lucennia

Latest Posts by lucennia

On his way back, Jon swung wide of the column's line of march and took a shorter path through the thick of the wood. The sounds of man and horse diminished, swallowed up by the wet green wild, and soon enough he could hear only the steady wash of rain against leaf and tree and rock. It was midafternoon, yet the forest seemed as dark as dusk. Jon wove a path between rocks and puddles, past great oaks, grey-green sentinels, and black-barked ironwoods. In places the branches wove a canopy overhead and he was given a moment's respite from the drumming of the rain against his head. As he rode past a lightning-blasted chestnut tree overgrown with wild white roses, he heard something rustling in the underbrush. "Ghost," he called out. "Ghost, to me."

But it was Dywen who emerged from the greenery, forking a shaggy grey garron with Grenn ahorse beside him. The Old Bear had deployed outriders to either side of the main column, to screen their march and warn of the approach of any enemies, and even there he took no chances, sending the men out in pairs.

Daenerys Targaryen

Commission art for redoorlemontree on x(twt)

Azor Ahai (don’t come at me i’d kill for her)

Older Edric & Arya 

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

The house with the red door

The Swiftfoot Maid | Chapter 1, a snippet

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“You’re a good dancer,” she said suddenly, eyes darting away too quickly as he startled and missed a step.

Edric caught her gaze, then swept them back into rhythm. “Thank you, my lady. I spent many years in King’s Landing, where even squires are expected to know their steps.”

“Grace-footed, then,” she acknowledged with a lift of her sharp chin. “But does that make you swift-footed?”

“No, my lady. I have never been the swiftest, nor the strongest.”

A crease came between her dark brows. “Then how is it you expect to defeat me?”

You were right, he scolded himself. You are a fool. But he only smiled lightly. “Fortune, perhaps.”

“I’ll not be shamed by defeat at the hands of fortune,” Arya scoffed. “No, I’ll not be shamed by defeat at all.”

Edric didn’t speak for a moment. He only moved in time with the music, with her. For all her steel and storm, she felt rather slight in his arms. It was almost enough to forget she’d speared a man through the heart that very morning. Up close, he could see the faintest powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Soft, like a kiss the sun forgot to take back.

He imagined she liked to spend her days beneath the sun.

“If I may be so bold,” he said at last, pivoting them through a swell of harp strings, “if fortune fails to favor you, how could it shame you to be bested? There are many great men vying for your hand. Sons of the kraken and the flayed man—warriors in their own right.”

“Courteous of you, to call them great,” she muttered. She searched his face, curious and sharp, her stormcloud stare pinning him in place. “And what of you, Lord Dayne? Are you a great man?”

“I…” Edric faltered, searching himself for the answer. The hearthfire roared at his back, swallowing the clangor into its molten breath. The moment nearly slipped—but he caught it. Remembered. Fallen and Reborn. He straightened. “I am Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Descendant of the Kings of the Torrentine. Kin to the great Ser Arthur Dayne. Blood of those named Sword of the Morning, wielders of Dawn.”

Just for a heartbeat, he thought he saw a flash of surprise cross her eyes. But it vanished quick as lightning. Then she struck with a smirk.

“Ah, but you are not Dawn’s wielder, are you?”

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

For my latest chapter, Robert IV.

Art by Monkele.art

Aegon (VI) & the Apple of Discord

Cast: Aphrodite!Shiera, Hera!Rhaenys, Athena!Visenya, Paris!Aegon VI

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Undaunted now, Aegon turned his face to look upon the deathless goddesses: Rhaenys, gilded in splendorous regality; Visenya, ablaze with noble might; and Shiera, sweet with tender blooms and all the foliage of spring.

The fated son of Rhaegar lamented that not all could win. But still, one pleased him more.

“Of winning all are worthy,” began Aegon the shepherd-prince, before turning his clear-eyed gaze upon the goddess of love, “but—”

“Young Aegon.”

Bright-eyed Visenya, swift to sense the shifting tide, stepped forward before the offending verdict could fall. She took the youth by the hand, smiling. “Leave Rhaenys, and heed not Shiera—but look toward me, who aids the prowess of men. Come, and I will bestow upon you battle wisdom unrivaled and immortal skill in war.”

Aegon moved to speak, but Rhaenys the Queen claimed the moment for herself.

