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emilykaldwen · 9 days

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twelve

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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High Valyrian Translations (the longer sentences are within the text) Mittys - Fool laodijes peldios - Thieving Snake Sparos bonus issa - Who is she? Kepus issa - My Uncle hāedus - niece Trēsys - nephew Muñus - aunt]

AUTHOR'S NOTES: As a reminder, this is a TEAM NEUTRAL story. I will not accept character bashing in my comments (unless it's Viserys Targaryen who deserves everything). I reserve the right to curate my comment section. Please leave your hate for any characters to your own blogs.

CHAPTER TWELVE - Bastard on the Burning Sea

Jace and Baela get a Targaryen greeting, and Viserys shows he still has fangs.

Viserys looked small sitting next to the stone miniature of the Valyrian Freehold. Even when it had only taken up the center of the solar, it had still dwarfed him. In the nearly two decades of their marriage, Alicent had watched it grow, encroaching upon the free space bit by bit, like the empire itself had centuries ago. He kept to his alcove with his books and research piled around him and Eddard, the stone mason, loyally by his side with carved pieces placed precisely where they needed to go.

It was Alicent who sat at her husband’s long abandoned desk, fingers trailing over the delicate, rosewood knotwork along the top edge where the inkwell securely sat and dipped her pen, fingers smoothing over the parchment before her.

“Have the plans for the dais been completed?” she asked the young scribe who had come bearing updates on the wedding preparations.

“Yes, my queen.” He unfurled the parchment to show the diagram of the dragon pit, and the structure that was being commissioned where it would go in the center, the seating for the nobility of the realm ringed around it so all could view her son’s nuptials unimpeded. None could claim insult if all had a relatively equal view around the ritual, and the small folk could fill the risers that lined the pit, spectators to see the king’s first born son make his marriage vows. While rumors had ripped through the city and the realm in regards to Rhaenyra’s first marriage - brutally cut short in the wake of the riot in the throne room, the murder of Ser Joffrey at Ser Criston’s hands - and then her secretive, second marriage to The Rogue Prince, there would be no hiding, no rumor mongering when it came to Aegon’s marriage. There would be no doubt to his bride, no implied underhandedness and scheming behind closed doors.

Her son would be given his due, the honor he was entitled to as the long prayed for son of their blessed King Viserys. Her son was a Targaryen, named for the Conqueror himself. The River Lords could see it, and Alicent would ensure the small folk saw it, that the realm saw it.

Her son was the prince Viserys had longed for. Her son that she had nearly died for, frightened and alone in the childbed. Her son was who she had been sacrificed for, and she would not let him be denied, to be cast aside so cruelly, so publicly, as Aemond had been. None of her children deserved this disdain, this neglect. Not when they rode dragons and bore the coloring of their father’s house. When they were so Targaryen she could not recognize them half the time.

Then, perhaps, her father would be satisfied. Then, perhaps, Otto Hightower might be content.

Alicent absently rubbed her wrist, the pain a phantom twinge now.

Her eyes scanned the sketch before her, nodding in approval. “Good. Keeping the small folk contained to the risers will be critical.”

“The guild master has expressed concern in regards to so many in proximity of the dragon pit, your grace.” Alicent pursed her lips in thought, a slight nod.

“Plenty of people live and work in proximity of the pit-”

“Are you looking to set a feast for the dragons, Alicent?” Viserys’ rasping voice interrupted and she looked over to her husband who was focused upon the statue in his hand.

“I’m looking at seating arrangements for our son’s wedding, husband.” A tight smile crossed her face and normally, that would be enough to send him back along to caring about anything else but their children.

‘My children’, she thought possessively, protectively. Viserys had forfeited the right to call them his in private when he had done nothing, made no overture, symbolic or otherwise, for Aemond’s maiming.

“I thought he was to be married at Harrenhal, since he’ll be the future lord. This is a Riverlands affair.”

‘Warrior, give me strength. Mother, give me patience’. Alicent did not look away from her husband, holding his gaze steadily. She could dismiss the stone mason and scribe, but she waited for him to make his move, since he wanted to insert himself into the conversation he previously had no interest in before.

“Aegon is the first born son of the king,” she said tightly, trying to keep her tone even and refusing to let her frustration creep into her voice. “The realm will expect us to spare nothing in celebration of his nuptials, especially with him marrying someone not of Targaryen blood.”

Silence was the answer, Viserys watching her, quiet, before lifting his hand in a dismissive gesture. Both the scribe and the stone mason quickly gathered their items, bowing and leaving the solar. The heavy door shut behind them with a resounding thud after Ser Harrold gave a cursory glance back and Alicent was left with her husband, alone, with the crackling fire for company.

She rose, going to the side table where wine had been replaced with various tinctures and clean water. Wine had been prohibited the past moon in an effort to slow the encroaching rot along his spine that had given the king fits. Horrifying episodes that filled Alicent with fear that he would expire there, limbs frozen as his deteriorating muscles locked into place.

“Here,” she said without allowing protestation, pouring him the careful measure of water and the amber coloured liquid that smelled of savory herbs and something sharp and medicinal. She held her other hand out for the intricately carved statue of some type of ancient dragonlord and met Viserys’ lilac gaze. He sighed and exchanged the figurine for the tincture and Alicent set it carefully aside and folded her hands at her waist. “The realm has declared for Rhaenyra, but they will still find it strange if we do not hold a wedding for Aegon.”

“When did I say that we wouldn’t hold a wedding? I said that it should be held in the Riverlands, because Aegon will be the future Lord of Harrenhal.” He gave a slight salute with his cup and forced back the contents of it, wincing and shaking his head at the taste of it. He fumbled in setting the cup aside and Alicent reached for it before it could fall to the floor. “Ah. Thank you.”

“Are you feeling well? Come, sit by the fire, my love.” She gently reached for him but Viserys threw out his arm, knocking her hand away.

“You are trying to change the subject, Alicent. Do not think me so far gone I do not see it,” he said sharply, the snaggle toothed grit of his teeth on display. Alicent drew back instinctively, not for fear of being struck but at the angry sound of his voice. She cursed herself for her weakness. Viserys was not a terrifying man except in the power he occasionally wielded. He was no image of her own father, whose harsh tones would root her frozen and frightened to the spot.

“I am doing no such thing.”

The hand that gripped her wrist was a strange feeling. Visery’s skin felt fragile, like parchment, dry and cracked and as cold as a specter, as certainly as the Stranger himself when he grabbed her wrist to keep her from moving away. There was little strength in it, but the action of it was what drew her to stillness.

“There is no reason for Aegon to be wedded in the dragon pit in front of all of King’s Landing. Not when Rhaenyra’s own nuptials were a private affair.” Heat flushed through her chest and along her throat and she kept herself from snapping back that Rhaenyra’s wedding had been anything but a private affair.

