Chief Editor: V (She/Them | 30ish) Operational Base: Ruins of Old Valyria "All men must die... but first, they must read the news." EDITORIAL POLICY (+18) This chronicle contains adult content, dark magic, and dragonfire. Strictly restricted to readers aged 18+. If you enter these pages, you bend the knee. NAVIGATION • Use "The Royal Decrees" (Masterlist) for full-length fics. • Search “V writes” for daily headlines and drafts. HOUSE SILKFORT GAZETTE Motto: "Īlon daor henujami. Īlon dāremí" (“We Do Not Beg. We Demand.”)
Welcome, traveler, to the ruins of Old Valyria. Whether you are here for the high-stakes drama of the Seven Kingdoms or just the latest court gossip, you have found the right paper.
Let us be entirely honest with each other: I love Westeros so deeply because it is the only realm where I feel like I am legally permitted to be as utterly, unapologetically dramatic as humanly possible. There is no room for mild inconveniences here.
The Royal Decree on Accessibility and Safety
NO MINORS ALLOWED. If you are under 18, turn back now. This archive is dark, full of terrors, and strictly restricted to adult eyes.
THIS IS A SAFE SPACE FOR ALL IDENTITIES. No matter who you are, how you identify, or who you love: you are welcome in these ruins. The Citadel does not discriminate based on your identity
I do not issue formal "Do Not Interact" lists (except for minors, obviously). I will not police who follows this chronicle. However, let it be known: if you come here to bring purity culture, harassment, or judgment into my court, you will not have a pleasant time.
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Westeros Chronicles
The latest tales of fire, blood, and dragons.
The Old Kingdom News Archives
Our historical vault. Contains all pre-Westeros stories, multifandom works, and classic headlines.
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The Silkfort Gazette - Court Gossip
Looking for the true rulers of the realm? Check out our exclusive royal coverage!
• Follow the tag #silkfort gazette for updates on Queen Merry and Sir Pippin
• Submit your scrolls, feedback, or bribes via the Letters to the Editor button above!
Re-started Seaon 1 and I honestly forgot about the horrors that is episode 1.
I am actually sick to my stomach
I forgot what Viserys's did to his first wife. I hope his death was even worse than it looked like. I hope he died thinking nobody would morn him. That he is all alone.
This was horrible the first time and its still horrible. Aemmas Death haunted me for weeks and I am sure it will do so again.
Viserys spent his whole life rotting away on that stupid throne, and frankly? It was too peaceful for what he allowed to happen in that birthing bed. Aemma deserved the world, and he gave her a death sentence for a chance("chance") for a male baby. I fucking hate him so bad.
And the way he didn't even look her ???? in the eyes???? When the maesters stepped forward????? Disgusting. Truly.
The way i am going to write him and Otto fucking hightower as the most spineless the most vile people in any given room and it will STILL not even scratch the surface(i am reaching "robbin hoob the assassins apprentice" level of hatred i have for that slimey disgusting vermit "regal" what a joke to be named that
Re-started Seaon 1 and I honestly forgot about the horrors that is episode 1.
I am actually sick to my stomach
I forgot what Viserys's did to his first wife. I hope his death was even worse than it looked like. I hope he died thinking nobody would morn him. That he is all alone.
This was horrible the first time and its still horrible. Aemmas Death haunted me for weeks and I am sure it will do so again.
Welcome to Perzy hen Sōna, a dark House of the Dragon AU centered on the hidden daughter of winter and the dragon.
If you’d like to share your thoughts, a message, reblog, or comment is always welcome.
where Fire meets Snow
“What’s in a name?”
To some, it is merely a word cast into the dark. To others, it is a heartbeat shared, a silent truth earned only when the steel is put away. And for a few, it is something more dangerous still: a promise, a claim, a name spoken with the quiet certainty that one day it will be answered.
By reading past this banner, you confirm you are 18+ and comfortable with dark themes.
They called her Snow because they had no better name for a child who did not quite belong to anyone.
She was born at Winterfell with Stark blood in her mother and dragon blood in her father, though no one spoke the second truth aloud. The North kept its silences well. The girl grew up inside one of them: white-haired, grey-eyed, too strange-looking to disappear into a crowd, and therefore doomed to be noticed by all the wrong people. Children were cruel in the easy way of children. Adults were cruel in the careful way of adults. Ghost. Wrong. Unclaimed. It was easier to laugh than to wonder.
So she learned to endure. To stand still. To talk little and answer less. To take what she was given and ask for nothing.
