Runestone, 98 AC - A Fortnight Later
The ancient towers of Runestone had withstood the fury of storms, the rage of armies, and the slow grinding passage of centuries, but even they seemed to tremble as Caraxes descended from the autumn sky like a crimson thunderbolt. The Blood Wyrm's roar echoed off the bronze-veined stones of the castle walls, sending flocks of ravens spiraling into the air and causing every horse in the stables to rear and whinny in primal terror.
Prince Daemon Targaryen guided his dragon to a landing in the great courtyard with his usual flair for the dramatic—which was to say, entirely too much flair and not nearly enough consideration for the livestock. Caraxes settled onto the ancient stones with serpentine grace, his enormous claws scraping furrows in the weathered bronze inlay as his wings folded against his scarlet sides. Steam rose from his nostrils in the crisp mountain air, and his molten gold eyes surveyed the assembled household of Runestone with the casual interest of a predator deciding which morsel looked most appetizing.
Daemon remained mounted for a long moment, allowing the theatrical impact of his arrival to settle over the courtyard like dragon-smoke. He was dressed in black leather and crimson silk, his silver hair whipping in the wind created by Caraxes' massive wings, looking every inch the dangerous prince of legend. At his side hung Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword that had been carried by Targaryen princes for generations. But it was the carefully wrapped bundle secured to his saddle that would prove most significant—a dragon egg from the ancient hoards of Dragonstone, chosen with surprising care for the son he had yet to meet.
The household of Runestone had assembled to greet their unexpected visitors, though "greet" might have been too generous a term. The men-at-arms stood in rigid formation, their bronze-studded leather armor gleaming dully in the afternoon light. Their hands rested on sword hilts with the easy readiness of soldiers who had seen real battle, not the pampered ceremony of court guards. The servants clustered in nervous groups, some crossing themselves at the sight of the dragon, others simply staring in the mixture of awe and terror that dragons inevitably inspired.
And at the center of it all stood Lady Rhea Royce, as unmoved by Daemon's dramatic entrance as if he had arrived on a particularly slow donkey rather than the back of a legendary beast of fire and death.
She was dressed in a gown of deep bronze silk that complemented her auburn hair, with a cloak of russet wool thrown over her shoulders against the mountain chill. The ancient runes of House Royce were embroidered in gold thread along the hem of her dress, and at her throat hung a pendant of polished bronze shaped like the sigil of her house. Her brown eyes, sharp as newly forged blades and twice as cutting, watched her husband's theatrics with the expression of a woman who had long since ceased to be impressed by peacock displays from overgrown boys with dragons.
"My lady wife," Daemon called out as he finally dismounted from Caraxes, his boots hitting the courtyard stones with a sharp crack that echoed off the surrounding walls. His smile was all charm and swagger, the sort that had gotten him into—and occasionally out of—trouble from King's Landing to the Free Cities. "I trust our arrival finds you well?"
"As well as can be expected when one's husband announces his presence by terrorizing my livestock and sending half my household into hysterics," Rhea replied with the sort of bone-dry wit that could strip paint from castle walls. Though there was the faintest quirk at the corner of her mouth that might have been amusement—or indigestion. "Your dragon has just caused three prize mares to miscarry and sent my kitchen staff fleeing like the Others themselves were on their heels."
"Caraxes is merely... enthusiastic about meeting new people," Daemon replied with an unrepentant grin that had absolutely no business being as charming as it was. "He's been looking forward to meeting his grandson, haven't you, old friend?"
The dragon in question chose that moment to snap irritably at a servant who had ventured too close with a water bucket, nearly taking the poor man's head clean off.
"Dragons don't have grandchildren, husband," Rhea observed with the patience of a woman explaining basic concepts to a particularly slow child. "They have meals that happen to be related to their riders. And kindly ensure your 'enthusiastic' companion doesn't eat any more of my people before supper."
Despite her sharp words, Rhea stepped forward to offer the traditional greeting due to visiting royalty, her movements carrying the fluid grace of a woman trained from birth in the complex dance of noble courtesy—and the practical awareness that insulting a dragon prince on his own dragon was a swift path to becoming dragon fodder.
