More Book Dany But This Time With Her Children🙏

“I was tired. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl.”

-

Dany from asoiaf

"Each element shapes the fabric differently," Danyel explained to her on the fifth night, holding out a swatch of flame-threaded velvet that seemed to shimmer with heat. He contrasted it with a square of linen spun from water soulthreads, its coarse fibers carrying an almost imperceptible glow that softened in the flickering torchlight, cool and soothing to her touch. Wind threads, he said, are the trickiest, as they’re so slippery and light they resist the weave itself.

“And so it is with people, I think,” he added, his gaze drifting over the fabric as though seeing something more. “Some resist being woven into anything at all.”

On the seventh night, she learns from him that a weaver’s elemental affinity doesn’t always match their soulally’s. It was something Gem had always taken for granted. She remembered that Vaal, wherever he was now, shared the same element as his fiery partner. The mercurial chaosweaver was a red-hot blaze that kindled brilliance, but burned all that it touched. Danyel, of course, also matched Baltael. He was the wind that carried storms across the sea—unwavering in determination, his purpose steady even when unseen.

But when she had asked if she, too, was ice like Aegis, he had looked at her strangely. “No, you are not,” he had said, though he did not elaborate. What was she, then? The thought clung to Gem, curious and unnerving, long after the conversation had passed.

As the evenings went by, his presence seemed to settle around her like the quiet of a windless morning. She had always thought him cold, but she was starting to see the softness of his edges. Sometimes, when she made a sharp remark or jab, she would catch the briefest shift in his expression—an almost imperceptible crinkle at the corners of his eyes, like a smile trying to break free, before he quickly smoothed it away.

a prayer to who, exactly?

some doodles of Rickon and Shaggydog and Bran and Summer... I HC that after his wolf dreams Bran is CONVINCED summer can talk

Arthur Dayne arrived on the jousting field with the dawn. Above him, the sun's first flush sent pale fingers of light stretching across the eastern sky, turning Harrenhal’s charred towers into shadowy grey wraiths that drifted among the mists. Only birdsong accompanied his steps.

He had always been an early riser, much preferring the sun’s call to some squire’s. Sleep was no generous mistress to the Kingsguard, nor a frequent visitor. Duties, though, they bore in spades. Charged with protecting the king and his kin by day, the White Swords were expected to serve just as diligently by night.

The task had never troubled Arthur. Duty and discipline called to his blood. It did, however, trouble the king. Too Dornish, Aerys oft complained of him, though he just as oft forgot his mislike when faced with Arthur’s fair skin, so unlike the dark sandy Dornishmen of his imagination. Mad kings cannot be expected to be learned men, he supposed. But of late it seemed the king remembered well enough, and his disdain for Arthur’s Rhoynish blood had earned him a night’s reprieve from guarding his door. With the queen and Prince Viserys forbidden from attending, there was no need to stand watch over them either. Prince Lewyn, as usual, guarded Rhaegar and Elia.

A rare respite—lighter duties, and the luxury of greeting the new day unwearied.

Now Arthur mounted his white courser with a quick pat to the mare’s flank. She was a good horse and swift, but he missed the long-necked sand steeds of Dorne. Dawn, too, he missed. The ancient milk-pale greatsword felt more right in his hand than any tourney lance, but such was the duty of a white cloak: protect the king, keep his secrets, obey his commands. Today's command was to entertain.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Snippet from A Crown of False Spring, Chapter 2.

Tourney at Harrenhal art by René Aigner.

Older Edric & Arya 

He’s asking for a dance and she’s asking to spar 🥰!

the targaryen queens (and also bloodraven)

Jon Arryn in the Father’s image, His Mercy Burns

For my latest chapter, Robert IV.

Art by Monkele.art

— Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Mac Miller