Rocky should have an identical twin and they conspire to prank Grace so the twin goes to visit him pretending they’re Rocky but Grace instantly knows it’s not cause they’re different colors despite being the exact same shape and texture.
Part one of Vet!Jon bringing his little brothers to meet an utterly blindsided Daemon in the Stepstones.
x~x~x
Daemon’s first glimpse came after a low pass on Caraxes over the pre-dawn push by Ryndoon’s men. His dragon’s neck turned from the battlefield, peering northward, and Daemon followed his gaze. Against the lightening sky, a large, dark shape had emerged from the clouds. Vhagar, he thought in surprise, picking up a hint of green. Had his brother at last decided to throw his support behind defending the Stepstones?
The men below took up a cry of warning at the sight of a second dragon. A horn sounded, signalling retreat, and the Triarchy’s rats quickly scurried back into their caverns, abandoning the field.
He and Caraxes turned as one back toward camp, setting down just as the incoming dragon began its descent. Not Vhagar, Daemon realized swiftly. He knew his father’s mount well, even if he had not seen her often since she had been claimed by Laena Velaryon. His mind set to racing, for there were no other dragons of such a size, claimed or unclaimed, and his grip on his saddle tensed, his body half-readied for a fight.
The dragon landed no more than hundred feet east of the camp, kicking up a spray of pebbles from the shore that scattered across the sides of nearby tents. Even at that distance, it towered over them all, nearly thrice Caraxes’s size. Even larger than Vhagar. Daemon narrowed his eyes, trying to spy the rider from atop his own dragon, unwilling to dismount until he was certain of the man’s intentions.
But the figure that dismounted had the slender frame of a youth not yet fully grown, his hair dark and pulled into a small knot at the back of his head. Rather than turning to address the watching camp, however, he extended his arms back up the saddle. One small form dropped into his waiting arms, equally dark of hair, and then another, hair light as Daemon’s.
Children, he thought, startled. They were but a few years older than Rhaenyra’s eldest, if he were to guess—perhaps seven or eight. The knights who had been clutching their weapons eased their grips at the sight, and that was when Daemon noticed that each was carrying a small creature in their arms. Hatchlings?
Daemon quickly worked himself free of his straps, leaping the short distance from Caraxes’s hasty crouch to the ground. He had spotted Corlys’s billowing cape of turquoise and silver at the opposite edge of camp, closing rapidly, and lengthened his stride so that he would be the first to greet the camp’s new arrivals.
The trio met Daemon halfway, the teen holding the hands of each child, leaving their other free to clutch at their hatchlings. The sun had crept at last over the horizon, its rays from behind crowning each youth in gold while casting their faces in shadow.
“Hello, Father,” the rider said.
Daemon’s next breath did not come. He stared at the boy, mind utterly blank for a span of seconds that stretched into something alike eternity. His one and only child had died sixteen years before, taken and killed by hill tribesmen while under his wife’s care. Daemon had been hundreds of miles distant in King’s Landing. By the time he had rushed back to the Vale, it had been too late for anything but fiery vengeance.
The boy standing before him was of the right age to be his son, and Daemon’s eyes flicked from feature to feature, taking in his frown, his brow, his eyes—a storm-touched violet, as his son’s had been—the line of his jaw, the lankiness of his frame…
That is my son.
There was no other explanation. No other reason for a child who looked as though he could be his own to appear on a dragon larger than any alive.
“I do not understand,” Daemon managed at last, his voice so thin that he barely recognized it.
They had found the body of an infant, burned beyond recognition save for the tiny boots his son had worn, and scraps of the blanket he had been wrapped in.
“I was taken,” his son said, frown twisting into a snarl. “By the very men who nearly took my brothers.”
Brothers—? Daemon’s gaze snapped to the children at either side of his son. In his shock, all else had been swept from his awareness, including them. They looked to be the same age. Twins? The dark-haired child was a window into his son’s past, possessing almost the very same features, though softened by childhood. His eyes were pure storm, their solemn grey shimmering with unshed tears, and his mouth quivered, stubbornly holding back whatever sorrow sought to loose itself. Daemon was reminded of his own father, able to spy more of his features the longer he stared.
The other child had Daemon’s own coloring, the violet of his eyes perhaps a shade darker and his hair a shade lighter. But it was his uncle that Daemon saw staring back at him, albeit with a wariness that stabbed him in the gut. The emotion that roiled in the child’s twin was buried far deeper in him, carried instead in the jaw and shoulders, and the way he hugged his hatchling to him, seeking comfort.