Behind Daemon, a second figure dismounted from what was clearly a much more conventional—and sensible—arrival. Septon Barth climbed down from a well-appointed carriage with the careful dignity of his advanced years, his gray robes travel-stained but clean. His weathered face bore the patient expression of a man who had spent the past fortnight trying to keep a restless dragon prince from doing anything too spectacularly stupid—a task roughly equivalent to holding back the tide with a tea strainer.
"Lady Rhea," Barth said with a deep bow that spoke of genuine respect and years of diplomatic training. His voice carried the cultured tones of the scholarly class, each word precisely enunciated with the sort of careful diction that suggested extensive education and even more extensive patience. "Thank you for receiving us so graciously. I bring greetings and congratulations from Their Graces the King and Queen, along with their hopes for your continued good health and the prosperity of your house."
"You are most welcome, Septon," Rhea replied, her voice warming considerably in a way it distinctly had not for her husband. "Any friend of the Crown is welcome at Runestone. I trust your journey from the capital was... eventful?" Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward Daemon, who was busy trying to prevent Caraxes from investigating a cart full of apples with his teeth.
Barth's smile was the sort that suggested he had stories that would curl hair and had far too much discretion to tell them. "Prince Daemon is... an enthusiastic traveler, my lady. We made excellent time, though I suspect several inns along the King's Road will be adding 'no dragons' to their establishment rules."
"Only three inns," Daemon protested, finally giving up his battle to keep Caraxes away from the apples. "And the fire damage was minimal. Mostly."
"There was also that incident with the fishmonger's daughter," Barth reminded him with the sort of gentle reproach that suggested this was not the first such conversation they'd had.
"That was entirely innocent," Daemon said with wounded dignity. "I was merely—"
"Prince Daemon," Rhea interrupted smoothly, "perhaps we might continue this fascinating recounting of your journey's... highlights... somewhere warmer? The mountain air grows chill as evening approaches, and I'd prefer not to conduct family reunions in my courtyard where the entire household can hear every word."
Her eyes moved to her husband, who was approaching with the carefully wrapped bundle cradled in his arms like precious cargo—or possibly a small, expensive bomb. "And what, pray tell, have you brought to my halls, husband? More disruption for my household? A pet kraken, perhaps? A particularly aggressive shadowcat?"
"A gift," Daemon replied, suddenly serious in that way he got when something actually mattered to him. The bundle in his arms was roughly the size of a man's head, wrapped in cloth-of-gold and secured with crimson ribbons that probably cost more than most people saw in a year. "For our son."
The words seemed to hang in the air between them, heavy with implications neither had yet fully explored. *Our son.* Not "the child" or "your heir" or "that baby you wrote to me about," but *our son*—a recognition of shared responsibility that Daemon had never voiced before and that surprised them both with its simple honesty.
Rhea's expression softened fractionally, though she maintained her composure with the practiced skill of a noblewoman born and raised in the complex world of Vale politics. "I see. And will this gift require additional stabling? I'm not certain we have accommodations for a second dragon, and my steward is already having apoplexy about feeding the one you brought."
"Not yet," Daemon admitted with something that might have been sheepishness, if one could imagine Daemon Targaryen being sheepish about anything. "This particular gift will need some time to... develop. Assuming it develops at all."
"A dragon egg," Rhea observed, her voice carefully neutral in the way that suggested she was choosing her words as carefully as a septon choosing scriptures for a particularly difficult funeral. "Of course. Because what every newborn infant needs is a potential method of incinerating his nursemaids and setting fire to his cradle."
"Tradition," Daemon replied with the sort of firm conviction usually reserved for religious zealots and men trying to justify spectacularly poor decisions to their wives. "Targaryen princes are given dragon eggs in their cradles. It's how we determine who among us has the blood to ride the great beasts. My grandfather had one, my father had one, I had one—"
"And look how well that turned out," Rhea muttered under her breath.
"—and now my son shall have one," Daemon continued, either not hearing her or choosing to ignore it. "It's practically a family heirloom. A sacred trust passed down through generations."
"And if he doesn't?" Rhea asked quietly, her voice carrying undertones of genuine concern beneath the surface skepticism. "If the egg never hatches, or if it hatches to a dragon that refuses him? What then, Daemon? What happens to a Targaryen prince who cannot claim a dragon?"
