#<- they want to continue and go back in equal measures 'even if it kills me' because of love!!!!

[bumblingbabooshka]

Tuvoktober Day 23: 'Resolutions' Au. [Patreon | Commissions] -Mountain Goats Love Love Love Starts Playing-

Ok. So. In this au Tuvok doesn't go against Janeway's orders and refuses to contact the Vidiians and he and Harry Kim go on to have a long and incredibly tense Captain-First Officer dynamic where Harry grows to actively hate him and is working against him whenever it won't put the rest of the crew in danger. Constantly looking for ways to save the Captain and Chakotay. Constantly keeping everyone on the verge of mutiny: Can you believe he's just wearing the captain's uniform now? She was his closest friend but I guess that didn't mean anything to him. He never liked Chakotay in the first place, why would he think it's important to go back for a Maquis, right? Tuvok doesn't seem good at managing groups of different people if they aren't already primed and willing to listen to him. He also has outstanding bad blood with the Maquis that he canonically never really addresses and I don't think he's capable of addressing it in a way that isn't essentially "I did my job, please put it behind us and do yours." (He isn't good at intentionally winning people over) This when compared to Harry Kim's charisma, passion, and the ease at which he makes friends is a disaster when it comes to morale and public opinion. At a certain point it becomes no longer 'we should go back for the captain' but more 'Tuvok shouldn't be captain.' Harry doesn't really WANT to be captain - his goal is saving Janeway & Chakotay, but if Tuvok isn't going to do it then he doesn't want Tuvok to be in charge. At a certain point, some people also start feeling bad for Tuvok because he's clearly not doing well. He keeps Harry Kim as his first officer despite Harry becoming increasingly insubordinate (there was a long stretch where he pretended to comply and be content while working behind the scenes but that's over now) because, as it turns out, Janeway wanted him to be her successor in the event that she died of old age. It was written in a will she gave Tuvok and now it seems that Tuvok will keep him by his side even though Harry's ready to feed him to the wolves. Maybe he deserves it. Tom asks Tuvok why he's so resistant to giving up his captain's seat (after going to his ready room and getting into an argument with him bc he's like "Look dude, Harry's got almost everyone's support. There's GONNA be a mutiny if you don't step down.") and Tuvok says simply that the captain- Janeway, appointed him Captain and gave them their orders. He will follow them. "To what, your dying breath? That's not very logical is it?" He will follow them, lieutenant. That is all. Dismissed. Eventually there is a mutiny and Harry tries to force Tuvok to step down as captain voluntarily. Tuvok refuses. Harry, frustrated and grief-stricken to the point of near madness at this point, points a phaser at him. They're staring into each other's eyes and Tuvok still refuses and Harry realizes that he can see that wild, broken glint in his own eyes reflected in Tuvok's. They're both so far past the tipping point. Unreasonable. So laden with sorrow and horror and hanging on to the past with both hands bloody so they won't have to face how bad things have gotten, how far gone everything they cared about is in both directions. Harry lowers his phaser and turns away. Tells the mutineers to confine Tuvok to quarters but NOT to hurt him. They're going back. "Aye, captain." Someone says and Harry turns to them, angry and confused. "I'm NOT the captain!" he shouts then looks out at the view screen as Tom turns the ship around, shaking his head. Harry...Harry...what've you done? "We're going to save the captain," Harry insists, gripping the arm of the captain's chair to keep himself steady without sitting in it. "We're going to save them both."

[janaknandini-singh999]

After Krishna left for Dwarka, Radha used to keep herself a lot busier than usual; doing her chores back in Vrindavan, talking to the trees finding Krishna in everything, taking care of the people and animals. At night she would go to her room and sit in front of the mirror, sigh and take out her shringaar. Tonight, as soon as she looked into her reflection, it was her Kanha smiling at her.

"How's Dwarka dheesh doing?" she carefully kept her tone as teasing, afraid that if he suspects even a little bit of sadness then he will come running to her right away, leaving everything behind

"Oh please, Radhe. You should come sometime, you used to before but you barely do now."

Radha cupped Kanha's cheek in the mirror

"My sweet mohana, you know I can't. It's my duty to give you and your ashtabharya all the space and love," laughing, she added a little wistfully "As it is I don't really have a good reputation out here. Krishna's lover. But why? Krishna has millions of lovers. The whole brahmaand is his lover. Why worship one exclusively with him? If he loves all his lovers equally then why just worship this Radha with him? She isn't even his wife. Unlike Mahadev and Parvati, they aren't even legitima-"

"Radhe." Krishna stopped her with tears in his eyes

Radha, hurting as much as him, apologized and continued "but it is true, my love. People only view love as black or white. They think marriage is sanctity when it is the bond that is. Not the label."

Nodding, Krishna whispered "do you miss me?"

She laughed till there were tears in her eyes too "Oh Kanha, you are everywhere I look. Every time I breathe."

"Then why talk to me like this? Why summon me here?"

"Because you are everywhere. Everywhere but right here."

Kanha's eyes softened "I am within you, sakhi. Always."

Nodding and smiling, she looked away to wipe her tears "yes yes, I know that." she looked back in Kanha's eyes "only if I could somehow tell that to Yashoda maiya, Nand baba and all the gopiyan and people here. Maiya is inconsolable, kanha. She cries and says 'that boy always tricks me. I saw the universe in his mouth when he was a child. Now wherever I look, I see him. But I just want him to come steal my makhan. Kanha, where are you? I promise I'll never scold you.'

Krishna touches the mirror ever so gently

"Kanha, they think you are not real when you are everywhere. They think it's an illusion and all they do is weep."

"But they forgot that Maya is Krishna and Mohana is Krishna. Everything that involves krishna is as real as the morpankh falling from the sky quietly into their palms when they think of Him." Radha and krishna whisper at the same time

"Tomorrow the Pandavas and Kauravas fight and I'm Arjuna's saarthi. After killing Kansa mama, the trajectory of my life has changed completely. But I miss Vrindavan, Kishori. I honestly don't even know what to do. They call me God but forget I'm a human in this avatar too. All I can feel is Gandhari's pain. Even if she hates me with everything she has and cursed me for my existence but I just can't help but feel for her so deeply. What can I do?" he sobs

"What Kauravas did was wrong but Gandhari is a mother, kanha. Her pain can't be measured. It is unbearable but justified. But so is your karma and dharma. Whatever you do will be remembered forever. They all need you. So go, sakha. Do what needs to be done. I believe in you. I love you. We all do."

Krishna smiled through the tears

Radha whispered "we parted physically to fulfill our dharma in this lifetime but you know? I.. I'm just so tired, Kanha. It's been so long. I just want to go home. To Goloka. Our home. I feel my purpose here is coming to an end..."

"So is mine, Radhe.. so is mine. We are One." Kanha clutched the mirror closer to his chest and Radha did too - both of them in an eternal embrace.

"We will go home very soon. To everyone we love, finally. It's my vachan, sakhi."

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

The C person's dark side

Behind that innocent face, there's a woman who maybe subconsciously, or maybe not so subconsciously, manipulates situations to get what she wants.

Of course, this doesn't diminish Carmy's free will, as I mentioned here. But that's the whole point, she doesn't really respect his free will, she manipulates it or maneuvers around it, she tries to, in some way, control it and cries when she can't. She got her own 💔 in the process but she will continue doing it even now that she knows better, because it's in her nature. It's IC for her.

So we will unfortunately and surely see a lot more of that this upcoming S3. Claire's dark side will be out in the open, this time perhaps it will be more explicit and not so subtle. I'm not sure how it will be played out bc I gave up on trying to figure Storer out, I just let him be and trust him as much as I can, which is not much at this point, tbh...

But back to Claire, that is my main problem with her, not only because in IRL I hate manipulative people, even if they do it unconsciously, even when I know that someone who resorts to manipulations, especially emotional manipulation tactics, is someone deeply insecure and it's usually not their fault, as insecurities are typically rooted in early childhood and you can't hold a child responsible for anything or sometimes are linked to unsolved trauma, which clearly, you can't blame on the person either. But, here's the catch: I'm a person too, hi, hello! I have issues too, etc, and I don't manipulate shit! I respect people's free will to a fault even if it fucking kills me, and usually it does as a matter of fact. But I suck it up and move on like a pro, I just bounce back and heal without trying to manipulate anyone into acting the way I wish they fucking did. And I certainly don't take it out on others. I go to therapy, blow steam up at the gym till I have to pop painkillers to keep functioning, I skip town for a few days and re-connect with nature, I write FF, I journal, I read, I go to my BBF's house, and cry while she feeds me foods I don't even know how to cook, I swim, I walk my dogs, and lay on the floor with them till I feel better and when none of that works, I occasionally go back to boxing, I try not to bc it's not healthy for me. But I NEVER FUCK WITH OTHER PEOPLE'S FREE WILL, I DON'T CONDONE THAT BEHAVIOUR IN OTHERS IRL AND I HATE THAT MY FAVEST TV SHOW GOT RUINED WITH A CHARACTER LIKE THAT, I DON'T WANNA WATCH THAT. I mean, I will, sure, bc IK Sydcarmy is endgame, but I don't wanna.

Claire embodies everything I hate in people, everything I run away from IRL, her character represents all I think is toxic and should be avoided at all costs, all I consider ethically wrong in the most basic aspects of life because what makes us humans is our freedom and IK this sounds dramatic 🙄 but I believe that who doesn't respect our freedom, free will, etc, is trying to rob us from our humanity, sometimes inadvertently, which I think might be her case most of the time, but some other times they do it on purpose. They know what they are doing and do it anyway, they are willing to outsource and pay others to help them, etc. They know they are trying to force an outcome, which in business might be OK, seeing as at work we may find ourselves in these kinda situations more often than not and we don't really have a choice as to whether we put up with them or not, especially if we work in certain industries, however, we are NOT our jobs! When it comes to human relationships this M.O. goes against my whole belief system. Can't do it. Nope. It's not fair and fairness is where I draw the fucking line!!!

And no, I'm not a Sydcarmy soldier because of that, but yes, I'm ALSO a Sydcarmy soldier bc of that, for sure!

But on a deeper level, and this is actually what I hate the most here: I'm mad at Storer, whom I learned to love and hate in equal measure by now. You'll see, he allowed this character to happen. Either he created it or signed off on it if one of his other writers wrote Claire into existence. WHY!?!?! THERE WERE OTHER WAYS TO DO THIS, CHRIS!

I previously mentioned how shady Claire's behavior was from the beginning and how it probably wouldn't have been tolerated or woulda been flagged as a clear 🚩if a man woulda acted that way with a woman. I go over it in my response/rb to this comprehensive (just the way I like it) post by @damnikindadontcare

So summing up, I don't hate C, I hate Storer and what Claire represents. I hate that I will have to continue putting up with her and her dark side for who knows how many more eps, and every time I look at her all of this goes through my head, it kills the whole watching experience for me but if this is the price I have to pay to see Sydcarmy unfold and Claire eventually walk into the sunset defeated and not getting her way, I will pay it. Fuck it!

YOU WON STORER, NOW GIVE ME WHAT I WANT AND NO ONE GETS HURT (it's a song, not a threat, relax).

[sequinsmile-x]

Stained Glass Windows - Chapter Seventy Three

Life was complicated, but they wouldn't have it any other way.

-x-

Hi friends,

It's SGW time again! I really love writing this - and I hope you're still enjoying reading it!

Excited to know what you think of this chapter :)

-x-

Words: 2.4k

A full list of warnings for the fic can be found on the Series Master List.

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily sighs as she drops her pen onto her desk, taking a moment to massage her temples, the headache she’d been nursing all day somehow worse now that she was alone in the office. She’d sent her team home a couple of hours ago and texted her husband shortly afterwards, letting him know she wouldn’t be home in time for dinner, or to see Lily before she was down for the night, for the third evening in a row. 

Her team was being audited, something she was sure was because she’d just hit the 6-month mark of being in charge of the team, and she was reviewing all of the paperwork that had been filed in that time. She objectively knew she was good at her job, that she was excellent at it even, but there were times when she felt like she didn’t have her team's backing. Lingering looks that they’d exchange with each other when she gave out instructions as if to say ‘who does she think she is’, as if it was her fault their previous boss had been fired for almost getting her killed. 

She’s just about to go and get another coffee, hoping that by some miracle it would make her headache go away and not make it worse, when she hears a light knock at her office door. She bites back a groan, not wanting to see whoever it is, but any preemptive irritation fades away the moment she sees her husband’s head pop around the door as he opens it. He steps into the room and reveals he has a bag of takeout in one hand, and Lily sitting on his other hip. 

She smiles widely and stands up, relief washing over her as she feels tension seeping out of her body, her shoulders already looser just at seeing them. 

“What are you two doing here?” 

“We came to have dinner with you,” Aaron replies, bouncing Lily on his hip and taking her attention away from the lapel of his polo shirt that had fascinated her for the walk from the car to Emily’s office, “Right, Lils? We came to see Mama.” 

The little girl’s eyes light up the moment she looks up and sees Emily, already pushing at Aaron’s chest, scrambling to get down in an instant. “Mama!” 

Aaron chuckles as he sets her down, “Okay, angel I get it,” he says, winking at his wife, “Now you’ve seen your favourite person I’m nothing to you.” 

Emily playfully rolls her eyes at him as she bends down to welcome Lily into her arms, her heart aching and swelling in equal measure at her daughter’s slightly unsteady steps. It felt like she was constantly switching between being proud of watching her little girl grow up and wondering where on earth her tiny little baby had gone, a feeling she was sure would only get worse as Lily continued to get older. Lily falls into her, tiny hands against her knees, short, impossibly sharp nails, digging in even through the material of her pants. 

“Hi sweet girl,” Emily says, lifting Lily into her arms, kissing her repeatedly on the cheeks, chasing the little girl’s giggles - her favourite sound in the world - as she settles her on her hip, “Mama missed you,” she looks over at her husband, smiling softly as he pulls containers of Chinese food out of the bag he’d brought, the smell of her favourite wafting over and making her stomach churn a little as she remembers she hadn’t eaten all day, “You might seriously be the best husband ever.” 

He smiles as he walks over, closing the gap between them and wrapping his arm around her waist, tugging her closer as he kisses her temple and then her lips when she turns her head, “I know what these audits are like,” he says, kissing her again as he leads her over to the couch, “All I ever want to do when I’m stuck here doing them is see you and the kids, and eat something that I haven’t stolen from Garcia’s office.” 

She gasps in false indignation and fights a smile as she sits on the couch, shifting Lily so she is sitting in her lap, “So now I know who is eating all the snacks she always complains are missing.” 

“If anyone asks, it’s a pack of well-trained mice,” He chuckles and passes her a takeout container, the top already open with a plastic fork settled into the food. She raises an eyebrow at him, ready to complain about the lack of chopsticks, but he beats her to it, knowing her better than she sometimes knew herself, “I figured the fork would be easier to eat with if you’re holding her.” 

She presses her lips together, fighting a smile as she nods, her cheek resting on top of Lily’s head as she holds her close, the usually wriggly 15-month-old content to sit in her mother’s embrace, her head against her chest as she tangles her hand in Emily’s hair. 

Emily takes the food gratefully and sighs gratefully as she starts to eat, “Thank you, honey. I didn’t even think about dinner.” 

Aaron frowns, pausing for a moment as he opens his own food container, his gaze lingering on her as she eats slowly, everything about her seeming a little sluggish, “Is no one else helping you with the review?” 

She shakes her head, “No. I didn’t want to ask any of them to work late,” she huffs out a breath, “And I’m not entirely sure they all trust me and that they wouldn’t purposely sabotage me.” 

He feels anger lick at his insides, something he immediately tries to choke back down, well aware that his wife didn’t want him to be angry for her, that she just wanted him to listen, “It’s not getting any better?” 

She blows out a breath and shakes her head, “No,” she says, turning her head to kiss Lily’s forehead, “Some of them are definitely still loyal to Carson. As if because of him I didn’t stand on a bomb and almost…” she stops, clenching her teeth as she looks down at Lily, “d, i, e.” 

His lips flicker into a half smile despite himself, her habit of spelling out words in front of Lily, who was prone to attempting to mirror any word they said. A piece of home bleeding into their work. He knew she was good at her job, and that she knew that too, so seeing her doubt herself, even just a little, made him ache. 

“Do you want me to talk to Strauss for you?” He offers, even though he knows what she’ll say. She’s already shaking her head before he’s even finished talking. 

“No, it’s okay. I appreciate it,” she says, smiling softly at him, “I appreciate you, but I can handle it,” she huffs out a breath, “Even if it does mean a lot of late nights at the moment.” 

He nods, “Whatever you want, sweetheart. You know that.” 

She smiles, already feeling better than she had earlier, but she wants to think about something other than work, “So, what did Little Miss Lily get up to at daycare today?” 

They sit and eat dinner and talk about their day, and she can trick herself into believing that they were at home, that she didn’t have a pile of work on her desk that wasn’t getting any smaller. The facade slips away once their food is finished and Lily starts to get heavier against her, her face pressed against Emily’s chest, lulled slowly into sleep by her mother’s presence and her hand running up and down her back. 