They could not be more than eight years old. More likely closer to seven, which would put their conception—
“That bitch,” Daemon whispered.
His brother had commanded him upon his banishment eight years before to return to his wife and fulfill his marital duties. He had lain with the bitch only the once before departing for the Stepstones, so that he could say in truth that he had obeyed the king’s command.
She hid them from me. She stole them just as surely as our son was stolen.
“Our lady mother,” his son said sharply, “is dead.” He released his siblings’ hands, drawing a rolled-up slip of parchment from a satchel at his belt that he offered to Daemon. “I am now lord of Runestone.”
Daemon took the parchment, hands cold. The writing was not Rhea’s, but the words were, confessing that she had hidden her pregnancy and passed her twin sons off as her sister’s. His focus jumped back and forth between paragraphs, sentences, not daring to linger on any for too long, the tremble of his hand threatening to close into a fist at any moment.
He sucked in a breath, and handed it back to his son. Dozens of questions cycled through his thoughts, each dancing on the tip of his tongue, but stronger than any was the need to hold his children, to feel them in his arms and know that they were flesh.
“Jon,” he said, voice catching on his son’s name.
It had been Rhea’s choice, not his, but it had grown on him in the months after his birth, his son’s bright smile upon hearing it impossible to resist. He had buried those memories after, wishing he could purge himself of them with the same cleansing fire he had used to purge the Dragon’s Spine of hill tribesmen.
He gripped his son by the shoulder and pulled him close, at a loss as he tried to reconcile the babe he had strapped to his back on dragon rides with this boy on the cusp of manhood, nearly of a height with him, sword sheathed at his side. It did not matter how tenderly Daemon embraced him now; they were strangers to one another.
“I did not know,” Daemon whispered, willing him to understand. “I would have come for you.”
He felt his son sigh. “It is past.”
That was the cold truth of it. His son’s childhood was gone, wrested away by whoever had taken him. By whoever sought to take my other sons. Daemon pulled back, looking between the children. I have three sons.
Mere days before, he had dared a Triarchy scout to shoot him dead, certain that his own brother would barely mourn him. And now I have three sons.
One near grown, a dragonrider who had rescued both himself and his little brothers. And two still children, looking both exhausted and overwhelmed as their gazes shifted between the men watching from camp and Daemon. Where did the bitch hide them? Who protected them, tended to their sorrows? Who allowed them to nearly be taken?
By his wife’s own admission, they had not known themselves to be anything other than orphans of House Redfort.
Daemon placed a hand on their shoulders. “Did your brother explain who I am? Who you are?”
“Yes,” the fair-haired one said, watching him with a guardedness that made Daemon want to scream. “You are Prince Daemon, our father.”
I do not know their names, he realized, a bitter gorge rising in his throat. Not only had he been denied their early childhood, he had been denied the rite of naming his own sons.
“What are you called?” Daemon asked.
“My name is Raymar,” the child continued. “But if I am to be of House Targaryen, I would be called Rhaegar.”
“If?” Daemon repeated blankly. “Of course you shall be of House Targaryen. You shall be presented to the king, and attend lessons with the royal tutors, and be raised as the princes and dragonriders that you are.”
Rhaegar. Even now, with the bitch dead, he would not be able to name his own sons. They were old enough to choose their own.
“And your name?” he asked his other son.
“I am also called Jon,” he said, offering up the ghost of a smile. “I do not know what other name I would choose.”
Jon. So his wife had also seen the specter of their lost son in him, to the point of giving him the very same name. “There will be time to decide,” Daemon said.
They stood apart still as they studied one another, separated by the length of his arms, and he ached to pull them close. At last, he could bear it no longer. Daemon gathered them in, mindful of the hatchlings that they held, but he could not help the tightening of his embrace. “No one will take you from me.”
The younger Jon eased into the embrace, cheek pressing into his chest, while Rhaegar held himself motionless, back straight and stiff, his hatchling letting out a quiet hiss as she shifted to his shoulder to peer at Daemon. He gazed past them to his eldest, who was watching solemnly. As their eyes met, Jon gave him a nod—either of approval or permission.
Daemon had known his son for mere minutes, but he already understood. He would see my love given to his brothers and keep none for himself. As though Daemon did not possess enough for all three. His jaw clenched. Fire and blood. These are the words of our house. Perhaps the bitch’s family could not spare but a few scraps of affection for their own children, but I would burn the entire Vale if doing so would bring them even a moment’s joy.
Corlys was approaching, his presence an abrupt reminder of the decade Daemon had wasted here when he could have been seeking his son—his sons—to give them the childhood they deserved.