Then came the winter that nearly took her. She broke through the ice and came out blue with cold, her body already half-convinced it had been left to die. No one came. No hand reached for her. No voice called her name. Only the river, the white silence, and the hard lesson that being born into a house did not mean the house would keep you.
That was when she found the egg. It was small enough to fit against her shoulder, a ragdoll thing of warmth in a world of frost. She did not know what it was at first. Only that it lived. Only that its heat kept her from slipping under. Only when she held it close did something in her answer back.
She saved it with her hands and her breath and the last of her warmth, and it saved her in return. When it finally hatched, the thing that came from it did not feel like a miracle. It felt like herself. And when the day came that she was sent south, it did not feel like leaving behind a life.
It felt like being carried from one kind of exile into another. King’s Landing greeted her the way it greeted most things worth fearing: with courtesy first.
The Hightowers smiled before they measured her. Alicent’s softness was the sort built to make a girl lower her guard, to make her think she was being welcomed when she was really being placed. Eira learned quickly that these were the kinds of people who liked to help shape you into something easier to carry. She let them think her quietness was uncertainty. Let them think her blankness was stupidity. It was an excellent shield. People who think you are harmless often stop looking for the knife.
Rhaenyra was different. She did not talk over her. She talked to her.
Their first meetings were under the old gods, where the pale face of the weirwood seemed to watch in silence and the air always felt a little too still. Rhaenyra understood court and politics because she had grown up inside them, but she understood something else too: how to forge an allegiance without making it feel like a chain. She had the instinct for power, yes, but there was more to it than that.
She saw the usefulness of the girl, the weight the dragon gave her, the claim she represented. And then, somewhere beneath all that, she began to care. Not in the clean way of a court ally, but in that messy, personal way that made her linger after the useful words were done, that made them something like friends.
So she taught Eira Valyrian in fragments, one piece at a time, as a private inheritance being passed on. Eira learned quickly. She was good at listening. Better even than hearing what people meant when they lied. Better still at keeping her face still while the room changed around her.
The dragon was always there. At first it could still fit beside her chair, beside her bed, in narrow halls and quiet corners. It followed her everywhere, warm and watchful, and the keep slowly learned that the girl and the dragon were not separate things in the way the court preferred to imagine. They moved as one. If Eira was tense, the dragon was tense. If the dragon stirred, so did she. People began to notice that one could not be understood without the other.
Daemon noticed first among the men.
At the beginning he watched because Rhaenyra had written to him about her. Then he watched because the girl herself became difficult to ignore. She had Stark in her face and Targaryen in her blood and something else too, something made sharper by living too long under other people’s hands. He saw how she looked at the room before she entered it. How she measured every smile. How she stayed quiet when silence gave her the advantage.
So he began with questions. Then with lessons.
The dagger work started in the courtyard, before the dragon grew too large for the old spaces. He showed her stance, grip, balance, the small ways a body could betray itself before steel ever touched skin. He did not pity her. He did not coddle her. He did not insult her by pretending she was fragile. He simply taught her how to stop looking like someone the world could move around.
That was the first thing that bloomed between them.
He saw how long she had lived at the mercy of other people’s choices, and something in him hardened against the thought of her remaining there. So he kept teaching. Kept giving her tools. Kept wanting her to have at least one thing the court could not take from her without a fight.
And when he finally gave her a name, it landed differently because he had earned the right to say it.
The dragon grew too fast for the keep to contain. Its wings unfolded wider than the corridor walls could comfortably allow. Its body became too large for narrow halls, too powerful for rooms that had once seemed grand enough to hold anything. Eira began leaving doors open for it, then began avoiding rooms altogether. The keep, which had once contained her carefully enough to pass for safety, started to feel like a house built around a truth too large for its beams. So her life moved outward. From chamber to courtyard. From courtyard to terraces. From terraces to the open beaches, where the wind came hard off the sea and there was room enough for the dragon to breathe.
That was where Daemon took her when the walls became too small. The lessons changed with the landscape. He taught her how to move with the blade and, later, how to trust the rise of the dragon beneath her when the time came to ride. There, with the salt air in her face and the dragon close enough to feel like another pulse, he began to speak to her in quieter words, warmer words, words that only mattered because they were meant for her and no one else.
That was the second thing that bloomed between them. Rhaenyra saw it too.