“Do you have to stay?” 

His question disarms her, because she knows he wouldn’t judge her either way. That he wouldn’t think less of her as a mother for staying, or less of her as a colleague for leaving when there was still work to be done. She looks between her desk, the stack of files so high it could almost tip over, and her sleepy daughter in her arms. 

She wonders how many times her own mother was faced with a similar decision. If Elizabeth ever hesitated, torn between her life's work and her daughter, if she ever felt the pull that felt like it was directly tugging at Emily’s heart, a rope made of her own making likely to pull it out of her chest. She so often wanted to make sure she was doing better than her own parents did, something Aaron frequently assured her that she was whenever guilt for doing anything that wasn’t directly for Lily would rear its ugly head. Right now, she knew she’d benefit from doing an extra couple of hours of work, that she’d thank herself for it in the morning, but she was also so tired, and what she wanted more than anything was to go home and snuggle with her husband and their little girl. She closes her eyes and pulls Lily closer, smelling the sweet scent of her shampoo as she breathes her in, and her decision is made in an instant. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head, “I can come home,” she nods towards her desk, “Nothing about that can’t wait until morning.”

He smiles, his dimples carved deeply into his cheeks, and even though she knows he would have been supportive no matter what, she knows she’d made the right decision. If they did have another baby any time soon life would only get more hectic, she’d only have to make more decisions like this one, and her precious time with her husband would only be more limited. 

He leans forward to kiss her, his lips soft against hers, “Want me to take her?” 

She looks down at Lily, who is now asleep in her arms, and she shakes her head, “No, I’ve got her,” she says, standing up and adjusting her hold on the toddler, making sure she is secure in her arms. Lily stirs a little, her grip tight on Emily’s shirt, and she soothes her, a hand on her back and her lips against her forehead, “Go back to sleep, baby,” she says, kissing her dark hair, “You’re okay.” 

“Mama?” Lily slurs, clearly not even fully awake, and Emily hums, running her hand up and down her back.

“Mama’s here, sweet girl,” she says, smiling as she looks up and realises Aaron has packed up her briefcase for her, the handle of it slung over his arm with her purse. He’s smiling at her like it’s the first time he’s ever seen her, like their eyes have met across a bar they’d never remember the name of, not like he’s the person who knew her more intimately than anyone else ever had, “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says, hooking his arm around her as she makes it to his side, “I just love you, that’s all.” 

She leans into his side, hiding her smile against his shoulder as she presses a kiss there, “I love you too.”

___

Emily yawns as she rolls over in bed, grumbling to herself as she lets go of her husband’s pillow that she’d been hugging to her chest and rolls onto her back. She huffs out a breath as she looks at the clock, 4:02 am, unsure how someone could be so tired and yet so awake at the same time.

Lily was teething, so she was only sleeping in short, sharp, bursts, and the only place she ever seemed to find any comfort was in the arms of one of her parents, her bright red cheeks pressed against their necks as she tried to soothe the pain she didn’t understand. Emily and Aaron had been taking it in turns the last couple of nights, each getting up every other time to go check in on their girl and help her back to sleep, but he’d been called away on a case late in the afternoon leaving them on their own. Emily had seen the hesitation in his eyes when he came by her office to tell her, guilt lingering in his shoulders as if she’d ever be mad at him for doing the job she understood as well as he did. 

She wished he was here, not only to help with Lily, but because she struggled to sleep without him, their bed too big and cold without him in it. 

She smiles as she hears the familiar click-clack of Sergio’s paws on the hardwood floor in the hallway before he snuck in through the slight gap in the door. She feels the thunk as he lands on the bed, meowing as he sits on Aaron’s side.

“Sorry, Serg,” she says, rolling onto her side and reaching over and scratching behind his ears, smiling when he leans into it, “He’s not here. You’re stuck with your least favourite Hotchner I’m afraid.”

Sergio head butts her hand before he sneaks in closer, pressing his face against hers for a moment before he burrows in under her arm and sneaks under the covers. He curls up next to her, pressed up against her abdomen as he settles down and she chuckles to herself, lifting the covers back to look for him, only his yellow eyes visible in the darkness. 

“You okay in there? You usually avoid me like the plague,” she says, chuckling when he meows at her again, as if she was disturbing him, “Okay, buddy. You can sleep there,” she lets the cover drop down again, “If I can’t have my giant Aaron sized personal heater, I guess you’ll do.” 

She’s about to drift off, her mind hazy with memories of the last time Sergio had bothered to acknowledge her, when her eyes go wide and she sits up, the displeased meow from Sergio as he jumps out of the way barely registering as she laughs to herself, her hand shaking slightly as she rests it on her stomach, treacherous hope flowering in her lungs until it was hard to breathe. 

The last time the damn cat had tried to sleep on her she was pregnant. 

-x-

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[aphrodisiac-siren]

Dynasty of Flames

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen-Royce Reader

Summary: Being born into the most respected and equally feared houses in the realm made people look up to you as if you were a god and the devil himself, in equal measure. People say that when a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin; and when news of the birth of Daemon’s firstborn- a girl, spread, people could only wait in anticipation to see which side of the coin faced up during her birth. 

Aemond slowly, and I mean SLOWLY, letting his guard down

Warnings: Incest (duh)

Part 1, part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Part 6

Y/N heaved a sigh of relief once she was within the comfort of her quarters after the hearing. She closed her eyes for a moment to process everything that had happened. How Luke almost lost his claim, how she argued back with Vaemond, how he insulted the boys, when he publicly insulted the princess Rhaenyra, how Daemon took his head for it.

She was terrified at first; not by the sight of Vaemond's disembodied figure crumpled on the floor but for what might happen to her father for killing a lord in the presence of the king and other nobles.

Daemon was not charged with anything and was let off the hook without a single consequence of his impulsive decision.

The princess walked to her bed and sank into the soft mattress and covers, taking a moment to close her eyes. After a few moments she turned toward the little table by her bed and stretched out her hand to grab the letter she had noticed was passed from under the foot of her door when she'd woken up. She was in a hurry in the morning to make it to the throne room on time so she hadn’t read the letter at the time.

She curiously eyed the seal that held the parchment shut. It was a blue-coloured wax seal that had the symbol of a dragon wing. The princess carefully pried apart the paper so that she might read the note and at first glance, she immediately knew who it was from.

It wasn't the language that was used, but the handwriting that gave it away. It was his handwriting. Y/N was a bit confused as to what he had written and why he felt that it was necessary to pen it down instead of just telling her: she was quite literally only a few steps away from him. But then again, she doubted after last night's conversation he would want to talk in person; she had of course stormed off from him.

Her eyes skimmed over the words and she, subconsciously, began to read the note in his voice.

"Ñuha dōna Y/N, nyke jaelagon naejot gīda skoros mirre īlon ȳdragotan nūmāzma mōrī bantis. Iksan vaoreznuni syt se mijegindita ñuhoso nyke dīnagon ezīmagon udra skoros iksin isse ñuha bartos, nyke gōntan daor nūmāzma naejot vēdros ao."

"My sweet Y/N, I wish to clear whatever we talked about last night. I apologise for the poor choice of words and an even poorer attempt at wording my thoughts, it was not my intention to offend you."

Y/N continued to read and then immediately sat up as she read aloud the latter part of the letter, wincing inwardly.

"Kesan sagon olvie biare naejot rhaenagon isse se Godswood gō īlon bartos naejot se dēmalion tistālion, se kessa olvie vaoresagon naejot ȳdragon isse issaros"

"If we could meet in the Godswood before the hearing, I would be most appreciative and would much prefer to talk in person"

The girl slowly folded the paper and heaved a sigh, now wishing she had read the letter on the morrow. She quickly put the letter under her pillow and stood up from the bed, wasting no time in pushing open her doors to go find Aemond. Y/N was a bit hesitant as she neared his chambers, especially after she had ignored him all morning and unintentionally left him to await her arrival at the Godswood.

But no matter, she would be honest and tell him that she hadn’t read the letter until, well, now.

She'd only knocked thrice before she heard the sound of footsteps, indicating that whoever was in there was getting closer to the door.

As soon as the heavy wooden door swung inward to open, Aemond's lips parted ever so slightly when he took notice of who was awaiting him on the other side of the door. Y/N was the last person he was expecting.

"Princess" he greeted curtly "lost your way perhaps?"

"I know my way around the keep quite perfectly thankyou" the girl briskly responded which made Aemond chuckle "I got your note, though I could not find time to read it in the early hours of the morrow. I only just broke the seal and discovered your wish to see me in the Godswood"

Aemond's expression softened.

"Well, nice to know you did not intentionally leave me awaiting your arrival all morning" his piercing gaze never wavered and he was rather impressed by how unfazed she was by it "I was on my way to the dragon pits. After such an eventful morning, I wish to go for a short flight around the city"

"Ah" Y/N simply smiled. She too used flying as an escape from the world sometimes; riding on dragon back was rather therapeutic "I shall leave you be then my pr-

"Would you care to join me?" he quickly asked before he could change his mind "after all, you do owe me the pleasure of your company after you had me wait for you all morning"

"Unintentionally"

"Unintentionally" Aemond repeated. Word of the day, he thought.

Y/N hadn’t informed her family of her plans with Aemond. Luke was reaffirmed as Lord of the tides and she wanted them to joyously celebrate it instead of ruining their day by announcing that she was going to spend her time with someone they all seemed to dispise.

Y/N was a bit hesitant at first, to make herself seated in the sadle atop Vhagar. The dragon was known to be quite hot-tempered and hostile but Aemond assured her that Vhagar wouldn’t hurt her at all if it was accompanied by him. So, Y/N just took his word for it and climbed into the saddle, Aemond following soon after and seating himself behind her. He snaked his arms around her waist to grab ahold the reigns that would allow for him to control the large beast.

"You aren’t afraid, are you?" he asked as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of Y/N's ear "of Vhagar?"

"Do you wish for me to be?" she asked with a smirk.

"You'd be a fool not to" he grinned as Vhagar stretched her long, leathery wings.

"Are you afraid, my prince?" Y/N asked, gripping the saddle as she felt the Dragon jolt violently, signalling that she was getting ready to take flight.

"I am not" he responded.

"Then I suppose that makes us both fools" Y/N turned so that she might steal a glance at him and that resulted in their noses bumping. Aemond leaned away at first, not expecting to have her face merely inches away from his and Y/N grinned at this before turning around just as Aemond asked for Vhagar to take to the skies.

"Soves, Vhagar"

Y/N closed her eyes as she basked in the familiar sensation of the cool breeze blowing against her face, like the wind was peppering her with kisses. She hummed to herself, leaning back into Aemond's chest which felt as rigid as the back of a chair.

Aemond could feel her body move slightly as she heaved a long sigh of contentment. He let go of the reigns and pried her fingers off the saddle to bring her arms to the sides, outstretched.

At first, Y/N gripped his hands, shifting in her seat a little so that she could balance herself even though she knew she was securely chained to the saddle and there was no way she would fall out. Eventually, she loosened her grip and gently rested her comparatively smaller hand in his large one.

Aemond liked the feeling of her soft cool skin against her warm hand, her fingers delicately brushing along his skin as she faced her palms outward to feel the wind hitting against it. Aemond ran his fingers along her knuckles, refusing to break away from the contact. He didn’t know why he was craving the sensation of skin against skin. It was like someone had set a fire ablaze in his chest and the only thing who soothed those flames was her touch.

He was a bit happy that he had forgotten his riding gloves that day.

"Y/N" he leaned in again so that she might better heard him amidst the wind "about last night, I did not wish to imply that I would marry you because it was something I believed to be merely obliged to do"

The princess didn’t respond but she tilted her head slightly, her cheek brushing against Aemond's lips, signifying that she was paying attention.

"You are the blood of the dragon and you deserve nothing less than what befits the gods. I can provide for you, ensure and contribute to your happiness" Aemond made a bold move and slid one arm around her waist, relaxing his tense frame "I only wish the best for you, something I can and will give to you, willingly"

Y/N listened to him intently as her pulse began to quicken.

"No mere lord in the realm would cherish you as much as I do, my dearest friend. I would kill for you, conquer cities for you. You've stood at my side when I had no one and I promise to stay by yours just the same" he continued. He remembered all the horrible marriages within this house: his own mother’s to the king, a marriage that had broken the family. His older brother and sister's, a marriage in which the both of them barely spoke. Daemon and Rhaenyra's, a marriage that was deemed scandalous. Aemond never really expected for anyone to love him, not after his injury but he did have something far more precious that none of the others had: a genuine friendship "the both of us, together, we will be vehement. I am more than willing to take my closest friend as wife because I couldn’t see a more suitable match"

Aemond, this time, deliberately brushed his lips against Y/N's skin, right behind her earlobe which made her shudder.

"I am willing to marry you not solely out of duty. I am willing to do so because I believe we can restore our house to its complete glory"

taglist: @ladybug0095 @sahvlren @bunny24sstuff @dellalyra @ellabellabus07

[ashbrat488]

Candy - Chapter 10

Word Count: 968

August and Lloyd find out about Cassidy's past she ran from.. Joe forgets Valentine's Day, but August and Lloyd don't...

MINORS DNI

"I'm going to kill him." August's declaration dripped with a potent mix of anger and disgust, his pacing a restless testament to his agitation as he and Lloyd found themselves alone in August's home office.

Lloyd mirrored August's sentiment, the intensity of his anger paralleling his friend's desire for vengeance. The thought of Cassidy's stepfather, the man responsible for her torment, sent a surge of righteous fury through his veins. If he had his way, he'd subject the man to the same agonizing suffering he had inflicted on Cassidy for an unknown length of time. Though he wasn't as openly emotional as August, his desire for retribution was equally fervent. "I've compiled this information from rumors and breached her therapist's files." Lloyd placed a file on August's desk, shifting his attention as August turned to face him. "What's our next move?"

August's frustration was palpable as he sank into his desk chair, his fingers reaching for the file and flipping it open before him. "I already told you—I want to kill him."

Lloyd let out a weary sigh, well-acquainted with August's visceral reaction. He watched as his friend immersed himself in the details presented before him. "Or, we could consider an alternative," Lloyd ventured, his tone suggesting a more measured approach. "We could let Cassidy do it in a controlled environment."

August's laughter cut through the tension, his head shaking as he regarded his audacious friend. "I highly doubt Cassidy would be up for that."

Lloyd's knowing smile acknowledged the complexity of the situation, aware that a direct approach might not be the solution they sought. "I think she would surprise you..."

"We are not involving her in this." August's response brooked no further discussion, his tone unyielding as he dismissed the idea of involving Cassidy in their plans. Lloyd recognized that it was best not to push the matter any further.

"Very well," Lloyd relented, his sigh underscoring his understanding. He settled back in his chair, his gaze focused on August. "What would you like me to do?"

Silence settled between them, August engrossed in the therapist's notes about Cassidy, his discomfort evident in his expression as he absorbed the troubling information before him. The situation was intricate, fraught with emotion and history, requiring a level of consideration that extended beyond immediate retaliation. "Just get him here, and we will deal with the rest later."

Cassidy's hopeful gaze fixated on Joe as she entered the kitchen, her anticipation evident as she moved to get herself a cup of coffee, only to find him wrapping up his own. "So, what's the plan for tonight?" The question lingered in the air, loaded with the expectation of Valentine's Day, a day she had reserved for Joe with the hope that their relationship would warrant some effort.

"Tonight?" Joe's response was almost dismissive, his attention not even leaving his phone as he casually shrugged. "I have plans with some friends."

Cassidy's eyebrows shot up in incredulity, arms crossing defensively over her chest. She locked eyes with him, his detachment becoming increasingly clear over the past month. He had been canceling on their dates, citing these 'friends' as the reason.

"Friends?!" Her scoff was loaded with frustration, her voice and posture reflecting her dissatisfaction, while he continued to scroll on his phone.

"Yeah," he replied with another careless shrug, finally dragging his gaze from his phone to look at her. Sensing her discontent, he stepped closer, attempting to bridge the gap. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Cassidy spat back, waving his concern away as she turned her focus to the counter, grabbing her coffee.

"It doesn't sound like nothing," he murmured, moving to her side, but her frustration only seemed to escalate.

"Shouldn't have to spell it out for you," Joe's eyes rolled as he turned to leave, the door slamming shut behind him. "Jerk!" Cassidy muttered under her breath, setting her coffee aside before retreating to her bedroom to get ready. But then there was a knock on her apartment door.

Thinking Joe might have returned, Cassidy's lips curled into a smile as she swung the door open, only to find a delivery person holding a stunning bouquet of red roses. Blushing, she accepted the bouquet, the delivery person playfully noting, "Happy Valentine's Day, miss. Someone really wants you to know how they feel about you."

Cassidy thanked the delivery person and closed the door, placing the roses on the counter. She retrieved the attached card and read the note to find out they were from August.

