#Chambers Militant

[askjenetiakrole]

Expurgator Heavy Support Cadre

White Asp Cadre

Chamber of Judgment

Although a formidable military force in its own right, the Silent Sisterhood’s clandestine, undocumented actions outweigh their overt activity manyfold. It is purported that for every operation that has been described by the words of iterators or etched into the pict-plates of famed imagists, a hundred more have been conducted behind the veil of secrecy or scoured from record and memory alike. Expurgator Cadres are doubtlessly instrumental in ensuring knowledge of the activities of the Silent Sisterhood is controlled, purging and burning that which they wish to remain hidden. Upon the field of battle, these Sisters of Silence use their heavy weaponry to drive the foe from cover and destroy those that have defied the will of the Emperor.

- Liber Imperium (image by Ralph Horsley from Visions of Heresy)

[bubtans]

gonna unfollow all my topics on twitter when i get back except for cats and Buny so i can choose peace and no longer think about how much fandoms hate women!!! i'm choosing growth and healing!!!

[eff4freddie]

Sittin'

Joel Miller x F!Babysitter Reader No outbreak Joel Miller AU - Words: 10k

Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI

You're working your way through medical school, supporting yourself by taking the occasional babysitting gig. One local single Dad needs someone to look after his 10 year old daughter Sarah on nights when he's late back from the jobsite. And it's all fine and good until your neglectful boyfriend decides to crash the party. Warnings: small age gap (Joel is 32, reader is in medical school), reader is babysitting Sarah as a side hustle to support her studies, Sarah is cute, reader has a shit boyfriend, Joel is trying really hard to resist, exhibitionism, thigh-riding, praise, dirty talk, thigh-humping, oral (f receiving), fingering, general defiling of a perfectly good granite countertop, Joel has opinions about how a woman should be treated as is not afraid to demonstrate them.

A/N: My attempts at writing PWP almost always end up like 10k lol. Whatever, I like a good slow burn. If you enjoy, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you - Freddie x

It was a hot night, the latest in a long line. You knew you were lucky getting to spend some of your evenings over at the Millers, simply because it meant you got to sit under Mr Miller’s air conditioner, the box wedged firm into the window in the living room, little droplets of water condensing and running down the pane of glass underneath it. You’d put a dishtowel down to protect the carpet.

You knew you were lucky, too, because once Sarah went off to bed you could spread your books over Mr Miller’s kitchen table, listening to the buzzing of the fridge as you tried to memorise the functions of the lobes in the brain. In class, your biomedicine professor had blown up balloons and handed out sharpies, inviting her students to draw the lobes in the right place, and yours had popped when you pressed too hard on the occipital lobe, and your lab partner had laughed and said that it was ironic, but you couldn’t figure it: the motor cortex would have been ironic, this was just startling.

You cracked your neck, rolling your shoulders and looking over to the clock on the wall. Nearly 10:30 PM. Mr Miller would be coming back soon.

Sarah was a good kid, and some nights she stayed up to ‘help’ you study, mostly by pointing to pictures in your textbooks and asking you to explain them to her. She’d hated the full-page coloured illustration of the eye, but had been fascinated by the heart, trailing her finger along the arteries, into the chambers, tracing the pathway in and out again. You’d make a cardiologist of her, yet.

Tonight, she’d only made it to twenty minutes past eight, her eyes growing heavy as she turned the pages of your book. This one didn’t have as many pictures, and you could sense her fatigue in the stuffy air.

‘What kind of doctor do you want to be?’ she’d asked, and you’d pulled your hair up off your neck to try and get some air on your skin. You weren’t sure how to explain it without sounding gruesome, without giving her nightmares. She was only 10.

‘When people have emergencies and they have to go to the hospital right away, they need to see a doctor to patch them back up again…’ you’d said, and she’d stared at you with a tiresome expression on her face.

‘I’m not a baby,’ she said, disapproving. You smiled at her.

‘Trauma surgeon,’ you replied. She nodded her head, deeming your answer satisfactory, and taking herself up the stairs to bed.

She was one of the easiest kids you’d ever babysat for, and over the years you’d racked up quite a roster. You’d started in high school, first saving up enough for the prom dress right in the storefront window, and then later keeping yourself fed during your undergrad. When you’d moved to Austin you’d rented a studio apartment in the back garden of a little old lady, a woman who had revealed herself to be an excellent cook if militant about her hydrangeas. You’d letterboxed the neighbourhood and picked up a few odd jobs but nothing lasting, until the evening you’d got a call from a very frantic Mr Miller, who was so beside himself he only asked how quick you could get there and didn’t even ask about your rates.

It turned out Mr Miller got caught up at the jobsite some nights, staying back later than he expected with his little brother to finish framing, or guttering, or wiring. He was running out of favours with his neighbours, he’d explained, and Sarah was still too little to feed herself. You hadn’t minded, his deep southern drawl doing something to you even over the phone, such that you found yourself cancelling plans just to go and sit on his couch that very evening, textbook over your knees.

Some nights with Sarah tucked up fast asleep you’d stand and stare at the pictures of the two of them, her holding up a soccer trophy nearly twice her size, him standing with his hand in his pocket, his other over the shoulders of a younger man you assumed was Tommy. If you were feeling particularly bold, or were procrastinating especially hard, you’d extend a finger and run them up and down the strings of Joel’s guitar, resting sentinel against the windowsill. You imagined his fingers pushing into the fretboard, the strings indenting the flesh.

It wasn’t even that he was handsome, although he definitely was. He was a young father, doing it almost entirely alone, and on any other man that would have made for grumpy, for overly tired, for entitled. On Mr Miller it made for kindness, for a nurturing type of strength, corded tight under his skin. For a single dad always thinking about his daughter, only ever wanting the best for her. For a man focussed on doing right for his family, small as it was.

You rolled your shoulders, the pre-frontal cortex just about beating you for the night. Just as you were wondering if the Millers kept any ice cream in the freezer, you heard the key in the front door. You listened as Joel followed the same routine, first toeing off his boots, letting out a little grunt as the second one hit the floor. You heard him huff as he stretched his back, rolling his hips in a little circle to try and get some stretch into them, before dropping his keys on the table and padding, surprisingly light on his socked feet, into the kitchen.

‘Hey, Sweetheart,’ he said, his pet name for you emerging on only the second time you’d sat for him and still, even after this many months, causing your stomach to do a little flipper.

‘Evening, Mr Miller,’ you said, and he tutted at you, moving over to the fridge and extracting a beer.

‘Told ya not to call me that,’ he muttered, but you could see the grin behind it. ‘How was my girl tonight?’

‘Perfect, as always,’ you said, smiling at him as he poured you a glass of sweet tea from the jug in the fridge without bothering to ask if you wanted any. You accepted it gratefully, suddenly noticing how dry your throat had become.

‘She’s a good kid,’ he said. He sat down, heavy, in the chair opposite you. The ceiling lamp buzzed above you both, and the light bounced off the fine sheen of sweat accumulating on his arms, on his cheeks. He glowed, even if it was under a layer of exhaustion.

‘You look tired, Mr Miller,’ you said, and he cocked a little grin.

‘You sayin’ I look like shit, Sweetheart?’ he asked.

‘No, never,’ you said, instantly regretting how quickly, how fervently, you had responded. He continued to grin at you, lopsided, the dimple on his right cheek popping out to greet you.

‘What is it tonight?’ he asked, and you held up your book to him. ‘The bio-mech-an-ics-of-thought: phys-ee-ol-o-gee of the brain,’ he intoned, before letting out a low whistle. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he said.

‘It’s interesting,’ you defended, unsure why. ‘So long as there are diagrams,’ you added.

‘So that’s where the magic happens?’ he asked, gesturing to the illustrated image of the brain in the centre of the page you had been working from.

‘This is where thought happens,’ you nodded. ‘Kind of like…where decisions are made.’

‘Must be a woman’s brain,’ Joel deadpanned, taking a swig of his beer. ‘Can guarantee men make their decisions someplace else.’

You caught a glimpse of something dark in his eyes as he glanced over you. You blushed, swearing it was just the heat, and furious with yourself. This wasn’t like you; you weren’t some shrinking violet type. You’d had boyfriends, you’d had fun in college. You had no idea what it was about Mr Miller that made you immediately go all giggly, all girly, but whatever it was you wished it would fuck off.

The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence. You were used to this from him, the way his mind seemed to drift, the way he seemed content enough to let it. Gently, so as not to jolt him out of his thoughts, you closed your book, gathered your pens together. Everything tucked away in your bag you were surprised when you looked up to see he was watching you.

‘Apparently Sarah’s taken an interest in science,’ he said after a moment, his warm eyes watching yours for a second. You felt a tingle of pride in your chest.

‘Oh yeah?’ you asked.

‘Mmhmm, apparently after she pushed Simon Strzelecki off the monkey bars, she offered to patch him up again.’

You grinned before you were able to catch yourself.

‘That’s…very, umm…’ you trailed off and he huffed out a little laugh.

‘It’s very Sarah,’ he agreed.

‘M’sorry, Mr Miller…’ you started, but Joel stood up, waving you off.

‘Don’t be, Strzelecki’s a little shit’f the highest order,’ he said. ‘You gonna let me give ya a lift this time?’ he asked, and this time you shook your head at him.

‘No, I can walk it.’

‘Y’know I don’t like ya walkin’ around out there on yer’own,’ he grumbled, and you felt the insane urge to reach your hand out to rest on his bicep, to ease his evident discomfort.

‘I can handle it,’ you said, instead.

Something stole over his face for a moment, a sharpness in his eyes. For a moment you gazed up at him, the furrow in his brow deepening, the muscles in his jaw twitching as his eyes roamed over your face. Standing this close to him you were reminded how tall, how broad he really was. You dropped your eyes to his arms, crossed over his chest, and imagined him holding you with them, circling them around your back as you leant, safe, into his skin. You blinked yourself back to reality, worried for a second he could read your thoughts.

‘Know you can handle it,’ he said, his voice low, ‘just don’t like it, is all.’

You did this every time, this stand-off. You worried one night you would waver.

‘G’night, Mr Miller,’ you said, over dry lips. He nodded, once, at you, still evidently displeased something dark, something haunted, passing over his features before he brought them back into line.

He stood on the front porch, light still on, until you rounded his driveway and disappeared past the oak tree by the front lawn.

--

Mick was a guy from your Tuesday morning bio class, and you only realised he was your boyfriend when he introduced you to a few of his friends that way. You’d just gone with it, because it had seemed easier, and he was nice if a little full of himself at times. He was the son of the one the big ranching families, had been almost guaranteed a position at whatever college he chose on the day of his birth, hadn’t ever really considered that money was something you saved, something you worked for.

But he would never let you pay for dinner, and often he showed up to class holding a coffee just for you. You’d been on your own for a long time, had been self-sufficient well before you had any business to, and it was kind of nice to let yourself be cared for, if that’s what this was.

On nights when you had to work he would pout and complain, and you told yourself it was because he cared about you, because he wanted you around, even if some part of you knew he just didn’t like to be alone. Every once and while he would ask if he could come with you, ‘feel you up on the couch like it’s eighth grade’, and it made you feel exactly fourteen years old, like this was a summer job you had failed to grow out of. It didn’t help that he more than once referred to your sitting job as ‘cute’. His mother had stayed at home the moment she fell pregnant with Mick’s older brother, and as far as you could tell was yet to leave. You never asked about a future with Mick, terrified of what kind of picture he would paint.

On one such evening, after he’d been particularly insistent that you blow off your job and come and hang out with him and his friends, he’d starting blowing up your phone just as Mr Miller sat down beside you, weary-boned and sleepy-eyed, at his kitchen table.

You ignored the calls, tried to carry on reading even as Mr Miller arched his brow at your insistently vibrating device. You huffed, knowing at some point Mick would get bored.

‘You’re popular tonight?’ Joel prompted after a while, making you lose your place in the paragraph you’d read over at least ten times already.

You huffed out a sigh, reaching out and scrolling through the stream of notifications. He’d started texting, sometimes just sending a single emoji, sometimes entire paragraphs about how badly you were letting him down. You felt an ache bloom behind your right eye socket, and you reached up to your temple to try and massage it away.

‘It’s my boyfriend,’ you told him, and with your eyes still closed you didn’t see him scowl. ‘He wants me to come out to some bar with him and his drunk friends.’

Joel considered this for a long moment. When you opened your eyes they blurred under the sudden light, and you blinked away sleep to see him clearly again.

‘You should be out with your friends, it’s a Friday night…’ he said, almost looking guilty for a moment, and you rushed to reassure him.

‘No, no trust me…this is better. They’re boring when they’re drunk. And also when they’re sober.’

Joel smiled, straining just slightly, at this.

‘He a good man?’ he asked, and you scoffed a little.

‘He’s barely a man at all,’ you said, automatically. Later you’d reflect on this moment, feel it turn you inside out and scold your skin with the heat of your own shame. For now, though, you were too tired, and it was too hot in the kitchen, for you to catch it.

Joel caught it, though. He cleared his throat.

‘We met at college, and he’s…well, he’s kind of set up for life. He doesn’t have to worry about grades, or proving himself. He’s almost guaranteed his residency.’ You were aware you were starting to sound bitter, and maybe you were just a little. Something about Mr Miller, sitting at his kitchen table late in the evening with a beer, muscles wrapped in a plaid, his soft brown eyes watching you carefully, made you think he’d understand.

‘He doesn’t make you feel good enough for him?’ he asked, after a while.

You considered this, eventually shrugging your shoulders. ‘I don’t know if he makes me feel anything,’ you said, truthfully.

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table, his chin resting in his hand as he watched you, gazed at your face.

‘What do you want him to make you feel?’ he asked.

‘Seen,’ you said, without hesitation.

‘Just seen?’ he asked. His voice was deathly quiet now, almost entirely gravel. His eyes were burning, sharp. You watched as they darkened, stealing your breath out from under you.

‘Desired,’ you almost whispered. He dropped a hand to the table, his fingertips only inches from yours, resting casual on your textbook.

‘What man’s out there runnin’ round this town not desirin’ you?’ he asked, almost as though he couldn’t believe it, and you felt scorching heat on your cheeks, rushing down your sternum, pooling heavy in your core.

You blinked, terrified to move in case you broke whatever spell had befallen him. He turned thoughtful, his eyes dropping to the woodgrain of the table.

‘Y’been working a lot here…can’t imagine hanging out with me and a ten-year-old girl is the same as bein’ out there, living your youth…’

You felt something heavy shift in your belly, something essential curdle and erode.

‘I like it here, Mr Miller,’ you said, all big eyes and almost quivering lower lip. Joel moved away, sitting up straight and peeling the label off his beer.

‘Pretty thing like you, shouldn’t be spendin’ all night waitin’ on us,’ he said, almost to himself. You shook your head again, but he was closing off on you, you could see it in the way his shoulders were folding, the way his mouth was tugging down at the corners.

Without even considering it, operating almost entirely on instinct, you reached your hand out to rest on his bicep. You watched as his eyes drifted close, a long exhale through his nose. He grimaced, almost like you were hurting him, until he lifted his hand and held yours fast to him, wrapping his paw around you.

‘I really love spending time with Sarah,’ you said, just over a whisper, as he stared hard at the table. You could sense he was avoiding your gaze, and you wanted to say something to draw him to you, wanted to give him a little nugget of truth that he could take into himself, hold deep and quiet in his depths. ‘I love spending time with you,’ you said.

He raised his eyes to yours. His hand was so warm over yours, your cheeks so pink in the sleepless heat of the late evening. You saw his eyes fall to your lips and you slipped your hand from under his, reaching up to trace the contours of his jaw with your fingertips.

‘Baby…’ he whispered, ‘I been’ resistin’ you so long, don’t know if I can…’ and you pushed a finger to his lips. You didn’t want him to break whatever spell you were both suddenly under. Didn’t want him to take this from you both, whatever it was turning out to be.

‘Don’t argue,’ you instructed, quietly. With brows saddled, he nodded his head.

And he didn’t argue. Not when you moved your finger from his lips and traced it down over the hollow of his neck, over to his pulse where it thundered under your tough.

Didn’t argue when you leant forward, pressing your nose to his, giving him time to pull away, to move from your lips.

Didn’t argue when you pressed them to his, a little soft and quiet thing, earning you a wanting gasp from him, a prize you would hold in the cavity of your chest so long as your heart stayed beating.

Later, when you had gathered yourselves, when he had gazed at you and you had felt the want in him mixing with the regret, with the necessity of the un-having corrupting the want to take and take and take, you had simply gathered your books, tucking them quiet and neat into the bag at your feet. He didn’t argue with you about driving you home that night, suddenly quiet in a way that set your teeth on edge, and you felt an ache in your belly you couldn’t account for when he closed the door. You waited behind the trunk of the tree at the end of his driveway, counting the minutes he left the light on for you after you’d slipped from view, giving up when you got past 15.

--

You were unsettled. Joel hadn’t called for two weeks, and you were starting to worry that you’d ruined things, your silly little kiss bubbling corrosive at the base of your spine. You couldn’t help going over the whole evening again and again in your head.

You should have told him you preferred spending the nights at his house, that the way it smelt like play-dough and sometimes sawdust, sometimes pine, was so unique to the both of them that you felt your nerves settle the moment you stepped over the threshold. That the house was warm and quiet, that you could spread out your books and something essential to you, that in this space with them you felt more yourself than anywhere else on the planet, even locked away in your little studio apartment, even just you and your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

You wanted to tell him Sarah was funny, and smart, and kind, and being around her made you nostalgic for the childhood you never had but ached for, that you felt all that time with her she was giving you something precious and absent, something simple and something sweet. That there were nights you weren’t sure who was sitting who.