She watched Eira grow not only as a political presence, but as a person she had begun to care for in spite of herself. She knew what the court would make of a girl with a dragon. She knew what Viserys would see if he looked too closely. She knew what it meant to have a half-sister in the room and to decide, against all sense and training, that she wanted her protected. So she kept showing up. Kept teaching. Kept speaking to her as though she were worth the time it took to answer properly.
That was the third thing that bloomed between them.
Aemond noticed all of it and understood too little of it.
He knew Rhaenyra and Eira were speaking. He knew the princess was teaching her something. He could see the shift in the girl’s posture, the changes in the way she carried herself, the way the dragon seemed to answer her more quickly with each passing season. But he did not know what was being said. He did not know what private language had been built between them. He did not know what Daemon had earned, or how.
That ignorance curdled into something ugly in him.
Because he could watch, but he could not enter. Could see the effects, but not the method. Could tell that the girl was changing, but not by what hands. And the not-knowing became its own kind of injury. So he waited.
Years passed like that. Winter to spring. Spring to summer. Summer to autumn and back again. The dragon grew out of rooms, out of corridors, out of the keep itself. Eira stopped entering the older spaces unless she had to. If the dragon could not fit, then neither could she stay long. So her life moved outward, and with it the circle of people who could reach her began to shrink.
Daemon’s lessons changed with the world around them.
Rhaenyra’s affection deepened into something personal enough to trouble the clean lines of politics.
And Aemond kept watching. Always watching.
Until the day his patience finally took on the shape of a corridor and he stepped out into her path at last.
Just as the Lady Editor attempted to record the ongoing history of the realm, Sir Pippin executed a flawless strategic maneuver: The Keyboard Siege.
A single thought made it behind those beautiful, slightly-flambéed ears: the obstruction of justice! He has officially occupied the royal writing station. Rumor has it he is typing random letters to ghost-write his own decree, demanding an immediate end to the snack famine.
The scribes are paralyzed. The blog is on hold. The Knight of the Round Cushions has spoken, and he says: "No more writing until I get my tribute.
The battle is over. The skripe has fallen. All is lost.
Sir Pippin has upgraded his tactical maneuvers from a simple Keyboard Siege to full hostage-taking. He has anchored his entire body onto the Lady Editor's arm. He is now sleeping with the satisfaction of a conqueror who knows that moving him would constitute a war crime. The scribes are completely immobilized. No decrees can be written. No snacks can be fetched. House Silkfort wins by proxy via sleepiness.
Just as the Lady Editor attempted to record the ongoing history of the realm, Sir Pippin executed a flawless strategic maneuver: The Keyboard Siege.
A single thought made it behind those beautiful, slightly-flambéed ears: the obstruction of justice! He has officially occupied the royal writing station. Rumor has it he is typing random letters to ghost-write his own decree, demanding an immediate end to the snack famine.
The scribes are paralyzed. The blog is on hold. The Knight of the Round Cushions has spoken, and he says: "No more writing until I get my tribute.
Look, not to be mean or anything, but you really are despicable for writing Baelor the way you do. You should be ashamed of yourself. Your writing isnt even that good.
First of all, I am proud of being a despicable woman, I am human and I understand most have opinions, but your anonymous vibe makes me think your words are quite despicable and it is isn't and not isnt. If you want to name and shame, then please make sure you are perfect.
Filed from the smoking ruins of Old Valyria: a chronicle of dragonfire, court ruin, and the girl born from Winter and Dragon.
Editorial Notice: What begins in Winterfell crosses south into a court that greets dangerous things with courtesy first.
Royal Decree on Safety: This chronicle contains adult themes and darker material. Trigger Warnings will accordingly be issued with every post
Archive Index
Prologue: where Fire meets Snow
“What’s in a name?”To some, it is merely a word cast into the dark. To others, it is a heartbeat shared, a silent truth earned only when the steel is put away. And for a few, it is something more dangerous still: a promise, a claim, a name spoken with the quiet certainty that one day it will be answered..
Welcome to Perzy hen Sōna, a dark House of the Dragon AU centered on the hidden daughter of winter and the dragon.
If you’d like to share your thoughts, a message, reblog, or comment is always welcome.
where Fire meets Snow
“What’s in a name?”
To some, it is merely a word cast into the dark. To others, it is a heartbeat shared, a silent truth earned only when the steel is put away. And for a few, it is something more dangerous still: a promise, a claim, a name spoken with the quiet certainty that one day it will be answered.
By reading past this banner, you confirm you are 18+ and comfortable with dark themes.
They called her Snow because they had no better name for a child who did not quite belong to anyone.