Happy Valentine's Day I miss you, Doll -AW

She inhaled the scent of the roses and mused aloud, "At least someone cares." As she returned to her room, her phone chimed with a notification - messages from her clients who had remembered Valentine's Day, unlike her own boyfriend. Sighing, she unlocked her phone to find a message from Mr. Pink.

Mr. Pink: Happy Valentine's Day Pumpkin I need a date to a party this weekend I need an address to send you a dress And I want you for the entire night

His message was direct and demanding. As she considered declining, he forwarded a payment that was significantly higher than her usual fee for an entire night's arrangement. The allure of the offer and the thought of dropping her other clients in favor of him made her contemplate. She initiated a message, typing her reluctance.

Candy: I thought you didn't do sleepovers

Mr. Pink: You are the exception

She smiled, biting her lip as heat surged through her at the thought of his plans for after the party.

Candy: As you wish You can leave me a package with my doorman and he will see that I get it

Mr. Pink: That'll do See you Soon

As she tossed her phone onto the bed, a mixture of emotions swirled within her - the disappointment in Joe's indifference, the gratitude for August's gesture, and the anticipation of what awaited with Mr. Pink.

Chapter 11 - COMING SOON Candy

Taglist If you want to be added or removed from my list, let me know 🫶🏻

@identity2212 , @alicedopey , @propelkingkitten , @critfailroll , @mrsevans90 , @carrie80reads , @thearcana-moonlight , @devotedlythoughtfulanchor , @alwayzmsbehavn , @dangerousblizzarddreamer , @secretdream2

[aboutdragons]

the thing about dragons - chapter six

in which Viserys continues being the family disappointment.

Dialogues in quotation marks are in Common Westron, in angle brackets in High Valyrian, in square brackets for other. Thoughts, emotions and emphasis are in italics.  

Cross-posted on

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43121373/chapters/108369012

Scribblehub: https://www.scribblehub.com/series/699684/the-thing-about-dragons/

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/331546036-the-thing-about-dragons

Now with a Discord server! Come join me at Marq's Assorted Writery: discord.gg/WQ7mNwk

◄○○○►

Read the Summary, Tags & Warnings as linked on the page to know what to expect.

warnings: Daemon Targaryen, Otto Hightower, Viserys Targaryen, allusions to statutory SA, blood magic, small children doing small children things

wordcount: 10,862

Read the chapter under the cut.  

Daemon kills Crabfeeder, as a treat. Just because, really; Viserys doesn’t send any letters about sending reinforcements that send him into a rage, because between three dragons and Dornish allies, Daemon and Corlys are doing fine. More than fine, even. And the last time Viserys tried to interfere more significantly, Lyra did what she did and he didn’t seem to be over it even years after, still reeling from the fact that real world did not, in fact, work the way he expected it to. Of course, Lyra held no illusions that the issue actually taught Viserys anything, but his current careful distance was appreciated, whether it stemmed from genuine understanding or confusion over people not reacting exactly the way he wanted them to.

Still, when Daemon comes back covered head-to-toe in blood infected with grayscale, Lyra all but throws him in a vat of near-boiling soapy water and doesn’t let him out until she deems him acceptably clean of the infected blood, and then has his wounds and nicks disinfected for good measure.

Thanks to their dragon blood, Targaryens were less prone to getting sick than regular people and more prone to recover quickly, but Daemon’s aunt Maegelle died two years before Lyra was born of this very affliction, and Lyra wasn’t taking any chances if she could help it. And sure, Maegelle didn’t have a dragon boosting her physical health through the bond, but Maegelle also caught the disease through simply caring for the sick; Daemon likely got infected blood in open wounds, and with a line this direct Lyra was taking no chances. Even if he bitched about the soap and pure alcohol stinging.

She even saves his hair form the blood and grime taking to staining the white all too eagerly, and sure some of it is beyond saving and has to go, but more than enough is left to weave into Valyrian braids, gold clasps and whalebone pins Lyra carved herself included.

It’s the victory one, and Daemon preens. Both for what it signifies, and because Lyra can braid it exactly the way it’s supposed to be. But then again, she learned from the best.

(Ancalagon liked his diet whale-rich, and Lyra oftentimes had more whalebone than she knew what to do with; she wore no corsets or petticoats, and even if she did, she could only get so many made before it got ridiculous. Instead, she sold the whalebone to Corlys for mostly-cheap, as people on Driftmark could always use some. She liked having pocket money, and the way Corlys looked at her warily impressed was equal parts amusing and insulting. Was the bar really so low?)

But all good things have to come to an end eventually, and the War for the Stepstones does too, a little over three years early. Not with Daemon’s return upon the news of his wife’s death, but with the Triarchy being chased out by the combined might of the Velaryon and Dornish fleets and three grown dragons.

Rhea Royce isn’t even dead, and now that the divorce has taken effect Lyra hopes she lives a good, long life. She has no hard feelings for the woman; she just doesn’t want to see her again, and she knows her sentiments are much returned.

Or maybe she was just used to her first set of parents being openly disdainful of her instead of politely disinterested unless startled. The kind where she actively cut contact the moment she no longer depended on them for basic survival.

○

King’s Landing stinks as it stank when she first arrived here years ago for Viserys’ coronation, with rot of garbage and human waste alike. It’s horrid, and even with Jaehaerys’ work on the waterways they only ever benefitted the rich and privileged in the upper town, leaving the smallfolk to wade in their own filth because the Conqueror couldn’t have gotten a functioning city built to save his life, and his sons were certainly more interested in being an utter failure and a tyrannical fuckup respectively.

They land just outside the city, on the plains, Ancalagon and Caraxes both. Ancalagon would neither fit in the Dragonpit—and Lyra would never make him go there besides, to be chained in a cell too-small even for a dragon half his size instead of being able to at least burrow his own hole in a cliffside somewhere—nor would Lyra want him in such close proximity to other dragons, all of them smaller than him. That was just inviting trouble. Daemon doesn’t want to leave her to wander the city by herself, of course, and there’s little issue leaving Caraxes outside as well. He and Ancalagon at least won’t try to kill each other. They’ll likely roost somewhere on the cliff-face of Blackwater Bay, under the Red Keep.

By the time they get off their dragons and get all their things off their dragons, and it takes several trips on both ends, there’s a simple carriage waiting for them at the gate, flanked by Gold Cloaks. She sees Harwin first, with a well-groomed beard doing nothing to hide his grin, and the last of the baby fat gone since she last seen him. He’s filled out, she can see, lanky gait gone. Corren is a little harder to spot, his ginger mop hidden under the guard helmet, but she knows what to look for. The rest of them are less-familiar faces but she recognizes them still as having seen them in passing at least, and Daemon greets each like an old friend, with a clap on the back and by name.

He made them what they are now, and they are loyal to him even now. Will be still, nearly twenty years from now when Viserys’ short-sighted decisions catch up to everyone but him after he dies and leaves an utter clusterfuck of a succession crisis in his wake that would have been so easy to fix for him either which way, if he wasn’t a fool blinded to reality by the world he wanted to see.

Lyra can already feel the noose tightening around her neck, and it’s shaped an awful lot like her uncle’s hands.

○

They get to Red Keep without all that much fanfare past the excitement Ancalagon’s presence generates, and Daemon doesn’t do the whole song and dance with swearing allegiance to Viserys. He’s no King of the Narrow Sea this time around, and he’s not looking for his brother’s approval that much either. Not anymore, at least.

They reconcile anyway, a hug, a kiss to the cheek, a promise of good behaviour that everyone but Viserys knows Daemon won’t keep for long.

His wilful ignorance is a comfortable one sometimes but it makes Lyra seethe all the same, because this very wilful ignorance that serves them well right now is one of the major causes of the Dance less than twenty years from now.

If only he gave enough a shit to raise Rhaenyra’s popularity; if only he had her educated to rule; if only he put his foot down in the matter of securing a politically useful marriage for her, or at the very least a husband that would somewhat uphold her. If only he opened his fucking eyes and did something, anything, instead of saying a thing and closing his eyes pretending that made it real, no actual elbow grease necessary.

If only she could tell Viserys about the future, if only she could steer him towards a better ending without the very real and very terrifying risk of everything going so much worse through his meddling, and causing new disasters she couldn’t see and prepare for.

If only, if only, if only.

The only thing she can trust Viserys to do is to make everything worse, as always. He has claimed to love Aemma after all, and he had her butchered alive anyway. He doesn’t give half a shit about Alicent in comparison, or her children, and Lyra is certainly not willing to risk whatever Viserys would do with the knowledge she has and his absolute conviction that Rhaenyra will be queen just because he says so, without actually preparing her to rule.

(This can only end in disaster. Even if she assumes rule peacefully, she won’t know what to do if nobody teaches her. And nobody can teach her how to rule the country except the gods-damned king.)

She gives her best close-lipped smile as she claps and congratulates her king of an uncle and his wayward brother of her father on their reconciliation, though she doesn’t mean a word of it.

They only just got back, after all. Give them a few months before they make themselves unpalatable enough to Viserys’ sensibilities to have to leave. Unless Viserys does something so supremely stupid that they have to hoof it before then, of course.

He’s bound to do something stupid enough to piss them off himself sometime; he always does. But until then she smiles and curtsies and pointedly ignores the jabs the courtiers make about her wearing pants and looking like a boy, as if it’s a moral failing on Daemon’s part and she didn’t just spend several years in a warzone where court-appropriate dresses were a little hard to come by.

○

Alicent is awkward when they meet in person; a little startled, a little worried, and barely twenty this year. Thinner, her hair duller and her eyes have aged at least twenty years in the span of the past six; she doesn’t look particularly healthy, though she doesn’t look unhealthy either. There’s little happiness in those aged eyes, and her fingers are scabbed over in places, clearly picked at.

They run into each other half by chance and half by design on the hallway. Lyra has been on her way to do just that.

It’s a little startling to realize that they’re on eye-level now, though, because Lyra is thirteen and in the middle of a growth spurt that’s doing numbers on her bones and rapidly shrinking her clothing selection, and Alicent is now an adult done growing.

Before she left, after Aemma’s death, they were at best passing associates; her cousin’s best friend, exchanging greetings when they ran into each other as was polite, and little else, and Lyra barely reached Alicent’s bony elbows with the top of her head.

“Hi,” Lyra says with a small wave.

“Hello,” Alicent says and takes a breath, straightens her spine, folds her hands daintily in front; a posture more befitting of queen. It suits her. “I see you have returned from Stepstones. It gladdens me to see you well.”

Lyra smiles. “I am glad to see you as well,” she says. “Though you do look tired.”

Alicent sighs, a little self-consciously. “I… Am, somewhat,” she admits. “It is, they tell me, the lot of all mothers of young babes. Scarcely time to rest.”

There’s something in her voice, a tinge of displeasure at having young babes at all, that Lyra catches before it’s gone. She can’t blame Alicent for it at all, even if she knows this resentment will cause issues for her children down the line, too; a vicious cycle of abuse and neglect, begotten from a rape of a child.

No wonder Alicent’s children would turn out fucked up if she’s already like this, and between Viserys who can’t give half a fuck and Otto who does nothing but scheme for power and Rhaenyra who refuses to understand, she doesn’t really have anybody.

“I can’t tell, I’ve not been around small children… At all, really,” Lyra says, a little awkwardly. “They’re hardly the company I keep.”

“You will eventually,” Alicent says with a small smile. “They are tiring, but they are a blessing.”

She’s clearly trying to sell it to Lyra now, as she’s been taught by the society to. To soften the blow to her friend, no doubt; it comes from a kind place.

Still, Lyra wants to say that it’s beyond unlikely to happen. Her manufactured homunculus body is incapable of growing life, after all. Not without copious amounts of blood magic, and only once in its entire lifetime.

Instead she just shrugs. “We shall see,” she says. “First I’ll need to find someone crazy enough to withstand both myself and my father, and comely enough so that my father doesn’t cut him down for sport.”

Alicent gives a startled giggle. “Oh dear. He would, wouldn’t he?”

“He killed for far less.”

Alicent opens her mouth to say something, but they’re interrupted by a maid. Alicent, apparently, was on her way to the nursery; when Lyra held her up, the maids got worried, and came to fetch her.

Lyra catches the minute grimace Alicent makes. Split-second decision later, she’s opening her mouth.

“I can go with you, if you don’t mind,” she says quickly. “I’ve not yet met my younger cousins, after all.”

Alicent smiles. “In that case, let us hurry.”

○

It’s only when Lyra enters the nursery that she realizes she may have miscalculated a little.

Or a lot, actually.

Truth is, Lyra was never overly good with children, or all that comfortable with them, in either life. And so, when tiny Helaena in a puffy yellow dress toddles to her and latches onto her leg with zero warning, all Lyra really knows to do is freeze up, and look around panicked for help.

Alicent, some friend she is, laughs at her and makes no move to help at all, whatever sort of help Lyra hopes for; unlatch the toddler, ideally. Because those things are loud, and slobbery, and fragile, and she has no idea what to do.

Helaena reaches her grubby arms up and hops a little against her leg, and for a moment all Lyra does is just stare. The toddler is entirely undeterred, though; and eventually, slowly and carefully, Lyra bends down, puts her hands under Helaena’s arms, picks up the child, and examines the creature.

She’s not very heavy, for how chubby she looks, but she already has a worrying number of toddler-sharp teeth she’s undoubtedly plotting to put on nearest unidentified object, which just so happens to be Lyra herself right now. Helaena is certainly already making grabby hands at Lyra’s braids, barred from painful tugs by the distance alone.

“That is new,” Alicent says, amazement in her voice.

“What is?” Lyra asks, momentarily distracted. Helaena uses the momentary distraction as Lyra bends her elbows and, finally able to reach, grabs one of her braids and tugs on it as hard as a toddler can. “Fucking ow—! Ow, no, bad toddler, let go—”

Alicent lets out a startled giggle as Lyra grabs under Helaena’s legs with one hand for support and tries to unlatch the grabby hands finger by finger from her braids with the other, with only some success.

“Helaena hates being touched,” Alicent admits. “Will more often than not cry when approached at all. Certainly, she has never approached anyone herself before, not to my knowledge.”

Lyra looks at the giggling menace and narrows her eyes a little. Helaena only beams in answer, violet eyes twinkling, as if grabbing a scowling teenager by the hair is the best thing ever.

For a toddler, it might just be.

“Skill issue,” Lyra says and brings Helaena to her chest, hoisting her up and putting one hand on her back for support, like she does with Snickerdoodle. It doesn’t turn on any waterworks, so she figures it is as good a method as any.

Still, she’d much rather be holding an actual cat right now. A cat wouldn’t hold her hair hostage. Maybe gnaw on it, but not try to rip braids out of her skull.

“Skill—what?”

Lyra only grins at Alicent’s questioning look.

They talk some more after that, about everything and nothing and benign fun little things, and it’s not bad; except Alicent lulls Lyra into a false sense of security, and next thing Lyra knows more small children are being put in her immediate vicinity.

And Aemond, though he has less teeth than Helaena, is significantly keener on using them, much to Aegon’s unrestrained giggles as Lyra yelps and locks her elbow in place as she fights the urge to swing her arm and shake the cause of hurt off it very, very hard.

Getting him off, when he clearly means to bite to blood and refuses to latch off, is more difficult than it should be. Snickerdoodle would never be this problematic.

She takes everything back; she hates it here.

○

Daemon finds them eventually, sometime after. Alicent is serenely embroidering a shirt for Aegon using a moment of peace, and Lyra covered in sleeping toddlers who couldn’t care less at how she stiffened whenever a small human appeared within five feet of her and showed any interest in her, and tugged at her braids, and bit her hands for sport.

At least she managed to put her braids up in a bun, out of reach for too-curious pudgy hands, but soon enough had to resign herself to be climbed, slobbered on, thrice bitten, and eventually napped on by two of three of them when the spawns tired themselves out after using as a glorified jungle gym. She’s not sure if they’re actually asleep or just resting before the next round of chaos, but she takes her peace where she can get it.

She can’t feel her legs, but at least all she has to do now is sit still instead of minding where each spawn is, what it is doing, and if it’s not eating something it really shouldn’t.

Like her hair. Or her hands. Or her shirt. Or the legs of the chair Alicent is sitting on. Aemond made it rather clear he has energy to spare unlike his elders.

Daemon is fair game the moment he enters, too. Fairest game of all, perhaps, as far as Aemond is concerned. He has no fear and teeth to sharpen, and his uncle’s leather boots apparently look tastier than his mother’s chair.

Daemon is having none of this of course. He scoops the toddler up in a well-practiced move, heedless of the way it makes Alicent tense, and looks him in the eyes.

“You sure do remind me of someone, nephew, though your eyes are far brighter,” he muses, eyes sliding to Lyra. Aemond gives him a grin; given that it’s the first time he sees his uncle, it’s a pretty good reaction. Lyra meanwhile bristles.

“I did not bite everything my teeth could reach!”

