#IT’S LIKE THE JUDGEMENT OF THE GODS IN A WAY.

[queenofthedorks]

Okay, I have been thinking about this way too much and Lolth absolutely could not have seen the mess she made for herself when she refused to let go of Opal and killed Cyrus.

Dorian doesn't have Percy DeRolo levels of trauma but it's clear that he has a very deep connection with his family and friends will likely be the glue in the years to come. And he doesn't have DeRolo levels of ruthlessness, but he's young yet.

He's also the hereditary heir of the Silken Squall and his boyfriend has ties--distant ties--to the one man (Percy DeRolo) who is already working out how to setup a surveillance network and find the gods when the come back with or without Keyleth's help. Who's to say that when the time comes and Dorian takes over as the leader of his people that he won't quietly take someone aside and name Lolth as a prime threat to the city.

On top of that she chose to move forward with her immortal champion as a 19 year old from a back water town, who is petty, selfish, immature, and superficial as fuck. That's not a judgement on Opal's character, the key to this is she's immature. She'd barely started on the path to who she might have been as an adult when she found herself making decisions that will will impact her life over and over for years to come with absolutely no experience or context for the ramifications of these decisions. Opal won't always be 19. She now has all the time in the world to mature, but this is going to leave a mark. Opal is not going to shelter and care for a baby Lolth unless she's compelled to.

I mean who's to say if 60-70 years from now, a dignified, still dashing silver fox of an air gnassi isn't sitting in his council chambers when an advisor quietly leans over and whispers, "Whitestone confirms they've found her again."

And after the slightest nod of agreement from the halfling sitting next to him, he whispers back "You know what must be done. She must not come into her own."

It's one thing they can do to protect their friend and give her peace until something more permanent is discovered.

so when the gods become mortal, lolth, opal and dorian can have an all out fist fight in the parking lot

[angellic4l]

nine lives - d.m

in which; derek gets injured in the field and fem!reader isn’t happy with him.

content; tw! derek has bruises from bullets, kinda graphic desc(?), nicknames (doll, sugar, ma'am, etc,), cocky!derek x annoyed!reader, inaccuracies i’m sure but who cares, derek's abs, jj cockblocks(?) i suppose.

a/n; @darkmatilda requested this everybody say thank you matilda! i’ve been slacking w posting but my wips hate me apparently. kisses! wc: 1.9k

A sickly feeling still resided in your stomach. Your head was throbbing with the constant bombardment of ‘what if?’ and a million ways the situation could’ve been avoided. This and the three distinct crashes of go bags hitting oak desks, similar to that of three gunshots - at least in your addled brain - were enough to tell you that the irritation that’s been brewing was definitely still residing.

He’d been hurt in the field.

The thought almost made you gag, the anger overpowering, consuming every part of your body until you did something about it. It felt like it was begging you to purge it, cleanse it from your body, and god did you want to. However, the more logical part of you knew that throwing up wouldn’t make the frustration go away, wouldn’t stop the onslaught of worst case scenarios in your mind’s eye. The only thing it would serve for is making you feel even worse.

Opening one of the wooden desk drawers, you take out a water bottle and guzzle almost half of it down. In the midst of all of the stress and chaos, water was the least of your priorities. From across the room, a pair of eyes can be felt tracking you, watching each and every move you make. Against your better judgement, your head snapped up to see who it was.A futile action; you had already known that it was Derek staring at you but, since the incident, you’d made it a point to avoid him. Unfortunately for you, instincts had taken over a few moments ago and now the awkward jet ride had been in vain.

Realistically, you were aware that being mad at somebody for getting shot at wasn’t particularly logical, but you couldn’t help it, and so you’d kept your distance from Morgan. In place of your usual banter on the jet was an unusual silence, your ears were void of the usual 90’s hip-hop/R&B that came with him sharing his headphones with you, and he wasn’t warming your side with his usual presence because you’d sat away from him.

Familiar voices snap you both out of the staring contest that had started to ensue, your mind quickly recognising them as Reid and Penelope’s.

“He what?” Penelope gasped, manicured hands slapping over her mouth instantaneously.

In response, Spencer’s face had fallen flat, lips pressing into a thin line, signalling he’d probably just let something slip that wasn’t already common knowledge. Clearly, he’d just accidentally informed Penelope about Derek’s incident out in the field.

“Reid,” Morgan chided, before turning his attention to the blonde who stood in front of him now, “Baby girl, I’m okay. See? Still alive and breathin’.”

“But you… And the… Oh God,” Penelope stopped and started, trailing off before starting another thought. Whether it was because she was overwhelmed by the news or didn’t want to say the words out loud, you weren’t too sure.

Watching the whole ordeal from your desk only intensified the completely unreasonable anger you felt, tongue poking the inside of your cheek. Derek’s soothing murmurs to Penelope faded into the background as the different outcomes of today played in your head.

Derek had been shot at, standard for a field agent of course, but the bullets had hit him. If it wasn’t for his vest, he would be in the hospital right now. All because he’d taken a chance and trusted a deranged psychopath to put down his weapon at the hands of the FBI. God, the overwhelming urge to smack some sense into Derek Morgan only grew as you thought about the situation, how he hadn’t waited for back up, how he’d lowered his weapon without so much as an ounce of hesitation.

The opinions you harboured on the matter weren’t fair; you weren’t there, you don’t know what had actually happened, however any and all logic was proving to be out of depth in the cauldron of agitation that had been brewing since you’d been told what had happened. You knew that it wasn’t fair to blame him. You also knew that this response definitely came from fear rather than actually being mad at him, but acknowledging that meant opening up the door for something else entirely. Some things were better left untouched, in your opinion.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Based on the terribly sluggish nature of everybody’s movements and the slow ticking of the clock looming over the room, it was obvious that nobody wanted to be at work. In full fairness, it wasn’t usual to stay at the bureau after returning from a case, but the case had wrapped up quicker than expected. Hotch had announced on the jet that Strauss had ‘asked’ if it were a possibility. You figured it was to make up for the hotel rooms they’d prepaid for, what with the new budget cuts.

After what felt like the umpteenth time you’d caught yourself staring at Derek and watching him wince in pain, you chewed the inside of your cheek while standing up and making your way over to his desk. The bullpen was free from the team; Hotch and Rossi were in their offices, as was JJ, Reid was off in Penelope’s ‘lair’, and Prentiss was in the kitchenette making coffee. By the time you’d reached Derek’s desk, you were sure you’d be missing half of your cheek with the vice-like grip your premolars had on it.

Once you were fairly certain that opening your mouth wouldn’t be followed by an onslaught of swear words or beratement, you spoke to Morgan for the first time in hours.

“Come with me.”

“You tryin’ to kidnap me, doll? If you want me that bad, you can just say so,” he teases, attempting a soft snicker at his own joke before wincing in pain slightly.

“No. Just stop being cocky and listen for once, Derek.”

For a few moments, he leaves you standing in front of his desk, waiting for a response, and feeling like an absolute idiot. Finally, he gives you a look - accompanied by a small shrug of one shoulder - that simply reads as ‘touche’ and then he’s rising from his seat. Schooling your expression to keep it impassive as you turn to lead the way, silently relieved that he’s actually cooperating with you, you remain silent as you keep walking with Derek behind you.

Just down the hall from the bullpen and the other offices the BAU consists of, there’s a small, beige, forgotten infirmary room that nobody ever uses for its original intention. That changes today, you suppose. As Derek shuts the door behind himself, he opens his mouth after taking in the secluded room and the examination table that could double as a bed, but you beat him to it.

“Sit down, Morgan.”

“Sugar, you are desperate for it, huh?”

“Sit. Down.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, “Yes ma’am,” before sitting on the bed of green plastic covered with a thin sheet of paper.

With Derek finally sat down, you open one of the dusty cupboards and pull out one of the 15 (you counted them once) first aid kits in there before turning back to face Morgan and placing it to the left of him. Unclipping the green, plastic case and opening it up causes one of Morgan’s eyebrows to raise.

“What’s that for, sugar?”

“You. I know you’re in pain and not saying anything.”

