A Song of Dreamers - (Prologue)
Hey, It’s been awhile. I know that a lot of you follow me for Outlander content and Outlander fanfiction, but honestly my head hasn’t been there for awhile. I do miss all of the fics I had ongoing for that fandom, but it just doesn’t hold the same space in my heart as it used to. Hopefully, one day I will come back to writing those fics, but for now I’m moving on from it.
For the past few years, I’ve been heavily hyperfixating on ASoIaF and the universe that George RR Martin has created, especially Daenerys Targaryen and House Targaryen. I can’t count the number of other fics I’ve read, art I’ve seen, and people I’ve interacted with in this fandom. I’ve done and still do A LOT of ASoIaF RP on Discord and that’s where all of my writing has been. And now with House of the Dragon out, that obsession has only increased. So, writing a fanfic for this fandom and this universe has been something I’ve wanted to do for a few years now, especially for Robb and Daenerys (because I ship them even though I know they’re a super rare pair and it’ll never happen in canon, I think they’d be great for each other, idc.) I still have absolutely NO IDEA where I am going to go with this fic, but I’ll figure it out as I go along, hopefully.
So, without further ado, I hope you all enjoy the read :)
(BTW, I haven’t really been active on tumblr at all lately, but I’m super active on Twitter if anyone wants to follow me over there! I post art there too! Check it out here)
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Daenerys wants nothing more than to go home. Sometimes, she imagines what Dragonstone is like, remembers the tales her brother told her of the place she was born that she could not ever hope to remember. A place where dragons had hatched and lived and died. Where her ancestors came before the Doom of Valyria and made their home before Aegon and his sisters looked west and conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Before they built the Red Keep in King’s Landing at the mouth of Blackwater Bay and ruled for nearly three centuries. Yet Dragonstone had never been home to her, not really – despite how much she tried to cling to the idea of that being true.
Before, home to her had always been the house in Braavos with the red door and the lemon tree outside her window. Of evenings spent looking out at the sea and the breeze carding through her hair. Of Viserys spinning tales of home and comforting her when she had bad dreams before he had gone mad.
Yet when Dany dreams she does not see the house with the red door or her lemon tree. She does not see the black sand beaches or the smoking Dragonmont on Dragonstone. She doesn't even see the tall grasses of the Dothraki sea. No, when Dany dreams she is transported to another world altogether: a land of hills and moors covered in white with a gray sky above it. She dreams of tall trees with leaves like needles, of a chill in the air that nips at her skin despite her heat – and the only sound that can be heard is the howling of wolves. And for some reason, this strange place felt more like home to her than the house with the red door and her lemon tree ever had.
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Robb wants nothing more than to go home. Back to Winterfell with its warm halls and familiar faces. Back to where everything was familiar and carefree and safe. He wants to leave this war that even though he is winning, the end of it seems to forever be just outside of his grasp. With each day that passes, he is unsure that he will ever get to see Winterfell again. Will never be able to visit the Godswood where his father would sit beneath the bone-white bark of the Weirwood tree and sharpen Ice. Where Grey Wind and the rest of the direwolves had raced and hunted and grew. Where he might never get to visit the crypts of the Lords and Kings of Winterfell that came before him – never get to see his father’s likeness carved among them.
He does not know if his brothers or Arya are alive, doesn’t know how much longer Sansa will be safe in the grasp of the Lannisters in King’s Landing. Yet when he dreams and finds himself looking at the world through Grey Wind’s eyes, sometimes he can still feel the pull of Summer and Shaggy Dog far off in the North, where Ghost is, too. There’s another wolf that is closer, whom he knows must be Nymeria. When he wakes, he tries to hold onto that feeling – convinces himself that if their wolves are out there, then Bran and Rickon and Arya are still alive, too – somewhere, out of reach.
Sometimes when he dreams there’s something else too, something he cannot name or place. Something that smells of fire and ash and brimstone, of heat. He feels a pull towards that too, somewhere far off and across the sea to the east that is perhaps even stronger than that of the other direwolves. And when Robb wakes, the only word that he can put to that feeling that even comes close to describing it, is home.