Instead, she said, “He is your eldest son, Viserys. The realm expects-”

His grip on her wrist tightened and she could actually feel it this time before he flung her away. Had he the strength, he might have shoved her back. Alicent did, indeed, take a step back from him when he pushed himself from his chair.

“The realm expects me to wage war on the Stepstones. The realm expects me to name my eldest son heir. The realm expects me to bow to their whims. It is I who is king!” His shout was unexpected and loud, the gruff bark of an angry dog, for Alicent could never see her husband as the dragon whose sigil he claimed. “I rule this realm! I make the laws, Alicent, and it is I who will decide how my eldest son’s wedding is done.”

She breathed in slowly through her nose and knotted her fingers tighter in her skirt to keep them from trembling. Frustration flared inside her and she wanted to scratch at him, scream and rip at him why Aegon was now his son, and never before. Why did it matter now, why did her children matter to him for something like a wedding?

Why had they not mattered to him when Aemond needed him most, when they had all needed him the most?

“Of course, my king,” Alicent bit out. “Forgive me, for I did not think you would be interested in Aegon’s wedding.” It was as close as she could get to speaking her mind, aware of how close she was to pushing Viserys into something foolish and reckless. It was one thing to accuse Viserys of inaction, but she had been careful of pushing him since that night, when the accusations flew. When her anger and her rage and her overwhelming helplessness, the smell of her son’s blood on the air, of every flinch, every whimper that escaped him, had overtaken her.

I will never be Aemma Arryn.

“And, pray tell, why wouldn't I be interested in our son’s nuptials?” Viserys sneered and she wanted to wrap her hands around his papery neck, and strangle the life from him. Alicent tilted her head back, squaring her shoulders and pinning him with a long, hard look. Tears of anger pricked at the corner of her eyes and the all consuming urge to scream was threatening to claw out of her throat and pierce the air.

“You have left the bringing up of our children to me, Viserys.” Her voice was stilted and shaking. “Their care and their futures have been entrusted to me, and you have never involved yourself. You barely paid attention when I brought up Daeron squiring for my brother, Gwayne, in Oldtown. You gave barely any congratulations when your son bonded with your beloved father’s dragon.”

“Oh, well,” Viserys let out a mirthless huff. “I do quite recall how you claimed that I would make no decision over our children’s future when Rhaenyra brought up the idea of betrothing Jacaerys and Helaena. I believe your words were ‘not until you were cold in your grave’.”

Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms. “And I recall you just telling me that you were the king and that you would make the decisions.” She wanted to tear at him.

The tension was thick enough that Alicent swore she could see it shimmer between them, like breath fogging in the cold air of winter. Did the king feel any remorse? Did he feel any shame for his utter lack of involvement in the lives of his children? The man had even struggled with speaking to his most beloved daughter and he’d made Rhaenyra his heir. Why had he wed her and bedded her if not for more children? What was the point of it all?

Her eyes briefly strayed to his hand, and the gold ring his thumb rubbed against, rotating it around his finger with the motion.

He would have been better, him and Aemma, with a country keep and rooms full to bursting with books.

I would have been happier with a knight of song and charm. With apple orchards and gentle children.

I was a child. I was a child and it didn’t matter to you.

We would have both been happier without dragons.

Dragons had stolen everything from her, even toothless ones such as the frail wraith of a man before her.

Alicent wondered if she truly saw a flicker of shame across her husband’s eyes before he reached for his cane to make his way towards the fire. Instinctively, she went to pull the blanket from where it hung, warmed by the fire, helping him into the chair, wanting to push him into the blaze and free her and her children from this man.

He didn’t look at her as he settled. “Ensure that the rooms for Jacaerys and Baela have been prepared. Perhaps in the North tower. From the top, you can see Dragonstone on a clear day.”

The air was pulled from Alicent’s lungs and she froze in adjusting the blanket over Viserys’ lap. Her gaze locked on his when her head tilted up, so unbearably close to him that their noses may touch. She drew back as if burned.

“What?” Propriety escaped her and she shook her head. “Whatever do Jacaerys and Baela have to do with anything?”

Viserys settled back in his chair. “My grandson is here to serve as cupbearer on the small council. Rhaenyra suggested that Baela may blossom under the excitement of the capital.”

Aemond was meant to be cupbearer. Even with Abrogail’s insistence that Aegon should attend council meetings, Alicent wanted that for Aemond. With Helaena’s promise that there would be no wedding between her and her brother, Aemond was set to be the next Lord of Storm’s End.

Aemond deserved this honor, not the plain faced boy who shared a smile with her soon to be good daughter.

Who shared Lyonel’s smile.

Who shared Harwin’s smile.

“When will they be arriving?” she rasped. Viserys waved a negligent hand, already pulling a book into his lap.

“They departed from Dragonstone yesterday morning with clear skies. They should be here by the morning as long as the winds stay fair.” Mere hours. She had hours to prepare for this. Three days to lose her mind and keep smiling and entertaining the River Lords, to finish the preparations for the birthday feast and the engagement announcement.

Her eyes darted to the throw pillow on the opposite chair, her fingers twisting together before she folded them against her waist.

“I’ll make sure their quarters are prepared for them and that they’re comfortable.” The words were not her own. Alicent didn’t feel like she herself was saying him. She felt distant from her body, the way she so often felt pinned beneath him in those early days of their marriage. The need to flee, to escape, to be anywhere else but there.

If Viserys had dismissed her, she didn’t know. All Alicent knew was that she yanked open the door herself, striding past a startled Ser Westerling and heard the clink of metal against stone as Criston followed a half step behind her. His presence at her back did little to soothe her, but enough that she did not start tearing at her hair, at her skin, frantic cries and accusations falling from her. She could not do as she once did. That time had passed and while Viserys was not an intimidating man, even in his anger, he was still the King.

She was humiliated, embarrassed, sorry for how she had behaved that night, but she could not apologize for her grief and her anger, at the betrayal of the father of her children to deny any sort of justice, to allow Rhaenyra to switch the focus of the gathering, to draw more attention to that which she denied with her whole chest.

Was nothing to come from all that she had survived? No hope, no great reward for the suffering she had endured?

Tears burned hot, and she paused in a quiet corner at the top of the hallway towards her own rooms. A shaky breath. A clench of her hands, fists pressed to her eyes.

“Your Grace.”

Lysa Fossoway was elegant and put together in the golden yellow gown with vibrant red trim as vivid as the apples of Cider Hall. Her blonde hair was braided from her face and held in a net of silver, wisps of grey in the strands giving her a dignified appearance. Her rounded features were pulled in tight anxiety and Alicent swallowed back her scream to be left alone for five minutes.

“Yes, Lysa.” There was no patience for formalities from her, and Lysa slowed with the visible understanding that Alicent was already not in the mood. Her gaze flickered to where Ser Criston linered and dropped into a slight curtsy.

