#Élite 2

[yllwcrtns]

this season of élite had an incredible lack of gay sex. i am very disappointed

[saraw4ters]

[centinelaprime]

Part 2, Headcons Tf one Sentinel Prime.

• Teniendo en cuenta que Sentinel fue el principal asistente de los Prime, eso deja como algo bastante obvio que conocio a Starscream, Shockwave y Soundwave, que eran miembros de la Guardia de élite.

• Sentinel y Arachind, como dije anteriormente creo que tienen una relación tipo "amigos con beneficios", pero seguro solo son eso y son mas como colegas o amigos muy cercanos.

• Puedo apostar a que Sentinel durante las reuniones de los Prime, se quedaba medio dormido... mas si hablaban de poesia.

• Después de cada reunión con los Quintessons, asegurado un buen lavado.

• Sentinel de seguro cuando estaba borracho, pedia que lo destrozaran.

Lamento si fue muy corto, pero es lo que tenia hasta el momento.

Si quieren puedo tratar de hacer headcons de Sentinel x Personaje.

Inglés.

• Considering Sentinel was the Prime's main assistant, that makes it pretty obvious that he knew Starscream, Shockwave, and Soundwave, who were members of the Elite Guard.

• Sentinel and Arachind, as I said before, I think they have a "friends with benefits" type relationship, but they are probably just that and are more like colleagues or very close friends.

• I can bet that Sentinel during the Prime meetings, fell half asleep... especially if they talked about poetry.

• After each meeting with the Quintessons, a good wash is ensured.

• Sentinel surely asked to be destroyed when he was drunk.

I'm sorry if it was too short, but it's what I had so far.

If you want I can try to make Sentinel x Character headcons.

[yupaendo]

Wayne family public scandals!! Pt.1 ig

As in, things that appeared in the tabloids or went virtal and that everyone knew about in the moment or that got lost in time. Not ALL are funny, if mostly any

That one time Alfred beat up a group of papz breaking into wayne manor (circa. before bruce's birth) and gotham élite swoon over the new bulter of the richest/oldest family in gotham

The cheating allegations about Alfred with Martha Wayne

The cheating allegations about Alfred with Thomas Wayne

The death of the Waynes and Bruce's famous photo in crime alley after said death.

The very public and stressfull guardianship battle btween the kanes and alfred (in which bruce wanted to go with alfred, which was a whole scandal itself)

The massive firing of personal at Wayne Manor, which a lot of gotham papernews talked about bcuz at the end only alfred remained

The first public photo of Bruce after 3 months post crime alley in which he looked like a torally different 8yr old (more skinny, didn't smile at all, alfred's caretaking was put into question)

Bruce leaving Gotham Private Academy (which was also rumored to be more of an expulsion due to missconduct) at age 10 to be homeschooled (yet again, under the only bulter at w.m)

Bruce leaving Gotham to go to a private boarding school in England (where he met Ollie and Lex), and Alfred buying like 2 propieties and moving to england too.

Bruce's summer endeavors trought the years (when he was crafting brucie to make everyone forget about the whole crime alley photo), from age 10 to 17. He dyed his hair, got pircings, tattos (that he later removed), into fights, a lot of partners, etc.

Bruce when he vanished from everywhere as soon as school ended after dropping out of college the first year. Yet again people were talking about wtf was alfred doing. And that maybe all he wanted was Bruce's money

Bruce's comeback at age twenty something and very public and talked relationship with childhood friend and upcoming gotham politic Harvey dent (they were like matt daemon and ben affleck)

AND THERE IS MORE BUT I GOT TIRED!!!

[goddessofvalyria]

Mr. & Mrs. Targaryen pt. 2 | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!oc

Summary: Aemond Targaryen is the CEO of the family business, the Targaryen Company and is part of the élite of the King's Landing Society. Daelia Targaryen is the rebellious daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra. They meet at a gala, unaware of how that meeting will change things forever...

TW for all the story: 18+, MINORS DNI, She/Her pronouns, the fem!oc is named Daelia Targaryen with long dyed black hair and purple eyes, kissing, sexual themes, dirty talking, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, masturbation (m and f) tits sucking/play, SMUT, sexual tension, sex, violence, guns, alcohol, drugs, angst, sad, death, murder, dark themes, Targcest (he is the uncle and she is the niece, they're Targaryen....) This is a modern Aemond in modern AU.

English is not my first language, be kind and enjoy the fic <3

Words: 3333

Previous part: Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Next part: Chapter 3

As the elevator doors slide open to reveal Aemond's apartment, Daelia steps into a world of luxury and modernity. The space is a sleek, black-and-chrome masterpiece, every detail meticulously chosen, reflecting both elegance and power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of King’s Landing at night, the city lights twinkling like stars beneath them. The air inside is cool, tinged with the faint scent of something exotic and expensive.

Daelia strides into the apartment with a casual confidence, her satin dress flowing around her like liquid silver. The fabric clings to her curves, leaving her back exposed in a way that draws Aemond’s eye immediately. At the bottom of her dress, he catches a glimpse of her Gucci black thong, a subtle but deliberate detail that makes his pulse quicken. She moves with the grace of someone completely at ease in her own skin, her every step as deliberate as the tilt of her head when she glances over her shoulder at him.

“There is a beautiful view from here” she murmurs, her voice soft as she gazes out over the city. Her tone is almost wistful, though laced with a hint of something deeper, something Aemond can’t quite place. But he doesn’t respond immediately. He’s too busy watching her, captivated by the way the lights outside play across her skin, the smooth expanse of her back, the way her hair falls just so over one shoulder. There’s an effortless sensuality about her that he finds both intriguing and dangerous.

Daelia turns around, and Aemond’s breath catches in his throat as he notices the complete lack of a bra beneath her dress. The fabric falls in such a way that leaves little to the imagination, the lines of her body clearly defined beneath the satin. She’s nonchalant, almost as if she’s unaware of the effect she’s having on him, but Aemond knows better. Everything about Daelia is calculated, deliberate, and tonight, she’s playing a game that he’s more than willing to join.

She crosses the room with the same languid grace, his giant dog, Vhagar, watching silently from a plush bed in the corner. The dog’s presence is imposing, but it’s clear that Vhagar is more guardian than pet, her eyes watching Aemond.

“Dragonstone is so boring” Daelia says suddenly, her voice tinged with frustration as she sinks onto the sofa. “It’s beautiful, sure, but there’s nothing to do. No one to see. Just endless, suffocating tradition...and family.”

Aemond moves closer, slipping off his jacket and tossing it onto the back of a chair. He unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt, the tension in the room thickening as he approaches her. He gestures to the seat next to him. “Sit with me” he says, his voice low and inviting.

Daelia hesitates for just a moment before she glides over, slipping off her heels with a sensual ease that doesn’t escape Aemond’s notice. She settles next to him, her body language both relaxed and charged, a dichotomy that keeps him on edge.

They talk, their conversation flowing easily, though underlined with a current of sexual tension that neither of them bothers to hide.

"You're different" Aemond said. "You too, uncle."

Daelia leans back against the sofa, her dress shifting to reveal more of her smooth skin. Aemond watches as the thin straps of her dress slide down her shoulders, and he can’t resist reaching out, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin, following the path of the delicate fabric.

