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pliablehead · 1 year ago

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Super self-indulgent little piece of writing I did laying out the guys from EE as a dungeons & dragons-style adventuring party, which I have just mailed to @heyjudelaw but figured I’d also share here if anyone cared hehehe

Central among them stands a dark-clad man who draws the eye almost instantly with his towering, statuesque height, and then keeps it, quite striking in appearance and countenance. His dark hair rakes back from a noble brow in an elegant widow’s peak, and with it, two smooth, sweeping devil’s horns, darker still–a tiefling, then, from some high elven stock but some of something else, deeper, infernal. The rake of his horns only serves to make him look even taller. He wears a long, crisp travellers’ coat, its shining buttons left undone along his front; it is perhaps black, perhaps only nearly black, effecting something more subtle and expensive than a stark blotch of pure pitch might in the dappled soft-focus light of the wood. Beneath it he sports no armor, merely a simple knit sweater with a high turtleneck, obscuring nearly all of his tanned skin. It is clear he does not need it: here in what should be at least three days’ rough travel from the edge of the wood, his clothes and slim boots show not a speck of dirt nor wear, and not a single strand of his smoothly coiffed hair falls out of place. Some sort of power beyond the material realm of the forest auras him–the only thing about him that is difficult to look at. Though his eyes are also dark, theirs is a warm, liquid darkness, speaking of more brightness and kindness than the rest of his striking presence might command.

At his side, another—perhaps maybe even tall as the tiefling man, but comporting himself such that he appears smaller, somehow stooped without stooping, his shoulders in an altogether different set. He is unmistakably elvish, though in a rare way of no clear high elf or wood elf bearing, his fine features and complexion betraying neither, his eyes clear but hooded and narrow, as though constantly peering into spaces deeper and further than the planes around him. The singular visage of an arcanist. This elven man is clad in soft cloaks of greys and tans, much more of a place in the wood than his tiefling companion seems to be; and belted around his waist and shoulders are a number of small, esoteric devices that he seems to touch and catalogue with a practiced, almost uncanny ease, finding one and implementing it immediately in almost the same deft, fluid motion. The casual movement of his dexterous hands belies the deep arcane complexity of the challenges they perform, mastered only after years or even decades of study—despite his unassuming appearance, his reputation has come to precede him. Surely this is the wizard Kaines.

Smallest among their number, but by no means slight, stands a man of a much more human bearing, though there lingers just enough in his bone structure and the cool piercing blue of his eyes to indicate some elven heritage within him as well, perhaps several generations back. Compared to his companions he seems almost nondescript by choice, with dark, close-cropped hair and a matching stubbled jaw flecked through with grey, and a posture of almost deliberate, calculated looseness, an alert mind and a keen gaze. He wears light and almost airy raiments, a diffuse shade of blue, as though of a white fabric dyed by hand to perfectly match his eyes, and their monotone palette seems—symbolic, representative of something, perhaps some order he has sworn himself to, or some other alliance beyond his traveling party. Despite the shaded cool of the forest, the shirtsleeves of this raiment are short, as though to give him the broadest and easiest range of motion. Mounted at his waist are a few small instruments of combat, blades and cudgels clearly designed for nimble swiftness rather than overpowering might, though his bared arms are corded with lithe muscle, that same loose but wary carriage.

At the front of the party—stepping forward—

Not the first of them to stand out and command attention, but the one who does so now with the greatest strength and tenacity, good gods, impossible to look away. Like his companion in blue, he appears mostly of human heritage, but whatever other ancestry lies in his blood is not that of his half-elven cohorts, but some more fey or bestial nature, some kobold or gnoll of some deep underforest, gleaming feral about his wild blue eyes, the unsettling too-clean sharpness of his teeth. His brows and the shadow of his jaw are dark, but his head of hair is bleached to blond by some caustic process or by some other clime’s blazing sun, a strange clash, at home in his strange whole. His broad body is clad in textured, dark black underleathers, a wicked pitch-black breastplate and greaves, all underneath some sweeping sleeveless cloak or priory tabard—mist-grey and somber, at its surface, but seeming to ripple with a frisson of hellfire orange and magenta when the woodland breeze catches it, there one moment and vanished the next, preternatural and alarming as the rest of the man himself. Whatever vestments these are that he wears, nothing of the divine realms has lain touch to them. His power, compelling and captivating as has ever graced this wood, stems from something oppressive, ancient, and fathomlessly dark, till it nearly clouds the air around him. Against its weight he seems almost illumined by compare.

And so bidden, you approach the crossroad…

#everything everything #fanfic #(sort of. tagging it that for my own archival purposes anyway lol)#for anyone who cares their classes/subclasses are:#jeremy: divine soul sorcerer + college of eloquence bard #alex: archivist artificer + college of lore bard #mike: college of valor bard + way of the kensei monk #jon: college of whispers bard + order domain cleric #ADAM (all drummers are monks)#this has been a post #happy valentines #no regrets ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#e e

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nebulations · 4 months ago

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[ID: A meme of someone saying "Best I can do is first degree murder." End ID]

Jarchivist consuming statements: I’ll keep you alive so I can see you in my dreams

Protocol Archivist:

#tmagp #tma #described #described by me #op please add this id to the original post to make it more accessible! in plain text w/o a readmore :) make any edits necessary!#Y'ALL NEED TO STOP ASSIGNING JON FALSE VALOR. TMAGP ARCHIVIST IS SECRET WORSE THING OKAY!!!!#literally still calling her error in my head askdjf

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eccentricallygothic · 10 months ago

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Crosshairs

Description: Trying to get Robb's attention is one thing, but when you have successfully landed yourself in his crosshairs is another.

Pairing: Brat Tamer Prodigal Son!Robb Stark | Spoilt Brat!You.

Warning(s): Brat taming, jealousy, spanking, punishment, unprotected p-in-v, doggy style (it's me), claiming, manhandling (it's Robb), power imbalance, degradation, light misogyny, Robb's BDE because I live for that shit, corporal punishment ig, boob play. MDNI.

Type: Request, here.

. . .

“You do realize you will land us both in trouble if you keep this up, yes?” Jon does not look up at his older brother's betrothed half out of respect and half out of the playful annoyance he feels for the spoiled girl batting her eyelashes down at him with faux coyness.

“What trouble?” The male rolls his eyes as he works away at his sword. “I haven't the slightest inkling of whatever you mean, Jon” he resists the urge to scoff at your obvious innocence.

The uncharacteristic nature of your actions makes you stick out like a sore thumb. The forced lady-like smile that holds your features in an uncomfortable shift due to lack of experience, the way you hover above his head in a flirtatious side hang even though you never behave in this manner around the opposite sex save one, the overdone grace with which you tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and the little tilt of your head that is accompanied by a confused and senseless giggle fitting to women, the pains with which you put this effort forward is painfully obvious.

“Right” the object of his discomfort -something you have in common with said object, at times- appears on the horizon of his vision and Jon sighs.

Well, there goes his hope of not becoming the collateral today.

“No, tell me what you meant” though you aren't used to or too comfortable with leaning into men, you do so because you have also caught the quiet figure in your own peripherals and unlike Jon, you welcome the circumstance like the fool you are. “I want to know, Jon~” the dark haired male uncomfortably shifts away from you who puts an extra swing in your sway towards him. He lets out a suppressed scoff and glares at you. The two of you have been friends long enough for him to know exactly what it is that you are doing.

“Stop” you know each other too well to be affected by any proximity with each other but Jon's older brother who is an advocate of propriety has taught his younger brother that this distance with a lady one is not related to seldom fares well and thus his teachings show in his behavior. “You—” though he decides not to beat around the bush for any longer, it is too little too late.

Alas.

“Father calls for you, Snow” the male in question releases a breath he was not aware he was holding and jumps to his feet abruptly with a gladness he is still cautious of since his brother likes to get unfair at times despite being well acquainted with your personality.

Jon departs, or rather flees the scene without another word.

A smirk makes its way onto your face so you turn your ‘unsuspecting’ back to the hairy giant, bending to pick up your upper coat that you had shrugged off in a bout of confidence. Though you aren't the sharpest and certainly don't possess the perception of your betrothed, you hear him approach you in his manly and wise silence as you clear the haystacks of your coat in one swift movement and resume an upright position.

“Oh!” You exclaim with a surprise so artificial that the impurity nearly cuts Robb because of how he always dons the gold of honesty and valor. “My heart!” You use your endearment for him for Robb neither likes to hear you refer to him by name in public nor does he prefer you call him by his titles. “When did you get here? You were not a moment ago!”

The coolest, most small smile spreads over his rosy lips and Robb tips his head back an inch to grant himself a better look at your audacity. The milky skin under his eye slightly twitches in response to him narrowing his eyes at you. Though he says nothing, you can still hear his rhetorical inquiry in that sarcastic way of his that you are well familiar with due to how long you have known him.

“Whatever’s the matter, my love?” Robb has to resist the urge to scoff at the extra pitch in your voice because of the pretentiousness you are putting into your performance.

He just stares at you for a good while, studying you, perhaps giving you a chance. So much so that there comes a point where you feel yourself gulping down a bile from your rising nervousness. But unlike many other times, you refuse to give in today. Like husband, like wife. After all, you rebelled against your nature today to end up here, in this ‘predicament’. Giving up now would be to waste all your effort and turn your bold attempt futile.

“Come” he says after you know not how many minutes pass but before you can say anything, Robb’s hairy claw has already seized your smaller hand within it. It is unlike his nature too, for usually he is the effortless victor in a battle of wits between the two of you.

“Oh!” But you are used to being treated like the most delicate and valuable thing to ever exist. You have been raised in a manner which has accustomed you to everyone giving in to your demands and wishes. The firm manner in which Robb balances all things with a just foresight is most undesirable to you, fancy for him or not. Things should always go your way in the design of your desire, and not in a way that is mindful of safeguarding the welfare of other people too, unlike your dearest. If it does as a byproduct, jolly. If it does not, well, then that is simply not your pain to bear. And whilst you underwent this stunt to provoke Robb and his attention, the way your smaller body is being dragged somewhere through the dark hallways of the estate with a rigidity typical to your betrothed, it is hardly the conclusion you planned.

Not like this.

“Oh, my!” Your brutish man's ironhold is beast-like as you try to free yourself of it. But what good is a mere pip against a wolf out for blood? “Stop, stop!” You huff and puff half out of your liking to test him to the best of your ability and half because your scheme was not to be so quickly overthrown with such ease!

No, he was supposed to get jealous and sulk in the envy your behavior was aimed to stir in him due to your treatment of his brother. Then he was supposed to fight for your attention and give in to all demands bestowed upon him by you and fulfill any and every need you may have. Robb was to kneel down to you like everyone else in your life did and strike conversation to get you to shower the blessings of your company upon him. He was to say the first word and you were to act like he usually did; with a teasing indifference to make him haste harder for your notice. Except, your little mind failed to realize that you yourself had broken the very first rule of your own game not too long ago when you had spoken.

And now as you are pushed into a little room for the stored animal feed and other domestic necessities before your smaller body is pushed like a delinquent babe's to bend over hay forming a stack half your size, you whimper and pout as your pampered elbows itch from the dried grass. This outcome is far from what you had expected of your contrivance. This is not supposed to be it.

“We are not wed yet, my Lord!” Your mouth runs its senseless attempts in vain. “Oh no!” You try to worm your body free from his elbow that he settles between your shoulder blades to nail you in place as the rest of his arm lays down along the length of your back, the tips of his fingers pressing against the twin dents in your tailbone. “This—”

“All that fuss to have my attention, dove” when he does speak, the guttural quality of his throat shushes you into silence. “Only to raise mayhem and put up such fight when it has been granted to you” you feel the fingers of his free hand dance along the plump, clothed cushions of your buttocks and your eyes widen as though the position he had put you in was not telling enough.

No, no, no!

He is supposed to get on his knees and worship you!

Not discipline you like a guardian does a misbehaving child!

“Perhaps they are correct in what they say about a woman's eternal uncertainty in what she wants herself” not entirely true. You do know what you want. But if you confess it to him this will get even worse for you! He must not know! You shall conceal it like your life depends on it!

Or so you scheme in your naivete, for you have behaved in similar ways more times than one.

But trying to flirt with another man? That is new.

And Robb is very determined to find out the source of that course of action.

“Ugh,” you shake your shoulders in a futile attempt once more. “Do not be a cruel brute!” You order the future King of the North like you are in any position to bark at a man of his stature. “I am not one of your savagely bannermen! I— ah!” A furious hiss shoots through your lips when his free hand comes down upon the midpoint of your cheeks that jiggle feverishly from the impact. You whine at the sting that goes all the way down to your pucker and though Robb is wordless, he curses under his breath when he realizes that you are not wearing adequate underclothing despite his constant advice and request that you do.

How typical of you.

The young man brings another strong hand down upon your rear at the thought and you let out such an exaggerated sound -in his opinion, as he is scarcely aware of the extent of his own strength- that it mimics a cackle. Only, it is one of woe. Your hips desperately try to find solace in swerving the endangered half of your body out of his line of devastation but your wolf-man is far too strong.

“Aaaa!” You furiously wail like a delinquent puppy being set straight, digging your elbows into the hay and your head in your arms to withstand the thunderous rain of your betrothed's hand on your buttocks. “I demand you stop this immediately, Robb!” Your whines are muffled and pathetic in their contrast to your words.

“It will not be until you tell me whose plot your little performance was” you gulp and bark out a wheeze to respond and it is like he senses the lie that goes to bud on your tongue and he swats it away with a foreseeable slap to the underside of your rear. “And you best think twice before giving me a false answer,” you shake your whole body and your head in protest and pain when he spanks you again. “Or so help me gods.”

But you remain faithful to your nature and preserve your brain's unutilized state by choosing to, after all, lie. “I- I have not the slightest idea what you mean!” Robb releases a cool, mirthless scoff and shakes his head at you, his palm now taking turns on each of your cheeks as it comes out in strong, powerful hits that he lands with well paced delays so you can fully feel the ache of one strike before the next lands. “O- Ow! T- There was no- ah— p- plot! Nevermind a- any performance!” He sighs as if to lament what is about to happen to you next.

“Fine” your eyes widen and you squawk in shock like you aren't accustomed to this or you were not hoping to arouse a more ideal variant of this outcome anyway. “Have it your way then, my dove” oh… that never fares well for you.

And Robb proves your suspicion true when he lifts your skirts out of the way and tucks them under the hand that sits on your lower back like a menacing serpent with unkind intentions. “Tsk,’’ a strong strike is given to your barely secure intimates before he tugs your poor excuse for undergarments down.

What?

They are uncomfortable!

It is not your problem if the man of your future household is too pedant and fastidious!

He always laughs at it and just ruffles your hair but you are unyielding in your belief that he is the way he is because your betrothed is adamant on reaching bachanalness three times faster than other people his age.

“Ouch, my heart, please!” You cannot help but whine out an endearment though you absolutely do not want to because you are just as cross with him as he is with you! Ugh! He never falls in your traps! Why is he so clever?! Is this what your mother meant when she told you that you were finally going to have someone who would handle you like you ought to be the day Robb asked your father for your hand in marriage? “It hurts!”

You gasp in realization.

The pieces fall into place.

It does make sense.

Gods, the world conspires against you!

This is not fair at all!

Robb's cruel palm is unrelenting even when it begins to tingle upon coming into contact with your bare and blushing skin over and over. “Tell me the name, my angel, and I will cease this immediately” he spreads your legs with one strong jerk of his hand and your whole body undergoes a turbulence. “You know I hate this just as much as you do” before you can feel any warmth for your cruel lover for he always tells you that he does not like to punish you, his lowered hand comes upwards in a vertical hit and collides against your drenched petals. The impact reverberates through your whole being and your mouth falls open at the way your folds shake. “Make haste, sweet one.”

Your eyebrows come together in a tight, angry knot and your cheeks puff at his condescending tone. “N- No name!” You bark out of spite and clutch at the hay angrily. “There was no one!” The compressed dried grass comes loose in your hold and you add. “You have gone completely mad, you hoary troll!” The way Robb audibly chuckles at that causes the arm that he has on your back to buzz into your spine.

You gulp because he is a man of a few words and even lesser noise. So this cannot mean anything good. Although you are quite determined in your resolve, you still have to bite your lip to suppress the whimper that you let out when his offending hand now begins to softly caress the blemished skin of your buttocks and sit spots. For you know his touch and it is not this when he means to be genuinely affectionate.

Just what kind of a predicament have you landed yourself into?

“I see.” You hear the zip of harnesses coming undone and the thump of coats hitting the floor. “Then nevermind the actions of a mad man precisely how we will the name of your fellow conspirator, my dear” you are confused by his words but the feeling of his tip aligning against you when he gets behind you and takes your sore thighs -for Robb never punishes your buttocks alone but all the spots in their vicinity- in his strong fingers that are decorated in scars which bear testament to his experience in conquest, causes a tumult in your determination-taut brain from the burst of sensation and the upper half of your body relaxes as result of all tension shifting to your nether regions.

You mewl as you feel the delicious burn of your entrance that your beloved had deflowered some time ago stretch around the thick tip of his cock that makes love making feel like the first time whenever your balmy cavern is made to accommodate his manhood. “Oh! I can't take it!” You throw your head back and moan, forgetting everything else and getting lost in the flutters of pleasure you have been taught to find in the strain his cock causes on your flesh band. “You're too big, love!” Robb curses under his breath when the leaking apex of his cock is met with resistance against your folds that he feels quivering against him. “P- Please help me take it!” He just has to give a sharp strike to the underside of one of your buttocks to accompany with his scoff.

You are such a fox.

Saying all the agreeable things in that obedient tone of yours that he knows better than to trust.

He shakes his head at the surprised squeal you whimper out as though the events of the last quarter did not happen.

“Whoever said anything about you taking it, my sweet dove?” Horror creeps down your spine in the form of an ice cold shiver.

No.

“B- But— aaaah!” You are stinging, aroused, open but not filled and inching closer and closer to mindless, undignified desperation. “But!”

“Hm?” Robb seems to be enjoying himself, ever the master of restraint and self control, as he penetrates you only to the wide hilt of his tip before he sloshes it right out of your entrance only to repeat the tortuous action where your walls clench and bathe with slick in anticipation of his cock only for their buzzing excitement to be denied satisfaction.

“W- What…” You rarely ever misbehave once he has you like this. But your wanton frustration makes you kick one foot as you huff. “Why would you— oh!” You bite your lip because of the shoddy pleasure that sparks but fails to ignite, leaving your body on a trembling edge that brings you to heaven's door each time he fishes his way past your swollen folds and plops into you never to let you sheathe him thus denying you the paradise beyond. “W- Why are you doing that?!” You finally break from your pretentious rhetoric as you try to push yourself down on his shaft but strength has never been grounds for competition between the two of you.

Robb's nearly inhuman hold keeps you detained exactly where he wants you. “Doing what?” It's his time to display faux behavior and you huff although you know deep down in your mind that it would not do much to move him and would rather only land you in more trouble.

“That!” You cry when you feel his cock release more precum right at the threshold of your cavern because of how he fucks your entrance with a warm, torturous gentleness that scorches both of your insides alike. “Why w- won't you put it in, cruel ogre!”

A satisfied smirk suppresses Robb's breaths that grow heavier with the passing moments. “Why, I am a mad and cruel ogre-troll, my dove” he enters you again and this time both his hands come down on your cheeks in the form of slaps at once and you howl. “And creatures of my like have queer ways beyond the comprehensive abilities of pretty little things like yourself” you whine and your toes curl at how the frustration morphs into a dull ache in the mound between your legs.

The painful twitching of your sex makes you croak and you try to move your hips once more. “No! No!” You gurgle on your own spit as you vehemently shake your head.

“No?” Robb's inquiry is nice, somewhat kind even… unlike his heartless actions.

“No!” You affirm as you feel your knees ache and sore thighs quiver. You are a sensitive little thing. Rough handling is not a domain you are much acquainted with beside the brief encounters you have with it sometimes during spells of passion with your dearest betrothed. “No, the light of my life, you're not! You—” your back arches and you cry and pout like an entitled juvenile not getting their way, your frivolous unrest and feverish jittering making his great form that looms behind you like the silhouette of doom itself to shake in silent mirth. “You're perfect! Please, you're the most perfect Stark heir! You are the best Lord Winterfell can ever hope to have!” Your praises make him curse under his breath and he gropes your thigh harder to withstand his impulsive urge to thrust all the way in.

No.

He is the man and the responsible one.

No can do until you learn and acknowledge his authority.

That is the way.

Of men, and Lords.

“The name, my love” though he masks his words with nonchalance quite well, there is a disguised urgency in them. You light him up just as unbearably as he does you. “Tell me the name and I will give you all you need and desire.” He gives you one rough jerk just past the band of your entrance and the momentary friction you feel in the drenched velvet just above your entrance snaps the thread of your determination. “Just like that, it is that easy. But you choose the fruitless path of torment and frustration.” There is a hypnotic lull in his words and that is enough for you to gush out a part of your impending confession.

“It was—!” You finally confess the name of your lady friend and Robb decides that it will do for now, rest you will tell him yourself with your own free will in your sensitive and emotional post orgasm state when you will be securely tucked in his arms and against his chest.

“There” your eyes and mouth widen at the same time and a guttural grunt crawls out of your throat when he doesn't pull his tip out this time around and instead slots himself inside you until he is hilt deep. “There is my bonnie lass” the upper half of your body goes lax and appears as though your bones have dissolved into your blood. You go to collapse face first into the hay to lay down and get fucked into oblivion but Robb's territorial paw finds a hold on the underside of your jaw and he rams you onto his cock and continues to curve your form until the crown of your head is touching his shoulder. “Tsk, such havoc just because I could not attend to you right away and requested you show some patience.” His fingers find one of your nipples and you shiver.

“S- Sorry, hubby!” You finally use for him the odd yet heartwarming endearment he loves most and that is how he knows he has you netted in.

“Who loves you?” You shiver as you feel his girth stretch out your insides even though you were more than prepared for him.

“Y- You—” he pulls at your nipple before giving both your breasts punishing swats. Your waist further curls outwards at the feeling.

“Say it properly” you clench around him because of the way his baritone voice grinds against your eardrums and Robb cannot help but twitch right under your cervix.

You do not need to be told twice. “Robb Stark!”

He hums in satisfaction. “Who knows better?”

Your bubbling loins tighten. “Robb Stark!”

“Who takes care of you?” His hands roughly fumble to throw your skirts out of his way.

“Robb Stark—!” Your answer turns into a shivering moan when his fingers find the trembling gem under the hood of your sex.

“Who do you trust with everything?” The minute crevices on the tips of his fingers rub against the sensitive nub and your vision falters.

“R- Robb Stark!” His hold on your jaw is the only thing that keeps it in usable shape.

“Who will you obey when he tells you that you will no longer be friends with—” you whine when he takes the name of your dear friend but it is not a complete surprise.

Robb greatly dislikes and condemns for you any influence he deems indecent or bad.

“R- Robb Stark!” You whimper as you move your hips along to his cock that now fucks you so fast and rough that you lose your footing with each thrust, the fingers he has on the nub of your womanhood only adding to the flutters of pleasure that narrow the knot around your hips with each snap of his hips.

“Who do you belong to?” This time, his mouth comes to press against your ear and his coarse beard irritates your sensitive skin. His words carry a wolfish ferocity and you hear him gnash his teeth in as much clarity as your thumping ears will allow.

“R- Robb—” your teeth begin to chatter from the intensity of your orgasm and your body flexes against his much bigger one to withstand the explosion in your abdomen. “S- S- Stark…” Your words melt into hissing whispers and you shudder and hiss when he continues to rub, fuck and fondle you even when the ecstatic feeling has subsided and your mound demands solitude.

“That is correct” he pounces onto the stacks that you face with your smaller body underneath him like a depraved wolf having trapped in its hold a helpless little lamb. The action causes for his tip to collide against your cervix and your body thrashes defensively but it is in vain. “Do not forget that.” Robb whispers in your ear before he regains his footing and his hairy claws tuck under your thighs from the front. Your betrothed easily lifts your legs off the floor and begins his annihilation of any remaining misconduct perchance still shrouded in some unwise crevice of your little mind.

MASTERLIST

. . .

I… can swear I thought this was like 1K at best…

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kingsmoot · 27 days ago

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not to do prettycourse, but i understand that brienne is supposed to be ugly, but i don’t understand grrm’s intentions with arya? i’m using anon bc i don’t want ppl to feel like i care about arya’s appearance just that i don’t understand 😭 sorry if this bothers u

you're good it doesn't bother me 🫰

arya is a 10 year old little girl who has "the stark look" while all four of her trueborn siblings take after the tullys. this serves to make her the odd one out among the children in a way that connects her to/brings her closer to jon, her favorite brother who she strongly resembles, and to her father.

the tullys are not objectively or consistently more attractive than the starks. the only tullys we hear about being valued as beautiful are actually cat and lysa, who i would argue are noted to be (or in lysa's case to have been) beautiful not because they have a genetically solid foundation for beauty but because they are women and part of their expected social role is making themselves beautiful. and they perform this social role successfully.

arya, unlike her older sister sansa, is not interested in investing her time and effort in performing idealized feminity. sansa, in addition to being a pretty little girl, is also adept at performing femininity. she sews and embroiders, she is well educated on westerosi histroy and on contemporary social politics. she takes care to make herself beautiful (something that i will point out here is noted very frequently as she is trying to get joff not to order the kingsguard to beat her, and something that sandor, also a brutalized child, encourages her to do).

neither sansa nor arya are great beauties because they are both little girls. but the way they present themselves and perform the genders assigned to them changes how they are perceived by the nobles they are surrounded with.

"Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.

"And Arya, well . . . Ned's visitors would oft mistake her for a stableboy if they rode into the yard unannounced. Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart's desire. She had Ned's long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collect dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. I think she must be dead too." When she said that, it felt as though a giant hand were squeezing her chest. "I want them all dead, Brienne. Theon Greyjoy first, then Jaime Lannister and Cersei and the Imp, every one, every one. But my girls . . . my girls will . . ."

acok, chapter 55, catelyn vii

in terms of their actual physical appearances, yes, sansa is prettier than arya. but arya passing as a little boy as she travels through the riverlands and then the free cities says less, imo, about her inate androgyny and more about the perceptions of those around her.

from the very beginning, arya's story is one that focuses on seeing and perceiving, and on being seen and perceived.

The septa examined the fabric. "Arya, Arya, Arya," she said. "This will not do. This will not do at all."

Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Sansa was too well bred to smile at her sister's disgrace, but Jeyne was smirking on her behalf. Even Princess Myrcella looked sorry for her. Arya felt tears filling her eyes. She pushed herself out of her chair and bolted for the door.

Septa Mordane called after her. "Arya, come back here! Don't you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You'll shame us all!"

agot, chapter 8, arya i

I hate riding," Sansa said fervently. "All it does is get you soiled and dusty and sore."

Arya shrugged. "Hold still," she snapped at Nymeria, "I'm not hurting you." Then to Sansa she said, "When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion."

agot, chapter 15, sansa i

when arya is escaping kl after ned's execution, yoren tells her that everyone is looking for a highborn girl, not a dirty little boy, so that is what she'll be

gendry knows arry is a girl but doesn't tell anyone he knows because he looks at and sees him

when roose bolton looks at a plainly dressed, underfed, scrappy little girl at harrenhal, he does not see lady arya stark who so greatly resembles her father, aunt, and cousin/bastard half-brother because he isn't looking at her. she is a lowborn girlchild. he would no sooner meaningfully observe a rock in his horse's shoe

sandor clegane, with his notorious stature, visibly and notoriously disfigured face, and well bred, beautiful, prohibitably expensive horse, is not recognized outside of the twins despite the national manhunt for him because why would a knight/lannister bannerman be sitting in a cart full of turnips wearings dirty clothes with a scrawny little boy?

