Latest Posts by lucennia - Page 2
Lyanna Stark’s world was dappled in a grey-green patchwork of shadow as she trotted beneath the trees of the Kingsroad. When she emerged from the brush, the land burst into gold. Sunlight kissed leaf and lake alike, scattering across the Gods Eye and gilding its endless surface with a million white diamonds. The air was sweet with wildflowers, dotting the new green grass like tiny yellow stars fallen to earth. Spring had sighed its first breath upon the Riverlands.
And there, before the great expanse of water, stood Harrenhal. Five monstrous stone towers rose from the plains, grasping at the sky like the twisted charred fingers of an ancient giant. Lyanna gave a shiver. It was said Aegon the Conqueror himself had flown atop Balerion the Black Dread, roasting old Harren Hoare alive within the tallest of the five spires.
The towers glowed red against the night, Old Nan had told her, as red as Aegon’s fury. The dragonfire was so hot the very stones melted and flowed down its walls like candlewax.
She believed it. The castle stood like a ruin now—great, yes, but lumpy and misshapen. It was sad, Lyanna decided. She would have liked to explore the castle before it was burnt.
A pale white blur darted past her.
“Race you to the gates, Lya!” shouted Benjen. Her brother dug his heels into his snowy mount, spurring the mare forward with a great laughing whoop that bounded across the warm southern breeze.
“Benjen, wait!” she protested, but the young pup was already too far gone to hear. Lyanna chewed her lip. Normally she’d be off already, racing after Benjen. Racing past him, she sniffed. She was the best rider in the north. Well, her and Brandon.
She twisted in her seat to look back at their retinue, streaming with white banners emblazoned with the grey direwolf of Stark. Hundreds of flying wolves seemed to snap and snarl as wind rippled through their cloth. Leading them was Brandon, tall and proud as ever atop his sleek black destrier. But there was no fire in his handsome Stark face, and he did not urge his horse forward at their brother’s challenge as he would have once.
It was Brandon who’d lifted her atop her first saddle. It was Brandon who’d secreted her out into the wolfswood against the will of their lord father, teaching her the way of spur and rein. A pair of centaurs, Barbrey Ryswell once called them. Barbrey had meant it as a jab beneath her teasing lilt, she was sure, but still the words had made Lyanna flush with pride. Now it only filled her breast with a hollow grey ache.
Yes, usually it would be her and Brandon racing—if not for the shadow that seemed to hang over him. Over them both. You should be happy, Lyanna scolded herself. You’re finally on a great adventure. And yet.
Suddenly the sight of the Stark heir sent a flash of spite scorching through her blood. How dare he brood. Brandon had betrayed her. Brandon and Father both. Her jaw clenched. This wasn’t the usual joyful fire that rushed beneath her skin urging her to ride; this was anger, pure and sharp as winter's bite.
Without a word, Lyanna put spur to horse and burst after Benjen. The wind tore at her cloak and lashed at her cheeks as she leaned into a ferocious gallop, but it couldn’t blow away the memory that had so soured her mood.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Rewrote the entire first chapter of A Crown of False Spring. 10/10 would collapse right now.
Harrenhal art by Lino Drieghe and René Aigner.
Arthur and Ashara Dayne 💫
Commission for the lovely @troiades ! Such a joy to work with and I'm so happy I got to draw these two together💕!
"How did you get through the Wall?" Jojen demanded as Sam struggled to his feet. "Does the well lead to an underground river, is that where you came from?
You're not even wet ..."
"There's a gate," said fat Sam. "A hidden gate, as old as the Wall itself. The Black Gate, he called it."
The Reeds exchanged a look. "We'll find this gate at the bottom of the well?" asked Jojen.
Sam shook his head. "You won't. I have
to take you."
"Why?" Meera demanded. "If there's a gate ...
"You won't find it. If you did it wouldn't open. Not for you. It's the Black Gate." Sam plucked at the faded black wool of his sleeve. "Only a man of the Night's Watch can open it, he said. A Sworn Brother who has said his words."