She shivers slightly at his touch, but instead of pulling away, she leans into it, tilting her head to look at him. “Take off the eye patch fo me” she whispers, her voice barely audible but filled with a daring that sends a thrill through Aemond.

For a moment, he hesitates, the instinct to protect himself warring with the desire to give in to her request. But something in her eyes—something challenging and sincere—compels him to nod. With deliberate movements, he removes the leather patch, revealing the sapphire that replaces his missing eye, the jewel glinting in the low light of the room.

Daelia doesn’t flinch. Instead, she leans closer, her fingers tracing the scar that runs down his face, her touch featherlight but electrifying. “It’s sexy” she comments, her tone laced with genuine admiration.

Aemond can’t help the small, almost embarrassed smile that tugs at his lips. He’s used to people reacting with horror or pity, but never with the kind of fascination that Daelia is showing. “You think so?” he asks, his voice rougher than he intended.

She nods, her eyes never leaving his as she continues to trace the line of the scar, her touch almost reverent. “You wear your scars like armor” she says softly. “But I think they make you more… real. More human.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, the air thick with something unspoken. Finally, Aemond breaks it, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why were you really at the gala tonight, Daelia?”

She meets his gaze, her fingers still lightly resting against his skin. Her expression softens, a rare vulnerability slipping through. “I wanted to see my favorite uncle again,” she replies, her tone light but with an underlying sincerity that makes Aemond’s chest tighten.

His breath hitches as she leans in, her lips just inches from his. Her eyes flicker down to his mouth before meeting his gaze again, and Aemond feels the last of his restraint slipping away.

“Is that all?” he murmurs, his voice rough with the need he’s been trying so hard to contain.

Daelia smiles, a slow, knowing smile that speaks of shared secrets and desires. “For now” she whispers before closing the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that’s both tender and searing, the culmination of all the tension that has been building between them since the moment they locked eyes across the ballroom.

As their lips meet, Aemond wraps his arms around her, pulling her close as the last of his resistance crumbles, lost in the intoxicating presence of the woman who has always been just out of reach.

Daelia closes the distance between them with a swift, deliberate motion, capturing Aemond's lips in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It's a passionate, searing kiss that ignites every nerve in his body, overwhelming him with the intensity of her touch. Her hands weave into his hair, pulling him closer as if she can't get enough, and Aemond feels a surge of something primal, something uncontrollable, rise within him.

He responds instinctively, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her onto his lap as the kiss deepens. There's nothing tentative about it now—it's all-consuming, a collision of desire and desperation that leaves them both breathless. The taste of her, the feel of her body pressed against his, sends his senses spiraling, and for a moment, he feels like he's drowning in her.

But then, just as he's about to lose himself completely, Daelia pulls back slightly, her lips still brushing against his. Aemond inhales sharply, trying to steady his breathing, but her presence, the scent of her, the warmth of her skin, makes it impossible to think clearly.

"My favorite uncle" she whispers against his lips, the words a soft, teasing caress that makes his chest tighten.

The phrase, so simple yet so charged, sends a shiver down his spine. It’s a reminder of who they are, of the history that binds them, yet it also speaks to the connection that has been simmering beneath the surface for years. Aemond’s hands tighten on her waist, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggles to find words, to ground himself in a moment that feels like it's slipping away from him.

But before he can speak, Daelia kisses him again, and this time, it’s even more fervent, more intense. Her lips move against his with a hunger that matches his own, and Aemond feels himself giving in, letting the heat of the moment consume him. The world around them fades, leaving only the two of them, locked in an embrace that is as fierce as it is forbidden.

Daelia begins to unbutton his shirt, her favorite uncle, has toned abs and a strong but soft chest. Almost angelic.. His v-line is defined and her eyes wandered to the hard bulge in his pants that presses under her thighs. Daelia remains to look at him in amazement, her hands touched the warm skin, she took off his shirt, His arms are long and veiny just like her hands, the muscles defined and toned.

"Undress me" she whispers kissing him on the lips, Aemond takes the dress in his hands and slips it off, over her head. She is almost naked, wearing only the Gucci thong, her breasts are large and toned, pressing against his chest.

The girl begins to move slowly against his hips, separating them only two strips of fabric. Daelia moans, she feels her panties getting wet, she is excited. Aemond tightens his grip on her hips with one hand, squeezing her breast with the other.

"I want to ruin you pretty girl" he whispers as their lips meet in another dirty and sexual kiss, Daelia bites his lip and continues to move on top of him. He is hard, almost painful. "Ruin me"

Aemond looks at her with his good eye and his middle finger slides between her thighs, pushing her panties aside and penetrating her. "Oh, uncle"

"Move your hips princess"

Daelia gasps and begins to move against the two fingers that are giving her pleasure, the feeling of his fingers inside her is heavenly for both of them: Daelia is hot, soaking wet, soft and tight, Aemond is hard, aching as she moves on his fingers, riding them desperately, Aemond adds his thumb again, wanting to make sure her clit is not deprived of pleasure.

Daelia is consumed with pleasure, Aemond's fingers are pushing her to the limit and she finds herself pressed against him, their lips connected. "Aem-" her lips are captured in a kiss. "Shh, niece" Aemond hisses continuing to give her pleasure, he can't wait to sink between her thighs and lick her, make her his, so much so that he wants to have her there forever, every night warming his bed.  "Uncle, I''m-I''m close" she whispers, her eyes shining and Aemond makes her come on his fingers. 

“Ride my fingers pretty girl”

Daelia is tightened around him, the orgasm overwhelms her. Between her thighs she is soaking wet, sticky and Aemond finds himself holding a woman in his arms for the first time. 

"Shh" he whispers. Daelia trembles, she notices the bulge in his pants. "Can I do something for you, uncle?" Aemond who is known for being a man who takes everything he wants during sex, shakes his head. "Not tonight" he whispers kissing her temple. "I thought you wanted to fuck me" she teases. "We'll have time to do that too" Daelia, calmer now feels a wave of shame. She is naked, wearing only a thong.

Aemond hands her his shirt, covering her. "Do you want to take a shower?" he asks. "I thought you kicked women out of your house after..." Aemond looks at her. "Not you" he gets up from the couch, Daelia covers herself with his shirt. "You need a shower" he leads her to the bathroom.

She enters, the bathroom is huge and she thinks about what it would be like to have sex in that shower or ride him in the jacuzzi. She jumps when she feels him behind her. "For you" Aemond hands her his black Metallica t-shirt and leaves.

Daelia stands alone in the bathroom, the sound of the shower echoing in the sleek, modern space. The steam rises around her as she steps under the hot water, letting it cascade over her body, washing away the remnants of the night. Her mind is still racing from the intensity of what just happened, the feel of Aemond's lips on hers, the weight of his hands on her skin. But here, in the privacy of the shower, she allows herself a moment to breathe, to collect her thoughts.

After a while, she turns off the water and grabs a towel, drying herself off before reaching for some makeup remover she found on the counter. The brand is expensive, the kind of luxury item she imagines a woman with status might use—probably left behind by some woman Aemond was once engaged to or involved with. The thought sends a pang of something unidentifiable through her, but she pushes it aside, focusing instead on removing the last traces of mascara and lipstick from her face. 