She was born at Winterfell with Stark blood in her mother and dragon blood in her father, though no one spoke the second truth aloud. The North kept its silences well. The girl grew up inside one of them: white-haired, grey-eyed, too strange-looking to disappear into a crowd, and therefore doomed to be noticed by all the wrong people. Children were cruel in the easy way of children. Adults were cruel in the careful way of adults. Ghost. Wrong. Unclaimed. It was easier to laugh than to wonder.
So she learned to endure. To stand still. To talk little and answer less. To take what she was given and ask for nothing.
Then came the winter that nearly took her. She broke through the ice and came out blue with cold, her body already half-convinced it had been left to die. No one came. No hand reached for her. No voice called her name. Only the river, the white silence, and the hard lesson that being born into a house did not mean the house would keep you.
That was when she found the egg. It was small enough to fit against her shoulder, a ragdoll thing of warmth in a world of frost. She did not know what it was at first. Only that it lived. Only that its heat kept her from slipping under. Only when she held it close did something in her answer back.
She saved it with her hands and her breath and the last of her warmth, and it saved her in return. When it finally hatched, the thing that came from it did not feel like a miracle. It felt like herself. And when the day came that she was sent south, it did not feel like leaving behind a life.
It felt like being carried from one kind of exile into another. King’s Landing greeted her the way it greeted most things worth fearing: with courtesy first.
The Hightowers smiled before they measured her. Alicent’s softness was the sort built to make a girl lower her guard, to make her think she was being welcomed when she was really being placed. Eira learned quickly that these were the kinds of people who liked to help shape you into something easier to carry. She let them think her quietness was uncertainty. Let them think her blankness was stupidity. It was an excellent shield. People who think you are harmless often stop looking for the knife.
Rhaenyra was different. She did not talk over her. She talked to her.
Their first meetings were under the old gods, where the pale face of the weirwood seemed to watch in silence and the air always felt a little too still. Rhaenyra understood court and politics because she had grown up inside them, but she understood something else too: how to forge an allegiance without making it feel like a chain. She had the instinct for power, yes, but there was more to it than that.
She saw the usefulness of the girl, the weight the dragon gave her, the claim she represented. And then, somewhere beneath all that, she began to care. Not in the clean way of a court ally, but in that messy, personal way that made her linger after the useful words were done, that made them something like friends.
So she taught Eira Valyrian in fragments, one piece at a time, as a private inheritance being passed on. Eira learned quickly. She was good at listening. Better even than hearing what people meant when they lied. Better still at keeping her face still while the room changed around her.
The dragon was always there. At first it could still fit beside her chair, beside her bed, in narrow halls and quiet corners. It followed her everywhere, warm and watchful, and the keep slowly learned that the girl and the dragon were not separate things in the way the court preferred to imagine. They moved as one. If Eira was tense, the dragon was tense. If the dragon stirred, so did she. People began to notice that one could not be understood without the other.
Daemon noticed first among the men.
At the beginning he watched because Rhaenyra had written to him about her. Then he watched because the girl herself became difficult to ignore. She had Stark in her face and Targaryen in her blood and something else too, something made sharper by living too long under other people’s hands. He saw how she looked at the room before she entered it. How she measured every smile. How she stayed quiet when silence gave her the advantage.
So he began with questions. Then with lessons.
The dagger work started in the courtyard, before the dragon grew too large for the old spaces. He showed her stance, grip, balance, the small ways a body could betray itself before steel ever touched skin. He did not pity her. He did not coddle her. He did not insult her by pretending she was fragile. He simply taught her how to stop looking like someone the world could move around.
That was the first thing that bloomed between them.
He saw how long she had lived at the mercy of other people’s choices, and something in him hardened against the thought of her remaining there. So he kept teaching. Kept giving her tools. Kept wanting her to have at least one thing the court could not take from her without a fight.
And when he finally gave her a name, it landed differently because he had earned the right to say it.
The dragon grew too fast for the keep to contain. Its wings unfolded wider than the corridor walls could comfortably allow. Its body became too large for narrow halls, too powerful for rooms that had once seemed grand enough to hold anything. Eira began leaving doors open for it, then began avoiding rooms altogether. The keep, which had once contained her carefully enough to pass for safety, started to feel like a house built around a truth too large for its beams. So her life moved outward. From chamber to courtyard. From courtyard to terraces. From terraces to the open beaches, where the wind came hard off the sea and there was room enough for the dragon to breathe.
