elsa

quiet footfalls carry the targaryen prince with the pride that was expected of him; the son of the infamous black king. but rhaegar scarcely hides the excitement about the newcoming dragonseeds, neither silverwing nor vermithor had riders in many years / even the lonesome sheepstealer, an ill name given to the majestic beasts by the local commonfolk, had found a rider. rhaegar itches to take a look at the winged reaper, his muted brown scales shifting into beaten bronce under the midday sun —– hinting at the great vermithor's parentage.

Sheepstealer, similarly to Nettles, was not particularly beautiful or beguiling.

Many admired the dragons for their great, near otherworldly beauty, having their breath stolen, stripped mercilessly at the mere sight of them. Sheepstealer’s scales were a hideous hazel color, and while his fires had long diminished, he was still fearsome, was still able to shake a city on its foundation. He would be an advantageous force to have under the belt of the Blacks, a fact that once had the gears in Nettles’ brain turning, forming a plan. While the other dragonseeds had rushed forward, aiming to form a bond in the name of glory and gore, she had kept her distance, watching, waiting. A little red string seemingly lingered within her chest, pulling her closer, ever-closer to him, but he had been incensed, irate by the sudden intrusion into his space. He had consequently lashed out, raining a storm of fire and flames upon them. Many lives were lost, with him slaying more than Vermithor, Seasmoke, and Silverwing combined, but then, she had left out a sheep for him.

One day passed, then two, then three, and so on and so forth until finally, a timid, tentative routine was established. They grew accustomed to one another’s presence, so much so that he finally let her climb upon his back, forming a pure, palpable bond. The kind of bond that would not wilt or waver in the slightest, no matter what was thrown their way.

“If you say so,” she breathed, her eyes still somewhat narrowed. “There’s been little time for riding so far.”

As for his name, her brow rose, quirking ever so slightly. “He was given the name Sheepstealer, and it oughtta remain that way. It fits him, don’t ya think?”

The invitation to take to the skies together then filled the air, trickling her ears and effectively taking her by surprise. “Mayhaps.”

Many had looked at Jaime differently after he had slain the Dragon King, Aerys, striking him down seemingly in the name of power and politics. Such could not be further from the truth, seeing as he had planned to bring a storm of violence and viscera upon Kings Landing, but said storm had been kept concealed, cloaked in obscurity. He could have protested, objected with all of his might in an effort to clear his name, but he had not. He had held his tongue, remaining silent, quiet as a field mouse, and so, from then on out, he had been known as the Kingslayer.

The weight of his sin had settled upon his shoulders, threatening to envelop him, to swallow him whole, leaving nothing – not a small, seemingly insignificant trace – behind, and yet, he had persevered, pushing through, no matter what was thrown his way.

“If you insist,” she breathed, her tones steady, solid as stone. “But if you’ve not yet spoken to her, then there is a chance that bridge hasn’t been wholly burned.”

Reaching his chambers, Aemond let out a deep sigh before walking over to Liane to assist her with undoing the braids in her hair. He knew how much of a relief it could be to have someone help with it. While Aemond was mostly seen with his hair loose, he had moments in which he preferred his hair braided as well, despite not quite having the patience to undo them in the evening. “Kind …” He repeated the word and let out another deep sigh before shrugging lightly. “Hmhmm, perhaps yes. Though I merely did it to avoid more conflict.” 

Life at court had taught him that sometimes he had to take the diplomatic road rather than the one he wished to follow himself. He had learned how to smile and lie and pretend. It was not something he was proud of, but it was a necessary evil in King’s Landing where nobody could be trusted and everything could be heard by unwanted ears. So he’d learned when to smile, when not to and more importantly which lies to tell who to keep the peace and avoid things becoming increasingly chaotic. Or well, most of the time at least. It was a survival skill that everyone at court needed. 

“It is in the past now though, so from now I can focus on you.” He spoke gently as he went and got a comb to help her brush her hair. Aemond wasn’t quite known for doing these little things, he was aware of it. Usually his displays of affection were smaller, a smile, a gentle touch here or there, the invitation to take a walk through the gardens or something like that. But he was becoming increasingly more comfortable around Liane and wanted her to know that he cared even if he struggled sometimes in showing it. 

