#New Kings - Withdrawal - 13

[jtl-fics]

New Kings for wednesday?

10/30/24 WIP Wednesday (CLOSED) | New Kings AU

“How hard did Riko’s thugs hit you?” Andrew asks, raising his eyebrow as he went to take his medication dry before Neil took his wrist and looked at him with genuine distress. “Neil?”

“Why are you taking that again?” he asks.

“Neil, they’re court mandated.” Andrew reminds him and Neil makes a noise of distress that has his stomach twist. “It’s just for-”

“We’re going to Betsy. She has to fix this.” Neil says.

[theforgottenmcrmy]

The Children (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Please note that this is an overall Part 24 to the series Growing Strong. The masterlist, and part 1, can be found HERE ᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, a couple of curses here and there. (this one's relatively mild)

Summary:

Arrax would have little trouble making the flight to Storm’s End. But what, exactly, awaited Lucerys when he arrived there? Lord Borros Baratheon should be honored to receive a prince of the realm in his halls, as would any lord and lady in the kingdoms. But the fiery temperament of the Lord of Storm’s End was infamous, and for good reason.

A/N: the next part, "second sons", will be up this Thursday 6/13. I hope you enjoy. thank you for anyone who has stuck with me for this story still, and welcome to anyone new🖤

The sun had begun its descent in the sky by the time Harwin’s boots fell upon the sands of Dragonstone’s shores.

The soft growls of beasts not native from this land rang throughout the air. The creatures had been roused from their normal holdings, and were being readied for the impending flights.

Further on up ahead, two dragons rested upon the beach, accompanied by a number of much smaller creatures. Among the several dragonkeepers, who stood out by their matching cloth attires and wooden staffs, were four other figures. He knew two of them to be his sons. The other two might have been as well.

In another life, Harwin was quick to remind himself. The younger of the Velaryon princes had been relatively quick to forgive his considerable absence in their lives over the past seven years. But the eldest- now the immediate heir to the Iron Throne- had not been so quick to forget. Rectifying the situation and making amends with Prince Jacaerys remained one of Harwin’s top priorities, but he struggled with how to even begin broach the subject. Explaining the true root of his and his family’s withdrawal from King’s Landing all those years ago was impossible to reveal, for Jacaerys’s own safety and many others.

“Lykiri, Arrax,” Lucerys bid his dragon firmly as Harwin approached cautiously.

Arrax, the smaller of the two beasts currently occupying the shore, was no less formidable up close. Harwin slowed his steps as the beast, with scales mostly colored a pearlescent white, shook its neck, as if willing itself to focus and heed its rider’s command.

The setting sun was momentarily blocked as Arrax stretched out one of its wings. The red membranes between them, and the spikes adorning its head and running length of its body, appeared nearly pink under the sun’s rays.

Although he could not see his face, Harwin could tell his youngest son was in awe of the dragon before him. Selwin’s neck was craned up high, as was necessary to take in the creature in its entirety. Selwin had been but a boy when he had last seen the dragon he currently admired, Harwin remembered. In fact, all of them, young men and dragons alike, had once been considerably smaller in size.

Even all those years ago, Harwin had been wary- if not outright reluctant- to allow either of his sons to be any closer to the Targaryen beasts then what would satiate their natural curiosity.

His boys were brave, Harwin would admit. But neither Derrik or Selwin were of the blood of the dragon. Whatever safety the tethers of a bond between a dragon and its rider guaranteed, such protection would certainly not be extended to his sons.

Despite Harwin’s wariness, at the present, Lucerys did not look too concerned with Selwin’s proximity to his dragon. He laid a gentle hand upon Arrax’s neck, which visibility soothed the beast. After a brief pause, Lucerys wordlessly encouraged Selwin to do the same with a small nod of his head.

Selwin, not without a reasonable sense of care, reached out a hand towards the creature before him. When his youngest son’s fingers brushed against the white scales, Arrax bristled.

Harwin stiffened, and his instincts kicked in as he prepared himself to grab his son out of harm’s way. Fortunately, the dragon settled himself once more, earning another approving pat from his master.

“He’s grown,” Harwin mused, gently announcing his presence.

Lucerys glanced over at him, his smile unwavering. “Aye, though not as much as Vermax has.”

“Vermax has an advantage of almost two years,” Harwin recalled. “Give him some more time, and he’ll be large enough.”

Harwin’s focus briefly drifted down the shore, to where Vermax casually laid between the damp sand and the softly crashing waves. The dragon looked more like a hound lounging about then a descendant of one of the fearsome creatures that once conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Jacaerys and Derrik were engaged in deep conversation beside the beast. Though it made Harwin curious, he knew better than to interfere in the business of the young men.

“Arrax is still mature enough to ride,” Selwin added optimistically.

“And appears to be more than capable of a quick flight to Storm’s End,” Harwin agreed readily.

In truth, he knew very little of such matters. But Storm’s End was close. If Lord Borros Baratheon declared for the Usurper and was able to quickly muster up some men and ships, it would not be folly to be concerned about a possible attempt to seize Dragonstone in Aegon’s name.

Arrax would have little trouble making the flight to Storm’s End. But what, exactly, awaited Lucerys when he arrived there? Lord Borros Baratheon should be honored to receive a prince of the realm in his halls, as would any lord and lady in the kingdoms. But the fiery temperament of the Lord of Storm’s End was infamous, and for good reason.

Harwin looked at Lucerys thoughtfully. If he were being tactful, he would note how many of the Baratheon features Lucerys Velaryon had inherited from his grandmother, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. But Harwin had little will to be anything less than honest with himself.

Jacaerys had inherited Rhaenyra’s sharper features, while Lucerys’s visage might as well have been the ghost of the late Lord Royce Baratheon himself. The second eldest prince resembled his late father greatly. But the young man’s true parentage was a fact that he, Jacaerys, and Joffrey, for their own protection, would never truly know.

Harwin dared to wonder if Queen Rhaenyra had erred in her decision to send Lucerys- or any of the Velaryon princes, for that matter- to Storm’s End on her behalf. Would Lord Borros Baratheon see the visible truth, as Harwin so plainly could? And if he did, would Lord Borros even be willing to take the chance to silently pay tribute to his fallen son? Would he support Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne, and eventually, her sons’? … Or would seeing the ghost that was before Harwin now merely torment Lord Borros, and possibly ignite something darker in him than any one of them might have been able to foresee?

“Your Highnesses.”

Harwin had not heard the approach of Ser Joran, Dragonstone’s Master of Arms. The knight stood tall, speaking in a deep bellow as to be heard above the waves.

“The queen wishes to speak with you both before you depart.”

“Thank you, Ser Joran,” Jacaerys acknowledged.

He then turned to Derrik, and gave him a firm handshake. The look the two young men exchanged was a peculiar one- almost as though the two had reached some sort of accord. Despite his increasing curiosity, Harwin still chose to mind himself. The pair then made to follow Ser Joran, who had already turned and begun his return to the castle. Two of the four nearby dragonkeepers stepped forward, and gently took control of Vermax’s reigns.

Jacaerys suddenly seemed to notice that his brother had continued to linger. He paused, Derrik stopping mid step as well, and looked over his shoulder. “Luke?”

“Go on, I will be along in a moment,” Lucerys replied to him, glancing up at Harwin hesitantly.

Harwin immediately picked up on the unspoken request. To Selwin, he said, “Go on, lad. Why don’t you and your brother see if Prince Joffrey is in need of some companions for a little while, hm?”

The youngest Velaryon prince had been rather disappointed upon learning his older brothers were leaving Dragonstone, even if it was to only be for a short while.

Selwin, more intelligent than he often gave himself credit for, understood what was being asked of him. Nodding dutifully to Harwin, his younger son then turned back to Lucerys with a smile. “Good luck, and safe travels, Your Highness. In a few days, I’ll expect to see you back in the training yard, whether you are weary from your travels or not.”

“Is that a threat?” Lucerys quipped back with a small smile.

“I consider it to be more of a warning,” Selwin shrugged. “Heir to Driftmark or no, I am also an apparent heir to a title of my own, and as such, we shall spar as equals… After all, everyone’s arse is capable of hitting the dirt the same, titled or not.”

“Selwin,” Harwin warned him, though his tone severely lacked actual sternness. “On with you now, lad.”

Lucerys let out a chuckle at Selwin’s attempt at humor. But he said nothing further as Selwin hastily turned on his heels to follow the small group returning to the castle.

The remaining dragonkeepers, patiently waiting to take Arrax’s reigns when Lucerys released them, took a few steps back, as if they too understood the young prince’s unspoken request for a moment of privacy.

Once they were out of earshot, Harwin inquired, “Does something ail you, My Prince?”

Lucerys shook his head. “Not particularly, Lord Strong... But there is a matter that I wished to speak with you about. I wanted to ask you, away from the others, so that you may speak freely about it.”

“Well, in that case, you have my ear, Your Highness.”

“I have asked my mother- the queen,” the prince corrected himself hastily, “if she would grant me her permission to become your squire.”

All words escaped Harwin.

Lucerys, as though unable to withstand the silence, quickly continued on. “She plans to formally ask you when I return from Storm’s End. But she has given her permission.”

The honor- both Lucerys’s desire for such an arrangement, and Queen Rhaenyra’s blessing of it- humbled Harwin more than he could properly convey in that moment. So instead, he found himself asking, “But what of Daemon?”

“What of him?” Lucerys countered. “He is my mother’s husband, and prince consort. I know he is a legendary warrior in his own right, but…”

Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lucerys Velaryon, though bound by marriage and blood, were about as different as two men could be. Perhaps one of the few things they had in common was their steadfast loyalty to the queen.

Harwin spared Lucerys from having to elaborate further. “If you wish to become my squire, then the honor would be mine, Your Highness.”

“Truly?” Lucerys practically beamed in relief. “I know I have plenty to learn, My Lord. But I will learn. If I am to be the future Lord of the Tides, I want to have earned it. I want to be a leader Driftmark’s people can be proud of. They say Ser Laenor was a great knight, and brought great honor to House Velaryon. But as my sire now rests with the Stranger, I could not hope for a better mentor than a man who has always treated me as though I was one of his own. Even if such treatment of me and my brother came at such great personal cost.”

Prince Lucerys was well aware of the rumors, then. He knew of the whispers that perhaps Harwin had sired more children than Derrik and Selwin in the early years of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor’s marriage. The very same rumors that had caused Harwin, you, and your young family to flee to Harrenhal, where one of the greatest tragedies in Harwin’s life had transpired very shortly after.

But, gods damn him, Lucerys did not look disgusted, or even remotely upset, at all. No, the young man looked upon Harwin with… pride? It was overwhelming. The bloody gods knew the truth of the matter; he had never laid with Rhaenya, let alone sired any children upon her.

… But would it make Harwin that much of a lesser man, if he let Lucerys believe what he so subtly hinted towards? Would breathing life into the lie still stain his soul the same, should he choose not dissuade Lucerys- but let him believe the falsehood, if in doing so brought the young man a small morsel of peace?

“Well then,” Harwin replied after several moments, before clearing his throat. Was that mist from the waves gathering in his eyes? “If you are to become my squire, it sounds as though you are to fly to Storm’s End and speak with Lord Borros Baratheon first. When you return, we can formally begin your training- threats from my youngest son aside.” 

Lucerys laughed. “Yes, My Lord.”

“To Storm’s End with you, then,” Harwin dismissed him lightly, letting out a laugh himself.

The young prince looked to the dragonkeepers, who once again stepped forward at their silent summon. With one more appreciative pat to Arrax’s neck, Lucerys handed over his reins.

Side by side, Lord Harwin Strong and Prince Lucerys Velaryon departed from the beach, the castle looming just up ahead beyond a daunting flight of stairs.

“Best not keep your mother waiting any longer,” Harwin told him conspiringly. “Gods be kind, our queen has a long reign ahead of her. You would not want to start off on the wrong foot.”

As if that would ever be possible, with the dutiful son Lucerys Velaryon was, and had always been.

Still, the young prince merely smiled, and said, “Yes, Lord Strong.”

You were sitting at a table and frowning at the parchment in your hands when the door to your temporary chambers suddenly opened without so much as a knock.