You wanted to tell him you didn’t expect anything from him, that it didn’t matter to you if nothing ever happened, if he regretted letting you kiss him, if it had just been that it was too awkward in the moment to say no. Just that you wanted to keep sitting for him, just that if all you got was a casual conversation at the end of the evening and an argument about driving home that would be enough for you, because it would have to be, and so you could make it so.

You begged off seeing Mick for the second Friday night in a row, wanting to be available in case Joel called. You felt silly but you could use the cash. Your textbooks were $400 a piece, and next semester you were taking three classes. Just feeding yourself was enough to stop your studies in their tracks.

Two things happened in the span of ten minutes. A knock at your door stirred you from your lecture notes, and your phone rang. By the time you had it in your hand you were holding Mick back from your face, your palm to his chest, as you craned your neck away from him to speak.

‘M’sorry, Sweetheart, it’s just…I know, it’s a Friday…’

‘It’s fine, Mr Miller,’ you said, ignoring the way Mick was making smoochy faces over your shoulder. ‘I don’t have any plans.’

When you got off the phone Mick was pouting again, and you sighed.

‘I thought I was your plans?’ he said, and you shrugged at him.

‘It’s good money for easy work, babe,’ you said, the nickname sitting heavy on your tongue.

‘I can give you money,’ he said, pulling you towards him by your belt loops and nipping at your jaw. You cringed away from him.

‘That would make me your whore, right?’ you said, and he grinned at you, wiggling his eyebrows.

‘Never seemed to bother you before…’ he said, and you bristled against him.

‘The fuck does that mean?’

“Oh, fuck me, babe, make me yours…” he imitated, his voice high in a general approximation of yours. You blushed, furiously. ‘You think good girls beg like little whores?’ he asked, and you knew he was kidding around, knew that he wasn’t smart enough to do it without outright insulting you, knew that you’d put up with this shit before so there was no reason why he wouldn’t assume he couldn’t get away with it now. You knew the way he spoke to you was basically your fault, and you couldn’t yell at him now that the precedent had been set. You felt yourself crumple, landing with a thump on the edge of your bed.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he was saying, grinning at you like he’d won his prize. ‘You put the kid to bed, and I’ll come by and keep you happy ‘til Dad gets home.’

You hated the idea, the thought of Mick in that space you’d almost come to think of sacred making your stomach churn.

‘No,’ you said, and you watched as he arched his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You can’t come in…’

‘Say no more,’ he said, grinning again, and for whatever reason, you didn’t.

--

He arrived, just after 9 PM, already drunk. You winced as he parked his car in the driveway, right in Mr Miller’s spot, worried for a moment he was going to swipe the mailbox when he took the angle too fast. He skidded to a stop mere inches from Mr Miller’s garage door and you exhaled, realising you were bracing for the sound of splintering wood. He ambled over to where you stood on the front porch, tugging at your shirt sleeves in the cool night air.

‘Babe!’ he called, and you shushed him almost instantly. He was carrying a sixpack of beers, three of them already gone. His breath reeked and you wrinkled up your nose when he slung his arm over the back of your neck and pulled you in for a sloppy kiss.

‘This feels like high school,’ he said, and giggled.

‘This is my job, y’know,’ you corrected him, but he wasn’t hearing you, backing you up against the side of the house. You thumped into the brick, wind temporarily knocked from your lungs before he was on you, slipping his entire tongue into your ear in a way that made your skin crawl.

‘Easy…’ you said, and he ignored you, his hand not holding the beers rising up to paw at your breast over your shirt.

‘Mmm…such a tasty little slut,’ he said, and you closed your eyes. ‘Little naughty baby-sitter.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ you stage-whispered, not sure how well your voices wouldn’t carry over the breeze in Mr Miller’s cul-de-sac. He leant down, resting the beers on the front porch so that he could grope you with both hands.

He groaned as he rubbed his cock at your clothed centre. You moved your face to the side, letting your eyes slide closed again.

You tried to think of a romantic movie. Tried to remember some of the fragments of the romance novels your mother had kept stowed under the bed and that you snuck into the den to read to your giggling friends. Tried to imagine a different man, a stranger’s hands on your chest, a stranger’s fingers pinching at your nipples. Tried to imagine what it would feel like if they found the sweet spot, if they sent electric shocks into your belly, into your cunt. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push the sound of Mick’s heavy breathing out of your mind, focusing instead on rough and calloused fingers, the scruff of a beard teasing along your skin. Heavy accent and sweet pine, a groaned little ‘Sweetheart…’ as he slipped your shirt up over your shoulders.

‘The fuck’s going on here?’ you heard a gruff voice as your eyes sprang open, pushing Mick from you hard enough that he stumbled, backwards, landing on the grass.

‘Mr Miller!’ you exclaimed, shame burning bright on your cheeks as you righted your clothes. ‘M’so sorry, he just dropped by…’ you started but Joel was striding up his driveway, as you realised with a new flash of guilt he’d had to park on the street.

‘Hey, man…’ Mick was saying, his hands up in front of his face. ‘Just checkin’ in on my girl…’

You cringed, this particular pet name always feeling more like ownership when it came from him.

Joel looked up at you, his brows saddled. ‘You OK, Sweetheart?’ he asked you, and you realised for the first time he wasn’t angry but concerned, his fists balled up like he was ready to spring to your defence.

‘It’s Mick,’ you explained, glancing down at him as he tried to climb to his feet, getting as far as his knees and settling there for a second to plan his next move. ‘He…he wanted to…’

‘Yeah, I saw what he wanted to,’ Joel huffed out, reaching down to pull Mick upright by the back of his shirt. ‘Saw the way you were bracing away from it too,’ he said, looking directly into Mick’s grinning face.

‘What else you see, old man?’ he asked, and Joel dropped him back onto his knees.

‘You got your keys?’ he asked him, and waiting for the younger man to root around in his pockets.

‘Don’t steal my ride,’ he said, handing them over and not noticing when Joel slipped them into his pocket.

‘M’going inside, and I’m gonna call you a taxi, and you’re getting in. She can drive your car back to you tomorrow mornin’…if she doesn’t decide to drive it off a cliff,’ he said, abandoning Mick on the front lawn and coming towards you, grabbing your wrist gentle but firm in his hand and pulling you inside. ‘C’mon, darlin’,’ he said, and you followed, almost entirely on autopilot.

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Miller,’ you started but he waved you away, placing a call for the taxi while keeping you fixed in your spot with his glare. When he was done, he rolled his shoulders, sighing.

‘You sit,’ he said, striding into the kitchen and emerging moments later with two glasses of sweet tea. You realised, as you lifted your hands to take your glass from him, that you were shivering.

‘I didn’t know he was going to do that,’ you said, and Joel shook his head. You felt the waves of disappointment rolling off him and you worried for a moment you might cry.

‘He always touch ya like that?’ he asked, palming at the back of his neck.

‘Like what?’ you asked, your cheeks burning again.

‘All…clumsy and…disrespectful,’ he said, quiet. He stared at the floor between you while you perched on the edge of the couch.

‘Well…’ you started, but you weren’t sure how you wanted to finish that sentence. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother to touch me at all, you thought.

Joel scoffed, his jaw squeezed tight. ‘Guys like that are all the same, Sweetheart, just…selfish. Even in the bedroom. No lady should be touched like she’s a piece of meat.’

You considered, for one crazy moment, if Joel wasn’t so much disappointed in you as he was in Mick’s prowess. Suddenly you had to stifle a giggle.

‘What’s so funny?’ Joel asked you, surprised.  

‘Just…I mean, they all go to such fancy schools, get all that college for basically free…’ you started, trailing off when you saw him starting to smile. ‘He can’t even boil an egg, and I don’t mean mine,’ you said, and he laughed then, free and loud, and the sound of it made a little fizzle of joy spark up your spine.

This was fun, you realised, shitting on your terrible boyfriend with the most handsome single Dad you’d ever laid your eyes on. This was really, really fun.

‘So, I take it he don’t make you breakfast in the mornin’,’ Joel joked, and you snorted. ‘What you eat for breakfast, anyway?’ he asked, turning to you now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You swallowed. ‘No, wait,’ he said, ‘let me guess.’ He pretended to look you up and down, his brow arching as he considered. ‘You’re not a waffles kinda girl,’ he said, thoughtfully. You grinned and shook your head. You’d never liked the sponginess. ‘But you’re too fun for plain old oatmeal,’ he said, and you felt a blush crawling across your chest. ‘You’re a pancake princess,’ he decided, finally. ‘Am I right?’

You pretended to consider it for a second before nodding happily at him. ‘Maple syrup and berries,’ you agreed.

‘Maple syrup and berries,’ he said, grinning in his victory. He paused, something passing between you. Suddenly he shifted forward, his knees just barely brushing yours. You found yourself mirroring him, leaning in enough that you had to put your hand out to steady you, landing it on the cushion only inches from his thigh. You could feel his warm breath on your cheek when he whispered in your ear, ‘tart…but a little bit of sweet for m’sweetheart.’

You felt heat scorch its way up your chest, reduced to kindling beside him.

‘Bet he don’t kiss ya like ya should be,’ he said, and you thought for a second of Mick, grinning and drunk out of his mind on the front lawn. You wondered if the taxi had come for him yet, and had absolutely no interest in going out to check on him.

‘Mr Miller…’ you whispered, and he groaned, then, his eyes rolling back in his head.

‘Please, baby, when you call me that…’ he trailed off, eyes blown wide and you felt, then, the thundering in your chest. From this distance you could see his racing pulse in his neck, the same pace as yours.

‘Mr Miller…’ you said, again, staring now at his lips. You wanted to reach out and just take a little nibble.

And he was on you, grasping the back of your head and bringing it down to him, crashing his lips into yours as you gasped, swallowing the echo down into his throat. His tongue, scorching hot, exploring your mouth as he teased it open, the scruff of his beard tickling your cheeks.

‘Thought about you…’ you said, without even thinking, and Joel pulled back a second to appraise you; your swollen lips, your doe-eyes gazing up at him.

‘Say that again,’ he mumbled.

‘When he’d take me, I’d think about you,’ you said, and you watched as his eyes fell shut, taking the moment to glance down at his heaving chest, the aching bulge between his legs. ‘Thought about your hands on me, Mr Miller, about your mouth.’

‘Fuck, Sweetheart…’ he said, almost as if it pained him, before his eyes snapped back open to gaze at you.

‘Kiss me?’ you asked, sweet as you could for him while you tried with both hands to hang on to the moment, to stay here in it with him. You would need to remember this, every corner of the room, every detail. Would spend nights reconstructing his face in your mind, the way he was looking at you now, wanting and red-cheeked, dark eyes and a hot little huff as your words landed their blows on him.

‘Canna touch you, baby?’ he asked, and you were nodding, pulling him towards you as he slid his hands over your waist. Threading your hands through his hair he brought you over him, straddling him on the couch as he stared up at you, brows arching high, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. You smiled at him, feeling like his prize, as you brought your hips down on him and watched his eyes ease shut, heard his breath stutter. He was big, you could feel it even as the seam of his jeans rubbed at your core. You could feel yourself aching for him, hot and pounding where you ground yourself down.

‘Fuck, Mr Miller…’ you gasped as you felt him push his cock up into you, his hands on your hips and pulling you down.

‘So beautiful, baby,’ he whispered, reaching up with one hand to cup your breast, squeezing the nipple between his fingers that, even through your shirt, shot lightning bolts to your cunt. You gasped, a high-pitched little sound you were sure you’d never made before, and he soaked it down into his skin, kept it held tight and precious in the core of him, to keep him warm on cold evenings.

You felt yourself shivering, even as his warm fingertips dropped to lift the hem of your tee and trace their way back up to your tits along the skin. His enormous hands almost completely captured it, and you felt small, then, and shy, but when you looked down into his warm, brown eyes you saw only safety there, only naked desire for your pleasure.

You let your hips roll, that building ache in your core. You’d only ever felt this alone, had never had another person bring it out of you, and you felt the sharp edges of it as you felt a shard of panic slice through your gut. No one had ever done this for you, before. You weren’t sure if your body would allow it, weren’t sure if you could let go enough to fall.

‘Hey…’ Joel said beneath you, his eyes roaming your face. ‘Relax, Sweetheart,’ he whispered, reaching his hand from your hip to your jaw, pulling you down to rest your forehead on his. ‘Just you n’me, baby,’ he whispered as you rocked on top of him. ‘You can take what you need,’ he promised. ‘I got you.’

‘Joel!’ you gasped, the shiver in your body now ratcheting up your spine, your thighs burning as you rolled your hips on his lap, his cock still tucked away in his jeans. ‘I don’t know if I…’

‘Sssh…’ he cooed, raising a thumb to your lips and slipping it between your teeth. You sucked instinctually, swirling your tongue over the tip and letting your eyes drift closed. ‘Just feel it, baby,’ he said, ‘don’t force it. Let it grow.’

Never in your life had you felt like this. You took his thumb between your teeth as you ground, the spark of fear in your belly engulfed by the roar of your desire. You could feel your hips stuttering, could hear yourself starting to pant.

‘Good girl…’ Joel encouraged, slipping his thumb from your mouth now and smearing it across your lips. ‘Right here for ya, baby,’ he said. ‘Wantchya to feel so good.’

You cried out, smacking your hand over your mouth to stifle your cries. He was going to kill you, and you would let him again and again, let him bring you back to life just to kill you this way all over again. You had no idea bodies were made to feel this good.

‘Oh!’ you gasped, all the warning you could muster as he grabbed your hips with both hands, slamming his bulge up into you as he pulled you down, the seam of his jeans rubbing hard into your clit. ‘Yes!’ you whispered, your body shuddering as you felt yourself crest, the pleasure roaring from your cunt to your chest, exploding out of your skin as you rolled, roiled, boiled on top of Mr Miller.

‘Jesus, there she is…’ he whispered, and you opened your eyes to gaze down at him, your breath still coming in gasps as he watched you, awe and desire on his face. ‘There she is,’ he said again, like a prayer, a benediction.

--

You woke slowly, the dappled light streaming in through the oak tree beside Joel’s window. It took you a moment to orient yourself, to remember that you were in his bed because he’d considered it too late for you to take yourself home, even if you had Mick’s car. Because the pleasure he’d wrung out of you on his couch had left you boneless, because the idea of ripping yourself from his smell, from his heat, was unthinkable in that moment.

You stretched, noting that the other side of the bed remained made, that he had spent the night on the couch. You remembered that you had wanted to ask him to stay, that the words had formed on your lips, and that in that moment you saw the regret on his face, the longing to tuck himself in beside you and pull you into his chest, let the weight of the night take him and you with him, but that he wouldn’t allow it, that he was holding back. You weren’t sure why, but you assumed out of decency, out of respect. Out of some vague employee-boss professionalism you would both cling to in an attempt to paper over the grasping maw of desire opening up between you.

You had wanted him, and you had denied him, allowed him to deny you. You rolled to your back in a frustrated huff, surrounded by the scent of him, of his cologne and the scent of his skin imbued in the sheets beneath you.

After a while you heard noises in the kitchen and you left your cocoon, pulling your clothes on and padding down the stairs constructing a cover story for Sarah as to why you were still there. When you rounded the corner, though, you saw only Joel –in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, standing at the stove.

‘Hey, Sweetheart,’ he said casually, as if you hadn’t come on his lap less than twelve hours before, ‘Sarah’s headed off to soccer practice, so you and me’ll have to take care of all these.’

He gestured over his shoulder to the kitchen table, where a stack of cooling pancakes stood proud. You felt a shiver of shock run though you at the sight of them, turning to Joel with the curl of tears tickling the back of your eyes. ‘No berries, sorry darlin’,’ he said, without looking up. ‘But we got enough syrup to make it up to ya, I hope.’

You weren’t sure anyone had ever done anything like this for you. You wanted to sob, wanted to walk over to the table and pick up the pancakes in your fists and mash them into your skin, wanted to drown them in syrup and eat until your belly distended, wanted to force feed them into Joel. Instead, you stepped forward, your arms opening all of their own accord, wrapping yourself around his back like a Koala. He huffed out a surprised laugh, growing serious when he turned you in his arms to face him, seeing the gathering tears at your waterline.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ he asked, and you grinned, watery, up at him.

‘No-one has ever…’ you started, catching your words before they spilled too much of the truth. Understanding passed over Joel’s face.

‘Oh, my sweet girl…’ he said, and you glowed for a minute, the words reaching down into your chest and igniting something long extinguished.

He leaned down towards you, pressed his nose to yours, his forehead resting gently on yours. You inhaled him, his scent and the sweet smell of the pancakes on the stove, tried to imprint the memory deep in your DNA.

‘What the fuck is this?’ an angry voice sounded from behind you, and you snapped away from Joel, taking several steps back. Mick, still in his same clothes from the night before, stood furious in Joel’s kitchen.

‘The fuck, you let yourself in?’ Joel asked, matching Mick’s anger with his own. ‘This is a private residence, man.’

‘That’s my girlfriend, man,’ Mick spat, his face twisting into an ugly mask you weren’t sure you’d ever noticed on him before. ‘The fuck you doing feeling her up? You stealin’ my car and my girl?’

