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@vaeles
INDEX. DOSSIER. VISUALS. AESTHETICS. DRAGONSTONE. SGAEYL. STUDY. MANNERISMS. DYNAMICS. CRACK POSTS. THREADS.
FATE. A WORD MEANING DESTINY. FATE. A WORD MEANING DOOM.
introducing vaeles targaryen, KING of the seven kingdoms. the black flame. twenty and seven. otto seppalainen. crowned by zhenya. affiliated with asobai.
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𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 ... the day after the funeral, following the interment of viserra's ashes on dragonstone 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 … dragonmont 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 … visaera and vaela ( @shesnakes + @altaraed )
it is the rose-light of first blush when they drop from the sky, pale constellations still aglow in a pink heaven, when sgaeyl soars the path to dragonmont and glides them through a broad alcove along the cliffside. the wind sings softly through the dark iron walls of basalt and volcanic stone, a palace forged by valyrian sorcery for dragons secreted within the cragged walls of the mountain. it is an untold place, the breath of its violent beauty interred with the ashes of dragonlords. the targaryens of dragonstone had not shared the candour of its alleged existence for an age, but the prowl of a lion had become enough to unveil it to another.
it is easier to start a war than to end it, and he could not afford the infinite melancholy of night, sorrow as endless as a northern winter bound to the death that was to come — that had already came. it would take more of them, he knew, to curb the losses that would press his brow like the crown, like soil atop the grave. dragon against dragon. man against man. cousin against cousin. blood against blood. his kingship meant nothing, in the end, if the people, too, became charred remains within their seats and strongholds. his body shifts with sgaeyl’s canting shadow, visaera’s lean frame pulled into the manoeuvre by her hold of his waist. they are deep beneath the earth, grey caverns swathed in cool air and smoke, the occasional echo of rumbling dragons rising to meet them from their lairs. sgaeyl comes to rest upon an outcrop of eroded stone, the dig of her claws loosing sediment from primaeval rock. gloved digits hold fast to visaera’s upper arm as he draws her from his back, directing her to descend the trained slant of sgaeyl’s dark wing before he follows. she shakes her great head, muscles rippling beneath a number of scarred scales as her cranium looms near to receive the run of vaeles’ hand underneath her jaw.
‘ sgaeyl may have hatched for me, ’ he begins, ‘ but the right of rider must be earned. blood does not equate worth. you must be prepared to die, do you understand ? ’ he had seen it before, bastard bones and steel melted down, their hopes that they may be more than a man’s moonlit fault drifting as sea foam forever. vaeles did not doubt visaera. he knew the sharpness of the lionesses’ mind, but the kingdoms did not. to the realm, she looked as if she’d been carved out of a single pearl, and lymond would sell her to these beasts that hoarded prized gems — beasts that would drink from her till sick, but that could not drink till satisfied. had tried already, to trade his darling rose in a milk-white gown, draw the ichor from the shimmering well of her before he intervened — you are the daughter of yourself, vaeles had told her, you are born of your own dream. she was so fragile, in many eyes — a jewel, a flower, delicate no matter what she did. she was loveliness itself. a prisoner of a fairytale she did not write. vaeles could not be her knight forever, as much as he had sworn himself to it. he could not choke the softness from the narrative alone. she would have to maim it herself, kill it, if she desired dominion of her own hand. stand at the throne beside him. ‘ vaela and sygar are just behind. come. ’
closed starter / with vaeles targaryen ( @vaeles ) in the great hall.
the sound of their heartbeat drums louder and louder as a winter storm rages through corridors within the red keep. their grandest nightmare has come to term after wylla's youngest confessed their brother's whereabouts - in search of the soon to be king. it is not vaeles' demeanor they worry about but what their unpredictable darling boy will do or say next. tall doors open and they dart through, eyes already searching for their curly headed boy in a sea of strangers.
" theon ! " their voice vibrates throughout the hall, a familiar stern tone. arms instinctively reach for the child and though he swats away hands that hold him still, he does not run off again. an explanation is attempted but silenced once wylla makes a loud shushing noise. inflamed cheeks peer up at onlookers and among them, as calon had said, is vaeles. " your grace, my deepest apologies for my son... i hope he has behaved himself in your presence. "
the last time he had seen the boy, the child stood at the mouth of his dragon, a heavy layer of soot pressed upon his brow as smoke drifted through the air. and the spatter of enemy blood drawn from vaeles’ sword, accosting the lord’s features and seeping through his tunic, had done little to startle him from the path of sgaeyl’s black fire. the length of her bloodied teeth had been the height of him, and there had been little fear at all. during the sacking of white harbour, when the boltons had deigned to raze it, vaeles had kept theon’s body from the corpse-addled pile — nearly the whole of his warring done with the lad pressed tight to his hip. his parent had been disquieted then, and he suspects that they are now, even if theon’s subsequent return will be devoid of blood and fire.