meanwhile, sansa's journey is about the same problem of perception, but her solution is the opposite. rather than atuning her perception of the world to be as accurate as possible, sansa protects herself by turning away, hiding her true feelings, and shielding herself from reality

i actually have a tag dedicated to this parallel between all the starklings and how they deal with the reality of their situations and what kind of perspective/perception strategy saves them:

all of this to say that arya's inability to fit into her social role as a noblewoman is based more on who she is than what she looks like. i don't think arya is ugly, i think she's a gnc child. i also don't think arya is secretly beautiful, just gnc. i think that's a purposeful misreading of the text and a weird petty "sansa sucks, actually!! arya qolab!!!" kind of attitude which i don't like.

i think arya is a plain looking gender nonconforming little girl, and i think other characters' perceptions of her are not a measure of her physical beauty but rather an indication of those other characters' preconceived notions, social roles, and powers of observation and empathy

i suggest reading these two excellent posts by my friend @branwinged

#ask tag #anon tag #arya stark #sansa stark #valyrianscrolls #arya tag #sansa tag

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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Arthur Dayne x reader

Where he manages to get away with baby Jon and make it to Dorne and live happily ever after with maybe Martell or a servant (works for house Dayne) reader(childhood sweethearts 🙏🏼)? 👀👀

What We Kept

- Summary: Arthur and you make a home in Dorne.

- Pairing: martell!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

The heat of Dorne wraps around you like a second skin, warm and dry, clinging to your limbs as you step barefoot across the sun-warmed tiles of the villa courtyard. A light wind stirs the orange blossoms, their perfume thick in the air, mingling with the salt carried inland from the sea. The villa is quiet at this hour, the kind of golden silence that comes in the lull of midday—when even the cicadas fall still, and the world exhales. Your fingers are stained with crushed figs from the breakfast you had with Jon on the terrace, his small hands sticky as he reached for another piece, laughter bright and unburdened in the way only a child’s can be. He does not know yet the weight he carries in his blood, nor the fire that gave him breath, nor the cold that hunts his name across the North.

“Nymeros,” Arthur calls softly, your chosen name in this second life. You turn toward him, and the sight of him still steals your breath—his hair longer now, sun-bleached and tied back in a leather cord, a short beard shadowing his jaw. He carries Jon on his hip, the boy’s arms thrown around his neck, head resting trustingly against his shoulder. “He fell asleep halfway through the story,” Arthur adds with a smile, and you know without asking that he had been telling him tales of knights and swords, of dragons and valor—stories without truths, only the bright glint of legend.

You reach for your son, your fingers brushing through the soft dark curls at his temple. Jon stirs slightly, murmurs something incoherent, then nestles closer to Arthur. Your heart swells at the sight. “He’ll be too old soon to be carried like this,” you say, keeping your voice quiet, though a smile plays on your lips.

Arthur chuckles and shifts Jon’s weight. “Then I shall teach him to ride. And fight. He has fire in him. He’ll not sit still long enough for lullabies soon.”

You nod, your gaze drifting toward the distant horizon, where the hills of Dorne roll toward the sea. “He’ll be strong,” you murmur. “But I want him to be happy. Safe. Free from what we left behind.”

The world believes you dead. Both of you. The Tower fell in blood, but not before you and Arthur slipped away under cover of shadow and smoke, with a babe swaddled in crimson and silver silk. The North mourned the Stark girl and the child she bore; the Kingsguard and the Martell princess lost to the madness of war. Even Ellia, your sister, had not known—she had already been lost to the flames of the sack, a memory that still haunts you in dreams. You cannot undo what was done, but here, in this quiet corner of Dorne, you’ve made a life out of the ashes.

You step inside the cool shade of the villa, Arthur beside you, Jon still asleep against him. The room smells of lavender and sandalwood, of old books and parchment. It is a peaceful home, filled with the laughter of your son, the brush of Arthur’s hand against yours, the sound of wind through silk curtains. You pour wine into a cup, hand it to Arthur, and watch him as he sinks into the cushions with a quiet sigh.

“I had a dream last night,” you say after a long moment. “Of the Tower. Of Lyanna. Her voice echoes sometimes. She said… ‘Promise me.’”

Arthur’s expression tightens, though he says nothing at first. He brushes his fingers through Jon’s curls, and his voice is quiet when he speaks. “We did what we could. We kept the promise. He’s alive, and he’s here. Loved. That is more than she ever had.”

You nod slowly. The guilt is a low, ever-present ache beneath your ribs, but you draw breath and force yourself forward, as you’ve done every day since that night. “Do you ever think about returning?” you ask. “To the world we left?”

Arthur looks at you, his violet eyes thoughtful. “And do what, my love? Face Ned Stark with his sister’s child in my arms? Reveal the truth and tear down everything that’s been built since? No. I have you. I have him. That is all I want.”

You look at him—at Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, now known as Arrion Sand, the wandering sellsword who vanished into the Dornish hills with a lover and a child. He has traded blade and glory for silence and peace. You reach across the table, taking his hand, tracing the calluses there. “You would’ve made a fine father to any child. But to him… to our son, you are everything.”

He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it, reverent and slow. “And you,” he says, voice rough with feeling, “have made this broken world beautiful again.”

That night, Jon stirs restlessly in his sleep, and you rise to soothe him. He dreams of wolves and stars, of great white beasts with eyes like moonlight. You hum softly until his breathing evens, your hand resting on his back. You watch his little chest rise and fall, and you think of Lyanna again—wild, fierce Lyanna—and of Elia, your quiet sister, gentle and kind. Both gone. But their legacies burn in the child before you. Not a Targaryen. Not a Stark. Not a prince.

Just Jon.

Your son.

#asoiaf #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #house of the dragon #fire and blood #house martell #house dayne #got/asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf x you #arthur dayne #arthur x reader #arthur x you #arthur x y/n #x reader #reader insert

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gorogues · 20 days ago

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Spoilers for New History of the DC Universe #1!

You can see a preview page here.

The Shade's appearance within DCU history. And if you've read the Starman series, you may also remember that Jon and Justin Valor played a significant role in the history of Opal City.

#the Shade #the Flash #spoilers: comics

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atopvisenyashill · 6 months ago

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Hi!

I wanted to talk to you about the Targaryens choosing to marry for love, but more specifically Aegon V and his kids, and the influence from Maekar

We all know Maekar was not originally meant to be king, and as the fourth and last child of Daeron II and Myriah he had the small freedom of choosing his own spouse.

Baelor had to marry a Marcher lady in order to make Westeros believe the Martells were not taking over the Iron Throne (I wish it was the case though), Aerys also a Marcher lady to alleviate more the relationship with the Marcher Lords and who potentially had Targaryen blood to emphasize Aerys' Targaryenness and lack for martial prowess after Baelor, and Rhaegel an Arryn since they were the oldest Andal House and because of its martial power. But Maekar chose Dyanna Dayne who was from a minor noble House from Dorne, when he could have married a Tyrell or someone else from the Reach, or even someone from the North, Westernlands or the Riverlands, but he didn't.

Now when it came to his children it was the fact that after so many deaths in the family, more duties were lied upon Maekar's family; he had to keep the alliance with Tyrosh and had to marry Daeron to Kiera; maintain the image of Targaryenness and marry Aerion to his cousin Daenora; and make alliances with other Houses through his daughters' marriages. But then Egg was able to marry for love, and it's not like he didn't love the rest of his kids but probably Egg and Betha reminded Maekar of himself and Dyanna, and let them marry.

And it's interesting when we consider the love lives of Egg's siblings: Aemon said he once fell in love but gave her up to keep his duty from not challenging his brother's claim and to protect the Targaryens within the Citadel; and either Daella or Rhae had an affair with Duncan the Tall and had to pass off her first child as a Tarth, while the other one probably got to fall in love with her spouse over time.

We don't know if Egg was aware of both cases, but if he did, then it amplified his realization that love is frequently a foil to duty, which was overwhelming when it came to his children.

And it's also interesting analyzing how Maekar and Aegon were the only ones among their siblings who got to marry for love while Aegon's daughter Rhaelle was the only one of her siblings who married for duty

something something you nickname a character egg and then have him act as a foil to a daughter who married for duty. yes that is an “egg is a trans woman joke” and i’m half serious. anyways.

this is all very good analysis on why Egg eventually becomes the king he becomes - i think the point that his uncles all married for duty while his father married for love, and his siblings all followed duty over love, and then his sons start shirking their duties for love...all of that enforcing the advice Aemon gives, that love is the death of duty and duty the death of love. I think there's been some hinting that the Egg that exists by the end of his reign is a vastly different, much harder, potentially much more gray version that we have come to know. Obviously there's this bit-

It is unfortunate that the tragedy that transpired at Summerhall left very few witnesses alive, and those who survived would not speak of it. A tantalizing page of Gyldayn's history—surely one of the very last written before his own death—hints at much, but the ink that was spilled over it in some mishap blotted out too much. ...the blood of the dragon gathered in one... ...seven eggs, to honor the seven gods, though the king's own septon had warned... ...pyromancers... ...wild fire... ...flames grew out of control...towering...burned so hot that... ...died, but for the valor of the Lord Comman...

and this comment from Aemon-

Burning dead children had ceased to trouble Jon Snow; live ones were another matter. Two kings to wake the dragon. The father first and then the son, so both die kings. The words had been murmured by one of the queen's men as Maester Aemon had cleaned his wounds. Jon had tried to dismiss them as his fever talking. Aemon had demurred. "There is power in a king's blood," the old maester had warned, "and better men than Stannis have done worse things than this." The king can be harsh and unforgiving, aye, but a babe still on the breast? Only a monster would give a living child to the flames.

I'm not the first one to posit that Egg might have purposefully attempted to sacrifice one of his own blood, still living, to hatch dragon eggs. I'm not saying I'm fully convinced of it either tbc - I think it's just as likely that Egg simply lost control of the wildfire and got his family killed which is bad enough on its own to be "worse things than this." COMMA BUT. I mean...we're talking about Stannis sacrificing a baby to the fires and Aemon says "better men" have done worse than sacrifice a baby they don't know to the fire. Again, it could just be that Egg was negligent with safety during the egg hatching experiments and Aemon sees that as worse because Egg got his family killed....it could also mean that Egg tried to kill his own family and the attempt was foiled by Duncan.

But regardless of all of that! Aemon paints a picture of an Egg that grew into a harsher man. And that's something we know - that Egg got increasingly frustrated with dealing with the Lords and their squabbles and turned to the dragon dreams that had doomed his brothers (and perhaps his sisters) when he felt like he had hit a wall. Duty as the death of love, for a boy that had spent so many years positively surrounded by love. Very interesting when you bring it to back to his daughter - likely growing up surrounded by love until suddenly duty comes calling for her in a way it never does for any of her siblings.

I think it's also interesting when you look at them both as kings. Maekar is often kind of passed over when discussing kings but it seems like he was...pretty fine? Fairly competent at the nitty gritty but not known as someone to inspire loyalty. I think that's sort of funny when you think about him in comparison to Baelor - Baelor is the one who married for duty yet Maekar is the one who has that younger brother who feels jilted sort of feel to him. Maekar marries for love but Dyana is never a Queen - she dies before then. Then Egg, who marries for love as well, but Betha does become Queen. And while there's mixed feelings on Egg, he is not the sort of king whose influence is passed over the way Maekar's rule is. Theyre fascinating as father and son - so many commonalities, such similar lives, but they are so vastly different in how they see themselves and the actions of those around them.