Your tone is firm, facial expression showing nothing but exasperation with him so, he relents with a sigh before grabbing the hem of his grey t-shirt and pulling it up so that you can tend to his wounds. At the sight of his bare skin, abs exposed to you and all, your heart rate picks up and the room feels like it’s getting warmer by the minute.

“Stupid decision, by the way,” you add in a murmur, praying to whatever is out there that he can’t tell how much his chiseled torso is affecting you.

“Mama, I’m just fine. Really,” he insists, but you’re already digging through the first aid box.

Remembering what he’d been told to do by paramedics, to keep the bruises cool and wrapped, you reach for one of the ice packs in the first aid kit. Before activating it, your hand hesitantly moves towards the wrapped section of his midriff to expose the bruised skin beneath it.

Morgan hisses slightly when your finger brushes a bruise rather than the white cloth, the sound causing you to retract your hand as if he had hurt you and not the other way around. You mumble a small sorry and return your attention to the ice pack next to him, picking it up and activating it with a cracking noise.

“This gonna hurt?”

“Not as much as getting shot at.”

“What was that for?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

By now, you’re pressing the ice pack lightly to the area of injury, barely any space between the two of you as he sits on the examining table with you standing in between his legs. Your gaze finally meets his - probably a good thing, you conclude, because staring at his abs any longer might’ve made you melt - eye contact unwavering.

“Don’t play that game with me. Since I got shot, you’ve been acting differently. Avoiding me, sitting away from me on the jet, hardly even making eye contact with me, this weird hostile attitude. Why?”

“Because, Derek, you got shot at and it was stupid. You should’ve been more careful.”

“Sugar, I know you don’t believe it was my fault I got shot,” his tone softens, “What’s really going on up there, hm?”

His finger lightly taps on your forehead, again reminding you of just how close the two of you are to each other, because you didn’t even see his arm move to do it. Both of you are yet to disturb the intense eye contact happening, eyes boring into each other’s - his searching for answers in yours, yours seeking relief in his.

“I shouldn’t have been mad at you for getting shot at. I’m sorry.”

“I just wanna know why, doll.”

“You scared me. A lot,” you admit in a whisper, fighting the urge to bow your head and nuzzle into the top of his chest.

Instead, you keep your head level as the both of you stare at each other, your hand still pressing the ice pack to his lower midriff during the interaction. Visibly, his face softens with your admission, and then his lips curve into a barely there smirk.

“Yeah? You care about me, sweetheart? Awh,” he teases.

“Seriously. You don’t have nine lives, D, you can’t risk losing this one.”

“Yes, ma’am. I am so sorry for forgetting that I’m not a cat.”

“God, you can’t ever be serious, can you?”

“Hard to be serious when there’s a pretty woman tending to my wounds, angel.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you mutter and let your eyes drop to his abs between you, momentarily distracted.

“See something you like?”

As you go to reply, lips slightly parted - though the words that should’ve come out hadn’t even fully formed in your head yet - the door swings open to reveal one Jennifer Jareau. Morgan turns his head slowly to look at her while you whip your head to the right so fast it could’ve given you whiplash.

JJ’s face contorts with confusion, you presume it’s because she only expected to find you in here - and certainly not extremely close to Morgan with your hand resting on his midriff.

“I’m so sorry. I’m not interrupting something, am I?”

“No, Jayje, you’re okay,” you reassure her.

“Hotch needs everyone in the briefing room.”

“We just got back,” Morgan grumbles.

“He said it was urgent. I’ll uh, let you two… finish up,” the blond says quietly, giving the two of you an awkward smile, and then closing the door behind her.

[goatgoesmbe]

When you're divorced to Price, you're not divorced to the team

Johnny still tried and invite you to everything they're doing, whether it is some kind of celebration or simple hangout.

And you felt rude to deny it, just because you're divorced.. doesn't mean you should stop having mutual friends with your ex-husband right?

Kyle still texted you from time to time, asking if you baked anything today. Making not so subtle hints of him- and the others, missing your baking.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw John walking past the door. You didn't know why, but you did save one cupcake. So as the others were occupied, you snuck away to put it on his desk.

So you visited their base, carrying a box of cupcakes in the rec room as you watched them demolish your work- oh god the cupcake wrap isn't edible Johnny.

And Simon?

Well.. before you were divorced, John used to make him keep an eye on you since he was too busy with work. Being your guard dog when you hang out around the base, or to take care of stuff if you have any trouble at home.

Like right now.

"Simon, i'm so, sorry about this- i already called a plumber and for some reason they canceled last minute, and I just can't wait another day to get it fixed-" You rambled as you watched him look at what's wrong with your washing machine, days worth of laundry piling up near it.

"It's alright" He simply responded. "Don't bother calling them next time, you have me" he added.

Then there's Laswell.

You've always got along so well with her, so it wasn't a surprise when she invited you to a ceremony where she would renew her vow with her wife.

It's been a while since you doll up properly and wear a dress. But you try to not feel self-conscious as you stepped out of your car. You didn't want to give your ex-husband the satisfaction. You wanted to look fine, more than fine, like the divorce didn't affect you.

It was easier said than done with the way you could feel his eyes from across the room as you tried to ignore him and focus on your conversation with Kate and her wife.

Goddamn, can he stop that, he's really making you nervous.

Sighing, you took a sip of a champagne that was served. Maybe the alcohol would help.

...

You woke up with a throbbing headache and turned your head to groan at the fluffy pillow. Fuck, you drank too much.

Opening your eyes slowly, you blinked when you saw a figure lying beside you.

John.

John?!

Your head throbbed even more when you sat up too fast. Looking under the blanket, you sighed when you see that you're clothed at least. Even though it wasn't the dress you wore last night.

Sighing, your gaze shifted to the man beside you and took in the scene that was too familiar to you once upon a time.

Against your better judgement, you laid back down. And for some reason, you didn't move away when a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist.

Why did you divorce him again?

[roll-for-gaslight]

Belief is such a huge theme in fantasy high, not even just in the sense of Kristen's religious belief. Like yes there's that, there's Helio and Yes! and Cassandra and her doubt and her struggle to believe that something/someone is really there looking out for her, and there's the way she believes in her friends and herself in the meantime (healing Riz and trusting him/her friends to save her in Sylvaire, her philosophers teaching her critical thinking so she can trust her own judgement) but there's also like. Spring break I believe in you, and the way Bill's belief in Fabian's ability to write his name on the face of the world shaped him as a person. There's also Adaine saying to Aelwyn "I believe in you sometimes" after saying she doesn't believe in gods. There's Fig, and German shepherd mode, saying "I've got you. Believe in me. Trust me and I will look out for you" and struggling to sign an agreement with herself because she doesn't believe in herself, but believing that Gilear is something special. There's Riz, and his belief, his absolute conviction that his friends will always be there for him, like when he decides to save his dad in hell and the final thing he said when his decision was made was "my friends will find me". It's Gorgug, not knowing where his friends are in the forest but believing that they'll make it to him, leaving a message behind to help them get there.

[lara4eclipze]

Camera! - 26 - clubbing

masterlist || next || back

the club raved with songs from different artists — marquise held onto rosé due to her motherly instincts but also because the korean was the first to get really drunk, "lets get more drinks?" you tried to scream over the music

you look behind you see that your friends have seemingly disappeared — i mean vanished out of thin air, and your lack of soberness didn't help either, "fuck!" you wince when you bump into several men which first off ew and second where are you going?

against your better judgement you ordered more shots and danced with other drunk people, unbeknownst to you your friends have already left the club assuming you left first

that's until you wanted to go home, men were being creepy and you felt like throwing up and mightve done so already, you fumbled with your phone trying to book an uber, which went unsuccessful

as the call ended you tried to unblur your eyes to open your location which somehow worked, you stumbled your way out of the club — the air outside was definitely better it felt more fresh and less suffocating

you sat outside the club your boots wet from god knows what — waiting for your pick up, you puked on the sidewalk more times than you would like to admit — well too many times that pop base mightve even captured a picture of it

"fucking pop base" you mutter to your self, till you saw a woman run up to you, red head — nose peircing, oh thats lara right?