He drew back, eyes locking upon Jon’s once more as fury roared to life in his chest. “Who did this? Who stole you from me?”
Whoever had done so had been in possession of dragon eggs. More than one, if his younger sons had also come to hatch dragons of their own, and the implication made his blood boil all the hotter. They had my sons, at least for a time. There is no other explanation.
The softness in Jon’s expression gave way to a grim fury of his own. “Volantis.”
x~x~x
Still trying to decide what the next POV should be. So many tempting options! We have vet!Jon, Corlys, Daemon again, or either of the twins...
Prowl is 028? He’s lasted a long time, that’s impressive. He’s probably seen many other pilots die though
Yep. Imagine if Orion kept assigning him to different groups or different pilots and they all kept dying and dying and dying because oh no surpriiiise! Frontliners don't live long. At all.
While Support class lives much longer on average because their primary goal is to stay aside and assist.
Oh man......Prowl would probably look at Jazz and think like "Don't get attached don't get attached DONT you KNOW how it always ends"
prowl being so dependent on tarantulas and his medical treatments to function and survive is probably another argument for why hed wanna get turned into a cybertronian at some point too
because if tarantulas dies to a quinteson attack or the medical facility is damaged and he loses access to his literally life saving medicine thats it hes screwed, but if hes 100% robot like jazz he wont be dependent on another person to survive just day to day
Ohhohohohfmfn you know
Considering that Prowl's condition would consistently be getting worse throughout the whole story?
He'd be so fucking happy to become a robot. It would be the best thing ever. After all the side effects and experiments and his worsening health and nerve damage and food that tastes like medicine and dysphoria?
Becoming an actual mech would make him absolutely ecstatic.
Jazz would worry about how he would react to all the new and different things while Prowl would just be like "HOLY SHIT nothing hurts???? "
Jazz: Wouldn't you miss like...stuff?
Prowl: Huh?
Jazz: Food?
Prowl: All the food tasted like medicine most of my life. As long as energon doesn't taste like Hydrocodone I'm fine.
Jazz: Hm. But like. Breathing? Cybertronians don't breathe.
i blame @lovckett or this, spawned by their SI!Armada!Starscream appearing in TF: Prime Idea
random scene of armada starscream rescuing breakdown from mech's first capture. (let my boy have BOTH his optics pls and thank you)
===== Armada x Prime =====
"Open him up."
Breakdown would never admit to feeling fear at the sight of the drill coming closer to his optic, but he won't deny that he was feeling something akin to it. Which was fragging natural considering this was a drill about to take out his optic!
Suddenly, the tunnel he was being kept in shook. Breakdown gritted his denta as the tip of the drill shook and scratched along his faceplate instead, the shaking missing his optic by inches.
"What was that?!" The fleshling, Silas barked as the drill was reared back and powered down. The screen suddenly shifted to a closed entryway, the start of the tunnel.
The metal shutter was dented inwards with the metal gleaming red as if something hot had exploded against it. The armed humans at the closed shutter seemed hesitant but had their guns aimed at the dented and idly melting entryway.
Breakdown squinted his optics, wondering what was going on- had Lord Megatron or someone else sent Decepticons to rescue him? Great, if a little embarrassing considering he'd been captured by organics of all things.
The tunnel shook again as the metal shutters exploded, a violet beam cutting through the giant dust cloud that came from the explosion, miraculously it didn't hit any humans but it left a series of small explosions in its wake.
"Jetstorm, Runway, Sonar, go!" A voice, a mech's voice, commanded. A voiceprint that Breakdown was unfamiliar with.
From the dark cloud, three small jets, smaller than even the average Earth vehicle, emerged. The humans were stunned, but not stunned enough to not react- they shot at the flying vehicles but were chaotically rammed into by said jets, they cried out in surprise as the three jets flew around and aimed for any human nearby.
"Unfortunate, but intriguing." Silas said before he motioned for the other to follow him. "A shame to cut this short, it would have been a lot more interesting cutting open a live cybertronian instead of sifting through the leftovers of those lesser Decepticon ones that the Autobots love going through. Another time then, Breakdown."
His spark dropped, did he mean the vehicons? Was that why they had less body parts to retrieve lately? How dare they-
Three thumps interrupted his rage, and his optics flickered at the sight of... minicons? Minicons? Here? On Earth? "What the frag."
The three minicons beeped in their private little minicon language, Breakdown had never really bothered to learn about it or more about minicons. The little espionage bots throughout the war were more of the Intel and Communications part of stuff while Breakdown- well, obviously he was not that.
