#CITADEL BURNING

[firstofficerkittycat]

very important to me that there are flies on gallifrey like u can try and try to sterilize ur world to the point of mass extinction of every unregulated form of life but as long as you are still here there will always be rot and there will always be flies

[observerkaine]

The Dungeon Master watching over his game be like.

[all-action-all-picture]

Iron Cross No. 4 (2020) . Quarterly magazine focussing on German Military History from 1914-1945. The cover, by Keith Burns, depicts a Tiger l of the 13th Heavy Company at Kursk in Operation Citadel, July 1943.

[rabbitcruiser]

Public Art in Edmonton (No. 2)

Edmonton is known for its natural scenery, food, history and facilities. It is home to Fort Edmonton Park, Canada's largest living history museum, and West Edmonton Mall, North America's largest shopping mall. Other notable attractions include the Royal Alberta Museum, the Muttart Conservatory, Alberta Legislature Building, Art Gallery of Alberta, Edmonton Valley Zoo, Alberta Railway Museum, and many other natural and man-made attractions.

Many events are anchored in the downtown Arts District around Churchill Square (named in honour of Sir Winston Churchill). On the south side of the river, the university district and Whyte Avenue contain theatres, concert halls, and various live music venues. The centrepiece of the square builds a life-size bronze statue of Churchill, unveiled by Lady Soames on May 24, 1989. It is a copy of a statue by Oscar Nemon.

Source: Wikipedia

[entering--hyperspace]

What the!!! Its only chapter 2!!! Get back in the mists dude!!!

[bouncyballcitadel]

Which ROs are slow-burn? Can you tag this question with #slow-burn?

The slow-burn ROs in Citadel are definitely Vic and Dr. Grey. In terms of who is the slowest burn, Dr. Grey takes the cake (even more so than the Vic/Dr. Grey/MC poly).

[whoopseydaisy]

me but also jumping up and down when Suvi writes her name out on Ame’s freaking hand after writing it out for Eursulon on a scrap to-do list she just had in her pocket

[acciokaidanalenko]

Taking on the Universe: Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen: The Council

Summary: The Normandy's shore party arrives at the Citadel Tower, where they are to meet with the Council.

CW/TW: None.

Preview of chapter below the cut. AO3 link: here.

The most exclusive place on the Citadel was the Tower where the Council hosted all their meetings. Only the elite of the galaxy had access to the top floor, which overlooked the whole of the Presidium. Natasha, Alenko, and Williams stepped off the elevator and glanced around, taking in every immaculate detail of their surroundings; the fountain that greeted them, the garden full of exotic plants that teased their sense of smell with sweet aromas, and the curious eyes that seemed to follow them as they progressed across the shiny tiled floor that led up to the Council. When they reached the final staircase they were met by Captain Anderson and Ambassador Udina.

“Good, you’re finally here. Just in time for our meeting with the Council,” Udina huffed in an impatient tone. Natasha recognized it immediately, as it was the same way he’d spoken when she’d first met him at Alliance HQ. He even glanced at his omni-tool for the time before he looked at each of the soldiers in turn, appraising them with a critical eye before turning to the captain. “Make sure they behave while we’re in front of the Council. This is a serious matter, and it must be navigated delicately.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll leave the politicking to you, Ambassador,” Williams interjected with a pointed glare. Udina’s eyes widened as he prepared to respond.

“See, Ambassador, nothing to worry about,” Anderson assured him as he softly clapped Williams on the back and grinned widely at Udina. His expression told them he wasn’t amused.

“The Councilors will see you now,” an Asari called down to them from the top of the stairs. The group turned to see her standing above them, clutching a datapad in her hands like a clipboard as she glanced down at it briefly. Her eyes flicked up from the screen and landed on the Humans gathered together at the base of the stairs, a courteous smile flashing across her lips before she disappeared from sight.

Udina nervously straightened his suit jacket and glanced around at the soldiers once again, a pointed expression on his face, warning them to be on their best behavior before leading them up the stairs and down to face the Council.

It was a bit foreboding to walk out onto the platform, the very heart of the Council’s chamber. This was where they made the decisions that shaped the politics of the galaxy. Natasha felt a shiver run down her spine as she looked upward and found the Turian, Asari, and Salarian Councilors peering down at them. She could feel their gazes focused on her, knowing that she was still under their scrutiny as a Spectre candidate. Even though her mentor had been kidnapped on the mission she’d failed.

[tweedfrog]

Eurons doing his weird blood magic ritual right outside Oldtown....where the citadel is.....this is going to be the Westeros version of the burning of the library of Alexandria isn't it

[mellon1998]

People acting like Tefmet just proved the Citadel is evil or something have clearly not been paying attention.

The only "evidence" she presents is what happened in Port Talon, which we know was all what's his face going off on his own little agenda. It wasn't the Citadel's wishes or orders, it was one insecure dude put in a position of authority that he had no business holding.

Everything else she presents basically boils down to "You can trust my word on this absolutely! Not like I might have ulterior motives and be either straight up lying or stretching the truth for personal gain!" Even the Port Talon stuff she hardly has evidence for.

