#profugii

[westerosxwhispers]

@profugii || closed starter the red noodle is back

He is not sure how long it has been.

Weeks, years. Time passes differently for dragons and even more so when they hibernate, and Caraxes hasn't ever hibernated before so the novelty of the experience adds to his level of disorientation.

Vhagar's claws had torn Caraxes' belly open, his jaws remained clamped on her throat to prevent her from breathing any more fire into the air. Dragons could breathe in plenty of smoke before it became a problem, but humans were fragile things.

Daemon jumped off his back.

Caraxes heard the one eyed prince say something. Perhaps a curse or a plea, or merely a scream of terror upon seeing his death land upon him with such inevitable efficiency. Daemon made no sound. Not when he killed the one eyed prince, not when they went down and not when they crashed into the water.

He managed to swim to shore, wounded as he was, and thought that he would be joining his rider —both of them— very soon. Instead, chunks of Vhagar washed up to the lake's rocky shore and he fed on them, the flesh of his kin revitalizing him, healing him enough to keep death from wrapping him in its cold and eternal embrace. Once he could move, he dived for more. Not just for the meat that the ancient one's carcass could provide, but in search of Daemon. The lake was deep and murky, and Caraxes was still incredibly weakened by the fight. He was unable to find him.

Caraxes never saw him again.

Instead, he found a cave and twisted his long, mauled body into the space that could hide him from sight. There, he allowed hos exhausted body to rest. It was part of a dragon's instincts to hibernate when they sustained a considerable amount of damage; and most would say Caraxes shouldn't even be alive. But they had been saying that about him since he left his egg, and he'd always proved them wrong.

He was not going to stop now.

It was a dreamless sleep, his body entering a state of suspended animation, preserving all energy just to keep him alive, heal what had been torn and broken, allow the magic that fueled through his veins to do its trick and manage wounds that no other species could have recovered from.

It took eighty years. And then, he dreamed.

There was someone in his cave, a man whose scent and voice he did not recognize. Caraxes couldn't see him, but he could smell him. A stranger. A trespasser. Yet there was something oddly familiar about his scent. His instincts screamed for him to both attack and protect. He had only ever experienced that with one kind of person before.

A Targaryen.

His yellow eyes opened with pupils that formed perfect slits, like someone had slashed a vertical line into the sun and it revealed only the endless darkness behind it. Caraxes was only able to see the man for a moment. Then, he was awake, faced with the feeling of what little breeze made it into his narrow lair.

And he's hungry.

—

300 miles north, Queen Kiera of Tyrosh and King Valarr Targaryen shook their unofficial Hand awake.

"Daeron," Kiera breathed with such relief yet thinly veiled concerned when they were finally able to wake him. "Dear, what happened?"

"You were shaking," Valarr, looking quite somber due to knowing well that nothing his cousin dreamed should be taken lightly, spoke. "And crying, what did you dream of?"

"Give him a moment, Valarr," Kiera chided, shooting him a look before her expression softened as she turned back to Daeron. "Are you alright?"

[rottingkiss]

( @profugii )

How did it come to this? Why couldn't he tell her to STAY? Bloodydamn, Mustang even DEMANDED for him to say those exact words to her, and she would give herself to him. Yet . . . the phrase never left his lips when the Gold came to him in the middle of the night. Darrow simply cannot lower his walls completely and let her IN. It's too dangerous. But what's more . . . his entire purpose is to DESTROY her way of life. It would be too cruel to love.

At least, that's what he convinces himself.

That's how Reaper now finds himself padding through the empty hallways of Attica. It's late, so his allies are surely asleep. That would give Darrow time to think without having to pace his room like a caged animal. Although, the plan is very short-lived when he rounds the corner into the common room and sees the Jackal has already claimed the space as his. Darrow pauses in the doorway, debating if he wants Adrius as company. He knows it wouldn't be GOOD company whatsoever, but it would distract him from the self-loathing that attempts to swallow him WHOLE.

Darrow manages to fights back a sigh of defeat and makes his presence known.

❝I wasn't aware that Jackals are NOCTURNAL.❞

[westerosxwhispers]

@profugii said:

aemond lingered in the doorway long after the servants had gone, white hair still damp from the evening rain, one gloved hand flexing at his side before finally relaxing. the halls of the red keep felt colder lately - louder too, despite the silence. too many eyes. too many whispers. but her chambers remained untouched by it all.

without ceremony, he crossed the room and lowered himself beside his mother, close enough for the edge of his shoulder to press against hers. the tension never fully left him, not even here, though it softened into something softer. younger.

his eye closed briefly as he leaned his head against her shoulder, very slowly, like a knight laying down a weapon he did not trust anyone else to hold.

the sapphire caught the candlelight when he turned slightly toward her, though his gaze stayed lowered. strange, how the whole realm feared him, yet he still sought this - her presence, her approval, the simple comfort of remaining at her side for a moment longer than a prince ought to.

his fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his sleeve.