Once her makeup is gone, Daelia’s reflection stares back at her from the mirror—barefaced, raw, and more vulnerable than she’s felt in a long time. She wear the t-shirt Aemond he gave her, it drapes over her body, soft and comforting. She slips it on, the fabric cool against her freshly showered skin. Even though she’s dressed, the fact that it’s his shirt, combined with the intensity of their shared moment, makes her feel exposed in a way she’s never experienced before.

Before leaving the bathroom, she washes her Gucci thong in the sink, wringing it out carefully before hanging it to dry on the hot radiator.

She finds Aemond in the living room, sitting on the couch in nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. The dim light casts shadows across his chiseled features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze as he watches her approach. The sight of him like this, relaxed yet still holding that aura of power, sends a thrill through her. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gestures for her to sit beside him again. The invitation is both casual and intimate, and she accepts, her bare feet padding softly across the cool floor as she moves to sit next to him. The leather of the couch is smooth beneath her, and she sinks into it, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers.

Aemond reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, pulling one out and offering it to her. “A cig?” he asks, his voice low, a hint of that earlier tension still lingering.

Daelia takes the cigarette from him, her fingers brushing against his as she does. There’s a familiarity in the gesture, but also an underlying current of something more. He lights it for her, and she inhales deeply, the nicotine calming her nerves as she exhales a thin stream of smoke into the air.

Sitting here, so close to him, wearing nothing but his t-shirt, Daelia feels a mix of emotions. The power dynamics between them, the unspoken history, the raw attraction—it’s all there, simmering just beneath the surface. She glances over at Aemond, taking in the way he looks at her, his gaze intense and focused, as if he’s seeing every part of her, even the parts she tries to keep hidden.

Even though the moment feels charged, there’s also a strange sense of peace, as if for now, in this quiet space, they can just be themselves, without the weight of expectations or the shadows of their pasts looming over them. Daelia takes another drag of her cigarette, then leans back against the couch, feeling both vulnerable and strangely powerful in his presence.

Aemond reaches out, his hand resting lightly on her thigh, his touch warm and grounding. The silence between them is thick with unspoken words, but for now, neither of them feels the need to break it. They sit there, side by side, lost in their thoughts, the cigarette smoke curling up toward the ceiling as the night stretches on.

The room is steeped in a heavy silence, the only sound the faint crackling of the cigarette as Daelia takes another slow drag. The smoke curls up around her, hazy and delicate, as she speaks in a voice so soft, it’s almost a whisper.

“You were the first...” she murmurs, her eyes flickering down to the floor, unable to meet Aemond’s intense gaze. “The first kiss… the first to finger me.”

Aemond’s eyes widen slightly, though he tries to keep his expression neutral, the weight of her confession settling over him like a heavy cloak. “Were you… a virgin?” His voice is measured, careful, as if he’s treading on dangerous ground.

“I still am, you didn't fuck me” Daelia admits, her tone carrying a mix of defiance and vulnerability. She stands from the couch, the t-shirt she’s wearing—his t-shirt—falling loosely around her, making her seem both ethereal and exposed. “In the elite of King’s Landing, there are men from every house who ask my parents to be their bride.”

Aemond’s brow furrows as she continues, his mind racing to keep up with the implications of her words. But Daelia’s next confession stops him in his tracks.

“But I don’t want to get married, uncle...unless is you, Mr. Aemond Targaryen”

Aemond feels a twist in his chest, a mix of protectiveness and something darker, something he can’t quite name. He’s about to ask her why she’s telling him this when she turns to him, her eyes burning with an intensity that makes it clear she’s been holding something back.

“Why did you come here?” His voice is low, almost a growl, as if he’s bracing himself for whatever truth she’s about to reveal.

Daelia hesitates for a moment, her fingers trembling slightly as she takes another drag from her cigarette, the embers glowing bright in the dim light. “That was the truth” she says, exhaling smoke as she speaks, “But I hid part of it from you.”

Aemond’s gaze narrows, suspicion and curiosity warring within him. “What part?”

“I did it on purpose,” Daelia admits, her voice raw. “I thought that if you and I fucked, compromising me… maybe…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor again, as if ashamed of the words she’s about to say. “Maybe I would have felt better about myself.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and charged, as Aemond processes what she’s just revealed. There’s a part of him that’s furious—furious at her for risking so much, and at himself for being drawn into this dangerous game. But there’s also a part of him that understands, a part that knows what it’s like to feel powerless and desperate to reclaim that power.

“My parents stopped me from seeing you,” Daelia continues, her voice growing stronger now, fueled by the emotions she’s kept bottled up for so long. "Do you remember? We when were younger… we were friends, but after the war that involved the family they said to me that you were a bad influence on me"

“And you like to break the rules” Aemond says, his tone accusatory yet laced with a hint of admiration. It’s something they share, this desire to defy expectations, to carve out their own paths in a world that tries to confine them.

“As you like to do, Aemond” she counters, her eyes meeting his with a challenge that sends a jolt through him.

In an instant, Aemond is on his feet, crossing the distance between them with purpose. He stands before her, his gaze locking onto hers, the air between them crackling with a tension that’s impossible to ignore. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her neck. He kisses her there, a tender yet possessive gesture that makes Daelia’s breath hitch in her throat.

“Come to bed with me” he whispers against her skin, his voice low and thick with desire.

Daelia closes her eyes, the sensation of his lips on her neck sending shivers down her spine. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just lets herself feel—feel the heat of his breath, the weight of his words, the unspoken promise in his touch.

Finally, she opens her eyes and meets his gaze, her decision clear. She nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it’s enough. Aemond takes her between his arms and guide her to his bedroom.

[yeagrist]

⠀         ♡⠀            𝗣𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗖   𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡      ﹔   by   clicking   on   the   source   you’ll   find   #201   gifs   (   268   x   150   )   of   the   actress   valentina   zenere   (   1997   )   as   isadora   artiñán   in   élite   season   7   (   2023   )   ,   episodes   1   ,   2   ,   3   ,   4   &   5   .   all   of   the   gifs   were   made   from   scratch   by   me   .   please   ,   like   or   reblog   if   you   plan   on   using   or   found   this   helpful   .   don’t   claim   it   as   your   own   .   content   warning   :   kissing   ,   drinking   ,   flashing   lights   .

[watercolourcritters]

found an important missing scene from season 2

[ID from Alt text: Digital fanart of OFMD Season 2, in the style of a meme from the show "élite" of three people kissing. It shows Oluwande, Jim, and Archie, all in their season 2 post-episode 3 outfits, and has three panels.

The first panel shows Jim kissing Oluwande while Archie watches and smiles. The second shows Jim kissing Archie while Oluwande gives an astonished smile at the viewer. The third shows Jim standing in front, glaring and giving the finger to the viewer, while Oluwande and Archie kiss in the background.

Each panel has a different pastel wash behind it - first teal, then a pale red similar to the colour of Archie's jacket, then orange. Each of the trio wears jewellery in orange and teal - Oluwande a necklace with teal and orange beads, Jim earrings/ear cuff in teal and orange, and Archie earrings and a hair tie. The artist's signature reads @ watercolourcritters. End ID.]