“No, but you loved to cause trouble,” Daemon says, putting the toddler in the crook of his arm and against his chest comfortably, effortlessly instinctual. Aemond settles almost instantly, as comfortable as one gets. “Not that much has changed since then.”

“I was unaware the Rogue Prince had such a way with children,” Alicent says, a little strained. Daemon looks at her, then back down at Aemond.

“It’s not hard,” he says. “You just pick them up and keep them interested. It worked before, why not now?”

Lyra can almost hear what Alicent wants to say in response to that.

“I suppose it is a gift not all men possess ,�� Alicent says instead, and it’s close enough.

“It’s not a gift, it’s a skill,” Deamon says, focused on his mesmerized nephew and either none-the-wiser or wilfully ignoring of the jab hanging between them directed at his brother. “Some men are simply not inclined to learning the simplest of skills.”

Nevermind, he got it. Him talking shit about Viserys in court-speak is a new one, though.

He gives a startled Alicent a cheeky smirk and proceeds to entertain Aemond without making a single move to free Lyra of the rest of the toddlers.

What a menace, that father of hers.

“I thought you’d have gone to spent some time with Rhaenyra,” Alicent says eventually, carefully.

“She’s not my only niece,” Daemon says, half-dismissive. “And young women tend to be cantankerous in ways I’m in no mood to entertain for long besides. Not this soon off the road, anyway.”

“That might well be me in a few years, too,” Lyra reminds him.

“I have my doubts,” Daemon says. “And even if, you’re mine. I made you and I named you, and now you're my responsibility. Rhaenyra isn't.”

“If you say so.”

Alicent looks between them wistfully, with a twinge of jealousy she can't quite hide. She feels it on both fronts, Lyra can tell, as both a daughter of a father who put his greed over her wellbeing, and the wife of an absent, deeply mediocre man hung up on a ghost of the woman he murdered, forcing children upon her but never truly taking responsibility.

What-if s can be an insidious game.

But at least Alicent relaxes and returns to her embroidery, only glancing at them every so often, and less surprised each time.

○

With Lyra as a buffer, Daemon is much more receptive to his newest niblings. He likes them, she thinks. With time, he learns to visit them just by himself, without following her to the nursery. Alicent relaxes in his presence, too.

He’s good with children, after all. Engages them easily, knows what he’s doing. He managed to raise Lyra successfully and in some ways she was worse than a normal toddler, living with a half-remembered life constantly hanging over her that her developing child lizard brain couldn’t compute.

Surprisingly enough, it’s Aegon who latches onto him, almost desperately. It might just be the first time he has something remotely resembling a father figure; and a child of four starts to notice the cracks of a broken home in full. Lyra would know. She had, in her first life.

Helaena clings to Lyra mostly, and Lyra notices all the more how uncomfortable the girl is with literally everybody else. She’ll cry, and run, and if desperate enough, even bite a particularly dedicated nursemaid. Poor woman’s just trying to do her job.

Daemon comes a close enough tolerable second to be of use in an emergency at least, but he's on thin ice. Alicent is barely tolerated, even with Lyra mediating. Lyra isn't exactly sure why it's like this.

Aemond meanwhile is happy to hog his mother’s attention, now that his siblings consistently target other people, and Alicent herself is quite content with this arrangement. For the first time in forever she’s getting actual help with her children; nannies and nursemaids try their best, but they’re too human to properly care for those children in the end. Their bodies are too cold, they don’t purr, they don’t get the little lizard-adjacent tells that Targaryens do by instinct alone, and in the absence of Viserys, Daemon simply steps in. It's easy for him.

They calm down, Alicent claims, almost overnight. It’s as if something settles in them, now that they no longer feel so alone and disassociated among the non magical people without the first clue on what to do. It does weird Alicent out, though. It’s more like she tolerates Daemon’s presence than anything, especially when he purrs and chirps at them, and they respond in kind.

It’s difficult for Alicent to wrap her head around her children not being truly human, and needing different care than that, even if she means well. Forcing them into human boxes will never do anything but backfire, potentially horribly, and it’s giving Lyra flashbacks to her first life and her parents never putting any effort into understanding her own neurodivergent struggles and sending her into the world with a nice box of issues and trauma that not even reincarnation could fix because they refused to read a diagnosis, let alone understand it.

She’s better, though. Because she gets it, and even if Daemon doesn’t, he tries his best to be accommodating. Being magic elf-coded lizardpeople also helps. Is this why neurodivergent people were compared to fey in ye olden times? Because being weird sure is easier if your immediate family is just like you, and it weirds others out.

The children like music, too. Lyra has to keep her guitar from getting trampled on, but once she starts playing, they sit and listen and don't cause her much trouble.

Same can’t be said about poor Snickerdoodle. Lyra brings the cat to the nursery exactly once, and he spends most of his stay on the top of the wardrobe after Aemond tries to eat his tail.

The one person who is very unhappy with the whole situation is of course Rhaenyra. She expected Daemon to join her in complaining about her siblings, and instead, he shuts it down rather quickly. Reminds her that Alicent didn’t want to marry her father, and her siblings didn’t choose to be born, and that she should be kinder to them. 

Rhaenyra doesn’t take kindly to it; Daemon doesn’t seem to care.

She gives up her sulking after a week when Daemon continues to not care. Huffs and puffs still, but seemingly accepts that she can’t hog her uncle’s attention. Even starts to come to see her siblings from time to time, and to her horror realizes they’re not that bad.

Lyra meanwhile follows Snickerdoodle’s example, and begins to climb out onto the roof whenever she wants a moment of peace. Past some startled looks, it works very well.

○

Daemon takes them flying, one by one. Alicent tries to disagree, but he insists it’s tradition, backed by just about everyone. Even Viserys comes out of the woodwork to support the idea. After all, he can’t because Balerion is dead, Rhaenyra is too young with a still-young dragon (a bullshit excuse nobody buys, Syrax is at a point where she can fly two) and Alicent never had a dragon to begin with, so it just makes sense. Daemon is the next best thing.

Lyra too it turns out when Helaena decides that today is the day she doesn’t like Daemon after all. It takes some back-and-forth, but Ancalagon graciously allows a passenger other than Snickerdoodle in the end. Once.

It’s a hit, especially with Aegon. He starts hunting down Daemon to demand dragon rides daily after that. It’s funny to see a toddler marching towards a spooked Daemon. Defeated by a child quarter his size, again.

○

It's never that Alicent seeks out Daemon's company in any capacity, so it makes it all the more confusing the one time she does.

“Thank you,” is what she tells him. “For all your help. You needn't have to.”

“But I did need to,” Daemon says. “If not me, then who?”

Her face does this funny thing where it freezes somewhere between anger and shame as she bites down on an agreement. They both know the kind of a man Viserys is.

“You need to learn to take care of them,” Daemon declares eventually and she startles. “Properly, I mean. I won't be here forever, neither will Lyra, and if you try to raise them like any other human child, all you'll have will be heartache and unstable, broken adults.”

Alicent picks at her fingers, face set in a frown. “Do you mean that I am a bad mother?” she asks eventually.

“No, just human. And that is simply not what they need. Can't make a bird out of a fish, or a fish out of a bird.”

“Do you detest my humanness then, then?”

“It's not a personal attack, goodsister. Just the truth,” Daemon smiles wryly. “Don't try to put a dragon into a human mold and we'll get along just fine.”

○

Corlys arrives eventually, too, with Laenor. They needed some more time, between Corlys making the best of the victory and not having a dragon, but they're there. Lyra doesn’t really remember if they did that originally, but without Daemon crowning himself, and with a newfound relationship between Velaryons and Dorne, Corlys is a very welcome guest.

Viserys grovels almost, between that and not having married Laena. It’d be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

○

Honestly… Daemon should have known that something like this would’ve happened, and soon.

His stay in King’s Landing was nice. Too nice. Too peaceful. Too unproblematic past the chaos he caused himself for fun.

Then, Viserys calls him to a Small Council meeting, and Daemon can’t fathom why. It’s not somewhere he goes after all of Cunttower’s plots to have him removed from this very room. Part of it has him curious.

He finds Otto there, all smug, and Viserys positively beaming, and Corlys looking—wildly uncomfortable. He winces when his eyes land on Daemon, and that is the precise moment Daemon knows he’s about to hate this meeting equally as much, or more.

He soon finds out why as his curiosity bleeds into confusion bleeds into disbelief and eventually into simmering anger.

It’s a betrothal talk. Viserys’ and Cunttowers newest machination, trying desperately to soothe the relation with Velaryons fuelled by Corlys’ newest Dornish alliance and haphazard attempt at soothing the political quagmire Viserys gleefully ran into by not marrying Laena—

But it’s not Rhaenyra, who is looking for a husband anyway, that Viserys wants to throw at Laenor and call it a fix. No, no—Rhaenyra gets to pick her own future king. No.

It’s Daelyra that he wants to marry to Laenor.

“What,” Daemon says somewhat dumbly, because he, for the life of him, cannot quite compute anything about this decision, starting with the fact that his daughter, his child, is three-and-ten, and ending with the fact that neither he nor she were asked for their input on the situation.

Corlys, too, is looking like he wants to shrink into his chair, and part of Daemon can commiserate. Between the hell Rhaenys would unleash and the hell Lyra would add to it, and Laena no doubt being upset in the middle—

How can Viserys not see it?

“Daelyra and Laenor already have built up a rapport, after all,” Viserys says, hapless fool. “They know and are fond of eachother, and besides Daelyra already bleeds so there’s no need to wait—”

And how the fuck does he know that? Daemon will snap the neck of whichever maid that tattled.

He doesn’t hear the rest of Viserys’ speech as static fills his ears. He sees white, grits his teeth, clenches his fists; something burns in his chest and throat so hot he thinks he could very well breathe fire right now.

Instead, he stands up abruptly, bright eyes zoned on this foolish, foolish creature.

“Brother,” he says as calmly as he can and his voice sounds distant to him through the haze of the fire that swirls in his chest for it, and takes grim satisfaction in the way Viserys flinches. “I suggest you stop with this jest. There’s nothing remotely amusing about it.”

Viserys balks. Gods, please, he can’t be this stupid, he—

“This isn’t a jest, Daemon. Daelyra will be betrothed to Laenor—”

The world goes grey, static in his ears.

He will marry Lady Royce as soon as he comes of age. Married life will calm him down.

Of course, mother.

But he doesn’t—

He abruptly stands up and slams his fists onto the solid slab of wood they have for a table, and it crackles ominously under his fingers and the power of the blow, splintered spiderwebs left in his wake. “Stop. This. Jest. Before I do something you will regret,” Daemon snarls, and there’s nothing at all human in his voice. The kingsguard take a step forward but he doesn’t move, eyes boring into that pathetic foolish wyrm before him. Viserys had gone pale all of a sudden, shivering like a rabbit spotted during a hunt.

“I-I’m your king—” he tries.

“And?” Daemon snaps, because right now, he doesn’t think kings matter much. Just because Baelon, in his uncharacteristically limp-dicked spineless lapse let Alysanne sell Daemon off as she pleased in her senility doesn’t mean Daemon will do the same when his brother threatens his daughter like that.

He knows how that feels, and fourteen forbid he was a father quite as lousy as Baelon. He’d rather die.

He’d rather kill Viserys, really. Lyra wouldn’t even stop him, he knows, because he would be right to kill that wretched, spineless creature—

No.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Repeat until you feel a little less like getting blood on your hands could fix you.

But it could, though—

He shouldn’t commit regicide, and neither should Lyra. It’s rude, apparently. Bad for the realm too, or some unimportant shit like that. He doesn’t see how or why because Viserys is many things but a good king he’s not, but it would upset Lyra that she wasn’t there for it and that’s enough to stop him.

Viserys swallows, fixes his collar, fidgets with his hands nervously, as if aware of the thoughts going through Daemon’s head. Daemon doesn’t move, or even blink. He’s quite good at not blinking, and it makes people nervous the longer it goes on.

“You should,” Viserys says, stops. Swallows thickly. “You should consider it.”

It wasn't even about Laenor’s proclivities; Daemon himself partook in men, perhaps more often than in women. It was about the principle.

“I will,” Daemon tells him, voice devoid of anything. “If—and only if—Lyra drags Laenor before me on her own and in no uncertain terms tells me that this is who she will wed. I don’t give a shit about the political quagmire you waltzed into, and you will not use my child as a tool to get out!”

“Daemon, this isn’t how—”

“Am I understood, my King?”

There’s an undertone to those words. A growl, a snarl—he’s not sure, but it’s bone-deep and rattling, a flash of sharp teeth, and it makes Viserys snap his mouth shut. Because at the end of the day, they’re both dragons. Dressed in human silks as they may be, playing pretend with human hierarchies—it won’t kill instinct.

And Daemon is done deferring to one quite so toothless.

Daemon is also fairly sure nobody has ever used ‘my king’ as an insult to the king’s face either, but alas, there’s a first time to everything. All the councilmen suddenly decided their hands laid on the table are the most interesting thing in the room, even the Cunttower. Even the Kingsguard are uneasy, shifting from foot to foot like half-spooked horses.

“Yes,” Viserys says, voice a little faint to match the paleness of his face. “I—I believe… That this meeting is adjourned. You made your opinion on the matter quite… Clear.”

“And don’t even think of going behind my back about it,” Daemon feels it prudent to warn. “I doubt you’ll enjoy the consequences.”

“You dare threaten the king—” Cunttower rises up, but snaps his mouth shut when Daemon side-eyes him. Pales, more than he’s already pale.

“I’m not threatening anyone, merely reminding people to be mindful of the consequences of their actions, like you constantly remind me. And I’m protecting my daughter as is my gods-given duty,” he tells the man. “Though I understand that you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

As he turns on his heel and walks out, he doesn’t miss the sharp glint of discomfort in Otto’s eyes. It brings him enough glee to calm some of his anger.

The silence left in the wake of Daemon’s exit is nothing short of ominous. There was a sort of confidence in Viserys and in all his councilmen before this—that Daemon, despite his vices, would never turn against his brother.

Now, through Viserys’ own designs, that certainty is gone.

○

“Your Grace, you cannot let Daemon get away with such display of hostility. It is all the more essential you bring him to heel. I beg you to proceed with the initial plan.”

“I… You’re right, Otto. I made my decision. I ought to see it though.”

○

They go take a nice long flight, after Daemon comes back and tells her. It’s necessary. Caraxes was just about ready to chew his way through the Red Keep to get to Viserys, and the more Lyra listened, the more Ancalagon became a gleeful accomplice.

They’re still rattled by the end of it, but better. So long as Viserys pulls no more stunts.

Which is probably exactly why he pulls another stunt very quickly.

○

Corlys Velaryon, as steeped in the traditions and customs of the realm as he is, with all his pride and greed, is far from blind, and he’s far from stupid. He has also spent several years in close vicinity of Daemon and Daelyra at the Stepstones, and gained an insight that most seem to sorely lack in the face of those two.

And so when Viserys calls him to speak again privately and resumes as if each party agreed to the betrothal, Corlys shuts him down maybe more harshly than intended. Viserys balks at it, at this olive branch he so graciously extended, and Corlys doesn’t budge.

He declines, without any room for discussion even if it will inevitably lead to continued tensions between Velaryons and the crown, and he sends Laenor to tattle.

○

Laenor shivers under her gaze, co carefully blank, with a smile so carefully polite he dreads whatever hides beneath it.

“Thank you,” she says simply, voice carefully even. He swallows thickly.

“What will you do now?” he asks, even though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

Her smile sharpens; miniscule but noticeable, and Laenor finds himself flinching.

“Nothing,” she says breezily, but her eyes have darkened to black with rage threatening to overspill under that mockery of calm nothingness that devoured light as if it only ever starved. He doesn’t even want to imagine the kind of rampage her nightmare of a dragon is going on right now; he thinks he can hear it screeching somewhere outside the city, in the skies above the ocean, more than receptive to its rider’s rage and more than eager to act on it.

He’s relieved to see her turn around and leave; no doubt to go to the beast, and rage with it.

He’s glad to be wiser than the king, as the cold claws of danger leave with her.

○

Daemon is restless, and he knows himself that his idea is stupid and dangerous and, in all honesty, wrong, and that he shouldn’t—but he doesn’t think he cares.

He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but he expected it would. It hurts him all the same, and it makes him want Viserys to hurt as well. To regret. He wants his brother to taste the same bitterness he’s tasting, to feed him the same medicine Viserys has been trying to feed him.

And if Viserys insists on targeting Daemon’s daughter—well. Daemon can do the same.

He runs into Lyra by what almost feels like chance, but he knows better. She’s still in her riding leathers, the braid he twined himself windswept but holding strong, coiled at the base of her neck.

She looks like a wraith in the candlelight, a ghost come to haunt him for his choices or maybe absolve him of guilt or something in-between, white hair and pale face shining in the darkness, black clothes melding with the shadows, and black eyes looking like bottomless voids full of emotion, reflecting candlelight back in an eerie glow, his own emotions thrown back at him through the warped mirror of his blood. Rage, mostly, but underneath the rage it’s a maelstrom of conflict there, and singularly he can read them fluently, but together he can’t make much sense of them—and by the looks of it, neither can she.

