issa. Idrano Tyrell dāriorun prūmītsos vestriarun.” 

Aerion shot him a scathing glare, though it was quickly masked by a polite smile as a lord from House Blackwood—Oscar, son and heir of Rowan—approached. The man’s eyes roved over Aerion’s body, as if he could see him naked beneath his dress.

He looked beautiful when he was mad, but then again, Aerion had always been beautiful and always mad.

“Evening, my princes,” the man said blithely. “Prince Aerion, if you will—I’m here to ask for a dance.”

Valarr clicked his tongue. Of course he was. Aerion had been drawing that kind of attention since before he’d even presented. It was honestly a surprise that Maekar hadn’t given his hand away to the first lord with enough power to marry into their house.

Valarr knew how much Maekar had raged when he heard the rumours of his son being sullied in the Street of Silk—by his own brother, no less. Because of that, Valarr doubted his uncle was waiting for Baelor to ask for Aerion’s hand. He was certain that the moment his father even thought of asking, Maekar would forget their connection of blood and slay him right where he stood. 

Just as he said—just as he promised.

(“My son, Baelor!”

“Brother—”

“You are married! You have children! And here you stand, making a mockery of my family? My son, whom you disgraced! Whom you turned into a fucking whore! ”

“Do not call him that,” Baelor said raggedly. They had dragged him from his chambers with just enough discretion, through the secret passages until they reached the throne room where his brother and father waited. “It was a mistake, I admit—a weakness of the flesh.”

“How dare you!” Maekar paced like a dragon slighted, his hands clenched as if he were ready to swing an anvil at his brother's head. “How dare you! I ought to have you gelded! I ought to have the dogs eat your cock in front of your wife and children! ”

Baelor winced, his head a heavy thing with an ache from last night's wine.

“Who will wed him now!?” Maekar spat, his eyes bloodshot with fury as he lunged to seize his brother’s collar. “When they know that you have laid your hands on him? What future will my son have when the people whisper of him as his uncle's whore? Did you think? Did you think for a single moment what would become of him? ”

“Maekar,” their father interrupted, his voice a weary attempt to ease the mounting temper in the room.

“My son, Baelor. My boy,” Maekar said, his voice shaking—whether from anger or grief, he could not tell. “You have a crown waiting for you. Your line is meant for the throne. But my Aerion—you have ruined his chances. You have ruined him! ”

“Wed him to me, then,” Baelor said, looking his brother straight in the eye. “Wed him to me in the tradition of our house. If you say that no one will have him now, give him to me as my wife.”

Maekar’s answer was a crack to the jaw. Baelor hit the floor, clutching his bleeding mouth as Maekar loomed over him....(Continue Reading here!)

[sardinelays]

Mea culpa

Summary:

“It’s a shame, what honour does to good men. I suppose the gods have a very glutinous taste for them. Why else would they take him and not you?”

Daeron knew his place in the sea, with the rest of the plains, while the divine overlooked them both, him and Valarr and the rest. Aerion was the exception to this; he was the divine, holding a chalice filled with offered wine. Sweet in his smile, generous with his gifts. Daeron had wondered about that too: if Aerion was ever aware, or if he was oblivious to the effects he had around him—to the tides and the directions of the sun alone, where everyone else knelt so low that he could not see them.

[sardinelays]

This is what happens when McDonald's doesn't call you back after an interview.

(Inspired by this creator's post: Shorm)

[shorm]

HOGWARTS SCHEDULE MASTERPOST because I haven’t done one of these yet (and because nerinelunacyran asked for one)!

First row is pretty explanatory (Years 1 and 2, look at the captions.) Third year on each take up a row, because they need two schedules to deal with the electives. The only way for the electives to make sense is for ‘elective’ to just be a slot in their timetable, and because each house shares a timeslot with another house, and both have two options, during every timeslot there are four elective options (so Monday period 3 of year 4, both Gryffindors and Slytherins can choose between Care of Magical Creatures, Arithmancy, Divination, or Ancient Runes). This way, a student from any house can take any combination of two electives. It’s complicated, but it works. Hermione Granger is special and kind of fucked up.

This fits in with canon as much as I was able to make it fit with canon; she did not give this a second of thought, and it’s painfully obvious if you actually look into it. Fifth year Gryffindors have a class that starts halfway through second period, for crying out loud that’s what periods are for. So there’s some artistic license that I’ve had to take, and of course filling in all the blanks was entirely just myself. I tried to keep the fictional students in mind and not give them awful schedules, too — I have spreadsheets for each house for each year, as well, to see what the kids would groan about in September. I gave the first-years four periods instead of five, because 3:30 is explicitly stated for their flying lessons, and during one Oliver Wood is still in class.

As far as how the teachers’ schedules work out or how Years 6 and 7 work or how this makes any sense at all: it really doesn’t, but I’m working with what I’ve got :P

This was created for the Pottermorphs AU, but feel free to use these schedules for whatever you want — I’d love a link back to this post, though, since I hope it’s obvious just how much work went into these.

[tweakerwolf]

SO CLOSE!!! I needed year six…although, even if I had it, it totally would have f*cked up my time line hahahahaha Although I am very happy someone took the time to do all of this! Thank you!!! I may use this if I start another fic that takes place when the students are younger =)

[capitanpoops]

bad dream?

[sardinelays]

This made me rethink many things about myself omfg

[sardinelays]

gorge of death and destruction shall return after the following -

Summary: Maekar thinks that his nephews are a bad influence on his angel child (Aerion). Pairings: None/Gen Fic

His brothers were all simply jealous that his second son was the best-behaved child in the family. He shuddered to think about Baelor’s eldest, the boy who had hid in a chimney one time for a game of hide-and-seek. He could never imagine what would have happened to that child if the servants had not found him stuck upwards with his feet and back holding himself up.  Not to forget his second, Matarys, who ate a frog for a dare. Those boys even went as far as to point it all to Aerion—Aerion who was kind enough to bring them sweets whenever they got hurt.  His boy, who was his mother’s son, was sweet and caring, and to accuse him of those actions was so improbable Maekar nearly laughed when Baelor even asked if he knew about Aerion ‘setting fire to the yard’.  ‘Troubled child,’ he thought bemusedly. It’s ridiculous, that's what it is. Baseless rumours that deserve no attention, really. 

...Read more here!