"He said." Jojen frowned. "This ….. Cold-hands?"-ASOS -Bran IV
Lyanna Stark was made for the North. She was made to race horses with Brandon and cross swords with Benjen and pick blue winter roses from the glass gardens for her lord father. She wasn’t made to wear silken gowns in the chafing southron heat as a prize for stupid Robert Baratheon. She wasn’t made to be a queen.
Tears stung her eyes. That made her angry, so she swiped them away before they could fall. She was five-and-ten and flowered now, a woman grown. Too old to cry. Above her, the ancient gaze of the weirwood seemed to strip her bare, its long bone-white face cold with contempt even as its eyes wept rivulets of blood. Even the gods thought her too old to cry. I should pray, Lyanna thought suddenly. She went to her knees, clasping her hands together beneath her chin.
Help me, you old gods, she prayed silently. Don’t let me marry Robert with his wandering eye and his bastard in the Vale. Dearest Ned says that he loves me, that he is a good man and true, but he is blinded by his own love for his friend. He does not see Robert for what he is. I do not want him. I do not want to be a pawn in my father’s southron ambitions. I do not want to be queen. Please, old gods, let me be free.
Was that enough? Did the old gods hear her? Carefully, Lyanna cracked one eye open and peered up through her lashes. Only the same twisted face of dried red sap glared back at her, unchanged in its hateful ugliness. She chewed her lip uncertainly. If only they could give her a sign. Perhaps I should close my eyes again. She squeezed them shut even more tightly, but all Lyanna could hear was the wind, blowing a soft shivery sigh through the rustling oak trees. And… and something else.
Footsteps. A pair of them, crunching on the dead red leaves. People were coming.
Lyanna’s eyes flew open as panic seized her throat in its terrible cold fist. There was no time to hide. She grabbed for the nearest weapon—an old rotting tree branch—and whirled.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
A snippet from A Crown of False Spring on AO3. My take on the Harrenhal Conspiracy, which theorizes that the STAB Alliance was plotting to use Rhaegar's Harrenhal council to depose of the Targaryens and put Robert on the throne.
Lots of Arya references.
favorite thing in asoiaf is that the stark family tree is just filled with haters in every generation. theon stark brandon snow alaric stark cregan stark even ned's brother brandon and lyanna too. even the current kids jon snow robb sansa and arya all have some kendrick lamar level of beef w at least one person. brandon the builder spawned an entire genre of haters
some doodles of Rickon and Shaggydog and Bran and Summer... I HC that after his wolf dreams Bran is CONVINCED summer can talk
"The things I do for love" - AGOT - Bran II
"More Frills!" I say.
Alina Court Attire Redesign
Artist's Note: I looked at the design I made for Alina's Court Alchemist outfit, and something just didn't seem right to me. It was too simple. Dare I say...too plain So, I decided to add a few more details in small areas and I think it adds so much more to her outfit! I am satisfied!
Down below is the revised outfit concept ⬇️⬇️⬇️
Artist's Note: Not that different. Just the same image with a few more frills on one outfit.
The gay characters in ASOIAF having the most romantic quotes was an incredible writing decision by GRRM:
“When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.”
— A Storm of Swords, Tyrion II
I rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell.
— A Dance With Dragons, The Griffin Reborn
𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐓𝐲𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝑜𝑓 𝐻𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛
𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒐: "Growing Strong". 𝑺𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒍: Is a golden rose on a green field. 𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔: Members of the family tend to have curly brown hair and brown eyes.
Lords Paramount of the Mander and the liege lords of the Reach. House Tyrell is a large, wealthy house, its wealth is only surpassed among the Great Houses by House Lannister. The Tyrells control much of the agriculture in the Reach, making them influential players in the politics of Westeros.
Unlike most other Great Houses, the Tyrells never ruled as kings. Instead, they trace their line of descent through the female line to the legendary Garth the Gardener, the mythical first King of the Reach reigning in the Age of Heroes, and the son of the equally mythic Garth Greenhand.
After the fall of House Gardener, the Tyrells rose to prominence by supporting Aegon I Targaryen. In return for their loyalty, they were granted the title of Wardens of the South and became one of the most powerful houses in Westeros.