Even if any of the other stuff she said is true, remember how all of those people were being arrested back when Ame and Eursulon left the Citadel? Remember how Steele was having to deal with some internal issues at the Citadel? She even specifically named the court (not even gonna try to spell it) that was central to the lock down and arrests.

Just because something is happening within the Citadel doesn't mean they are the ones doing it. They are vast with many, many individuals who all possess free will. Blaming a city for the actions of select citizens is an insane take.

If you heard Tefmet's testimony and immediately went "I KNEW IT!" you are legally prohibited from ever speaking about Suvi's "justification machine" again.

[r3tr0r0ck3r]

Guess who stayed up playing the new System Shock remake all weekend, of which I was a Kickstarter backer from the very beginning (2015), been waiting years and years for, and barely ate or slept?

Best game remake ever??

[anexor]

Holy fuck I hate coalescipedes.

[hildergard]

Could you do something where Aemond is already married/betrothed to a highborn lady that’s been approved by Alicent and Otto but he has a relationship with a low born woman (a brothel worker or any lowborn really) and once he becomes Prince Regent he starts bringing her around the castle, giving her a room to herself, treating her better than how a lowborn should be treated in Alicent and Ottos eyes and they don’t like it but Aemond doesn’t care.

MINE TO PROTECT ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Suggestive content, swearing, possessive behaviour, classism

WORDCOUNT | 4k

NOTE | I have seen a lot of fanfictions where the Reader is a brothel worker so I made her a baker instead. I hope that's alright with you! Thank you so much for this great request! I had so much fun writing it <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

In the seedy streets of Flea Bottom, rumours travelled in a precise order, memorised by all.

A Lord, drunk with lust, would disclose the Crown’s secrets to a simpering whore, who would be quick⏤once the gold dragons were in her purse⏤to repeat what she had just heard, noble semen still running down her thighs. The other, much less wealthy, customers would then talk about it loudly in bars, attracting the attention of patrons who, once sober, had only to spread the news.

Today, the rumour burst into your little shop when Old Gerald came through the door, looking for his daily loaf of bread. 

 “Prince Aemond’s been made Regent," he said. 

For a second, you did not move. The dough fell on wood. Your floured hands remained stuck in the sticky, flabby mixture. It would have to be kneaded again. The sight of your dirty fingers woke you from your torpor. You gripped the towel from your apron and wiped your palms roughly before turning your back on your customer⏤less to get the fresh loaves of bread out of the oven than to regain your composure.

He had done it. 

Your shovel rasped against the burning slab of clay and peeled off the loaves. 

A few days earlier, when night had enveloped the citizens of King's Landing in its thick cloak, he had told you of his plans and dreams⏤the two were always intertwined, for Aemond Targaryen provoked fate rather than waited for it. His touch had done nothing to soften the brutality of his words. Sordid tales of fire and blood, the kind that filled the tomes of the Citadel. 

Even the Targaryens could not play with fire indefinitely. Aemond rose in the flames. For how much longer? You had protested, your voice hoarse from the moans he had managed to draw from your throat, but he would have none of it and simply told you to trust him, as if all this were far too complicated for you. 

And perhaps that was the case, for what did you know of war and power?

“What about his Majesty?" you asked.

Old Gerald tossed you three coppers, which you pocketed, before handing you a thick piece of cloth. 

“They say he perished in dragonfire. Seems Targaryens are closer to men, after all. With all this quarrel for t'throne, it were inevitable. And, let me tell you, it'll happen again. Today, a brother sits on t'throne. Tomorrow, it'll be an uncle or a sister. Things like that never end.”

You carefully wrapped the golden loaf in the cloth. 

“Wi' Rhaenyra in Dragonstone and his brother's heir dead, he’ll no doubt be crowned King. And the Lady Baratheon, Queen.”

You winced at the name but immediately hid your reaction with a tight smile. Gerald, bless him, took no notice of your torment. You handed the loaf of bread to the old cobbler, who nodded at you and returned to his shoes. 

The rumour ran on and kept you thinking all day. You burnt a dozen loaves of bread, spilt two sacks of flour and forgot to deliver her apple pies to Dorthy Porter, making you lose a silver stag and a customer.

When the key finally turned in the lock of the shop and cut you off from the rest of the world, your shoulders slumped. The sun and all its problems gave way to the moon. Under its silvery eyes, other rumours would no doubt spread but you did not wish to hear them. You longed for your straw mattress and the comfort of your dreams⏤perhaps your love would visit you there, also freed from the pressure the Gods were piling on his shoulders. 

Tiredness weakened your knees⏤you dragged your body more than you climbed the stairs to your modest bedroom. In the middle of the room, the bed and its pillow stretched out its arms to you. You let yourself fall into the feathery embrace and closed your eyes for a moment, praying to the Gods that you would find sleep easily. 

They ignored you. 

The doorbell rang. 

Your eyelids struggled to open. Sleep paralysed them⏤it clutched at your eyelashes and tried to keep them closed but you fought the temptation and, at last, gazed into the dim light of the room. Another series of blows, more hurried, struck against the wood. The whole  shop seemed to shake. 

“I’m coming, I'm coming…” you mumbled. 

You gasped as two members of the Kingsguard appeared on your doorstep, their cloaks far too white to be dragged through the muddy streets of Flea Bottom. 