"i find i have little patience for anyone else tonight."

It was not rare for Aemond to seek her out in his moments of upsetment.

When he was a little boy, it was an almost weekly occurrence. Biweekly, sometimes, given how cruel Aegon could be in favor of his pranks. After he claimed his dragon, it became less frequent. So much so that Alicent couldn't recall how long it had been since the last time he had come to her like this: as vulnerable as he allowed himself to be in public, even if the only witness was his own mother. He really was blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh. Hers more than he was ever Viserys'.

Perhaps that is why she had always favored him.

Her arm went around his back, hand pushing through the long silver hair until it reached his scalp, cupping the back of his head. His words made her let out a huff of amusement. Oh, how many times had she thought those very same words and never dared to voice them. But he was bold where she was a little more reserved. She was unsure who he got that from.

"You always had little patience," she mused out loud, gazing down at the exposed sapphire. To her, a reminder of what had been taken from him. To him, proof of his achievement. "Since the womb. You came in two weeks early, did I ever tell you about that?" she pushed his hair back with her fingers, touching his head where his skull had once been soft as a babe. "Aegon came quickly and without fuss, Helaena took almost a whole day and she came out wailing like a banshee, and didn't stop until her fourth name day when she just started speaking full sentences— when she honored us with her voice, that is. Daeron was a similar story to Aegon. You? You nearly killed me, and then you had the nerve of not making a single sound. Made me labor half to death only to nearly frighten me the rest of the way there."

There was no resentment in her voice. Not really. Her septa had once told her that those who are blessed by the mother are holy themselves, for only mothers can spread the gift of life upon the world. Alicent had come from a big family, and so she had wanted a big family of her own. Many children who would love her as her mother had been loved by her and her brothers.

"I thought I had birthed a dead babe." the memory made her jaw tense. "Not a sound out of you. But when the midwife brought you to me, you were just staring at everything. Big eyed and so focused, as if you were assessing your surroundings. Even when you looked at me, I felt scrutinized. My pale, quiet, unblinking boy. The firstborn son is always his father's child. But the second son is for us mothers."

Perhaps it was the dinner wine loosening her tongue and softening her. Either way, she would blame that meager half glass she had drank. She had too much pride for any introspection on the true reason for it.

"You are the most like me," she hummed. "Gods help me, your brother is most like Viserys. Helaena, my sweet girl, and Daeron– your uncle tells me he's grown into a kind boy, who knows where they got that from. But you? You are like me, and I don't know if I should feel proud or beg for your forgiveness."

[westerosxwhispers]

@profugii || Closed Starter

The scullery is her domain.

Everyone in Harrenhal knows better than to come down here. For starters, it is a hassle, whoever designed this part of the palace clearly did not know nor care for the struggles of the commoners that worked for them. It is downstairs, a basement of sorts that requires coming downstairs from the kitchen, through the pantry, then finally into the scullery.

Back then, people avoided it because of the hassle it would be to carry dishes up and down the stairs. Now, they avoid it because she is there.

Or they used to, because she has had two visitors today so far.

First Larys, her once sweet, still crippled little brother. King's Landing has changed him in ways Alys resents. The sweet, shy boy she watched being taken from Harrenhal has returned as a demanding, disrespectful man who has forged his place in this family regardless of who it harmed or what it took and, even worse so, he has forgotten HER place in this family.

Alys did not hesitate to remind him of it. She didn't enjoy doing so, but it was necessary.

The fear and rejection in his eyes was something she was used to, and yet had never seen from him. But she did not allow herself to show any trace of upsetment and simply watched him compose himself as the pain from his leg subsided, turned away and back to her chores when he began to limp towards the exit once he was commanded to do so.

The prince did not leave.

Perhaps asking for peace and solitude is asking for too much nowadays. She has yet to figure out what sort of lord the Targaryen prince will be. Harrenhal has had cruel lords, and it has had incompetent lords— it has even had a Targaryen before him, but it was a Lady, Alys still saw her sometimes, her grief and pain was still palpable in the stones that made up the Widow's Tower, but the woman did not show up often. It seemed that even in death she valued her solitude.

"Do not do that," she spoke without turning around, hands busy plucking the leaves off some herbs she had gathered that very morning. "One would believe a prince to possess better manners than that. Hasn't your mother taught you to not touch what doesn't belong to you?"

[westerosxwhispers]

@profugii || Closed Starter

Sheepstealer was getting used to the other dragons.

He was taking his sweet time and seemed to enjoy making her look bad around other far more experienced dragon riders, such as when he showed everyone that he was nowhere near allowing the dragonkeepers close, so the dragon pit was not an option. But Nettles could tell he was less tense around the smaller dragons.