But upon seeing who entered, you relaxed. “Ah, it’s you. Hello, Dearest.”

“Hello My Love.” Harwin greeted warmly as he strode across the room towards you. He came to a stop just behind your chair, and placed his hands upon your shoulders as he pressed a kiss upon the top of your head.

You let the letter slip from your hands, forcing a smile as Harwin stepped around and claimed the chair across the small table. However, as he was most often able to, your husband saw right through your charade immediately. His pleasant expression faltered slightly as he settled in his seat.

“You look troubled. What ails you?”

You looked over at him, weighing your thoughts. Sighing lightly, you placed a hand on the small stack of letters beside the one you had been in the midst of reading. “I have been going through some correspondence I received today.”

Harwin hummed thoughtfully. “Any good news to report?”

You let out another soft sigh. “Some,” you admitted, thankful for the reminder that not all of the news you had received bore ill tidings. You ran your index finger over the letter in front of you absentmindedly. “My uncle wrote to inform me that a few more houses in the Reach have declared for Rhaenyra- should war arise, of course.”

With all the preparation and planning, it had become far too easy to forget that any war had yet to be formally declared.

“I see. Are you surprised by any of those who he named?”

“Not particularly. Most of the Houses Lord Elwood received declarations from have always been among House Tyrell’s most loyal bannermen. On the other hand, House Florent, just as I suspected they would, has yet to send any word… Although, House Costayne was among those to send their assurance that House Tyrell, and Queen Rhaenyra, have their full support.”

“House Costayne?” Harwin echoed. “Their courage and conviction to uphold their oaths is commendable, but I do not envy their predicament.”

House Costyane’s seat, Three Towers, was located in the southeastern part of the Reach. Unfortunately for them, it was positioned right between the Arbor of House Redwyne and the House Hightower’s familial seat of Oldtown.

“My uncle insists that Lord Owen was very adamant. Naturally, House Costayne’s loyalty to their liege and our queen will be rewarded with whatever support House Tyrell is able to provide.”

Harwin nodded understandingly. “I do not doubt that… But there is something else, is there not? Something gnaws at you, I can tell.”

You managed a smile, a genuine one this time. Your husband’s ability to read you so plainly never failed to touch you, even after years of marriage.

“Unfortunately, not all the letters received were so pleasant.” You wordlessly scooted a second pile of letters- the ones opposite of the pile you had already opened- across the table, and over towards Harwin. “You have received several letters of your own as well. If I may, I suggest you begin with the one from your sister Lilyan.”

Harwin’s brows furrowed as he secured the pile before him, but he did as you bid. The letter was addressed to Harwin, and had thus remained sealed. But you had surmised the sender based on the Strong family crest seal, which you knew the eldest of Harwin’s two sisters still used for her personal letters. As Harwin broke the seal and proceeded to read, the crestfallen look on his face confirmed your suspicion.

“I do not understand,” Harwin exclaimed when he had finished. He extended the letter towards you, a silent request.

You took the letter from him gingerly and read the contents for yourself. It did not take long.

To my dearest brother Harwin,

I am sorry. Please give Lady Y/N and the children my love.

Strength from Honor,

Lady Lilyan Leygood 

To enlighten him further, you gave your own letter to Harwin. As he read the letter that had been addressed to you, you began to explain. “Lord Cerran Leygood has written to me personally. He informed me, in no uncertain terms, that House Leygood acknowledges Aegon as King Viserys’s heir, and as the now rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Should House Tyrell stand against Aegon, we should not expect House Leygood’s support.”

Something akin to grief began to flood Harwin’s face as he finished scrutinizing your letter and placed it back upon the table. “I am afraid I still do not understand. You are on good terms with Lord Cerran, are you not?”

“I had believed we were.”

Lord Cerran was your goodbrother my marriage. He had sworn fealty to you as his liege. Lord Cerran, Harwin’s sister Lilyan, and their son had visited your family in Highgarden several times over the past seven years. Your sons had taken their cousin under their wing, even though the boy was considerably younger than either of them. In truth, all parties had gotten along rather well. Perhaps that was why Lord Cerran’s declaration felt like a personal betrayal.

“Then why has he chosen this path?” Harwin questioned, frustration evident in his tone.

“It could not have been easy to go against House Tyrell, particularly in light of the familial ties we share,” you acknowledged. “Lord Cerran must truly believe what he claims. He must believe Aegon should be king.”

“And what of my sister? What of what she believes? She was a lady for our queen once, just as you were. Why would she not wish to see Rhaenyra ascend the Iron Throne? … And for gods’ sake, her letter does not even make mention of Larys’s betrayal.”

“Do not lose hope, Dearest,” you pleaded calmly, reaching across the table for his hand. Harwin did not fight the gesture, instead entangling his fingers with your own. “Lilyan still uses the Strong family crest for a seal. She writes, ‘Strength from Honor’. It could very well be a sign, meant for you alone. Is it not possible that she still remains loyal to the Strong family- and therefore, loyal to whomever they support? Her circumstances are not the same as mine; she is not a lady in her own right, free to stand on her own. To ask her to make a stand against her husband, especially in a matter as serious as this, would be unfair. Even if she does not personally agree with Lord Cerran’s decision, her hands may be tied.”

Harwin grasped your hand a bit tighter, as if trying to comfort himself. “But will Rhaenyra see this matter as you do? If we ride to war, and Aegon, the Hightowers, and all their supporters are defeated, what will become of my sister? Of my nephew, Lucas? Will they be subjected to the same treatment all other traitors are to receive?”

“I am sure the queen remembers Lady Lilyan’s loyalty from all those years ago. And I am sure she understands, as a woman, what it feels like to have your voice silenced by the opinion of men. She will spare Lilyan, and your nephew, I am certain of it.” You had no choice anymore but to believe in the queen’s mercy.

“And Lord Cerran?”

You did not deign to answer Harwin’s redundant question. Lord Cerran’s fate had been sealed the moment he had denounced Rhaneyra.

“Regardless, Lilyan did not make any mention of Larys’s betrayal,” Harwin repeated somberly.

“I do not think she would have taken time to write you back if she did not believe you. But she did write you back. She had the opportunity to deny your allegations about Larys, and yet, she did not take it.”

Harwin did not look entirely convinced.

“Read the rest of your letters,” you implored him instead. “Perhaps you received some more positive news as well.”

Harwin took a few moments to read through his own assortment of letters, and while he did so, you returned to combing through yours. However, your focus could not help but drift over towards your husband every now and again, trying to gauge his reactions.

“Thank the gods,” Harwin praised under his breath. “My sister Eyla, and her husband Lord Joseth, have pledged House Smallwood to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

You smiled in relief, feeling a bit of the weight upon your shoulders lessen. “That is splendid news! The Riverlands may be as divided as the Reach. Rhaenyra will welcome the support of any houses within the land as she can.”

You could tell by the lingering smile on his face that Harwin was thankful to not be at odds with both of his sisters. Gods only knew his relationship with his brother Larys was tumultuous enough. And considering the atrocities that that man had committed against you and your family, that was putting the matter rather mildly.

Harwin let out a small laugh. “It almost takes my mind off of this letter I received from Harrenhal.”

“What does Lord Dannis say?” you inquired, referring to Harwin’s steward. “Has Harrenhal begun taking precautionary measures?”

Harwin frowned at the letter in question. “It seems Lord Dannis’s orders have been met with some resistance by my great uncle Simon and some of his companions.”

“Surely Lord Dannis is more than capable of reigning in your uncle… is he not?”

“Ser Simon Strong is an unknown age, and of an unknown age,” Harwin jested in an effort to diffuse the tension. “The man’s beard was already gray when I was a lad. My father kept him on as Castellan to honor my grandsire’s memory, and I did not have the heart to strip him of the position when I became the Lord of Harrenhal myself. Ser Simon has always been stubborn and hard-headed, but I have not known him to go against Lord Dannis's will so vehemently before, let alone the will of the Lord of Harrenhal.”

“And you have had no personal quarrel with him? No disagreements that might be leading Ser Simon to act out of spite?”

“Not that I can recall. Though, he always did prefer Larys’s company over my own in our youth. Always grumbling about ‘second sons sticking together’, or some other folly like it.”

You straightened in your seat as an alarming thought struck you. “What are the chances your brother has decided to rekindle this affinity with your uncle?”

Harwin’s expression darkened. “If my brother’s venomous influence has spread all the way from King’s Landing to Harrenhal, securing it in the queen’s name will be more daunting than originally thought… But as Harrenhal is a vital stronghold in the riverlands, I have no choice but to do so.”

“You are Lord of Harrenhal, Harwin. Its people are under your command, and your protection.”

“I will write back to Lord Dannis. I’ll give him leave to apprehend my great uncle Simon until I arrive at Harrenhal and can deal with him myself, if he has to.” Harwin looked around. “Do you have any spare parchment?”

“I do. But, before you write back to Lord Chambers, I thought we might discuss one more matter.”

“Of course, My Love. What is it?”

“Rhaenyra has plans to write to some of Daemon’s contacts in Pentos.”

The queen had confided as much to you earlier that day. In fact, the queen had begun to confide a great many things to you, and you to her in turn. Despite the arguably dire circumstances the realm was in, it served you both personally well to rekindle your friendship of years past.

“To ask for support?” Harwin guessed.

“Amongst other things. First and foremost, I suspect, should the realm go to war, she plans to send her youngest children, Viserys, Aegon, and perhaps even Joffrey, to Pentos for their safety.” You hesitated, deliberating how to convey what had been occupying your mind for the better part of the afternoon. “It made me think about what we might do with our children, should the worst come to pass.”

You watched as Harwin processed your words. His hand came up to scratch his chin briefly, and as his eyes glazed over with thoughtfulness. You realized that, for all your collective planning, he too had not given much thought to the subject.

“If I am to go to Harrenhal, I suppose it would be best for them to remain with you,” Harwin suggested, though he did not sound entirely confident.

“I imagine I will need to return to the Reach soon,” you countered. “If Aegon will not see reason and heed Rhaenyra’s command to bend the knee, blood is likely to be drawn first in the South. When the Hightower army marches north, I plan to intercept them, meet them on the battlefield.”

Harwin did not miss your specific phrasing. “You will meet them?”

You did not cower nor yield from your husband’s question. “Yes. I cannot ask men to fight for me, in our queen’s name, whilst I cower away at Highgarden. I have no more experience with a blade other than what you have taught me, and I do not believe myself likely to be leading any charges- but I shall be there. The men deserve to see who it is they fight for. And I owe it to them to see them through it, regardless of how unbecoming the battles will be.”

Harwin half-smiled. “I do not suppose I could ask you to reconsider your decision, if only for the sake of my own sanity and peace of mind?”

You offered him a patient smile of your own. “It would be of little use; my mind is made up. My father led his own men into battle. My brother would have done the same, had he been given the chance.”

You had worried, though not necessarily feared, about Harwin’s reaction to your intentions. There was concern in his hazel eyes, that was beyond dispute, but they also shone with something you might have been tempted to deem as pride.

“It is decided then. Then Lady Tyrell shall personally rally her bannermen.”

Refusing to dwell on the sudden emotion that threatened to overcome you, you cleared your throat, and refocused. “That brings us again to the matter of the children. No matter where or with whom they may go, I feel more at ease knowing that both Derrik and Selwin have at least been trained to defend themselves.”

Not that you’d ever be truly prepared for either of your sons to throw themselves into the midst of an actual battle.

You sighed heavily. “But Luciya is another matter. As I am sure you will agree, having her near any of the fighting at all is simply out of the question. We need to make plans for her safety. I believe Rhaenyra could make accommodations for her journey to and safe harboring in Pentos, if need be.”

Harwin shook his head. “Pentos is so far away-”

“It would only be done if we had no other option,” you assured him hastily, reaching to take one of his hands in your own once again. “Aegon has not yet refused Rhaenyra’s offer of peace. All of our planning may be for naught. But, if we ride to war, I will not jeopardize our daughter’s safety. Even if it means sending her across the sea, she will be safer there than she would be here. Should Luciya fall into the Greens’ hands-”

Harwin frowned at the thought, and asserted, “I do not believe the Dowager Queen capable of allowing harm to befall a child, whether they are a child of ours or not.” He let out a sigh. “But the Dowager Queen is only a queen in name now. It remains to be seen how much power she yields over her son, over her father. I would not tempt fate, not with our daughter’s life. And I understand your concern. As much as I loathe the thought, I will not oppose you in this matter.”