“My apologies, your Grace. The Lord Hand has asked that you join him later,” Lysa said softly. “To discuss some concerning rumors.”

Her stomach knotted and a sound escaped her, high pitched and strangled in her throat. To her credit, Lysa didn’t flinch or move at the sound and Alicent felt the vein in her temple pulse harder. “What else has he done?” she whispered.

“Prince Aegon had… he spent the night in the brothels, and did not come back until dawn.”

Pain pulsed dully behind her eyes. “He was meant to break his fast with Lord Larys this morning. It was important that he did.”

“He did, your Grace, however it’s been reported to me by several of the maids that he and Lady Abrogail were seen having a rather heated argument in the hallway. Accusations were thrown, although none seem to agree on what was said.”

“They’re children. They’ll have arguments.”

None of this was supposed to be happening. Abrogail was meant to be a good, obedient girl who listened to orders, who reported back to her should Aegon show any indication of straying. Alicent knew she had made those expectations exceedingly clear. Yet here she was, finding out about her son’s shameful behavior through rumor instead of from his betrothed’s mouth.

“Lady Abrogail was also seen in the company of Ser Edmund.” Lysa’s voice was quiet.

There was a rushing sound in Alicent’s ears and she longed to pull over the suit of armor beside her, relishing in the crashing and clanging of it against the stone. Instead, she smoothed her hands over her skirts, straightened her shoulders, breathed, and prayed.

“I need two rooms prepared in the North Tower on order of the King. Prince Jacaerys and Lady Baela will be staying with us.” The words were ash on her tongue, stilted and emotionless. “The prince is to be cupbearer on the council, and the lady will be taking her place at court. They’ll be arriving with their dragons on the morrow.” She forced a smile on her face. “The more the merrier for my son’s celebrations.”

Vermax and Moondancer let out joyful and curious shrieks from where they circled the ship on approach into the great harbor of King’s Landing. Jace stood at the bow pulpit, leaning against the railing. Just below was the polished bronze head of Laena’s Song’s mermaid that curled buxom and gleaming along the bow. Days on the sea had slashed a bright red burn across the bridge of his nose, and freckles had sprung up along his skin. His curls whipped from the low ponytail he wore and Jace climbed up the rung of the pulpit railing to lean better across the edge and feel the cool spray of the ocean fall across his face.

Before him was King’s Landing. The Red Keep high atop Aegon’s Hill was a monument of epic proportions, bright as a beacon compared to the dark stone that made up the fortress of Dragonstone. Gulls cried and flew across the water, the bay teaming with ships heading out to sea and trade ships bearing banners of Pentos and Lys, of Braavos and even a dark ship from Asshai coming in to drop off their trade. Behind him, the crew of Laena’s Song hollered to and fro, preparing to drop anchor.

His stomach knotted uncomfortably with nerves and he rolled his shoulders beneath the bleached linen of his shirt. His black and red jerkin was tossed negligently over a barrel and Jace looked over his shoulder at the sailors moving across deck and wished he could simply stay rather than step back on land.

Or better yet he could take to the sky. Vermax let out another shriek and dove towards the wave to scoop up a mouthful of fish, dodging past Moondancer’s attempt to steal them. His jade scales covered in gold markings gleamed and glimmered in the sunlight like a gem, like the jade that his mother called him. Little jadeling. His lavender eyes were drawn behind him in the direction of Dragonstone, too far for him to see, and too far to relieve the ache of homesickness in his chest.

“Luke gets greensick and you look like you’re ready to flop in the water like a fish,” Baela teased him from where she sat on a coil of rope, tucking her trouser legs into her freshly polished black boots. Her Valyrian was a familiar, crisp tone, dagger sharp like her father’s. “Are you sure you’re a dragonrider? Belonging in the air?”

“I’m the better dragonrider out of my brothers. I will command the sky and sea and fire. All that’s left is land and that seems simple enough,” he grinned at his stepsister, reaching up to catch the green apple she aimed for his head. “Now now, lady, we’re not meant to waste fruit on a voyage,” he scolded and took a bite of the tart fruit, sucking on the juice of it so he didn’t further antagonize her.

“You’re the only dragonrider out of your brothers, mittys,” she shot back at him. “There’s no competition when you’re the only one. Arrax is still too small and Tyraxes is still a kitling.”

Jace took another bite of the apple and leaned against the railing, feeling Baela come up and join him. Her silver curls had been carefully coiled into elegant, thick braids that brushed just her shoulders. Beaten gold rings were wrapped around various lengths of the braids, a nameday gift from their grandmother, and Rhaena had a matching set. Her twin was back at Driftmark, apparently enjoying the attentions of Lord Staunton’s second son, who was page for Lord Vaemond, according to her last letter that expressed envy at not being able to join them for the festivities.

“Won’t be the only one any longer,” he said softly, lavender eyes drifting up to look at Vermax before settling his gaze upon the dome of the Dragon Pit that was just visible past the high city walls.

The distant sound of a dragon’s roar had Jace jerking back from the railing, scanning the sky. Beside him, Baela cocked her head, leaning forward to search for herself. Below, the sailors shouted to one another, the anchor dropping. The ship was too large to pull fully into harbor that day, not with all the arrivals coming to prepare for the week’s festivities.

Nerves knotted in Jace’s stomach as they lowered the rowboat into the gentle waves of the bay. Excitement vibrated through his limbs at the prospect of getting away from the isolation of Dragonstone, where his mother had retreated, like Syrax in her cave. She was happier there, upon the rock in the middle of nowhere with Daemon, with their new son. Little Aegon was a happy boy, trailing after Joffrey more often than not, the pair of them clinging to one another and in turn, trailing after Daemon everywhere they could.

Anxiety was just as loud knowing who was to come.

“Do you think Aemond’s still sore about what happened?” he asked Baela rhetorically in Valyrian. The look she gave him was sidelong and narrow, unamused at Jace’s attempt to lighten the mood and the nerves that twisted around his insides. The dragon’s roar was unfamiliar to him, but Baela’s indigo gaze was narrowed, unsure, even a little hopeful.

“Not sure how long it takes to get over losing an eye,” she replied in a low voice. “Besides, he deserved it, laodijes peldios. Regret nothing for what happened. Luke certainly doesn’t.”

“He’s a dragon, not Dornish.” Petulant. Know-It-All. Aemond was many things, but a thieving snake? Jace did not think it fitting, but he wasn’t about to tell Baela that. Neither was he quite sure of Luke's lack or held guilt on the matter. It was something none of them spoke of. “Besides, best mind the viper talk. Prince Qoren has a son and you are untethered. The war in the Stepstones has gone on for quite some time.” It was perhaps a little too mean, truth be told, and he blamed the nerves. Jace normally didn’t poke Baela quite as hard as she liked to poke at others but the closer they got to the capitol, the more he felt his own fangs snap out.