Affection had always been difficult for him, Aemond did not know why, but other than his family, he had always believed that love was impossible for him. That he was not wired for it. Perhaps even that he was broken. Liane however, had to be the first person ever outside of his family that he felt close to. Close to in a way that made him feel comfortable to show her the more sensitive side of him, though she was so perceptive that she had spotted that side long ago already. He did not need to pretend around her, he could be himself, he could speak his mind and reveal his emotions. It was something he greatly appreciated about her, and overtime he had become fond of her to say the least. 

Finally, upon making amends with the princes, Liane and Aemond were free to make the measly, near minute journey back to his chambers, where they did not have to pretend, playing the roles that had been impressed upon them. Now, do not be mistaken. They donned said roles without hesitation or reserve, telling each lord and lady what they wanted – no, needed – to hear, because life at court was precarious. There were bumps and blimps at every turn, threatening to envelop them, to swallow them whole and leave nothing – not even a small, seemingly insignificant trace – behind, because each and every member had their own wants and wishes. They wanted nothing more than to grasp power, thus gaining a pure, palpable hold over those around them.

She had picked up on such when she had been young, nothing more than a child, for while her formative years had been innocent, as innocuous as could be, those years came to an end, a premature close when her uncle, Larys, and his baseborn sister, Alys, had stained their hands with the blood of her father and grandsire, committing the act of kinslaying in the name of power and pride. A fire had consequently claimed their lives, leaving them with no choice but to die, passing from this mortal realm onto the next.

Their deaths had not been a freak exact. She knew that. She did, and while she should have acted immediately, demanding an investigation be opened, she had not. Instead, she had remained silent, quiet as a field mouse. Her reasoning for such was cloaked, concealed in the deepest, darkest depths of her chest cavity, where it would remain for the foreseeable future.

Mayhaps that was for the best, since she could focus on the present, the here and now.

There, within the seemingly safe, secure confines of his chambers, they could just be, letting themselves grow loose, lax. Any semblance of their facades dropped, dissipating and flying away with the breeze, as shown by how he reached out, running his fingers through her hair softly, smoothly. Her braids slowly but surely fell away, flowing freely down the length of her back. Years upon years had been spent growing out her tresses, enhancing her already great, near otherworldly beauty, and while a considerable amount of effort was put into its upkeep, she welcomed help. Especially his help, because in those rare moments, he was so uncharacteristically gentle, so tender.

“There is little you could do to cross that line, Aemond,” she breathed, her tones soft, syrupy. So much so that an onlooker could melt, liquefying and falling down into a puddle on the ground below. Her hand fell into his, pulling them closer, ever-closer, then, “Yes, I . . . I would like that.”

Their relationship had progressed with each passing moon, but now, she felt as though they were closer than ever before. Perhaps so close that sharing such intimacy was the natural next step. “Might you help me with the ties of my dress?”

“𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒇 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆, 𝒊𝒇 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒖𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒄𝒚?”

The realm saw fifty-five years of peace and prosperity under the rule of King Jaehaerys, the Conciliator, but the matter of his succession brought about the threat of war. Two heirs, Rhaenys and Viserys, were proposed, heirs that the Great Council gathered to vote on. To no one’s surprise, the favored candidate, Viserys, emerged victorious, resulting in him formally being named Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. Viserys succeeded Jaehaerys following his death, but unbeknownst to him, acts he made in the name of peace effectively planted the seeds of war.

Prior to the birth of his sons, Viserys appointed his firstborn daughter, Rhaenyra, as his heir and Princess of Dragonstone. There are those who still refuse to acknowledge her claim, though, instead having chosen to throw their support behind his firstborn son, Aegon the Elder. Yet another succession dispute looms on the horizon, bringing promises of blood and battle, of death and destruction . . .

ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐬:

⋆ ★ Open canon characters and OCs

⋆ ★ A welcoming 18+ community

⋆ ★ Literate roleplay

⋆ ★ Dragons, valyrian steel, and more!