“The Prince Regent, His Highness Aemond Targaryen, summons you.”

They did not care for your reply and seized you. You protested, demanded to be told the reason for this summon, but nothing would do. The guards dragged you like a rag doll through the streets of King's Landing, indifferent to your screams and struggle. Above and around you, the candlelight in the windows intensified. Some people poked their heads out to watch the racket. You lowered your chin and remained silent, but the damage had been done. 

Already, rumours were spreading. The baker had been arrested. What had she done? Who would make their bread from now on?  

The dizzy shadow of the Red Keep loomed larger and larger. Just the outline of it made your skin crawl. For the first time, you would be treading on the floor of Kings and Queens. You were being plunged headfirst into this unknown, powerful and dangerous place, populated by men and women who despised people like you. One of the guards tightened his grip around your arm. You yelped. Why were they taking you there? Aemond always came to you, not the other way round. 

Did someone know? You blanched. Impossible, you thought immediately. You had been cautious. 

But what if... What if someone had seen you, despite all your precautions? 

 Were they taking you to the Keep to put you to the sword?  

 A flash of fear stabbed you in the guts.  

You finally passed through the large gates of the castle. They were still open, yet, no one was in the courtyard. The swords were resting on the workbenches and the horses were asleep. Only a few guards patrolled the ramparts, their heads turned skywards in search of a dragon. 

“Hurry up, girl. The Prince is waiting.”

A solitary, proud figure emerged at the top of the stairs, in front of the entrance. His long white hair fluttered in the wind and the bluish moonlight accentuated his strict features and pale complexion. The mere sight of his face reassured you. You defied the guards and walked towards him. 

His rough hand⏤hardened by duty and war⏤gripped yours before thin lips kissed it. The Prince pulled you towards him. Your heart slowed as his familiar scent enveloped you and your shoulders relaxed. For a second, you surrendered to the comfort of his warmth and love. The smell of musk and leather soothed your body, but your head kept its wits about it.

“What's happening, Aemond?”

He closed his eye as his name fell from your lips and smiled. His hand came down and grasped your waist in a possessive embrace. You leaned into the touch. 

“There are rumours that Aegon–”

You squeaked. His fingers had dug painfully into your flesh at his brother's name. 

The mere mention of him brought back painful and humiliating memories, which your lover had confided to you, his head on your pillow. Even today, the wounds had not healed. They continued to transpire in every aspect of his life. You are the only thing he has not stolen from me, he had told you one night. Saying that name was like throwing his past back in his face and breaking your promise. He'll never succeed, you had replied, but today, Aegon was on your mind. What did his wound mean for the Crown, for you?

“Is it true?" you managed to articulate. 

“The Council has made me Regent," he nodded. “We will not need to hide any longer, my love.”

“What do you mean?”

But Aemond did not answer you. He smiled, tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and let his fingers brush your neck. With a nod, the kingsguards left. The clink of their armour echoed for long seconds, but the din faded with the tenderness of his gestures. His finger traced the veins in your chest. They led him to your breasts, hidden by your dress. Aemond grunted⏤terribly offended by this affront⏤and pulled at the fabric but it held on. 

Claere Linstar's work was reknown throughout Flea Bottom. You could not find a better weaver⏤today, you were thankful for the two silver stags you had spent. The garment would become the guarantor of your dignity, the bulwark against your desire. 

When you realised that your Prince was not going to answer your question, you took a step back. His hand fell limply between the two of you as a brief look of pain clouded his face. 

“Aemond?”

He straightened up and held out his hand to you. 

“Follow me.”

The labyrinthine corridors made your head spin. You lost count of the turns you took, the staircases you climbed and the alcoves you passed. The beauty of the mouldings and frescoes drew admiring sighs from you several times, but Aemond did not care. He walked past them without giving them a second glance. He's used to all this, you reminded yourself. People of his rank bathed in this luxury and grandeur since birth.  

On the way, maids dressed in red and white stopped at your sight. Their gaze fell on your face, on your body, on your hand locked in the Prince's... Your cheeks heated and you tried to pull away, but Aemond tightened his grip. Out of habit, his thumb caressed your skin. This time, his touch only made you tense. You bowed your head, ashamed. 

They knew. 

The thought stayed with you. 

You only lifted your head when Aemond stopped in front of an ornate door. The mouldings curved into flowers and birds⏤an ode to spring and renewal. Your eyes swept the decor, stopped on a bush of camellias and, finally, met the Prince's satisfied gaze. 

“We've arrived," he announced. 

Aemond opened the door with a confident gesture. Inside, an immense room stretched out and seemed to never end. Wealth oozed out of every corner, from the four-poster bed to the dressing table adorned with sapphires. On the wall, frescoes of flowers had been painted to match the powder pink drapes⏤an explosion of colour that turned drab the corridors you had been raving about just a few minutes before. 

“Is it to your taste?”

You turned back to Aemond. Although his chin was up and his back was straight⏤proud as ever⏤red bloomed on his cheeks. Your lover seemed embarrassed, a far cry from his usual composure. Almost timidly, his hand sought yours. He couldn't help it, you realised. His fingers always found yours⏤skin against skin to find what he had been deprived of all his childhood. 

“I don't know anyone who wouldn't like it," you replied.