He can relate. He wants to lash out, too, some way, any way. He’s lashing out now, actually.

They stand like that for a while, just looking at each other.

She may stop him, he thinks. He worries. Because she’s the only one who can. If she tells him to not do this, he won’t. If she tells him she forgives Viserys for this transgression, he will forgive.

She takes a deep breath, and her eyes harden as she clenches her fists. Then—

She steps away without a word, away from the light and into the shadow. She looks away.

This is wrong, Daemon thinks. She should be stopping him. She should be telling him not to follow through, because it’s wrong. And she wants to, he realizes. That’s what shining in her eyes. Part of her does, at least, the lone righteous piece left.

But the part blazing hotter and hotter, the bitter anger; it snuffs the reason out. They really are made of the same stuff, in the end, vengeful and capricious and utterly unwilling to let this go. They will both regret it tomorrow when their minds are cleared of this fire, and neither of them cares.

She turns on her heel and leaves on silent feet, and Daemon watches her go as he lets out the breath that he didn’t know he was holding. He takes in another, in and out, plasters a cheeky grin on his face and hopes it looks real enough, and if the swagger to his step looks a little forced, it’s best to not dwell on it.

He has a note and some common clothes to deliver.

○

Cloak and rough spun clothes, a scarf wrapped tightly around her head. A prayer and a toll paid in blood spilled from her own veins, answered by a glint of yellow eyes just outside of the periphery as Morghul lets his shadows cloak her.

Until dawn and not a moment longer,  the Shadowlord whispers as she lets blood drip down her fingers and into the fire. It’s more than enough she declares as she licks what is left off her fingers and takes a moment to wrap the shallow cut tight with clean linen.

And maybe that’s overkill. And maybe she doesn’t need them, and maybe she wouldn’t have been seen anyway, slithering through the bowels of the keep like a thief in the night with her skill alone—but one can never truly be too careful, and she wants to test her limits, too.

○

He leaves Rhaenyra with her pants down and hair undone in the middle of a brothel where everyone can see her, and leaves. Runs, almost, to Mysaria, grabs her shoulders, shoves a pouch in her hand, heavy with coin.

His skin crawls. His hands feel clammy. He wants to scrub his lips and neck and hands raw and then pour pure alcohol over them for good measure, to make sure they’re clean.

Stick them in a vat of boiling water, even. Maybe that would help.

“Make sure the princess remains unharmed. I want her reputation ruined, nothing more.”

“Of course, my prince.”

He trusts Mysaria’s greed.

He himself goes deeper in Fleabottom, and drinks, and drinks, and drinks—until Lyra, hooded and barely-recognizable in urchin garb save for the familiar gleam in her near-black eyes, materializes at his elbow and slams her hand on his cup.

She’s only a fragment of his wine-and-regret-addled mind, he’s certain. The wraith his guilt chose to show him, shaped like that which he holds most dear.

And then she speaks.

<She’s back in Red Keep.>

<You should be, too,> he slurs but leans onto her shoulder. She’s warm, and too solid for an illusion of what remains of his conscience. The hands she puts on his shoulders are warm, too, fingers digging into his shoulders so hard it hurts. He welcomes the distraction. <It’s dangerous here.>

<It’s more dangerous for you, in your state. You can barely sit up. Come.>

She tugs at his elbow and he goes, blindly following her lead, much too drunk to do more than focus on not falling flat on his face. She leads him through alleys he barely-recognizes when sober, better-versed in the veins cutting the city than he is, especially in the dark, and much less drunk. They stop eventually, she speaks to someone—he thinks he recognizes the voice, deep and friendly, but is tugged along again before he can figure it out. He’s ushered onto a cot and tucked in, manages to get his shoes off before fitful sleep claims him.

○

“Harwin.”

It’s barely a whisper, but it still startles him as he spins, face to face with the shining dark eyes he recognizes; Lyra, sitting on a barrel half-covered by shadows, deeper in the alley, awfully at home in rough-spun street urchin garb with a knife at her belt.

“Seven hells, where did you come from?!”

“Red Keep,” comes the dry yet cheeky answer. “I need your help.”

“I don’t know where Daemon is.”

“I do. Rather, I need you to escort the princess safely back to the Keep.”

“Ah. I. Yes, if you know where she is.”

“I do.”

“Of course, you do. I’m not even going to question why you’re sneaking around alone at night.”

“The less you know the better you sleep. Follow.”

“That wasn’t ominous at all. Aren’t you going to question how I’m not surprised Princess is here?”

“You ran into her earlier.”

“…how do you know that?”

Glint of violet in the candlelight, pupils that look uncomfortably slit and viperlike in the light, starting straight at him. That’s a familiar smirk right there, all smug and Daemon-like. Eerie, in this light.

She doesn’t answer. He doesn’t ask again.

○

Mysaria looks into the creature’s eyes, all the darker for the candlelight yet glowing impossibly bright under the shadows of the hood. She just sent off the princess, upset and cantankerous at being stood up as she was, led away and back to the Keep by a Gold Cloak the girl brought with her.

Then Mysaria is alone with the wraith, and it’s… Far from the way she imagined their first meeting would go.

“Can you make sure Otto Hightower thinks they fucked?” the wraith asks and Mysaria bites at her lower lip. “Just enough implication without outright stating it. Let his mind fill in the blanks.”

“I can try,” she says carefully. The wraith turns to look at her properly, and she shivers. Something moves under the cloak.

“Let me rephrase that,” the wraith says, a hefty bag of coin between its pale fingers. It’s bigger than the one Daemon gave Mysaria a scant minutes agon. The bag is more than enough to buy Mysaria’s loyalty for the night.

The wraith came prepared. Of course she came prepared, ready to speak the language of whores and thieves, dressed like an assassin urchin just after her father ran with his tail between his legs and something disturbed in his eyes.

Maybe it’s this very thing before her now that haunts him.

“I can,” Mysaria amends herself. “And then?”

“The rest will fix itself. Don’t worry about it,” the wraith that is Daelyra Targaryen says in a sing-song voice the notes of which send shivers down Mysaria’s spine and makes her feel cold around her neck, and then the girl slinks back into the shadows she came from leaving only empty space, like she was never there at all.

Mysaria rubs her arms, the bag of coin in her hand the only proof that she didn’t dream it.

She worries about it.

○

“What are you going to do about this?” Harwin asks.

“Sleep.”

“The dawn is already almost upon us. But I meant—” he trails off and gestures at Daemon sprawled on the cot. “He was out with the princess. I ran into them. The king will have questions.”

Lyra sighs, tugs the scarf off her head and two thick braids come loose from under it, falling haplessly on her back. They’re almost blindingly white in contrast with everything; very easily recognizable without the headgear.

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it in the morning. And you—and I mean, all of you,” she leans forward and points at the door where few other freshly-off-duty guardsmen cheekily wave at her, unabashed in their eavesdropping, “don’t throw yourselves under the bu—carriage for us. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“With all due respect m’lady,” Corren says and crosses his arms on his chest. An ugly bruise is blooming on his cheek, no doubt from duty hours. “If all of City Watch says you and Daemon were here all night, then who will speak otherwise?”

Lyra closes her eyes and sighs. “Some are in Cunttower’s pocket.”

“Few. They’ll be persuaded to speak the truth.”

She likes the tone with which he says it. She likes that they will stand with Daemon, the loyalty they still hold for him years later.

But getting them in trouble is not something she wants. It’s a lousy reward for their loyalty.

“Viserys will believe what he’s more comfortable believing. And if Otto believes Daemon to have been the culprit, and feels scorned by you—the Hand can make you all miserable. And he can spin his tales into a believable case.”

“Otto can go fuck himself,” spits out a huge guy, buzzcut and bushy moustache, Lyra somewhat recognizes him—Morsh, she thinks, former bouncer at one of Fleabottom brothels. Wave of agreements follows. “Daemon made us into what we are. He’s the only reason we’re able to do our jobs at all, that we’re no longer just a bunch of idiots with pitchforks and leather jackets!”

The men cheer. Lyra sighs and shakes her head. “I have a better idea,” she says, a half-remembered scene coming back to her, two girls, a tree crying bloody tears, and a lie by omission. “Say he was there, with Rhaenyra. Say you saw them drinking in taverns. Say they went to a brothel.”

A murmur of confusion. Lyra holds a hand up, wags a finger at them.

“And then tell the truth. Tell that he didn’t do it. Moment of clarity or coward’s way out or got distracted by whores, however you want to phrase it.”

“How do you know that?” Morsh asks. Lyra grins.

“Because I was there, stalking them,” she says simply. “Making sure nobody got into actual trouble.”

“She told me to get the princess safely to the castle,” Harwin admits, and turns to her. “Aren’t you a little young to be your father’s protector, though?”

“If I don’t look out for him, who will?” she asks. It causes an uncomfortable beat of silence as they look between each other. She claps her hands. “Anyway, boys, remember! Don’t get in trouble for our sake. We got ourselves into this; we’ll get back out. We always do.”

They filter out after that, shift rotating. Some get in the barracks for some much-deserved sleep, some leave. Corren’s cot is right next to the one Daemon is on right now, and Harwin sits at the foot of it once he’s gotten out of his armour.

“Sorry for taking your bed,” Lyra says. He shakes his head.

“I offered. I’ll figure it out.”

Corren lets out a long-suffering sigh and scoots to the side of his cot, patting the now-free half. “Get on, idiot.”

Harwin looks at him, eyebrow raised. “You just want me because I’m warm.”

“Would you rather sleep on the floor?”

Harwin rolls his eyes and heaves himself to lay down next to Corren. “But if you put your cold feet on my shins, I will kick you o—ogh-fucker!”

Corren, who has clearly just put his feet on Harwin’s shins, snickers and sprawls across his chest. It looks like a somewhat familiar maneuver, and he’s clearly comfortable. “I’m letting you sleep on my cot. Least you can do is spare some warmth in return.”

Harwin grumbles, but neither moves to push Corren off or to get out himself. Lyra giggles.

“Goodnight boys.”

○

“What if he does get banished again?”

“Then I’ll follow.”

“You can’t follow him forever.”

“I will for as long as I’m the only thing he has.”

“Lyra, Harwin.”

“Yes Corren?”

“Go the fuck to sleep instead of philosophizing, would you? Some of us want to rest.”

“Sorry Corren.”

“Goodnight Corren.”

○

Kingsguard comes, finds them—how they find them, Daemon stumbling towards Red Keep, disheveled and bitching about everything every step of the way. The sun’s too bright, the people too loud, the air too dry, and the puddle too wet.

Corren, bless his soul, crawled out of the bed to get him some water before they left, but then crawled right back under the covers, causing Harwin to bitch about cold feet all over again but not budge, and leaving Lyra to drag her father back to the Keep through the morning light.

What birds are out there chirping piss her off too as she does. Who let them be this chirpy this early even.

It’s Willis Fell who first sees them as they enter the courtyard, Lyra recognizes his face immediately. He takes a step forward and then promptly freezes when his eyes slide to her and he registers her presence, as if reconsidering his life decisions as his face circles through several emotions before settling on a sour grimace. The Kingsguard make a move to grab Daemon but Lyra whacks the hands of the nearest one with her sheathed dagger and snarls at the other and he takes the instinctive step back, hands raised. Smart man. Or startled—either way, no longer a problem.

“We know the way to the throne room, thank you,” she says primly and then shoves the cloaks and other unworn outer layers into the hands of Fell because carrying them wrapped around her elbow and dragging Daemon along is a bit much logistically. “If you want to be of use, carry these instead.”

Fell’s face sours further but he bites on his words, especially as Ancalagon’s crocodillian rumble resonates through the air, still audible from the other side of the cliff and over all the city-noises. It’s the kind of rumble that triggers something deep within the hindbrain that says run before the consciousness even registers the danger.  Fell grips the cloaks and follows, and if Lyra purposefully sets a slower pace, well. Daemon is still somewhat out of it, and she herself isn’t faring the best either, between lack of sleep and coming off of a magic high.

Fell barely follows them in; throws the cloaks on the ground and leaves. Lyra doesn’t turn to look.

The throne room is drab and dreary as always, with its offensive chair sitting offensively as the centerpiece further in. Lyra sits Daemon by one of the pillars but he flops over to the ground, curling on himself. She lets him, though he doesn’t get to wallow for long, because the door creaks open, and Lyra’s second least favorite person in the world wobbles in.

He is surprised to see Lyra there for sure, as he stops and looks at her wide-eyed, taking in her appearance. Bar her hair, so white it almost glows in the shadows, she’s dressed like any other street rat after all.

“What—” Viserys says and sighs before looking at Daemon with disapproval. “My daughter. Your daughter. You’d take them both to the bowels of Flea Bottom?”

“No,” Daemon groans. “Just Rhaenyra. Lyra hunted me down herself.”

“You don’t—” Viserys snaps and makes a move as if to kick Daemon, but Lyra is faster and whacks his shin with her sheathed dagger maybe harder than she intended, but it certainly sends the message as Viserys stumbles back, looking at her wide-eyed, wind knocked out of him.

“He won’t deny the truth,” she tells her idiot uncle king. “But you don’t know the truth, do you. Just the honey Otto Hightower poured into your ears.”

“That I took Rhaenyra to the brothels,” Daemon groans and rubs his eyes.

“You defiled her,” Viserys says, but though he visibly wants to, doesn’t make a move to try to kick him again. Lyra still has her sheathed dagger in hand, and already proved she’s faster than him.

“Oh, what does it matter, brother?” Daemon asks as he slowly straightens up into a sitting position, only to flop his head on Lyra’s shoulder. If her back wasn’t against the pillar, he’d have toppled her over. “When we were Rhaenyra’s age we fucked out way though most of the brothels on the Street of Silk.”

“We were young men,” Viserys says with that disbelieving huff of his. “She’s just a girl. Your niece!”

Lyra isn’t sure what Daemon being Rhaenyra’s uncle has anything to do with it in the magic dragon incest family other than being a hypocritical kind of statement.

“Rhaenyra’s a woman grown,” Daemon argues instead and smirks. It’s a sharp and ugly thing, but a winning one nonetheless. “Besides, if you can marry off my daughter, then I can at least show yours how to have a good time, can’t I?” he coos and Viserys rears back and stutters, and looks at him in shock.

“It was revenge, then?”

“Reminder,” Daemon purrs and leans forward, a little more awake. “I’ll cut you a deal, how about that?”

“What deal could you possibly offer me?”

“A very simple one. You stay the fuck away from my daughter, and I’ll stay the fuck away from yours. I suppose Rhaenyra will sulk for a bit for it, but in the end, everybody wins.”

Viserys’ face sours. He looks at Lyra, sitting next to Daemon, then back at Daemon. His face goes through several emotions Lyra finds very funny. The fact that her father can be slumped halfway between the pillar and her shoulder, though, hungover and in crumpled dirty clothes and looking like death warmed over, yet still exude a commanding aura over the king of the Realm—that’s impressive.

“I ought to have you sent away for this,” Viserys says. “You said so yourself, actions have consequences.”

“Then do so,” Daemon says as he leans back against the pillar, soaking up its chill. “But know this, once and forever. I’ll do anything to protect my daughter, no matter from what—or from who. Even from you.”

“Including harming mine?”

“I didn’t go that far,” Daemon bristles, violet eyes snapping open, ablaze in the morning light. “And I wouldn’t. Unlike some, I don’t find myself attracted to girls barely older than my daughter that I helped raise. I’m not a monster.”

Viserys rears back as if struck. Daemon grins, and his teeth seem sharper in the low light, bared and threatening.

“And I am to believe you have no ambition for my crown?” Viserys pivots quickly, grasping desperately at any topic at all to distract from being called out on his own misgivings. He’s good at that. “No intention for Rhaenyra’s hand?”

“Please,” Daemon scoffs. “She’s cantankerous and spoiled and more arrogant than us both combined on a good day, I can barely tolerate her in small doses. I got out of one miserable marriage, I’m in no hurry for another. And I’m certainly happier away from the responsibilities of ruling. Why do you think I didn’t crown myself King of Stepstones, or something equally idiotic? I could have. Corlys said I should have, but I have no patience for this nonsense and you should know this by now!”

“So you have no ambition for rule? For power?”

“I only have ambition for enough power to protect my daughter and punish those who’d seek to harm her,” Daemon snaps. “Which is exactly why I did what I did, and if I must, I will do it again until Rhaenyra’s reputation is shredded into nothing, because that, brother, is the best and most direct way I have to make you pay. To tarnish your precious, precious heir and force you to disinherit her. I can. And I will, if you keep pushing me, so step the fuck back while the situation is still salvageable, brother—because I did not start this, but I’m more than willing to end it.”

Viserys rears back, angry but helpless at the way Daemon looks at him, eyes bright and wide and so full of nothing but disdain. He may be consistent at failing his children, even the one he claims to care about, but Daemon isn’t, and the realization is a bitter pill to swallow now that it’s happening, before he shoves it in a box and pretends this conversation never happened.