It was a question that cut to the heart of Targaryen identity, to the very core of what it meant to be a dragonlord in a world where dragons were both power and purpose. Daemon found himself without an easy answer, his usual glib responses suddenly seeming inadequate.
"Then he'll find other ways to prove himself worthy of his heritage," he said finally, his voice quieter than before. "But we give him the chance first. We give him every chance."
Septon Barth cleared his throat with the diplomatic precision of a man who had survived decades in the treacherous waters of court politics by knowing exactly when to intervene in conversations that were heading toward dangerous territory. "Perhaps we might continue this fascinating discussion somewhere warmer? The mountain air grows chill as evening approaches, and travel has left us somewhat... dusty."
Rhea nodded, already turning toward the great doors of the castle with the brisk efficiency of a woman who ran a major keep and had no time for standing around in courtyards having philosophical discussions about dragon eggs. "Of course. Forgive me—you've traveled far and deserve proper hospitality." She gestured to the servants, who immediately sprang into action with the sort of well-trained efficiency that spoke of a household that knew its business. "See that Prince Daemon's... companion... is provided with fresh meat from our stores. The good cuts, mind you—I'll not have visiting dragons complaining about the quality of our beef. And mind the sheep, for the love of the Seven. I'll not have them driven off by dragon-fear just because my husband doesn't understand the meaning of 'subtle entrance.'"
"Caraxes will behave himself," Daemon assured her with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no control over his dragon's behavior and knew it. "Won't you, my beauty?"
Caraxes chose that moment to snap at a particularly bold raven that had ventured too close to his tail, missing the bird by inches and leaving scorch marks on the ancient stones.
"Mostly," Daemon amended weakly.
As they walked toward the castle's main entrance, Daemon found himself studying his wife with new eyes—or perhaps, for the first time, actually paying attention to what he was seeing. He had always dismissed her as provincial, dull, more interested in mining yields than poetry or politics. But watching her handle the chaos of a dragon's arrival with calm efficiency, seeing the obvious respect her household held for her, observing the way she commanded attention without raising her voice... he was forced to admit there was considerably more to Lady Rhea Royce than he had ever bothered to discover.
"The child is well?" he asked as they climbed the steps to the great hall, his voice carefully casual in the way that suggested the answer mattered more than he wanted to admit.
"He thrives," Rhea replied, and for the first time since his arrival, her voice carried a note of unguarded warmth that transformed her entire expression. "Strong lungs, excellent appetite, and already showing alarming signs of the Targaryen stubbornness. He's been giving his wet nurse fits by refusing to sleep at reasonable hours."
"Takes after his father, then," Septon Barth observed with dry humor.
"Heaven help us all," Rhea muttered.
"And his... coloring?" Daemon pressed, remembering the strange absence of any mention of the child's eyes in the original letter—an omission that had puzzled him during the long flight north.
Rhea paused at the threshold of the great hall, her hand resting on the ancient bronze doors that bore the weathered marks of four thousand years of history. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."
The interior of Runestone was a study in ancient grandeur tempered by practical mountain life. The great hall rose to a vaulted ceiling supported by massive stone pillars, each one carved with the intricate runic script of the First Men in patterns that seemed to shift and dance in the flickering torchlight. Tapestries depicting the legendary deeds of House Royce hung from the walls—bronze-clad warriors facing down mountain clans, ancient kings treating with the Andal invaders, the legendary Robar Royce who had earned the name "Bronze Lord" for his prowess in battle against raiders from the Sisters.
But it was the warmth that struck Daemon most forcefully, catching him off guard in a way he hadn't expected. Unlike the cold grandeur of the Red Keep with its calculated magnificence and political undercurrents, Runestone felt *lived in*. Servants moved through the halls with familiarity rather than fear, children played in alcoves carved for that purpose centuries ago, and everywhere there was the sense of a place where life was cherished rather than merely endured.
"Impressive," Septon Barth murmured, his scholarly eyes taking in the ancient architecture with the appreciation of a man who understood the significance of what he was seeing. "Some of these runes predate the Conquest by centuries. The histories speak of Runestone as one of the oldest continuously inhabited castles in the Vale—possibly in all of Westeros."