“Hmm. Good.”

He pulled you to him. His hands went down to your buttocks and pressed you against his chest. Your pelvises collided. Suddenly, the room made sense. You let yourself drown in these familiar gestures. Your hand caressed his muscular shoulders, moved up to his jaw and brushed against his lips. Aemond kissed the pad of your thumb before replacing it with your lips. Soon, the wet sound of saliva echoed through the room. The sweet melody ignited a fire in your lower abdomen and moved down between your thighs. 

Your hand resumed tracing arabesques on your lover's smooth skin. It stopped at the buttons on his doublet and hastily undid them before wandering lower and lower…

Aemond stopped you before you could take him in your hand. His hand grabbed yours. He kissed your palm and pressed it against his cheek. 

“These will be your quarters.”

The fire went out, leaving you frozen with shock. Your heart skipped a beat. 

“What do you mean?" you asked breathlessly.

“Now that I am Regent, we will not have to hide any more.” 

A new glare lit up his eye. Purple turned black and made you shiver. Flames seemed to dance in his pupil, crushing all remains of the second son he had once been. That Aemond was dead. In his place was a Regent who thought himself above laws and men.  

“It's not proper, Aemond," you tried to protest. “If it gets out that I'm here... If the Dowager Queen or the Hand–”

“They have no say in the matter. My word is law now.”

 “If you want me here… Perhaps I could serve the Crown, join the kitchens. Anything but that, Aemond," you said, gesturing to those quarters, far too luxurious for someone of your breeding. 

“You do not belong in the fucking kitchens," he scoffed. “No. You will be by my side, as my equal.”

“You're engaged," you retorted. “The Lady Baratheon won't take kindly to my presence here. You nobles can make Small Folk disappear in a blink of an eye and no one would notice or care.”

Alira Merchin's story was remembered as a cautionary tale for young girls naive enough to think love could conquer blood. The fable was classic⏤hundreds of similar romances filled libraries, and perhaps it was these very ones that had encouraged the girl to seduce the heir of House Harte. The man fell in love and made the pretty merchant his lover. 

This did not please his wife, the daughter of Lord Chelsted. 

She got rid of the merchant with disconcerting ease. The poor girl was found trampled by horses in white and green bards. That day, Lord Harte lost his true love and spent the rest of his life suffering the consequences of his betrayal. 

Your heart dropped. What would happen to you if you tickled the stag? Ours if the Fury. Their motto was an ode to their rage, to their thirst for violence. If Floris Baratheon found out that Prince Aemond was bedding you... and in the Keep nonetheless…

The storm would come for you and you would perish in its eye. 

“It's not a good idea, Aemond," you finally said. 

“Do not fret, my love. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here to protect you.”

The Prince pulled you into bed. 

Your protests died on your lips, muffled by moans and the exquisite feel of his skin against yours. 

Your fingers tightened around your thighs. The soap made your skin slippery but did nothing to wash away the shame that had been clinging to it for days. It colonised your flesh and left it tainted, eating away at your muscles and weighing down your heart. 

On the first day, after a passionate night, maids had arrived to prepare you, but you refused their care. You were no Lady. You had bathed alone all your life and would continue to do so. More than anything, you wanted to escape their watchful eyes, which would no doubt have noticed the hickeys on your chest and thighs. 

You did not know how rumours got around in the Keep, but you were sure that they first burgeoned on the maids’ lips. They blossomed as quickly as in Flea Bottom⏤the inquisitive nature of man was innate⏤, but it would not be Old Gerald getting wind of it. No. The stakes were much higher in these parts, and the consequences even more dire. 

The door to your quarters stood in the way of the horror surely awaiting you, but for how much longer? 

Your hands massaged your calf, hoping to rediscover a cherished routine. You longed for the feel of dough beneath your fingers. What would become of your shop? Would you have to sell it? Maybe someone had already moved in⏤abandoned houses never stayed so for long in Flea Bottom, the cradle of the poor and the homeless. 

You could not cherish the roof above your head, yet, you supposed you had to learn to appreciate it. Aemond did not seem eager to let you go.  

Aemond. 

Every day, the sun tore him away from you. His hours were devoted to the Small Council and military strategies, only half of which you understood when he explained them to you. Your Prince needed to talk, to get rid of the weight that was arching his back. You became the shoulder on which he rested, the ear into which he poured his doubts, the flesh in which he forgot himself. 

“I wish to be with you every hour of the day, to attach myself to your side, but the Gods will only grant me this pleasure when I win this war. I am fighting for you⏤for us,” he had told you. 

The moon brought him back into your arms. Every night, without exception, he would cross the threshold of the door and wrap you in a reassuring embrace. His arms would block out your gloomy thoughts and chase away shame and regret⏤all seemed worth it if it kept him close to you. The stars looked down on your love. When the bells rang the hour of the owl, you indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, whispered sweet nothings or simply enjoyed the peaceful silence that the other's presence guaranteed. Sometimes, Aemond, lying on the bed with your head on his stomach, would read you stories with his hand buried in your hair. 

And then, the hour of the Nightingale would sound, its tranquillity burning away in the first rays of sunlight. The enchanted interlude would close and you would spend the day dreaming of a life where sun and duty did not separate you. 