[crazy-so-na-sega]

Vanno tenute d'occhio le élites

Solo ciò che fanno le élites dominanti è davvero significativo. Ma ricorda:

"1. L'élite di oggi non è quella di ieri, e tantomeno quella domani o addirittura di dopodomani.

2. Le élites sono coloro che hanno i redditi più alti e pagano meno tasse.

3. Le élites sono coloro che possono esigere da altri la compilazione di questionari, e richiedere ingenti indennizzi per i loro "sacrifici".

4. Le élites sono coloro che non cercano giustizia nei tribunali e che per le ingiustizie commesse non temono i tribunali.

5. Le élites sono coloro che se hanno bisogno di un passaporto non devono andarlo a ritirare in Questura.

6. Le élites sono coloro che accusano senza temere di essere accusati.

7. Le élites sono coloro di cui nessuno osa scrivere la sociologia."

Carl Schmitt, Glossario, 22-7-48

[transmutationisms]

Do you have any idea of why professors try to fail students/lower their grades in the sense that they decide that only 10% of the class should get an A and then even if another 10% does A-worthy work they just automatically get B+s instead. Like why the torture and the lies

most often some combination of the following:

it's 'traditional' in that particular field to grade on a curve (for example, law or 'pre-law')

the professor views it as their job not to educate people per se, but to produce an élite and therefore necessarily limited class of degree-bearing professionals who are to be granted entry into certain prestigious career paths and upper social echelons that exist in contradistinction to the working class. thus, giving too many high grades would 'devalue' those grades, in the sense that the grade would no longer function as a way of differentiating between those who are granted this type of social and economic access, and those who are not

the professor believes, rightly or wrongly, that having a reputation as a hard-ass will serve their own professional interests in some way. this is becoming less common, at least in anglo academia, as institutions increasingly rely on student evaluations and even pass rates when assessing faculty for raises, promotions, and tenure

the professor is tenured, jaded, and/or biased against their students, specifically those who are poor, are not white, speak the language of the institution as a second language, etc, and consciously or unconsciously simply does not want to give the highest grades to such students. see also point 2

[blogitalianissimo]

X: "Come fa a vincere la Meloni! È omofoba e fascita! La Sinistra non riesce a fare opposizione?"

Idee media della sinistra italiana:

Geronimo Stilton è un borghese e un nemico del popolo!

Dovremmo permettere alla gente di occupare le case!

Perché non mettiamo una bella patrimoniale?

*inserire commento assolutamente irrilevante sul fascismo, come se gli italiani non sapessero che la Meloni è fascista"

Togliamo i ferri da stiro giocattolo dai supermercati!

Quando una sinistra non riesce a portare in campo neanche mezza frase coerente alla fine ti becchi Sangiuliano ministro della cultura con la 4a elementare e Salvini che pur di non lavorare spande disinformazione su atlete algerine. Che tristezza. Almeno in America (che pure non sono santi) si fanno venire qualche idea sull'economia sul sociale. Qui abbiamo il nulla cosmico. Abbiamo avuto una rotazione di almeno 6 partiti negli ultimi 10 anni, di tutto lo spettro politico. E neanche uno che abbia fatto qualcosa, ma un cosa qualunque, tipo fare delle strade in Puglia. Boh. Costruire un Acquedotto in Sicilia. Fare un spaventapasseri in Calabria, uno zoo ad Abbiategrasso.

Aiuto molto out of context questo ask

Lamentarsi della sinistra italiana e poi avere da ridire sulla patrimoniale e sulle case occupate non è molto coerente, anzi forse queste sono 2 delle pochissime cose DA SINISTRA che vorrebbero fare (ma che non faranno mai)

Lo spiego meglio, perché pure su twitter tempo fa vidi molta gente impanicata sulla questione case occupate, state tranquilli la nostra sinistra non è così a sinistra, e nessuno vuole togliervi la casa al mare o la casa ereditata da nonna. Quando si parla di case vuote nello specifico si sta indicando le NUMEROSE case in mano allo STATO ITALIANO, le suddette "case popolari", che sono appunto inutilizzate, altre andrebbero ristrutturate, ma devono essere assegnate. C'è molta gente che ne ha urgentemente bisogno (ad esempio i senza dimora, ma anche chi vive strutture che non garantiscono una vita dignitosa o sono addirittura pericolose -vedi la recente tragedia a Scampia) perciò se per te "dare un tetto ai poveri" è una cosa che non riguarda il sociale, non so.

Stesso si può dire sulla patrimoniale, tassare di più i ricchi per far respirare i poveri. Ci sarebbero più entrate, e quindi anche più investimenti per le infrastrutture che sono carenti, soprattutto nel mezzogiorno come hai fatto notare.

Poi ti prego, menzionami tutti i paesi del mondo ma non uno in cui 1. la sinistra non esiste 2. non hanno manco una sanità pubblica, cioè noi siamo la merda della merda ma mai al livello di quelli là, grazie.

Per il resto mi trovi d'accordo sul fatto che la sinistra fa poco la sinistra (a parte le 2 cose che mi hai menzionato, che ripeto, sono le uniche cose DA SINISTRA che vorrebbero fare), ormai il PD è la nuova DC

E mi trovi pure d'accordo sull'approccio della "sinistra" che fa schifo, e non tanto per il memino scemo di Geronimo Stilton, è proprio imbarazzante la puzza sotto al naso, come se stessero parlando ad una sorta di élite, e se vuoi essere di sinistra non puoi fare l'elitario, quella è roba da destra (che difende i ricchi), la sinistra deve guardare ai poveri, punto.

Quindi io più che cringiare per Geronimo Stilton, mi preoccuperei più di gente che senza ironia alcuna se ne esce con roba tipo "aboliamo il suffragio universale", questo è un atteggiamento sbagliato e anche classista.

[vadaviaaiciap]

Quindi in Italia da una parte abbiamo:

1. Un piano pandemico che, seppure con parole diverse, prevede sostanzialmente le stesse misure di quello di Speranza, edulcorate da vaghe promesse verbali del ministro Schillaci di ricorrere a restrizioni delle libertà solo "in casi estremi"

2. La struttura informatica del green pass che da ieri è diventata permanente e interoperante con quella della UE e dell'OMS.

Dall'altra, in Florida, Texas, Svezia e altri Stati, invece abbiamo:

1. La PROVA controfattuale che i lockdown non servono a niente, green pass e obblighi vaccinali neanche (anzi fanno perdere la fiducia anche nei vaccini sicuri, oltre che, più in generale, nelle Istituzioni).

NONDIMENO da noi si continua imperterriti sulla stessa strada.

Un errore poteva essere umano, due no. Il perseverare è decisamente diabolico.😈

Le spiegazioni possono essere:

1. Una guerra ibrida "a pezzetti" non dichiarata ma in atto, che spinge i governi occidentali a reprimere il dissenso, togliere le libertà fondamentali e militarizzare la società con la scusa di sempre nuove emergenze (virus, catastrofi climatiche, Putin alle porte), fatte credere grazie al controllo dei Media e a schiere di "esperti" venduti e corrotti.