“Dear child of fate,” said the queen of gods, “elect me, and I shall make you king of the Nine Free Cities. Pentos, land of your false father. Braavos of the Hundred Isles. Myr, where art and learning flourish, and Qohor, where iron bends to no one. Norvos, Lorath, Lys. Proud Volantis in the south. Tyrosh, the city of color.”

White-armed Rhaenys raised her scepter high, a golden crown glittering in her gaze. “War is the burden of the ruled. A king commands with but a word. Elect me, and you shall stand above all thrones.”

Great was their desire for victory, Wisdom and Queen plying the Judge’s favor with the wondrous gifts of their domains. The Judge wavered, uncertain—for how could one choose between the valorous heart and power over men?

Sweetly, Love smiled.

“Forget weary war, sweet Aegon. Cast aside your thoughts of crippling crowns. Do not let such gifts ensnare you. I speak not of Rhaenys nor Visenya, for mine own realm is greater still. For what is conquest without beauty to inspire it? What is kingship without a woman’s heart to share it?”

Shiera Seastar reached forward and brushed a stray curl from Aegon's brow, her rosy fingers feather-light. Her touch lingered like a promise. Behind her, the Charites and Horae sang a song of love and doom so sweet it ached.

“It is naught but ash, dear one. And so my gift shall be of love."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Snippet from Godspun, Prologue.

"Eons seemed to come and go. The sounds grew louder. She heard more laughter, a shouted command, splashing as they crossed and recrossed the little stream. A horse snorted. A man swore.

And then at last she saw him ... only for an instant, framed between the branches of the trees as she looked down at the valley floor, yet she knew it was him. Even at a distance, Ser Jaime Lannister was unmis-takable. The moonlight had silvered his armor and the gold of his hair, and turned his crimson cloak to black. He was not wearing a helm."-AGOT -Catelyn X

I've finished it 😊It took me eons...The Battle of The Whispering Wood

[comm for @lucennia] from their fic: thread noose

ft. the hero of falconreach and df's favorite babydoll <3

Amit Elor & Mica Galvao

Commissions for @lucennia

The Children open Ned Stark’s eye in His Mercy Burns

Art by the wonderful Nightcrow Art.

For my latest chapter, Eddard IX.

“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

Lady Stoneheart and the Little Night Wolf

Inspired by @agentrouka-blog’s thoughts of Arya and Catelyn potentially reuniting in the books. <3

Art by @adelikashere for A Crown of False Spring. The best birthday gift ever.

It was… a girl-child. He’d not misjudged; even whilst standing she was a tiny slip of a thing. A strange thing. Her coltish frame was wrapped in a dove-grey gown, streaked with soil and trailing like mist about small bared feet. Dark chestnut hair tumbled loose and tangled past thin shoulders, framing windburnt cheeks flushed rosy with chill. Her eyes were sharp and wild, her teeth bared—and in her hands a tree branch, raised like a sword! Not a little doe then, thought Arthur. Then, a break in the clouds. A shaft of dying light broke through the clearing, striking the crown of the heart tree with sudden radiance. The deep scarlet leaves flared and shimmered like bloody embers. And there, half-lost amongst the high fronds, something swayed. A shield. Upon it, the painted face of a weirwood, grinning wide and red.

The Twins 🦁👑💚

least broody 14-year-old, actually

three-eyed raven

the knight of the laughing tree

art ref. under the cut

lyanna <3

Battle of The Whispering Woods- Work in Progress

I didn't post in a while - because of job and life - but in the little breaks of life and job I started to draw this. Hopefully I will finish it next week - because of Easter Holliday 🤞

Whoever can hold My husband's old sword And take down 12 dragons...

Artist Note: I was actually making a different animatic with a song in EPIC, but I went on a side quest and finished this one first because I was getting burnt out on the other one. I suppose this can be considered as a Liddle's love interest reveal. This animatic was based off of the idea that after Galanoth slew the Dragon of Time (Liddle's dragon child, Nefri), as per the events shown in AQW in order to save the world, the universe reset, separating him and Liddle to different planes, as she was already the Avatar of Time. (I'll elaborate on this....someday...)

Liddle's Avatar of Time Concept Sketch

Artist's Note : As per usual, I hope you enjoy!

the targaryen queens (and also bloodraven)

Towering far above the rest, the heart tree's bone-white bark flashed stark against the common green brush that sprawled across Old Harren's grounds, gleaming a cold alabaster as bright as his own cloak. Leaves spilled from slender grasping limbs like a million splayed hands dipped in blood. And upon its trunk, a face.