#trying so hard to get through old asks oml #asks #sarcasticsweetlara #maekar targaryen #dyana dayne #betha blackwood #aegon the unlikely

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suzukiblu · 2 years ago

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Ko-fi thank-you sentences for @miri-tiazan and @lectorel; the wet nurse omegaverse.

Jon's pheromones smell conflicted, a little. Anxious and unsure, but slowly softening into something calmer; a pup warming up to a stranger who's reached out to them with a kindness. Damian folds his arms and scowls accusingly up at Clark. Bruce shifts between them to buffer the expression before Clark can notice any weaponized preteen disapproval. It isn't Clark's fault that he can't get milked up anymore. Not his fault in a way that can be helped, anyway.

He's explained that to Damian, obviously, but ten years' socialization in the League is still winning out over two in Bristol, at least so far.

"Well, it seems like Chris is taking to Carl's milk alright," Bruce says, less because he finds it necessary to state the obvious and more to keep everyone distracted and head off anything too inadvisably vicious that Damian might decide to say if left to his own devices. The comment about "summoning" Jason was bad enough. Lor is officially deep asleep on Carl's chest and looks to be staying that way, his scent sleepy-warm and satiated, and Jon is smelling increasingly comfortable, if still a little shy. But if Lor is sleeping so easy and his pack bonds to Jon encouraged him nursing from Carl too, and they both seem to like his scent, well . . .

It does bode well for Lor not having any belated negative reactions or the like, that's all.

And it clearly was Lor's influence on their pack bond that had Carl offering his milk to Jon, seeing as he's effectively ignored Damian and Tim. Tim, admittedly, isn't much younger than Carl looks to be, but he's also a bit of a late bloomer and still technically unpresented, and Damian is only twelve. If Carl was just being friendly or polite, he wouldn't have picked out Jon specifically. It's obviously the influence of Lor's pack bond with Jon that motivated him to make the offer.

Again, that's a good sign for both Lor getting decently fed and the development of his pack bonds within the Lane-Kent pack, so at least they've learned that much from this meeting, if nothing else. Bruce has gotten more from less, in fact.

"It does seem so, yes, Alpha Wayne," Travers says, still looking pained and seeming to have decided that just ignoring Carl is the better part of valor. "Your request said the pup was, ah . . . particular?"

"Has a particular stomach, more like," Bruce replies with a careless shrug and an easy laugh, neither of which are remotely honest gestures after all the stress of getting even this far. "Not my territory, though, Clark'll have to fill you in on that one."

"Chris has some digestive issues," Clark says with an apologetic smile that is even less honest than Brucie's careless ease. "That's why our requests were so specific."

Incredibly specific, in fact. Bruce had needed to do some exceptionally careful research and testing to work out what was feasibly "reasonable" to request from a human wet nurse, so far as a Kryptonian pup's dietary requirements. The answer, unfortunately, had been "not enough, but maybe enough to get by on for now". It's an imperfect solution, but it's still something.

"Ah, yes, Alpha Wayne did mention something about that," Travers says, and doesn't ask for details. Discretion is highly coveted in Gotham society and also their specific situation, which is another reason the Waterton Agency made Bruce's list of options, so at least that they seem capable of managing without insulting an omega.

Small favors, Bruce supposes. Anyway, Carl's the one they're going to have to be putting up with on the regular, and his bad manners have been entirely equal-opportunity so far. He's treated him and Clark both exactly the same and the only pup he's been even mildly rude to was rude to him first–and much more so than he was in return, in fact.

And either way, he already clearly adores Lor, so that'd soften a lot more in the way of character flaws than Travers' "politeness" has.

"Of course, we do recommend waiting a few hours to make any official arrangements in these situations, just to be certain the pup's taken to the milk, but if you're pleased with Carly's service, I do have the standard contracts for you to look over and discuss as necessary," Travers says, her tone pleasant but stiff. "And I'd be happy to answer any questions, of course."

Carl tilts his head back to glance at the back of Travers' head over the top of his sunglasses and sticks his tongue out at her. She doesn't notice, too absorbed in the paperwork she's pulling out of her briefcase, but Tim has to muffle a strangled little laugh. His face is still flushed; Bruce makes a note to check he hasn't overworked himself into a fever again. They've been getting better about avoiding that, but "better" isn't "perfect".

Carl's eyes are very blue, some part of Bruce notes and files away.

"Would you prefer to discuss the contracts now, Alpha Wayne, or wait until we have confirmation of the pup's tolerance and Alpha Lane is available?" Travers continues, holding up a thick manilla folder in one hand. Bruce ignores the question and instead glances briefly at Lor, who is sleeping more peacefully than he's seen him manage yet, and then Clark, who exhales once before smiling politely at Travers.

"Lois likely won't be back for at least an hour," he says. "And Chris threw up every milk sample that bothered him by now, so I think we could at least begin preliminary discussions. Save a little time in the long run."

"Er–of course, Omega Lane," Travers says, just barely awkward. "Would your office be suitable, Alpha Wayne?"

She doesn't look at Carl as she asks, but Bruce would bet every dime in his bank account that she's trying to get them away from him long enough to close the deal before he finds a way to actually offend them. Given that's a significant portion of her job, he probably shouldn't blame her for it, but he does find the behavior just a little bit irritating.

Well, it'd be less irritating if she hadn't kept doubling down on calling the kid "Carly", probably.

. . . though if she's actually suggesting leaving her at best barely-legal subordinate unchaperoned with a presented adult in a household that could have any number of other presented adults in it, Bruce will very literally be burning down this agency. Alfred isn't any kind of risk or threat to any omega who isn't a violent criminal, of course, much less with the pups in the house, and even if he were Tim would put him on the floor before letting him lay an inappropriate hand on anyone, but Travers has no way of knowing that.

#omegaverse #miri-tiazan #long post #wip: the wet nurse omegaverse

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