2. Una strategia di lungo termine delle élite occidentali volta a ridurre la popolazione attraverso il caos sociale, la cancellazione dei valori tradizionali e l'immigrazione incontrollata. In particolare spingendo aborto ed eutanasia, esaltando l'omosessualità, e spargendo depressione con l'annuncio di sempre nuove catastrofi. E soprattutto liberando periodicamente virus a bassa letalità, affinché una parte della popolazione muoia, o per la malattia, o per gli effetti avversi dei vaccini, che vengono resi obbligatori anche se pericolosi.

Una spiegazione non esclude necessariamente l'altra. Anzi, si integrano a vicenda. Non a caso l'Occidente è in guerra coi paesi che non hanno problemi di sovrappopolazione, ma anzi perseguono la crescita demografica.

Perfino la popolosa Cina si preoccupa di combattere il calo delle nascite. Russia e Iran hanno territori enormi da popolare. Noi invece ascoltiamo l'ex ministro di Draghi Cingolani spiegare che il mondo ha una popolazione tripla rispetto a quella per cui sarebbe "progettato".

Complottismo? Allora è complottista anche Elon Musk. Lui ripete da tempo che la vera guerra è tra cui vuole lo sviluppo dell'umanità e chi ne progetta l'estinzione.

l'Occidente galleggia sempre peggio in un mare di debiti e di titoli senza nessun sottostante, e le materie prime scarseggiano.

Probabilmente stanno tentando d' impossessarsi delle risorse dell'Oriente. Di qui la guerra. Intanto l'Occidente globalista e anglosionista tampona la crisi contenendo i consumi e il numero di coloro che consumano.

Si stanno giocando ultima carta che hanno.

Massimo Montanari

[falcemartello]

COS' È LA DISTRAZIONE DI MASSA...

🔻Noam Chomsky, uno dei piu' importanti intellettuali oggi in Vita, ha elaborato la lista delle 10 strategie della manipolazione attraverso i mass media.

Dedicate 5 minuti e non ve ne pentirete.

Non foss'altro per ampliare le proprie conoscenze.

1-La strategia della distrazione

L’elemento primordiale del controllo sociale è la strategia della distrazione che consiste nel deviare l’attenzione del pubblico dai problemi importanti e dei cambiamenti decisi dalle élites politiche ed economiche, attraverso la tecnica del diluvio o inondazioni di continue distrazioni e di informazioni insignificanti.

La strategia della distrazione è anche indispensabile per impedire al pubblico d’interessarsi alle conoscenze essenziali, nell’area della scienza, l’economia, la psicologia, la neurobiologia e la cibernetica. Mantenere l’Attenzione del pubblico deviata dai veri problemi sociali, imprigionata da temi senza vera importanza.

Mantenere il pubblico occupato, occupato, occupato, senza nessun tempo per pensare, di ritorno alla fattoria come gli altri animali (citato nel testo “Armi silenziose per guerre tranquille”).

2- Creare problemi e poi offrire le soluzioni.

Questo metodo è anche chiamato “problema- reazione- soluzione”. Si crea un problema, una “situazione” prevista per causare una certa reazione da parte del pubblico, con lo scopo che sia questo il mandante delle misure che si desiderano far accettare.

Ad esempio: lasciare che si dilaghi o si intensifichi la violenza urbana, o organizzare attentati sanguinosi, con lo scopo che il pubblico sia chi richiede le leggi sulla sicurezza e le politiche a discapito della libertà.

O anche: creare una crisi economica per far accettare come un male necessario la retrocessione dei diritti sociali e lo smantellamento dei servizi pubblici.

3- La strategia della gradualità.

Per far accettare una misura inaccettabile, basta applicarla gradualmente, a contagocce, per anni consecutivi.

E’ in questo modo che condizioni socioeconomiche radicalmente nuove (neoliberismo) furono imposte durante i decenni degli anni ‘80 e ‘90: Stato minimo, privatizzazioni, precarietà, flessibilità, disoccupazione in massa, salari che non garantivano più redditi dignitosi, tanti cambiamenti che avrebbero provocato una rivoluzione se fossero state applicate in una sola volta.

4- La strategia del differire.

Un altro modo per far accettare una decisione impopolare è quella di presentarla come “dolorosa e necessaria”, ottenendo l’accettazione pubblica, nel momento, per un’applicazione futura.

E’ più facile accettare un sacrificio futuro che un sacrificio immediato.

Prima, perché lo sforzo non è quello impiegato immediatamente. Secondo, perché il pubblico, la massa, ha sempre la tendenza a sperare ingenuamente che “tutto andrà meglio domani” e che il sacrificio richiesto potrebbe essere evitato.

Questo dà più tempo al pubblico per abituarsi all’idea del cambiamento e di accettarlo rassegnato quando arriva il momento.

5- Rivolgersi al pubblico come ai bambini.

La maggior parte della pubblicità diretta al gran pubblico, usa discorsi, argomenti, personaggi e una intonazione particolarmente infantile, molte volte vicino alla debolezza, come se lo spettatore fosse una creatura di pochi anni o un deficiente mentale.

Quando più si cerca di ingannare lo spettatore più si tende ad usare un tono infantile.

Perché? “Se qualcuno si rivolge ad una persona come se avesse 12 anni o meno, allora, in base alla suggestionabilità, lei tenderà, con certa probabilità, ad una risposta o reazione anche sprovvista di senso critico come quella di una persona di 12 anni o meno” (vedere “Armi silenziosi per guerre tranquille”).

6- Usare l’aspetto emotivo molto più della riflessione.

Sfruttate l'emozione è una tecnica classica per provocare un corto circuito su un'analisi razionale e, infine, il senso critico dell'individuo.

Inoltre, l'uso del registro emotivo permette aprire la porta d’accesso all’inconscio per impiantare o iniettare idee, desideri, paure e timori, compulsioni, o indurre comportamenti.

7- Mantenere il pubblico nell’ignoranza e nella mediocrità.

Far si che il pubblico sia incapace di comprendere le tecnologie ed i metodi usati per il suo controllo e la sua schiavitù.

“La qualità dell’educazione data alle classi sociali inferiori deve essere la più povera e mediocre possibile, in modo che la distanza dell’ignoranza che pianifica tra le classi inferiori e le classi superiori sia e rimanga impossibile da colmare dalle classi inferiori".

8- Stimolare il pubblico ad essere compiacente con la mediocrità.

Spingere il pubblico a ritenere che è di moda essere stupidi, volgari e ignoranti ...

9- Rafforzare l’auto-colpevolezza.

Far credere all’individuo che è soltanto lui il colpevole della sua disgrazia, per causa della sua insufficiente intelligenza, delle sue capacità o dei suoi sforzi. Così, invece di ribellarsi contro il sistema economico, l’individuo si auto svaluta e s'incolpa, cosa che crea a sua volta uno stato depressivo, uno dei cui effetti è l’inibizione della sua azione.

E senza azione non c’è rivoluzione!

10- Conoscere gli individui meglio di quanto loro stessi si conoscono.

Negli ultimi 50 anni, i rapidi progressi della scienza hanno generato un divario crescente tra le conoscenze del pubblico e quelle possedute e utilizzate dalle élites dominanti.