Reminds him of the minicons that Soundwave used to have. (He wonders if those two are okay, Soundwave has never been the same without them and Ravage)
The minicons looked up and waved their arms, beeping and chirping cheerily and with pride.
Pedesteps.
"Yes, yes, good work you three. You cleared the way and made it to- well, this poor gentlemech." That voiceprint... Breakdown strained his helm to see who it belonged to.
It was... a seeker? Big one, bigger that Starscream.
Bright red with white, and- orange optics? Strange. He doesn't know this mech. No Decepticon brand... but no Autobot brand either. Neutral?
Pretty thing though, the red finish reminds him of Knock Out...
Was that another minicon on the seeker's shoulder? Four minicons?
"Who are you?" Breakdown asked suspiciously, optics narrowing at the seemingly Neutral seeker (who was neutral nowadays? He didn't know there were any neutrals left...)
The seeker huffed, "Your savior." He deadpanned in reply before reaching back and detaching his wing??? What??? The??? Frag??? Could seekers do that?
He watched in stunned silence as the wing folded thinly into a blade-shape, before gleaming red with energy. A fragging laser sword?? Again. What the frag??? Could Starscream do that??
The minicons jumped off of his restrained body as the unknown seeker stepped closer, raising the sword high, was he going to—
Breakdown flinched as the sword was brought low in a swift, yet beautifully efficient movement. Not a klik later, his restrained were sliced open. Breakdown had no knowledge of swordsbotship, but damn had that been cool.
"Come on, we need to go." The seeker barked, turning on his heel. The minicons beeped and chirped, motioning Breakdown to get up.
Breakdown was quick to do so, "Hey! Wait!" He and the minicons quickly caught up to the seeker who was now jogging through the tunnel. "You didn't answer my question."
"Yes I did."
Breakdown frowned, "You didn't tell me your designation."
"You asked who I was, not for my designation." Was the seeker's smart aft reply. Breakdown held back an annoyed growl. "Call me... Armada."
Breakdown's optics narrowed again, Armada? He doesn't recall any mech or seeker going by the name. Clearly a fake designation. Before he could even ask or demand the seeker's actual designation, they ended up at the entrance- where more of those pesky humans were.
Breakdown didn't bother holding back his growl this time, servo shifting to his hammer while the seeker dropped into a defensive stance with his sword, shielding his faceplate from the annoying fire from the smaller creatures.
The minicons took shelter behind them, the one at Armada's shoulder moved behind Armada's helm and tapped it insistently, bleeping and chirping rapidly. "Absolutely not! Just get down with the others Swindle!" Armada growled.
Swindle?
How fragging hilarious, the minicon shared a name with that money-grubbing conmech. He can't wait to tell KnockOut later on.
Swindle, hah, bleeped even harder but reluctantly dropped to the ground with the three other minicons. Just in time Armada to swat away an incoming missile with his still glowing sword.
Missiles were being launched from helicopters above while cars of humans were shooting annoying yet distracting bullets from below, moving around like the chaotic insects they were.
Breakdown used his canon to shoot at them, and his hammer to pound down any car that dared to come close enough.
Armada was using his sword to gouge the earth and cut cars in half, using one half of the car to lob at the helicopters- direct hit. Breakdown grinned, following his lead and grabbing a smashed car for one of the other copters.
One of those copters had a strange electric canon thing, it charged and narrowly missed Armada who had dodged just in time with a incensed growl.
Breakdown was a little more distracted, trying to smash every car in his wake so he was very surprised when Armada suddenly tackled him from the side- he was less surprised as the spot he'd been standing at suddenly exploded thanks to that electric canon.
The seeker was quick to get back on his pedes while Breakdown stared up at him with wide optics. Damn.
Usually, between him and KnockOut, it was KnockOut who liked to bring mechs into their open relationship for a good time. Breakdown rarely did that on his own, content with his conjunx but Primus, was this new seeker making him think—
He suddenly hears blaster fire, and from the distance, he sees blue blaster fire shooting at the helicopters from the ground. "You called the Autobots for backup?!" He hissed but was surprised by the glare he got from the seeker.
"No, I did not." He growled back, looking displeased and annoyed. "They must have been in the area and heard the noise."
Breakdown doesn't know if he should believe that, but as much as he hates the fact the Autobots were around. At least their presence was useful, with the added numbers of threats growing, the humans- MECH- decided to retreat.
Leaving Armada and Breakdown behind to deal with the Autobots. Or, well, Autobot.