‘Mick…’ you started but he was ignoring you, advancing on Joel. You stepped towards him, hands up to placate, but Joel was suddenly beside you, tucking you behind him and shielding you with his broad chest.

‘Back up, buddy,’ Joel said, a whispered warning.

‘Me, back up?’ Mick seethed, about to go on before Joel interrupted him.

‘Yeah, you back up. You need to sit your arse down and learn yourself somethin’,’ he said, advancing on Mick so that the younger man took several steps backwards, heading towards the kitchen table. You wondered if anyone had ever actually stood up to him, if usually his wealth was enough to make people cower. He backed into a kitchen chair, slamming down into it with a thud as he stared up at Joel, the older man red faced and pointing a finger at his chest. ‘You think that little display last night was any way to treat a woman?’ he grit out. You watched as Mick shook his head no. ‘You think she enjoyed that, being pawed at in the dark like a fuckin’ street walker?’ he asked.

‘She looked pretty whorish a few seconds ago,’ Mick responded, petulant and stupid. You could see by the way Joel braced his shoulders, his back expanding in resplendent fury, that Mick had made the wrong fucking choice.

‘Ya little shit,’ Joel said, stepping back from Mick and towards you. He held his arm to you, beckoning you into his chest and you went to him, tucking yourself against his side.

‘You have a woman like this, you fuckin’ cherish her,’ Joel muttered, tracing his fingertips along your side and making you shiver. ‘Look at these pretty little tits,’ he said, moving to cup them as you blushed, tucking your face into his neck. You heard Mick’s sharp intake of breath, mirroring your own as Joel rolled your nipples through your shirt. ‘The way you were grabbin’ at ‘em last night, you think that felt good? You make her groan like this?’ he asked, applying just the right amount of pressure on the sensitive nubs, eliciting a moan from you, unbidden.

‘Listen, man, this is…’ Mick started but Joel cut him off with just a look, stern and disapproving, before his face shifted back to adoration when he turned to you.

‘Let’s show him, baby?’ he asked, his brows saddled high. You knew you were safe with him, that at any moment you could call it off, but you wanted this. You wanted Mick to see what Joel could do to you, the sounds you could make. Wanted him to feel small and insignificant in the presence of a real man, of real pleasure. Wanting him to see what money couldn’t buy.

You nodded your head at Joel and watched as the grin bloomed over his face. ‘M’good girl,’ he said, quiet enough that only you could hear it, and you felt the bolt of want shoot down into your core. Your cunt already aching, already dripping for him.

‘Show me where,’ he said, stepping back as you surveyed the space. You nodded towards the kitchen island, the bench just above your hip height. Joel nodded, lifting you up easily to perch on the edge, your body facing Mick as he sat, frozen, at the table in front of you.

‘Slip these off, baby,’ Joel said, tugging at your sweatpants and you lifted your hips as he slipped them, your panties along with them, out from underneath you. The granite countertop cold on the top of your thighs you revelled in the sensation of it, the hard, cold surface so different to Joel’s hot body as he hovered at your side.

‘Show him,’ he said, tapping you on the knee. You spread your legs, hooking one thigh over the edge of the counter and the other widening out to your side, your cunt unfolding before the two men in front of you. You watched as Mick’s face turned pink, sweat appearing on his brow. You turned to look at Joel, the hunger in his eyes as he devoured every inch of your skin. He reached over, running his fingertips over the inside of your thigh, moving closer to you, leaning over your body to whisper into your ear.

‘You’re dripping onto my countertop, baby,’ he said, and you could hear the glee in it, the wanting.

‘For you, Joel,’ you clarified. ‘Not him.’

‘Nah, never for him, I reckon,’ Joel agreed, his fingers slipping further towards your slit. You felt totally exposed and wanton, whorish, as Mick had put it, and your cunt was pulsing, aching from the desire of it. You felt like a priceless piece of art admired in a big city museum, like a stripper opening up her legs for hoards of braying men, like a girlfriend letting her disappointing boyfriend know in no uncertain terms he would no longer neglect her. You felt power coursing through your veins and into your cunt, your slick pooling on the top of your thighs as the most beautiful man you had ever seen stood beside you and teased the pleasure from every nerve.

‘Fuck…’ you whimpered as Joel’s fingers landed light and dexterous on your clit, the little bundle of nerves sending the pleasure roaring through your core and into your chest. You bucked your hips, nearly slipping from the countertop, Joel coming forward again to brace you against his chest.

‘God, look how much she wants it,’ Joel said over your head to Mick. ‘Bet you’ve never made her jump like that.’ You opened your eyes, not even having realised they’d closed, to watch Mick swallow hard and heavy. You beamed back at Joel, letting the pride in his face radiate warmth down upon you.

‘So good f’me, so good t’me,’ he said, spreading your lips apart with his fingers and pushing a fingertip inside. You gasped, shock on your face at the intensity of the need for him burning where he touched.

‘Please…’ you whimpered, just wanting more and just wanting him to never stop, just wanting him to reach inside you, to wring the pleasure out of you, to make you come so hard you forgot your own name.

‘Sshh…’ he cooed to you, ‘your boyfriend needs to concentrate so he can learn.’

You emitted a squeal of frustration, bucking your hips on his hand to try and draw him in, earning you only a chuckle from Joel.

‘Ok baby, m’sorry. Just like teasin’ ya,’ he grinned at you, before sliding two fat, rough fingers hard into your cunt.

For a second you lost touch with reality, your head flying back to the ceiling as sensations strong enough to take your breath roared from your cunt. The stretch was delicious, the heel of Joel’s hand rubbing hard at your clit as his fingers reached deep inside you, opening you up for him, your slick gathering in his palm.

‘Look how wet she gets,’ Joel noted, over his shoulder to Mick. ‘Such a shiny little cunt when she’s drippin’ like this. You ever work her up like this?’

You heard Mick grunt, a pleading note of displeasure, and you sighed as Joel started pumping, stoking the fire in your cunt that threatened to eviscerate you and everyone within the vicinity.

‘Joel!’ you gasped, rolling your hips again, trying to shove him deeper into your greedy little cunt as it grasped at him.  

‘Could lick ‘er up, whatchyu reckon?’ Joel asked, already getting down on his knees as you groaned, certain now he was going to send you into the stratosphere. ‘Can I, baby?’ he asked, and you nodded, frantic, unable to form words.

‘Bet she tastes sweet,’ Joel said to Mick, who was inching closer in his chair, peering over Joel’s shoulder as your cunt swallowed his thick fingers. ‘Like watermelon on a hot summer day. You ever taste her, Mick?’ he asked. You watched as the shame bloomed over Mick’s face. Joel scoffed. ‘Course not, ya fuckin piss weak little prick,’ he spat before turning, diving in to lick a fat stripe at your folds, settling in to lap at your clit as his fingers worked you.

You screamed, sucking in huge lung-fulls of breath just to let them keen out of you, your hips slamming shut on Joel’s head as he sucked at you, every nerve ending screaming now as you felt the blooming heat of release.

‘Oh, he’s gonna make me…’ you said to Mick over Joel’s shoulder, watching you with owlish eyes.

‘Don’t talk to him,’ Joel admonished you, pulling your focus down to him as he perched between your legs, ‘you talk to me,’ he said.

‘Sorry, Mr Miller,’ you said, watching as his eyes rolled shut, a shiver passing over his shoulders.

‘Be the death of me…’ he muttered, returning his attentions to your pulsing cunt. You gripped his hair, rolling your hips on his face and rocking into him, chasing the release now gathering at the base of your spine.

‘Jesus…oh, fuck…’ you cried, trying desperately to warn him, your eyes slamming shut only to open in shock as he found new ways to wring the pleasure from you.

Joel worked you up, his tongue never fatiguing, setting up the perfect rhythm to hold you just on the edge. You could feel your sweat pooling on your skin, the heat in your cunt spreading down your legs, the pull of the knot in your belly.

To your utter dismay Joel stopped, lifting his face to address Mick at his shoulder. ‘You ever make her squirm like this?’ he asked, and you cried for him, then, scrabbling to grip his shoulders, his chin, to push him back to your desperate cunt. He laughed, nipping at your fingertips as they passed by. ‘Look at her graspin’ for me. You seein’ this? This is what real pleasure looks like.’

You cracked open an eye, the room spinning around you as you fought to regain control of your limbs. You saw the look of shame embedded deep into Mick’s face now, the sight of it somehow intensifying your pleasure, the building pressure in your cunt.

‘Fuck me,’ you gasped, turning your attention back to Joel, his eyebrows shooting up. ‘Show him how to fuck,’ you groaned, pushing off the countertop and spinning up onto your toes, laying chest down on the granite now hot to the touch from your writhing body on top of it. You spread your legs a little, knowing that your puffy little cunt lips would be revealed to them both, and you heard them both groan, Joel’s chesty moan full of grit, Mick’s high pitched and brimming with regret.

‘Don’t do this, man…’ he pleaded, and you heard Joel’s little scoff.

‘That’s the thing, buddy, the lady always gets what she wants.’

You felt him come to stand behind you, heard the rustle of his sweats as he pulled his cock over the waistband. It took everything in you not to turn and admire it, knowing in that moment you would have plenty of opportunity.

‘Fuck, she’s got me weepin’,’ Joel said, and you heard the unmistakable sound of skin on skin as he wrapped his hand around himself and tugged. ‘Got me harder than a railroad spike, this little cunt…’ he muttered. You whined, swivelling your hips to try and entice him, begging him to move faster as the walls of your cunt fluttered for him. You heard him sigh, a happy little sound. ‘Ok, baby, I’m here,’ he said, running a hand up your spine to hold you gentle and firm at the back of your neck, the head of his cock nudging at your cunt. ‘Gotta be gentle with my sweet little pussy,’ he said to you, leaning over you to place a chaste kiss in the cup of your shoulder blade.

‘Please, let him see it stretch me,’ you said, and you felt Joel shudder, notching himself at your entrance.

‘Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll chain him up in the basement, make him watch me fuck you every day,’ he muttered, pushing gently at first, the tip enough to make you gasp.

He was big, you realised. All of this time working you up he’d been leading to his moment, preparing to tease you open. ‘Oh, shit…’ you gasped as he pushed.

‘You ok, baby?’ he asked, pausing until you nodded, frantic, hands gripping at the edge of the counter for purchase as you pushed back into him, sliding in a few extra inches, as Joel moaned.

You were dimly aware that Mick was moving, coming to stand in front of you, a look of sorrow and unabashed heat on his face.

‘Please, can I?’ he asked, rubbing himself through his pants and you swatted him away.

‘No, fuck you,’ you said, emboldened by Joel’s desire for you, by his cock currently splitting your folds. ‘You never get this pussy again,’ you hissed at him, and you felt a bloom of pride at the look of hurt crossing his face just as Joel cheered from behind you.

‘That’s my beautiful girl!’ he gasped, bringing a finger to your clit and rubbing tight circles into it, making you gasp as you let your head fall, resting on the countertop. ‘So good f’me.’

The burn in your cunt from the way he stretched you abated, the pleasure Joel was giving you from your clit causing more slick to gather, your cunt grasping him again, your walls fluttering as you felt the ache turn to sweet pleasure, to a blooming rapture.

You lost touch with the ground, Joel’s harsh thrusts pushing you further up the counter, completely at his mercy as your legs hung useless beneath you, hands braced against the granite to give him purchase. In this moment, spread out on his cock, your cunt open and dripping for him, the pleasure ripping the words from your brain, gasps racking your throat, you felt completely under Joel’s spell, his touch, his heat. Mind-numb, thoroughly fucked out, gripped in this moment between the build up and the threshold of release.

‘Oh, you’re gonna make me…’ you warned but Joel had you, was there already with you.

‘I know, baby, I know,’ he grunted between thrusts. ‘Can feel it, can feel that sweet little cunt grippin’ me.’

You cried out, nodding your head furiously, entirely at his mercy now. ‘Yes, yes��Joel, it’s gonna…’

‘Let it go, baby,’ he moaned, and you felt none of the panic, none of the terror at your impending release, wrapped up safe in Joel’s body, in his groans of rapture, in the pull of the knot as it threatened to snap entirely.  

‘Watch me make her come,’ he spat out over your head, and you were only dimly aware of what he was saying as your release sped towards you.

You writhed, your breath stolen from you by the roar of the wildfire across your chest. The push of your orgasm slipping you under, crashing your body into the shore, rolling and quaking underneath it as indescribable lust coursed through your veins.

‘Oh, fuck, there she goes,’ Joel spluttered, his hips stuttering as he started to deepen his thrusts. ‘Gonna fill up ya girl,’ he grit out, his final movements sloppy and desperate as he approached the edge.

‘Do it, baby,’ you whimpered beneath him, words finally able to escape the cage of your throat. ‘Need you.’

He did, then, his come exploding into you and washing you clean, cleansing you of Mick, of all your disappointments, of all your fears. You looked back over your shoulder at him as he crested, his eyebrows saddled and his eyes trained on you, a look of reverence and hunger, of sweet shock, as though he couldn’t believe how good it felt either, as if everything for him was also slotting into place, as if he knew in this moment he would never let anyone separate you, would never let anyone take you from his side, that in his moment you were his just as much as he was yours, that this was a forging of something solid and essential, something vital and something precious, something that was just for you.

--

You didn’t remember Mick leaving. Didn’t care to say goodbye.

Joel had peeled you off the counter and carried you upstairs, drawn you a bath and lowered you gently into the water, sat beside you and washed your body as you lulled in and out of a light sleep.

Drying you off he wrapped you up in his clothes, swamping you in cotton and his scent, before promising to make you a fresh batch of pancakes. You hadn’t let him, whimpering when he tried to leave your side, pulling him down beside you on the bed and wrapping his arms around you.

Later you would figure out lunch, and then Sarah, and then the rest of your lives. For now, you had each other, and cool sheets, and the light patter of rain as a welcome cool breeze blew new life over the garden beneath Joel’s window.

[wolf-tail]

Some poor chapter serf watching Rogue Trader Militant Lady Yassilli of House Sulymanya, the mysterious xenos priestess Yvraine, the even more mysterious Farseer Elrad Uthran, and the Esteemed Archmagos Belisarius Cawl walk out of the Lord Primarch Guilliman's personal chambers looking rather disheveled, followed by the Primarch with strange bruises around his neck, his robes on inside out, and his legs shaking:

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

A Tyrell in the Lion's Den (Part 6)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Word count: 3.4k

Pairing: Tywin Lannister x Tyrell!reader

Summary: Tommen and Margaery's wedding serves as a backdrop for Tywin Lannister's strategic maneuvering to form alliances while addressing the rising influence of the Faith Militant. In a private moment, Tywin confesses to Y/n his past misjudgments

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I awoke to the faint light of dawn streaming through the grand windows of our chambers. Tywin was already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, his mind clearly at work on whatever scheme or strategy would occupy his day. He had always been a man who thrived on discipline, even in the quiet moments of our life together.

I reached out and placed my hand on his back, feeling the tension there, the weight of his responsibilities. “Are you already thinking about what comes next?” I asked softly.

Tywin turned his head slightly, offering me a rare, fleeting smile. “Always,” he replied. “But today is different.”

“How so?”

He stood and began fastening the rest of his tunic, the crimson and gold of his Lannister sigil standing out starkly against his broad frame. “Today, we announce our intentions for the future. The court will see that our union isn’t just a marriage of convenience but the start of something much greater.”

I knew what he meant. Our marriage wasn’t just a consolidation of power—it was a statement. Together, we would rule over King’s Landing as the hand of the King in ways that others had only dreamed of.

But for all of Tywin’s careful planning, there was something weighing heavily on my mind. His children, specifically Cersei and Jaime, remained a wild card in our future. Cersei’s hatred for me was evident, and though Jaime maintained a polite distance, there was a coldness in his demeanor that could not be ignored.

And then there was Tommen—innocent, sweet Tommen, whose fate now intertwined with Margaery’s ambitions. The future of our families lay before us like a delicate web, one that could easily unravel if not handled with care.

When Tywin and I descended into the throne room later that day, the courtiers were already gathered, their eyes flickering between us with a mixture of curiosity and thinly veiled jealousy. I had grown accustomed to the murmurs that followed me wherever I went, the whispers of power and influence that came with being the new Lady Lannister.

As we approached the Iron Throne, I could feel the weight of their gazes upon me. Tywin, ever the strategist, walked with the confidence of a man who had already won the game before it had even begun. He had no need to flaunt his authority—it was understood.

The small council had gathered, along with the nobility of King’s Landing, each eager to see what would unfold next. I stood by Tywin’s side, my hand resting lightly on his arm, a silent display of unity.

Varys, standing in his usual place at the foot of the throne, offered me a small, knowing smile. The Spider had already tried to warn me about the dangers of the game, and though I had not heeded his advice, I was acutely aware of the risks involved in my new position. He would no doubt be watching closely, waiting to see if I would rise or fall.

Cersei stood near the dais, her face a mask of indifference, though the tension in her posture betrayed her feelings. She hated this new reality—hated that her father had taken another wife, a younger wife, who threatened to upend the delicate balance of power she had fought so hard to maintain. I knew better than to underestimate her, but for now, she was simply another player in this endless game.

As the days passed, preparations for Tommen’s marriage to Margaery began in earnest. Margaery was already deeply entrenched in Tommen’s affections, her gentle manipulation working wonders on the young king. I had seen her in action, her sweetness never failing to bring a blush to Tommen’s cheeks, her laughter like music to his ears.