‘ wyl. ’ he greets, summoning a guise which proffers them an amiable tilt of mouth, a smile too worn, stretched out and used to be anything but false in the eyes of an adult. ‘ your son was telling me that he would like to see sgaeyl again, and that he might like a dragon of his own. ’ it is too late for him to feel paternal now. whatever exists inside him that might once have been capable of nurturing a child had long since been corrupted or burned away. years of betrayal and slaughter had seen to that. so he looks upon their brood, the unburdened youth betwixt their sons invoking deep lines of a grave appearance. his voice falls another octave, the volume lowered as to hint that they might speak alone, bereft of the young boys he is careful not to alarm with talks of war. ‘ perhaps you will sail them to dragonstone one day. ’ and perhaps that day is sooner than either of them had thought.
— Tatève Simonyan
I’d love to relax but it’s just not realistic
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i looooove characters who are sacrificial lamb coded. characters who have never lived for themselves. characters born to be a tool, a weapon, a sacrifice, all of the above. a character raised by the heroes to save the world, at any expense, even their own health, even their own life. a character raised by the villains to end the world, at any expense, even their own health, even their own life. characters who are denied personhood so they can be used as tools instead. characters who never even had a chance to be people because they were shaped into something else from the moment they were born. characters who were born to die.
King Arthur (2004), dir. Antoine Fuqua
“Then I turned round and saw the sky. It was red and all my life was in it.”
— Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea
game of thrones: scenery + dragonstone
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asoiaf meme: 1/5 castles
DRAGONSTONE, the seat of House Targaryen
“REST IN PEACE / NOW GET UP AND GO TO WAR.”
— (via morghuulis)
I trust you to kill me.
Rumi, from The Essential Rumi tr. Coleman Barks
Vaeles Targaryen to Edric Stark ( @aislamxnto ) and Varian Dayne ( @vcrian ) when discussing Targaryen madness in King's Landing, 101 ac.
The Northern encampment was happily settled on the verge of twilight, their horses sedated by the fragrant breathing of flowers; a still deepening calm alleviating the gloom to come, upon their ascendence to King’s Landing. Edric stood away from the collection of billets, noting their sea of tents had vulgarized the earth; he admired the freshness of the trees, and eyed the cankerous boles that hung on nearby trees, finding them too alike unkind ears. It would be believed the thunderous beating of wings furiously against the winds would cause the earth to quiver, but only a large mass descending from sweeping clouds, granted Edric the knowledge the prince had come.
Edric returned to their last meeting a thousand times, endeavouring to properly entomb the memory in his mind. After a slew of slights by lady fate, he was greedy for remembrances of their former peace; the forthcoming pressing of a mighty crown upon Vaeles’ brow, promised they would be rare occurrences, if he were to be graced by them at all. But the endurance of pain across long stretches of time had rendered patience a habit in Edric -- he would always wait for as long as required. Having common sense and experience in hand, Edric's approach of Vaeles and Sgaeyl was slow, and profoundly quiet; his voice, the true marker of his presence. “My men have found the campgrounds pleasing thus far, but I have wondered if they were to be blessed by something grander than warm winds; yet perhaps my eyes deceive me, in believing the prince has at last, returned to my side." Edric wished to be gratified by a playful response, as if he sought to be continuously allowed re-admittance to the warmth of his countenance.
As the leagues betwixt them dissolve, he can feel the narrow of Sgaeyl’s eyes at his vertebrae, the heft of her head looming near as dragon embraces wolf. Though the south had melted the frozen snowflakes from his lashes, the scent of road-worn sweat and smoke from an infant fire were not enough to wash the north’s pine scent from him, luring Vaeles back to their past — the soil of the north watered with Bolton blood. He was once too cold like the moon to seek the elder’s attention, a mystery beneath its silver shards of light, that, even when thawed, was bound to promise and duty the way a jewel was permanently inlaid in gold. But time had unbridled him enough to seek that accompaniment — as long as he was not alone in its fervour. Long gone were the eves of winter where the lord Stark’s warmth had softened the frostbite sinking into his marrow, making a home in his heart and gladdening his disposition in an instant amidst the horrors of warfare. Then, as his pensive stare pored over maps, he imagined the loss of Edric as a pain much like an organ being ripped out, something no longer attached but agonising, a roughly amputated limb. And that had not changed. A gloved hand runs up to rub Edric’s nape and card into the back of his hair — what did his fingers do before they held him ? Kill, he thinks, and kill again.
When his mouth meets Edric’s, his free hand comes up to cup behind his ear, thumb drawn along cheekbone as parted tiers of plush satin enclose his lower lip. Perhaps a flush of red would have crept up his cheeks once — if the ripe peach of boyhood had not rotted at birth, if the remnants had not been mollified by sorrow and war. The languid shift of his lips grazes a departing kiss to the edge of Edric’s mouth, stalled only by the heavy lean of muscle, the press of his forehead against the other’s before a comfortable space is returned between them. The edge of his mouth quirks into an easy smirk, roguish when partnered with the lax slant of his head. ‘ I have come for Lycaon, though I suppose you will do. ’ He smiles faintly ( imagines he has not done so in a number of years ) alongside the jest, but the pull of his mouth soon dims, fleeting, poisoned by life that has grown too complex over time; the hand of death resting heavier day by day upon his shoulder.
(visibly shaking and covered in blood) yeah its just been kind of a long week haha
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"you look tired" well the torment is relentless and the horrors never cease