LITTLE DID SHE KNOW OF HER MOTHER'S FIRST MARRIAGE. the young maiden dared not to usher a word. in particular within the presence of her dear mother. the only living reminder of their union was her elder sister. for naerys was their only babe ── baelon dying moons later. mayhaps the prince was far too devastated over the loss of his first sister-wife, alyssa. so cruelly had the princess been taken by the stranger    . . . the very same way queen aemma had. many women perished in their grueling battlefield ── childbirth. with the queen's unfortunate death came a chance, an unwavering ambition. there was no secret her mother was responsible for her sister's union. naerys was now queen and had produced three sons for her brother-husband. yet, soon her time as queen would fade. viserys had proclaimed rhaenyra his heir, casting aside aegon for his eldest child and daughter. many were puzzled with the king's bold choice, a sensation her elder sister surely felt.

while the princess viserra still had her desires, it was alerie's own ambition that drove the young maiden. she did not wish to be queen simply for the desire of her mother. no, always had she yearned for power. to be beloved by many, just as her grandmother had been. the good queen    . . . the queen. for young alerie truly was her mother's daughter.

much of the realm, including her, believed that princess rhaenyra had no claim to the throne. the elder sister of her grandsire, princess and queen rhaena, did not inherit the iron throne. neither had princess rhaenys, her cousin. what made rhaenyra so much more special? why had she been deemed fit as heir, all the while aegon was merely tossed to the side? he was the eldest son, and to many the rightful heir of king viserys.

at the mention of her    . . . activities with aegon, a small smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. always was it difficult to fool, or sway her elder sister. for she knew alerie like the back of her hand. both could never hide from the other ── each seeing the other’s intentions. rumors and whispers often spread like wildfire within court. her mother had cautioned her of such, and yet she cared not. in fact she hoped the rumors would flutter about her seduction of aegon. surely it would pressure her sister to cease it.

The Stranger did not discriminate. He did not care about who was pure and pious, who was horrid and hideous, who was cold and cruel. He simply took and took and took, stealing away the life forces of countless and leaving them with no choice but to die, passing from this mortal realm onto the next. Childbed gave him the perfect opportunity to do as such, as shown by how Alyssa – bold, brave Alyssa – had been stolen, stripped mercilessly away. Her strength had seemingly been great, near otherworldly, and yet, the birth of her youngest son had seen any semblance of that strength dissipating, disappearing and flying away with the breeze. Twenty agonizing hours of pushing had passed in which she had whined, wailing at the top of her lungs due to the pure, unfettered pain that had been birthed beneath her skin. That pain had not wilted or wavered in the slightest, either; it had spread, straying and traveling the length of her form. Then, finally, her small, silver-haired babe was produced.

Aegon, Baelon had named him, beyond pleased, for while the birth had been stressful, strenuous, both his beloved wife and babe had survived. Yes, they were left frail, feeble, but the caretakers assured him that they would watch dutifully over the pair, doing anything and everything in their power to promote their chances of survival. Those chances seemed to grow, mounting with each passing day, but the key word there was seemed. They ultimately passed, causing Baelon’s heart to shatter, splintering into a million seemingly unmendable pieces. A long, lengthy period of time had followed, with him flailing, floundering like a fish out of water before finally, Viserra steadied him, stabilizing him amidst the storm that had threatened to envelop him, swallowing him whole and leaving nothing – not even a small, seemingly insignificant trace – behind.

Years later, the good, gracious Queen Aemma befell a similar fate, prompting Viserra to push Naerys in Viserys’ direction under the guise of serving as his companion, his closest confidant. Such was why the crown was pressed onto her head, marking her as his second queen.

Naerys did not desire Viserys, but she did love him, holding him impossibly close to her heart. So close that she had done her duty without hesitation or reserve, bringing forth four healthy, hearty children. She had done her best to mold them, making them into good and true members of House Targaryen, all the while maintaining a pure, palpable hold over the realm’s political sphere.

As Viserys delved deeper into the depths of disease, her hold waned, though.

Their crowns should pass to Aegon and Helaena, but Alerie seemed to think otherwise. Such was confirmed, cemented in reality by how her florid, flowery mask dropped, revealing the sharpness that lay beneath.

“Mind your tongue,” Naerys shot back, refusing to wilt, wavering in the face of the rumors that had been spat forth. Those rumors held no stock, after all, for while a piece of her heart belonged to her wild, willful brother, Daemon, she had not betrayed her marital vows. The same could not be said of Aegon, since he had strayed, slipping through the beds of the court’s ladies. “What is it that you desire, Alerie? For Aegon to set Helaena aside and marry you? Any children born of your union will fall behind the twins in the line of succession. Such is the way of the world.”