There was no doubt that Margaery would be the perfect queen for him—ambitious yet nurturing, capable of guiding Tommen without him ever realizing he was being led. I admired her skill in that regard; it was a delicate dance, one she performed with precision and grace.

Tommen had taken to me as well, his shy affection for his new grandmother a refreshing change from the coldness of his siblings. He often sought me out in the quieter moments of court life, asking for advice or simply enjoying the company of someone who, unlike Cersei, did not seek to dominate him.

One afternoon, as we walked through the gardens with Ser Pounce trailing behind us, Tommen turned to me, his youthful face full of earnestness. “Do you think I’ll be a good king?”

His question gave me pause. He was so young, so innocent, and yet the weight of the crown already rested heavily on his small shoulders. Taking his hand in mine. “You are kind, Tommen. That is something many kings lack. And you have a good heart. That will guide you when times are difficult.”

He looked up at me with wide, trusting eyes. “And Margaery?”

I smiled gently. “Margaery will help you. She is wise beyond her years, and she cares for you deeply. Together, the two of you will rule with both strength and compassion.”

Tommen seemed comforted by my words, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness for him. He was the future of the realm, and Margaery would ensure that future was bright.

As Tywin’s new wife, it was expected by him that I would sit beside him during meetings of the small council. Though I had no official position of power, my presence was a statement in itself—one that reminded the court that I was not merely a decorative piece, but a partner in Tywin’s ambitions.

One such meeting took place shortly after our marriage. As the council gathered to discuss the state of the realm, I could feel the eyes of each member flickering toward me, gauging my influence. Tywin, ever the master of control, did not openly acknowledge my presence, but he made sure I was seated at his right hand, a subtle show of support.

As the meeting unfolded, talk turned to Dorne and the fate of Myrcella. Oberyn Martell’s death had left a bitter taste in the mouths of the Dornish, and there were whispers of rebellion stirring in the south. Some of the council members urged Tywin to recall Myrcella, to bring her back to the safety of King’s Landing.

Tywin, however, remained resolute. “Myrcella will stay in Dorne,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. “The Martells may be unhappy with recent events, but they will not harm her. She is their future queen, and they will not jeopardize that.”

There was silence in the room, and I felt the weight of Tywin’s decision settle over us all. It was a bold move, one that would either solidify our position in Dorne or lead to further unrest. But I trusted Tywin’s judgment—he had never steered the Lannisters wrong before, and I had no reason to doubt him now.

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The day of Tommen and Margaery's wedding dawned bright and warm, the skies over King's Landing a rare, cloudless blue. The air was thick with anticipation, for this wedding was not just a union of two young people, but a carefully orchestrated display of power. As I prepared myself for the event, donning a gown of deep emerald and gold, I felt the weight of it—the significance of every detail, every whispered conversation, every strategic alliance that would be formed beneath the guise of celebration.

The Sept of Baelor had been adorned in flowers, tapestries, and banners bearing the sigils of both the Lannisters and Tyrells. Margaery had spared no expense, and the result was a breathtakingly beautiful scene—designed to distract from the undercurrent of tension that ran through the court. Every noble in the realm had gathered to witness the marriage, and though the smiles and laughter were plentiful, there were whispers of darker things on the horizon.

Tommen stood at the front of the sept, resplendent in his regal attire, the weight of his crown almost too much for his youthful frame. Beside him, Margaery was radiant in a gown of pale gold and ivory, her beauty and charm undeniable. She had captured the heart of the young king, as she had intended, and now the Seven Kingdoms would witness the formal cementing of her power as queen.

I sat with Tywin in the front row, my hand resting gently on his arm, a subtle reminder of our unity. Around us, the small council and prominent lords and ladies of the realm observed the proceedings with a mixture of awe and calculation. Tywin's gaze was unreadable, though I knew his mind was already working through the next steps—how to secure the future, how to eliminate threats, and how to ensure the Lannisters' continued dominance.

But as I watched her glide down the aisle, her beauty and grace captivating every eye in the sept, I knew this wedding was only the surface of the true game being played. Beside me, Tywin's gaze was steady, his mind likely working through the intricate webs of alliances and rivalries that today’s ceremony masked. He would make his moves soon, aligning the right houses to ensure Lannister control. Yet, amid it all, I sensed something darker stirring beneath the surface.

After the ceremony, we were seated at the grand feast that followed, the hall filled with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets. I could feel the weight of the court’s attention on us—on me, especially. As Lady Lannister now, my role had shifted, and every word I spoke or movement I made would be watched with interest. I was not only the wife of Tywin Lannister, but also a vital piece in the future he was building.

Tywin wasted no time. I watched as he spoke quietly with my father, their conversation quick but full of meaning. Lord Randyll Tarly, a man known for his loyalty to the Tyrells, was engaged soon after. Tywin knew exactly who needed to be reminded of their place, of their ties to the Lannisters, and he did it with the grace and subtlety that only he possessed.

As the evening wore on, Tywin turned his attention to something we both knew had been festering for some time—the Faith of the Seven and its growing influence. The High Sparrow, though not present at the wedding, was a name whispered with increasing frequency, a man whose asceticism appealed to the poor and the discontented. Tywin leaned close, his voice a low murmur that only I could hear.

"They are gaining too much power, these fanatics. If we do not deal with them soon, they will become a threat far more dangerous than any army."

I nodded, knowing that the Faith's sudden rise was no accident. "What will you do?"

"I'll speak with the High Septon," he replied, his tone cold. "He will be reminded of his place. If he cannot control his flock, we will find someone who can."

His determination was clear, and though I agreed that the Faith could not be allowed to grow unchecked, a part of me worried. The High Sparrow, from what I had heard, was not a man easily swayed by gold or power. This would not be a problem solved with a simple bribe or threat.

As the music continued and the guests danced, Tywin's mind was already on the next steps. The marriage between Tommen and Margaery was secured, but the threats to the realm were multiplying. He turned his gaze eastward, toward a danger far greater than the Faith of the Seven—Daenerys Targaryen.

"She is coming," Tywin said, his voice thoughtful yet firm. "With dragons, no less. The girl is gathering an army, and when she crosses the Narrow Sea, the realm will be plunged into chaos."

"Do you think she has enough strength to take the throne?" I asked, my curiosity piqued by the thought of the young queen with dragons at her back.

"Not yet. But she grows stronger each day. We will need to form alliances with those who stand against her—if she reaches Westeros with her dragons, she will be unstoppable unless we act quickly."

His words were heavy with foresight, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. Tywin's enemies were many, but Daenerys, with her claim to the throne and the magic of her dragons, was something different entirely. His mind was already working through the strategies needed to defeat this new threat, but I could sense that Daenerys' dragons presented an unknown factor that unsettled even him. The Lannisters had ruled with wealth and military might for generations, but dragons were a force beyond mere politics and armies. Yet I knew that he would face her with the same cold determination that had seen him through every other challenge.

As the night deepened and the feast reached its height, the court began to turn its attention to the long-held tradition of the bedding ceremony. Whispers spread among the lords and ladies as they anticipated the moment when the bride and groom would be carried off to their chambers, but I knew that Tywin would not let such a display happen at our grandsons wedding. When the courtiers made their first crude jests, suggesting that Tommen and Margaery should be “properly bedded,” Tywin rose from his seat. His presence alone silenced the room, and he spoke with the authority of the Hand of the King, the Warden of the West, and the father of the realm’s most powerful family.

“There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” Tywin declared, his voice cutting through the revelry like a blade. “The king and queen will retire with the dignity befitting their station. Anyone who dares challenge that will answer to me.” The room fell into a hushed silence, the threat implicit in Tywin's words hanging heavy in the air. No one dared to contradict him, and Margaery flashed him a grateful smile, clearly relieved that she would be spared the indignity of the ceremony.

As the evening wore on, I could feel the eyes of the court upon me. As Lady Lannister, I was now a central figure in the power dynamics of King’s Landing. The courtiers watched my every move, eager to see how I would adapt to my new role. Some sought my favor, hoping to align themselves with the most powerful family in Westeros. Others viewed me with suspicion, wondering if my loyalties still lay with the Tyrells.

Margaery, ever the master of courtly games, had already begun to weave her own web of influence. She and I exchanged knowing glances throughout the night, a silent understanding passing between us. We were allies, bound by our marriages and our shared ambitions. But we both knew that, in the end, we played our own games.

As I moved through the hall, accepting congratulations and well-wishes, I could sense the shifting allegiances around me. The court was a dangerous place, and I would need to navigate it with care. But with Tywin at my side, I felt invincible.

As the night drew to a close, I found myself standing beside Tywin on a balcony overlooking the city. The lights of King’s Landing stretched out before us, and the distant sound of the feast still echoed in the halls behind us. “This is only the beginning,” Tywin said, his voice low and full of purpose. “The realm is ours now, but we must secure it for the future.”

I turned to him, my hand resting on his arm. “And what of the threats we face? The Faith, Daenerys, the unrest in the North?”

Tywin’s gaze was steady, his resolve unshakable. “We will deal with them, one by one. The Faith will be brought to heel, Daenerys will be stopped, and the North will be subdued. The Lannisters have ruled for generations, and we will continue to rule.”

I nodded, knowing that he was right. Together, we would shape the future of Westeros. And no one would stand in our way.

As the first light of dawn began to break over the horizon, I knew that a new era had begun—an era of Lannister dominance, with Tywin and me at the helm. And I was ready for whatever came next.

______________________________________________________________

As the celebrations for Tommen and Margaery’s wedding faded into memory, the quiet of our chambers enveloped us like a soft blanket. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on the walls, creating an intimate atmosphere. I sat beside Tywin on a plush chaise, feeling the weight of the day’s events still lingering in the air.

He had been unusually contemplative after the feast, his mind clearly occupied with thoughts beyond the revelry. As the door closed softly behind the guards, sealing us in our private sanctuary, I turned to him, curious.

“Tywin?” I asked gently, seeking to draw him from his thoughts.

Tywin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. “What many fail to understand is that I once underestimated her, Daenerys i mean” he admitted, his voice low and steady. “Years ago, when she was still a child, I believed her to be inconsequential—a pawn in a game of thrones played by her brother, Viserys. I thought her exile meant she would pose no danger to us.”

What do you mean?” I pressed, intrigued by his revelation.

“I had the opportunity to eliminate the Targaryen bloodline entirely. Had I acted then, when she was weak and alone, I could have extinguished any spark of rebellion before it ignited,” Tywin confessed, his tone grave. “But I believed her to be just a girl, incapable of rising to any challenge. I failed to see her potential, the fire within her.”

His gaze grew distant, lost in the past. “Now, she has dragons—real power—and an army of followers who believe in her cause. She is no longer just the last remnant of a fallen dynasty. She is a threat.”

I felt a chill run down my spine at the weight of his words. “Do you regret that decision? That you didn’t act when you had the chance?”

Tywin’s eyes met mine, and there was a flicker of something I hadn’t seen before—a hint of doubt. “Regret is a luxury I cannot afford. Every choice has its consequences, and I am a man of action, not one to dwell on what might have been. However,” he added, “I am now painfully aware that the Targaryen legacy cannot be dismissed lightly.”

The realization of his earlier miscalculation resonated deeply within me. “So what will we do about her?” I asked, my heart pounding at the thought of confronting such a powerful adversary.

“We must be prepared. She will seek to reclaim what she believes is rightfully hers, and we cannot afford to underestimate her again. Our alliances, the support of the lords, the strength of our armies—these will be crucial.” Tywin’s voice took on a sharper edge, fueled by the urgency of the situation. “And we must use this wedding to our advantage, solidifying our position while keeping a watchful eye on her movements.”

I could see the wheels turning in his mind, strategizing how best to navigate this new threat. The tension in the room felt almost palpable, yet there was something else—an electric connection between us, a shared understanding of the battles that lay ahead.

“Tywin,” I said softly, wanting to bridge the gap that had grown between our shared ambitions and the personal bond we were forging, “I know you will do what is necessary to protect us. But remember that you are not alone in this. We are a team now, and I will stand with you.”

He turned to me, his expression softening for just a moment, and I could see the flicker of appreciation in his eyes. “I know that, Y/n. Your loyalty and strength are invaluable. But in this world, it is often the ones closest to us that can become the most dangerous. I cannot afford to lose you in the midst of this chaos.”

In that quiet moment, the weight of our shared responsibilities settled between us, but so did an undeniable bond. Tywin reached for my hand, intertwining our fingers in a gesture that felt both protective and possessive.

“We will face whatever comes together,” he vowed, his grip firm, grounding me in the reality of our situation.

As we sat together, the shadows of the chamber danced around us, but within that darkness, I felt a flicker of hope. Together, we would navigate the intricate and treacherous path that lay ahead, united in our purpose and the promise of what we could build together—a future that would not be easily extinguished.

Taglist: @mamawiggers1980

[mariacallous]

Police are investigating an antisemitic message pinned to the fence of one of Poland’s most prestigious universities.

The cardboard banner calling for Jewish people to be sent “to the gas chambers” was found on a campus at the 14th century Jagiellonian University in Krakow, just 38 miles away from the site of the infamous Auschwitz death camp where close to a million Jews were murdered during WWII. The sign was discovered on the morning of October 16, the same day Hamas leader Yahya Sinwar was killed. A photo posted to social media by the Jewish Religious Community in Krakow also appears to show a banner comparing Israeli national intelligence agency Mossad to the SS, the Nazi German paramilitary organization. Posting on social media, the group said: “On the wall surrounding the building of the Collegium Broscianum of the Jagiellonian University… appeared the slogan ‘Jews to the gas chambers!’, which is an open call for the crime of genocide that evokes the worst associations with the crime of the Holocaust. “We are currently witnessing direct hostility addressed to all Jews. Our questions are therefore as follows: What will be the next step of the protesters? How long will the authorities of the oldest university in Poland tolerate this situation?” Adam Koprowski, a spokesperson for Jagiellonian University, told local newspaper Dziennik Polski: “We are extremely sorry that such a situation took place.

“This banner, from what I know, was hung by someone at night and was immediately removed from the fence after this fact was revealed, along with other slogans. “The case was also reported to the police, which is conducting an investigation.” A spokesman for Krakow police said that the incident is being investigated under the crime of “incitement to hatred on the grounds of nationality.” The latest outrage comes after anti-Israel protesters took over the university’s main campus and hung up anti-Israeli signs. On October 7, 2023, an estimated 1,200 people were killed by Palestinian militant group Hamas in Israel, and over 240 were kidnapped and taken to the Gaza Strip. Israel’s retaliatory air and ground military campaign in Gaza has since killed over 42,000 Palestinians, according to the Hamas-run health ministry.

[zvaigzdelasas]

As he orders airstrikes [on Yemen]q in a growing Middle East conflict, President Joe Biden faces fresh demands that he ask Congress to vote on a new authorization for military action before he proceeds further.

Those calls, however, are falling on deaf ears, with the White House insisting that the commander in chief already has approval to carry out the strikes from two authorizations for use of military force, or AUMF, votes more than 20 years ago, in the wake of the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.[...]

And after a drone attack in Jordan killed three U.S. service members and injured more than 30 others over the weekend, Biden vowed retaliation against Iran-backed militants who he said carried out the brazen assault.

“We shall respond,” he said.

House and Senate lawmakers will receive a number of classified briefings about the deadly attack this week. Biden's vow comes just days after a bipartisan group of senators sent a letter urging him to come to Congress before he undertakes any further military action.[...]

Across the Capitol, a group of nearly 30 House members — including some of the most liberal and most conservative members — sent a separate letter to Biden questioning the constitutionality of the airstrikes on the Houthis and demanding that he come to Congress before he launches additional strikes.[...]

Biden said in a recent letter to congressional leaders that last Tuesday he ordered strikes in Iraq and Syria against Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, a militia group he says is responsible for attacking U.S. personnel and facilities. He said he did so “in accordance” with the 2001 and 2002 AUMFs and “to protect United States citizens both at home and abroad.”[...]

While he faces criticism from war-weary liberals and conservatives, some also blamed Biden for not being tough enough with Iran. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell, R-Ky., Biden’s former colleague in the upper chamber, argued in a floor speech last week that while Congress “must keep a firm grip on the power of the purse ... this is no time for 535 commanders in chief dictating battlefield tactics from halfway around the world.”[...]

“The entire world now watches for signs that the President is finally prepared to exercise American strength to compel Iran to change its behavior,” he continued.

29 Jan 24

[commiepinkofag]

Democrat Drops Senate Run to Challenge Cori Bush Over Her Support of Palestine

Instead of seeking to unseat far right Sen. Josh Hawley, the Democrat is zeroing in on a progressive in the House.

📷 Celal Gunes | Rep. Cori Bush, October 18, 2023 demonstration advocating for ceasefire in Gaza.

…

Excerpt from Sharon Zhang/Truthout [cc]

Missouri Democrat [Wesley Bell] announced this week that he is giving up a months-long run to unseat outspoken far right Republican Sen. Josh Hawley — in order to stage a primary challenge to progressive Democrat Rep. Cori Bush, citing her support of Palestinians amid Israel’s genocide in Gaza.

In the Senate race, Bell had the opportunity to oust one of the most outspoken right-wing members of the chamber. Hawley is perhaps most well known for his salute to Donald Trump militants on the January 6, 2021, attempted coup, and Democrats have cited him as a key figure in inciting the militants that day.

Instead, Bell is zeroing in on primarying one of the most consistently progressive and left-wing lawmakers in Congress — one who has garnered praise for being one of only about a dozen lawmakers advocating for Palestinians in the past weeks and years.

…

Bush isn’t the only progressive critic of Israel who’s facing a primary challenge next year. Representatives Ilhan Omar (D-Minnesota) and Summer Lee (D-Pennsylvania) are also facing challengers who have cited their support of Israel as a reason for the challenge, while another New York Democrat is citing Israel as a reason he may run against Rep. Jamaal Bowman (D).

These primary challenges will likely have strong support from AIPAC, a pro-Israel PAC that has spent millions on opposing progressive pro-Palestine candidates…

Bush and Ocasio-Cortez have spoken out against AIPAC this week.

“AIPAC endorsed scores of Jan 6th insurrectionists. They are no friend to American democracy,” Ocasio-Cortez wrote on social media on Tuesday. “They are one of the more racist and bigoted PACs in Congress as well, who disproportionately target members of color. They are an extremist organization that destabilizes U.S. democracy.”

“Speak on it, sis. AIPAC’s dark money grift & anti-democracy propping up of insurrectionists are attempts to undermine the will of the people,” Bush wrote in a response. “They spread lies, distort truth, and spend millions of dollars targeting Black and brown elected officials working to end hate & injustice.”

aka Right-wing / MAGA / AIPAC / Democrat strategy to maintain power

Biden has already lost a great deal of support in the Muslim / Arab communities for his hugging support of Israel.

[jellyfishinajamjar]

Posting my lore in the hopes that someone will ask me questions so I can build out the lore I didn’t know existed cause 40K is huge and i don't know all of it anyways here's my chapter

The Sons of Mortarion, my loyalist Death Guard chapter!

You know how the big three Ordos of the Inquisition have their Chambers Militant? Ordo Malleus has Grey Knights, Ordo Xenos has Death Watch, etc? Well these guys are the Chamber Militant for the Ordo Medicae, a minor branch of the Inquisition dedicated to advancing the cause of medicine in the Imperium, most obviously by countering the forces of Nurgle

The notable feature of the Sons of Mortarion is the Medic-Marines, a sort of lower tier but vastly more common Apothecary, serving as the first point of contact for injured or ill combatants of beleaguered forces facing the servants of the Plague Father. Each is a competent combatant and medical professional, able to assess and begin field treatment of any number of wounds or diseases in preparation for evacuation by chapter forces

Medic-Marines are trained in groups of ten by an apothecary, and make up approximately one third of the chapter's battleline troops. A Medic-Marine who shows promise may be selected by an apothecary to begin training to be an apothecary themselves. Such apprenticeships are always done in pairs, with two apprentices to an apothecary. This is done to allow the two to grow in skill together, teaching the importance of consulting a trusted fellow for a second opinion, as well as avoiding the cursed number of Nurgle (the number three is in fact completely absent from the chapter in its entirety. In place of a third company, there is a zeroth)

While effective as any force at offensive action, the Sons of Mortarion excel at the defense, placing themselves between the hated foe and their patients, holding position and closing holes in the ranks of shattered imperial forces to buy them time to escape. Often this is done with the use of Thunderhawk gunships as combat ambulances, airlifting the remnants of whole platoons of guardsmen to safety

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

May 12th

MY GOOD FRIEND JONATHAN IS ALIVE (and going through the supernatural equivalent of a police interrogation)

First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate against his interest.

Do not slutshame the Count… Do not slutshame the Count…

"But," said he, "I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?"

"Of course," I replied; and "such is often done by men of business, who do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person."

"Good!"

Billionaires are vampires confirmed

"Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any other?" (Oh oh.) It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody.

"Then write now, my young friend," he said, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder (Oh oh…): "write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now." (OH OH.)

"Do you wish me to stay so long?" I asked, for my heart grew cold at the thought.

"I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master, employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not so?"

MR PETER HAWKINS SIR DID YOU SELL YOUR INTERN TO THE COUNT

They were all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it. So I determined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it.

HELL YES YOU GUYS WERE RIGHT ABOUT THE SHORTHAND. LOVE SAVES THE DAY (maybe probably hopefully)

"Let me advise you, my dear young friend—nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then"—He finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me.

Oh great! It gets worse!!!

I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed—I imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.

YOU FOOL KEEP IT AROUND YOUR NECK

I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings.

“I’m going to get a good grade in abusive behaviour, which is both normal to want and possible to achieve” — Count Dracula, circa 1897

I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had so many opportunities of studying.

His sharp canines and general assholery have bewitched my good friend Jonathan body and soul

But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings.

What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of...

MINA HELP COME GET YOUR MAN

< Prev 🦇 Next >

[foxyanon]

Qūvrir

Summary: What if…Jaehaerys challenged Rhaenerys for the throne and she answered with one of her own?

Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Rhaenerys Targaryen

Word Count: 2549

Rating: 18+, MDNI

TW: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS (I cannot stress this enough), Dragon deaths, THIS IS A SAD FIC

Notes: Despite trying (and failing) to avoid HoTD spoilers, I saw the Rooks Rest fight. It HEAVILY inspired this piece. Again, this is a SAD fic. Big shout out to @zaldritzosrose for the name, and for her and @legitalicat for the stills from the episode. Also, peep the quotes, iykyk

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from The Last Kingdom or A Song Of Ice And Fire nor do I own any of the images used. I only own my original character, Rhaenerys.

Dividers by @arcielee and @zaldritzosrose

The mood was somber as Rhaenerys was dressed in her armor, preparing for a battle she did not wish to fight. Sihtric watched her from his seat in their chambers at Harrenhal, trying to work up the courage to tell her to back out of the fight and amass her armies but knowing it was futile. Rhaenerys only did this so that she might spare the realm the possibility of a civil war.

Her father had been dead barely a fortnight, and she only just crowned queen when Prince Jaehaerys came to challenge her claim with support from Oldtown, and Houses Lannister and Baratheon. He claimed that as the oldest male heir of House Targaryen, it was his birthright to sit the throne and he had the backing of the Faith and two great houses to show for it. Rhaenerys knew her claim was solid and she had more supporters than her cousin, but the realm had not yet recovered from the last uprising of the Faith Militant and she did not wish for her people to be dragged into a full scale war. So she met his challenge with one of her own; a dragon battle above Gods Eye, just her and him and their dragons. A small part of her hoped Jaehaerys would see that she was demanding he make himself a kinslayer if he wished to usurp her. His eyes told her he did not see the meaning behind her words, and he accepted her challenge, much to Alysanne and Sihtric’s dismay.

Now, they both stood in stifling silence in the massive fortress, the lingering fear that this would be the last time they got to see the other hanging over them like a hangman’s noose. Their eyes locked in the mirror, a thousand things said between a shared look as Sihtric rose from his seat to place the last bit of her outfit on, a beaded gable hood that looked like a crown atop her braided white hair. She looked every inch a warrior queen, just like her late grandmother Visenya.

For a moment, he could almost convince himself she was just going for a quick flight, but the way Rhaenerys turned and pulled him in for a desperate kiss brought him back to reality as he clung to her, returning the kiss as he poured every ounce of love into her with the hope she would return to him. Whispered declarations of love and stray tears falling down their faces filled their final moments before Rhaenerys gathered herself and walked through the dark halls of the black castle, her hand in Sihtrics’ and her head held high as the people she passed bowed low in her presence. Somehow they all knew this would be her final walk as queen, unshed tears in the eyes of those who loved her. She had remained quiet until she reached the main gate leading away from the castle, turning around to face the gathered crowd.

”I have been your princess for many years, and your queen for far less. I have fought beside and for you, as it was my duty and my honor. Today, I will fight once more for you. No matter the outcome of this battle, I would not change a moment of the life I have lived nor the people I have shared it with. It is you, the people of the realm, who make this decision the easiest I have ever made. I would wield a thousand blades and fight a thousand battles for just a chance to spare your lives. Know this, It has been my greatest privilege to serve you,” she said with a conviction that had everyone watching kneeling, a show of support for their rightful queen.

Rhaenerys turned to face Sihtric, taking both his hands in hers. ”And you, my beloved husband. Live or die, you have been all of my joy and strength. I swear to you now, live or die, I will find you in every life,” she said softly, squeezing his hands.

Sihtric had to swallow the lump in his throat, cupping her face in his tattooed hands and resting his forehead against hers. “You have been my greatest love, but today you are my greatest sorrow,” he whispered, kissing her once more without a care for the crowd watching. She pulled away after a few moments, a sad smile on her face as she walked away and towards Abraxsas, knowing if she didn’t go now she’d stay in his embrace forever. As she approached her dragon, the two leaned against the other, a moment of calm before the storm.

“Mēre mōrī vīlībāzma, ñuha raqiros,” Rhaenerys said, smiling into the amethyst eye of her dragon before climbing into the saddle and taking to the clouded skies, the distant bellowing of Vermithor joining the roar of Abraxsas as Silverwing landed beside Harrenhal, Alysanne joining Sihtric as the two watched their loves circle the other. (One last battle, my friend)

Rhaenerys and Jaehaerys circled the other, the wind loud in their ears as they stared the other down. Both Abraxsas and Vermithor were around the same size, both agile and quick with the tempers to match. Rhaenerys wanted to shout at her cousin, try to convince him to bow out but the screech Vermithor gave in response to his rider screaming was the answer she got to her unspoken words.

”Angōs, Abraxsas!” Rhaenerys yelled, the she-dragon beneath her responding with a roar of her own, turning to meet Vermithor head on above the Gods Eye, the lake surface calm as it reflected the scene above, almost as if the gods themselves were holding their breath in shock and horror. (Attack)

The two dragons collided in a mess of teeth and talons, neither managing to get the upper hand as they clawed at the other, shredding wings and ripping horns from the enemy. They distangled themselves briefly before reengaging, the orange fire of Vermithor lighting the sky alongside the purple flames of Abraxsas as they wrapped talon around talon and wing around wing in some beautifully tragic display of betrayal and horror.

Vermithor and Jaehaerys tried throwing Abraxsas and Rhaenerys into the ground, but only succeeded in throwing them a little ways across the sky before they righted themselves and flew over the half melted castle. Rhaenerys felt like she was overheating in her armor from the fire, but she didn’t relent, reaching back to clip herself into the saddle and leaning forward, gripping the handles with determination and regret weighing heavy in her chest. She was covered in ash, the ends of her braids burnt off when she shared a look with her cherished dragon, the latter covered in bites and scratches, several horns having been ripped from her skull. They could feel the pain and sorrow of the other, no words needing to be said as they accepted their fate.

”Angōs, Abraxsas,” Rhaenerys quietly commanded, the two turning back to face their opponents just as Vermithor and Jaehaerys flew to them in a desperate rage.

As the dragons latched on again, Abraxsas managing to wrap her jaws tightly around the bronze dragons neck as Vermithor dug his claws deep into the chest of the amethyst dragon. Black blood fell from the sky like onyx rain, the final fall of two great beasts and their riders stunning the crowds watching. Jaehaerys screamed, as if he was in denial about the loss of both the fight and his dragon. Rhaenerys, however, smiled sadly as she watched the light drain from the eyes of Abraxsas, feeling the loss of the bond tear out her soul and leave nothing but a chasm in the space behind her heart. A lifetime of memories flashed behind her eyes, from their first flight as dragon and rider, to the first flight they took Sihtric on, and all the rides in between. For a moment, she could feel the arms of her father and grandmother around her, gently cradling her descent as the wind whipped past her head and drowned out all other sounds.

The whole fight, Sihtric couldn’t take his eyes off his wife’s mount nor his hand off the Mjolnīr pendant he wore. Fear, anxiety and grief had a strong hold on him, so much so that he didn’t realize that Uhtred and Finan had wrapped their arms around him to keep him from running towards the fight. At some point, he felt Alysanne grip his wrist, the two seeking comfort in that small act. He didn’t blame her for her husband's actions, just as she did not blame him or her cousin for theirs. At the end of the day, they were family, whether they shared blood or a name. Then the fight came to the most brutal end they could think of.

Sihtric watched, horrified as the feeling of dread wrenched a bloodcurdling scream from his throat, as Rhaenerys and Abraxsas plummeted to the ground, the she-dragon latched onto Vermithor’s neck and dragged him and Jaehaerys with her. His love, his wife, the woman who was the blood in his veins was going to die and he could do nothing but pray to his gods and hers that she might live. But as Abraxsas and Vermithor spiraled downwards, heartbreaking shrieks and cries echoing through the stone walls of Harrenhal, he knew none of them would survive the inevitable crash into the water of Gods Eye.

He could feel the arms of his friends tighten around him as he thrashed in their grip, desperate to get to her side in a fruitless bid to save Rhaenerys. He barely registered the cries of Alysanne or any of the other onlookers, the bright white cloak of Ser Elwood Graves flashing past his periphery as the Queensguard knight mounted a horse and tore out the gate towards where the dragons would land. And land they did, with a crash that shook the ground while orange and purple flames engulfed all four. Vermithor and Jaehaerys slammed into the edge of the lake, a wave of water rolling up and swallowing them both amidst smoke and steam. Abraxsas, however, only partially ended up in the water and mostly on her back.

Sihtric managed to free himself from Uhtred and Finans hands, grabbing the first horse he saw and following after Ser Elwood, tears streaming down his face as his mind fought with the reality of the situation, refusing to believe she was gone without proof. The grass surrounding part of the lake was still burning, the collapse of Vermithor having snuffed out the rest when he splashed into the lake. With a quick dismount, he ran towards the back of the still bleeding dragon praying Rhaenerys survived only to see her still latched onto the saddle, half hanging from the harness as her arms and legs lay on the ground.

“No. Please gods, no,” Sihtric wept, quickly reaching her side and tenderly gathering her mostly charred body. He unclipped her harness, her limp body falling into his arms as he held her to his chest. The metal parts of her armor had nearly melted into her flesh and were still hot to the touch but Sihtric didn’t care. He’d wear the burn marks the rest of his life as a reminder of the worst day he ever faced and more if he could hear her voice just one last time. Instead, he was forced to hold his dead wife, the holder of his heart, in shaking hands as he tried to cup her face, only to stop himself before letting out the most heartbreaking wail, knowing she was gone and he couldn’t change it.

He swore to protect her and he failed, his tears falling from his face and dripping onto her lifeless face. He doesn’t know how long he remained there, rocking her back and forth in his arms and begging her to come back to him. Ser Elwood, the man who had been her sworn shield since she was just a girl, found Sihtric babbling incoherently over Rhaenerys’ face, the older man stood there in shock as grief began to settle on his soul. The sound of hoof beats rapidly approaching broke the silence, the other lords coming to confirm the death of the queen.

The days following the battle blurred together for Sihtric, funeral arrangements and council meetings to determine who would be regent until his oldest son, Aenar came of age to ascend the throne. He wept again when he thought of the two children left behind, his son and daughter who would never know the sound of their mothers laugh or learn to speak their mother tongue from her. He was nothing but a shell of a man, still living but barely breathing and refusing to eat, preferring to waste away. It wasn’t until he was sitting in the chambers he once shared with Rhaenerys in the Red Keep, looking at Dark Sister laying next to Catspaw on the dresser where she left them, that he made the decision to join her. He was up and across the room, unaware that Uhtred had come to check on him. Before Sihtric could plunge the Valyrian steel dagger into his heart, his friend had stopped him.

”No, please. Let me do this, let me join her,” Sihtric fought back, but he lacked the strength to prevent Uhtred from disarming him.

”I will not let you do this, she would not want this,” Uhtred snapped back, wrestling the dagger from Sihtrics hands with a loud clatter and pulling the younger man's back to his chest as they fell to the floor.

Sobs wracked Sihtrics' slightly diminished frame, his voice cracking when he tried to speak. “I can not…can not live without her. Uhtred, I can not do it,” Sihtric cried, sagging in Uhtred’s embrace.

”You must, for Aenar and Vaella. They need their father,” Uhtred said back, understanding in his tone as he remembered the despair he felt after Gisela. He couldn’t blame Sihtric, because he had felt the same, but he couldn’t let his friend fall into this abyss alone.

At the mention of his children, Sihtric’s heart sank. His son, who had his mothers eyes and his daughter, who had her spirit. As much as it pained him to admit, Uhtred was right. They needed him, and through them she lives. He would carry on, he had too, for their sake.

He wasn’t quite sure where he pulled the strength from within himself to get up from the floor when Uhtred released him, but he would swear until his dying breath that he felt her hands on his arms as he stood. The years would pass him, the two children she left him growing into their own and being just as beloved as their mother by the people. The Maesters wrote how Sihtric never remarried, melancholy holding him with one hand while the hand of his children and later grandchildren held the other. And when the time finally came to call him home, he closed his eyes in his bed at Dragonstone and opened them to see Rhaenerys waiting for him with the smile he missed so much on her face, her hand outstretched as the golden hall of Valhalla shone behind her.

Tagging: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @whitedarkmoonflower @gemini-mama @zaldritzosrose @legitalicat

@alexagirlie @thenameswinter99 @viking-chaos @sihtricsafin

[witchthewriter]

𝐀𝐥𝐲𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝟸𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑀𝑎𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑟'𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠

ISFP

Slytherin

Chaotic Good

Sagittarius Sun, Pisces Moon, Leo Rising

Trigger Warning: mentions of stillbirth, torture, blood, violence and death.

Alys Harroway was a noblewoman from House Harroway, her father Lucas Harroway was the Lord of Harrenhal who became the Hand of the King for Maegor after the marriage between Alys and the King.

Alys had at least four other siblings, but she was very close to her two sisters Jeyne and Hanna. In 39 AC, Dowager Queen Visenya performed a Valyrian wedding ceremony on Dragonstone between Alys and Maegor. No other septon would do it, and King Aenys did not know of Maegor's decision.

When Aenys found out, he was furious as was the rest of the realm. Soon Alys became known as "Maegor's Whore." With nothing but anger in his heart, King Aenys gave Maegor an ultimatum; rid himself of Alys or go into exile for five years.

Maegor chose the latter option. In 40 AC Alys left Westeros for Pentos, accompanying Maegor in his exile.

Two years later, Aenys had died.

Dowager Queen Visenya flew on Vhagar to bring Maegor back to Westeros, however, when they returned to King's Landing, Maegor faced the Faith Militant who had risen in rebellion against Aenys the year before.

Maegor fought seven Warrior's Sons in a trial of seven and won, but fell into a coma. And after twenty-eight days, Alys returned from Pentos. She brought Tyanna of the Tower and six hundred sellswords with her.

Tyanna was rumored to be Alys' lover.

Some months later, Maegor took Tyanna as his third wife, with Alys presiding over the bedding ceremony. She joined Maegor and Tyanna on their wedding night.

Five years after their marriage, Alys became pregnant.

Grand Maester Desmond had Alys confined to her bed. She was cared for by two septas, a midwife, her sisters; Jeyne and Hanna as well as Queen Ceryse and Queen Tyanna (on the orders of Maegor).

Tragedy struck when Alys went into labor after only three months. Bleeding heavily, she gave birth to a stillborn child who was, "eyeless and twisted."

Maegor had those in charge of Alys' care executed, sparing only her sisters (and the Queens).

After the deaths, Queen Tyanna told Maegor that he had been lied to. That the child was not of him, but the result of Alys's 'many affairs.' Tyanna told Maegor that Alys was scared of not giving him a healthy son, due to the "old, embittered, and childless Queen Ceryse." She did not want to be like her.

According to Tyanna, Alys pleaded for her father's help and he gave it. So, on the nights that Maegor was sharing a bed with his other queens, Lucas sent men of confirmed fertility to Alys's chambers.

Immediately Maegor refused these claims, but Tyanna gave him a list of twenty names as proof...The men were tortured, done so in secret as to not alert Alys and her father. Apparently all but two confessed.

One night, Queen Alys was dragged out of bed by the Kingsguard, and her two sisters were killed trying to defend her. Their father was pushed off of the Tower of the Hand. And Alys's brothers, uncles and cousins were put on spikes.

And yet the young Queen received the worst death. She was given to Tyanna. It took a fortnight for Alys to die. All the while she endured agonising torture, with Maegor present. After she died, her body was severed into seven parts and mounted on spikes above the seven gates of King's Landing.

Soon after, Maegor went to Harrenhal, where House Harroway resided. He killed everyone with even a drop of Harroway blood. He continued until House Harroway was no more.

Four years later, Queen Tyanna confessed she had poisoned Alys and the babe in her womb.

[rahleeyah]

There's a lot you have to unlearn - they call it deconstructing - when you leave behind an evangelical faith, and sometimes the impacts of that training are so deeply rooted they don't become visible for years. One consequence of evangelicalism in my own self that I didn't really identify until recently is this belief that you, personally, are responsible for saving people from themselves. You, personally, bear the weight of every immortal soul in the world. Militant individualism and a deep seated sense of communal responsibility don't at first appear to go hand in hand, but they do.

If not me, then who? If not now, when? These are the refrains of the evangelical church calling its people to go out into the world, you, now, and reach as many people as possible before it's too late. Telling people The Truth™ is your purpose. Whether or not ignorance of God/Jesus gets you a pass out of hell is a tenet that varies based on what flavor of Christian you are; some believe that if no one ever told you about Christ you will not burn when you die without accepting him, but the church I grew up in did not hold to this. The church I grew up in believed that if no one ever told you about Jesus you were going to hell anyway - a neat ideological tool for energizing people to proselytize.

Results may vary; some people grew up hearing this message every day of their lives and never internalized any personal responsibility. Some of us did, though. There was a time in my life when I actually wanted very much to be a missionary - I wanted to help people! I wanted to save them! I wanted to be a light in dark places, I wanted to spread love and joy everywhere I went.

I am, obviously, no longer evangelical. I don't know how I'd describe myself, besides Not That. But the urgent mission of the faith of my childhood remains written on my bones; if not me, who? If not now, when?

The point I am getting around to is this: in our current climate of hate and fear I want to retreat from the vilest among us. I want to starve the trolls of fodder, want to leave them yelling alone into the void. I do not want to break bread with magats, I want to shield myself from them and their vile words for the sake of my own peace.

But if not me, who? If not now, when? If we all retreat into our separate echo chambers, how will we ever have any hope of change? You cannot learn or grow or change your mind if you do not ever encounter a perspective that differs from your own. There are millions of people out there who do not know The Truth. Who will tell them? Who will save them?

I don't want to do it. It's uncomfortable. It isn't safe. It's emotionally draining, it feels futile.

The church tells you to do it anyway. That we are not here to find peace, to be safe; that we are here to follow Jesus's example, to sacrifice material comfort and physical safety, our very lives if need be, to go into the dark places of the world and shine a light.

I don't go to church, anymore. I haven't for a long time. But I can't silence the voice in my heart, and I'm not sure I should.

If not me, who? If not now, when?

[deadmenandthedivine]

DEAD MEN § the DIVINE

chapter seventeen: last suppers and sealed deals

Maetilda Targaryen, First of her Name, was supposed to be many things. What she became was entirely different.

table of contents

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, sexual situations (consensual § nonconsensual), imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, disassociation, thoughts of self harm and annihilation, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

word count: 8820

“She was not so uptight in our youth!” Rhaenyra defended with a nostalgic smile, “We used to be friends once.”

“And I used to be a Faith Militant.” Daemon snorted as he finished off his goblet.

“You jest, yet your eccentricity suggests otherwise.”

Clearly tired of being outdone and outranked that day, the old prince huffed at his wife’s words. “The High Septon and I were only good friends.”

Although the humor didn’t quite reach the eyes of Rhaenyra and Maetilda, the table laughed. Joffrey cackled the hardest despite not quite knowing what was funny. There was a false sense of lightness in the air as everyone sort of pretended they were not mad at anyone, that everything was all a joke. Yet a dark entity lingered in the corner that they all ignored. One that could lash out at any moment.

“Joke all you want. Alicent and I were friends for a very long time, good friends. The real kind.” 

“What happened?” Jace inquired curiously. His voice distorted by the bandaging and swelling around his nose.

“My father married her.”

Both Jace and Luke glanced at their sister-by-marriage before looking back toward their mother. Rhaenyra stroked her swelling belly as she ate.

“Otto plotted all of it. Your father has always trusted him too much.” Daemon grumbled.

In sudden frustration, Rhaenyra shook her head, “Let us stop this conversation. Talk about something else.”

The room fell silent aside from the light patter of rats' feet in and out of the walls of Rhaenyra’s old solar. Another room that had thankfully been left untouched. Maetilda scanned the table with her eyes for any verbal escape.

Joffrey quickly piped up, “Viserys cried all day today!”

“He did? What did the wet nurse do?” Daemon questioned, leaning forward.

“She rocked him and sang to him and fed him and bathed him! His face turned red! He wouldn’t stop!”

“Yes, he must have been angry at something.” Rhaenyra nodded as she furrowed her eyebrows, “He was very tired by this afternoon.”

“Do you plan to birth our sister here in King’s Landing?” Jacaerys wondered aloud, the nasally ‘a’ in landing made the table hold back giggles.

“You three older boys were all born here. Right in my chambers.”

“Me too?” Joffrey gasped.

“Yes, my prince! You were the third!” Rhaenyra smiled at the youngest of the Velaryon boys.

Jacaerys perked up, “Will we come to stay when she arrives?”

Rhaenyra playfully chided her eldest, “We don’t know what the baby will be yet, Jace—“

“I hope it’s a girl!” Joffrey announced.

“But yes, of course you shall come stay.” She finished.

“As long as you’re here, will you make it look normal again?” Luke chimed in.

“Perhaps not by the Worm Moon or by the baby’s arrival, but in time.”

Maetilda finally gathered the strength to ask a question of her own, “If the baby comes after I am wed, may I stay until she does?”

The older two brothers looked to their sister in unison. Dressed finely with her hair now fixed neat. She was to wed the man who stole Baela’s dragon and broke Jacaerys’s nose. She was to betray her brothers, and disappear off to a castle they had never seen before. Clear out in the mountainous Vale. The princess could only hope they would forgive her with time. As she thought of Princess Rhaenys’s words from earlier, Maetilda wondered what kind of future her brothers envisioned. If it still included her after that afternoon. Certainly, it was one of Jace taking over the Throne after his mother and Luke would have the Salt Throne from Lord Corlys. She could not possibly threaten that. Not in Rhaenyra’s solar or in the future. Her betrothed was a second son with no castles to his name. He was no threat either. Only the Hightower side of him.

“Of course, I shall see to it.” Rhaenyra nodded, “You must be here to meet your sister.”

“See! You even admit the babe is a girl!” Luke teased his mother.

“I said nothing of the sort!” She gasped before taking a gulp of tea from her goblet.

Daemon chuckled, “Shall we place bets?” 

“I will not have you teaching my sons to gamble before they even carry their own coin purse!” Rhaenyra scolded.

The Rogue Prince rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Maetilda finished off her own goblet. A servant came to refill it, but she simply grabbed the pitcher itself from their hands. Personally filling her goblet to the brim and leaving it on the table in front of her. She could feel eyes watch her as she carelessly slurped the top until she could safely pick up her drink without spilling. The new red wine was bitter and dry, but it became tolerable the more she drank.

“Thirsty, Lady of Runestone?” Luke barked with laughter.

“Absolutely parched.” The princess retorted, eyes narrowed in opposition.

He smirked back as he briefly held his goblet out, “Would you like mine too?”

With a challenge laid before her, the princess was not about to back down. She was her father’s daughter after all. It was in her nature. Just as a dragon could not help but set fields of crops and livestock ablaze. Her younger brother was trying to provoke her, that much was obvious. He had not had his fill of turmoil that afternoon. He sought to finish what he started. 

“Certainly, if you should be too small to finish it.” Maetilda smiled back.

“Give it here, Luke.” Jace grumbled, trying to take the drink from his younger brother who dodged him.

“It looked like Til needed it more than me.” Lucerys chuckled with a sip as he teased his older brother, “I’m not sharing with you!”

Jace puffed out his chest, proud smirk smeared across his face, “Very well. And I shall remember next time Driftmark needs my assistance!” 

Luke scoffed, “Driftmark? Need your help?” The shake in his voice paired with the darting around of his eyes betrayed his air of confidence.

“With Rhaena in charge, Driftmark shall thrive.” Maetilda smiled mischievously, “Do not listen to him, Luke, we shall all be gray by the time Jace sits the throne.”

“Long live our queen.” A smug Daemon interjected.

“Just because we are in my private solar does not mean you may talk so freely.” Rhaenyra stroked her stomach.

“If the servants hear me, should I be charged with treason?” Her father rolled his eyes. “Does my brother’s bitch scare you so?”

“You should act to the standard your name suggests or be held accountable.” The future Queen stated resolutely.

“Of course, your grace.” His words did not match his tone.

A fire burned behind both pairs of eyes as the long-wedded couple stared each other down menacingly from opposite ends of the table. The princess was exhausted from it, from her day, from everything and everyone. She could hardly stomach the sight of them. Which only encouraged her to drink more. To the point where she could feel it pooling in her stomach. It was unbecoming of her. Something she only recently began to care more about. Perfection. Although she was not quite certain what perfection looked like, she knew she had to have it. She had to embody the very meaning of the word, live it and breathe it until she and the word became one. Perhaps then, she would see a day without an outburst from her father. Perhaps then, she would be able to breathe easy. Like Rhaenys did. Like Laena and Rhaena, and even Baela. Like Queen Alysanne herself. Until then, she could only pretend. Mimic what she saw in them and hope she had done it right.

His words suggested submission, something her father did not do easily. He would much rather fall on his own sword than kneel before another. The King seemed to be the only exception, his older brother by four years. And even then, Prince Daemon’s patience only looked like it grew more thin. It was no secret that before Rhaenyra had been named heir, Daemon would have been the one to fulfill the role. But even Ser Otto Hightower preferred a woman to the Rogue Prince. That would be his legacy. Both of their legacies. No matter how deep the rivalry ran, they would both be two men close enough to the Throne to taste its power — get drunk on it — but would never get close enough to actually wield it.

“We shall leave for Dragonstone on the morrow. When I come back, I will set things right in this castle. While we are apart, I expect you all to reflect on your behavior during this stay. It’s shameful, on all of us. Word of what happened today will travel — word of everything that’s happened. Tell me, have we inspired much loyalty during our time here?” Rhaenyra spoke with a slow and menacing authority in her tone.

The table shamefully hung their heads. Jace, Luke, Maetilda, even Joffrey. All except for Daemon, who only smirked back at his wife.

“We have. We managed to bring the King to his Throne, while his second-in-command has clearly been keeping him from it. We have reminded them who we are. Towers are nothing, but a dragon’s chew toy.”

“There is no proof for such accusations, Daemon. We do not know they are behind it.” Rhaenyra was firm before softening to point out, “Father was sick before we left.”

“Not. like. that.” 

The chair scratched against the stone floor as the Rogue Prince shot to his feet and grumbled out the solar. The door shut loudly behind him before the room was smothered in silence. Maetilda watched as Jace and Luke exchanged looks in the unspoken language only they knew. They had an entire conversation without moving a muscle. Occasionally, the two would take turns glancing at their mother. Following their eyes over to her, Rhaenyra sat deadly still. Hand mid-stroke across her stomach. Her eyes were fixed on where her husband had been. She was frozen for a short moment before she blinked herself back into reality. 

“Are any of you still hungry?” Rhaenyra asked.

“I want dessert!” Joffrey proclaimed.

“Dessert!” The older boys smiled.

Maetilda glanced down at her plate. Mostly empty. She had several servings of spiced pork, to the point where the greens and pomegranate couldn’t be finished. The thought of eating more made her stomach churn, “May I be excused? I am done eating.”

“Yes, my dear. Have a good rest.” Rhaenyra nodded.

“Not parched anymore?” Luke teased.

“I have thrown carafes before, do not tempt me to do it again.”

“Where was all this in the maester’s solar? I only got involved because it was the honorable thing to do.” He pressed, mocking her earlier words.

“That remains true. Throwing the carafe after you’ve been given ample notice is the honorable thing to do — honoring my word.” The princess sassed, “But because I am civilized, I shall choose not to, given the day we have had. Thank you again for throwing blows at my betrothed.”

“Of course! Need I remind you that he is the one who broke my nose?” Jace retorted.

“And who was the one who took his eye?” Maetilda fired back.

“Children.” Rhaenyra brought her authoritative voice back out, gaining the three’s attention. 

In the midst of everything, Joffrey had run to her side and clung to her apprehensively. The tension was thick as Maetilda felt an anger brew in her similar to the one she had at dinner with the Queen. The princess could feel it in her shoulders, squared defensively.

“Him of all people.” Jace shook his head in disappointment.

“I did not choose him.”

“You do not behave as such.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“Make him see reason!”

“I cannot even make you see reason!” The princess by title stood to her feet, “When you return to this castle, return with an apology.”

Before he could respond, she turned around and stormed out of the room. Much like her father had. Ser Gunthor had been waiting on just the other side. His face dropped when he saw the tornado in her head, the scowl that dragged down her face. She stormed down the corridor in a random direction, not entirely sure of the way back to her own chambers. As much as she thought she had a good sense of direction after seeing a path at least once, the Red Keep had a way of making her question everything. From which corridor led where, to whether or not her own family still cared for her at all. All the uncertainty felt like a knife to the heart. It made her stomach bubble. She could feel it in her throat. Her limbs shook with each step. Her arms shook at her sides. Never in her life had she been so utterly alone and righteously angered. 

The more she thought, the more certain Maetilda was that her siblings would never speak to her again. Perhaps Rhaena would, but only if Baela was not in ear shot. And she could not blame them. If Maetilda were in their shoes, she would probably feel the same. Once they got word that she demanded an apology from her brothers, there would be nothing nice left to say. They had supported her a few days ago, but she would never see it again. Maetilda’s betrothed broke Jacaerys’s nose, and she demanded an apology from him. She could already hear the impassioned arguments. As her mind ran faster than her feet, she could not hear the sound of her knight’s armor. Nor could she hear him ask if she knew where she was going. It was not until he sped up his pace until he passed her and parked himself promptly in her direct path that she finally remembered he was there. Only then did she stop. But with the emotions coursing through her, she felt too still. Her fingers played with each other as her weight went from foot to foot.

“Mi’lady—“

“Do you think I have betrayed my family?”

“Princess, you shouldn’t talk like that. Especially here.”

“I do not like that they are leaving while I stay here.”

“This shall be the first time you’ll be properly away from Prince Daemon since you were a babe.”

“I wish my mother was still here. Everything would be better.”