"are you alright?, you want anything?" lara asks with genuine concern in her voice as she carried you bridal style to her car, "god you reek of alcohol" lara huffs before laying you at the front seat

the drive was short, for you obviously you were passed out half the time anyway, all you felt was lara carrying you yet again and entering the passcode to your apartment

"stay put" lara says grabbing some pyjamas and changing you into them as she also removes your make up, trying not to stare at your face in the process

you wake up to the sound of your bedroom door opening, thank god for its creaking noises, "lara?" you softly whisper, "yeah?" lara replies, "dont leave, please" you plead extending your arms from your lying position, "okay love" lara responds, grabbing some tshirt in your closet and changing into it before laying next to you

you hide your face at the crook of her neck as her arms loop around your waist, providing warmth and comfort

[taglist] @wtfisthisnoclueman @reiiaokii @1luvkarina @yazzyminny @justtluvrr @sunshinez4 @jaythegirlkisser @meizinisnumberone @yeetaberry127 @goofymickeyr @awhrin @karli6 @p1hbrook @xochitlisbest @caratinluv @bowforgodjihyo @lunawriteskstuff

[abyssalpeach]

in the case of the people vs. bell's hells...

and also the campaign 3 finale overall. disclaimer: this is gonna get long bc of my propensity to yap so i'm gonna simultaneously try to keep it short but also put it under a "read more." spoilers will be referenced throughout.

i wouldn't call these rent-lowering gunshots, but i desperately need some of the folks in this fandom to get a grip. so instead i'm asking: walk with me. hold my hand. i am looking you in the eyes and want this fandom to be a nice place. please forgive me for any attitude but i am tired of being talked down to.

"they never faced any consequences" consequences are the result bad dice rolls. of which they had plenty. if you think their narrative choices should have resulted in more punishment, say that. but i think you missed the part where they have targets on their back from several factions and now-mortal deities and you need to kill the cop in your head.

"it was too confusing and the pacing was bad" i don't even disagree with this takeaway. i will say this was actually the easiest campaign for me to follow. m9 is so fun, but was very narratively scattered at times. however, i think this is just the nature of ttrpg/actual play. it's not scripted. it's messy and sometimes you'll zone out about it. sometimes what the players want isn't what grabs you personally. it doesn't mean they're wrong or bad to play it that way.

"i fell off c3 and everything i've heard about the finale is stupid" fall off, then. totally fine, i'm not here to stop you, sincerely. and not to hurl cliches, but with tabletop it really is more about the journey than the destination. without context, you are missing too many pieces to pass judgement. that's all i'm gonna say on that.

"the other PCs were just so much better" i gotta say this one seems like a skill issue lol. there's not a single party i haven't loved with my whole heart, but they satisfy different purposes or dynamics! vm was destined for greatness. m9 was destined to pull important strings. bh was destined to shake up the order of things. they were supposed to be controversial in-world. they're salt of the earth, rising far beyond their stations ever expected. they became important at work and it very nearly ruined their lives.

"it was like sitting in a philosophy 101 class" praytell what philosophy classes that you've sat in discussed the ethics of magic, direct divine involvement in human* lives, and potential outcomes that would come along with killing all the gods or releasing something called the god-eater. look. i grew weary with the rehashing of these conversations too, really i did. that said, i think it needed to play out this way in order for the finale to go the way it did.

allow me to explain. one of the defining qualities of bell's hells was how different they all were. whether it's their perspectives, life experiences, backgrounds, desires, aspirations... you get it. this was the point. they were bound together by compassion and love for each other. and this extended to those they stood for personally, and those their friends cared about. it was how they approached ruidus, the gods, the people of vasselheim. and they walked the walk and trusted the process, prepared to face anything. including death.

*obviously including all exandrian/ruidian races beyond just human

"the finale cheapened the ending of vox machina" it didn't. i'm sorry but it very fundamentally did not and if that's your takeaway from a change of circumstance ~30 years down the line, i am worried that you are too lost in the sauce due to favoritism. if your takeaway from vax being allowed to return to the material plane is that now his conclusion from 30 years ago was just him going on a work trip, that is a you problem.

the narrative doesn't treat it like that. the characters don't treat it like that. the cast doesn't treat it like that. let me repeat myself: if you think vax's c1 ending is now nothing more than a glorified work trip, that is a you problem.

life goes on. the state of the world is changing constantly, especially in a world with gods and magic and different planes of existence. matt allowed these players to have direct involvement in the ways it changes. if vax was allowed to return in some capacity as a result of those changes, the cast made that happen. it wasn't even on bell's hells priority list! this was a natural change of circumstance. if that's the kind of thing you find upsetting, maybe unpack that elsewhere.

i'm gonna wrap it up here but i hope you keep this in mind: if you don't like a thing anymore, you can absolutely drop it. you don't need anyone's permission. but what i ask is that if you want to engage in thoughtful conversation and criticism about it, you keep these things in mind.

i don't believe this show or cast to be above criticism. i have plenty of critiques of my own. but the campaign three finale was the opposite of bad. it was the most satisfying conclusion we could have possibly gotten. it was the culmination of the last 3 years with almost everyone who encountered bell's hells and honored the last 10 years of their hard work. i am so so proud of matt and the cast and i think you should be too.

[ajlockwood]

one thing I want victorious to be heavy on is the angst and complexity in victor and sydney’s relationship. because she might certainly hate him — with reason (this post by @viciousvales sent me back to thinking a lot about it)—, but god, he is a huge part of her. he was there during her formation years, from adolescence to adulthood. she will become him in a way. in mannerisms, a few traits, a few tastes in style or in music.

she convinces herself she’s better off with mitch and dol only, but she’s missed him against her own judgement. she hates him because against her will, despite everything, deep down, she loves him. he feels like family, like an old home, and it’s sickening.

victor, on the other hand, met her as a frightened kid and she is now a grown, hardened young adult. he doesn’t know why there’s a slight pang deep inside when he sees a bit of himself in her eyes and the fierce hatred in them whenever she looks at him, when he notices she isn’t that little girl anymore that accepted his help on the side of the road.

it’s probably nothing. he’s getting soft. it’s just the stress, the aches that come with age.

yet he’s running out of time, and he senses there is something he still has to do. something he needs to let her know. but what exactly, he isn’t sure.

[qoldenskies]

Okay okay I'll yammer about Rise!Splinter in your ask box because oh my god I cannot STAND people who legitimately villainize him on main. Like, alright, you can call him an emotionally unavailable or even slightly neglectful parent all you want, because even the show itself makes it clear that his parenting style wasn't exactly PERFECT and probably left the boys with at least a SMALL myriad of issues (Raph's parentification and Donnie's constant need for approval come to mind, though I can't say for sure whether those are entirely borne of Splinter's parenting style lmao). But I feel like so many people through trying to villainize his actions deliberately gloss over the fact that he was probably struggling with hardcore PTSD after spending a decade or more basically being forced to fight in a DEATH ARENA, not to mention probably having a good deal of body dysmorphia because he's suddenly been kind of forcefully shoved into a body that he can't even recognize as his own anymore. PTSD is a genuinely crippling condition to struggle with at times. On top of the depression he more than likely had, it'll make you not even want to get out of bed some days, and to struggle with that AND take care of four INFANTS that you've basically suddenly found yourself the sole caretaker of HAD to require a great deal of both mental and physical strength from Splinter. I'm sure he had his hard days, and the show points that out, but he was still trying his damn hardest to be there and be present for these kids, even if he fucked it up at every turn, even if he was far from the BEST parental figure that they could have had.