Shame would reappear, its weight with it, and fear⏤tangible and vibrant⏤would turn your stomach. 

The spectre of Floris Baratheon never left you. It haunted you. In the frescoes of camellias on the wall. In the bouquets of flowers dotting your quarters. In the venison served for dinner. The tales of her beauty reached you and left you bitter, but what they said about her quiet authority made your blood run cold. 

She would come for you. 

The Lady Baratheon occupied all your thoughts, so much so that you forgot about another much more dangerous threat. 

One day, Alicent Hightower stalked into your room. 

You dropped your embroidery in your lap and hastily sat up. The needle fell to the floor with a disturbing chime. The bell was tolling⏤this farce had gone on far too long and it would now end. 

The Dowager Queen dropped a small leather bag on the table. Its contents clinked and masked your gasping breath for a second. Your heart was pounding against your temples. Soon, the air would run out. Already your throat was closing up and you were struggling to swallow. 

“What is it?" you asked weakly. 

“Five thousand gold dragons. Enough to buy you a new life, far from the Keep, far from Westeros.”

Away from my son, she meant. 

“I won't leave Aemond.”

He needs me, you thought. 

“The Prince Regent does not need you," the Queen scoffed as if she could heard your mind. “He is engaged. Or have you forgotten that? Whoring yourself in the way you do… It would appear so. Have you thought about the repercussions of your actions when people find out about you? The risks it means for Aemond? Your very presence here jeopardises this entire war.”

“I have tried to–”

“He does not love you, you fool. He just wants a cunt to fuck without having to spend a single penny.”

You recoiled, surprised to hear the famously pious queen speak so vulgarly. 

War transformed souls. It made them ugly. Alicent Hightower’s wide eyes and pursed lips twisted her face into a terrifying expression. 

She sighed and, for a moment, her features became those of a compassionate woman. 

“I don't know what… hold my son has over you," she continued in a calmer voice, “but you seem smart enough to understand this will end badly. You must leave. Take the gold and let us be done with this farce.”

The door slammed against the wall before you could even consider the proposal. 

Aemond reached your side with a confident stride. 

“What's going on here? Mother?”

When the latter did not answer, he looked to you for answers. You lowered your head, unable to bear the look of concern in his purple eye any longer. 

It fell lower, onto the table and the leather purse.  

“What is the meaning of this?” he raised his voice. 

Silence stretched before Alicent Hightower relented. 

“You cannot… support a lowborn in such manners, Aemond. The girl must go.”

The Prince ignored his mother and took you in his arms. His nose nestled under your ear as his hands buried themselves in your hair. He guided your head into his neck and whispered comforting words, which you could not hear. You did not care. His familiar scent embraced you and brought tears to the corners of your eyes. They wet your cheeks and his collar. 

You should never have come here. 

“Out.”

His mother protested. 

“Imagine the shame for your future wife, the Lady Baratheon! For her house! If we lose Storm's End because of... because of this w–” 

“Hold your tongue and leave.”

“Aemond, if you do this, we are lost!”

“Get out!”

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. Aemond sighed. His hand drew abstract symbols on the back of your head for a moment before encouraging you to look at him. 

“Oh, my love," he said, seeing your misty eyes. “All is well now. She will not hurt you any more.”

The danger you had put yourself in was greater than you had thought. Fear dried your mouth and exhausted your words. You stammered a few excuses before taking a deep breath. Your Prince's fingers did not weaken. They continued to comfort you and, at last, gave you the courage you needed to finally speak. 

“Maybe I should return to Flea Bottom. I–” 

“No," Aemond’s voice cracked. 

His hands framed your face and pulled you closer until your noses were touching. 

“You are not leaving me.”

His lips were harsh, covering every inch of your skin. He kissed the bridge of your nose, your warm cheekbones, your wet eyelids. Tears ran aground in the cracks of his lips and dried up under his exquisite tenderness. No beauty spot, no eyelash, was spared. His lips erased his mother's words and the doubts in your heart. 

“You belong here, with me. I do not care for blood or war. I only wish for your love.”

Aemond filled the space between your mouths. His hands reached down and grasped your breast. He feasted on your lips and the taste of them like a hungry man. Tingles caressed your spine and tickled your lower abdomen. You rolled your hips, searching for his, but your lover pulled away.

You didn't want him to stop. 

The Prince shushed your complaints and pushed you to the bed. Your back bounced on the goose feather mattress. Eager to feel his skin against yours, you sat up and tried to pull him to you, but Aemond took a step back. A petty smile stretched his lips as he heard you whimper. He ignored you and stood silent, admiring you. His eyes, now black, gazed down at your body, contemplating its shape and softness.

“Aemond, please…”

Your lover grabbed an ankle and kissed it. You moaned. He moved up your calf, caressing your knee and digging his fingers into your thighs before spreading them apart. His teeth nipped at the flesh, which his tongue immediately soothed. Your breathing quickened and breathy moans fell from your swollen lips, intoxicated by his touch. He skipped over your dripping cunt, his hands grazing your hips and sides.  

Suddenly, Aemond stopped touching you, placed a farewell kiss on your belly and sat up on his elbows. 