“Aye, it would be. ‘Can’t contest you there, mi’lady. But you and I both know the Stranger likes her too much to ever give her back. ‘Bet she’s the only one who can drink ‘em under the table.”

A smile ghosted the princess’s face, “From the stories I have heard, there would be no greater contest.”

“One day, hopefully when we’re both old and shitting ourselves again, we shall get to see it.”

“Are you suggesting that you have stopped?” Her joke almost went unnoticed through the seriousness of her delivery. She simply could not help herself when it came to teasing Ser Gunthor. 

The knight’s eyes bolted around the two of them for any witnesses, “There is no need to announce that to the whole castle!”

A bit of the tension visibly left the princess as she halfheartedly laughed. The knight joined in a bit more boisterously. Like the two old friends they were. They had a humor that only they shared. From the years of spending day after day together. He knew her as well as any of her brothers.

“Now that’s out of the way,” Ser Gunthor sighed as his laughter settled down, only for him to giggle through his next question, “Do you know where you’re going, mi’lady?”

In that moment, she looked around her to find that she did not recognize the corridor they were in at all. Her vision had tunneled in her turmoil, and had most definitely made a wrong turn. Embarrassed, she looked back at her knight with her head hung low. “Do you know the way?”

Ser Gunthor chuckled, “Hardly, but if we put our heads together, we should have more luck, yeah?”

With a nod from the princess, they were off down the corridor again. This time at a more level headed pace.  They used various familiar looking green tapestries and Faith of the Seven statues to guide their way. It took longer than it should have, but they eventually made it to the wing of bedrooms that contained her chambers. Her two handmaids were already waiting for her when the knight opened the door. Ser Gunthor bid her good night before shutting the wood door behind her, staying guard outside it. Her chambers felt cold at the loss of his presence. A part of her wished her knight could have simply sat with her as she was readied for bed. But that would never be appropriate. Her name would forever be tarnished, more than it already was.

The handmaids had less work this time around in taking down her hair. No impossible rats or tangles. The updo was undone into a single thick braid that cascaded down to her tailbone. Adelyn secured the bottom well before both handmaids worked to undress Maetilda and help her into her nightgown. The two worked silently. Not a single hummed note or whispered word under one’s breath. The princess missed the Pentoshi songs and the warm chatter. She missed learning new things about the two baseborn girls with a thousand stories. She missed her old handmaids too, Kayla and Loreyne. The ones who remained behind at Dragonstone, and always would. They knew her better than anyone, better than her own family. The sensitive parts of her scalp, her favorite flowers, the best way to wake her up in the morning, how she liked the temperature of her bath. They read her better than any book. They knew her in and out.

But she would never see them again, not until she returned to Dragonstone. The possibility of which only seemed to dwindle. Instead she would have Noarysa and Adelyn for as long as she remained at the Red Keep. Only six days prior, the two had been as good as strangers. And in only six days, they had earned their princess’s trust. They had proved themselves the most consistent and most reliable two in the entire castle. While there was always the possibility they were telling someone everything they knew, the princess seemed to get the sense that they cared. At least, she wanted to think that they did. They would only have each other for three more moons, and however much longer it took for her new sibling to arrive. Perhaps they would be assigned to her upon her visits to see Aemond and Helaena, but there was no guarantee.

The thought of Aemond made Maetilda uneasy. The image of him storming out of Maester Orwyle’s solar was engraved in her mind. She was certain she would never forget it. He had not looked at her once. Aside from when the maester saw to her very minor injuries. It filled her with worry. She hoped he would make good on the promises he made her, that he hadn’t changed his mind after everything that had happened. His callousness was enough to make her question. He was going to go through with the wedding, that much had been made clear. But would he live at the Red Keep all his life? Would he risk daily confrontations with her brothers once Rhaenyra was Queen? Would they ever find a way to get along? Common ground or understanding? With such uncertainty, would Aemond force his way into Runestone? Would he demand she let him live there? Would her people look to him over her if she were to allow it to happen? Would she allow it all to happen? Or would she even have a choice in the matter?

As the princess had been lost in the depths of her own mind, she almost did not realize her two handmaids had finished their duties and turned to leave. Timidly, she called after them to let them know her father would break fast with her in the morning before wishing them a good evening. They smiled warmly at her, lingering by the door.

“Would you like help getting into bed, Princess?” Noarysa inquired sweetly.

“Thank you, I am afraid I am far too restless.” Maetilda declined, “I shall see you both in the morning.”

The two sweetly curtsied before the door clicked shut behind them. And then it was almost silent. Barefoot and clad in her nightgown, the princess vacantly stood in the middle of the room. Eyes fixed on the door through which her maids left. She felt hollow, filled only with anxiousness, remnants of anger, and the pitcher of wine in her gut. It weakened her legs, made them more malleable. Her arms were loose and limp. Her throat was dry, as if it were coated in a thin film when she swallowed. The light pitter-patter of rats occasionally echoed between the walls. It was a maddening sound. Some tiny feet scurried off into the distance while others only grew closer. The rats certainly knew where the secret passages were. They certainly used them to run about the castle. With only the rat catchers to stop them.

In her solitude, all she could think of were her siblings. Their faces of disgust and betrayal and anger. They hated her. The princess did not know how it all happened so fast. Any of it. Just days ago, she had stood in the corridors with her brothers refusing to swing at a belligerent Aegon first. The three had been as close as ever. They had giggled down the passage until their cheeks were red. At the time, she couldn’t have imagined anything different.

Only evenings prior, she had thrown wine and a carafe at Aegon. All because he had prevented Luke from stepping in between Aemond and Jace. He had done the same thing the princess was just doing that afternoon. He stood up for his brother. He kept the fight fair. Baela’s actions that afternoon were no different than what she herself had done at dinner with the King. What made everything so different? Had she truly switched sides? That had been the last thought on her mind as she dove for her sister. Yet whether her actions had been intentional or not, there was no doubt her father would do something about it. Something that would most likely hurt. And there was no promise he had the patience to wait until their morning meal to deliver his revenge. Perhaps it would be easier in the cloak of night.

The evening air was chilly as the princess opened the door to her balcony. The breeze stung slightly as it cooled her cheeks, a subtle reminder that her day had been real. Her family’s entire stay at the Red Keep had all been real. Not a dream, real. As much as she wished she could wake up from it all like a nightmare, consequences would still be waiting for her when the sun came up. Unknown consequences that only caused her to spiral the more she speculated about them. Perhaps if she were lucky, the sun would never come up. If she were lucky, everything looming over her would simply disappear. All of her troubles and consequences would cease to exist, and all of her family would all get along. If it were a dream, perhaps such things would be possible.

The small stack of books from the library sat at her bedside table. Her eyes were glued to them. Practically in a trance. While alone, all she could do was think. No one had scolded her for the other night. For wandering about the castle late at night, scantily clad in nothing but a nightgown, only to steal books from the Royal Library. If she had been seen by the wrong person, such behavior could have been yet another blow to Princess Rhaenyra’s name. Yet she hadn’t been scolded for it. Although, nothing could have been more disastrous for the King’s Heir than what took place that afternoon. All of her children of age had been involved and only one of Queen Alicent’s. Yet Maetilda had hardly been scolded for that. She felt like she was walking into some sort of trap, but she had no idea what it was or what triggered it. All she knew is that she wanted her siblings back. If they would ever agree to have her again. Filled with an anxious energy, the princess grabbed the book on top and took a seat upon the chaise lounge.

The Mighty Histories of the Bronze Kings. It was the smallest out of the books she had taken. She hoped its size would make it easier to read. Bound in a dark brown leather with bronze titling, she carefully bent the book open to the first page. The Preface, written by Maester Seban. 

“In my many years at Runestone following Aegon’s ascension to the Iron Throne, it was my pleasure to learn of the Vale’s extensive culture, steeped in thousands of years of history. A history that cannot be discussed without first discussing the many Bronze Kings. I was honored to collect my information through many conversations with various different members of the mountain people. Former regality, merchant class, and peasants alike. All of which shall be accredited accordingly.

My accounts shall serve as proof that not even those as stubborn and mighty as rocks saw it in their best interest to bend the knee to our great King. May he also conquer the deserts.”

She read the preface over three times before the words on the page could fully process them without distraction. Before she understood what was being said. A quiet two-tap knock sounded from within her chambers, only a small distance away from where she sat. Picking her head up from the book, she saw nothing out of place. Just like when she awoke from her bad dream the other night. Her chambers were eerily untouched. Nonetheless, she felt a presence. As if the cloaked figure was back again. In an effort to make it appear, she looked back down, clamping her eyes shut for a moment, before looking back up again. Nothing. Putting her book in the seat beside her, the princess stood to look around. Still nothing. She looked out onto her balcony. Finding nothing out of place there, she closed the doors and latched them before pulling the curtains closed.

Facing the room again, it remained empty. She expected the cloaked figure to jump out at any moment. As if it was waiting for her to let her guard down. But the last thing she wanted to do was give the spirit the upper hand. Deciding to face her fears head-on, the princess began checking the corners and crevice of her chambers. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the bookshelf, anywhere she could think. Yet in the midst of her hunt, she did not see the new guest enter.  By the time she turned back to the rest of the room, there was a figure standing before her, but it was not the cloaked ghost. It was Aemond. He had knocked before entering, through an entrance that was not the door. He had knocked just as he had promised.

“I thought you were the ghost.” She whispered.

“Do I haunt you so?” Aemond quipped smugly, just as quiet.

“Presently, it seems. Yes.” 

“And to think I assumed we were allies now.” 

“That’s one way to phrase it. Co-conspirators against the future crown.” 

“Shall we take this to the balcony then? So your friend won’t hear us.”

“I did not welcome you into my chambers, my prince.”

“Do you wish to come to my own then? I owe you many thanks for what you did.”

“So thank me now. Why must we go anywhere?”

“Do you trust me, ñuha dōna?” (my sweet)

“No. Not entirely. The way you stormed off without a word. The way you would not even look at me in the maester’s solar. How can I trust that?”

“Ziry vestragon nyke enkagon kirimvose se iā vaoreznuni.” (It seems I owe both thanks and an apology.)

“Kostōba laesi.” (Astute observation.)

The prince grabbed Maetilda’s hands in his own. The action reminded her of the inappropriate attire she was dressed in, but simultaneously prevented her from covering herself. While he meant for it to comfort her, to pull at her heartstrings, his hands only angered her. She fought away from him.

“What words are so important they cannot be said to me tomorrow after my family has left? I’ll be stuck here for three moons. We shall have plenty of time to talk.”

“Please come with me, Princess.”

“No.” She hesitated, voice firm yet quiet, “We have already made too much of a stir today.”

“I cannot sleep. My mind cannot rest until you have heard my words.” His whispered plea pulled at the princess’s insides.

“And I must trust these words are so dire they truly cannot wait until tomorrow to be spoken?”

“Emā pāsagon lēda nyke?” (Do you trust me?)

“You have already gotten an answer to that question. No. If we are caught, I only came because you threatened me.”

“What a tale that should be.” He tried his best to muffle his laugh, “Did I hold a dagger to you as well?”

“Yes, and said you’d end my life if I didn’t do as you bid.”

“You didn’t come that easy. Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“That would be absurd.” He shook his head, “Shall we go?”

The princess did not budge. She only looked back at him, thinking of all the promises he had made her that morning, “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? About the tower we shall build you.”

He stilled, making her heartbeat quicken anxiously, “You are the Lady of Runestone. Your castle, your land. But I wish to talk.”

The princess’s heart stopped, “Fine. We can go to the balcony. Let me get my cloak.”

She practically ran to her wardrobe. A fire burned her from the inside out, it was as if her feet felt too hot to touch the ground. With the same shaky quickness, she grabbed her traveling cloak and threw it over her shoulders. Her hands struggled with the fastening. Aemond’s eye lit its own fire across her skin as she stood so vulnerably in front of him. The two stood and stared at each other for what felt like the whole night. Something within Maetilda stirred, did not sit right. She knew how wrong it was for him to be there. She knew they could very easily get caught. But Aemond seemed to know just what to say, knew how to intrigue her just enough so that she could not resist him. He seemed to read her mind without hearing her thoughts. She watched as he adjusted his unlaced tunic before moving to open the doors to the balcony.

It was at that moment that the princess realized how underdressed her betrothed was. He was dressed just as inappropriately, certainly not dressed to be visiting her. She wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps his state of dress had been a symptom of his urgency and running mind. He was too deep in thought to consider the clothes on his back. Or lack thereof. The lacing on his shoes was also undone. Perhaps thrown on as an afterthought in his fervor. Perhaps he had to turn back for them. It was the closest he had ever come to resembling Aegon. The way his trousers hung on his hips reminded the princess of how Aegon’s slipped down his legs as he drunkenly ran down the corridor. How proud the Queen would be. Weighed down by a sheathed dagger, the right side hung down more.

Knowing well enough that all of their parents were already angry at them, Maetilda attempted to confidently stride out onto the balcony. She would much rather be flogged through the streets before allowing the prince to see just how much his words had shaken her. She did not want to give her power to him so easily — or at all. Aemond followed behind her, shutting the doors as a way to further block sound. The princess pulled her cloak around herself again, both for warmth and modesty. The evening breeze was cold at their height. Closer to the ground, the night would have been far more comfortable. Peering downward, ant-sized people carried torches as they moved from place to place. At any other moment, she would’ve been mesmerized and entranced. Unable to pull her eyes away. But the presence behind her kept her at attention. Tense and alert.

“It astounds me how each time I look at you, my breath is taken away all the same.” His voice was still hushed, yet not as quiet as before.

“I don’t like compliments that are given as tricks.”

“You think I wish to trick you?”

“You wish to win me over with flattery before you convince me to reconsider the promise you made. You got into a fight with my brothers, and now you want my castle.”

“Ao vīlībagon aōha mandia, ñuha dōna. Ao tymagon isse se tegon, tepagon aōha brōzi syt nyke. Skorkydoso īlon glaesagon mijegon se tolie?” (You fought your own sister, my sweet. You rolled in the dirt, risked your reputation for me. How could we possibly live apart?)

“Ēza daor yet issare iā jēda. Emi va moriot glaestan mijegon se tolie.” (It has not yet been a fortnight. We have always lived apart.)

“Nyke daor glaesagon mijegon ao, lēda se prūmia eman sir.” (I cannot live apart from you, feeling the way I do now.)

“Se ñuha sombāzmion iksis mērī iā tȳne gūrotrir?” (And my castle is simply an additional reward?)

“Your castle is yours. I do not want it. I want you.”

Maetilda was shell shocked, completely hollow. Her mind went blank. Her heart stopped as if it had never started. His words were so direct they felt exposing. As if with three sentences, he suddenly had full access to every thought and feeling she had ever had. As if he could see through her skin and in her guts. It was something that filled her with panic and terror. As much as her heart pounded, she needed to make him stop.

“Skorkydoso kostagon nyke gīmigon gaomā daor pirtir? Ao kessa mērī ērinagon.” (How can I know you are not lying? You have everything to gain.)

“I am sorry. I deeply regret not bidding you farewell before my departure from the maester’s solar. I do hope you will find it in you to forgive me.”

“It is more than that. You barely acknowledged my presence. I felt like I was going mad. Like you were as disgusted with me as my family.”

“It pains me that you feel so hurt from my actions when I have nothing but pride for yours. The only disgust I have is for your family. Not you.”

“I am a part of my family. You cannot feel disgust for them and not feel that same disgust for me.”

“We shall be a family. Our own family.”

“Bona ao kessa sagon se bartos hen?” (That you shall be the head of?)

“Ñuha giez ābrar, eman mērī mirre udlitan naejot ñuha muña.” (My whole life, I have only ever answered to my mother.)

“Qilōni udligon naejot zirȳla kepa. Mirre aōha ābrar, emā udlitan naejot aōha rōvēgrie kepa.” (Who answers to her father. All your life, you have answered to your grandsire.)

“Sir ao ȳdragon hae aōha kepa.” (Now you sound like your father.)

“He is a smart man. I would be foolish to question his assessments. Vestras ao se aōha rōvēgrie kepa jaelagon ñuha sombāzmion.” (He says you and your grandsire want my castle.)

“Lo nyke jeldan aōha sombāzmion, mazeman ziry. Kesan daor epagon aōha udir ēlī.” (If I wanted your castle, I would take it. I would not ask your permission first.)

“Se Vāle māzigon naejot ao lēda vīlībāzma. Sȳrje daor sylugon ziry.” (And the Vale would declare war against you. Best not try it.)

“I mean to keep my promises to you, Maetilda. In return, I ask that you keep me at your castle. I cannot live my life looking over my shoulder in my own home. Please, you cannot let me live like that.”

The princess hesitated. She wanted to tell him no, to remind them of their agreement. But the look on his face made her second guess. His eye full of desperation as it swam in hers for answers, mouth ajar with worry. His eyebrows were raised in question, causing small creases around the strap of his patch. His expression reminded her of the times when they were little. In the small windows of time they slept under the same roof. Maetilda and Helaena would be off in their own world, Aemond always trailed close behind. Whenever the rest of the boys would run into their trio while playing, they never failed to stop and single little Aemond out. His own brother and nephews took pleasure in taunting him. Calling him a girl, mocking his lack of a dragon, pushing him around. The Kingsguard usually stopped them before it got to blows. Every time it happened, Maetilda always saw that look. A cry for help, for mercy, for peace.