“I’ll push you out of this boat, Jacaerys,” Baela snapped as the boat rocked upon a swell of water. Her mouth opened to send another retort but there was another loud roar that echoed across the bay, sending the gulls screaming and scattering.

Coming from above, a great shadow burst through the clouds. It had been years since Jace had seen the hulking mass of Vhagar, and he had not watched her leave Driftmark all those years ago, confined to his room with his brother after what had happened. To see her like this after watching Vermithor take to the sky with Silverwing, to see the Cannibal dive along the waters of Dragonstone?

Jace felt the icy trickle of fear snake down his spine.

He barely registered Vermax startled cry but he could feel the fear and confusion mingling through his own in the place between his ribs that Vermax lived. The sailors in the boat around them tensed, the four rowing moving faster.

Moondancer shot over them, her cry joyous, and Baela cried out, “Daor!” pushing her hand on Jace’s shoulder and standing in the boat. “Daor, Moondancer, rȳbās!” Fear and panic laced her tone.

Vhagar’s great bulk and wingspan cast a shadow over them, one that was growing larger… and larger. Jace could not see Aemond upon the dragon’s back, for he’d be a speck amid all the hoary green and the great snout. Compared to the great dragon, Moondancer was just as tiny, flying straight for the great thing.

Vhagar’s head twitched and the dragon let out a lower sound this time, the little dragon flying around her, and Jace looked startled at Baela, who’s tanned skin had paled, eyes wide with fear. He reached for her hand and her palm was clammy, her fingers hooking with his.

“She thinks it’s muñus. Vhagar taught Moondancer to fly.” Baela’s voice was faint and Jace pulled her into his side, holding her close as the tremulous balance of fear and relief shook them both to see Vhagar leaving Moondancer alone, the dragon diving down with her, letting out her own high pitched calls before Vhagar sharply pulled back, the backdraft of her wings and the rush of it sending the waves high, drenching them all and nearly capsizing the boat.

“I don’t think Aemond’s over it,” Jace said faintly.

The sound of another roar, unfamiliar to him, came from the city and all heads swiveled to see the brilliant dragon coming towards them. Smaller than Vhagar was an easy feat, but this dragon was still a large beast, terrifying in its own right. Unlike Vhagar, the shimmering blue scales glimmered like gemstones beneath the sun, as brilliant as the sky and ocean combined. The call the dragon let out was not one of intimidation like Vhagar’s had been. No, this one was directed at the other dragon, head tilted in Vhagar’s direction with a huff and a snarl of disapproval.

As the dragon came closer, it banked, the tip of its left wing dragging into the water and Jace could see the blonde figure tiny on the back, wind whipping at the rider’s hair. What was his mother doing here? On a dragon not Syrax? His brain struggled to make sense of the sight before it registered that the rider was Helaena.

Jace could not recall if he’d ever seen Helaena fly after she’d claimed Dreamfyre, and his eyes tracked the dragon with a thudding in his chest. Nerves had him tense, and Vermax cried out in greeting, his turn to dart towards Dreamfyre. Jace could feel his dragon’s excitement, and remembered that it was from Dreamfyre’s clutch that his egg had come from. A bond, undeniable, the way that Moondancer cleaved to Vhagar who had taught her to fly, whose memory of Laena was still so strong.

He swallowed and watched with Baela tense at his side as Dreamfyre nipped and warbled at Vhagar. An impossible feat it seemed, and yet with clear reluctance, Vhagar shook her great head and turned, the beating of both pairs of wings sending the boats in the harbor rocking violently with the waves they caused. Seawater sloshed over the edges of the boat, soaking along their boots and trousers but they stayed afloat and made their way towards the pier, where the gleaming figure in Kingsguard armor waited.

“Prince Jacaerys!” boomed Ser Harrold Westerling, as tall and resplendent as the day they’d left the city and he was nearly half as small. The knight reached down and Jace grabbed his gloved hand and, even as old as the man was, Ser Harrold nearly pulled him off his feet hoisting him on the dock. “Lady Baela, welcome back to King’s Landing.”

Baela gave a jerky nod, her eyes still on the bay and the returning figure of Dreamfyre, having now run off Vhagar’s bulk towards the cliffs. Vermax and Moondancer careened around the bay, little and unobtrusive compared to their larger brethren. Vermax let out excited chitters, making his way towards the blue dragon.

“Last I saw you, your Grace, you were but a wee lad! What are they feeding you on that rock?” He let out a great laugh and Jace joined in, a manic release of fear and nerves and relief that they hadn’t capsized in the bay. He’d gone through another growth spurt over the last several months, not quite as tall as Daemon, but he was broader shouldered now, gangly and unused to all the fresh height.

“Lots of fish, Ser Harrold,” he grinned and held out his arm to Baela. She had only been to the capital a few times in the past, the first when they’d come from Pentos as small children, and occasionally for feasts and the like. Laena and Daemon had largely stayed on Driftmark during her mother’s life, and he knew that his sister could handle herself, but he didn’t want her to feel alone. Baela held her vulnerabilities close to the chest when she didn’t have to, vulnerabilities that she hid behind the black trousers tucked into polished black boots and the blood red tunic she wore, not dissimilar to Jace’s own clothes, though the tunic was more of a short dress on her, tapered at her waist.

After a moment, Baela slipped her hand into the crook of Jace’s elbow and looked forward, a tight smile across her face as she greeted Ser Harrold. “And my uncle, the King?”

“Eager to see you both. His grace was insistent that you received all the pomp and circumstance befitting you,” the knight said as he led the way towards the carriage. Two other Kingsguard were waiting, mounted on a pair of horses with coats as black as dragonglass, pawing at the ground in the wake of two monstrous dragons causing trouble along the bay.

Dreamfyre had vanished over the city wall and into the Dragon Pit.

Their trunks were being unloaded from the ship and would follow soon, which meant they wasted no time climbing into the wheelhouse and collapsed back on the back bench together, both peering out through the lattice work.

“The city stinks,” Baela complained with a wrinkle of her nose as if the mere fact of it offended her.

“Well, it’s a city.”

“Pentos didn’t stink like this. Didn’t Queen Alysanne do something about it? Kepe told me. Cisterns and clean drinking water. Not… stink.”

Jace had nothing to say in response to that, watching the city pass out the window. Wares being hawked with enticing calls, the sounds of trade and commerce. The carriage moved too quickly for Jace to truly appreciate the city around him, but his mind turned over the possibilities. What was the state of the cisterns? Did the people have access to such things? Myr had intricate sewer systems and aqueducts were there and in Braavos both. Could those things help the city?

A king must care for his people, must do all he can to help them prosper.