The visage had been slashed deep. If it was the work of man or god, Arthur could not say. Crimson sap oozed from slanted eyes like ancient tears, frozen dry upon pale drawn cheeks. It watched him with knowing disdain. A weirwood, he thought in awe. The last one standing below the Neck.

It was then that he saw the supplicant. A slight figure knelt before the heart tree, head bowed low in prayer. Slim as a winter sapling, and so still he might have mistaken it for carved stone. Scarcely more than a smudge of shadow upon the hard earth.

At the stir of their footfalls, the figure trembled slightly, then hopped to its feet with the swift grace of a startled doe and whirled.

It was… a girl-child. He’d not misjudged; even whilst standing she was a tiny slip of a thing. A strange thing. Her coltish frame was wrapped in a dove-grey gown, streaked with soil and trailing like morning mist about small bared feet. Dark chestnut hair tumbled loose and tangled past thin shoulders, framing windburnt cheeks flushed rosy with chill. Her eyes were sharp and wild, her teeth bared—and in her hands a tree branch, raised like a sword!

Not a little doe then, thought Arthur.

Then, a break in the clouds. A shaft of dying light broke through the clearing, striking the crown of the heart tree with sudden radiance. The deep scarlet leaves flared and shimmered like bloody embers. And there, half-lost amongst the high fronds, something swayed.

A shield. Upon it, the painted face of a weirwood, grinning wide and red.

Arthur froze.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Snippet from A Crown of False Spring, Chapter 4.

Ashara Dayne in His Mercy Burns

This GORGEOUS art is by the wonderful @amaati. I’ve been holding onto it for a while and am excited to share it!!

Here’s a little snippet of my latest chapter, Daenerys V.

In her dream, she found Madam Lyria, mask shedded and bloodied upon pale stone, Ashara Dayne sobbing with the blood of her womb, in a dress as beautiful as twilight.“Mama!” she called. “Muna!” But the woman ignored her, hands clasped upon her breast, nails slick with a babe’s life as crimson as the sky above the Doom.

a few asoiaf faceclaims

Lyanna Stark, Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar Targaryen

Rhaegar faceclaim stolen from @jacaeryspilled x

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lyanna had seen them both at the opening feast—wept, even, to the prince’s sad song—but up close they were almost otherworldly. Ser Arthur’s enameled steel armor was the color of milk, chased with gold, and from his shoulders trailed the snowfield cloak of the Kingsguard. The only spot of color on him was a lavender jade clasp inlaid with a white sword crossing over a falling star. Above his back rose the pale hilt of Dawn. The knight was tall, just as tall as the prince, but he was thicker about the chest and broader at the shoulders. His short-cropped hair was black as a raven’s coat, his strong jaw darkened by the shadow of a new beard. A slight crook to his nose was his sole scar; the quiet mark of a man who had bled and risen still.

The Warrior come to life, her mind whispered. Benjen will be green with envy to learn that I have seen the knight he so worships, and from so near.

At his side, the crown prince was almost Ser Arthur’s inverted twin. Where his knight donned white, the prince wore black. He was in the colors of his royal house: a black velvet doublet with a scarlet half cape draped across one shoulder, clasped with a silver three-headed dragon brooch with little rubies for eyes. The Targaryen dragon also adorned his crown, rearing fiercely along the slender gold circlet above his brow. Beneath it spilled a long wave of silver-pale hair. The face it framed was exceedingly handsome: beautiful, almost, with his straight nose and fine cheekbones that told a tale of golden blood. But it was his eyes that spoke the loudest. They were cousins to Ser Arthur's, a solemn pool of indigo just a shade deeper than his knight's spirited violet. And so... melancholy. 

I wonder why he is so sad, thought Lyanna. He is the crown prince, yet he looks as if he has scarcely known a scrap of joy...

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Descriptions from A Crown of False Spring.

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.

the lady margaery 🌹

“If you had to fall into a woman's arms, my son, why couldn't they have been Margaery Tyrell's? The wealth and power of Highgarden could have made all the difference in the fighting yet to come. And perhaps Grey Wind would have liked the smell of her as well.” - catelyn stark (robb & margaery the power couple that never was)

Missandei of Naath "Eleven years of age, yet Missandei is as clever as half the men at this table and wiser than all of them."

Below is a version w different lighting: