#dreamplagued

a collection of morally complex prompts.

the expression on aerion's face is a vicious thing, lips curled up into a toothy smile that was anything but humourous.   eyes wide in that way so often attributed to targaryen madness, he laughs.   slow, acidic.

“ and what is it you stand for, hm ?   if not me, not our name. ”   he presses closer, fingers tapping an agitated rhythm against the sword sheathed at his hip.   he won't admit it, but something like betrayal itches under his skin, the indignation of it.   his family.   his family.   and they wouldn't choose him ?

(   once upon a time he'd cling to the hem of daeron's clothes, eager for his time, his attention.   they were brothers, once   )

all he can do with the pressure in his chest is lash out.

“ no.   it is rare you can ever stand at all, isn't it, lēkia ? ” 

kiera had gone to sit by herself in the gardens, having picked a spot off to the side on a bench. earlier she'd accepted a jug and cup from a servant, intending to drink by herself. every now and then she had flashed a smile or nodded at a guard while taking in her surroundings. the light breeze brought the scent of fresh flowers. however, as she finished her third cup of wine she'd heard a familiar voice. kiera placed her cup down by the jug before she turned her gaze to him, to daeron. he wasn't a terrible sight to see, but his words had made her pause.

@dreamplagued :: "I am made of memories."

Vaenna let out a small, weary sigh as she twisted the wet rag within her hand, wringing it clear of excess water before she dabbed at the princeling's sweat drenched brow. The scent of incense and herbs clung to her skin.

"No, my child, you are made of flesh and blood, just as the rest of us. It is taught that we are all bound to our bodies, weak and infallible as they are. It is a reminder from the Gods that we are mortal."

She had tried for years to force herself to feel the affection for Maekar's sons that she had fostered for their mother and father, for their sisters, but despite all her best efforts she could only feel pity. Overwhelming, unending pity that gnawed at the pit of her stomach. And none made her feel so distraught as Prince Daeron, though she did not know why, a fact that displeased her even more.

@dreamplagued asked : ✿  dunk and / or haru

por qué no los dos !!

THE MAN TAKETH A DRINK , THEN THE DRINK TAKETH THE MAN ⊹⋆ pallid   features   sour   ,   lips   𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎   -   a   𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒆   down-pressed   upon   flesh   ,   a   fractured   fault   line   in   a   𝑚𝛼𝑟𝑏𝑙𝜀𝜄𝑠𝜀   .   to   be   found   ,   as   he   was   always   found   .   soaked   in   a   𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝   sanguine   -   letched   over   a   finery . a warriors 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 , bled out in 𝖗𝖊𝖉-𝖈𝖚𝖗𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖙 .   a   doublet   scorned   .  eyes   of mismatched   sapphire   and emerald  bare   down   upon   the   𝑠𝜄𝑔𝘩𝜏 .  pale   sanded   tresses   ,   rendered   little   more   than   a   𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠  nest   atop   a   𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠   .   it   is   a   slighted   sight   ;   a   𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓   fallen   ,   to   the   depths   of   a   𝒅𝒓𝒖𝒏𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒅   .

❝ what   ever   it   is   you   𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑘   -   it   will   not   be   spied   at   the   𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖   of   your   𝒄𝒖𝒑𝒔   . . ❞

𝖘𝖚𝖈𝖍  𝖒𝖊𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖞  𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘  𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒  𝖙𝖍𝖊  𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖌  𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖞𝖊𝖓.  the  storm  lord  hums  slightly  in  response,  nodding  minutely  as  he  raises  his  own  cup  to  his  lips  and  drains  the  remainder  of  its  contents.  a  hand  reaches  for  the  half  empty  bottle  of  wine,  moves  to  refill  his  cup  before  extending  the  to  daeron’s,  offering  to  refill  his  in  the  same  motion.

❝are  we  all  so  different,  truly?  ❞  he  offers,  soft  are  the  words,  murmured  low  in  the  early  morning  thrum  of  the  camp.  he  sits  contently  on  the  hill  overlooking  the  multi-coloured  tents  that  litter  the  tourney  grounds.  it  is  quiet  now,  but  soon  the  sun  will  rise,  as  will  knights  and  servants.  in  a  matter  of  hours  the  grounds  will  become  a  hub  of  activity  once  more.  but,  for  now,  it  is  almost  peaceful  ...

❝burdened  by  titles,  responsibilities,  the  legacies  and  the  wrongdoings  of  our  fathers  and  forefathers  …  ❞

OPPOSITE HOUSES: THESE VIOLENT ENDS HAVE VIOLENT DELIGHTS

I WANT THAT FAIRYTALE . . . ( accepting ! ) ✴︎ — @dreamplagued

THE LIQUID SEEPING INTO HER CLOTHES MADE HER JUMP SLIGHTLY.

It was not uncommon to be at a place she should never set foot in; but who would Ayldri be if not for the habit of wandering in places she had no reason to be in? ( Least all of damn tavern ).

Her mind had been entirely elsewhere, lost in thought about something that had lost all meaning now that she was more bothered by the fact the strong, rich scent overcrowded her senses more than anything. The alcohol dripped on the edge of the table & for a moment she was simply frozen, staring at the mess that happened.

Ayldri wasn't the type to make a big deal out of things, she would've honestly rather hid away than remain seated but when she looked up while in the process of speaking, the words died out & amber eyes widened.

Oh the irony. . .

“Daeron—why are you here?” A question she had no right to be asking considering the fact she, too, had no business being here. The Dornish princess cared little for the wine that ruined her clothing; not like it was anything special, just articles that could easily be replaced when she wasn't too caught up on the fact the Targaryen prince was here & well . . . not at the Ashford Tournament.

Her tone was hushed as if anyone would recognize either of them, the two of them cast aside by the very society their families surrounded themselves with.

For once, it felt nice to not have judgmental eyes watching her every move, but then there was the possibility of someone sent to watch either of them while hiding behind commoners clothes, just as the both of them seemed to be.

“And why do you look as if you've been through hell and back itself...?”