His mother had smoothed her hands over his shoulders before he boarded the ship, her gaze intent. “I was once cupbearer for my father and I learned much of the intricacies of the realm and what the people needed, and what could be done. My father… did not often take my advice when I spoke up, and oftentimes it was for the better.” There was an uncertain glimmer in her violet gaze, a twitch in her jaw that had Jace wonder at his mother’s true feelings on the matter. “Listen, and learn, ask questions of Maester Orwyle, of Lord Beesbury, of your grandfather. Be on your guard. I was fortunate to have Lord Lyonel as Hand during my time on the council, and he imparted wisdom to me that I pass to you: Your words are important, they hold weight. Do not speak to only fill the silence or to be accounted for. Speak when you are confident in the questions and solutions you bring so they are taken with the weight they deserve.” Her mouth had quirked in a sheepish smile. “Words that I probably could cleave better to.”

“Will the dragons find the pit?” Baela’s head swung about to try to peer through the latticework of the carriage windows like she could get a glimpse of her dragon. “I don’t like the thought of Moondancer chained in some pit where anything could happen to her. She should fly free, as they do back home.”

“Vermax will take her there. They were following Dreamfyre and he knows that’s where the food is.” Baela looked skeptical of it all, sighing and throwing herself back against the seat, sprawling legs and letting her head thump back against the side of the wheelhouse. “What’s wrong?”

“Your mother did not have many good things to say about the Red Keep,” she answered directly. “And that the queen may likely give me trouble and so I can’t get away with what I usually do back home.”

Jace nodded, tugging at the leather jerkin he’d put back on and reaching up to undo his ponytail. He was careful to tug his fingers through the curls, trying to get them in some order. “I never spent much time around the queen, but I do know her manner before was different than… that night.” He wasn’t sure what had been more terrifying: the way the woman had come at his mother with the king’s blade, or how utterly wrecked she had been, her complete lack of composure when every other time he’d seen her, been around her in his years, Queen Alicent had been so tightly buttoned up. Jace had never been close to his step-grandmother… but he’d never had cause to fear her before. He rewound the leather cord to keep his hair back and smoothed his hands over his knees. “Should there be any trouble, tell me, and we’ll figure out how to handle it together. She has no cause to be cruel to you.” He gave his stepsister an encouraging smile. “You aren’t part of the inheritance issue. Enjoy your luck.”

That much Jace did understand over the years away. He’d never known a world where his mother wasn’t heir, and it had taken him years to realize that women didn’t normally inherit, not like his mother had. How often women had come to his mother’s isolated court, beseeching Princess Rhaenyra to speak of their own claims, or their daughter’s claims. How often she turned them away. When he asked why, she told him that the Westerosi custom was one where the sons inherited. Targaryens and her father’s word were above that, for they sat the Iron Throne. The petitions would need to be made to the Small Council as the laws were not yet hers to make.

“Good thing we aren’t married then,” Baela smirked at him and Jace felt his ears heat with blush. Married they were not, but the betrothal possibility had been there and, bored and isolated, they’d… well, someone else had gotten to Baela before him (and she’d kept her mouth shut on that but Jace had his bets on the blacksmith’s son in the village), but she got to him first.

‘At least you won’t fuck up your wedding night,’ she’d laughed, pushing him out of her room with his clothes in hand and right into Luke, who he’d properly threatened to secrecy.

They came through the Dragon Gate, the castle’s gold cloaks and standard bearers bearing the sigils of House Velaryon and Targaryen both, the seahorse and dragon snapping in the breeze. Upon the steps in the great doorway, sat his grandfather, the king. It was the first thing that struck Jace when he poked his head out of the carriage and stepped out to face the family, was how frail the man was. His grandfather had always been a sickly man, with stringy hair and constantly wrapped in blankets, a cane in hand or a great wheeled chair.

This day, beneath the bright blue sky and surrounded by the dusty red stone of the Red Keep, the king appeared small in his chair set on the top of the staircase. He wore his crown for the occasion, as if Jace and Baela were visiting dignitaries, as if their arrival was worth that. It warmed the spot in Jace’s chest to know that this place was not automatically hostile as his mother feared.

On the king’s left stood the queen, the utter opposite of the frightening rage thrown in firelight from that night years ago. There she stood, looking almost as beautiful as his own mother. Her hair was pulled back from her face, tendrils of curls caressing her soft cheeks. Resting in her hair was a tiara, intricately woven golden branches dotted with rubies. She wore a dark green gown that covered her from the high collar to her wrists, her furred cloak elegantly draped around her.

Behind her stood Otto Hightower, imposing and nerve wracking, just there within the shadows of the doorway. Daemon and his mother had both warned them of the Hand, a man not to be trusted under any circumstances.

It took Jace a moment to recognize Daeron, who’d been a boy of eight when he saw him last. Now he was four and ten, gangly with the trappings of adolescence and cheeks still rounded with baby fat. He looked unsure and uncomfortable, giving Jace and Baela both a shy but friendly smile, his silver hair cropped short around his ears. His doublet was close fitting, quilted green and black with a dragon pin on his chest, and a hightower pin on his collar, signifying his status as squire for House Hightower.

Then there was his Uncle Aegon, years past from the way he’d fallen into a drunken stupor at Laena Velaryon’s funeral. His hair was cut short, silver curls brushing against his jaw. The startling thing was the absence of green on his person. When they were children, the boys had always been clad in green, as their mother had, but that no longer appeared to be the case. Aegon’s red jerkin was held closed with golden clasps, a black shirt beneath, a faint pattern shimmering in the fabric in much the way his mother’s gown had, giving the hint of dragon scales.

The glare on his face was ill-disguised and Jace felt Baela rankle beside him in response to it.

Jace’s glance was careful when they landed on the woman at his uncle’s shoulder. Abrogail Strong was a slight figure, the ghosts of their past held in her so that Jace dared not give more than a cursory greeting to her. Her heraldic gown clung to her, half midnight blue and half verdant green with tight fitting sleeves of oxblood red. Her hair hung in loose curls down past her waist, held back from her face in a simple half-knot in the Riverlands style. She lacked any other adornment apart from the string of pearls woven into her hair.

“Sparos bonus issa?” Baela asked beneath her breath. Jace didn’t answer her. How could he? It wasn’t the most convoluted branch in his family tree, were he being honest, but one of them.

“”Look how tall you’ve grown!” The King cried out joyfully, opening his arms out in greeting, his smile broad, revealing the loss of teeth as whatever ailed him continued to take its toll.

Did his mother know how ill her father was?

“Your Grace.” Jace and Baela paused at the top of the stairs, offering their fealty to the man before them.

This close, it startled him when his gaze fell on Alicent Hightower, how young she looked, in a way he hadn’t understood so long ago, so young compared to the ancient way his grandfather looked. Now was not the time to process this, and instead, Jace returned his grandfather’s smile and the pair of them kissed King Viserys on the cheek and his cool, papery hand reached up to touch their faces affectionately.