“I will take care of everything, my love. You will never have to fear for your life. It is mine to cherish, mine to love, mine to protect," he said before reaching up to capture your lips with his. “Mine.”

“I love you," you sighed. 

Aemond smiled, as he did every time the words fell from your lips. One could not get used to the sweetness of love. It forever stirred the heart and soothed the soul. Your Prince placed a chaste kiss on your lips before moving down and disappearing between your thighs. 

His words vanished in desire and pleasure. You forgot them the next day, when the hour of the Nightingale struck.  

You should have known that Aemond Targaryen would keep his promise.

Three days later, the Lady Baratheon was found dead in the Kingswood, impaled on a stag's antlers. 

[cowgirls-blues]

Also when Ame, that very morning, dropped "maybe the Witch of the Wind and Stars wanted to make new witches" and now has her most dangerous enemy owe her a debt of gratitude, maaaaaybe it's not a blunder when she warns Tefmet. One minute she excels at very fine conclave politics and the next she doesn't realize the Antivolist is gonna freak out about there being a wizard of the Citadel? Nah. She seemed to really like them so it might be a kindness to them, might also be a "hey you're not actually going to be preaching to the choir here, careful what you say". Or something else I don't yet understand!

Wizard of the Citadel Sky.... Ame why would you do that.....you've scared them So bad

[tarysande]

The best part about coming back to the source material after a looooong time is you sorta get a fresh look at canon in comparison to whatever the dominant strains of fanon have become. Or, in fact, whatever your own dominant strains of headcanon have become.

I mean, yes, Garrus “I’m not a good turian” Vakarian gets infinitely cooler (and more competent!) by pretty much every metric as the storyline progresses. He does. But fresh out of ME1 and into ME2 through his recruitment, I find myself genuinely amused by how thin the veneer of badass is over a pretty dominant core of straight-up nerd sprinkled with idealism mixed with self-doubt.

When you have Garrus in the squad all the time (and thus get all his ambient dialogue and remarks), you really pick up on the number of times he calls out bad behavior, unethical actions, cruelty, and rule-breaking, especially in ME1.

He’s not actually a hothead who can’t abide rules of any kind. In fact, most of the time he’s pretty pro-law-and-order, and he gets amusingly hall-monitorish when people are breaking rules he considers important and worth following.

Fundamentally, Garrus chafes when his sense of what is just is at odds with what the authorities do about that injustice (or what they stop him from doing). And I would hazard a guess that the reason his actions seem so intense or harsh or "of course we should have shot down that ship in the middle of the Citadel" is indicative not of his impatience but of the degree to which he thinks the authorities have failed to uphold that justice. We know he can be patient. He's a sniper. His whole modus operandi on Omega is precision kills without civilian casualty. But when that long fuse finally burns down, he goes from zero to shooting down ships in the middle of the Citadel in what looks (from the outside) like a heartbeat.

And yes, injured pride hastens the burning of that fuse; he doesn’t like losing. Or admitting defeat. Or failing.

Having just replayed his recruitment mission, a few things really stood out to me this time.

The merc bands really hate him--and they also reluctantly admire him (he's described as smart, resourceful, dangerous, idealistic, brave, slippery; they all agree they only way they managed to get this far is by isolating him and employing dirty tactics). I mean, there's literally a station-wide announcement that Omega can return to "business as usual" once Archangel is out of the picture because he was disrupting things so completely.

The way Garrus blames himself for the deaths of his squad is so freaking turian. Failure reflects on the leader who places his people in danger they can't handle, not the individual who fails. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Yes, Sidonis betrayed him, but the person Garrus blames the most? Is himself. For trusting Sidonis in the first place. For raising Sidonis to a position where he had the means and opportunity to harm others--and the weakness of character to turn coat, to save his own hide, instead of dying to protect the others.

Garrus mentions more than once that he was trying to emulate Shepard. And his tone always implies that he knows he failed because Shepard would never have let a Sidonis into the fold. Again, he's blaming himself. Like a good turian. Yes, he wanted to avoid the red tape and bureaucracy of C-Sec, but his code--Archangel's code--certainly aligns with Paragon Shepard's morality (with a Garrus Vakarian twist).

And since it wouldn't be meta without adding a Tara's Headcanon Twist ... I've always wondered why "Archangel" when it's such a ... human concept. But this time, when I noticed how he spoke about Shepard's influence, and how quickly he brushes aside the name when she asks him about it, I wondered if it wasn't actually his way of honoring the mythology of the dead woman whose example he was trying to follow. Not that Shepard is a God he's worshiping, but ... there is something about the way he talks about her. Garrus doesn't make himself over in the image of a God, though; he's the soldier, the right hand, the avenging angel responsible for carrying out divine punishments suited and proportional to the crimes committed, the rules broken, the selfishness or cruelty of the perpetrator.

[justmymindandstuff]

color of the wolf - Cregan Stark x WifeReader

summary: It's the Harvest Festival in Winterfell. And Cregan is looking forward to an evening with his wife by his side. But your attention is constantly needed elsewhere. At some point he's had enough and takes matters into his own hands.

words: 2.259

warnings: jealous and possessiv Cregan, mention of sex (briefly)

a/n: I'm a sucker for jealous Cregan // English is not my first language// No use of Y/N// AO3 //Hope you like it🧡

requests are open// main- masterlist // hotd-masterlist

Winterfell is buzzing with activity. The final preparations for today are made. Cregan's steps lead him through his castle. The people step out of his way and respectfully lower their heads for their Lord. Cregan has finished his tasks for this afternoon and can now fully concentrate on the feast.