Grazie alla biologia, la neurobiologia, e la psicologia applicata, il “sistema” ha goduto di una conoscenza avanzata dell’essere umano, sia nella sua forma fisica che psichica. Il sistema è riuscito a conoscere meglio l’individuo comune di quanto egli stesso si conosca.

Questo significa che, nella maggior parte dei casi, il sistema esercita un controllo maggiore ed un gran potere sugli individui, maggiore di quello che lo stesso individuo esercita su sé stesso.

https://it.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noam_Chomsky

[frenchlitclub]

Un peu de contexte historique qui peut être utile pour la lecture du Comte de Monte-Cristo!

Contexte historique et social de l'époque 

 "Le Comte de Monte-Cristo" se déroule au début du XIXe siècle, une période turbulente marquée par des bouleversements sociaux et politiques en France et en Europe. 

 1. La chute de Napoléon Bonaparte et la Restauration : L'histoire commence en 1815, peu de temps après la chute de Napoléon Bonaparte lors de la bataille de Waterloo. Après cette défaite, la France est placée sous la Restauration, une période caractérisée par le retour de la monarchie des Bourbons au pouvoir avec Louis XVIII sur le trône. Cette période a été marquée par des tentatives de restaurer l'ancien régime, ce qui a entraîné des tensions sociales et politiques. 

 2. Les intrigues politiques et les complots : Durant la Restauration, les intrigues politiques étaient monnaie courante. Les rivalités entre différentes factions et les complots pour renverser le gouvernement étaient omniprésents. C'est dans ce contexte que l'intrigue de "Le Comte de Monte-Cristo" se développe, avec des personnages qui manipulent les événements politiques pour servir leurs intérêts personnels. 

 3. La montée de la bourgeoisie et les inégalités sociales : La Révolution française et les guerres napoléoniennes ont bouleversé l'ordre social traditionnel en France. La bourgeoisie, qui était auparavant exclue du pouvoir politique et social, a gagné en influence et en richesse. Cela a créé des tensions entre les différentes classes sociales, avec une élite aristocratique qui tentait souvent de maintenir ses privilèges et sa suprématie. 

Source (spoilers sur le livre à cette page, attention si vous lisez +)

[claudehenrion]

Un autre regard : celui de la vérité brutale.

Avant d'entrer dans le vif de ce sujet, laissez-moi vous rassurer, Amis-lecteurs : je ne suis pas particulièrement royaliste, et c'est un point important, tenu compte de ce qui va suivre. On peut d'ailleurs dire que je ne suis pas républicain non plus, ni rien d'autre : du moment où il est admis que toute structure de rang plus élevé ne peut s'alimenter qu'en ponctionnant celles qui sont ''inférieures '', que ce soit un Roi, un Empereur ou un Macron (NB : sauf un Mélenchon, cas limite : lui, il vole tout !)... peu importe qui me détrousse, pour paraphraser l'âne de la fable d'Esope.

Il est cependant exact que je n'ai jamais supporté l'addiction inexplicable de nos ''élites'' (mais le sont-elles ?) pour la formule ridicule dont aucun de ces prébendiers n'accepterait de se départir : un ''Vive la République'' tonitruant, suivi d'un timide et adjacent ''et vive la France'' vite dit, mezzo (ou mezza) voce pour ne pas déranger les dormeurs durant leur sieste. Pour percer à jour le ridicule de cette formule (surtout dans un pays où rien de sérieux ne menace de près ou de loin la dite république), il suffit de mettre son équivalent dans les bouches de n'importe lequel des autres ''leaders'' à la manœuvre sur notre planète. Imagine-t-on, par exemple, LLMM Charles III d'Angleterre ou Felipe II d'Espagne n'ouvrir leur gueule royale que pour crier ''Vive la Royauté'' ? Voit-on Erdogan psittaciser sans fin ''Vive le Califat''... Xi-Jinping ''Vive mon régime indéfini et pour cause''... Viola Amherd (Présidente de la Confédération helvétique) expliquer sur les ondes les avantages de son système –qui, pourtant, a fait ses preuves, lui... ou, plus grotesque encore, Kim Il Song vociférer ''Vive mon régime, c'est-à-dire vive Moi'' ? Nos Nuls en mourraient de rire... mais leur ridicule à eux ne les tue pas, hélas...

Notre complexe de supériorité (plus con que plexe, si j'ose) trouve sa source principale dans la succession de ''les Lumières + la Révolution française'' qui, par manque de chance, a frappé notre pays plus violemment que beaucoup d'autres. Préparés par le faux brillant du cartésianisme, nos arrière-aïeux ont été tellement éblouis par leur propre intelligence d'avoir trouvé des mots à mettre sur des concepts foireux, qu'ils ont oublié que la seule définition connue d'une Civilisation passait par la fusion de modes de vie avec une religion dominante ou autour d'elle. Vous pouvez chercher : vous ne trouverez pas un seul exemple d'une véritable civilisation qui ne soit la conséquence directe d'une métaphysique pré-existante. La France, seule depuis la naissance du temps humain, a prétendu libérer les peuples de chaînes plus ou moins avérées et a mis l'Europe à feu et à sang pour lui offrir un cadeau empoisonné, dont les dits peuples ont mis pas loin de 2 siècles et demi pour se rendre compte qu'ils n'en voulaient pas.

Car le mal était fait : un appareil administratif alimenté par tous les mécontents du temps, s'est mis en place, faisant parfois regretter certaines des causes qui avaient entraîné LA Cause. L'indéniable grandeur résultant de ce qui a été rebaptisé ''Ancien régime'' avec tout le mépris du monde, a mis ou va mettre 3 siècles à s'éteindre, remplacée peu à peu par... rien –ou par ce que contemplent chaque jour nos yeux désespérés, et qui revient à peu près au même : le néant sous toutes ses formes et dans tous les domaines.

Ceux qui ont cru qu'un système sorti de cerveaux vite devenus ''d'un autre temps'' pouvait avoir une chance d'offrir à l'humanité l'équivalent de ce qu'elle avait mis tant de siècles a grignoter vers un mieux progressif mais régulier, portent donc une lourde responsabilité dans l'effondrement en cours (et qui semble irréversible) de ce qui fut la construction de la Civilisation judéo-chrétienne, de loin la plus réussie qu'ait connue l'Humanité, jusque là en marche vers sa propre grandeur, et depuis peu (à l'échelle de l'Histoire) vers une sale décadence faite –et c'est le plus triste, sans doute- - avec l'assentiment des peuples-victimes, qui mettent joyeusement la main à la pâte pour accélérer la et leur chute finale, France en tête et macronisme oblige !

Il faut vraiment avoir la citoyenneté bien accrochée pour avaler toutes les contre-vérités, les mensonges, le charlataneries qui sont la toile de fond de nos jours depuis, disons, 1981, qui a vu des idées intenables d'abord, puis fatales une fois votées, s'imposer et devenir le nouveau ''petit livre rouge'' d'une anti-religion, finalement mortelle à l'Homme sous de belles idées. La catastrophe avait commencé avec la super connerie giscardo-chiraquienne du ''regroupement familial'', vite suivie par les montagnes de faux humanisme des deux mandats de Mitterrand (leur liste dépasserait les limites de ce blog. Citer les 35 heures ou la redéfinition par le vide du mot ''Justice'' suffira !). On est alors entré dans la création d'une véritable contre-religion reposant sur la folie lâchée en liberté, mais dont les buts étaient doubles : détruire tout ce qui marchait plutôt bien en racontant que c'était mauvais... et remplacer tous les socles millénaires par des catalogues de mesures absurdes ne pouvant servir qu'à accélérer la chute de l'ensemble... Leur hymne ''Internationale'' dirait : ''C'est la chute finale'' !