“How good it is to see you both hale and healthy. How exciting a journey you must have had! Taking the Narrow Sea on your own. And you’ve brought your dragons with you?”

“Kepus issa,” Baela said and Jace wondered if she was instinctively hiding herself behind the words of their blood. Viserys chuckled and patted her hand.

“Such elocution, hāedus,” his grandfather said fondly to Baela. “Perhaps the pair of you can teach your aunt and uncles how to speak properly. I don’t know the last time we had a meal in Valyrian.”

Jace caught the stiffening of the queen’s shoulders, and Aegon puffed his cheeks, exhaling boredly. “We were kindly greeted by Aemond and Helaena on dragon back earlier. It seems we’ve beaten them back here. Nothing more Targaryen than being greeted by the largest dragons in the world,” Jace said with a grin and he saw Abrogail’s bite her lip to hide the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Hoofbeats filled the courtyard once more and Jace looked over his shoulder to see another kingsguard, this one on a large, chestnut destrier, accompanying the windswept figure of Helaena Targaryen on her own dappled gray horse, her blue riding leathers bright in contrast to the dust of the Red Keep.

“Aemond will be back in time for dinner,” she called, swinging herself down easily from the saddle while the stablehand held the horse steady. She petted the beast’s neck soothingly and came up the steps and Jace noticed the way her fingers twitched, curling in and rubbing together as if they wished to clutch at her jacket, or reach for something to fidget with. A habit, he realized, she had not outgrown.

Large, lavender eyes darted between him and Baela but did not meet either, for that was Helaena’s way too.

“Dreamfyre is magnificent,” Baela said with a slight smile. “You ride exceptionally well.”

“Thank you, hāedus Baela,” Helaena said softly, her cheeks flushing and eyes focused on the Velaryon emblem Baela had embroidered on the collar of her tunic. “She is nearly too big for it. My poor dear is used to the freedom that living at Harrenhal afforded her. Would that all our dragons could live so freely as they do on Dragonstone.” Her gaze flickered to her youngest brother and a fond smile crossed her face. “It’ll be lovely to see how quickly Tessarion will grow at Harrenhal, won’t it, Daeron.” A brief glance at Jacaerys. “Trēsys.”

Jace’s mouth was dry. “Muñus.”

“You’ve both been given rooms in the North tower,” the Queen said, a tight smile across her face. No longer was she a specter towering over him. Now, she just looked sad. Sad and small, but no less dangerous, as he stood over her now by a head’s height.

One of the guards was maneuvering the king’s wheeled chair around to head back into the keep, three others gathered around and Jace noticed the handles on the sides of the chair used to navigate the many staircases within.

Baela fell in step beside him as she usually did, their shoulders brushing against one another as they walked behind the king. The queen was a step behind the great chair, walking sedately, a tension so great inside her Jace swore she was vibrating. “Once you’re both settled, we’ll have dinner in the family solar. To celebrate your welcome and Daeron’s return.” The young boy was on his mother’s other side and fussed when Alicent reached to brush his hair from his face in a gesture that strongly reminded Jace of Luke when their mother tried to coddle him.

“I told Uncle Gwayne I could ride Tessarion from Oldtown but he said it was too far for me and a dragon of her size,” the boy groused.

“Skoros zaldrizo bē gīmis?” What does he know of dragons? Baela muttered, and it was unclear if she meant Ser Gwayne, Daeron, or both. Jace jabbed her with his elbow and she scowled.

“Not difficult to figure out a little dragon only just large enough for a rider might struggle on the first long flight,” Aegon’s voice came from behind them, having both heard and understood, despite the king’s statement that his children did not seem to know their words. Aegon sounded bored but Jace could hear the blade beneath the casualness of the words. “Not to mention it would be his first long flight, mewling from his saddle half a day’s flight in how sore his legs are.”

“I would not!” Daeron protested. “I’ve been training for it. It’s the same principles as horsemanship.”

“My legs still get tired after riding,” came the soft tones of Lady Abrogail. Baela snorted, barely giving her a look..

“Ao tikoqitta iksā, vaogrot sittaaks. Daoruni sōveno bē gīmī.” You are a wingless thing, born of mud. You know nothing of flying. She shook her head, silver braids brushing against her shoulders, the charms woven in them tinkling. Her violet eyes were narrowed, condescension dripping from her tongue. He’d heard the same tone from Daemon’s mouth often when it came to talking about the Hightowers, and to Baela, Abrogail was a stranger. Worse, an interloper. Jace’s stomach dropped at the words, frowning at Baela from the corner of his eye but his tongue was caught, not wanting to draw attention, to draw questions in front of everyone. Especially when Baela was defensive and spitting like this.

“I believe I can show Jace and Baela to their rooms,” Helaena’s voice cut in. “I was going back to mine anyway and it’s on the way. Tis feeding time for my mantis and she’s readying herself for mating.” Helaena came forward, a placid smile on her face contrasted with the furious look on Aegon’s. Abby’s eyes darted between them all, nervous and uncertain. “Come, cousin, nephew,” she said, all pretenses of High Valryian dropping as she took up the common tongue once more. The princess curtsied towards her parents, his grandfather waving her away negligently and the queen’s eyes darting over all of them. She did not speak the language of their family, but her eyes were narrowed, dancing between all of them.

Helaena led the way up the grand staircase, tugging at her gloves and smoothing her fingers over the leather. “You’ll be in Elinor’s Tower, named for poor Queen Elinor Costayne. All the towers were named for the women in Maegor’s life. Tyanna and Jeyne, Ceryse, Alys, Rhaena, and Visenya. I live in Rhaena’s tower, although one could say her true tower is at Harrenhal. She stayed there to live out the end of her days, her and Dreamfyre. You know, they almost gave the throne to her instead of grandfather Jaehaerys.”

“Is this a history lesson?” Baela asked, common on her tongue and shrugging away from Jace. Helaena did not respond, taking them left at the top of the stairs past one of the courtyards.

“I’m merely educating you on the history of your new home, cousin.” Helaena’s voice had not changed in timber, but there was something beneath it that Jace couldn’t identify. “We are family, after all. Our fathers are blood brothers, king and prince respectively, and you and I are of the blood.” She paused, abruptly spinning on her heel. “The same goes for Lady Abrogail. She will be a princess upon her marriage to Aegon, and she is one of ours. You will not speak to her in such a cruel way, nor shall you speak cruelly to my brothers, including Aemond. He’s already suffered enough at your hands. Both your hands” Her gaze flicked to Jace with the end of the statement, fire dancing in her lavender eyes, head held high. “It saddens me to see, Lady Baela, that you were not given an adequate understanding of our family, that we all share the blood of the dragon, or are under its protection, but I suppose everything washes away with the tide, and memories do not get to stay.”