Lady Baela and Prince Jacaerys' specifically, as they had enough of a juvenile curiosity to them to approach her bigger, malformed beast of a dragon with less aggression than the bigger beasts. They flew around or sunbathed nearby, singing their 'songs' to each other and sometimes allowing Sheepstealer to join in with his own song. Nettles kept a safe distance, mostly for her own sake, but stayed within ear shot of Sheepstealer and would call him back with the promise of food if she saw him being too rowdy.

The last thing either of them needed was for him to hurt any of the other dragons.

And so for the past few days she would let him roam and kept an eye them, feeling like a nanny in charge of an overgrown child that could breathe fire and fly around. Watched him fly after Moondancer and Vermax as they twisted and dived faster than she could keep up with them.

It was the perfect excuse to stay away from the court, too.

Nettles brought her fingers to her lower lip, squeezing to whistle as loud as she could, the signal she usually used to let Sheepstealer know that his food was ready. He flew her way, the two young dragons chasing after him. He passed overhead and seeing no sheep, flew past just as quickly. Nettles followed them with her eyes and ended up turning around to find the prince— not Daemon, not the prince she would have expected to find looking for her, but Jacaerys.

"Seven fucks!" she startled, then just as quickly remembered herself, bowed her head. "My prince."

She felt her face go warm. Cursing in front of the successor of the iron throne had to be up there on her last of awkward moments at Dragonstone so far. As if she needed more people here to think her uneducated.

"If you were planning to go for a ride, I'm afraid my Sheep might be tiring your Vermax out." she looked up at the dragons again, snorting as the prince's dragon dodged Sheepstealer with ease and her dragon let out what sounded like a very frustrated set of thrills. "Or perhaps it is the other way around, it is hard to tell."

[rottingkiss]

( @profugii )

Golden-coloured hues watch as the apple he's been tossing into the air for entertainment lands within his palm. Darrow is about to preform the repeated action, but he finds himself HESITATING. He swallows hard due to the fact that even the mere colour of this fruit reminds him of his HOME; of who he TRULY is. If he's going to survive his time during the Institute, much less the first day HERE, the once Helldiver KNOWS he must not linger on what he had to leave behind. It's a bloodydamn struggle acting as the caste colour that is CLOSET to the sun, though. At least within the confines of his room, he can lower the mask just enough to BREATHE.

A fine sentiment IF he had a space for himself.

Instead, he watches as Cassius au Bellona floats across the room back and forth in arranging the furniture to his taste. Darrow ends up laying on his side from the bed he claimed, his eyes following the other blond in amusement. It's then he calls out to interrupt the busy work.

❝Catch, my goodman.❞

That was the only warning he gave to his companion before throwing the apple in his direction. He doesn't watch to see if Cassius catches it before he maneuvers himself to where he's laying on his back, hands resting behind yellow locks.

❝You'll need to be on your toes if you're going to be MY roomate. Register?❞

[westerosxwhispers]

@profugii said:

❝  can’t believe you’ve lasted this long.  ❞ / arya for dany

god of war (2018) starters

Robb had told her stories about his youngest sister. Daenerys knew some things that were still true, like that she wasn't the youngest out of all the Stark children, that she had the dark hair and eyes that characterized the people of the north while Robb and his other sister, Sansa, had inherited the red hair from their mother. She also knew some things that seemed to no longer be true, like that his sister was playful and liked to play pranks, that she enjoyed playing and roughhousing.

Daenerys hoped those things were still true, and that this hostility came from Arya not knowing her well and not feeling comfortable around her. Not for her sake but for Arya's own.

"I don't look like much, do I?" Daenerys chuckled. "I know many stories crossed the sea before I did. I have heard some of them. They are very... grim."

The daughter of the mad king, who murdered her own husband and baby, burns her way into power and crucifies those who oppose her. It was quite the tale, one that Daenerys despised greatly.

Not all of that was a lie, she did crucify some people who oppose her, but that was because they were slavers murdering children to turn their bodies into landmarks; and she did kill her husband— a mercy kill, smothering him with a pillow because Drogo would have loathed to be left to exist in the inhert state he'd been in. But the rest was overly exaggerated or just dishonest.

"But I am not as helpless as I look," she said, if only to bring Arya some ease that she was not stuck with a burden. "I have my dragons and my unsullied, people whose loyalty I have earned not with violence but with kindness, who would die for me. Though I hope it won't get to that point."

It was wishful thinking, she knew that. But she could be quite stubborn and was it so wrong to wish for as little death as possible?

"That said, I could certainly use some hand to hand combat skills," she mused. "I have seen you with that sword, you are impressive for someone so young."