Lyra flips him off on both hands when Viserys looks at her helplessly, and he winces. She only offers judgment, there’s no support to be found from her. Not for Viserys.

She is happy Daemon picked up on her very nonchalant way of speaking, though. Music for sore ears indeed, to hear him chew his brother the king out like that.

In the end, Viserys huffs and puffs and postures and tries and fails terribly at trying to take control of the situation but between the lack of sleep, Lyra coming off of a magic high, and Daemon’s hangover, they simply don’t give enough of a shit about it, and even Viserys catches on, too. That, or it’s their continued flippant, snappy comments that have him biting back tears at a certain point, because he knows he’s fucked up though he refuses to admit it, but it’s two on one. Especially after it comes to light that not only Daemon didn’t do anything to Rhaenyra—didn’t even think to, past making everyone see her be at the brothel—and Lyra on top of that made sure her cousin got safely back.

He doesn’t do much to either of them in the end. No banishment, not even a ban on seeing Rhaenyra for Daemon. Just a helpless and uncomfortable man being called out on his bullshit after being warned to not commit this very mistake and trying to shift blame when Daemon predictably did a very Daemon thing to drive the point home.

Lyra is so glad he’s on her side, her father is a force of nature. Same capacity to be reasoned with at times as a hurricane.

She hopes that this humiliation will make Viserys be even harsher on Otto later. He has to take it out on someone after all, and Daemon has just made himself an incredibly inconvenient scapegoat in his willingness to bite back where it hurts, and technically not doing anything wrong besides.

○

Alicent hunts Lyra down after the audience. She heard what happened, and wants the truth; Lyra gives it to her, and doesn’t mention things she shouldn’t know. 

Granted, she doesn’t actually know if Rhaenyra went and fucked Criston Cole after she returned, so she’s not even lying by omission. She just knows it could have happened.

Final puzzle piece is set.

○

She hears about it. She’s in the nursery with her cousins and the bored maids whisper of a displeased king and Hand who’s no longer a Hand.

Life’s—not good, not really, but better.

○

It’s by sheer chance that she runs into Otto as she returns from the nursery. He seems to be in a hurry. 

Lyra doesn’t think she’s seen the man up close before, at least not alone. He’s awfully unassuming for someone causing so much trouble for her family, though most importantly, he’s finally missing the Hand of the King golden pin that otherwise sat primly on his chest.

Lyra almost chokes on the giddy giggle that threatens to burst out.

“Good day to you, Ser Otto,” she says breezily as she passes him. “And a word of advice?”

He stops. He turns around. Lyra turns around, too. He’s taller than her, but it feels like they’re on equal ground, and she doesn’t cower under his disappointed stare that no doubt makes Alicent wilt every time.

“And what advice might you have for me, My Lady?” he asks. Lyra smiles.

“Daemon is not Viserys, and I’m not Rhaenyra,” she tells him simply. “And you’re not our old friend.”

“I’m not sure what you mean—” he interrupts.

“I’m not here to listen to you play dumb, Otto,” Lyra interrupts back, sharply, and his mouth clicks shut, maybe at the sheer shock of it. “I’m here to tell you that Viserys won’t protect you and take the fall for you forever if you insist on poking the sleeping dragon. While my father has the propensity to lash out at the surface threat he also listens to me, and I’m not blind to the underlying problem.”

“Is this a threat?”

“Actions have consequences, as you are so fond of reminding my father. Figured you could use a reminder yourself, too, is all.”

Lyra smiles at his grimace; and her smile widens further at the realization flashing suddenly in his eyes. The knowledge that a child, a little girl, played him like a fiddle. And yes, she followed what she knew, made sure to iron out a few kinks and ensure information flow is all… But him thinking it was all her master plan is infinitely funnier.

“Good day to you, Ser Otto,” she repeats herself with a small but perfect curtsy, voice just to the left of composed as some giddiness pierces through. “You played yourself beautifully.”

And then she’s gone.

[thewingedbaron]

Owlcatober Day Five: Forgiveness

A bit of a different take on this one (like I've been sticking the script at all). There's a certain character throughout Act 1 and 2 that I've always had mixed feelings about. How far can heroes fall when their people no longer want them?

Heroes and Traitors (764 words)

Fandom: Pathfinder Wrath of the Righteous

Warnings: Mentions of death

Ship: Arueshalae/KC (Allix)

Read here under the cut on Ao3 :)

The graveyard was all but abandoned at night. It had been long months since the soldiers had moved their not-so-secret gambling ring to the warmth of the Half Measure Tavern. Without them, very few had any reason to dwell amongst the headstones. The names of crusaders, heroes, cowards, opportunists, equally revered and forgotten there in the mist. A shame, Allix thought as he carefully stepped through the wrought iron gate. A gods damned shame. 

He picked his way between the graves at a snail’s pace, stopping every so often to read the names and whisper a prayer to Iomidae, or Erastil. He did not need to go far to reach his destination. 

The headstone stood alone on its own patch of dried grass. It was nondescript, nothing to mark it as special other than the heavy name carved into its face, and the lack of any kind of symbol to denote any kind of faith. The crusaders had not known under what god’s eye to bury the traitor Stanton Vane. An unmarked grave seemed to be a statement all its own. It stood alone because no comrade, nor family wanted to bury their dead close to the headstone, out of fear that the marks upon his soul might seep from his coffin and infect the souls of those interred nearby. It was hard not to be superstitious when your enemy was the horrors spat out by the worst place imaginable. 

Allix sat down before the headstone, legs crossed, gazing sadly at the name carved there. He had ended hundreds of lives. Cultists, demons, Gods. Yet it was here where his soul felt the quietest. The Knight Commander silently brushed the fallen leaves off the top of the stone, wondering where the dwarf’s soul might have gone. 

“Who were they?” A quiet voice asked. 

“A hero.” Allix replied, shifting to make room before the grave. A moment later, he was joined by the winged form of Arueshalae settling in beside him. “And a traitor.” He continued softly. 

“Stanton Vane.” Arueshalae read off the grave. “I’ve heard his name whispered amongst the crusaders. I’ve heard him called many things, but never a hero.” 

Allix nodded. “I can’t imagine you have.” 

For a long moment, they sat in silence. Arushalae’s head on his shoulder, their tails intertwined. Touch had become easy for them since their return from the abyss, and Arueshalae’s ascension. It had been slow at first, but now even the most mundane of contact felt natural. As natural as breathing. Small touches of support. 

“Why do you call him a hero?” Arueshalae asked. 

For a long moment, Allix did not reply. “We wouldn’t be here without him.” He said slowly. “He helped take this fortress. Fought back the tide of demons for years in the first crusades.” 

“But that’s not why you call him a hero.” Arueshalae said. 

“No.” He agreed. “I believe he’s a hero for what came after. He lost Drezen, seduced by a demon to charge out in a blaze of glory. In one fell swoop, he lost our greatest fortress, and our greatest defense in the Sword of Valor. Hundreds of heroes died in the battles that followed. And yet…” 

Allix’s voice trailed off, a half formed thought on his lips. Arueshalae shifted closer, her weight a comfort on his side. 

“He fought on. For so many years he fought on as his allies and friends turned on him. The crusaders spat on him, outcast him, and yet he still fought, all the way to the Gray Garrison.” Allix whispered. “And I killed him.” 

“He betrayed you.” 

“He did.” 

“And you feel guilty about his death?” Arueshalae asked. 

“Yes.” Allix nodded, his eyes far away. “He betrayed us because we gave him no other option. For all the people these crusades have protected. For all the people we’ve saved… we hurt people. The crusades have allied themselves with anyone willing to supply the bodies and swords to throw in front of the world wound, no matter how young or old, willing or unwilling. I sometimes wonder just how many cultists we’ve created over the years.” 

“It can’t be all bad.” Arushalae argued. “The crusades are the only reason the demons don’t rule Glarion.” 

Allix nodded again. “You’re right. It's just… sometimes I have a hard time forgiving the harm that we cause in the name of good.” 

They were silent for a moment more. “Have you forgiven Stanton Vane?” Arueshalae asked. 

“Some day. I hope that I can.” Allix replied. “If I can forgive him. Maybe there’s hope for us all.”

[cdragons]

Truce Part 2

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 Pairing(s): Ikaris x Persephone!Reader Word Count: 1.8k Prompt/Summary: Part 2 of Truce Miniseries! Warning: Neurodivergent reader is neurodivergent, Hecate!Reader bestie is her own warning, Ikaris was kind of a douche Note: Thank you to everyone who takes the times to read my writing even through it is likely way too self-indulgent to be considered in-character! Special thank you to the most amazing and incredible beta editor in the world, @valeskafics! If you have not, please go check her works! She mostly does HOTD, GOT, anything Ewan Mitchell, and literally EVERYTHING she writes is incredible! Also a HUGE shoutout and thank you to @ethereal-athalia, who is literally my psychic soulmate when it came to thinking of literally ANYTHING for this AU! She was a major part in figuring out the plot and events of this world, and provided me so many ideas that I would not have been able to create any of these works for Sephia and Kaetlyn if it weren't for her help.

As moments passed since Kaetlyn and Druig left together, hand-in-hand, Ikaris was caught up in the sudden realization that he was now alone in a very public courtyard of the Hanging Gardens with you.

And with each moment passing, it was brought to his attention that he hadn’t even the slightest clue of how to act around you, let alone what to say.

“Fuck,” he thought, “this is getting awkward.”

Noticing your friend’s shift in demeanor, you immediately assumed that his discomfort must have been caused by your sudden appearance. So, you attempted to remove yourself from his company so to not cause him any further distress.

“Um, Ikaris,” you started, “if you had other engagements, I really don’t mind walking back to the Domo myself. I know that Kaety sort of pushed me to you, and I don’t want to make you uncom-”

But Ikaris quickly interjected with so much panic that his voice actually cracked, “NO!” Upon hearing his own voice, he flushed in embarrassment before clearing his throat before continuing, “I mean – no – I don’t mind at all.” Not wanting to further embarrass himself in front of the women who held his heart, he shut himself up before he could continue to stammer like an idiot.

“Thank Arishem that Druig and Kaetlyn are not here to witness me in my current state,” he thought to himself, “I would never be able to live with the humiliation.”

Staring at the man before you, you took advantage of the silence to take in all his features. It was a rare sight to see Ikaris so flustered, especially when one considered the sheer number of Deviants he’s killed is only rivaled by Thena and Kaet. You ended up letting out a very unattractive snort as a small grin crept up the corners of your mouth, and upon seeing Ikaris’ perplexed reaction, you couldn’t help continuing to laugh at his very evident confusion.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” you tried to explain, “I am not laughing at you-well, I suppose I am laughing at you, but it is not so much you that I am laughing at, but the situation.” You could hardly breathe with how hard your body shook in hysterics, leaving your explanation much to be desired by the Eternal whose confusion only increased at your reasoning.

Raising a singular eyebrow, Ikaris’ expression was a mixture of equal measures of distress and incredulity as he was forced to witness to the love of his immortal life laugh at him. Scoffing in response, he couldn’t help but comment with a slightly bitter tone, “Forgive me if I find that very hard to believe at the moment.”

“No, no, no- I promise,” you tried to explain. Taking a deep breath, you finally stopped laughing while still maintaining a bright smile that cause Ikaris’ body to flush for a very different reason, “Alright, I’m very sorry, that was rude of me. It’s just that- I’m not so used to you being so…not you?”

With a deadpan expression, mouth lines pursed together to further showcase his lack of amusement, he decided to at least hear you out, “Go on?”

“It’s just that,” you paused to find your voice, “I’m not used to seeing you act so different from yourself. You’re usually so overly confident and can be a bit arrogant. So, seeing you flustered and a bit vulnerable, it’s nice! It makes me feel closer to you. And it makes me so happy seeing this way now, compared to how you were at the beginning.”

Ikaris let out a massive groan while pinching his nose bridge. He knew that you had no intention of offending him, but it pained him in hearing your early opinion of him several millennia ago. Despite your shy personality, you were brutally honest and straightforward. A lesson he learned the hard way and a little late to his embarrassment.

He could still feel the sting on his face after you slapped him for his insensitive comments toward your powers, and the role you played in humanity. Ikaris was immediately struck dumb by your temper. Despite being a thinker, you had the ferocity of a fighter. The events that followed the uproar caused an immediate shift in dynamics amongst the fighters. Kaetlyn practically made it her life’s mission to make Ikaris’ life beyond insufferable. She and her shadows played a number of cruel pranks that would scare the life of any human. If it weren’t for his superior physical durability and strength, Ikaris was sure that he would be knocking on death’s door with each passing day. Ashamed to admit it, it took several attempts for you to truly forgive him.

The first could at best be described as a reluctant admission of harsh words that were exchanged, along with the guilt of how Ikaris’ words made you feel. It goes without saying that you were less than pleased, and refused to even pretend that his meager words were sufficient enough to even qualify as an apology.

The second time was when Ikaris approached you whilst you were instructing the humans on how to properly harvest and store the crops as food storage in preparation for the off-seasons. Try as he did, you refused to even spare him a glance as you remained steadfast in your work to prepare the Earth for the bountiful gifts it provided to humans as a result of your tender care.

The third time could not really qualify as an apology, as Ikaris was fed up with your attitude despite his multiple attempts of reconciliation. Outright demanding that you stop your childish behavior, he was struck dumb by your cool composure. In a steady voice, you explained that he had never once showed genuine remorse for his behavior, only how you felt. As a result, he made no action to change his actions, and continued to behave as if he were superior to you. Even when Ajak tried to conciliate, she was promptly stopped by Kaetlyn physically stepping in front of her; and in a low tone, she warned their leader of the unspoken consequences should she intervene. You proceeded to express your displeasure with him by further announcing that you had no interest in being forced to endure the company of someone whose only interest in her work was so that he would have an easier time to seduce Sersi. When you were done, you swiftly turned away to your quarters, eager to put as much distance as possible between you and him.

Kaetlyn followed after you, but not before snickering at the stupefied expression on Ikaris’ face. She certainly lived for the moments where the man’s overwhelming hubris got him in trouble.

It was the most mortifying experience in Ikaris’ existence. Being Ajak’s second-in-command, he was unused to the idea of being questioned, let alone outright dismissed. To bear witness to your fire, you both humbled and ensnared him with your words. And on that day, he was determined to make a true effort in gaining your loyalty and friendship. Upon changing his ways, you graciously gave him another chance, albeit still keeping him at arm’s length. But he had never been so grateful for his decision, as it marked the start of a friendship between mutual respect. And if he dared to hope, perhaps it could possibly lead to more.

Taking in his embarrassment, you decided that you’ve teased Ikaris enough, and wanted to make amends.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” you quickly apologized- hoping to keep the atmosphere light and not spiraling to depressing, “Please, let me make it up to you! I packed a picnic for me and Kaety to share, but since she’s- OH NO!” Your sweet tone shifted to distress as the realization that the basket that carried all the products of your labor and research was carried by your friend, who was now long gone to who knows where with her telepathic lover.

Seeing your afflicted expression sent warning signs to flash across Ikaris’ mind, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The picnic basket! I forgot that Kaety was the one carrying it! She wanted to test out a new spell she learned from Lady Frigga!” Your eyes were filled with agony at your absent-mindfulness, now how were you to make it up to Ikaris?

“Sephia, I don’t understand. Why is the basket so important?” Ikaris was sure that there was nothing dangerous enough that would possibly cause so much worry, but he never knew with you and Kaetlyn.

“That basket was filled with crops that I personally cultivated in my lab at the Domo! I was planning to show them to Kaety so that she could taste them, and we would discuss how to possibly integrate them into their lifestyle! I even had Gilgamesh’s help in preparing some of the dishes with the new herbs and spices I developed to be paired with the vegetation!”

Taking a slight pause to gather your thoughts, Ikaris was enthralled at the pink tint blooming on your cheeks as you stammered out your next words, “And- well- I figured that since Kaety would now be spending the day with Druig, I thought that it would be nice if I could share them with you as an apology for laughing earlier. And, I figured that it would be a good idea for you to taste them. Since- well, I do value your opinion- since that- you are my friend.”

Touched that you trusted his opinion of all people on a matter so important to you, Ikaris immediately softened his tone as he walked forward to grasp your shoulders, and lowered himself to face you at eye-level.

“Sephia,” he whispered out- his rich accent was so warm but somehow leaving you with chills- “you have no idea how honored it would make me to try your creations. But you don’t need to apologize for anything. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” Tracing his hands from your shoulders, down your arms, and stopping to grasp your hands, “Whether you like to believe it or not, I do know you enough to know that you aren’t the kind of person to intentionally ridicule others at their own expense.”

Despite melting at your Ikaris’ comforting statement, you still felt a twinge of guilt stubbornly creeping into your heart. Summoning all the courage in your heart, you stood on the tips of your toes to ask something a bit forward for your standards.

“Ikaris,” you breathily purred out, “come with me to my room.”