Turns out it was just Bulkhead.
"Well I'll be, if it isn't Bulkhead." Breakdown sneered as the former Wrecker came forward, blaster smoking. "I'll admit, didn't expect to see you here alone. Again. Ready for round two?"
"Breakdown." Bulkhead growled back, optics narrowed, "Should'a known you of all mechs didn't need rescuin'... Who's your friend?" He glanced over to Armada but faltered at the sight of the four minicons that were peeking from behind Armada's legs. And then double-taking as he watched Armada's sword de-activate, fold back into a wing shape and reattach it back on his back. "Uh..."
Honestly, not even Breakdown can blame him because that was the exact reaction he had watching the whole thing. "I'm not his friend." Armada replied with a scoff, "Just someone who knows it's a bad idea for Cybertronian biology to end up in the hands of humans like MECH. It's trouble no one wants." He said, crossing his arms.
"You're a Neutral?" Bulkhead muttered, a bit awed as he sees no brand on the seeker. "Didn't think you guys were still around."
Armada sent him a sharp look, "And whose fault is that exactly?" He snarked before shaking his helm, "I'm done here. You two can go back to your war and your fighting. Try not to destroy this planet like Cybertron and countless others."
Both bots flinched at the scathing tone the seeker had, "Hey! That's not fair- it was the cons who destroyed Cybertron not us Autobots!" Bulkhead protested and Breakdown glowered at him.
Unfortunately that was true, however- "It was you 'bots who forced us to do that!"
They both readied their hammers before a loud, angry jet engine growl interrupted their fight. "Both of you can shut the frag up! As far as I see it, both of you Decepticons and Autobots ruined Cybertron! It's always you two! No matter what uni—" Armada cut himself off, inventing sharply with a bitter and pained look. "... Cybertron is dead, thanks to this Unicron-damned war. Autobot, Decepticon... You both have energon staining your servos. Don't act as if the other side is the sole blame for everything."
There was a silence in the air as Armada seemed to hug himself, his minicons beeping and chirping sadly at the seeker who avoided looking at both ex-Wreckers.
Well... seemed like trying to coax Armada to either side would be difficult if that was his mindset over everything. Breakdown had to wonder if Armada had sided with either during the war, or was he neutral all along? Hard to say.
Suddenly Armada's wings perked and he looked up to the sky, "Scrap." He said, spotting lights in the distance in a formation. His wings twitched again and he looked off to the side, more lights in the distance. "Scrap." He repeated.
"Swindle! Jetstorm! Sonar! Runway! We're leaving, now!" Three of the minicons immediately transformed into their jet alts, taking to the skies while the fourth, Swindle, climbed up Armada's leg. Armada turned to Breakdown, glaring at him determinedly. "You owe me for this Breakdown, remember that."
"Armada—" Breakdown was interrupted when the mech jumped into the air, transforming into a jet with Swindle in his cockpit. Soon, he, along with the three other little jets, were off. Flying as far and as fast as they could.
By the time both Decepticon and Autobot back up returned, it was just the ex-Wreckers left behind.
And though there would be an ensuing fight, said Wreckers would have quite the tale to tell to both sides.
===== Armada x Prime =====
this is definitely not canon to Hound of the Stars since i have no idea WHEN hokori is going to drop Armada in, in the Primeverse timeline. just a separate snippet about Armada saving Breakdown that i had to write bc it was itching at my brain.
why did armada save breakdown? because he hates MECH and Breakdown should've had more screen time. VERY bitter about cybertron's fate in nearly all the continuities they know of, its added by armada!starscream's own personal memories as a child soldier who probably never saw cybertron's golden age and stuff. all he knows is war and he hates it.
that's this armada though, i am very much looking forward to whatever hokori is cooking for Hound of the Stars.
also yes, those are the names for the minicons who make up the star saber- i had to dig for those. swindle is the laser canon. ive implied a lot of stuff, also made breakdown and knockout conjunxes bc yes.
honestly i have another scene in mind of dreadwing meeting armada and immediately falling helm over heels for the seeker. bright paint, good at minicon care (sparklings anyone??) and strong warrior? oomf. likewise, i kinda want soundwave to be lowkey obsessed with armada bc of the minicons. and oo, wheeljack? fellow swordfighter hello???
look i just want armada to be hot and be sought out for by both sides.
i have crazy garlic fingers from peeling and chopping garlic cloves yesterday this phenomenon is always fascinating to me because it reminds me that i, too, am made of meat, and therefore i am also susceptible to being seasoned
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