"Four thousand years," Rhea confirmed with obvious pride, her voice carrying the sort of deep satisfaction that came from being part of something larger than oneself. "Built when the First Men still held dominion over all of Westeros, strengthened and expanded by every generation since. These walls have never fallen to siege or storm, never been taken by force of arms."
"Bronze remembers," Daemon said quietly, recognizing the ancient motto of House Royce and feeling, for the first time, some sense of what those words actually meant.
"Bronze endures," Rhea corrected gently, her eyes meeting his with something that might have been surprise at his recognition. "We adapt, we survive, we protect what matters most." Her gaze grew pointed. "As I intend to do with our son."
They made their way through corridors lined with portraits of Royce lords and ladies stretching back generations—stern faces with strong jaws and intelligent eyes, people who had built something lasting in these harsh mountains and passed it down through blood and tradition. Daemon found himself studying the faces with growing interest, realizing perhaps for the first time that his son would carry this legacy too. Not just the fire and blood of dragons, but the enduring strength of bronze and the ancient wisdom of the First Men.
"Your ancestors have... character," he observed, pausing before a portrait of a particularly stern-looking woman in bronze-studded armor.
"Lady Ysilla Royce," Rhea said with fond respect. "She held Runestone against a siege by the Sunderlands for three months during the reign of King Maegor. When they finally offered terms, she had their envoy thrown from the walls with a message tied to his ankle: 'Bronze yields to none.'"
"Charming family trait," Daemon murmured, though there was admiration in his voice.
"We prefer 'practical,'" Rhea replied smoothly. "Though I suppose it amounts to the same thing."
Septon Barth smiled at their exchange, recognizing the first signs of actual conversation rather than mutual hostility. "Perhaps that practicality combined with Targaryen... innovation... will produce something quite remarkable in your son."
"Here," Rhea said softly as they reached a wooden door carved with protective runes and what appeared to be blessings in the old tongue. "The nursery."
Daemon felt his heart begin to race, though he couldn't have said whether from anticipation or terror or some combination of both. Behind that door was his child—his son—a person he had helped create but had never seen, never touched, never spoken to. What if the boy cried when he saw him? What if Daemon dropped him? What if he was terrible at this entire father business? What if—
"Breathe, Your Grace," Septon Barth murmured kindly, his voice carrying the sort of gentle authority that suggested he'd guided more than one nervous parent through this exact moment. "Children have an uncanny ability to sense their parents' emotions. Calm will serve you far better than panic."
"Easy for you to say," Daemon muttered, running a hand through his hair. "You're not about to meet a tiny person who shares your blood and will probably judge you for the rest of your life."
"Oh, but I have," Barth replied with a smile. "Many times, in fact. Children are remarkably forgiving creatures, Your Grace. It's adults who hold grudges."
Rhea's hand rested on the door handle, but she paused to look at her husband with something that might have been sympathy. "He's sleeping," she said quietly. "He's been fussing today—I think he senses something different in the castle's routine. New voices, new smells, the general disruption of having a dragon take up residence in my courtyard."
"May I...?" Daemon gestured toward the door, suddenly uncertain of his welcome in this most private of spaces.
"He's your son," Rhea replied simply, and there was something in her voice—warmth, perhaps, or maybe just resignation—that made the words feel like more than just statement of fact.
She pushed open the door, and they stepped into another world entirely.
The nursery was a haven of gentle warmth and carefully crafted peace, with tapestries depicting pastoral scenes rather than battles or heraldry. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on walls painted with images of flowers and birds and other gentle creatures. Baby clothes hung drying on wooden frames, tiny garments that seemed impossibly small. Toys carved from mountain pine sat in neat rows on shelves—horses and knights and dragons, all crafted with the sort of loving detail that spoke of gifts made rather than bought. The air smelled of lavender and milk and something else, something indefinable but unmistakably right—the scent of new life, of hope, of possibility.
And there, in a cradle carved from a single piece of weirwood and inlaid with bronze in patterns that matched the ancient doors, lay Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen.