During the reign of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Tyrells hosted the famed Tourney of the Field of Roses.
As the Dance of the Dragons began, Lord Lyonel Tyrell was an infant, and his regent mother was judged likely to align the Reach with the House's "overmighty" bannermen, the Hightowers, and the greens.
However, House Tyrell decided to take no part in the war. The Tyrell bannermen, on the other hand, were split during the war, with men of the Reach fighting on both sides. Later Ser Ulf White attempted to claim Highgarden for himself, as House Tyrell had taken no part in the Dance and he believed they should be considered traitors.
During Robert's Rebellion, House Tyrell stayed loyal to King Aerys II Targaryen. Lord Mace Tyrell's forces achieved victory against Lord Robert Baratheon at the Battle of Ashford.
Hello there! You’re an amazing artist btw! Can you draw Naerys from the ASOIAF lore with newborn Daenerys of Dorne?
hi dear anonymous! thank you very much for your sweet words!
specially for you Queen Naerys Targaryen and her baby daughter Princess Daenerys Targaryen (of Dorne).
The night was black and starless, Gem’s only guide a small oil lantern as she stalked through the empty stone halls of Edelia’s residential wing. Truly, she was growing sick of seeking him out.
Sleep had evaded her, slipping from her grasp like a vengeful lover, cruelly indifferent to her desperate tossing and turning. Her sheets had tangled about her limbs as she chased the elusive salvation of slumber, and coming away empty-handed at the end of each dragging hour had nearly brought her to a scream. Several, in fact.
We shouldn’t have. You leave tomorrow. Your mission—it comes first.
The words swirled in Gem’s mind on an endless, unbearable loop. It was driving her to madness. She had to do something.
And yet, staring upon his door now, a sudden doubt took hold of her. The hour was late, well past midnight. Surely he would be asleep. Not to mention, gods be damned, these were his private quarters. But the thought clung to her like a shadow, impossible to shake. If not now, then when?
She knocked softly.
For the longest moment, there was no sound. Gem leaned forward, straining to hear, almost pressing her ear to the wood. Still nothing. Then, with a sudden jolt, the door swung open, and she toppled face forward into a hard chest. Danyel caught her by the shoulders.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The headmaster’s voice was flat and cold as he released his grip on her. It seemed she was not the only one sleep had forsaken. Gem flushed, righting herself with what scraps remained of her dignity—but still holding her ground. His mouth thinned when he saw she wouldn’t be deterred. “What is it, Gem?”
“We need to talk.”
“When I said we’d discuss it later, I didn’t mean today.” The hollows of his eyes were dark, and his mood darker still—nearly as black as the sky outside.
Gem glared. “When else?”
They locked eyes, tension wound tighter than a drawn bowstring. The steel in Danyel’s gaze was freshly edged tonight, daring her to back down, but Gem stood firm. Neither moved, neither blinked. The air itself seemed to crackle, ready to snap at any second. Then, at last, he exhaled—a heavy swooshing breath of vexation and surrender all at once. Without breaking eye contact, he stepped aside, welcoming her in with a mocking sweep of his arm.
The room was sparsely furnished. All that filled the place was a narrow writing desk, a padded couch, and a deep indigo banner stitched with the Edelia insignia in silver thread. A weak fire smoldered in the runestone hearth, reduced to embers, casting the space in a sullen red glare. This was his solar, Gem realized, adjoined to his bedchamber at the far end, shrouded in shadow. She felt her courage waver. Swallowing, she hung her lantern from an iron hook in the wall. Danyel hovered before the lone window on the other side of the room, his arms crossed stiffly against his chest.
“Well? What is it you want to talk about so badly?”
Gem’s nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms. “Earlier. What you said… or didn’t say—you owe me an explanation.”
“Do I? I thought I made myself clear. This… whatever this is, it can’t continue.”
This had to be a joke, and a cruel one at that. “You didn’t make anything clear. You—” Gem sucked in a sharp breath. “You ran.”
“I did no such thing. I was doing the right thing.”