Taken back, Ikaris thought that his mind had conjured up your voice. Jumping back to look into your eyes, only to see that you were completely serious.

“Sweet Sephia,” he thought out, “you will be the death of me.”

Tagging: @valeskafics, @ethereal-athalia, @aphroditesmoon, @asa-do-your-thing, @vikingqueen28, @justmymindandstuff, @spacetalbot, @beananacake, @grimbunnie, @bellamys-girls, @lex-g-t, @mimireaken, @futureartpresaon, @spacetalbot, @beananacake, @its-actually-minicika, @junopur, @vikingqueen28, @dreaming-for-an-escape, @allisonoops12, @bibissparkles, @karimac

ps: if I bolded your name, I couldn't find the link (sorry)

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[sassysnowperson]

Okay having been the even slightest bit enabled by @musicalsobachka and @supernovafourleafclover commenting on my musing Gerard/Elody coming back together thoughts, I kept musing and went, but who would Elody talk about her very frustrating crush with? I don't want it to be Gerard himself, part of the whole thing is that they both need more friends!

And then my brain gave me the funniest possible answer, and I had to write out a lil bit of it:

"It's a bad idea, right?" Elody leans backwards, her palms pressing into sun-warmed grass. She heaves a sigh and looks at the sky. "I know it's a bad idea. We were bad at being married. We're great at being friends. But I just keep thinking...he's a good guy now. He's my best friend, and he's right there. Why am I still looking? But that's how everything went wrong before. It'd go wrong again, right? Just safer not to go there."

"I think that I am literally the worst person in the world you could have this conversation with." Rapunzel looks down at her scone, put off her appetite by the direction of the conversation. "Please go talk to one of your softer-hearted friends."

"You won't bullshit me," Elody looks from the sky, back to Rapunzel, with the frank, honest smile that Rapunzel appreciates and envies and worries about in equal measure. Good-hearted heros and their big, dumb hearts that they never adequately protect. Then her friend, normally so sensible, continues, "You're not biased."

Rapunzel nearly snorts her scone out her right nostril. "He killed me and ate my corpse. I heavily implied you only fell in love with him out of pity. I'm extremely biased!"

"So just tell me it's a terrible idea and that I should move on!" Elody growls out, frustration evident on every feature.

Ah. So Elody was looking for a reason to not want this. Which meant that she actually did want it. Quite a bit. Concerning.

"He," Rapunzel says, snarling every syllable like a knife slice, "is a soppy wet pathetic rag compared to your magnificence." Then she heaves out a sigh, sending her anger with it. "And he tried to come back for you. In the castle, when we ran them out. Almost died doing it." Rapunzel runs her fingers through her short hair. "He never stopped loving you. He's still a trash pile of a person," she hastens to add. "But if you're into that, he's into you."

Elody blinks. "That wasn't...what I expected you to say."

"I know," Rapunzel says. "But I won't be your excuse. You are the only person who can decide what's good for you." And that's enough emotion for the moment. She picks up a bit of her mangled scone and throws it at Elody's head. "That's for making me contemplate the concept." Rapunzel gives a dramatic shudder. "Waste of a nice summer day."

"My apologies," Elody snorts, shaking her head. "Consider the matter dropped." She looks back up at the sky, frowning a little in thought.

Rapunzel watches her friend watch the sky. Elody could do better. But...there are worse things than someone who adores you. And Rapunzel is done being the spider perched in the middle of a web. Elody can make her own choices.

The slight breeze ruffles Rapunzel's short hair, and she finds she's smiling, as she also turns her gaze to the sky.

[eternal-dragon-of-time]

This is an incredibly amount of Magius angst. Happy New Years to the most cringe fail enemies to lovers warrior ever.

At the end of the final confrontation of the Thirteen Lords of Chaos saga, the Hero and Drakath return to Lore with independent plans to defeat the Queen of Monsters. Magius has different desires in their head.

Hero!OC/Drakath, Enemies, Descriptions of Violence.

Maybe it’s hatred, maybe it’s desperation, maybe it’s love.

“Get back up.”

Drakath craned his neck to look at them from where he lay on the darkened ground, confusion cutting through his rage for a moment. Thin wisps steamed off of him from where the Queen of Monster’s magic restored him for the last time, fading quickly with the rest of her influence. She had escaped then, and left the two alone to fight it out in the Realm of Chaos. Reason demanded that the hero of Lore return to save their home, but all Magius could think of was this golden opportunity. 

The blood still stained their lips from where their lip was split open by a wayward strike, Magius relished in it, the reminder of the near miss keeping their heart pumping and mind sharp. Exhaustion tugged at them and their sword hand had gone numb sometime ago after one too many bone rattling clashes, their legs ached, their grip on their swords slackened. It had been many hours of clawing for victory and hedonist that they were; they enjoyed this too. “We aren’t done”

“So it's like that then,” Drakath spat, attempting to heave himself off the ground only to fall back after his arms trembled. Wounds knit back together or not, the fighting took its toll on him as well. “You’re so desperate for a victory you’d kill me just to pretend you’ve won?”

Was that it? The drive to continue the fight burned fiercely in Magius’ chest beyond all reason. Anger at the Queen for winning was somewhere in there, but the thought was ephemeral at the moment. All thinking was beyond them really, and the introspection dropped abruptly as Drakath finally managed to stand.

“It’s not about winning.” They said simply, “I haven’t beaten you. I think that's what matters to me.” Maybe it was the chaos that drove them. The last remnants of that mania searing their muscle under their skin and causing them to well and truly lose it. It’s okay then, because Drakath did that to them and so it was revenge. Tilting their head to the side they flashed the skin of their neck to him. They didn’t want to talk right now, Magius wanted to keep fighting.

“Time doesn’t work naturally here, you understand that, right? Every moment here could be months, years for Lore. You’re giving up the entirety of Lore to the Queen for nothing.” Disbelief tinged everything Drakath said, as if he couldn’t fathom that Magius would want to keep going, that he was getting another chance to put them into the ground. They understood what he was saying perfectly, and they ignored it. Even as he tested their resolve to stay, Magius could see he was making subtle movements to shift into a combat stance, and the allure was too much to bear. 

“If this battle takes forever, then everything will have been worth it.” Magius felt the words roll off of their tongue from a distance. Somewhere behind themself as they casually dropped all pretense of heroism. They watched from this out of body position as they took off their facemask, taking one slow gasp for air before launching themselves forward. Joy and fury matched in their heart with equal measure as everything came back together in preparation for the battle ahead. Hyperaware, Magius saw Drakath blink in surprise as they moved in for the attack, an ancient ache burning in their chest as he responded in kind.

Magius was happy.

Their cheeks hurt from smiling, even as their limbs ached and they lost track of time. The blade in their hands sang as they swung it with reckless abandon. Everything they desired was held in this moment. Their hate bloomed into hope, into contentment. The realm of chaos raged around them as they danced. Their partner driving them onto the defense as their battleground crumbled under the force of their battle. 

They were made for combat first and foremost. It was an unspoken truth that lived within them. Before they knew how to talk or comfort, they knew the feel of a blade in their hand. Magius knew that they weren’t going to make it to the end, they weren’t built for saving the world, for protecting the weak or any of the things that drove their friends. They were made for violence, and this was where they belonged. Clashing their sword with Drakath’s, they parried the blow and struck, once, twice, three times as thank you for the indulgence. I love you I love you I love you. Shoving him back across the barren earth that remained on their little plane of existence, Magius whooped as they flung themselves back into the bloodbath.

It was right. It was like his body was made for their blade. If the entire world was just this, just the two of them fighting for nothing at the end of the world, they would be happy. Drakath grabbed their sword hand and forced them to drop the blade, squeezing until it made a sickening crunch before flinging them onto the ground. Desperately rolling away before he could continue, they brought themselves back up to a standing position. Magius embraced this pain as much as they embraced inflicting it. In this moment it was an ecstasy beyond understanding. Finally, they were getting what they wanted.

They thought they were exhausted when they started this final confrontation, but after many hours, months, years, they were reaching depths beyond possibility. Sometime ago their right hand had gone numb to all feeling and Magius knew implicitly that some of their inner workings had gone lopsided, their insistence on fighting through the wounds Drakath inflicted damaging them further. And yet every time Magius felt that they were on the verge of collapse, some hidden wellspring surged within them. Some hidden quality of the realm of chaos allowing for them to battle forever.

Drakath was in similar shape. Without the constant assistance of the Queen of Monsters healing his wounds, Magius had finally left their mark. Panting hard, he paused his assault to lean on his blade, even the eye on his chest closing for a moment as the disengagement allowed for a moment of peace. Magius took the moment to check their wrist, wincing at how it ached when they attempted to flex their fingers. It wasn’t the first time they had been disarmed here, but it seemed like they weren’t going to be using their sword at all anymore. They would have to continue with just their fists. Before they could lunge forward again with their hands clenched, Drakath raised his arm to slow them and sighed, clearly exasperated.

“What are you doing?” He asked, and Magius felt a deep fear. “What are we doing? What is going to be achieved by doing this?” The longer they stood there the longer Magius’ body had to realize that it couldn’t keep going, they were going to lose their moment!

“I’m going to kill you.” Magius said, temper flaring up, the anger would help them keep on their feet.

“No. You’re not. Neither of us have come close to finishing this fight. If you wanted me dead you would be trying harder” Drakath’s frustration was evident. Magius blinked, straightening up in surprise. He wasn’t making any sense, so they shook their head in a futile attempt to think clearly through the muddy waters of their tired brain. They were fighting for pleasure, and nothing would please them more than victory… Right? They liked the idea of winning so badly, but would they really have been satisfied with killing him? “So what is this pointless fight for? Some sick death wish? Why not just let me-” he paused for an uncomfortable moment and then awkwardly gestured to them. Magius swayed for a moment before picking up on the implication.

“I don’t want to die!” Magius stopped themselves. Didn’t they? If they had dragged out the fight for so long without winning, weren’t they asking for it? They could see it, they guessed, them being okay with dying here if they had genuinely been bested. But that would end Magius' and Drakath’s moment together, and that hurt in a funny way. No, it wasn’t about the outcome at all. They bounced on their feet impatiently as they tried to think harder about what they were doing. “That’s not what this is about. It’s about you.”

Magius took a small amount of satisfaction from the way Drakath’s face twisted. It was his fault; it was always his fault. Something about him, something he did to them, had driven Magius beyond all reason and now they finally got to reap the rewards of his efforts. Sudden inspiration pierced through their foggy battle lusted brain, and casting out their arms as if to present their all to him, they continued, “You and I were made for this, and I need to reach this completion. To fight you, learn you, the end of the fight is unnecessary to me.” A heat rose to their cheeks, that was deeply personal to admit. It was a weight off their shoulders to finally cast off the disguise of heroism they threw over their obsession, but one that was quickly replaced by the crushing guilt. They had lied to themself, their friends and their allies, and if they somehow returned to those friends, Magius would continue to lie about their desire for the rest of their days. Instead, they choose to only confide in the man who made everyone's lives hell.

Drakath seemed to oscillate between being disturbed and being… excited? Magius waited with bated breath. Surely he would continue the fight, right? Drakath had to have felt this as well, because why else would he have spent his attention on them? Making Magius feel this way? He smiled slowly. To anyone else it would’ve seemed sickening, but to Magius it just heightened their excitement.

“You really should’ve stopped at some point.” His words were slow and cutting. “When you’re dying alone and empty here, keep thinking of me, alright?”

And then he was gone. Having used the time they were talking to recover enough to use his wings to take off towards the gate. 

Falling forward onto their hands and knees, Magius threw up, blood coming up with whatever was left in their stomach. Literally spilling their guts out to go along with their stupid confession. Idiot! Dumbass! Of course he wouldn’t feel the same. They hated each other! That wellspring they had used to continue fighting completely evaporated within them, their arms giving out beneath them. Magius narrowly avoided falling into their sick by rolling onto their side, their vision threatening to give out as their body struggled not to shut down.

They had given up their pride, their chance at redemption, their oaths, their body, everything for a scrap of attention. A pitiful laugh crawled out of their throat along with a little more blood. They really were pathetic weren’t they?

It wasn’t a testament to their will that they began to crawl towards the gate with their one working arm. Just a realization that their last remnants could be good for something. Magius may have been scattered to the wind, but they were still a weapon. They could keep going if Lore needed to use them.

[joseopher]

I have this au idea where Tristan completely loses it. In this au Callum does team up with Adrian Caine to kill Tristan, possibly even become heir to the Caine criminal empire because Adrian and Tristan mutually cut ties and I believe that Adrian Caine is the type of guy that would only let a man be his heir and just ignore all of Tristan's sisters so he can get this random guy to be the heir.

Anyway, Tristan can't cope with Callum betraying him again by teaming up with his abusive father and just loses it.

There would be some manipulation by The Library, it would transport him to this hall of mirrors where it shows him how much better off everyone is without him. This causes Tristan to be able to not sleep, eat, or focus. So learning Callum betrayed him again is hard but then The Library shows him how (supposedly) happy Callum is...

Callum's finding a place in the Caine family. Callum's healing. Callum's happy.

Callum gets a good father and caring sisters. He gets that.

But Tristan doesn't.

Adrian Caine is nice to Callum, no, more than nice, fatherly. But Tristan didn't get that, he got bruises and punches and cuts. But Callum does. Callum who betrayed him. Used him. Manipulated him.

It's the final nail in the coffin. Tristan just becomes completely unhinged. Instead of being angry, he gets cheery far more cheery than his grumpy self ever was before. But something's wrong around the edges, a sharpness to him, a glint of cruelty.

In this au, he drops the wards and lets Adrian's assassins, and anyone else hunting him, come into the society and slaughters them all with his vast amounts of power. But not before flirting with them because he's a fucking masochist. He also doesn't kill off all the assassins so he can "play" with them again. Though eventually, he will get bored and will kill them off so his father will send new exciting assassins.

He's on his serial killer arc <3

Of course, can't bring himself to kill Callum, so he precedes to just do the most out-of-pocket shit with him because he loves Callum but he's just got a completely fractured mind.

Callum is not thriving as Tristan thinks, he's miserable. So he shows up at the society to murder Tristan only to find Tristan acting completely different and...smiling? Tristan rarely smiles wtf is going on?

This is what would happen:

credit to artist

What proceeds is, grumpy Callum who just wants to literally murder his husband and Tristan, the adoring husband, who constantly throws violent affection at him. (also Tristan has an addiction to murdering people shhh don't tell anyone)

credit to artist

Of course, this situation makes Callum feel needed as he is not used to being loved unconditionally by someone he so clearly isn't manipulating to this level of extreme.

Callum acts very grumpy about Tristan's random bursts of murderous affection and violent actions in regard to him but secretly enjoys it. Callum pays it back in equal measure by continuing to try to murder Tristan and picking off other assassins sent to kill Tristan because murdering him is his job.

They become increasingly obsessed with each other, not used to such devotion (even if it is with malicious intent). Tristan struggles to accept any affection without suspicion unless he knows there's a selfish justification behind it and Callum thinks similarly leaving them perfect (or horrible) for each other.

They become the most toxic unhinged spouses in existence.

Adrian eventually catches on and ties up Callum and beats him because he keeps failing at killing Tristan.

Tristan, who at this point is just the most powerful being in existence, fucking levels London to find Callum. When he does so he proceeds to murder his father, murder the entire Caine crime syndicate, blow everything up and almost end the world.

Callum, for once, recognizes that Tristan needs to calm down and manages to get him to stop his murderous rampage by simply hugging him and telling him he loves him.

Tristan breaks down and they both cry in the ashes of the Caine family house.

Realizing they actually want this to work, Callum stops trying to murder Tristan and Tristan attempts to stop being violent with Callum. But they're still unhealthily obsessed with each other.

They redirect their attention to murdering civilians and become very prolific in the criminal world by simply committing crimes whenever something doesn't go their way.

For example, they go on dates to restaurants and whenever something doesn't taste quite right, they blow up the building.

~And they all lived happily ever after~

P.S. Reina is there and watches this all go down like "wtf is wrong with you two???"

I feel like you would like this @aho-dapa

[horizon-verizon]

What do you think of Cersei? Do you like her character? (Both show and book versions)

*EDITED POST* (11/6/23)

Watched GoT before reading the books. 

I genuinely loved & was fascinated by Cersei (as a character). There was never a dull moment with her and her nonsense.