Daemon approached slowly, afraid to breathe too loudly lest he wake the sleeping child. The baby was small—impossibly, heartbreakingly small—with the fine-boned features that spoke of royal breeding and the sort of delicate perfection that made Daemon's hands feel like massive, clumsy things that had no business anywhere near something so fragile. His hair was a cap of silver-gold silk that caught the firelight like spun moonbeams, and his skin had the pale translucence of new ivory.
But when the child stirred, perhaps sensing the presence of strangers, and opened his eyes, Daemon felt the world shift beneath his feet like a ship in a storm.
They were green. Not the purple of Valyrian blood or the brown of Royce heritage, but a brilliant, impossible green that seemed to hold depths far beyond those of any infant. They were the green of spring leaves and deep forest pools and ancient magic, and they fixed on Daemon's face with an intensity that was utterly unnerving in one so young.
For a moment that stretched into eternity, father and son simply stared at each other, and Daemon had the strangest feeling that he was being *evaluated* by something ancient and knowing behind those emerald eyes—as if this tiny creature was taking his measure and finding him... interesting, perhaps, but not yet proven.
"Green," he whispered, his voice hoarse with shock and something else, something deeper.
"Like your mother's," Rhea said quietly, watching his reaction with careful attention. "Lady Alyssa had heterochromia, didn't she? One purple eye, one green? Perhaps it simply... manifested differently in him."
Daemon nodded slowly, remembering his mother's mismatched eyes—one purple as an amethyst, one green as summer grass. She had been beautiful, his mother, and her unusual coloring had only made her more striking. But this... this was something else entirely. Both eyes were green, that impossible, luminous green, and they held a quality of awareness that seemed to see straight through him.
"May I?" he asked, his hands already reaching toward the cradle with a hunger he hadn't expected.
"Carefully," Rhea cautioned, moving to stand beside him with the sort of protective attention that suggested she would step in immediately if he showed any signs of incompetence. "Support his head—newborns can't control their necks yet. And mind his soft spot—there, just behind his forehead."
With infinite care, more gently than he had ever handled anything in his life, Daemon slipped his hands beneath his son's tiny form and lifted him from the cradle. The baby was warm and solid and utterly perfect, weighing almost nothing but somehow filling Daemon's arms as if he had been carved specifically to fit there. For a moment, Prince Jaehaerys simply continued to stare up at Daemon with those unsettling green eyes, his tiny face serious and contemplative.
And then—miracle of miracles—the infant's mouth curved in what was unmistakably a smile.
"Hello, little prince," Daemon whispered, his voice thick with emotions he couldn't name and didn't want to examine too closely. "I'm your father. I know I'm late—I'm very, very late—but I'm here now."
The baby made a soft sound in response—not quite a cry, but not quite contentment either. It was almost conversational, as if he were trying to respond to his father's words with sounds of his own. One tiny hand escaped the swaddling clothes to wave in the air with the sort of uncoordinated enthusiasm that suggested he had opinions about things and intended to share them, coordination be damned.
Without thinking, Daemon offered his finger, and small fingers immediately closed around it with surprising strength. The contact sent something like lightning through his chest—a fierce, protective love so immediate and overwhelming that it nearly brought him to his knees.
"He likes you," Rhea observed, and there was something like wonder in her voice. "He's been... difficult today. Fussing, crying, refusing to settle for anyone. But look at him now."
Indeed, the baby had relaxed completely in his father's arms, his green eyes growing heavy with approaching sleep but never quite closing. Instead, he seemed content to simply exist in his father's presence, tiny fingers still wrapped around Daemon's index finger with the sort of trust that was both humbling and terrifying.
"He's perfect," Daemon said, and was surprised to hear his voice crack on the words. "Absolutely, completely perfect."
"Even with the green eyes?" Rhea asked gently, and there was something in her voice that suggested this was a test of some kind.
"*Especially* with the green eyes," Daemon replied without hesitation. "He's unique. Special. The realm has never seen his like before, and something tells me they never will again."
Septon Barth moved closer, his experienced eyes taking in the scene with the sort of careful observation that suggested he understood the significance of what was happening. "He has the look of greatness about him," he said quietly. "I've seen it before, in the eyes of kings and conquerors. This child will do extraordinary things."
"Or extraordinarily terrible things," Rhea murmured, but there was no real concern in her voice—only the sort of fond resignation that suggested she was already reconciling herself to raising a child who would never be ordinary.