You could not be entirely pleased with your victory due to the nature of the topic. But you were thankful to have Harwin’s support all the same.

“Perhaps all this talk is all for naught,” you suggested outlandishly, indulging in some humor to lighten the mood. “The Usurper could yet acquiesce to Rhaenyra’s demands. Who knows? We could be on our well on our way home back to Highgarden by the end of next week.

Harwin chucked, though it was notably joyless. “Aegon may yet kneel to our queen, but I feel as though it will be a long while before my eyes will fall upon the fields of the Reach once more.”

Borros Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, only son of Boremund Baratheon, and the once proud father of Ser Royce Baratheon, knew, perhaps more so than any other man in the Storm Lands and Westeros alike, just how cruel the gods could be.

Forty years. For forty years he had walked by his father’s side. Lord Boremund Baratheon had been blessed with a particularly long life. Even in the end, it was not the clutches of time that had gripped him from this world, but the tusks of a boar that speared him into the next.

Forty years of watching, waiting for the day to claim his birthright and take up his family’s seat. A seat that had been occupied by fearsome warriors for many years before the Targaryens landed on this continent and stripped the Storm King’s of their blood-earned right to rule. The titles and names of the Storm Kingdom were no more, but the fierceness in Durran’s descendants had persisted through the generations who ruled the Stormlands to this day.

Once, Borros would have considered himself fierce. He was a well-seasoned warrier in his own right. He might not have been the Lord of Storm’s End, but he was a Baratheon, through and through.

But the man Borros had once been had died some time past. Now, that shell of man haunted him, lingering in the periphery of his mind, as the man whom he’d been forced to become scrambled to pick up whatever pieces remained. Almost seven years ago, in the very same boar attack that had claimed his father, the gods had also brutally stripped him of his son, Ser Royce Baratheon. Borros had never been the same. 

What had Storm’s End mourned more, he wondered? The loss of Lord Borros’ sole son and heir, or the loss of the man he had still been, before they’d brought his son’s broken body back to him?

Royce was unlike him in so many ways, and his son had always been the better for it. The fiery temper that had gripped Borros since his childhood had never claimed Royce, who had been notoriously patient and mild-mannered. Royce had shared many traits with Boremund, which was perhaps one of the many reasons the two sought each other’s company on the hunting trip to the Rainwood that fateful day.

Just as Lord Borros was about to curse the gods for the thousandth time for his cursed lot in life, a giggle broke him out of his internal brewing. He fought a sigh as his eyes drifted to his right, where his daughters stood beside a rather stoic Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Ah, yes, another form of cruelty Borros was to be subjected to. He’d been all but compelled to host the pale-haired prince since he’d landed on that ginormous beast of his two days past. Of course, the prince did not come empty handed: in exchange for Borros’s support of Aegon Targaryen ascension to the Iron Throne, Aemond was to take one of Borros’s daughters off of his hands. And gods knew Borros had plenty of those to spare- but alas, no more sons.

Borros glanced to his left, where his wife, the Lady Elenda Caron, stood tall. She was his second wife, and one of only a few years. Thank the gods his first wife, the mother of all his children, had already passed. Borros did not think the woman would have survived the loss of her son. Only the gods knew how he had survived so far.

Lady Elenda was a solid woman, and had been dutiful to him throughout their several years of marriage. She was notably younger than he, but still no fresh maiden. Every year that passed with no hint of additional children dwindled Borros’s hopes of one day having another son. Perhaps Borros would be forced to face the reality that one of his daughters, his rather tempestuous Storms, would be his heir.

What a notion!

It seemed that Aegon, or, more likely, the Dowager Queen Alicent and the Hand of the King Otto Hightower, suspected the likely outcome of House Baratheon’s succession as well. Why else would they send Prince Aemond to claim the hand of one of Borros’s daughters? Hells, in a few years time, the monster-riding princeling could very well be sitting in his seat, ruling Storm’s End and the Stormlands in all but name.

Still, the offer was perhaps the most appealing offer of marriage that Borros had received for any of his daughters- as Aemond had yet to choose one. One of his daughters would become a princess, and the Baratheon line would intertwine with the royal Targaryen line, the houses working in tandem as they had in the times of Aegon the Conqueror and Borros Baratheon.

Despite his loathing to play gracious host to the one-eyed prince, Borros had had little choice. Since the death of King Viserys, he’d heard not but a word from Dragonstone, no offer from Rhaenyra at all, let alone one that entailed a royal marriage alliance.

And so, Borros had played nicely, entertaining Prince Aemond Targaryen until he saw fit to make his choice of a bride and return to King’s Landing. The entire family, plus the prince, had been enjoying a bountiful dinner when a messenger stormed into the dining hall, informing Borros of another prince’s arrival.

That had brought them all here, gathered in the main hall as a storm brewed outside. The giggling of one of his daughters- Floris, if he had to guess- intermingled with the sound of distant rumbling thunder throughout the otherwise silent hall.

“Well?” Borros barked at no one in particular, feeling his anger and patience slipping beyond his reach of control. “Send him in!”

A guard by the large doors at the entry of the main hall scrambled to do as his lord instructed. Borros gripped the arm rests of his stone throne so tightly that his knuckles began to turn white.

Escorted by an array of his household guard, a young man entered the hall. He was pale, and black of hair- a shade Lord Borros Baratheon knew all too well. But as Lucerys Velaryon drew nearer, Borros felt all the air flee from his body. Shock seized him but for a moment, followed shortly thereafter by a raging internal storm he allowed himself to succumb to.

Yes, Lord Borros Baratheon knew very well of the gods’ cruelty.

But he knew, with the utmost certainty, that they had never been more cruel to him than the moment a ghost of a boy entered his hall, a nearly perfect mirror of the precious son he had lost.

“Helaena and the children have gone to bed.”

“Very well.”

Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower stopped the sigh that threatened to slip from her lips as she beheld her eldest son. Aegon, recently crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms, sat in his proper seat at the head of the table in the small council chamber. He’d taken up a temporary residence in the chamber immediately after dinner, which had been many hours ago. The chamber was dark, the candles spread throughout the room doing little to stave off the pitch black of the night that seeped in through the windows.

Aegon had claimed he needed privacy. His bedchamber would have been most private, of course, but the servants were still in the process of preparing King Viserys’ old rooms for Aegon’s use. In the meanwhile, Aegon continued to use the rooms that had been his since he was a boy. The only downside was that they were a fair-distanced trek across the Red Keep from the royal family’s private dining room. Even Aegon’s old rooms would have offered more privacy than the small council chamber, but Alicent doubted Aegon’s ability to make it across the Red Keep without causing a scene.

A goblet, filled most certainly with Aegon’s recent preference of wine, was clenched tightly in Aegon’s right first. As he eyed her warily, his left hand reached the short distance away to the nearby bottle. At least he had enough tact that evening to indulge himself away from prying eyes, she supposed.

“The hour is late, Your Grace,” Alicent said, pointedly, but not unkindly. “Your wife and children have already retired. Perhaps you might wish to do the same?”

Aegon snorted into his goblet as he drank in a considerable amount.

Ser Criston Cole, whom the king had appointed Commander of the Kingsguard shortly after his coronation, shifted uneasily beside her.

After another few moments of uncomfortable silence, the king deemed himself ready to respond.

“I do not need to be reminded of when I ought to retire,” he said disdainfully. “I am the king, Mother. Surely you could not have forgotten that already. I seem to recall that you relished in informing me the great lengths you, grandsire, and countless others went to install me in this position.”

“We did not install you in this position,” Alicent hissed. Though the door was closed behind her, she kept her voice down just the same. “The title and rights to the Iron Throne are yours. They always have been, since the day you were born.”

“It would seem my half-sister across Blackwater Bay is inclined to disagree.”

“Rhaenyra’s opinion is irrelevant.”

“And yet you’ve sent my brother to Storm’s End in the hope to earn the favor of Lord Borros Baratheon.” Aegon chuckled to himself, finding more amusement in his predicament than Alicent ever could. Suddenly, his amusement shifted to pensiveness. “Tell me, Mother, if I am truly the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, why are you putting so much effort into earning Lord Baratheon’s favor? As his one true king, should I not expect unwavering loyalty from the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands?”

“I do not suspect Lord Borros’s loyalty to be in question, Your Grace. I merely wish to ensure that his allegiance cannot be tempted by other offers.”

“And how could he possibly consider an offer made by Rhaenyra, when refusing her earns him the brother of a king as his new son by law?” Aegon proposed rhetorically. He filled his goblet promptly. “Has Aemond decided which of the infamous Four Storms he is to marry yet?”

In truth, Alicent had yet to hear much news from Aemond at all- a fact that gave her concern. Besides an initial brief correspondence after his arrival at Storm’s End, she had yet to receive any further letters from him. There was no telling of when her second son might return to King's Landing, and whether or not he would be bringing a Baratheon lady with him.

“Aemond has been afforded so few choices in life,” Alicent answered carefully. “I would beseech you to allow him ample time to decide whom he shall take to wife.”

“I guess it does not truly matter whom he chooses. It is said that they are all as tempestuous as one other.” Aegon eyed her thoughtfully. “Besides, a woman is a woman- so long as the lady in question continues on the precious Targaryen bloodline, I’d say pick one and be done with it.”

Aegon was many things, but Alicent had never believed him to be a threat- at least not to her. But as her eldest son sat at the head of the table, goblet in one hand and bottle of wine in the other, the look upon his face was downright challenging.

Ser Criston must have sensed as much as well. He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, might I escort you back to your chambers?”

“You may not.” Aegon did not look him in the eye as he refilled his goblet once more. The bottle ran dry, and he frowned pitifully as he tilted the empty bottle upside down, as though trying to savor any last remaining drops.

Sensing an oncoming storm, Alicent quickly redirected, “Regardless of whom your brother chooses to marry, I would advise you treat her with respect. After all, she will be your sister by law.”

Aegon laughed joylessly. “You wound me, Mother. One would say I have treated all my sisters fairly well,” Aemond countered, slurring his words. “Why, I’ve married and bedded one- by your behest, as I am sure you recall. And as for the other, though a traitor to the crown she may be, I’ve decided to let Rhaenyra keep her head- for now.”

“If I may offer my opinion, Your Grace?” Ser Criston Cole interjected.

Aegon was positively beamed with delight. “Ah, Ser Criston Cole! Pray tell, what advice do you have to offer your young king?”

A weaker man might have bristled at Aegon’s insulting tone, but Ser Criston was wise enough to ignore it.

“Though Princess Rhaenyra is no true threat to your reign, you do oft speak of her. Perhaps continuing to speak her name in these halls grants her more power than she is warranted.”

It was an attempt to spare Alicent further talk of Rhaenyra, she suspected. And though Alicent was thankful for the attempt, Ser Criston’s suggestion visibly did not resonate well with her son.

“Perhaps that is precisely why I speak of her so frequently,” Aegon countered stubbornly, going so far as to release his hold on the goblet and bottle in favor of crossing his arms across his chest. “I am king. Speaking her name in my halls so freely only serves to prove how little of a threat she is. Hells- if I speak her name enough, perhaps everyone will get tired of hearing it.”

Alicent wished it would be so simple. But ladies and lords from all across the Seven Kingdoms had once sworn fealty to Princess Rhaenyra before King Viserys himself. Many would recognize Aegon’s birth as a change in King Viserys’s line of succession, but how many would not? Only time would tell.

“As you say, Your Grace,” Ser Criston relented.

The king heaved a rather dramatic sigh. “Is this what my reign is to be? ‘Yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace. You are right, as always, Your Grace.’ Am I to be surrounded with advisors who do naught but agree with me complacently? Where is the challenge?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Ser Criston bowed his head. “As I am but recently appointed to be your Commander of the King’s Guard, I am afraid I lack the wisdom some of your other advisors may have. Though what I lack in experience, I vow to make up for in fervor.”

Aegon smirked to himself, finding amusement in Ser Criston’s words that the later man had clearly not intended. “Indeed you shall, Ser Criston…. What say you, Lord Larys?”

Alicent was startled when the man whose name had been spoken stepped out from the shadows around the periphery of the room. Based on Ser Criston’s quick jerk of the head in the newly reaffirmed Master of Whisperer’s direction, he had been thrown off guard as well.

Aegon had not been stewing away in the small council chamber by himself after all, it seemed.

Alicent tried to settle her heart as Lord Larys Strong stepped into the dim candlelight, hobbling on his cane as he did so. He came to a stop a few feet beside the king, and greeted her and Ser Criston with an unnervingly pleasant smile.

For one of his condition to be able to move about with such stealth- it was alarming. How many other dark corridors and rooms had Lord Larys veiled himself within throughout his many years of residence within the Red Keep? How many other private conversations had he’d unknowingly been privy to?

“Good evening, Lord Larys,” Alicent forced herself to greet him, tight lipped though she was.

“Good evening, Queen Mother,” Larys greeted back.

Larys’s head tilted, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Alicent and Ser Criston, who still stood beside her. Ser Criston rested his hand on the pommel of the sword on his hip, and she saw his jaw tighten out of the corner of her eye.

Turning back towards Aegon, Larys stated tactfully, “I believe Ser Criston has strengths of his own to bring to the table, Your Grace.”

“Lord Larys speaks true,” Alicent added. “I believe the Hand’s suggestion to elevate him to Commander may have been his most sound advice to Your Grace yet.”

“I so do wish you would try to get along better with the Hand,” Aegon beseeched tiredly, dragging a slow hand across half of his face. Frowning at his now completely empty wine bottle and goblet, he despaired, “It is rather cumbersome when you two cannot get along.”

“The Hand and I simply… disagree, on your council, is all.”

“Then it is a good thing he, as the Hand, is my chief advisor.”

Ser Criston interceded, “With all do your respect, Your Grace, the Dowager Queen doubtlessly has plenty of wisdom to offer you in time. She ruled on your father’s behalf for many years, throughout his ailments.”

Aegon paused, suddenly going so still that a chill swept up Alicent’s spine. His eyes went to her, then to Ser Criston, and then back to her once more. “Ser Criston, your loyalty to my family cannot be disputed. You have been my mother’s sworn shield for many years. Now, you have sworn yourself to me, as my Commander of the King’s Guard… And yet, I wonder. Who is it that you truly serve? Me? … Or my mother?”

“Might we be spared any further attempts at a fruitless conversation?” Alicent pleaded, her patience wearing thinner by the hour. She looked at Larys pointedly, not bothering to hide the suspicion she knew shown in her eyes. “Your Master of Whisperers must have had some pressing issue to discuss with you, given the lateness of the hour, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes,” Aegon affirmed, his mood now shifting into one of merriment. A far cry from the sinister look he bore but a moment before. “Lord Larys has been enlightening me about his efforts with Harrenhal.”

Alicent could barely keep a scoff from escaping her lips. “What efforts does he speak of? Lord Harwin Strong is Harrenhal’s lord, and we need not pretend to be uncertain of where his allegiances lie. Our king should not hope to find support from anyone within its walls.”

“Upon the surface, you make a convincing argument, Queen Mother,” Larys conceded. “However, I have a reliable confidant at Harrenhal- one who is loyal to the realm. One who will continue to renounce Rhaenyra, despite whatever my brother may decree. One who has already agreed to work against my brother covertly, if it means furthering the goals of the realm’s true ruler.”

If Lord Larys was telling the truth, such a confidant could become a massive boon in securing Harrenhal in Aegon’s name. Evenmoreso in light of the fact that Harrenhal’s current lord was away, isolated on Dragonstone.

Before Alicent could formulate a response, a commotion sounded from the other side of the closed door. Ser Criston turned, putting himself between Alicent and the door, and moved to withdraw his sword. A moment later, the doors swung open wide.

Aemond strode in, his riding leathers and hair soaked to the bone. He was flocked by a few guards, who, given their state as well, had followed him inside the Red Keep from one of their outdoor posts.

“Ah, look who it is!” Aegon beamed, rising to his feet and outstretching his arms broadly by way of greeting.

Aemond had never been a particularly joyful child, but the look on his face was void of any emotion at all.

His expressionless look was so unnerving, Alicent stepped forward to take one of his hands in her own. His hand was chilled from the rain. “Aemond, what’s happened? You did not write. Why have you returned so soon?”

Hearing his name evidently broke him out of the trance he had been in. Aemond’s eyes snapped to hers, though the blank look upon his face persisted.

Alicent looked over his shoulder. To the guards who had escorted him, she ordered, “Go and rouse the Hand at once.”

Another day had passed, and the sun had begun to set once more. The island and castle were painted in gorgeous hues of yellow, orange, and red.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen strolled along the battlements of Dragonstone with ease. She had just returned from a patrol of the Gullet with Meleys. Though there was nothing to report, and had not been for several days, she was still adorned in her steel and copper armor, ever at the ready. No one dared stop her; she had grown up in Dragonstone, after all.

The mood in Dragonstone was particularly grim, in light of the losses of King Viserys and the new queen’s daughter, and the fact that word had yet to be sent from Prince Lucerys Velaryon at Storm’s End. But in a queer way, Rhaenys found her recent time here to be eerily familiar to how it had felt when she was young. Dragonstone had never been short of activity or visitors when she was a girl, and it seemed to have both of those in abundance still.

Her dark hair, while most of it remained braided atop her head and out of her face, swayed calmly in the breeze carried off the Blackwater Bay. She knew she ought to return to Rhaenyra, convey her lack of news, and reconvene with Corlys. Her husband had thrown himself full-heartedly into the role of advising their new queen and coordinating plans with his steward back at Driftmark, but Rhaenys would not cease to remind him that he had been at death’s door not but a few days before. After that, she would seek to speak with Baela and Rhaena. Both girls had taken the events of the past few days remarkably well, but Rhaenys could tell, with Rhaena especially, how much the lack of word about the second Velaryon prince gnawed away at her strong resolve.

But before Rhaenys tended to any of those matters, she was more than happy to take her time. Taking in fresh air and a few more moments of solace could do no harm.

Her solemn stroll came across a minor interruption a short while later, when she happened upon another figure along the path. Like Rhaenys, the woman in question seemed to be taking in the air, merely staring out into Blackwater Bay with a rather passive look.

“Lady Tyrell!” she called out to the woman by way of greeting.

Lady Y/N Tyrell turned to her with a small smile. The woman returned her greeting with a small curtsy. As Rhaenys came to a stop beside her, the Lady of Highgarden spoke. “Forgive me, Princess- I had meant to properly greet you several weeks past, back in King’s Landing.”

Rhaenys allowed herself a small chuckle. “‘Tis no matter. With everything that has transpired, where would you have found the time?”

Lady Tyrell did provide an answer, but nor was one required.

Rhaenys followed the other woman’s initial line of sight out towards the bay, and felt the other woman mirror her action beside her. However, Rhaenys eyes felt short of the water, her focus falling instead upon two figures upon the shore below. Rhaenys glanced at Lady Tyrell questioningly.

“My eldest, Derrik,” she answered, though she did not turn to look at Rhaenys. Instead, her eyes remained upon the shore, and the small smile upon her face turned wistful.

“You have another son, do you not?” Rhaenys inquired, not seeing any sign of the second young man as her focus returned to the shore as well.

“Selwin,” Lady Tyrell supplied. “Though he has spent the better part of his last few days in the training yard, I am told.”

Rhaenys smirked to himself fondly. Laenor had had similar stints throughout his own adolescence. She even recalled a time when she had to all but drag Laenor from the training yard to partake in his own name day feast one year. Although, perhaps that had had less to do with her son’s desire to perfect his swordsmanship than it did with the handsome young squire that his instructor had recently taken on.

Rhaenys looked upon the eldest, Derrik. As the young man in question walked along the shore, his focus was entirely captivated by the companion that accompanied him- a much smaller figure, with a head full of curls, and who was dressed in a blueish green gown that had begun to dampen from the incoming tide. The young girl reached her arms up towards him, and in turn, Derrik plucked her up from the ground, before teasingly dangling her over the slowly trickling waves. The young girl’s giggling and delighted squeals could be heard all the way up to where Lady Tyrell and Rhaneys stood, observing the merry scene in a comfortable silence.

“Your daughter?” Rhaenys presumed softly.

“Yes. Luciya.”

“A pretty name.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Rhaenys could tell her questioning was perhaps starting to make Lady Tyrell a bit uneasy- if not by the other woman’s short responses, then by the way the woman’s face had suddenly fallen. It was understandable why the woman should feel the need to be extra careful in her responses, given the delicate subject. But Laena’s passing, like Laenor’s, had been some years ago. And, albeit very recently, Rhaenys had been starkly reminded how each of her children still lived on, in Baela, Rhaena, and yes, even in the three Velaryon princes.

“I hope you have a plan for her safety.”

Lady Tyrell tore her eyes away from her two children and gave her a curious look.

Rhaenys elaborated. “When Aegon realizes- if he has not already- that you and Lord Strong refuse to abandon Rhaenyra and her cause, the Hightowers and their allies will capitalize on any opportunity they may have to target your family. Your sons may be old enough to wield swords, but not all who may yet be entangled in this bloodshed will be so fortunate.”

Lady Tyrell looked down towards her fidgeting hands. A most unusual behavior, she noted, despite the limited passing moments Rhaenys had shared in her company over the years. It was as though she was deliberating. Although, whether it was to share what was on her mind, or whether to go through with what she had planned, Rhaenys could not be certain.

“We have discussed sending her to Pentos,” Lady Tyrell said finally, though she sounded conflicted.

The Queen Who Never Was chose her next words carefully. “If it is the right choice for her, and for your family, I do not doubt your strength to make such a choice, difficult though it may be.”

Rhaenys did not have the strength to torment the clearly struggling woman any further by recalling what happened when her own daughter had gone to Pentos.

A hastened scuffling of boots ceased their conversation. Both women turned to look down the battlement, where a messenger, who was clearly out of breath, ran in their direction.

“A message for the Queen!” the messenger called out as he passed. “A message from King’s Landing!”

Up ahead, guards who stood watch beside the nearest castle entrance stood to attention, opening the doors for the messenger without delay. The young man disappeared into the castle a moment later, and the guards looked to one another warily.

“I doubt that is anything but good news,” Rhaenys asserted under her breath. Turning back to Lady Tyrell, she said, a touch louder, “Perhaps we both ought to rejoin our Queen in the Chamber, so that we may hear this news ourselves.”

But Lady Tyrell did not acknowledge that Rhaenys had spoken. Her brows furrowed deeply. “What in the Seven Hells is that?”

Rhaenys looked back down to the shore. Derrik and Luciya were still upon the shoreline, but now, the young man had his sister held protectively in his arms as they both stared down towards the sand.

A scaled white wing, its edges torn in a crude fashion, had washed up upon the shore.

[thetravelingtyper]

On the same page...Pt 13 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Author! Reader Bookshop Au!)

On the run, you and Simon make it to the sea...

WC: 2.1 k

Part 12, Part 14, Masterlist

Warnings: some angst, discussion of loss

The next hour sees you looking out the window as Simon drives. You had only told him you wanted to see the ocean and he just nodded, opening the door for you to slide into the passenger seat before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Leave it to me sweetheart.” 

Before he gets in himself he picks up the rings tucking them into his pocket.

Despite Johnny's joking you find Simon’s driving to be fine as the countryside passes. You play with the aux before smiling when music plays, going in and out before you fiddle with the wire. As you snuggle into Simon’s jacket his hand moves to your thigh absentmindedly and you're quick to take it in yours. His eyes stay turned to the road but you see a smile creep onto his face. As you turn back to the music, the start of a new song makes you smile. 

Your fingers tap on the back of Simon’s knuckles as chords and a voice comes through the speakers, you feel your heart beat when he entwines your fingers. 

Pack yourself a toothbrush, dear, pack yourself a favorite blouse

Take a withdrawal slip, take all of your savings out

'Cause if we don't leave this town, we might never make it out

I was not born to drown, baby, come on

As you pass fenced fields and marshes you pull yourself into your mind. Scenes of the past months before you came here flash through your head. The soft moments and the hard all coming under retrospection. Was it all meant to lead to this? Why not just tell you, why conceal the truth? You shake your head, remembering what John had said, 

“You may never know, but don’t let it consume you, instead revisit your old passions. Take what you remember of home and try to find something here to spark your interest.”

You peak at Simon, finding him focused on the road he gently squeezes your hand and you see a small smile pull on his face.

You remember the fox kit then, and it comes to your mind. The small animal bounds from Simon’s shoulder and bounces around the car. It then pads over to sit in your lap, hoisting its front legs up to look out the window with you. You then feel the old writing spark lighting.

Forget what Father Brennan said, we were not born in sin

Leave a note on your bed, let your mother know you're safe

And by the time she wakes, we'll have driven through the state

We'll have driven through the night, baby, come on

Suddenly inspired, you carefully pull your hand from Simon’s to dig through your backpack, quickly pulling out a notebook and pencil to jot down ideas. Simon turns to you in question, seeing you consumed in your ideas he huffs a chuckle, hand moving to the center console. 

If the sun don't shine on me today

And if the subways flood and bridges break

Will you lay yourself down and dig your grave?

Or will you rail against your dying day?

Your handwriting is a little shaky on account of the car but you begin to write nonetheless. The fox kit watches you curiously.

Sun rays dancing with leaves untouched,

Forgotten stones, stepped aside the wall

Some lost land crumbled into the woods,

The soldiers long marched themselves into waste,

But a new king rules this kingdom,

Sitting on an oaken throne, 

With saplings springing from the old stump,

The Fox sits and waits.

You look up from your writing to look out the window. In the fields is an old church, -what had you lost- The fox kit yips, dancing through the air to the dashboard where you look to find the swell of the sea in the distance and your heart rises.

And when we looked outside, couldn't even see the sky

How do you pay the rent? Is it your parents

Or is it hard work dear, holding the atmosphere?

I don't wanna live like that

You set your notebook aside and lean forward as the car takes the turn of the road to ride alongside the wild sea. In the distance, you could see you were coming upon a smaller settlement. A short way from the town Simon pulled off the main road to a side street and pulled to a parking area. The fox kit paws over to you, sitting on your knees as you look straight out to the sea mesmerized.

If the sun don't shine on me today

If the subways flood and the bridges break

Here you were again, you move almost without thinking, grabbing your backpack and notebook and exiting the car. The fox kit tumbles after you before bounding forward an overgrown path to the beach.

Jesus Christ can't save me tonight

Put on your dress, yes, wear something nice

Decide on me, yeah, decide on us

Oh, Illinois, Illinois

You are in a trace, following padded steps, you don't register simon turning off the car and getting out as you walk. He lets you be, pulling a blanket from the back of your car and draping it over his shoulders to shield himself. 

You make it to the beach as music floods your mind with the waves, their own song mingling with yours. The fox kit wanders the beach, barreling for the water, you move to follow the idea, as red paws sink into the sand. You set your backpack down on a jutting rock and follow-

Wait for me! You mind races worried about losing the fox to the waves, so caught up in your mind you can't feel the lap of the water

Pack yourself a toothbrush, dear, pack yourself a favorite blouse

Take a withdrawal slip, take all of your savings out

'Cause if we don't leave this town, we might never make it out

Before you make it into the water strong arms wrap around you and lift you up with a startled yelp. The spell is broken then as the fox kit vanishes into the waves. You look up to simon as he spins you back towards land. You blink as he looks down at you concerned.

“Chasing ghosts sweetheart?”

You just cock your head, still wrapped in his arms you wiggle. He just smiles, a wind kicking in from the ocean ruffling his hair.

“You done swimming?”

You nod with a sheepish smile and he releases you, but his hands linger as you turn back out to the sea. Suddenly you throw your arms open and spin in the sand laughing. The giddiness of new ideas and a fresh start was just on the tip of your tongue. You turn into the breeze, mostly buffeted by Simon’s jacket.

This was what you needed. Nothing on the horizon but the vastness of the ocean, drowned in its depths was the pain of the last hours. A hand hovers at your waist you notice then, tilting your head back to find Simon watching you closely. 

Here was the answer you think - You are startled then by a bundle of fur emerging from the sea as the fox kit returns in your mind. It shakes itself off before padding up and over to Simon. The man looks down to you your eyes trail the fox to his shoulders. 

A small smile upturns your mouth, and you raise a hand to simons face. You feel him exhale under the touch of your palm on his cheek. You take his features in again, this time with a writer’s eye as the kit succumbes to sleep. 

He was a moth to starlight, stern and silent with the pale face of the moon, but his eyes? Bourbon, deep honey and the whisper of wood. His eyes swirl with the reflection of the sea, the hand at your waist pulling you gently to him. Your hand traces to his neck then, 

Guarded hearts, scarred shadows,

Remberances of another time.

His identification tags lie open and you find yourself yearning for closeness, scared of what you could have missed. 

Let the dogs lie, teeth pooled with fire,

But the fox dances, star in the barren night.

You lean your head against his chest, hearing his steady heartbeat to ground yourself. You feel Simon shift, hand reaching in his pocket and pulling out the chain. You hand meets his,

“These-”

“Don’t matter anymore.”

And they don't in a way.

He seems caught off guard, his eyes widening a fraction when you turn up to him with a smile. He drops the rings into your hand and you pull from him back to the ocean. You walk a few steps to the cusp of the water, you pull your arm back to throw the rings in but seem to think better of it. Instead you move over to your backpack and open a random pocket and drop the rings in.

You then finally check your phone, answering a text from Sam that you were ok, the man having gone back to his room to cool off. You set your phone aside then then look back to Simon. You then look down and after sitting down on the rock pull your shoes off.

The chill immediately hits your feet but you sigh when you feel the sand. You feel grounded then, the task of running fulfilled instead by a tender care, turning to the sea you feel loved then. 

For the first time in a long time you feel deeply loved.

You hear movement and turn to find Simon following your lead. You cock your head.

“What are you doing Simon?”

He just grins, looking up from leaning down before finally managing to get his boots off, he moves over to you and sets them besides yours. He rolls up his pants some to protect from the sand. 

“Why did you not throw them Dove?”

He takes a seat on the rock as you look down to him.

“The rings?”

“Yes.”

Your shoulders loosen when he scoots backs and allows you to sit between his legs, feet digging into soft sand.

“It felt right, but I can’t run anymore, not from this.” You mention to your chest.

“You did the right thing, keeping them.”

You lean back against his chest and his arms come around you.

You don’t reply, instead listening to the crashing of the waves.

Simon seems to respect this and continues speaking.

“I lost someone once. When I first joined I was seeing a woman, feel deeper and deeper in love with her everytime I got home to see her. I-” 

His voice is rough then and your hands come to his. 

“Two years in I knew I wanted to marry her.”

“Why didn’t you?” You squeeze his hand.

“I had bought the ring on leave, but couldn't get in contact, by the time I made it home it was too late. She had passed away from complications after getting sick.”

You feel your heart compress, the tone of his voice, you squeeze his hand.

“It wasnt your fault Si.”

Your words ring in his head, but he tilts his down onto your shoulder, and you feel his brows draw up. 

“I should have never left her alone.” 

His voice is raspy and you feel him pull you closer for comfort. You look to the waves with a heavy heart of loss. What had you lost? 

“She knew you loved her. That is enough.”

He lets out a shaky breath. You feel his grip tighten,

“Let it out.”

You urge him in a whisper and he does, you hear him exhale, the tears unfelt but known. He cries softly, a small sound that has your heart breaking. The waves comes in and out, as since the beginning and until the end, you know then. 

Minutes pass as simon leans into your shoulder, you feel the tears stop a little after. He seems to drain himself because he slumps against you, you run a hand up and behind you to run through his hair pulling his other hand to your mouth for a kiss. His knuckles are scarred and rough, but his hand is warm under your lips. You see the fox kit then, wandering alongside the ocean and looking at you with misty eyes.

You cradle his hand close, closing your eyes to the sea, allowing the sounds of Simon and the waves to take you away. 

Taglist (Welcome Back!)

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[novaursa]

Part 16

- Title: zōbrie ānogar

- Rating: Explicit (18+)

- Romance: (Aegon II/OFC)

- Warning: All flags are up for this work. Aegon is also a warning on his own.

- Summary: It was written by Archmaester Gyldayn that on the day Princess Vaella Targaryen was born she was supposed to die. Until she fed upon her twin, Baelon. And when she turned one and five, she sought her end in the lair of Cannibal, in Dragonmont. But instead of feasting upon her, the dragon wept with her. And Archmaester had written a lengthy thesis on how wild dragon recognized a kindred soul in the Princess, as they both dined on their kin.

- Word count: 9 000+

- Parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, Final

The sun rose over King's Landing, casting long shadows across the city as its new ruler prepared to address the people. The streets were packed with smallfolk, their faces a mix of curiosity, apprehension, and barely contained anger. The tension was palpable as Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, flanked by her husband Daemon and the Sea Snake, Lord Corlys Velaryon, stepped onto the balcony of the Red Keep.

Rhaenyra raised her hand for silence, her expression stern but regal. “People of King’s Landing, I stand before you as your queen. The throne is rightfully mine, and I will rule with justice and strength.”

The crowd was eerily quiet for a moment, the smallfolk exchanging uneasy glances. Then, a murmur began to spread through the masses, growing louder with each passing second.

“Where is King Aegon?” someone shouted, the question echoing across the square.

“And Queen Vaella?” another voice demanded.

A woman pushed her way to the front, holding a crying child. “What about the prince and princesses? What have you done to them?”

Rhaenyra’s face tightened, but she forced herself to remain calm. “Aegon and Vaella are traitors to the realm. They fled the city rather than face justice.”

The crowd’s reaction was immediate and hostile. “Liar!” someone screamed. “We loved them! They protected us!”

Another voice rang out, filled with anger. “You killed Prince Aeron in his cradle! You starved us with your blockade of the Gullet!”

The cries of outrage grew louder, the crowd pressing forward, their faces twisted with fury. “Rhaenyra the Cruel!” they chanted. “King Maegor with teats!”

Rhaenyra’s expression turned to one of shock and disbelief. She had expected resistance, but the sheer hatred and vitriol from the smallfolk were overwhelming. Daemon stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt, ready to protect his wife.

Corlys raised his hands, trying to calm the crowd. “Peace, people of King’s Landing! Queen Rhaenyra is here to bring stability and justice to the realm!”

But the crowd was beyond reason. “You’re all murderers!” a man shouted, brandishing a makeshift weapon. “We want justice for Aegon and Vaella! We want the truth!”

The situation quickly escalated. The people began to surge forward, the guards struggling to hold them back. Stones and debris were thrown, the projectiles whistling through the air and clattering against the walls of the Red Keep.

“Protect the queen!” Daemon roared, drawing his sword and positioning himself in front of Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened as she realized the full extent of the danger. “We must withdraw,” she said urgently, grabbing Daemon’s arm. “We need to retreat inside.”

Corlys nodded, his face grim. “Back into the Keep! Now!”

The guards formed a protective barrier, pushing the queen and her entourage back through the doors of the Red Keep. The crowd’s fury was unrelenting, their cries of “Rhaenyra the Cruel!” echoing through the air.

Inside, the heavy doors were slammed shut, the sounds of the enraged populace muffled but still ominous. Rhaenyra leaned against the wall, her breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps.

“They hate me,” she whispered, her voice filled with disbelief. “They truly hate me.”

Daemon sheathed his sword, his face a mask of anger and concern. “They are fools, blinded by their love for Aegon and Vaella. We will need to be careful.”

Corlys nodded, his expression thoughtful. “The people have not forgotten their love for Aegon and Vaella, nor the wounds inflicted by the blockade and Aeron’s death. We need to tread carefully or risk losing the city entirely.”

Rhaenyra nodded, but the fear and uncertainty in her heart remained. The people’s rejection was a bitter pill to swallow, a stark reminder of the tenuous nature of power. She had claimed the Iron Throne, but the battle for the hearts and minds of the realm was far from over.