People can critique his parenting style as they wish (hell, even I do it), but so many depictions of him as an awful parent feel like they're glossing over the legitimate mental issues that he more than likely has, and idk sometimes I just feel like yammering about it on main

yeah like, a parent can seriously fuck you up completely unintentionally and have understandable, sympathetic reasons for it (while still not being in the right! a kid is never in the wrong for being hurt by an adult who failed them! but they're also well within their right to understand and empathize with a complicated parent who loves and changes for them!). generally im sure a lot of people who write abusive parent splinter genuinely had horrendous and abusive parents and are venting, which is why i tend not to be judgemental to people who do. characters are ultimately devices to drive a plot and if they're writing a story where they want to put them through some shit, that's one way to do it. aus are aus and allat

HOWEVER. lord does it frustrate me when people act like his behavior in the show itself is actually like that. i think its really uncharitable and unsympathetic. like if you want to see some of the things he did to them as potentially unforgivable thats fine, because if they're upset with him they dont have to forgive him, but him dealing with crippling ptsd and depression while being someone who goes out of his way to parent and change and grow while handling it just makes it idk nasty to me ,,,,

and also maybe this is just a hot take but esp. when it comes to raph and donnie i think them having more complex feelings about him makes for more compelling angst. its juicier, and i love to read stories that are empathetic towards everyone involved.

i am not a splinter defender but i will still fight splinter haters (not actually. dont fight me i will cry, i dont main tag most things anymore for a reason lmao)

[redpill-tfs]

Wow, the situation in the US sucks. I mean, nobody likes politics here in the UK either but dear lord Trump and his rabid followers are braindead. Huh? Who's knocking on my door?

You have a pretty good routine for Sundays. Wake up, laze around in bed on your phone for a bit, and then go about cleaning your flat after you get dressed. Classic shirt and hoodie sounds good for today, with a good pair of jeans. Other than that, you didn't have many plans for the day. Maybe the lads will wanna watch the football game later (real football, not that crap Americans called football). You don't have uni until tomorrow anyway.

You turn on the TV, immediately switching the channel when you see it's on the news. You can't stand politics, especially not when they seem fixated on what's happening in the US. All they talk about now is Trump, Trump, and more Trump. It makes you wanna puke.

Just as you finally find a channel with something worth watching, you hear a knock on your door. You take a look through the peephole to find two men in dark suits and red ties, their sunglasses hiding their eyes, their expressions blank.

Against your better judgement, you open the door. The two men immediately push past you into your living room. As you try to protest, one of the men pulls something out of his pocket and sprays a red substance directly in your face. You feel dizzy and light headed, and kinda sleepy too. It's not long before you pass out, feeling the men carry you out of the flat.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You have a pretty good routine for Sundays. Wake up, get dressed, head to church (you wouldn't miss it for anything!), then come back to your apartment and change into your football jersey and best pair of jeans. Sure the jeans may have holes in them, but isn't that trending with the kids nowadays? Other than that, you don't have many plans for the day. You don't have work at the construction site until tomorrow anyway. You're sure the bros will wanna get together to watch the Super Bowl later though. Nothing like good ol' American football to bring you all together!

You turn the TV on, finding your favorite conservative news channel talking about all the good Trump's been doing. You sit and watch for a bit, seeing how much your side is winning. Fixing the MAGA hat on your head, you couldn't be more proud to be an American than right now. 'Cept maybe when your favorite teams crushes it tonight!

As time passes and the game finally starts, you roar in excitement when they score an early touchdown. You may not have much, but you live in the greatest country on Earth and God blesses you in so many ways. Yep, life is pretty good in sunny Alabama.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Three - Oaths | Series Masterlist

Summary: Aemond plans his upcoming nuptials, and his intended is quickly discovering what they expect of her | Word Count: 5.7k~ | Warnings: mention of war, canon-divergent, post-Dance Aemond, trauma, arranged marriage, intimate examinations, mild threats

His fingertips were wrinkled from bathing for too long. Deep, pale and inset, as if his life blood had escaped him. His hair was still damp around his shoulders, turning the faint linen near-transparent as it clung to him. The looking glass stared back, reflecting a war-broken prince.

There was once only one ugly scar that graced his body. And now, a second had accompanied it, jagged, red and raw, stretching from his collarbone over his shoulder. He remembered how flesh had stretched, blood gushing forth, the stench of stagnant water and death held onto his riding leathers.

How had he made it home at all?

The memory was no clearer than the question.

With a somewhat withered sigh, he dipped his fingers into the pot that had been left by Maester Gerardys. An ointment, the stumbling old man had said, to ease both the chronic pain of his temples inflicted by his long held wound to his eye, and the searing, intense pain that ruptured through the muscles of his shoulder, down to his bicep. 

The cream was cold, and smelled faintly of cucumbers, loosened with sweet oils. He wasn't sure whether the calming effect was due to the validity of the remedy or the temperature itself. Either way, he did not trust the man. 

But Maester Orwyle was dead. As were many others. And they were left with traitors, those who preferred to see a woman on the Iron Throne, and failed. 

He did not move as the chamber doors opened, the soft, measured steps already telling him who it was, he always knew. Aemond remained seated by the hearth, his eye fixed on the flames. The fire danced, shadows flickering across his features. 

“Mother,” he greeted without turning, his voice steady, though there was an undertone of weariness. A voice tainted by the unending visions of blood and fire. 

Alicent entered quietly, her green skirts whispering against the floor as she crossed the room. She paused beside him, her sharp, deep eyes studying her son. “You’ve met her, then,” she said, her tone neutral. “Lady Rosaleen.”

Aemond’s gaze did not waver from the fire. “I have.”

At least she'd had the decency to wait a few days before badgering him, he thought with distaste.

Alicent waited, expecting more, but when none came, she sighed softly and moved to sit across from him. “And? What do you think of her?”

There was a long silence, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Finally, Aemond leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on the armrests, his eye hooded. 

“She is sharp,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful. “Intelligent. Unafraid to speak plainly. Perhaps too plainly.”

Alicent did not seem pleased. At all pleased.

“Her and her blood shall soon learn the behaviours of court are not that of Raventree Hall. They shall have to adapt. As we all have.”

Aemond remained silent, allowing the amber glow to bathe his sore body. Not gracing his mother with the courtesy of a reply.

Alicent turned her ring, a gesture of annoyance perhaps. “She is suitable?”

He turned his head slightly, his eye finally meeting his mother’s. What looked back at him was a love of sorts, just the kind tainted by judgement. “Spare me the pretense that my opinion holds any weight,” he said sharply, his jaw strained.

The damned cream had done nothing yet. The pressure in his temples squeezed tight. Like two palms pressing on either side of his head. 

But before his mother could reply, he added. “I will wed her. As instructed.”

Alicent seemed to study him, as she had her second son for many, many years. But she still failed to truly understand him. Her son was a lesson the Gods had sent her to learn, a test perhaps. One moment a softly spoken, albeit shadowed individual. The next, a man whose pride was so much shattered he would burn lands to ash just to feel powerful.

His father had never needed such things to feel important.

Was there some part of her that held this contempt, she often wondered? Are children so simple as being similar to merely one parent?

She did not push for the answer. For she would not like it.

The Dowager Queen stood finally, smoothing her skirts, looking towards the flames and then to her son once more. Her last child, her only blood in this world.

“I shall have the Maester examine her then. To ensure her health and virtue before the preparations.”

Aemond said nothing. Offering nothing. And when Alicent left, his chambers felt no less-stifling. If anything, the little respite his mother’s presence offered as of late, was simply replaced an empty hollowness that had burrowed into his soul the day he emerged, bloody and soaked, from God’s Eye Lake.

He had meant to come home. To Mother and Helaena. But he had been too late for them. One lost to despair, the other to grief.

Those echoes lingered much louder than Aemond would have liked to admit. And even now, barely wearing the title of Prince Regent was still a cloak that he wore too heavily on his shoulders. He was expected to steer a crumbling ship to paradise, to quell rebellions, to issue pardons, negotiate new alliances. A wedding should have been a simple matter. An alliance of sorts, but one woven into bodies and bedsheets, written in ink and blood.

This union felt like another battlefield. Albeit, one strewn with polite courtesies instead of corpses.

The crackle of the fire had Aemond transfixed. It reminded him of Harrenhal, of Vhagar’s fire. The phantom heat of dragonfire washed over him, a fear and powerfulness alike thrumming in his fingertips, throat tightening. The memories were always the same. The intrusive thoughts. He could still feel the screams splitting the air sometimes, if he truly listened closely enough. 