Baela opened her mouth to speak, no doubt to spout some of Daemon’s Valyrian rhetoric to counter Helaena’s remarks. Jace felt his cheeks flush. “I apologize for my sister’s behavior-”

“Don’t you apologize for me-”

“I should’ve let Vhagar capsize the boat.”

Helaena and Baela both spoke at once and Jace grimaced.

Silence fell between the three of them, Baela caught between chastened and pride, prickling beneath the words. Helaena began to tug her gloves off one finger at a time. “Be that as it may, I did not, for it would have done nothing to change the predicament we all find ourselves in. So I shall say this.” Her gaze rose and with great effort, she met Baela’s eyes. “We are to get along as our sire, his grace, King Viserys, has implored us so vehemently. There will be arguments, and scraps, I’m sure, but the king is ill and the eyes of the realm are upon us over these coming months.”

“We are all Targaryens,” Jace picked up where she left off, and Helaena’s eyes met his, matching lavender shades. “We need to show the realm a united front, especially with grandfather so ill. We may do what we will behind closed doors, but we show nothing but unity. The house of the dragon must show strength.”

Helaena nodded, her gaze flickering away to her hands once more. “If you hurt Aemond again, I shall introduce you to my Chromatopelma Cyaneopubescens.” Her fingers danced as she made a claw, as if it were a spider. “She is shy so I do not handle her often. I’d love the opportunity for her to make new friends.” Helaena gestured with the same hand down another hall. “Down the hall and the staircase at the suits of Vale armor. I’m sure the maids and pages are making enough noise to find your rooms.”

Jace tore his eyes from his aunt with great effort, throwing a look at Baela as she opened her mouth once more to retort. His hand found her arm and he tugged her forward, glancing once more behind them as Helaena strode towards her own rooms.

Her hair looked like starlight.

[chapter thirteen]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house strong #aegon x abby #my fics #baela targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacelaena

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some-pers0n · 6 months

Text

White Noise Telepath

Fandom: WoF

Characters [OCs]: Sol, Miasma

CW: Nothing

Summary: Solstice (or rather Sol, thank you very much) is an explorer who has recently rediscovered the Lost City of Night. However, after looking around a fair bit, he uncovers something...odd. That isn't any NightWing he's ever seen before.

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: This one goes out to @kratt09. I saw you tag me saying you want to know more about my OCs. Here's my WoF ones. These new ones are silly. I'd love to ramble a bit more about their lore if pressed. Or other OCs too, I guess.

Even when coming here knowing that it would be a haunting sight to behold, there was nothing else even comparable to the beauty of the Lost City of Night. Ruined buildings from an age long forgotten. Abandoned and left to the sands of time. Even the insects and lizards avoid this place, deeming it as too unsafe. Cursed land that remains to this day to be uninhabitable to even the most desperate of scavengers. Not one soul dared to step into such an infernal city.

Meaning it was a great place for aspiring explorer, Solstice of the SandWings, to check out!

Solstice (or rather Sol, thank you very much) was always enamoured by the legends of ancient cities and lost worlds. The forgotten Kingdom of Night and the legends surrounding it were fascinating. Nobody truly believed in it. Some thought that it never existed, while others were convinced that the Darkstalker fellow fully destroyed it. Nobody could agree on how or why he did it. Some said he sunk it into the ocean because he deemed them all unworthy to keep living. Others said he burned it after the queen had slain his lover. A couple of times he read tales of the Darkstalker simply killing them all instantly so their souls will pass on in peace.

Whatever it was, it sure didn't work. The city was still here, albeit in a dilapidated state. That and the fact that the NightWings still roam the continent, so the giant murder plot didn't pan out in the end. At least some stragglers got through.

Sol climbed on top of a fallen pillar, overlooking the landscape. He was staring at what must have been the plaza. The rotting remains of marketing stalls were half-buried in the sand. Through it all, Sol could almost make out the patterning of the stone walkways below.

"Oh, marvellous!" he muttered, pulling out his sketching scroll and jotted down some notes. A good explorer always writes down their discoveries, do they not? He didn't exactly want any other dragon to come around. Queens and their "expeditions" were more like glorified tomb-raiding. What he was doing? Simply marking locations and visiting worlds of the past before going back to write his adventures. He was sure there would be some dragons out there who would love his tales and findings.

The sun shone warmly in the sky, beaming down onto his black and grey scales. He had orange accents that streaked down his neck and claws. It was as though it were a river of lava pouring and streaming down obsidian, following his body and splintering off into sections. Or rather, the ring of light around a moon during an eclipse. Striking and lovely in its own way.

He slipped his inkwell and scroll back into his messenger bag, slinging it back over his neck. He Hopped down and walked around the deserted plaza. The sand was coarse, yet fine and soft to the touch. It was quiet. The air was still and the only sounds were Sol's talonsteps.

Yet...the lifeless city didn't feel as empty as it should. A small, unsettling feeling in his stomach grew as he thought about it more. Perhaps he was being paranoid and a coward, but he couldn't shake it off. He took small breaths to try and calm himself. Yeah, maybe he was just being a bit overdramatic-

...what was that? He craned his neck, facing a seemingly vacant alleyway. It was a tight space. He could fit in it, but with not too much wiggle room to spare. He could've sworn he heard something. Shuffling. The faintest breathing. Something was in there. It had to be.

"Hello?" he called out. "Is anybody there? Am I just going crazy or...is there actually anybody there?"

No response.

"Well, if you aren't going to come out now, it's going to bother me for the rest of time." He stepped forward, readying his claws. This was stupid, yes, but one must prepare for anything when exploring these ruins. Once or twice before he had a close encounter with a dangerous mongoose. Gave him a nasty little bite, that horrible bugger.

He walked into the alleyway. It was even tighter than he thought. His breathing was strained as he looked around to try and figure out where the source of the noise was. Then, he heard it again. Rustling. What's worse is that now he knew where it was coming from.

It was directly in front of him.

He looked down, seeing pale white scales somewhat buried in the sand. It was a long, bulky serpentine body that twisted and shifted around. Right at his feet he could make out the head. Its eyes were a striking red as its tongue flicked out to taste the air.

It was a snake.

"VIPER!" He stepped back, almost tripping over his talons. "Moons above, are you..." he muttered, "no, no you can't be. You're too pale to be a dragonbite viper. Unless you're albino or something." He inched away more. "Please don't kill me... I quite enjoy living, thanks."

The snake looked at him, its eyes unblinking. It slithered closer to him. He was about to try and stomp on it when he heard a voice.

"Tallus! Clearsight above... Gave me a proper heart attack with your little disappearing act."

Sol looked forward. To his surprise, a dragon was standing there. What made him worry was the alien appearance of them. Slender and sharp, almost reminding him of a RainWing. Her scales were a rich, deep purple. It was as though staring at a part of the starry skies above. She had two sets of black horns. One set came from the front. They were small and pointed upward. The other went out from the back and curved around like a ram.