��

The corridors of the Red Keep seemed darker and more oppressive than ever as Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen made her way to the chambers that had once been shared by Vaella and Aegon. It had been some time since the riot in the city, and the unrest among the people had not entirely subsided. Rhaenyra knew she needed to address the root of the tension—her relationship with her sister.

As she approached the door, guarded by her loyal men, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. She signaled for the guards to open the door and stepped inside.

Vaella was seated by the window, her gaze distant as she looked out over the city. She turned as Rhaenyra entered, her expression a mix of surprise and wariness.

“Rhaenyra,” Vaella said, her voice calm but guarded. “What brings you here?”

Rhaenyra tried to soften her expression, though the tension between them was palpable. “I came to talk, Vaella. We need to speak heart to heart, as sisters.”

Vaella raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Talk? About what, Rhaenyra? The way you’ve confined me to these chambers? The way you’ve torn our family apart?”

Rhaenyra took a step closer, trying to find the right words. “Vaella, you must understand. I never wanted things to be this way. But you… you’ve always secretly wanted to be in my place, haven’t you?”

Vaella’s eyes flashed with anger. “Wanted to be in your place? I wished for nothing but peace, Rhaenyra. Aegon and I only ever wanted to be left alone, to love each other and our children in peace.”

Rhaenyra’s face twisted with frustration. “You expect me to believe that? You always had a way of making everything about you. Even now, you sit here, making me the villain.”

Vaella stood, her hands clenched at her sides. “You have made yourself the villain, Rhaenyra. You accuse me of things I had no part in. I had no hand in the deaths of your sons, but you had a hand in the death of my baby son, Aeron.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes blazed with fury. “Aeron’s death was a tragic consequence of this war, a war you and Aegon perpetuated.”

Vaella’s voice trembled with emotion. “We perpetuated? You blockaded the Gullet, starved the city, and now you accuse me of these horrors? You are the one who could never let go of the throne.”

Rhaenyra’s face contorted with rage. “And Baelon? You’re the reason he died. If he had lived, if I had a brother and a clear heir, none of this would have happened. I would have been better off with a brother instead of you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. Vaella’s face paled, her eyes filled with a mix of pain and disbelief. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before she spoke.

“Get out,” she said, her voice low and trembling with anger. “Get out of my chambers.”

Rhaenyra stood frozen for a moment, her face a mask of conflicted emotions. Then, without another word, she turned and left the room, the door closing behind her with a resounding thud.

Vaella sank back into her chair, the weight of her sister’s words pressing down on her. She had always known there was unspoken bitterness between them, but this confrontation had brought it to the surface in a way that was both heartbreaking and irreparable.

For now, she was alone, but her spirit remained unbroken. She would endure, for the sake of her family and the memory of the love that had once bound her and Rhaenyra together.

In the corridors of the Red Keep, Rhaenyra walked away from her sister’s chambers, her heart heavy with the weight of their fractured bond. The throne was hers, but it had come at a great cost. She could feel the cracks in her rule, the discontent among the people, and the pain of a family torn apart.

As she made her way back to her own chambers, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had lost something precious, something that no amount of power could replace. 

…

Vaella sat alone in her chambers, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the stone walls. The events of the past few days weighed heavily on her mind. She had been confined, separated from her family, and left to worry about the fate of her children and husband. The silence of the room was oppressive, broken only by the distant sounds of the bustling Red Keep.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden chill that swept through the room. She looked up, her heart pounding as the specter of her twin brother, Baelon, appeared before her. His presence was both familiar and terrifying, a ghostly reminder of a past that refused to be forgotten.

"Baelon," Vaella whispered, her voice trembling. "You should have stayed at Harrenhal."

Baelon's ghostly form shimmered in the dim light, his expression unreadable. "Harrenhal has nothing to do with this, Vaella," he replied, his voice cold and echoing. "Rhaenyra was right. You should have died and let me live."

Vaella's eyes filled with a mix of fear and anger. "You don't belong here, Baelon. Leave me in peace."

Baelon's gaze hardened, his ethereal form unmoving. "Peace? Do you think you deserve peace after all that has happened? You took my place, Vaella. You stole my life. Bound my soul to you."

Vaella stood, her hands clenched into fists. "I did not choose this! I have done everything I could to protect our family. I am trying to keep them safe."

Baelon's spectral presence seemed to grow colder, the temperature in the room dropping further. "Safe? Look at where you are, Vaella. Look at what has happened to our family. You are as much to blame as anyone."

Vaella's voice rose in defiance. "I will not listen to this. You are not real. You are just a figment of my guilt and fear. Leave me!"

But Baelon did not move. Instead, he stepped closer, his eyes boring into hers. "You cannot run from the truth, Vaella. You cannot hide from what you have done. And there is something you need to know."

Vaella's breath caught in her throat, a sense of dread washing over her. "What is it?" she demanded, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Baelon’s face twisted into a grim smile. "It is about the son you gave birth to. There is something you need to know about him."

Vaella's heart pounded in her chest, a thousand questions racing through her mind. "What about my son?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation.

Baelon’s form began to fade, his voice echoing ominously in the dimly lit chamber. "Listen carefully, Vaella, the truth-"

As his presence dissipated, the room fell into an eerie silence. Vaella stood frozen, her mind reeling from the encounter. The specter of her brother had brought with him a chilling revelation, one that left her more unsettled than ever.

She sank back into her chair, her thoughts consumed by the cryptic warning. What could Baelon have meant? What truth was he referring to and left it unspoken? The uncertainty gnawed at her, adding to the already overwhelming weight of her worries.

The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls, but Vaella felt no warmth from its light. She was alone, trapped in a web of fear and uncertainty, haunted by the ghost of her past and the looming threat of her present.

…

Dragonstone loomed large against the horizon, its ancient walls and towering spires a symbol of Targaryen might. Aegon II Targaryen stood on the battlements, looking out over the churning sea. The island fortress had been retaken with surprising swiftness, thanks in no small part to the cunning and strategic mind of Larys Strong. The men Rhaenyra had left to garrison the castle had been won over, their loyalties shifted by promises of gold, power, and the undeniable charisma of Aegon.

The stone walls of the great hall felt both familiar and alien as Aegon walked through them. His children, Princess Daena and Prince Baelor, explored their new home with wide-eyed wonder, their presence a balm to his weary soul. The weight of recent events bore heavily on him, but his determination to protect his family and reclaim his throne was unwavering.

Maester Gerardys, now sworn to serve Aegon, approached him in the hall. The maester's expression was respectful, yet guarded. "Your Grace, the fortress is secure, and the garrison is loyal. Dragonstone is yours."

Aegon nodded, his eyes scanning the room before settling on Gerardys. "Thank you, Maester Gerardys. Ensure that the children are well cared for and that the defenses remain strong. We cannot afford any mistakes."

Gerardys bowed. "Of course, Your Grace. Everything will be as you command."

Later, in the council chamber, Larys Strong stood before Aegon, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a plan well-executed. "Your Grace, it has been a week since we arrived at Dragonstone. I bring news from King's Landing."

Aegon's heart pounded at the mention of the capital. "What news, Larys? Speak quickly."

Larys's expression grew serious. "Queen Vaella has been confined in the Red Keep, along with your mother, Alicent. Rhaenyra's grip on the city is tenuous at best, but she holds them as leverage. However, during the Battle of the Gullet, one of Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s sons, Viserys, was taken alive by our allies. He is now held as a hostage. We can use this to our advantage."

Aegon's jaw tightened, a mix of anger and worry flashing in his eyes. "Vaella... confined. And my mother too. This cannot stand. We must find a way to free them."

Larys nodded, his voice calm and measured. "We will, Your Grace. But we must be patient and strategic. Rhaenyra's position is not as secure as she believes. We can use the capture of Viserys to negotiate."

Aegon clenched his fists, frustration evident in his voice. "Patience is a luxury we cannot afford. But you are right. We must be smart about this."

Later that evening, Aegon sat in a quiet chamber, the crackling fire casting a warm glow on the stone walls. In his arms, he cradled his newborn son, the weight of the tiny body a comforting presence. The baby had been through so much already, born in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. He was weak and barely moved, his breath shallow.

As Aegon looked into his son's face, he felt a surge of love and protectiveness. The infant stirred, opening his violet eyes, which gleamed with a knowing glee that belied his tender age.

"Baelon," Aegon whispered, a soft smile touching his lips. "I shall name you Baelon, to honor my fallen half-brother and your mother's twin. You carry their legacy within you."

As he spoke the name, a subtle change seemed to come over the baby. His small body, previously weak and still, stirred with newfound vigor. He cooed softly, his tiny fingers curling around Aegon's thumb. Aegon felt a fierce determination rise within him. He would protect this child, ensure that he grew up in a world where he could be safe and loved.

As he held his son, Aegon's thoughts turned to Vaella. He could almost feel her presence, her strength and courage giving him the resolve he needed. He vowed to reunite their family, to bring her back and restore their rightful place.

…

The night sky over Dragonstone was clear and dark, the stars twinkling like a thousand distant fires. High above, the great dragon Sunfyre soared, his golden scales shimmering in the moonlight. The dragon had been restless for days, an unexplainable hunger gnawing at his insides. It was a primal need, an instinct that drove him towards the ancient fortress of Dragonstone.

Sunfyre’s powerful wings beat rhythmically, propelling him through the sky with incredible speed. His keen senses were heightened, his mind attuned to the pull of his rider, Aegon. The bond between dragon and rider was strong, and Sunfyre could feel Aegon’s need, his longing. It called to him like a siren’s song, guiding him across the dark waters.

As Dragonstone came into view, a low growl rumbled from deep within Sunfyre’s chest. The fortress was familiar territory, a place of strength and security. But tonight, it was also a hunting ground. The hunger within Sunfyre was not just for sustenance—it was a need to prove his dominance, to reassert his place as one of the most formidable dragons in existence.

Below, nestled among the jagged rocks and dark caves, lay Grey Ghost, the elusive wild dragon. Grey Ghost had always been a solitary creature, avoiding the conflicts of the Targaryen dragons. He preferred the shadows, hunting fish in the waters around Dragonstone and keeping to himself. But tonight, his solitude would be shattered.

Sunfyre descended silently, his golden scales blending with the night sky. He circled above the rocky outcrop where Grey Ghost rested, his sharp eyes fixed on his prey. The smaller dragon was unaware of the impending danger, his senses dulled by the false security of the night.

With a sudden, powerful dive, Sunfyre struck. His talons extended, he plummeted towards Grey Ghost, the element of surprise on his side. The wild dragon barely had time to react before Sunfyre’s claws raked across his back, drawing blood and eliciting a roar of pain and fury.

Grey Ghost twisted and turned, trying to evade the larger dragon’s grasp, but Sunfyre was relentless. He bit down on Grey Ghost’s neck, his jaws clamping shut with a bone-crushing force. The wild dragon struggled, his wings flapping wildly, but he could not break free.

Sunfyre’s growl deepened, vibrating through his entire body as he shook Grey Ghost like a ragdoll. The smaller dragon’s roars turned to whimpers, his strength fading rapidly. Sunfyre’s teeth tore into his flesh, the taste of blood fueling his primal hunger.

Below, on the battlements of Dragonstone, Aegon and his children watched the sky in awe and fear. The sight of Sunfyre in his full glory was both magnificent and terrifying. The golden dragon was a force of nature, his power and ferocity unmatched.

“Father, what’s happening?” Daena asked, her voice trembling as she clung to Aegon’s side.

Aegon placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his eyes never leaving the sky. “Sunfyre is hunting, my dear. He is proving his strength.”

Baelor, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination, asked, “Will he be alright?”

Aegon nodded, his voice filled with confidence. “Sunfyre is the strongest dragon. He will be fine.”

Above, the battle reached its climax. Grey Ghost’s struggles grew weaker, his roars fading into pitiful whimpers. With a final, crushing bite, Sunfyre ended the wild dragon’s life. He roared triumphantly, the sound echoing across the island and beyond.

Sunfyre tore into Grey Ghost’s flesh with a ravenous hunger, devouring his prey with brutal efficiency. The taste of victory was sweet, and the satisfaction of his hunger brought a sense of fulfillment. He had proven his dominance, reasserted his place as a dragon to be feared and respected.