A hard swallow lodged in his chest, half panic, half anger at the sudden recollection. He forced it down. Not here. Not now. Duty took root in his mind, his mother’s words, the council’s demands, and the weight of the Seven Kingdoms pressed down on him like a closed fist.

These days he spent more time in the Small Council chambers than in his own.

Outside, he could hear the low hum of bustling servants and distant chatter, but within these walls, all was pin-drop silent.He rubbed his temple, feeling a sharp twinge behind his brow. The nightmares, the tension, the endless demands of the crown, they all converged into a constant ache. But he refused to yield to it. Duty overrode pain. Or rather, duty was a type of pain.

The scratch of the nib of his quill certainly did not help matters. 

A light knock on the door did not disturb him. At Aemond’s clipped command of “enter,” the door creaked open, and Tyland stepped inside with a courteous bow.

“My Prince,” Tyland greeted, his voice carrying its usual blend of deference and quiet authority. “I understand you wished to discuss the wedding arrangements.”

Aemond inclined his head, setting the quill aside. “Indeed,” he said, leaning back against the carved wooden chair. “Sit.”

Tyland slipped nearby on his usual seat, balancing a neat stack of financial ledgers and a leather-bound ledger on his lap. His calculating gaze swept the room before settling on Aemond. There was always an air of uncertainty about the way the Master of Coin regarded him, he thought. Since the war, he carried himself differently. Perhaps it was contempt, for sending his brother to his death at the Red Fork. But judging from the way he now held himself, as if he were finally the sibling in the light of the Keep, his clothes finer, his taste pickier, and his demands never-ending, Aemond thought that the Lord that sat before him was finally grateful to live the prestigious life he was always promised, untethered.

“I have asked for a thorough accounting of the expenditures related to the wedding. Including the necessary additions to Lady Rosaleen’s dowry—”

“Just so, My Prince,” Tyland cut in smoothly. He opened the ledger and traced a finger down a column of neatly written figures, several newly gleaming rings on his fingers. “Lady Rosaleen’s dowry has been negotiated with Lord Blackwood, of course. Owing to his illness, his maester and I have corresponded. We have settled on a sum that will reflect the union’s importance, but…” He paused, lifting his gaze. “It is not unsubstantial.”

At least the man got straight to the point, he thought. Albeit looking far too pleased with himself.

Aemond gave a curt nod. “Go on.”

Tyland cleared his throat. “We must also consider the costs of the ceremony itself, feasts, tourneys, gifts to foreign dignitaries who may attend, and the inevitable taxes and tariffs associated with festivities. We had planned a scaled-down version in light of the realm’s…recent hardships. But the lords of the small council believe a grander display of Targaryen generosity would reassure the kingdom that we are once again stable.”

“‘Generosity,’” Aemond repeated dryly, leaning back in his chair. “The coffers have been strained since the war. Do we have the means to finance this ‘reassurance’?”

“We can manage, My Prince, if we balance the expenditures properly. A modest feast, but with enough pageantry to signal renewal. We need not rival the lavishness of King Aegon’s coronation, for instance, merely something to show the lords that the realm is not entirely impoverished.”

Aemond considered this, his eye flicking down to the parchment on which he’d scratched a few notes. “And Lady Rosaleen’s personal requests? Has her retinue made any demands for special offerings, entertainments, or additions to the ceremony?”

“Thus far, no. They have been surprisingly reasonable. A few items of significance to her house, colours, perhaps a small number of Riverlands dishes served at the wedding feast, tokens of her heritage. Nothing excessive.”

Aemond exhaled, relieved. The last thing he needed was a tug-of-war over ostentatious displays. “Good. Then we proceed with a moderate ceremony that won’t beggar us.”

Tyland nodded, sliding a narrow scroll from beneath the ledger. “I have itemised potential costs, wine from the Arbor, spices from Dorne, entertainment. We could hire travelling mummers or a small troupe of singers, though the cost of a full tourney is significant.” He glanced up. “Is a tourney truly necessary?”

Aemond’s lips thinned. A tournament, once, that might have been a shining moment in a royal union. Now, it felt like a hollow spectacle. The realm still bled from the wounds of war, men’s purses were light, and their families hungry. Yet, to skimp on tradition might be seen as weakness or disinterest in forming a new road ahead.

“We cannot ignore custom, but we will keep it brief. A single day of jousting, perhaps, with fewer knights invited to compete. We do not need every lord from Dorne to the Neck presenting themselves. Only enough to give the ceremony weight.”

Tyland’s quill scratched over the parchment, noting the prince’s instructions. “A small but prestigious list of contestants, then. I’ll inform Ser Willis to organise the rosters accordingly.”

Aemond gave a curt nod, fingertips drumming against the desk. “What of the dowry? You said it is substantial. How substantial?”

Tyland eyed his notes. “The Blackwoods have pledged a sizable sum, in coin and goods, timber rights from certain forested lands near Raventree Hall, which could be valuable for shipbuilding or repairs to the castle towns damaged during the war. Additionally, some white stone mined near the Vale, shared claims, apparently, from an ancient marriage, and an annual donation of grain once their fields recover.”

Aemond’s jaw worked as he considered it. “Useful resources for rebuilding, in any case.”

“Indeed. Truth be told, it’s a better arrangement than some we’ve seen from houses equally wounded by the Dance. It suggests the Blackwoods see long-term benefit in this union.”

Which, of course, makes sense, Aemond thought. They had supported Rhaenyra at first, and switching allegiance when the tide turned had come at a cost. This was their chance to ensure they stood on the winning side for the future.

“Very well,” he said aloud. “Ensure the final details are recorded. Once the wedding is done, we can gauge how best to distribute these resources in ways that benefit both Crown and Riverlands.”

Tyland dipped his head, scratching more notes onto the paper. “I will see to it, My Prince.”

A pause followed, and Aemond noticed Tyland studying him carefully, as if evaluating whether or not to broach another matter. The Lannister coughed lightly. “And how do you find your future bride, if I may ask? The realm’s tongues are already wagging at the prospect of this…arrangement.”

“Let them wag,” he answered bluntly, “she is determined and intelligent. That is all.”

Tyland only nodded, a polite smile hovering on his lips. “Such traits may prove an asset, given the state of the Riverlands.”

“Precisely,” Aemond said, schooling his features into neutrality. “She will be of use in that regard.”

Tyland clicked his tongue in approval, setting the ledger aside. “I shall make the proper arrangements, then. If you have no other requirements—”

“That will be all,” Aemond cut in. He rose, inclining his head at Tyland. “Thank you, Lord Tyland.”

With a bow, Tyland gathered his notes and slipped out, leaving Aemond with a mild sense of relief. These formalities, discussing dowries, entertainments, budgets, were trifles, comparatively. They seemed superficial at face value, and yet even Aemond could not deny their significance in showing the crown’s unyielding resolve.

He moved to the window, gazing out at King’s Landing sprawled below. Somewhere beyond that hazy horizon stood Raventree Hall, a place he’d once considered an enemy seat. Now, it was to be bound to him by marriage, its fortunes entwined with his own. He could not help but think of her once more, Rosaleen, recalling the tension he had felt, and the strange current of fascination that had run beneath it. She wanted to ensure he understood the Riverlands’ scars, the result of his flames. 

That would not be a simple matter. But not impossible. 

He sighed as another knock signalled his next meeting. Likely Ser Willis to discuss the security of the wedding. So it begins again, the unending responsibilities of rule, weighed against the ghosts of a war that refused to fade. He would soon be bound to a woman who spoke to rebuilding and destruction in the same breath, and if she wanted to rebuild, like it or not, she would need to look past his transgressions.

If she chose to or not, was another matter.

“My Prince. I apologise for the interruption.”

Aemond glanced up from behind his cluttered desk, quill rendered dumb in his grip, his jaw tightened at the sight of Larys Clubfoot, arriving unannounced. And unsummoned.

“You seldom visit without cause, Lord Larys. Make it quick.”

Though Larys inclined his head, it was unclear whether it was out of polite courtesy or annoyance at Aemond’s tone. “I wish to speak of Harrenhal, to repair the damage of the long-fought war–”

“If you’re fretting about your seat, be direct.”