That was where Daemon took her when the walls became too small. The lessons changed with the landscape. He taught her how to move with the blade and, later, how to trust the rise of the dragon beneath her when the time came to ride. There, with the salt air in her face and the dragon close enough to feel like another pulse, he began to speak to her in quieter words, warmer words, words that only mattered because they were meant for her and no one else.
That was the second thing that bloomed between them. Rhaenyra saw it too.
She watched Eira grow not only as a political presence, but as a person she had begun to care for in spite of herself. She knew what the court would make of a girl with a dragon. She knew what Viserys would see if he looked too closely. She knew what it meant to have a half-sister in the room and to decide, against all sense and training, that she wanted her protected. So she kept showing up. Kept teaching. Kept speaking to her as though she were worth the time it took to answer properly.
That was the third thing that bloomed between them.
Aemond noticed all of it and understood too little of it.
He knew Rhaenyra and Eira were speaking. He knew the princess was teaching her something. He could see the shift in the girl’s posture, the changes in the way she carried herself, the way the dragon seemed to answer her more quickly with each passing season. But he did not know what was being said. He did not know what private language had been built between them. He did not know what Daemon had earned, or how.
That ignorance curdled into something ugly in him.
Because he could watch, but he could not enter. Could see the effects, but not the method. Could tell that the girl was changing, but not by what hands. And the not-knowing became its own kind of injury. So he waited.
Years passed like that. Winter to spring. Spring to summer. Summer to autumn and back again. The dragon grew out of rooms, out of corridors, out of the keep itself. Eira stopped entering the older spaces unless she had to. If the dragon could not fit, then neither could she stay long. So her life moved outward, and with it the circle of people who could reach her began to shrink.
Daemon’s lessons changed with the world around them.
Rhaenyra’s affection deepened into something personal enough to trouble the clean lines of politics.
And Aemond kept watching. Always watching.
Until the day his patience finally took on the shape of a corridor and he stepped out into her path at last.
Whispers from the throne room confirm that Queen Merry I has officially reached her limit. Yesterday, certain unnamed individuals (cough, Sir Pippin, cough) were seen shaking the slap treel with reckless abandon. Her Majesty did not hesitate. The royal ink has dried, and a decree of banishment has been sealed. The House words of House Silkfort remain absolute: "We Do Not Beg. We Demand." Order will be restored to the realm, one paw-strike at a time.
The ink has dried, the ravens have been sent, and the old name has been burned in dragonfire. v-wie-was is no more. Welcome to the age of v-lar-morghulis!
Please adjust your scrolls and bookmarks accordingly. The Chief Editor has officially moved their operational base to the smoking ruins of Old Valyria, and with a new name comes a shift in the editorial focus. Speaking off.
EDITORIAL FOCUS: The Lack of discussion about the Romance in House of the Dragon: Let’s be honest for a moment- the realm is talking far too little about the absolute, devastating romance in this show. The angst? The tension? The political longing? This chronicle intends to fix that scarcity immediately.
Sky Puppies: Big, scaly, terrifying, incredibly cute. Yes, we are talking about dragons. The skies of Westeros belong to them, and so does a massive chunk of my brain right now.
House Silkfort: The true rulers of this blog. Do not let the soft name fool you; their domain is absolute. Queen Merry I and her Knight, Sir Pippin are currently managing the court gossip section, demanding scampi, and enforcing their house motto: “We Do Not Beg. We Demand.”
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? The printing presses are working overtime. I am currently restructuring the archives: All old works (Marvel, Star Wars, Stranger Things) are being moved into the "Old Kingdom Archives".A brand new, dedicated Westeros Masterlist is rising from the ashes for all upcoming dragon and romance fics
I love the whole 30 is the new 21 trend like yes queen so true. Your 30s are not for having children and settling down. They are for traveling, building your career, and going to the CLUB. Freeze ur eggs if u must I don’t care. Any 30 something year old woman who’s choosing to enjoy her newfound financial stability and not spend it in an unhappy marriage has my wholehearted stamp of approval.
Supergirl (2026) is about girls and daughters and women. It's about messy girls, vulnerable girls, strong girls, scared girls. And, last but not least, it's about girls protecting girls. And it's all important.
As I get closer to celebrating my 15th tumblr anniversary, I really think I’m going to go back to my roots and do song fic requests with some of my favorite songs. People will get to select a song and fandom. Each day will be a different fandom (hockey, the Pitt, asoiaf, marvel, seb stan/chris Evans non marvel characters, Henry cavill, TGM)