Ce n'est pas sans raison que la veuve du gendarme assassiné hier à 200 m de chez moi par un multi-récidiviste (qui n'était là que parce que ''le système'' se moque pas mal des gens normaux, braves, gentils honnêtes et travailleurs) a évoqué courageusement ''1981'' comme début des folies permissives, destructrices et mortelles à terme (nous y arrivons !) qui nous assassineront peu à peu : à toujours tout confondre, ils finissent par se fondre eux-mêmes. Nous aurons, hélas, de nombreuses occasions d'approfondir ces idées. Ce soir, le chagrin de cette veuve si forte, si digne, tétanise trop la France (je veux dire : la vraie. Pas ce truc informe que LFI ose affubler de ce beau nom) pour que je puisse continuer : trop, ça devient vraiment beaucoup trop... Affaire à suivre...

H-Cl.

[scotianostra]

April 24th 1567 saw the first printed book in Gaelic published in Edinburgh.

The Book of Common Order, the standardized liturgical text for the Reformed Church in Scotland, was translated by John Carswell and became the first book to be printed (on a printing press) in any form of Gaelic. The work was done under the patronage of the Earl of Argyll, to whom the book was dedicated. The translation was made into the literary language, Classical Gaelic, rather than a vernacular dialect, in order to make it as accessible to the élite of the pan-Gaelic world.

Here is a little poem that Master John Carswell made for this very little book:

§ 1. Go forth on your course, o little book, to Úa Duibhne [Campbell of Argyll], as soon as you are taken off of the printing press: may he enjoy success in his residence.

§ 2. After that, traverse in a careful, refined manner throughout the lands of Scotland, but since there is no need for you there, do not venture a step into the land of the Gall [Lowlander].

§ 3. After that, travel over the ocean wave to the land of Ireland of the generous soil: although the [religious orders of] Brothers think little of you, move westwards within their sight.

§ 4. Every seanchaidh [historian] whose lore is pure, every man of art [i.e., the literati] who does not submit himself to falsehood: form friendship between yourself and them, o little book, to last until death.

§ 5. There is no cause to fear any person of the race of Adam who loves Truth; make your nest amongst those people; go forth, o little book.

Only three copies of it survive they are in the Edinburgh University Library, British Library and Pierpont Morgan Library in New York.

[goddessofvalyria]

Mr. & Mrs. Targaryen | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!oc

Summary: Aemond Targaryen is the CEO of the family business, the Targaryen Company and is part of the élite of the King's Landing Society. Daelia Targaryen is the rebellious daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra. They meet at a gala, unaware of how that meeting will change things forever...

TW for all the story: 18+, MINORS DNI, She/Her pronouns, the fem!oc is named Daelia Targaryen with long dyed black hair and purple eyes, kissing, sexual themes, dirty talking, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, masturbation (m and f) tits sucking/play, SMUT, sexual tension, sex, violence, guns, alcohol, drugs, angst, sad, death, murder, dark themes, Targcest (he is the uncle and she is the niece, they're Targaryen....) This is a modern Aemond in modern AU.

English is not my first language, be kind and enjoy the fic <3

Words: 2300

This is my Masterlist. You can read the next chapters and more!

Chapter 1

Next part: Chapter 2

The grand ballroom of Targaryen Tower was alive with the glittering splendor of King’s Landing’s elite. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the guests, the soft hum of conversation mingling with the notes of a live orchestra playing in the background. It was the kind of evening where power and influence were the unspoken currency, where alliances were forged with a smile and a handshake.

Aemond Targaryen, the CEO of the Targaryen Company, stood near the center of it all, exuding a quiet authority that made people wary of approaching too closely. Dressed in an elegant total black suit, he was every inch the image of power. The tailored fabric hugged his tall, lean frame perfectly, the dark color accentuating the pale silver of his hair that fell just past his shoulders. His left eye, covered by a sleek, black patch, only added to his air of mystery and danger. Whispers circulated through the room, calling him the most dangerous man present, and it wasn’t just because of his formidable reputation in business.

It had been years since Aemond had seen his niece, Daelia Targaryen. The family rift that tore through their lives during the war had left deep scars, and she had been a distant memory, a name he hadn’t spoken in a long time. His life had moved on, consumed by the relentless demands of the company and the expectations of his position. But tonight, amidst the opulence of the gala, his thoughts drifted back to the past, to a time when the Targaryen family had been whole. He quickly dismissed the thought—nostalgia had no place in his world.

Meanwhile, far from the main entrance, Daelia Targaryen stood in the shadow of the towering skyscraper that bore her family’s name. The night air was cool against her skin as she gazed up at the gleaming edifice that was Targaryen Tower, a symbol of power, of legacy, and of everything she had rebelled against her entire life. She wasn’t supposed to be here—she was supposed to be the wayward daughter, the rebellious black sheep who had turned her back on the world of privilege she was born into.

But tonight was different. Tonight, Daelia had decided to see for herself what had become of her family’s empire after the war that had divided them so cruelly. No one had expected her to show up at the gala, least of all her parents. But she was an adult now, and she could do as she pleased. So, she had slipped away from the confines of her life, escaping the watchful eyes of her household to make her way to the heart of King’s Landing.

Daelia’s arrival at the gala was anything but conventional. Dressed in a sleek, dark gown that clung to her curves and flowed gracefully as she moved, she blended seamlessly into the shadows, her every step calculated and deliberate. Her dyed black hair matched to the dark ensemble, was left loose, cascading down her naked back. There was something untamed about her, a fierce independence that set her apart from the other women in the room.

As she slipped through the entrance, Daelia couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement. She knew she shouldn’t be here, but that was exactly why she had come. There was a part of her that relished the idea of defying expectations, of challenging the boundaries that had been set for her since birth. She moved through the crowded halls with the ease of someone who had grown up in such environments, though her demeanor was far from that of a polished socialite. She was a Targaryen, after all, but she was also something more—something unpredictable.

Her entrance into the grand ballroom was subtle, almost unnoticed by the throng of guests who were too busy engaging in their polite conversations and quiet power plays. But Daelia didn’t care if they noticed her or not. She wasn’t here to be seen—she was here to see.

From across the room, she spotted him—Aemond Targaryen. He was impossible to miss, his presence commanding even in a room full of influential people. Daelia felt a jolt of recognition, a mix of emotions she hadn’t expected. It had been years since she had last seen her uncle, and time had only sharpened the edge of his presence.

He looked as formidable as ever, dressed in that immaculate black suit that spoke of wealth and control. The eye patch was new, a stark reminder of the battles that had been fought, both on the battlefield and in the boardrooms. He looked like the embodiment of everything she had rebelled against, yet there was something about him that drew her in, something that made her want to know more about the man he had become.