If there was anything Lord Larys was, it was predictable about his prattling. For an age before the war, he had sat smug in every idle corner of the Keep, resisting the urge to grin ear to ear at having been appointed, though de facto, Lord of Harrenhal. A seat only given to him because all his kin before him had perished. As of late, he’d found himself in tenuous possession of that cursed fortress, granted by the crown, yes, but hardly secure. With the war’s end, lords of the Riverlands grumbled, complaints of blatant disregard for the ancient castle rattled through those scorched lands. 

Those who thought certain houses were better for the seat.

Aemond, himself, had put Lord Simon Strong to the sword, had played his part in crumbling the walls, and had almost met his end. Perhaps Larys thought he would naturally feel entitled to reimburse the costs of those damages. Real or otherwise.

“The Riverlands remain unsettled, Your Grace–”

“I am in the business of remedying that.”

“Of course,” he acquiesced, his voice unnaturally uncertain, a quiver of cowardice lacing his voice, “but, now your intended bride has blood of that region, some might seize upon that connection, claiming the seat of Harrenhal should revert to a local house more aligned with—”

“You fear Lady Rosaleen’s ties to the Riverlands will undercut your claim.”

Larys saw it, the hint of a smirk in Aemond’s features. One that told him the Prince was more than happy to see him squirm.

“She is a Blackwood, of an old family, highly regarded in that region. It is not impossible that her union with the crown could inspire certain factions to press for new arrangements.”

“Then hold your seat with your own power,” Aemond snapped, “I am not in the habit of safeguarding every lord’s inheritance. Harrenhal was given to you by the crown. If you cannot hold it, that is your failing.”

Larys pressed his lips into a thin line, feathers thoroughly ruffled. “I meant no offence, Your Grace. Only that the realm whispers.”

“You want my reassurance, that I won’t hand Harrenhal over to House Blackwood or any other local lord. Fine. I see no point in transferring titles further. I have more pressing concerns than who holds that ruin. Provided you remain loyal, you may keep it.”

There was not but a few seconds Lord Larys felt truly calm and relieved before Aemond’s chair scraped against the stone floor, his form unbending to full height, arms folded behind his back.

“But hear me,” the prince continued, “loyalty is more than murmured pledges at council. Serve me well, and I shall not contest your seat. Fail me, or scurry about stirring trouble to safeguard your seat, and you will find no refuge, either behind Harrenhal’s bloody walls or anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms. Are we clear?”

Larys leaned his weight on his cane as he bowed, “perfectly, Your Grace.”

“As for Lady Rosaleen,” he said, forcing a calmer tone, his fist forming to try and dispel the irritation coiling within, “she is a woman, yes, but she might offer insight on the Riverlands in time. My insight, Lord Larys. Mine to use, not yours.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I live only to serve.”

“Then serve,” Aemond said coldly, turning away to dismiss him, resisting that sweet, dark desire to kick the poor cunt’s cane from under him. “And one more thing…”

He had purposefully done so that Lord Larys had to make the effort to turn once again fully to meet his scrutinising gaze.

“Do not collude with my mother,” he warned, “I am well aware of the part you played when my brother yet lived. The quiet counsel, the scheming, to secure your own means of success. I will not tolerate any further plans hatched behind my back, not with the Dowager Queen, nor with anyone else who might seek to steer me. You will hold Harrenhal by my grace, and by that grace alone.”

Larys merely inclined his head once more, a flicker of apprehension flashing across his face before he made his swift, or as much as he could, exit. 

The war may be over, but the ceaseless clawing of men’s ambitions, would never be over. Lords like Larys were not done scheming. He would have to remain vigilant, ensuring no opportunist tried to subvert his authority, or his upcoming marriage to Rosaleen.

He would let Harrenhal keep their ghosts for now. Perhaps in their dark, stone halls, bleeding red, some ghost of him of years passed wandered there too.

Rosaleen traced her finger over the piece of parchment on her writing desk. The surface bearing faint impressions of her neat, curved script. The one honed skill she had appreciated from her mother. The letter was one of several, penned over the last few days to her father, each carefully sealed with the black raven of House Blackwood. She had written of her safe arrival at the Red Keep, of the kindness of her new maidservant, and even of the sprawling view of King’s Landing from her tower window. But there was no mention of Prince Aemond, nor of the strange meeting they had shared.

She exhaled, cursing when she had smudged her name when the ink had not yet dried. She was little known for her patience. Truth be told, she had been wound tight since the first meeting with her betrothed, and some things were better left unwritten.

A light knock always preceded Lyla’s entrance. The girl cutsied shyly, her pale, fine cheeks flushed as if someone had pinched them. “Good morrow, my Lady,” she said, her voice so smooth she almost seemed older than her years. “I have bought the garments His Grace requested you try before the upcoming festivities.”

Festivities. She could have laughed. 

She was so much fussed over here she felt as if she were a babe. Though Rosaleen had become accustomed to the rhythms of the Red Keep since her arrival, the surroundings still felt foreign. Every corner, every corridor, seemed almost alive with whispers. It was a world she was slowly beginning to navigate. 

Lyla unlaced Rosaleen’s robe, eyeing up the crimson fabrics laid over a nearby chaise. The beginnings of her wedding attire. 

“They’ve sent over fabrics from the royal seamstress,” Lyla remarked, “velvet and silks with golden thread. They said it’s to be embroidered with your house sigil, joined with the Targaryen dragon.”

She was sure Lyla caught the roll of her eyes in the reflection. Dragon this, dragon that, she thought. She could already imagine the talk, the Riverlands’ raven entwined with the dragon of House Targaryen, the union meant to symbolise the forging of peace. Yet the memory of war still lay across the Riverlands like a fresh scar.

“Quite the combination,” Rosaleen murmured, allowing Lyla to slip off her robe. The cool air of the chamber brushed her skin, and she crossed her arms lightly across her chest. “Does the Queen truly intend for that?”

Lyla swallowed, pressing her lips together nervously. Not wanting to overstep. “Yes, my Lady. She said it’s only fitting to display both lines united.”

Rosaleen gave a non-committal nod, though she barely believed it herself. She couldn’t help but wonder what Aemond would think of that. Would he care at all how the sigils were stitched, or was it merely another item on the long list of wedding formalities?

Lyla moved gracefully around Rosaleen, lifting the wedding skirt from the stand. “If I may say so, my Lady,” she ventured timidly, “the colour suits you. The deep reds, well, they match both your house and his. It’s quite pretty.”

“Anything to feel less like an ornament, the better. I suppose.”

Lyla pinned the skirt in place, testing the fit. Where to pull in, where to let out. As if the Lady of House Blackwood were just another puppet in the show the Realm called ‘the crown’.

“How do you feel about Prince Aemond?” she ventured another comment, a brief stint at bravery.

“I have grown accustomed to the idea,” she said carefully. “But weddings of this magnitude, they bring their own pressures. I’d be lying if I said I was immune to them.”

“It is only natural to feel nervous.”

Rosaleen cocked her head, her deep eyes focussed on her silhouette in the looking glass. Lyla was not wrong, the crimsons did suit her, but their hue felt so different. “I would not say ‘nervous’.”

“Then what say you, my Lady?” Lyla asked, sidling up to her to take in her figure, pulling a loose thread.

Rosaleen watched the slow inhale and exhale of her chest, as if she herself could draw courage from the woman staring back. Sometimes, when she had damp hair, pulled back away from her face, all she could see was her father in his younger years. The dark, brooding personality of a Blackwood, mercilessly confident. And yet, in herself, she merely saw his image, not his ambition.

“Restless.”

There were only so many shades of red Rosaleen could bear to scrutinise before she finally dismissed Lyla with a polite, though slightly exasperated, wave of her hand. Each scarlet bolt of fabric seemed indistinguishable from the last, daringly bold, but ultimately the same vivid hue she had worn all her life. Boldness was in her blood, stitched into the very threads of her heritage.

With so much hassling and prodding all in one morning, Rosaleen could barely stomach Aly’s incessant moaning. And the morning was such a nice one it would be a pity to waste such an opportunity. The gardens here were so different to those at home. Their scent as well. Rosemary and thyme, flowers of all exotic kinds lingered in the air, carried on the soft breeze that provided a momentary respite from the dull humidity.