As the first light of dawn began to break over the horizon, Sunfyre lifted his bloodied muzzle from the carcass of Grey Ghost. He spread his wings and took to the sky once more, his golden scales glistening in the early morning light. He flew towards the battlements of Dragonstone, where his rider and his family awaited.

Aegon stepped forward as Sunfyre landed, his expression one of pride and relief. “You’ve done well, Sunfyre,” he said, his voice filled with admiration. “You’ve shown your strength once again.”

Sunfyre lowered his massive head, allowing Aegon to place a hand on his snout. The bond between them was palpable, a connection forged through shared victories and mutual respect.

Daena and Baelor approached cautiously, their fear replaced by awe. “He’s incredible,” Daena whispered, her eyes wide with wonder.

Baelor nodded, his voice filled with reverence. “The greatest dragon of all.”

Aegon smiled, his heart swelling with pride. “Indeed he is. Sunfyre is a symbol of our strength, a reminder of what we are capable of.”

…

The dimly lit chamber of the Red Keep felt like a prison. Heavy curtains were drawn against the windows, casting long, somber shadows that clung to the walls. Vaella Targaryen lay on the bed, her body weak and trembling from the aftershocks of her premature birth. Despite her best efforts, the trauma lingered, and her mind wandered incessantly between hope and despair.

She instinctively placed a hand on her still-swollen belly, a pang of sorrow striking her heart. The memory of her newborn son, so fragile and silent when he had to be taken from her, haunted her. She wondered if he had survived, if he was being cared for, if he was even alive.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. A young servant girl entered, carrying a tray of food. The girl’s eyes were downcast as she approached the bed.

“Your Grace, I’ve brought you some food,” the servant said quietly, placing the tray on a small table beside the bed.

Vaella nodded, barely acknowledging the girl’s presence. “Thank you,” she murmured, though the thought of eating made her stomach churn. The servant quickly left, leaving Vaella alone once more.

As the door closed, Vaella’s mind drifted to her other children, Baelor and Daena. She pictured their innocent faces, their bright eyes filled with wonder and fear. She prayed they were safe, wherever they were. Tears welled up in her eyes, the weight of her separation from them almost too much to bear.

In the stillness of her chamber, another presence made itself known. Her twin, Baelon, appeared at the edge of her vision, his pale, ghostly form a haunting reminder of her past. His eyes, so much like her own, bore into her with silent accusation.

“Why are you here again?” Vaella whispered, her voice trembling. “Why can’t you leave me in peace?”

Baelon’s ghostly form remained silent, his expression one of sorrow and judgment. Vaella felt the weight of his gaze, the accusation unspoken but clear: she had taken his soul, bound him to her in this world as long as she lived.

“Go away!” she screamed suddenly, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “Leave me in peace, at least for tonight!”

The specter of Baelon faded into the shadows, leaving Vaella alone with her guilt and despair. She did not know how to free him, how to unbind his soul from hers. The weight of this unknown hung over her like a dark cloud, a constant reminder of her failure.

Exhausted, she lay back on the bed, her thoughts turning once more to Aegon. She longed to be with him, to feel his comforting presence beside her. She pictured him on Dragonstone, holding their fragile son, his face filled with a determination that matched her own. She drew strength from the memory of their love, their shared passion and commitment.

“Baelon,” she whispered to the shadows, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I never meant for this to happen. I don’t know how to set you free.”

The night stretched on, filled with the shadows of her past and the uncertainties of her future. Vaella Targaryen lay in her chamber, confined but not defeated. She drew on the strength of her love for Aegon, her children, and her unyielding spirit. She would find a way through this darkness, for herself and for those she loved.

…

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood on the balcony of Maegor’s Holdfast, looking out over King’s Landing. The city was a powder keg of unrest, the flames of rebellion constantly threatening to ignite. Despite her efforts to calm the populace, the people’s loyalty to King Aegon II and Queen Vaella ran deep. The banners of her half-brother fluttered defiantly in the winds, and her own rule felt increasingly precarious.

Inside the council chamber, the mood was tense. Rhaenyra’s advisors were assembled around the large, intricately carved table, their faces lined with worry and fatigue. She took her place at the head of the table, her expression a mask of determination despite the turmoil within her.

“My Queen,” began Lord Corlys Velaryon, his voice steady but grave. “We must address the growing unrest in the city. The people’s loyalty to Aegon and Vaella is stronger than we anticipated. If we do not quell these uprisings, we may face an outright revolt.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her gaze hardening. “We will double the patrols and enforce stricter curfews. The people must understand that their defiance will not be tolerated. But we must also address their concerns. We need more food, more resources. Starving subjects are rebellious subjects.”

As the council discussed various strategies to stabilize King’s Landing, Rhaenyra’s thoughts drifted to her son Viserys, held captive by her enemies. The knowledge that his life hung in the balance was a constant, gnawing fear. Aegon had made it clear: he wished to exchange Viserys for Vaella and Alicent.

“Your Grace,” said Daemon, breaking her reverie. His intense gaze met hers. “We must also consider the military front. Aemond and Cole remain a significant threat at Harrenhal, and Helaena in the Vale poses a strategic challenge with her dragon Dreamfyre and her forces.”

Rhaenyra sighed, the weight of the multiple fronts pressing down on her. “You’re right. We cannot ignore them. We must plan our next move carefully.”

Lord Corlys leaned forward. “The Stormlands and the Reach have begun amassing their forces to support Aemond and Aegon. Large parts of the Riverlands are also shifting their loyalties. If we do not act decisively, we could find ourselves surrounded.”

“And the North?” Rhaenyra asked, though she already knew the answer.

“They refuse to march until winter has passed,” Daemon replied, frustration evident in his voice. “We cannot rely on their support anytime soon.”

Rhaenyra’s mind raced, weighing the options. “We need to divide their forces. Aegon is at Dragonstone. If we can draw Aemond and Cole out of Harrenhal, we might weaken their position. At the same time, we must be prepared to deal with Helaena in the Vale.”

Daemon nodded. “A diversion might work, but we need to ensure it’s strong enough to pull Aemond’s forces away from Harrenhal.”

“Send ravens to our allies in the Reach and the Westerlands,” Rhaenyra ordered. “We need every available soldier. We must also increase our dragon patrols. Let the people see our strength.”

As the council dispersed to carry out their tasks, Rhaenyra remained seated, staring at the map of Westeros spread out before her. The stakes were higher than ever, and the lives of her family and the fate of the realm hung in the balance.

Daemon lingered, sensing her turmoil. “Rhaenyra,” he said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We will get Viserys back. We will find a way to end this.”

Rhaenyra looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of determination and sorrow. “I know, Daemon. But every day that passes with him in their hands is torture. And if anything happens to him…”

“We will not let that happen,” Daemon said firmly. “We will bring him home.”

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, drawing strength from Daemon’s resolve. “We must be smarter, stronger. We cannot afford to make any mistakes.”

As the fires of rebellion flickered throughout King’s Landing, Rhaenyra Targaryen steeled herself for the battles to come. 

…

Aegon II Targaryen flew upon Sunfyre every day since taking over Dragonstone. The golden dragon, despite his injuries, regained some of his former strength as he soared over the island, his radiant scales glinting in the sunlight. Larys Strong tirelessly sought supporters to aid Aegon in his quest to reclaim Dragonstone from Rhaenyra, his whispering campaigns weaving through the courts of Westeros like an intricate web.

Ser Alfred Broome had been invaluable in rallying support for Aegon's cause. The loyalty of key houses and soldiers had been secured, bolstering the greens’ presence on the island. However, Lady Baela Targaryen had evaded capture for weeks. Her resilience and cunning had become a thorn in Aegon’s side, but finally, she reached her green dragon, Moondancer.

On a fateful day, as Aegon victoriously flew a still-injured Sunfyre back to the castle, Moondancer rose to meet them. The younger, smaller dragon moved with astonishing speed, raking Sunfyre's side and attacking his malformed wing. Sunfyre responded with a blinding blast of golden flames, searing Moondancer’s eyes. The colliding dragons crashed into the ground, their roars echoing through the skies.

In the fierce struggle, Sunfyre, despite his injuries, overpowered and killed his younger adversary. Aegon, thrown from his saddle in the tumultuous descent, broke both of his legs as he hit the ground. His agonized screams filled the air as his men rushed to his side.

"Get me inside!" Aegon commanded through gritted teeth, his voice filled with pain and fury. "Hurry, damn you!"

The soldiers, pale with fear and urgency, carried their wounded king into the castle. Aegon’s face was contorted in agony, every jolt sending fresh waves of pain through his shattered legs. As they entered the dim corridors of the fortress, Aegon’s cries for his wife rang out.

"Vaella! Vaella!" he called, desperation thick in his voice. Past and present blurred. "Where is she? Why is she not here?"

Ser Alfred Broome stepped forward, his expression grave as he worries for Aegon’s state of mind. "Your Grace, the queen is still held captive by Rhaenyra in the Red Keep. We will bring her back. I swear it."

Aegon’s eyes, wild with pain and despair, locked onto Broome’s. "She needs me… I need her.."

"We will not let it end this way," Ser Alfred vowed. "We will find a way to free her."

Meanwhile, Sunfyre, gravely wounded from the battle, lay in the outer yard where he had fallen. His once-majestic form was now marred by fresh scars along his back, huge wounds on his neck, and scabs on his belly. The dragon had lost his right eye in the fray, rendering him unable to fly. He remained grounded, feeding on the carcass of Moondancer, a grim testament to the cost of their victory.

Inside the castle, Aegon was carried to his chambers. Maester Gerardys was summoned, his face pale as he examined the king's injuries. "Your Grace, you must rest. Your legs are badly broken. It will take time for them to heal."

Aegon grimaced, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. "Time… Time is something we do not have, Maester. My wife, my children…"

Gerardys placed a reassuring hand on Aegon’s shoulder. "We will do everything in our power to hasten your recovery, Your Grace. You must stay strong for them."

As the maester worked to set his legs, Aegon’s thoughts drifted to Vaella. The image of her, alone and captive in the Red Keep, tormented him. He could almost hear her voice, feel her presence beside him, her strength and courage giving him the resolve he needed.

…

Vaella Targaryen stood on a high balcony of the Red Keep, her indigo eyes fixed on the horizon. The city of King's Landing stretched below her, a chaotic tapestry of unrest and rebellion. Her heart ached with longing and fear as she watched Daemon Targaryen mount his dragon, Caraxes. With a mighty roar, the blood-red dragon took to the sky, heading towards Harrenhal for a personal clash with Aemond.

As Caraxes disappeared into the distance, Vaella turned her gaze towards the Dragonpit. There, Cannibal, her wild and fierce dragon, was slowly regaining his strength from the injuries inflicted by Vermithor. His dark form was a stark contrast to the other dragons kept there. By Rhaenyra’s orders, all dragons were tightly chained, including those of Helaena’s twins and Vaella’s children. Syrax, Rhaenyra’s own dragon, and the dragon of her son Joffrey were also among them.

The sight of the chained dragons filled Vaella with a deep sense of sorrow and frustration. The majestic creatures, symbols of Targaryen power, were now prisoners, much like herself. She could feel Cannibal's restlessness, his fierce spirit chafing against the constraints.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. A guard appeared, his expression stoic. "Lady Vaella, you are summoned to the throne room by order of Queen Rhaenyra."

Vaella’s heart sank. She knew this was not a request but a command. With a resigned nod, she followed the guard through the winding corridors of the Red Keep. The path felt endlessly familiar, yet it was filled with the dread of her uncertain fate.

As they neared the throne room, the sounds of whispered conversations and the heavy echo of boots on stone grew louder. The guard stopped before the massive doors, pushing them open to reveal the grand chamber. Rhaenyra sat upon the Iron Throne, her expression one of cold determination. Next to her, Alicent Hightower stood, her presence a silent pillar of support.

The guard led Vaella forward, and she felt the weight of the room’s gaze upon her. Her heart pounded as she was brought to stand below the throne, her position more that of a prisoner than a princess.

Alicent was the first to speak, her voice calm but edged with tension. "Rhaenyra, this conflict must end. You must dismantle your campaign and leave your sons, daughter, and grandchildren alive. In exchange, you can continue to rule lands of your own, while Aegon is entitled to his."