But Daelia wasn’t here to confront him—not yet, at least. She wasn’t ready for that. For now, she was content to observe, to take in the sights and sounds of the evening, to understand the world her family inhabited with a fresh perspective.

The grand ballroom hums with tension as Daelia Targaryen descends the staircase, her every step echoing in the vast space. The sultry notes of Michael Jackson’s "Dirty Diana" fill the air, wrapping the room in a seductive rhythm that perfectly matches her confident stride. Her billion-dollar diamond necklace catches the light with each movement, throwing off glittering reflections.

She lifts the glass of champagne to her lips, the bubbles tickling her throat as she takes a slow sip, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. Every man in the room has turned to watch her, their conversations dying on their lips. The women at their sides look on with thinly veiled jealousy, but Daelia doesn’t care. She was born to be the center of attention, and tonight, she’s exactly where she belongs.

As she reaches the middle of the staircase, Aemond Targaryen finally recognizes her. His breath catches in his throat, the glass of whiskey in his hand pausing mid-air. For a moment, he can’t believe his eyes—his granddaughter, Daelia, here at the gala, after all these years. Her hair, once silver are now black but there’s no mistaking those eyes, the sharpness of her features, or the unmistakable presence she commands.

Aemond places his glass on a passing tray, his gaze locked onto her as he begins to weave through the crowd. The guests part for him instinctively, aware of the power and danger he exudes. His mind races with a thousand questions, but his expression remains calm, collected, every inch the formidable CEO he’s known to be.

Daelia reaches the final step just as Aemond arrives in front of her. For a moment, the world seems to stop, the music and the chatter of the crowd fading into the background. Aemond’s gaze is intense, his single eye studying her face as if trying to reconcile the woman before him with the girl he once knew.

"Daelia," he finally says, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet carrying the weight of years of separation and unresolved emotions. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

Daelia meets his gaze, her expression unreadable. "Aemond," she replies, deliberately using his first name rather than the title of ‘Uncle’ she once would have called him. There’s a challenge in her voice, a subtle defiance that speaks volumes about the years that have passed. "I wasn’t exactly planning on it."

Aemond’s eyes narrow slightly at her tone, but he doesn’t respond to the provocation. Instead, he reaches out his hand, an invitation she knows she can’t easily refuse. "Dance with me," he order, his voice carrying a note of command, but also something gentler, something that surprises her.

Daelia hesitates, her eyes flicking from his hand to his face, searching for any hint of the boy she once knew. The music swells around them, urging her to make a decision. Finally, she places her hand in his, the touch of his skin against hers sending a jolt of electricity through her.

As they step onto the dance floor, Aemond pulls her close, his hand resting on the small of her back, guiding her effortlessly through the dance. "You’ve changed," he murmurs, his voice so low that only she can hear.

Daelia tilts her head slightly, looking up at him with a small, enigmatic smile. "So have you."

Aemond’s grip tightens just a fraction, his eye locked onto hers. "Why are you here, Daelia?"

She meets his gaze head-on, her smile fading. "To see what became of the empire after the war. To see what you’ve done with it."

Aemond raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "And what do you think?"

Daelia’s lips curve into a slight smirk. "I’m still deciding."

They continue to move in perfect synchrony, the world around them a blur as they focus solely on each other. The tension between them crackles, a mix of old wounds and new challenges, neither willing to give an inch. The song shifts to a slower, more intimate rhythm, and the air grows thick with unspoken words.

Finally, Aemond breaks the silence, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "You’ve grown into a woman"

Daelia looks up at him, her eyes flashing with that familiar Targaryen fire. "And you into a man" she replies, her voice equally soft, but with an edge that makes it clear she’s not easily swayed.

Aemond studies her for a long moment, and then, without warning, he smiles—a rare, genuine smile that reaches his eye, softening his features in a way that catches her off guard. "Do your partents know that you are here alone?," he asks, his voice filled with a quiet resolve.

As the song comes to an end, Aemond stops their dance, still holding her close. "I’ve missed you," he admits, the words heavy with the weight of time lost.

Daelia’s expression softens, just a little, as she searches his face. "No, Aemond," she whispers.

As the final notes of the song fade into the background, Aemond releases Daelia from the dance, though his hand lingers on hers for a moment longer than necessary. The tension between them is palpable, a mix of unresolved past and the undeniable chemistry that now simmers between them.

Aemond glances around the room, his sharp gaze taking in the guests who are still very much focused on their private conversation. He leans in slightly, his voice low with concern. “You shouldn’t be here, Daelia. If someone recognizes you and tells your parents…”

Daelia interrupts him with a soft, almost defiant laugh. “I don’t care, Aemond. I’m not a child anymore.” Her eyes meet his with a steady gaze, the rebellious fire in them unmistakable. She knows the risks of being here, but the thrill of defying expectations, of stepping back into this world on her own terms, is worth it.

Aemond studies her for a moment, his expression shifting from concern to something more complex. She’s right—she’s not a child anymore. The girl he once knew has become a woman, and it strikes him how much she’s changed. She’s twenty-two now, while he’s only six years her senior at twenty-eight. And she’s simply…gorgeous. The way she carries herself, the confidence, the beauty—she’s more captivating than ever.

With a slight smirk, Daelia reaches into her clutch and pulls out a sleek cigarette case. She opens it and offers him one, her expression playful but with a hint of something deeper. “Care for a smoke?”

Aemond hesitates for only a second before accepting. As she places the cigarette between his lips, she asks, “So, tell me, Aemond. Why the grand gala tonight? What’s the occasion?”

He takes a moment to light the cigarette, inhaling deeply before answering. “Power,” he says simply, his voice cool and calculated. “It’s about making deals, forging alliances, and reminding everyone in this room exactly who holds the reins in King’s Landing.”

Daelia’s lips curve into a knowing smile as she flicks her lighter, the flame casting a brief glow on her face as she leans in to light his cigarette. The proximity between them is electric, the air thick with unspoken tension. “And do they know?” she asks, her tone teasing but with an edge of curiosity.

Aemond exhales a stream of smoke, his eye locked onto hers. “They will,” he replies, his voice filled with the quiet confidence of a man who is used to getting what he wants.

The night presses on, but the conversation between them feels suspended in time, charged with an intensity that neither had anticipated. The weight of their shared history mingles with the undeniable attraction that simmers beneath the surface. They finish their cigarettes, the smoke curling up into the dim lighting above, both silently weighing what comes next.

As the last of the guests begin to filter out of the ballroom, Aemond turns to her, his expression shifting from businesslike to something more personal, more intimate. “The night’s still young, Daelia. Why don’t you come up to my apartment? We can talk…or not talk.” His invitation is both casual and loaded, a challenge and a proposition all at once.

Daelia looks at him, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. The part of her that thrives on rebellion, on pushing boundaries, is eager to accept. “Lead the way, then,” she replies, her voice low and smooth, the decision made.

Aemond takes her hand again, this time with purpose, and together they leave the ballroom, the weight of their decision hanging in the air behind them. As they ascend to the top floors of Targaryen Tower, the tension between them only grows, a mixture of the familiar and the unknown, both knowing that this night will change everything.