For several minutes, they simply stood there—mother, father, and child—existing in a bubble of perfect peace while the rest of the world continued its business beyond the nursery walls. Outside, the ancient castle of Runestone continued its eternal watch over the Vale, and in the courtyard, Caraxes settled down to rest after his long flight, occasionally snapping at servants who came too close to his supper. But inside this warm, lavender-scented room, something profound was happening. A family was being born.
"I brought him something," Daemon said eventually, nodding toward the bundle he had set aside when he first took the baby. "A dragon egg, from the deepest vaults of Dragonstone. Black as midnight, with veins of green running through it like emeralds. It seemed... appropriate."
"A dragon egg," Rhea repeated, her tone carefully neutral. "And you believe it will hatch for him?"
"I believe," Daemon replied, his eyes never leaving his son's face, "that this child will surprise us all. Look at those eyes, Rhea. There's something in them—something old, something knowing. This child is going to be extraordinary, and I want him to have every advantage we can give him."
Rhea moved closer, her hand coming to rest on Daemon's arm as they both gazed down at their son. "What if he is?" she asked quietly. "What if he's everything you think he could be and more? What then? Will you stay to guide him, to teach him, to help him understand what he is? Or will you disappear back to King's Landing and leave him to figure out his destiny alone while you chase tavern girls and court intrigue?"
The question hung in the air like incense, heavy with years of disappointment and carefully guarded hope. Daemon felt the weight of it, the magnitude of what she was really asking. Not just about the next few days or weeks, but about the years to come. About the kind of father he intended to be, the kind of husband, the kind of man.
"I don't know," he admitted, his honesty surprising them both. "I don't know what kind of father I'll be, or if I'll be any good at it. I don't know if I have the patience or the wisdom or the... whatever it is that fathers are supposed to have." He paused, looking down at the baby in his arms, those impossible green eyes still fixed on his face. "But I know this—I know that leaving him would be the biggest mistake of my life. And I'm tired of making mistakes, Rhea. Tired of being the disappointment, the spare prince, the one who can't be trusted with anything important."
His voice grew stronger, more certain. "This is important. *He* is important. And maybe... maybe this is my chance to be more than just Daemon the Rogue Prince, more than just the king's problem grandson. Maybe this is my chance to be someone worth something."
Rhea's hand tightened on his arm, her eyes searching his face with the sort of careful attention that suggested she was looking for lies and finding, to her surprise, only truth. "He'll need both of us," she said softly. "Dragons and bronze, fire and earth. Neither of us can raise him alone—not if we want him to be whole, to be balanced. Not if we want him to be better than either of us managed to be on our own."
"Fire and earth," Daemon repeated thoughtfully, the words rolling around in his mouth like wine. "Dragons and bronze. It's not the worst combination the realm has ever seen, is it?"
"It might just be exactly what the realm needs," Rhea replied, and for the first time since their wedding day, there was real warmth in her voice when she looked at him—not just duty or resignation, but something that might, given time and effort, grow into affection.
Baby Jaehaerys chose that moment to yawn, a tiny sound that was somehow the most endearing thing either parent had ever heard. His green eyes finally began to drift closed, though he still maintained his grip on his father's finger with the sort of determination that suggested he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
"Should I put him back?" Daemon whispered, reluctant to surrender his son even to the comfort of his cradle.
"Not yet," Rhea said softly, her own voice carrying a note of reluctance. "He's been waiting for you, I think. He deserves a few more minutes with his father."
So they stood there in the growing twilight, three people bound by blood and circumstance and something that might, in time, become love. Outside the nursery windows, the first stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky, and somewhere in the distance, Caraxes rumbled a lullaby that only dragons knew—a sound of contentment and protection that seemed to wrap around the little family like a blanket.
And in his father's arms, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen slept peacefully, gathering strength for whatever destiny awaited him in this strange, wonderful, terrible world.
The game had begun, though none of them knew it yet. But in that quiet nursery in Runestone, with bronze walls and dragon fire keeping watch, the pieces were already being set in motion for a story that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms forever.
And it all started with a baby's green eyes and a father's whispered promise: "I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!