“We do not have to decide this tonight. We can talk about everything after we have both had sleep. After my family leaves.” 

“You may have time to think about your response to my proposal. I can sympathize with that.” Aemond nodded resolutely before adjusting the bottom of his tunic, “The issue remains that I cannot sleep.”

“And why is that my concern?”

The prince took small, careful steps forward, “Because it is you that I am thinking about.”

“Picture me counting stitches in a seam. You should fall asleep rather quickly.”

“What was it your father said?” Aemond glanced off for a moment in thought. “I know you wait for my back to turn. You wish to take what is yours.”

“Something of the sort. He won’t give up my castle any easier than me.”

Aemond chuckled breathily, “He was not talking about Runestone, ñuha dōna. He was talking about you.” (my sweet)

“My prince, in order for something to be a joke, it must be funny.”

Before she could react, his hands were cupping her face. Their chests resting against each other. Never had her nightgown felt so thin. Memories of his last visit flashed in her mind. The way he stole her first kiss after professing his love — his desire for love. He had talked to her so differently that night. He had an air of authority, just as her father always did. He spoke of bedding her so eagerly. Just as Aegon had in the corridors. The two were not so different. A realization that scared her. Perhaps as the years went on, Alicent’s eldest sons found common ground. Maetilda had not seen them fight once. Had not heard Aegon insult Aemond even once. The older brother had even stepped to the younger’s defense, at dinner when Lucerys tried to help Jacaerys gang up on Aemond. 

“Princess, I would never hurt you.” He brushed his thumbs over her cheeks.

Maetilda stared back in confusion. It was her turn to search his face for answers, “And you think my father would?”

“I know he would. I heard him.” Aemond’s voice was so low and serious, it sent shivers down her spine. But worst of all, he was right, “Your father would hurt anyone for the right reason.”

The princess did not know what to say. She was sure her mouth had flapped open and shut like a fish out of water. She felt like one. Unable to breath as the person who had her on a hook and line sat and watched her flounder. While the prince may have been right, Maetilda was still her father’s eldest daughter. Aemond could not possibly be right. She simply could not accept it.

“Dōna, I do not wish to wait for his back to turn.” (Sweet)

“I beg your pardon?”

“I wish to take you right from beneath his nose.”

Her eyes widened in surprise yet again as she watched the prince’s face jump towards hers, crashing their lips together. Just as the first time, she was frozen in shock. His lips moved against hers while she remained still. One of his hands was clamped around her face, crushing her cheekbone under his thumb. The hand that had been petting her hair locked around the back of her head, ensuring she could not pull away. With his hips, he pinned her against the edge of the balcony. The force of him was heavy. It pinched the vertebrae in her spine as the weight of him bent her backward. No wall stood behind her back to catch her. With nothing to anchor her feet, she felt as if she could flip over the side and plummet down to her death. The image of it played in her head. All the while, Aemond continued to kiss her.

Had it been earlier in the day, she would have welcomed it. She eagerly would have kissed him back. Without question or hesitation. But too much had happened. She felt treacherous and guilty. She felt a pending sense of doom. The hand at the back of her head slipped to the base of her neck, lacing fingers into the back of her scalp and tangling themselves into her braid. Aemond pulled away only to rest his forehead against hers.

“Please, Maetilda. Do not deny me.”

“Ao jaelagon naejot gūrogon nyke.  Iksis bisa daor skoros jaelā?” (You wish to take me. Is this not what you want?)

“Jaelan ao.” (I want you.)

“You don’t—”

“Jaelan ao. Jaelan ao. Jaelan ao.” (I want you, I want you, I want you.)

Tears welled in the princess’s eyes as she struggled to shake her head, “Aemond, you can’t. We can’t. Not yet.”

“Maetilda, please, just once. Just once while he is still here. Just once, so he may never deny our union, and then not again until we are wed.”

She could feel the wet trails begin to form down her cheeks, only to be wiped away by thumbs that were not her own. Two hands cupped her face again. Warm, wine and liquor scented breath fanned her into a trance-like state. Her voice was soft, weak, and wavering as she tried to hold her ground, “Mazemilā lēda iā mijegon hen ñuha udir.” (You will take regardless of my word.)

He kissed both cheeks, right next to his thumbs. He kissed her forehead and both temples. He kissed each corner of her mouth before he slowly kissed her again, continuing to bend her backwards. Causing her to yelp. Taking advantage of her open mouth, Aemond caught her bottom lip in between his teeth. He had the grin of a lizard lion, the smirk of a dragon with its dinner in its jaws. She was no different than charred sheep.

“Ilagon syt nyke, dōna. Kostilus.” (Lay down for me, sweet. Please.)

Only then did he peel himself off, giving her back a sense of relief. But Maetilda didn’t move an inch. The two locked eyes for what felt like the longest time. The princess would not dare move. She felt like a mouse, helplessly cornered by a tomcat. One movement and the prince would pounce. 

“Lay down, Maetilda.”

Looking down at the balcony floor, she could barely form words, “Here?”

Aemond shushed her as if she were a crying baby. He stepped forward again, “Shh, shh, shh, shhhhh.” His hands came back up again. This time, they unlaced the fastenings on her cloak. Slowly and carefully, so as not to stress a single stitch or seam. “You are in my hands. Do not fret. Nyke kessa mazverdagon ao sȳrkta emā mirre issare gō. I shall give you se vys se skoros ilagon rēbagon ziry.” (I shall make you feel better than you have ever felt before. [I shall give you] the world and what lays beyond it.)

Pulling away from her without breaking their stare down, Aemond swiftly flicked her cloak out like a blanket. The princess’s knees shook at the sight. The prince was serious, the chill of the breeze confirmed it. More tears slipped down her cheeks. Instead of wiping them away, the prince took a cushion from the bench and laid it down as a pillow. When he made his way back over to her, she could not look at him. Only at the cushion sat atop her cloak — where she was to rest her head. More tears glided past her cheeks and down her neck. Was that truly where she was to be deflowered? On the cold, dusty ground of her balcony. No marriage. No ceremony before the Gods. No dowery. No grand feast. Nothing. 

By the waist, Aemond moved her to stand at the bottom of the cloak. Preceded by his warm, liquor scented breath, came feather-light kisses that started at her cheek. They traced along her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone, and up to her shoulder. Tickling her skin all the way. Her heart pounded like war drums in her chest. Overwhelmed with embarrassment for what was to come, she could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. The soft tug from the shoulder of her nightgown being gently moved out of place sent off bells of alarm in her head, she instinctively wanted to squeal. But instead, she made a point to bite her mouth shut. More kisses dusted the top of her shoulder.

“Aemond, —“ She tried desperately to keep hold of her resolve.

Another kiss to the corner of her mouth cut her off, followed by the low hum of a familiar tune. Not that of the Pentoshi songs her handmaid sang, but one her father and Laena would sing to her and her young sisters, proudly proclaiming that the girls were three heads in their own right. It was a song from Old Valyria. When she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the bright melody of Lady Laena’s voice. Chirping out the words like the call of a morning bird. 

Drakari pykiros

Tīkummo jemiros

Yn lantyz bartossa

Saelot vāedis

(Fire breather, winged leader, but two heads, to a third sing)

Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis

Se gēlȳn irūdaks

Ānogrose

(From my voice, the fires have spoken, and the price paid, with blood magic)

But Lady Laena’s voice was not truly there. Maetilda knew it wasn’t. Her body laid with the Gods beneath the waves. Her dragon answered to a new rider, and he stood before the princess humming. He was the only one humming. Yet, it was like a ghost lingered around them. The hair on her arms stood on end. Chills electrified her spine. It did not help that the tomcat only continued to close in. Eye alert, claws sharp. The closer he got, the more his humming unsettled her. The voice of Lady Laena still rang on in her ears.

Perzyro udrȳssi

Ezīmptos laehossi

Hārossa letagon

Aōt vāedan

(With words of flame, with clear eyes, to bind the three, to you I sing)

Helping her down with an arm on her back and the other grasping her hands to steady her, Aemond laid Maetilda down on the cloak. His hair tickled her cheek as he hovered over her. The princess’s entire body trembled. Goosebumps erupted across her skin from the ground’s cold touch. More tears escaped out of her eyes. She could hear her heart pound in her ears. Pools of snot began to clog her nose, which only made it harder for her to catch her breath. All the while, the prince undid the knot at the top of her nightgown. She wanted to scream. Her knight would be there in only a few steps. The rest of the castle would undoubtedly hear her too. Her father included. They would find her underneath her betrothed, and everything she had ever dreamed for herself would be ruined. She could not scream.

Hae mērot gierūli

Se hāros bartossi

Prūmȳsa sōvīli

Gevī dāerī

(As one we gather, and with three heads, we shall fly as we were destined -- beautifully, freely)

The hum of the song repeated itself on a loop. She could not bare to watch any longer. Each of his boots had haphazardly plopped to their own corner. Maetilda clamped her eyes shut as she felt her betrothed on his knees, positioning one of her legs on either side of him. His trousers came down easy. She could hear him slide them down his thighs. Most of his clothing had already been undone. The cold air bit at her legs, her hips, her torso as her skin became exposed to the night. He had lifted up the bottom of her gown, and she soon felt the fabric bunch at her waist.

Her mouth went dry and her eyes flew open. Anxiously, her hands grabbed at the bunched fabric and tried to cover herself back up. At least down to her thighs. At least enough to keep some dignity in tact. But the tomcat only pushed her hands away, gripping them both in one of his own paws. Aemond held them above her head, using his spare hand to pull at the neck of her gown. Her vision seemed to cloud as her head felt like it was filling with smoke. As if a fire had started burning somewhere inside her. Her organs only blackened the fumes.

It felt warm and cold all at once, causing her to flinch away from the feeling. The fleshy sensation that poked at the place that was never supposed to be touched. The place worth her body weight in gold. Her heart fluttered through the haze clouding her mind. Her gut screamed. A shiver ran through every bone in her body. Aemond used one of his knees to pin her hip down, to keep it from flinching away from his touch again. His free hand came up to his face. Eyes lidded, he stared straight into Maetilda’s soul as he stuck two fingers in his mouth. Coating them in a layer of spit. Without hesitation, his two fingers cut straight down her torso and toward the apex of her thighs. The princess’s gasp covered up the yelp that was lodged in her throat. His hand found refuge between her pillowy thighs. Wet fingers played with her flower, lightly rubbing it in slow circles. 

On instinct, her knees tried to snap together only to be obstructed by the prince’s body. He held her down and kept her knees apart with ease. She tried to squirm, but she could hardly move. Her mind screamed and screamed and screamed. The humming stopped and Lady Laena’s voice was gone. Instead, her father’s voice echoed between her ears. Shouting angrily about how much she disgraced and disgusted him. What if anyone were to find out? What if someone were to hear? Or to walk in? She wouldn’t live to see the sunrise, wouldn’t live to see another day. She would be better off dead. A princess soiled before her wedding day. A lady without morals. A no good harlot. Yet she couldn’t stop Aemond. As filthy as she felt, she didn’t want him to stop. As long as his fingers continued their circles. Sliding his two fingers south, he used his thumb to continue the tantalizingly gentle pattern. The wet pair slid ever so slowly until they reached the lid of the princess’s honeypot. Maetilda’s breath shook. A lilted note spilled out with it. Bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Aemond’s eye seemed to glaze over at the very sound. Velvety lilac deepened to satiny plum. It couldn’t mean anything good.

A yelp escaped her mouth as one of Aemond’s fingers inched inside of her. Splitting her body in two. The prince’s lips soon met her own, muffling the sound of the princess’s quiet whines. His tongue poked its way into her mouth, dominating all of her senses. He consumed her. As if she truly were charred sheep. He only stopped in order to pull his fingers out of her carcass and lick them clean. The feeling was intoxicating, but the view of it even more so.

A/N: this little diddy has probably been over-revised. i’m sorry it took so long!! hopefully it was well worth the wait! happy season 2 premiere day!!!

it’s my first go at anything kinda sexy! i was excited to try it! kinda nervy to post it (hence the hold up) but i hope it does something for you! the freak continues in the next guy though, hope ur cool with that HAH (the next one will be coming much faster)

TAGLIST: @marvelescvpe

xoxo messy

[actualadvocacybruh]

Weaponry ….

Arming yourself for a trip in a fascistic nation is ideal if you plan on traversing the more wild areas to avoid detection and pursuit

Normally I’d recommend a simple pistol and some form of mace (a non lethal option for the more hesitant folks who seem to care about human life)

But America has some nasty critters so depending on the area I’d recommend a sporting rifle chambered in a proper rifle caliber over an AR or AK platform

There are no bonus points for style in survival and no one cares about looking “tacticool”

A sporting rifle is enough to deal with most animals, people and is just ubiquitous enough to avoid suspicion by most passersby who will assume you are a hunter or something while also having enough punch to “demotivate” people pursuing you who happen to wear say … military or police grade body armor (they are usually rated for standard caliber like 556 or 762 not a legit rifle cartridge like 308)

But remember the point is evasion and escape not engagement so try not to be in than position as that work is for the militant resistance not people that really need to get to safety (you and your family for example shouldn’t be getting into shootouts with cops or national guard sent out to murder you)

[360degreesasthecrowflies]

As someone who has been in the Harry Potter fandom since the 2000s, it becomes obvious that what really made the power go to J.K. Rowling's head wasn't her new fame and fortune - but rather, how the Harry Potter fandom practically worshipped her as a god when the books were still coming out. If you look at old interviews with J.K. Rowling and Emerson Spartz of MuggleNet, and Melissa Anelli of "The Leaky Cauldron" website, Rowling and her PR team specifically curated these interviews - much like with "The Witch Trials of J.K. Rowling" - to only see and praise her in a good light. (Spartz was a fanatical JKR supporter in particular, even going as far as to mock and attack Harry/Hermione, or Harmony, shippers "on her behalf". Rowling laughed at it.)

The Harry Potter fandom and their militant support for J.K. Rowling as a deity-like figure in the 2000s, simply because she wrote the Harry Potter books, really went to Rowling's head. It's also probably where she gets this idea of, "I read my most recent royalty cheques, and find the pain goes away pretty quickly." She genuinely still believes that the Harry Potter fandom still supports her, and still has her back, because she still thinks that fans are putting her on a pedestal. However, in the 2000s, most of these fans were teenagers and young adults who didn't know any better, and weren't mature enough to see how this was unhealthy, for both them and Rowling.

However, I've encountered this issue before in the realm of YA authors and the book community in general, and what J.K. Rowling doesn't realize is that the only reason why Harry Potter fans supported her at the time was simply because she wrote the Harry Potter books - and was continuing to write the series at that time. They didn't care about J.K. Rowling, the person - they cared about J.K. Rowling, the content provider, who kept providing them new Harry Potter content. They only cared about her because she was writing new Harry Potter books.

Once Rowling finished the Harry Potter series, and started writing her adult mystery books, readers' interest in Rowling as a content provider dropped off sharply, and they lost interest, to the point where she had to publicly reveal that she was "Robert Galbraith" in order to boost flagging book sales. It became clear that people only cared about her Harry Potter series.

I feel this is also why J.K. Rowling's slide in to TERFdom is not only performative and self-seeking, but that the people who claim to support her only do so solely because she's anti-transgender. Much like with the Harry Potter fandom - which only cared about J.K. Rowling, in the sense that she was providing them new Harry Potter books and content - TERFs only care about J.K. Rowling because she supports being a TERF. Most TERFs don't actually seem to care about her as a person, and as such, I think J.K. Rowling is seeing them as a misplaced source of support.

It's also worth noting that J.K. Rowling seems to have sought out the TERF community to fill in the gap left by Harry Potter fans, and the fandom at-large, increasingly distancing themselves - or growing and maturing beyond - their single-minded support of J.K. Rowling. For years, Rowling had her ego constantly stroked and fed by Harry Potter fans, to the point that she internalized her entire sense of self-worth on "being the author of Harry Potter" and providing content to people. Or, in the mind of J.K. Rowling: "Without Harry Potter, who am I? What is my purpose?"

Unfortunately, Rowling decided that her new "purpose" was fighting "trans rights activists".

When the Fantastic Beasts film franchise - which J.K. Rowling co-wrote the scripts for - crashed and burned, and her attempt to win back Harry Potter fans and the fandom with new Harry Potter-based content failed, she turned to a new echo chamber for self-validation instead: TERFdom. The TERFdom provided easy and lazy source of validation for Rowling, as instead of putting in actual work to create new Harry Potter books and scripts, she can just rest on her laurels, and occasionally post low-effort tweets that she can post instead, and which garner her a lot of attention. Rowling tunes out all of the negative attention, and only focuses on those praising her, or even worshipping her as their own "Personal Jesus" - the same as she did back in the 2000s with her Harry Potter interviews, and then later on, with Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.

The Harry Potter TV show reboot on HBO Max is now Rowling's third attempt - if not fourth, counting the travesty that was Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - to either try and win back the Harry Potter fandom, or to create a new Harry Potter fandom by exposing Gen Z and Gen Alpha to the series. However, things have changed a lot since the 2000s, and that includes far more support for LGBT rights, so I feel like this third attempt is going to backfire horribly on her.

quoted (but not formatted as a quote because it's too long for the new tumblr engine) from the comments to the r/Contrapoints thread on her 2023 JK Rowling video, a striking takedown/analysis of why it seems the author of Harry Potter has gone so far and so fast off the deep end away from the core principles that initially made her work so popular with a western millennial and down YA audience