Jon Arryn In The Father’s Image, His Mercy Burns

Fiona Apple photographed by David Corio, 1997

Amit Elor & Mica Galvao

Commissions for @lucennia

Más dibujos sin terminar porque ya no me importa nada

a prayer to who, exactly?

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:

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💕!

Some banter between Valencia and Symone, perhaps, if you are still doing prompts x

“What are YOU doing here?”

Valencia narrowed her eyes at the familiar annoying voice, and rose from where she was crouched at the hidden entrance to the cave. “I have a reliable source that tells me this cave has remnants of the hoard of the rock drake Callan. Now I could ask YOU the same question!”

Symone glowered slightly, adjusting the rope on her hip. “I have my own reliable source that says a pack of night creatures have taken up residence in this cave, biding their time before they attack the nearest village. Stand aside, treasure hunter, they must be slain!”

“Not so fast, monster hunter!” Valencia drew herself up to her full height and rested her hand on the pommel of her blade. “If there is treasure in there, it’s highly fragile and I will NOT have you DESTROY it with your clumsy stomping around!”

“Clumsy?! I’ll have you know that the ways of the Shadowhunter have been passed down through generations of the DuBellmount line! Besides, are you REALLY willing to risk the lives of innocents for some mere trinkets?!”

“Trinkets?! I don’t have time to tell you how wrong you are, but at least I preserve! You destroy!”

“And how many items that you’ve ‘preserved’ have ended up being cursed?!”

“That’s neither here nor there! Besides, I’ve found far more hidden tombs than you!”

“Finding tombs is not my priority, Valtrith aside! And I can do more press-ups than you!”

“Can not!”

“Can too!”

The battle lines declared, both women dropped to the floor, determined to prove her press-up superiority, and thus neither of them noticed the Hero exiting the cave’s front entrance, having clearly come from a fight as they sheathed their weapons, Draco happily curled round their shoulders sporting a shiny new crown.

Spotting Valencia and Symone in their heated competition, the Hero promptly turned around and walked off very quickly in the opposite direction.

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

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.

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.