The most bizarre thing were the wings. Four of them. They were thin and translucent, resting at the side. The word "wasp" popped into his head. They were more bug than they were dragon.

She picked up the snake and looked up at Sol. She tilted her head, a confused, yet playful expression on her face. "Oh, hello! You're new." She rested the snake around her neck and approached him. The scales glittered in the afternoon light. He noticed she was wearing a large black hat, little stings hanging from it with beads attached to the end. Her glasses were silver with lavender-coloured lenses. Along her horns and body were tiny accents of white.

Above all though, she radiated a feeling of warmth. Not in a typical sense, but looking at her was fairly calming. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about her though. Well, other than the whole bug-dragon thing.

"Salutations, I'm Miasma. Pleasure to meet you." She held out her talons. "You must be one of these SandWings I've heard so much about. Barb and all."

Sol stammered and stuttered. He stumbled to form the words he wanted to say. He wanted to do something, say anything. Why was she in the Kingdom of Night? Why did she look so strange and nothing like any other dragon he'd seen before?

Instead, he sputtered out, "can I draw you?" He cringed instantly. "No wait! That was the wrong thing to say. Talons and tails, I'm so sorry..."

Miasma squinted briefly before laughing. It was hearty and warm. "Draw me?" she scoffed. "What for? I don't see why."

Well, now that he dug this hole for himself, he might as well keep going. "What tribe are you?" he asked.

"Mh? Oh, a NightWing."

His eyes widened. "Excuse me, what?"

"NightWing. Can't you tell? I would've thought all of you would at least recognize another tribe by their appearance."

Sol stared at the very un-NightWing-like dragon. "...I don't think I've ever seen a dragon like you before?"

"Welp, now you have." She looked him up and down. "So, I gave a little bit of background on me. Don'tcha think you could do the same for me? Not like I'm going to steal your name or anything."

He got up on his feet, dusting off the extra sand. "My name is Solstice. I prefer Sol though." He shook her talons.

"Nice seeing another dragon here at my base of operations. That's what I like to call my home, by the way.

"I can tell."

"Not too often do I see living dragons around here. Come to think of it, I haven't seen anybody in...well, ages! Ah well, I'm sure there are reasons."

"Yeah, there are. There was a curse placed on this kingdom. Dragons being superstitious avoid it, and eventually it becomes a lost piece of history."

"Huh. Odd. I've been around here since I can remember and I haven't heard a thing."

"How long have you been around here for then?"

"Hm...since I hatched? Don't recall too much. Foggy memory and all. Actually, it's all somewhat cloudy. All I can safely say I remember is waking up on the shore with only my name." She shrugged. "Mystery for another day though! Doesn't bother me none." She turned her attention back to him. "So, what brings you here?"

"Huh? Me?" Sol pointed to himself. "Exploring mostly. I've always wanted to come here and find this place. Lo and behold, I do. I've been taking notes and drawing things and then, well, your snake scared me."

"Tallus spooked you?" She laughed, letting the snake coil around her neck. "He's just a big suck. He can't hurt a fly. Literally. I have to go look for some plants for him to eat. Usually, I go over to the big rainforest area and pick berries and such."

"Wait, the Rainforest Kingdom?"

"That's what it's called? Galaxies and geckos, my brain is just scattered," she chuckled. "Regardless, I like visiting there every once in a while. Find some new trinkets and, if I've brought those old goggles, I can chat with the locals. Dead locals, but locals nonetheless."

"I'm sorry what?" Sol asked. "Hold on, hold on. Back up. I'm sorry if this comes off as...well, rude, but can you explain what's going on a bit? Why are you here? What do you mean by all of this? Who even are you? Why do you look like that?"

She blinked. "Well, my name is Misama. I am a NightWing. I live in the now-ruined NightWing kingdom. I do so because it is my home. I collect weird objects and such. They are pretty strange and some have different properties- OOH!! You might know some of them!" She began to walk deeper into the city. "Come on!"

"Still not my name!" he said. Yet, he couldn't help himself but follow. This was a great find. A living dragon in the NightWing ruins. Not to mention such a strange and bug-like form too. Despite her instance, it was safe to say this was an entirely new tribe! Was it dangerous to trust her? Oh, absolutely. Yet, there was a feel to her that was comforting and cozy.

Still, one could never be too safe. As he trailed after her, he watched her movements. He noticed that her wings didn't move too much. When they did, she winced. Were they hurt? He didn't want to pry too much. Regardless, he looked more at the city around them and where she was going.

To his surprise, she led him to the castle. Rubble littered what used to be the garden. Statues of what once were historical dragons were crumbled and eroded. She led him up the dusty ebony stairs and towards the door. "It takes a while to get there. Sorry!" She slipped through the archway and into the castle proper.

Sol ran after her. The interior was desolate and abandoned. The sprawling halls were massive, the ceiling itself stretching farther than what he could have ever imagined. His talons clicked against the black marble floor. The occasional hole in the roof let the daylight bleed through.

Finally, after chasing her down through corridor after corridor and up a long, long flight of stairs, she stopped. "There we go. Hope that wasn't too much of an issue there." She gave a small, perky grin.

"Moons above..." he wheezed. "How do you have so much energy?"

"Here it is though! My little section right for weird objects." She completely ignored him, opening the metal door. "This was actually bolted pretty good before I came here. Can't see why though."

Inside were shelves upon shelves of scrolls, rocks, pieces of jewelry, crowns, sceptres, anything. Dazzling objects of various shapes and sizes. Instantly upon seeing it all, Sol was hit with a wave of disgust and repulsion. Being near these things felt wrong. They weren't supposed to exist.

Yet, Miasma was unphased. She just walked in like nothing was wrong. In fact, she took notice of Sol's change in attitude. "What's wrong?"

"Moons, how can you stand to be near that?" he mustered, stepping away. "It's awful."

She frowned. "...what?" she asked.

"Sorry, didn't mean to say it like that! I just..." Sol's eyes widened. "Blazing scales, are those animus touched!?"

"Animus?" she echoed. "That sounds familiar."

"They must be animus touched. I've read about them having this effect. Wrongness. Like a distortion in reality." He took another step. "How can you just stand to be in there?"

"I dunno. Nothing really feels wrong. Maybe I'm just used to it." She shrugged. "It's really cool in here though. C'mon! Nothing's going to bite you or anything."

Solstice looked at Miasma, then back at the room. He flexed his claws. He was an explorer after all. This would be a massive find. All of these animus enchanted objects. Imagine what they could do! All of the information he can bring back and write about.

He flexed his claws and then marched on in. Fear cannot stop him now.

#wof #wings of fire #somepersonswriting #wof oc #wof fanfic #SP-writing

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