“Right for who? You, or me? Or is this about your precious duty again?” The word tasted of the foulest condemnation on her tongue.
Danyel scoffed. “It’s not so simple.”
“Then explain it to me.”
His jaw was clenched, his face taut. “Forget it,” he muttered at last, turning away from her.
Gem froze. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t Danyel at all. Colors inverted all around her; ash-brown hair washed to white, and gray eyes gleamed golden. Even the red cast of the room melted into Void-purple. A misty wraith, turning his back and slipping like rain through her fingers. Bile surged at the back of her throat. Then she blinked, and it was only the headmaster again, his face averted.
“No. No. You can’t do this.” Not again. Not like this. Was she always meant to be left behind? Gem could feel hot tears stinging her eyes. “You—you’re just like Tomix.”
Danyel whirled. “I am nothing like Tomix,” he spat. The dying firelight danced across his face, making him look like a wrathful revenant, risen from the ashes. “This is why nothing can happen. You were his.”
She recoiled, her own fury forgotten. “What are you talking about?”
“You heard me." His eyes were haunted, his voice thick with bitter loathing. "He loved you. Perhaps not in the way most would understand, but he did in his own way. I won’t be the replacement for someone you—someone I—lost.”
Something tightened inside Gem's chest. “Is that what you think this is?”
“You’re chasing ghosts, Gem.”
“That’s not true," she whispered. It wasn't, she told herself. It wasn't. "I know he’s gone. He’s been gone. Maybe... maybe it's true I’ll never be free of him entirely, but I’m not chasing him. This has nothing to do with him.”
Danyel raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it?” His words were cruel, knowing, wielded like a knife—like he wanted to slice her right open. He had always been good at that. “You’re not thinking about what this means. About what happens after. You never do.”
“I don’t care what happens after!” Gem cried out. “Why can’t I just have something for myself for once? Why does the past matter? Why does the future matter? Is now not enough? Must everything have some secret, veiled meaning behind it? What’s right, what’s wrong, what’s dutiful—I don’t care!" She almost choked on the words, on the sheer force of them. On the selfish, shameful truth of them. "I don't care," she echoed softly, after a pause, "I want this.”
His eyes flickered with something dark. But there was also something else—some thing else, lurking just beneath the liquid gray surface. It writhed like a twisted creature, alive and ravenous, struggling to drag itself from his resolve with its razored claws. Would he let it take him? Danyel remained silent for another moment, staring at her as though measuring her, as if weighing her against some phantom consequence only he could see.
“If you’re so sure,” he murmured, his voice dropping, a challenge on his tongue—it took him—“then come here.”
And so she went to him.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
A secret deleted scene from Storm's Breath. The rest is on AO3. Warning for shameless filth ahead. Locked because... yeah.
Said I was done with this story but I couldn't help myself.
Also name change because an online friend said my childhood username sounded like a discord groomer.
Cat of the Canals/Arya in Braavos
Cat had made friends along the wharves; porters and mummers, ropemakers and sailmenders, taverners, brewers and bakers and beggars and whores.
A Basket of Ribbons - Guillaume Charles Brun (1869)
The wind whistled sharply through the mana trees, blowing a cold dead breath on her bloodless face. Suddenly it was as if all the strength had left her limbs. Her sword felt impossibly heavy, slippery. It fell from her trembling grasp, striking the ground with a hollow thud. When she looked down, she saw the blade was bright blue, and her hands bluer still—painted with the blood of the land she had carved through. The sight of it sent a wave of nausea through her.
She was no hero. In this moment, she was Death himself.
A splatter of wetness hit her cheek. It had started to rain. The droplets came slow and lazy at first, then fast and heavy, building into a mighty torrent that lashed against her skin as if it were the wrath of the very heavens.
But what of my wrath?
Last chapter of Storm's Breath and I'm sad it's over. Illustration of Gem in the Fissure by the most amazing @entropienn x
Princess Shireen Baratheon
Rhaegar with baby Daenerys and Viserys
there are old valyria velaryons everywhere to those with eyes that are willing to see
— David Foster Wallace, E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction
"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.