Today, the Harvest Festival will be celebrate down in the Winter Town. The harvest for the upcoming winter had been good. Today they would give their gratitude to the gods. He is looking forward to this . A relaxed evening with his wife and his people. You would dance, laugh and be happy together.

It is Cregan's duty as Lord of Winterfell to light the great fire. Actually, he wanted to make his way to the village already, but you weren't in your chambers. So he set out in search of his wife. Unfortunately he is unsuccessful.

His half-sister Sara comes towards him. Normally, she is your constant companion.

"Sister. Have you seen my lady wife?" he asks. Sara looks up at him confused.

"She is already in Town. She wanted to go to the orphanage and bring the children to the feast. She didn't tell you?"

Cregan's eyebrows knit together, he hopes that you at least took one of your guards with you. "No."

You threw yourself into the preparations for the feast and the hospitality of your guests, and probably just forgot to let him know that you were already on your way.

"Come on, let's go down. It's time for the Harvest Festival."

Cregan nods to Sara and offers her his arm. Together, the siblings make their way down to Winter Town. Most of the villagers have already gathered. Hot spiced wine, fresh meat, fruit, and sweets are being distributed. Music is played.

"My Lord." someone hands him a cup of wine, and he passes it to Sara before asking for a second one. Lord Karstark approaches the two of them. Sara frees her arm from his and disappears among the people to avoid a conversation with the old Lord. Unfortunately, Cregan does not have this freedom.

Cregan's gaze searches over the people. The warm spiced wine warms from within. Lord Karstark begins to speak. "The harvest was good and the Citadel predicts a mild winter."

Cregan knows very well that the Citadel is not always right. Winter is unpredictable. The only thing that is certain is that winter is coming.

But today is not the day to worry about winter. Today is a day for celebration.

"We can consider ourselves lucky," he replied. Karstark continues speaking. But then laughter pierces the air. Cregan is immediately distracted. Among thousands of laughs, he would recognize your laugh. He turns his head and sees you. You are currently leading a group of children to the festival grounds. Everyone has a joyful smile on their face. You hold one of the little ones by the hand while another child sits on your hip.

Cregan can't take his eyes off you. He is the happiest man in the world because you are his. At the sight of you, his heart opens up, and he can hardly wait until you carry your own child on your hip. But something seems odd to him. He can't put his finger on it, but a slight burning sensation is forming in his stomach.

He watches you as your gaze sweeps across the people, and when you meet his eyes, a radiant smile appears on your lips. Automatically, his feet move in your direction. He is drawn to you like a moth to a flame. But he only takes a few steps before he gets stopped again.

"My Lord Stark, it is time," the Maester snaps him out of his thoughts Cregan looks at him and nods. Tries to hide his annoyance that he can't get to you. He wants you by his side. Cregan is handed a torch and he ignites the neatly arranged wood. Immediately, the flames shoot up into the air.

The villagers clap, the children laugh.

Cregan straightens his shoulders and begins to speak in a loud voice. "The gods are good. The harvest was more successful than it has been in years. Today we celebrate and thank the gods."

The attendees clap and cheer.

"Let us raise our cups and let the wine flow." he raises his cup and everyone else follows his example.

Cregan takes a step back. He has never been a man of many words. He has always found this attention uncomfortable. The flames warm from the outside while the spiced wine warms from the inside. The music starts up again, and the people of Winterfell fall into a joyful bustle of conversation and dance. Cregan starts moving again to come to you. Everything pulls him towards you.

The flames give your skin a warm glow. Your hair is braided back in a typical northern style. You are wearing an elaborate dress. The hem is embroidered with red weirwood leaves that wander over your skirt and end in your corset in the seal of your father's house. You are so beautiful that he can hardly believe you belong to him.

And now Cregan also realizes what had been bothering him. You are wearing the wrong color. Instead of wearing the usual dark gray/white, you are wearing the color of your family's house. At this realization, Cregan notices his jaw tightening slightly. You are already approaching him, but then you are called by a Silentsister, the head of the orphanage.

"Lady Stark. Do you have a moment?" she asks. You smile apologetically at Cregan and then turn to the older woman.

Cregan suppresses a sigh. He knows that the children and the orphanage in the village are important to you. Every winter, children lose their parents to the winter, and even though Cregan does everything in his power to prevent it, he cannot defeat the winter.

Since you came to Winterfell you have made it your mission to take care of the orphans. So he lets you go.

His plan to wait until you finish your conversation doesn't work out, because of course both his Lords and his Subjects take the opportunity to speak with him more casually than during the petitions.

He is being pulled from conversation to conversation. He tries to meet everyone with kindness and listen to their concerns. Or just to talk about unimportant things.

Only when you clap your hands to get everyone's attention does Cregan notice that the sun has already set. You step forward and Cregan is once again overwhelmed by your beauty for a moment. He would never get used to how much love he has in his heart for you.