She actually made sense behaviorally:

[me] raised to believe in the exceptionalism of her house and her father, overly entitled due to her need to resist her father's devaluing of her, selling her body out for power, and her need to practice power. Her need to protect her kids and claim to put them before anything else was rife with hypocrisy, yet I also was moved by her losing Joffrey. Why? Because you could see she actually loved him in her own fucked up way and she herself was both understandable (in the sense that I could see how she turned out the way she did hoe the patriarchy failed her immensely), active, and not boring. I loved that she was bold and that she was bold enough, since childhood, to fuck her own brother and use the Targs as part of justification. I think of her self-inflicted loneliness that comes with her narcissism: she wants love and power but she can never truly accept the power and love she does receive (being Queen Dowager and having Jaime so into her) because she wants perfect, absolute power and to be seen/be "perfect"ly in control, in appearance, in manner and be equal to the sort of man she imagines she could be if she were Jaime...to be "Jaime" (also why and how she doesn't actually really understand or can relate to anyone, even her own lover since both were children) and to have all the power a woman or man can have over every other woman in Westeros. She's compelling because her desires are intense and clumsily handled. Kirby describes Cersei as "childlike' in her emotional control. For some, she's very relatable in how she self-sabotages her need for just...more. Some do not even have to be narcissistic to relate to Cersei so much as know what it feels like to realize you'll never have a thing denied to you and still desire it, sometimes go too far in trying to embody/obtain something like it.

[thoughts and being reminded after watching TikTok's Gamesof ThronesHistorian] Before Robert whispers some other girl's name on their wedding night, Cersei also has an issue with not "measuring" up to the masculinized standards of competent personhood, so Robert's revealing that he wants and continues to want Lyanna over her pokes at Cersei's deepest insecurity. Cersei expected to marry Rhaegar after Tywin dumbly got her hopes up and she spent a lot of her time fantasizing about being with him and being Queen--hopes are dashed after Rhaegar marries Elia instead when Aerys dismisses Tywin's suggestion--he calls Tywin a "servant", thus if Cersei ever heard this (she likely did) she would also have been mortified and jilted. After the rebellion goes in Robert's favor, she marries him and she finally gets to be Queen (the position dangled in front of her like a prize since childhood, snatched away, and now she "has" it back), she discovers that the queenship doesn't make up for Robert's clear preference for the same girl "her" Rhaegar got himself supposedly killed for. She thought she "won" against Lyanna & Elia, that they wouldn't "haunt" her ruined dreams, and that her marrying Robert would fix everything but the marriage only traps her with a man who will never see her without thinking of what he's amissing with Lyanna. And it quickly becomes abusive. For someone like Cersei, who grew up being told she is the most beautiful and thus an exemplar of women and having almost nothing for herself but that AND being queen as Tywin always promised to her own self (bc her patriarchal society affords way less in terms of prestige, value, and recognized respect to women as it does men & boys AND makes physical features comparatively final measure of worth for girls and women]), it's not that hard to see that Cersei's feelings are not baseless, totally irrational, nor groundless. Her already existing insecurities mushroomed into a plague that also sharpened her need to be "perfect", and counteract the feeling of never measuring up. Her emotions are so intense and uncontrolled and she remains totally unaware of her loneliness & she doesn't really ever address this properly to understand how she can at least psychologically and independently believe in her own strength and develop such strength, so she comes across as childlike.

That being said, I hated her as a person both in the show and the book because of her abusiveness of her brothers, her children, her delusions of grandeur, the disrespect and audacious spitting at the Martells (when it was Tywin who enabled Elia and her kids’ murders) -- I don’t remember, but it is totally within Cersei’s character to be glad for Elia’s murder out of jealousy and entitlement.

I also experienced abuse from my own mother and she is very much like Cersei in a lot of ways. It was refreshing to see that onscreen and in a book. But I also understand her because a huge part of why she is so evil and power-hungry is because of society and her own family continuously objectifying, dispossessing, and degrading her for being female, AND then she makes the unconscious-conscious "decision" to hate women and try to embody her father (unperceived flaws and all) to feel in control and accuse agency and political power for herself while using the avenues available to a woman simultaneously (making her extremely hypocritical). Tywin treated hers as a broodmare and political device more than he ever seemed to treat her as someone to care for and never seemed to have had a truly intimate moment with her. And, as a cis woman who looks "feminine" enough and who was born into a family that is heavily on the conservative side despite being of African descent, I have experienced what she has several times. Her hypocrisy, her hungry need, her falling into her own traps and the fact I can really understand her while being disgusted by her at times are what allure me to her.

Therefore, she is one of my favorite ASoIaF villains. Maybe even my top? IDK.

Check out these 2 Posts I wrote about her where I'm a bit more analytical about her:

[rafent]

if it was up to her, she wouldn't be doing this. and— well, she guesses it is up to her. but — he'd died, hadn't he? or as much as the training simulation killed someone, anyway. in a way, she did wonder how that worked; from her own experience, it was as real as real could be . . . but then she was awake again for the next round, launched straight into battle.

thinking about it, she realizes it's not any different from those missions . . . like waking up from a bad dream into a worse one.

"professor rafal!"

she greets him from a short distance, ringing off the nearby building's stone walls. at a jog, she tries to catch up before he vanishes. who knows if he'd want to talk to her at all, and she expects she'll only win some more rebuke in return unless he proved less volatile outside of stressful situations.

whatever the case though, her guardian and the model of her father had taught her proper manners. of all of them, he'd had the toughest time. "it's me, caeldori. i wanted to ask if you were all right." a glance shows nothing wrong — not that there would be, but looking anyway feels second nature. "thank you for all your support in the arena training back there. really, i don't think i would've reached my full potential without you."

A pale ghost rendered not by death or its finality but the elusive act of departure, Rafal left his allies with nary a word. His role in the simulation had finished and so too had the fleeting connections forged during its life. Felled in combat only to be awoken and restored in the same breath, going from captured to dancing to dying, the outlandish string of experiences might have even conveyed as a mere dream. . .if not for the girl who confirmed them to be reality with her very presence.

'Professor Rafal!'

Caeldori's earnest voice by now invoked some familiarity. At her call, long strides fell shorter then petered out to a halt, though he did not yet honor the approaching student with a turn. "I was struck down, and yet continue to stand before you as the picture of health. Such an answer ought to suffice."

His response echoed without warmth, a cold matter-of-fact tone fit to deck the cobble walls like a drapery. Nevertheless, her mannerly approach and provision of thanks were not as invisible to him as such a fact made seem. He considered the overture and succeeding a long pause the forbidding angles of his posture loosened on a sigh. At last his body swiveled around to acknowledge her properly.

Humans had a curious if not delusional way of bringing matters and misconceptions onto themselves, even if the Fell Heir was not quite perfectly honest himself. Rafal had no desire for gratitude, he had not done it for her, these things remained wholly true; and yet nor would he have wished to see her fall. Whereas his intentions could be debated, the consideration of one's 'full potential' was a secure and ever timeless one. His eyes trained upon her, allotting a quiet thoughtfulness to the stare.

"You come with gratitude, but if you truly seek to repay my support, then do so with strength." That was all that needed saying, as much an answer to her thanks as the implicit extension of his. Vivid yet unseen, his memory flickered to the young woman's recent parry in his defense. What else could measure equally to gratitude than unfailing advice? To become so strong that others were not needed - stronger and better than anyone. That would prove her succor better than Rafal ever could.

". . .become so strong that there is no need for aid, Caeldori."

With that, his feet pointed away to resume his path. Rafal, of course, intended on doing the same.

[amplifyme]

Bonus content (had a lot of free time~)!

Dead of Winter: Winterfest! Seeing it breathed life into Nan's work; and it made the entire episode so bittersweet knowing how the series ends and Nan continues it. Paracelsus and Narcissa (go Narcissa) and Pascal-- what a great trio dynamic. Father just wanting to chat with people or play a game-- happiest with one-on-one deep conversations with a battle of wits on the side. The children are great (every child in this series pretty much knocks it out of the park.) The magician!! I knew him immediately from Nan's work even if I don't have a firm grasp (or didn't at the time) of all the characters in the community. He's marvelous, I love him. No one dying, everyone living, Father and Paracelsus, Mary's concerns, Cathy and Vincent's storyline (and dance-- shadows on a wall. Very fitting.) Paracelsus may have killed for a face, but he could not touch the rest of the community.

As a sidenote: saw some disgruntled murmurings about the increased violence in S3-- "for the ratings/to appeal to a wider audience, aka males"-- and wondered... there's pretty much a death or a tragedy in every episode. (And yes, I'm picking up on the S2 themes you passed along to me. Love watching tv/movies or consuming media with that underlying "insider knowledge.") Was it truly so different, or was that element only elevated or highlighted more aggressively by the fans because they felt Cathy's loss?

God Bless The Child: I love, love, love Lena. It's amazing how much I connected to her instantly; and even more amazing that I'm not bothered a bit that Nan took her in the direction she did. Her all-or-nothing attitude was already there, as was her sideways way of attaching and connecting herself to people-- even if both were done with the most innocent intent. Her scene listening to Father and the children sing was beautiful. And the decisive way the episode exposed and handled how easy it is to tamper with Vincent's intentions through his emotions and rejections was stellar. Nan just building and building and building was all I could see in every scene-- the episode writers and her later work fit together seamlessly. And Lena keeping herself in this weird triangular bond of closeness with Cathy and Vincent through her daughter was so pure of intent here and so twisted in Nan's work. Would go on raving, but I have other thoughts: Cathy and Vincent and baby Catherine-- at this point, the series pretty much "dooms" them to never having a family (let alone a normal life); but I loved that it showed their legacy can live on in any child, just as all the community lives on in each other. It's a beautiful message, especially when built on top of Father and Vincent's own bond. Cathy and Vincent understanding with and still keeping friendship with Lena was good and noble (minus the final outcome from Nan and all THAT lead to); and Vincent recognizing that Lena's feelings (feeling them himself) were becoming romantic but hoping they'd sway away was a great touch. Being there for the birth of baby Cathy and wanting to name her is another touch: while Vincent is invested in the baby's wellbeing, there's still an element of equal feeling between her and the rest of the community he loves and protects whereas Lena thought that "a baby would fix things" to put it crudely. (Another thing Nan tapped into, bravo. Another thing that Nan brought out: Cathy brought Lena back; but when she died, that wall of loyalty that kept her from Vincent-- if not emotionally-- crumbled down rather quickly, like her rejection did here in the episode. Nan masterfully handles a person with a character trait that can be used primarily as a good or protective measure and then twist it into a flaw, or vice versa.)

Needless to say, these are my first draft opinions (like all the other posts); and I think?? Laura is the next episode (if my interpretation of the pic on Paramount is correct.)

Truthfully there's not a whole lot I can add to your thoughts about Dead of Winter. You covered all the highlights. And you're right about the child actors - they were always so, so good. The waltz at the end is perfection, and didn't go on nearly long enough for my sappy heart.

More below

As a sidenote: saw some disgruntled murmurings about the increased violence in S3-- "for the ratings/to appeal to a wider audience, aka males"-- and wondered… there's pretty much a death or a tragedy in every episode. (And yes, I'm picking up on the S2 themes you passed along to me. Love watching tv/movies or consuming media with that underlying "insider knowledge.") Was it truly so different, or was that element only elevated or highlighted more aggressively by the fans because they felt Cathy's loss?

You'll find as you get further into S2 that there's much less violence on Vincent's part. He very rarely has to kill for Cathy or the tunnel community this season - for quite a long time, anyway. There is an extended respite from the impulsive rages of the Other, which allows Vincent to begin to reconcile his previous killings and expand his definition of what kind of life might be possible with Cathy. So it strikes him much more deeply when shit goes sideways later on, leading to the events of the trilogy.

So, anyway, no, I don't think there was increased violence in S3, not compared to S1 anyway. But I guess if you're comparing it to most of S2, then you could see it that way. But... the complaints of the Classic fans were certainly exacerbated by their grief at the loss of Cathy in S3. And it is much darker in tone. But you have to keep in mind that most (not all) Classic fans tend to think of Vincent as just a guy who happens to look kinda like a lion. Most still refuse to consider him in any way a true "beast." While folks who were primarily drawn to Vincent (raising my hand) were captivated by and intrigued by that very aspect of the beast, and Vincent's struggles against that part of himself. I mean, the show is called Beauty and the Beast. You can't have Beauty without the Beast. And Koslow (the creator) always made it very clear that Vincent wasn't to be written as just a man, he was very definitively a beast.

God Bless The Child: I love, love, love Lena. It's amazing how much I connected to her instantly; and even more amazing that I'm not bothered a bit that Nan took her in the direction she did.

Right?? One can absolutely adore Lena while still believing that she could act out very selfishly.

And the decisive way the episode exposed and handled how easy it is to tamper with Vincent's intentions through his emotions and rejections was stellar.

It's that damned empathic gift of his getting in the way. You've expressed all my thoughts about God Bless the Child perfectly. However, I have to add this line of Vincent's to Father that I think I'll remember even if everything else about this ep fades in memory:

"When Lena came to me, there was a moment, a… pull beyond thought, when I felt what it might be like to be someone else’s possibility."

It's bittersweet to think of thirty-something Vincent never before realizing that someone might be attracted to him and want to be with him just the way he is, right off the bat, and not because of some empathic bond or any other reason, but just because. It reminds me of Portrait By Flashlight in AWTN 2 and Jessica saying this to him:

“My dear boy, find a mirror, a pool, anything, and really look into it. You are not what you think you are. Nor what Father sees. Perhaps it takes a stranger, and a woman, to see what you all seem altogether blind to: that you are astonishingly, strikingly attractive, Vincent. Beautiful as great art is beautiful, beautiful in motion as any dancer, or as the tiger your beloved Billy Blake envisioned burning in the forests of the night. But one is not allowed to say so. One is not bloody well allowed—”

Onward...

[roboromantic]

hm I was gonna post Earthspark liveblogs two or more episodes at a time like I did with RB(A) but uh. I’ve kinda written a Lot for the first two + there’s pics so maybe I’ll just do one by one.  anyway here’s episode 11

That’s a very clunky way to introduce their status as siblings but ok

Hey uh. Hm. Y’know what I ain’t saying anything let’s move on

Actually is this the first time Bee’s Beetle alt has had stripes? I feel like probably not but I also don’t know any other continuity with it off the top of my head

Gd Twitch and Thrash are so TINY

Hjsfgjkldfghdjfg

Lol at the “Trans” former not wanting to have an altmode.   kinda feels a bit like they’re saying “trans people don’t need to hide who they are!!!” or something equally well-meaning but it just ends up othering them even more imo. Where’s the Knuckles pic

Jawbreaker honey y’all were JUST talking about how Bee changed his altmode, you should KNOW you can change yours if it’s not perfect

Twitch that is a HORRIBLE hiding spot and also that’s gotta be the largest cart return shed thing I’ve ever seen

SHDFKJGHFKSJHGKSJHFSDJKF THE GHOST VAN JUST CASUALLY AT THE SUPER MARKET……………………

HOW ARE THEY NOT INSTANTLY RECOGNIZING WHAT’S HAPPENING IT’S LITERALLY THEIR JOBBBBBBB

>“I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you!”

>just watches as Hashtag drives into the side of a cliff when she didn’t know there was a secret entrance

Okay so they have the security stuff but surely they also have surveillance cameras watching the front door, right? They’re gonna know Twitch knows where they are now

Behold, the most useless tape measure in existence! Like okay I don’t expect them to have all the numbers but would it’ve killed them to throw some black lines on there. They don’t even have to vary in length but SOMETHING other than blank yellow woulda made some sense.      I’m nitpicking let’s move on

OUGH SHE’S SO CUTE

“Doesn’t do anything” so does she like…………………………………………have her “eyes” closed/off when she’s messing around in cyberspace? Bc that’s kinda hard to miss

Like obviously they don’t have their eyes in a vehicle altmode and beastformers have like. A whole-ass other set of eyes. So I’d think pretty much every Cybertronian has at least two ways of seeing – and like they’ve gotta be able to see things like what color a stoplight is so it can’t be sonar or anything like that I don’t think. And they probably can’t be used at the same time, which is my way of explaining why they don’t just use that to see whenever their eyes are covered or have been blinded by something. Anyway.

Gd I love Schloder he’s so cringe

What exactly is the gas supposed to do. Please explain.

Oh THAT’S interesting

“Core”? Is that this continuity’s version of a spark chamber or am I forgetting/missing something

So there ARE cameras and no one bothered to look at them when the alarm went off???? Or did they not bother bc they thought it was just set off by the agents returning bc technology is stupid sometimes and it might just be acting like my car alarm

SEE HE GOT IT IMMEDIATELY

Hm yeah that icon looked like eyes to me

So she DOES know it turns off the light?

Okay now I’m even more confused bc she says none of them did anything but she did also know how to turn off the lights so What Is The Truth

What’d he say? Multibots? I wish these had subs

HTYE OUT HERE USING DIAL-UP IN 2023 (I know it’s an audio gag but still. The implications are Very Funny)

Now I guess she has more control over stuff so she can see and use the internet at the same time? idk. We’re probably not supposed to think about it this much

*Gravity Falls voice* Ancient meme! Ancient meme!

Bruh are you really treating him like a fuckin pet

Wait why’d the ceiling break. We’re going back to that right

OH WAIT DUH it’s Malto-bots 🥺

Hm exactly how much time has passed? Bc I mean I feel like by the time Nightshade had everything put together they’d already found another solution or at least be resigned enough to not be complaining abt the barn space like they were earlier

Lol I was wondering if she was actually a hotspot

D’aw