Arianne walked beside her, fingers nervously twisting in front of her. Though her cousin usually radiated gentle warmth, she seemed troubled today, her bright eyes downcast. Rosaleen cast her a sidelong glance, waiting for Arianne to speak first. When she remained silent, Rosaleen nudged her gently with her elbow.

“You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet, care to share your thoughts, sweet cousin?”

Arianne exhaled, her gaze flickering to a cluster of purple flowers before she responded. “I was just thinking. About marriage, and the future, I suppose.”

Rosaleen could have rolled her eyes at the mention of yet more marriage. But she let a teasing note enter her voice, hoping to lighten the mood. “I thought you were in no hurry.”

“I wasn’t. I am not, truly.” Arianne’s cheeks flushed, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “But seeing you, all the talk, the preparations, even though it’s hardly a love match, makes me wonder if it’s time I considered my own prospects.”

Rosaleen frowned, slowing her pace. “You’re hardly an old maid, Arianne. There’s no rush to marry if you don’t wish it.”

“I know,” she said, chewing her lip, “but ever since my brother was sent to ward, he has been restless. Eager to barter me away for some alliance or profit even. I can’t imagine he’ll show restraint when the next opportunity arises.”

Rosaleen clasped her hands, knowing very well how her Piper uncle could be when restless. “And what is it you want?”

“I am not sure,” she admitted. “I have always thought, one day, I would marry. It’s just the way of things, isn’t it? Daughters wed, they raise children, and they secure their house’s future. But the more I see of the court, the less certain I am that it’s what I truly desire,” she shook her head, a faint, apologetic laugh escaping her, “but I suppose that makes me sound selfish.”

“Gods forbid we sound selfish,” Rosaleen commented half-heartedly, “they expect us to take on these roles without question, and yet they never stop to wonder if it’s what we truly want. Or if we might be more useful doing something else.”

Arianne gave her a sad smile. “What else is there for me, though? I don’t have your spirit, Rosaleen. I don’t think I could stand to clash with Father as you might with yours. He frightens me, if I am honest.”

“Is your father not due to visit Court in the coming months? Surely he will not organise a match for you if he is not yet here. Your father is an eternally proud man, he would not offend his only daughter with a match lesser than he believes fit."

Arianne’s sweet face grimaced, as much as her features would allow, “it is not beyond my father to organise such things by raven. I myself have not seen him for the better part of a year.”

“Well,” Rosaleen said, looping her arm through Arianne’s and casting a thoughtful glance down the garden path, “when he does arrive, you won’t be lacking in allies. You have Aly and me, after all. Us ‘Blackwood bitches’ will see to it that he learns his place.”

Arianne giggled at the jest, the sound sweet against the stillness of the late afternoon. She fit her pace to match her cousin’s, her brighter, more delicate features standing in gentle contrast to Rosaleen’s dark ones. Ever since they were girls, they had walked this delicate line of opposites, Rosaleen bold and unafraid to spar with her parents, while Arianne, poor thing, had never found the courage to stand up to her own father’s venom. The loss of her mother at a young age had left her alone in Lord Piper’s domain, a place where kindness seemed rare.

Still, here, linked arm in arm, Arianne felt a flicker of warmth. No matter how opposite they were, Rosaleen’s unwavering confidence offered a refuge she so desperately needed, especially in a world where women were often told to be everything but themselves.

No stranger of a maester to Lady Rosaleen Blackwood would put his fingers anywhere near her. Especially not in her. And despite reassurances from Queen Alicent, Rosaleen, with the support of Aly, reiterated the importance that the examination to ensure her virtue, be performed by the maester she bought with her, Maester Carwyn.

All the same, he had known her since birth, it was no easy thing to lay back and allow him, however medical, to prod and poke at her most intimate areas.

Carwyn muttered polite reassurances as he prepared his tools, Rosaleen lay rigid on her bed, the sheets fisted in her palms. She could feel the warmth of her cheeks, certain that every hint of her discomfort was on full display. It was one thing to be told there would be an examination for virtue, and another to lay here, half-disrobed, beneath the watchful eyes of those who presumed to judge her body in the name of politics. Even through the fine, cotton drapes that was supposed to hide her, embarrassment curled in her gut.

Had poor Princess Helaena once lay here as well, or did Queen Alicent spare her sweet daughter this torture.

Alysanne was at her side, her dark gaze full of protective fire as she pressed a reassuring hand to Rosaleen’s arm. “I’ll stay right here,” she whispered fiercely. “Unless there was a steamy lapse of morals I should know of.”

Rosaleen cast a playful glare. As if Aly herself could make jokes such as that about a lapse of morals.

She glanced briefly at Alicent, who stood by the open window with her hands folded neatly before her, her expression unreadable. The Dowager Queen had insisted on observing, citing ‘formalities’ and ‘the realm’s best interests.’ At least she wasn’t staring, Rosaleen thought with a small relief. 

Carwyn performed such an examination, luckily with warm hands, a small reprieve from the disgust she felt at her body’s blatant protest of the touch. It was an impersonal procedure of curt nods and murmured sounds of approval. Alysanne’s hold on her arm tightened whenever the Maester moved too boldly, and for that small comfort, Rosaleen was grateful.

When it was over, the Maester cleared his throat, scribbling a note on a small parchment. “My lady is as chaste as one might hope,” he announced softly, nodding to Alicent. “All is in order for the wedding.”

Finally turning once Rosaleen lowered her skirts, Alicent cast a sidelong glance, “thank you, maester,” she said coolly, “you may go.”

Rosaleen gave Aly a grateful smile, watching as her Blackwood cousin disappeared behind the chamber door behind Maester Carwyn, leaving two queens, one of long past, and one of the future, alone together.

“You must forgive the unpleasantness of this moment,” Alicent began, sympathy ghosting over her features, “the ways of court are oftentimes barbaric, and the realm demands certainty.”

Rosaleen swallowed, keeping her expression as composed as she could manage. “I understand, Your Grace,” she replied, forcing a steadiness she didn’t feel. “Certainty is a precious thing, especially after so many uncertainties in the realm.”

A flicker of something, approval, or perhaps calculation, gleamed in Alicent’s eyes. “Indeed. You speak plainly, Lady Rosaleen, which I can appreciate. Though there is more to consider now that you will be joined to my son. Tell me, how do you find the Red Keep thus far?”

“It is grand,” she answered carefully, “and overwhelming, in equal measure. Though I suspect most new arrivals feel the same.”

Alicent gave a faint nod, her hands clasped tightly before her. “Overwhelming, yes. The court can be a labyrinth of hidden motives. Doubtless, you’ve already sensed that. But for all the chatter and spectacle, a prince’s bride is meant to stand at his side and help maintain order. Not to fan the flames of further imbalance.”

Her voice held a blunt edge, and Rosaleen recognised it as a warning. Stay in line. She lifted her chin fractionally. “I have no intention of causing imbalance, Your Grace.”

“Of course.” Alicent’s responding smile was thin. She paced a few steps away, letting her gaze drift over the tapestries on the wall. “Your role, first and foremost, is to be Aemond’s wife and to see to his line. Politics, while important, should remain secondary. For a time, at least. He needs heirs, Lady Rosaleen. The realm needs them. Do not let that slip from your mind.”

Rosaleen forced a polite smile, though the taste of it felt bitter. “I assure you, I haven’t forgotten.”

Alicent’s gaze lingered on her face, as though searching for any hint of rebellion. After a moment, she inclined her head, seemingly satisfied with what she found, or failed to find. “Good,” she said simply. “Then I hope we can avoid further unpleasantness.”

For a moment, Rosaleen regarded her. A mother who had been through so much, so young. Too young perhaps. Had someone in years passed given this same warning to her with King Viserys? It would not take two guesses to pinpoint whom. These words were too scripted, too neat, to simply be a spur of the moment conversation with her future daughter-in-law. These were the warnings of a woman who was forced to become one too soon. Familiar ones. 