The celebration falls silent and all attention is on you. "The children of the orphanage have prepared something for today. We hope you like it." you say, nodding encouragingly at the children. A small group of older children steps forward and start a play about the Children of the Forest.

Cregan is glad that the play frees him from a tiresome conversation with his stablemaster. He turns his gaze away from the children and looks at you. You stand there with a proud look and watch as the children happily perform their play. When it is over, everyone claps. The children bow and run back to you. Immediately, you are surrounded by the children. He hears how you praise them with a gentle voice.

As the children slowly start to disperse again, Cregan tries again to finally reach you. But once again, he is stopped. This time by Lady Cerwyn. Cregan would like to scream.

When he finally manages to detach himself from the talkative Lady without appearing rude, he vowes not to let himself be held back any longer from yoi .

He wants to talk to you for at least five minutes. To see your smile, hear your warm voice, and perhaps steal a few kisses from your soft lips.

Immediately, his gaze searches through the crowd. And when he finally sees you again, a hot jealousy immediately rise inside his veins.

You are currently dancing with Lord Rogar Bolton. A young lord who inherited Dreadfort only a few moons ago.

The sight of him leading you with practiced dance steps, his hand a little too low on your back for Cregans liking, drives him almost mad. And when you lean your head back and start to laugh joyfully Cregan sees red.

You and Lord Bolton look like a happy, loving couple. And the fact that you are wearing your father's colors makes it even worse. At that moment, nothing indicate that you are Lady Stark, that you are his wife.

"My Lord..." he hears the voice of the Maester beside him, but he can't engage in another pointless conversation right now. Without paying attention to the Maester, he sets off. His steps are heavy and he simply strides through the dancing people to reach you. When he finally reaches you, he simply grabs your waist and pulls you out of Lord Bolton's arms.

Startled by the interruption, you flinch, but as soon as you recognize him, your radiant smile reappears. "I'll take over from here. Thank you, Lord Bolton." he towers over the young man with his broad stature and he knows that his eyes are sparkling with anger. But he wants it like that. He wants to scare this man away. His grip on your waist tightens.

"My Lord," stammers Rogar and quickly turns away.

Cregan turns around and takes your hand while his other hand stays on your hip. He begins to move both of you to the music.

"There you are." you begin to smile happily. "I have the feeling I haven't seen you all day."

"Didn't look like it bothered you much." he can't help that his voice sounds annoyed. You furrow your eyebrows and look up at him.

"What?"

"You had a good chat with Bolton." Cregan grumbles. Your expression relaxes and you smile slightly again. You lift your hand and gently caress his cheek. Cregan closes his eyes for a moment and enjoys the touch.

"Are you jealous Love?" you ask, slightly amused. Cregan lets out a snort.

"Of course not," he lies. But the burning feeling inside him still hasn't completely disappeared. You raise an eyebrow and he concedes. "Maybe a little," he murmurs. "Why are you wearing this dress?"

For a brief moment sadness glimmers in your eyes, and at the sight, Cregan's heart tightens.

"You don´t like my dress?" you suddenly ask uncertainly.

"If I'm being honest, no. It has the wrong color wife."

Relief is reflected on your face. You wear your emotions on your face, and Cregan is glad about it.

"It's the color of my house," you say again now with a smile on your lips.

Cregan shakes his head slightly and pulls you closer to him by your hips. You place your hand on his broad chest. "The colors of your house are gray and white. You are Lady Stark. My wife." his voice is deep and he notices how you shiver in his arms. Your cheeks turn slightly red as you shyly lower your eyes. The jealousy slowly begins to fade and is replaced with something else.

"I am still your wife even when I don't wear your colors," you say then.

"Right, but then no one can see it."

You giggle softly and then look him in the eyes again. "Then we'll just have to show them differently."

You lean up, and in the next moment, your lips crash onto his and your hand buries itself in his dark hair. Cregan is surprised for a second by the intensity of your kiss. His heart begins to race. He pulls you a little closer to him as his tongue glides into your mouth. You moan softly against his lips, and Cregan would love to drag you back to the keep right away. You move your lips against his. Fits perfectly in his arms. Warmth floods through Cregan as he conquers your mouth.

You break apart breathlessly and Cregan sees over your shoulder how Lord Bolton turns away with an annoyed look. Triumph rises within him, and he cannot prevent a slight smile. You are his. Completely and utterly, and everyone should see that.

"Was that proof enough that I only love you?" you ask with a smile.

"I have never doubted your love. I just want everyone else to know that too."

You roll your eyes in laughter and intertwine your fingers with his. "Everyone knows it, Love. Believe me." you give him a quick kiss on the lips. Cregan's lips curl into a smile as he looks at his beautiful, loving wife.

"Lord Stark" someone calls out and Cregan grumbles in annoyance. He had indeed gotten five minutes with you, but of course that's not enough.

You give him a reproachful look before turning to the voice with a smile and pulling him along with you. The rest of the evening you don't leave his side for a second. Your hands are intertwined or he has his hand around your waist. Again and again, he steals a kiss from your lips or enjoys the feeling of your hand on his arm as you gently caress him.

That night, he makes sure you never wear the wrong color again as he tears your dress from your body before you unite in a passionate embrace between the sheets and furs of his bed