She felt a flutter of sympathy, before she recognised Queen Alicent did not intend to feel the same for her. How could she not, Rosaleen allowed herself to think. Was it not exhausting to endlessly toil in service to men, her own late-husband, and then to her own sons?

How must it feel, to have such power Alicent did have be snuffed out as if she had never felt it.

Would her future husband do the same to her?

“I shall leave you to rest,” Alicent added, her voice once again carrying that note of finality. “You’ll need your strength in the coming days. Let us both hope the realm finds peace in this union.”

Without waiting for Rosaleen’s reply, the Dowager Queen turned and swept to the door. Taking in a shaky breath, she let her fingers drift over her collar, keenly aware of the vulnerability she had just been forced to display, and the warning she’d been given. Yes, the realm demands certainty, she thought grimly. But at what cost to me?

Play the part. Bear the heirs. Keep your counsel mild.

Mild.

But she was a Blackwood. And the taste of the evening indignities rested bitterly on her tongue.

If she was to be Aemond's bride, his mother was going to have to trust her.

And yet around her lingered the ghosts, the tragedies of war. Scribblings had been meticulously painted over on the wooden panels surrounding her chambers. The erasure of Queen Helaena’s so-called ‘madness’. If Rosaleen looked close enough, traced the patterns indented with her fingertips, she could almost make out what had been there.

Was she truly mad? To experience what that poor girl had, what blood had been shed before her in the name of victory, who would not?

“My Lady,” Lyla interrupted her thoughts with a soft, careful voice. Wide eyes. She was nervous. “Prince Aemond wishes to see you.”

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[pyredez]

               LEO   KNEW   THAT   WHAT   HE   HAD   DONE   TO   PERCY   was   no   better   to   what   people   had   done   to   him.   Then   again,   wasn’t   it   human   nature   to   have   a   fixed   thought   of   someone   by   appearance   alone?   It   was,   wasn’t   it?   It   was   never   right,   of   course,   but   people   couldn’t   help   it.   Judgement   was   in   everyone.   It   just   mattered   if   someone   would   be   cruel   enough   to   voice   it   in   such   a   way   that   would   bring   someone   down.   That   last   part   was   what   Leo   was   used   to.   

               HE   COULD   ALMOST   HEAR   HIS   MAMA’S   VOICE   THAT   WAS   USED   to   lecture   him   on   many   occasions:   Mi   hijo,   no   one   in   life   knows   what   they   are   doing.   Not   even   adults.   One   page   at   a   time…   one   step   at   a   time.   It   took   Leo   long   enough   to   realize   how   true   it   was.   And   if   he   could   be   so   bold,   he   would   even   say   that   the   gods   had   no   idea   what   they   were   doing.   So,   what   now?   It   meant   that   everything   was   going   to   be   fine.   Leo   needed   to   allow   himself   this   weakness,   to   be   honest   with   someone.   This   was   his   chance   to   reach   for   a   place   ahead.   It   was   even   better   to   know   that   even   Percy   Jackson   didn’t   have   it   all   figured   out   either   

            THE   SON   OF   HEPHAESTUS   LET   OUT   A   SMALL   SNORT.   HIS   whole   body   started   to   relax   again,   “   Hey,   I   think   that   would   almost   be   the   best   idea   ever.   I   could   probably   make   you   up   a   wicked   pair.   ”   Already   his   mind   came   up   with   three   ideas   for   those   glasses.

                  HIS   SMALL   SNORT   TURNED   INTO   HIS   OWN   CHUCKLE   AT   PERCY’S   remark.   Every   demigod   was   labeled   ‘uncool’   weren’t   they?   That   thought   made   him   feel   more   at   ease,   more   comfortable,   “   Nah.   I   think…   I—   yeah.   I   do   appreciate   it.   I   mean,   not   many   would   do   what   you   just   did.   At   least,   people   I’ve   met   in   the   past,   ”   Leo   shifted   on   his   makeshift   seat,   “   So,   really…   I   do   mean   it,   ”   his   sheepish   smile   came   across   his   lips,   “   To   be   honest—   like   I’m   going   to   be   honest,   I   didn’t   know   if   I   wanted   to   accept   this   talk,   ”   he   shrugged,   “   But,   I’m   glad   I   did.   I   think   we   can   do   some   serious   damage   together.   ”

To those of you out there who ever had the fun curiosity, I wonder how I come off to other people . . . you clearly don’t have folks looking at you the way they look at Percy. They made it pretty clear what they thought about him, from the time he was a kid and people expected nothing of him, to all of the sudden having everyone expect everything of him, to apparently seeming like some untouchable jerk who “had it all together” and knew what he was doing 24/7—like he was born into being a hero and therefore had never struggled once.

Oh, boo-hoo, Percy Jackson; throw a pity party— Yeah, okay. He got it. Maybe he even understood, and maybe that was exactly the reason he felt the need to sit down honestly like this and make it entirely clear: Bro, I have no idea what I’m doing. (But, hey, when I figure it out, you’ll be one of the first I tell.) Something on his ever-growing list of “Things I Don’t Expect to Hear (But Usually End Up Hearing Anyway)” was being told he was scary to any degree, but even then . . . Leo confessing it more or less made it official.

Come to think of it, Frank and Hazel once stared at him like that: like they weren’t sure whether to be horrified or impressed by what he’d done. In the adrenaline of the moment, sure, Percy might not have paid it much mind, but the fact he could so clearly remember their faces said something.

Hey, if he was so intimidating without even trying, you’d think more monsters would buzz right off and leave him alone. Gods forbid that work in his favor.

Percy’s face twisted, something like a flinch. “My bad,” he admitted again, but forced himself to loosen up some as he stretched out his legs, spread his hands. “I mean, I could start wearing googly-eye glasses or something if that’d help.” There was no way a guy could be scary when he looked like that, right? Percy was positive even if someone was beating him to a pulp, he’d be struggling not to laugh the entire time. If anyone could figure something out to combat the “intimidation” factor, though, it’d be Leo. That being said, now Percy figured he ought to be worried about the outcome—

Talk about shooting yourself in the foot . . .

At the very least, Leo was actually smiling, now. When what seemed like a genuine grin split across his face, Percy realized how insanely contagious it was coming from him. (And, y’know? He liked it. He wanted that to happen more.) After a bark of laughter, Percy said, “If ‘uncoolness’ is a problem on this ship, I think we’re all in trouble.” But, no, that was definitely a lie. Percy actually thought all of them deserved a little bit of hype. “You don’t gotta thank me, man. This was something I wanted to do, so. Actually pretty cool of you to listen and, uh . . . talk to me.”

[widowshill]

the r/l/b and r/v/b “everything is cyclical, and a contest, and we are once again resting who wins and who loses on a woman’s favor” continues.

[aingeal98]

I love that Barbara's slightly grey morality during her history as Oracle is just something half the batfam cannot acknowledge for the sake of their own mental health.

Steph: Oooh you used to work with the Suicide Squad? Did you ever have to kill people?

Babs: Well I-

Dick: Of course she didn't!

Cass: Barbara would never kill how dare you.

Babs, knowing full well everyone in the room knows that's a flat out lie:... Yeah sure. Let's go with that.

[saturdaysky]

a little divine appreciation

-

God Gale is endgame for Mayhew, and Mayhew couldn't be more pleased 😌

their mutual wizard disease brought them to some pretty low lows, but hey, ignore the tragedy, they're gods now! first order of business is a little worshiping at the altar 😏

Here's the sketch, which I also like:

Got majorly inspired by these lovely photos, one of which I used as a pose reference.

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

jon val jon or something

[varilien]

as a kid i wanted soooooo badly to have a bill gijinka for my very own but i could never come up w one that didn't just feel like i was ripping off all my favorite fan designs for him at the time. and all this time later finally this one came out SO Perfect For Me that i think it's a little bit of a mistake actually like i didn't intend on becoming this obsessed with him ever again in my life but HERE WE ARE !!!

Palestine: Funds | Action | eSims | Info Sudan Resources | Congo Resources

u guys see what i mean tho. these are from like 2015(?) or smn and visibly just patterned off of what everyone else was doing at the time lol