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed as she interrupted, her voice icy. "I will not do it, Alicent. My sons died under orders made by your blood."

Alicent's face hardened, her voice turning cold. "That was just bastards' blood spilled in war."

Rhaenyra bristled at the remark, her fury evident. "Enough!" she shouted, gesturing to the guards. "Take her back to her chambers!"

The guards seized Alicent, dragging her away as she maintained her cold composure. Vaella watched, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and defiance.

Vaella spoke up, her voice trembling but firm. "You called my infant son a consequence of war, Rhaenyra. Perhaps your own sons are that too. This is your fault."

Rhaenyra's eyes blazed with anger as she descended from the throne. In a swift, furious motion, she slapped Vaella across the face. The force of the blow sent Vaella reeling, her cheek stinging with pain.

"How dare you!" Rhaenyra hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "You know nothing of what I have lost."

Vaella held her ground, meeting her sister's gaze with unwavering resolve. "And you know nothing of what you have taken from me. From all of us."

The throne room fell into a tense silence, the weight of their words hanging heavily in the air. Rhaenyra’s expression softened for a moment, but the resolve in her eyes remained.

"We are all victims of this war, Vaella," Rhaenyra said quietly, her voice tinged with sorrow. "But I will not back down. Not now."

Vaella’s heart ached with the weight of their shared pain. "Then you will only breed more hatred and more loss."

Rhaenyra turned away, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Guard," she called, her voice tired. "Escort my sister back to her chambers."

As Vaella was led away, she glanced back at Rhaenyra, her heart heavy with the knowledge that their family was being torn apart by their own hands. Alicent’s silent support and her own resolve were all she had to hold onto now. 

…

Aegon II Targaryen lay bedridden in his chambers on Dragonstone, his legs broken and pain searing through his body like wildfire. His refusal to take milk of the poppy, despite the maesters' pleas, was a testament to his iron will. He remembered all too well the foggy haze and addiction that came with it during his recovery from Rook's Rest. Yet, the agony was almost unbearable, each movement sending waves of torment through his shattered limbs.

Most days, his anguished cries echoed through the stone halls. "Vaella! Bring me my wife! Vaella!" His voice, raw with desperation, rang out over and over, driving fear into the hearts of the servants who tended to him. They tried to console him, to remind him gently that she was not there, but his rage and despair would only intensify.

"She is not here, Your Grace," a servant would repeat for the hundredth time, her voice trembling.

"Find her! Bring her to me now!" Aegon would scream, his eyes wild with pain and longing.

The servants would retreat, helpless in the face of his suffering. They whispered among themselves, worried for his state of mind, but there was little they could do.

In an effort to calm him, his children, Baelor and Daena, were often brought to his bedside. Their innocent presence was a balm to his tormented soul, though the sight of them also deepened his sorrow.

"Father," Baelor said softly one afternoon, his small hand clutching Aegon's larger one. "When will Mother come back?"

Aegon’s eyes filled with tears as he looked at his son. "Soon, my boy. Soon," he lied, his voice breaking. "We must be strong for her."

Daena, sitting quietly at the foot of the bed, looked up at her father with wide, tear-filled eyes. "Will she really come back, Father? And what about baby Baelon?"

Aegon forced a smile, though his heart was heavy with doubt. "Yes, Daena. She will come back, and we will all be together again. And Baelon… he is a fighter, just like you."

While Baelor and Daena were allowed to see their father often, tiny Baelon was kept under strict watch by Maester Gerardys. The maester had little hope that the infant would survive, but every day the child clung to life was a small miracle.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow through the windows, Maester Gerardys entered Aegon's chamber, carrying the fragile Baelon in his arms.

"Your Grace," Gerardys said softly, "I thought you might wish to see your son."

Aegon’s eyes lit up with a mixture of hope and sorrow. "Yes, bring him here."

The maester carefully placed Baelon in Aegon’s arms, the baby’s tiny form barely moving. Aegon looked down at his son, his heart swelling with love and pain.

"Look at him, Gerardys," Aegon whispered. "So small, yet so strong."

The maester nodded, his expression somber. "He is a Targaryen, Your Grace. They are born of fire and blood."

Aegon held Baelon close, his mind filled with thoughts of Vaella. "I need her, Gerardys. I need her strength."

Gerardys placed a reassuring hand on Aegon's shoulder. "We are doing all we can to bring her back, Your Grace. You must hold on."

Aegon nodded, though the weight of his suffering threatened to crush him. "I will. For them."

As night fell, Baelon was taken away by the maester, and Aegon was left alone with his thoughts. The pain in his legs was relentless, but the ache in his heart was far worse. He closed his eyes, picturing Vaella’s face, drawing strength from her memory.

"Vaella," he whispered into the darkness, "I will endure this. For you, for our children. I will not let this break me."

In the silence of his chamber, with only the distant sounds of the sea as a lullaby, Aegon clung to his resolve.

…

King’s Landing was a city on the edge. The longer Rhaenyra Targaryen remained in power, the more tensions with the local populace rose. The once bustling markets now stood empty, the cheerful chatter of the streets replaced by murmurs of discontent and curses against the Queen. Provisions had been cut off to sustain her war effort, leaving the smallfolk to fend for themselves without the food, medicine, and coin that Vaella and Aegon had once provided.

The streets were filled with gaunt faces and hollow eyes, the signs of starvation and illness spreading like a plague. Whispers of rebellion grew louder each day, and the air was thick with the stench of desperation and anger.

Rhaenyra sat in the throne room, her brow furrowed as she read the latest reports. The news was grim: civil unrest was looming large, threatening to erupt into full-scale riots. The doors creaked open, and a messenger entered, his face pale with fear.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing deeply. "The city grows restless. The people are demanding food and relief."

Rhaenyra’s eyes hardened. "I cannot afford to divert resources from the war effort. They must understand the sacrifices necessary for our victory."

The messenger hesitated, then spoke in a trembling voice. "But, Your Grace, they curse your name in the streets. They say they lived better under Aegon and Vaella."

Rhaenyra’s fist clenched. "Let them curse. They do not understand the weight of the crown or the cost of war."

The throne room fell silent, the tension palpable. Rhaenyra’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a raven. She took the letter from the bird, her eyes scanning the words. Her face blanched as she read the message: Daemon had fallen at Harrenhal. Both he and Aemond had perished with their dragons.

The parchment slipped from her fingers, fluttering to the floor. The loss of Daemon was a blow that shook her to her core. His death, along with that of Aemond, left a gaping void in her support. Her rule, already unstable, now teetered on the brink of collapse.

As the news spread through the castle, the whispers grew louder. Lords and ladies exchanged worried glances, and the smallfolk, upon hearing of Daemon’s death, became even more emboldened in their dissent.

Rhaenyra sat in her chambers, staring at the flickering flames of the hearth. Alicent Hightower entered, her expression a mix of satisfaction and concern.

"Rhaenyra," Alicent began, her voice cold. "Your grip on the city is slipping. The people are starving, and now, with Daemon gone, your support is crumbling."

Rhaenyra looked up, her eyes filled with a mixture of grief and defiance. "I will not abandon my claim. I will not let his death be in vain."

Alicent’s gaze hardened. "And what of the people? Will you let them starve for the sake of your throne?"

Rhaenyra’s voice was edged with desperation. "I have no choice. The war requires sacrifices."

"Sacrifices?" Alicent's voice was icy. "Those are not sacrifices, Rhaenyra. They are lives."

Before Rhaenyra could respond, the doors burst open and a guard rushed in. "Your Grace, there are riots in Flea Bottom. The smallfolk are demanding food and threatening to storm the Red Keep."

Rhaenyra stood, her resolve firm. "Double the guards. Ensure the gates are secure. We cannot let them breach the castle."

The guard nodded and hurried out. Rhaenyra turned back to Alicent, her expression one of determination. "I will not be swayed, Alicent. This throne is mine by right."

Alicent shook her head, a look of pity in her eyes. "You are losing your grip, Rhaenyra. The more you tighten your hold, the more it slips away."

As the night fell, the sounds of unrest grew louder outside the castle walls. In the midst of the chaos, a new blow came to Rhaenyra's rule. Ravens brought word of Nettles and Sheepstealer, who had joined Daemon in hunting Aemond and Vhagar. They remained at Maidenpool, after Daemon’s fall.

When Rhaenyra named Nettles a traitor, the young rider fled. She left Maidenpool with Sheepstealer early in the morning, feeding the dragon the largest black ram present at the castle. The dragon and its rider were last seen flying over the Bay of Crabs, disappearing into the horizon.

In the throne room, Rhaenyra struggled to maintain control. She knew that without the support of her dragonriders, her claim was weakening by the day. The loss of Nettles, combined with the death of Daemon, left her vulnerable.

…

The Red Keep was steeped in a somber silence, a heavy pall hanging over its ancient halls. The once vibrant and bustling fortress had become a place of mourning and whispers. Queen Alicent Hightower, already burdened by the loss of her son Aemond, was struck with another wave of grief. News arrived of her son Daeron's death during the Battle of Tumbleton. His dragon, Tessarion, had also fallen in the fierce conflict. 

Alicent sat in her chambers, her heart shattered by the loss of another child. She felt the weight of her sorrow pressing down on her, a relentless tide that threatened to drown her spirit. The only faint glimmer of consolation was the knowledge that Rhaenyra had also suffered losses: the Dragonseeds Ulf White and Addam Velaryon, along with Seasmoke. Silverwing, the dragon of the late Queen Alysanne, had been seen flying towards a small island in the Red Lake after feasting on the remains of the fallen.

The door to her chamber creaked open, and a trusted servant slipped inside, closing it quietly behind him. He approached Alicent with a message, his eyes filled with a mixture of loyalty and concern.

"Your Grace," he whispered, bowing low. "I have a message for you, from Lady Vaella."

Alicent's heart quickened. Despite their dire circumstances, Vaella had managed to smuggle messages back and forth, providing a lifeline of hope and support. She took the note from the servant, her hands trembling slightly as she unfolded it.

The message was brief but filled with determination:

*Alicent,**

**I grieve with you for the loss of Aemond and Daeron. This war has taken so much from us, but we must remain strong. I am doing all I can from within these walls. We will find a way to end this and reunite our family. Stay strong for me, for Aegon, and for our children.**

**Vaella**

Alicent closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she clutched the note to her chest. The loss of her sons was a wound that would never heal, but Vaella's words provided a flicker of hope amidst the darkness.

"Thank you," she said softly to the servant. "Your loyalty and bravery are deeply appreciated."

The servant bowed again. "I will continue to serve you, Your Grace. Whatever you need, I will do my best to provide."

Alicent nodded, her resolve strengthening. "We must keep this communication open. Vaella needs to know she is not alone. And neither are we."

As the servant left, Alicent penned a response to Vaella, her words filled with the same determination and love that her daughter-in-law had shown:

**My dear Vaella,**

**Your words are a balm to my wounded heart. We have lost so much, but you are right. We must remain strong and united. I am here for you, as you are for me. We will endure this together, and we will find a way to bring an end to this madness. Stay safe, my beloved daughter.**

**With all my love,**

**Alicent**

She handed the note to the servant, who took it with a nod and slipped away to deliver it to Vaella. As she waited, Alicent's thoughts turned to the future. The path ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but the bonds of family and love would guide them through.

Meanwhile, in her chambers, Vaella read Alicent's response with a mixture of relief and sorrow. The war had taken so much from them, but the messages they exchanged were a reminder that they were not alone in their suffering. She clung to the hope that they would find a way to end this conflict and reunite their family.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over King's Landing, Vaella managed to steal a few moments of peace. She sat by the window, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon, thinking of Aegon and their children.

A soft knock at the door drew her attention, and a servant entered, bowing respectfully. "Princess Vaella, a message from the Dowager Queen."

Vaella took the note, her heart pounding as she read Alicent's words. Tears filled her eyes, but they were tears of hope and determination. She knew that, despite the losses and the pain, they would find a way to survive and prevail.

As night fell over King's Landing, the city simmered with tension and unrest. The smallfolk's discontent was a constant reminder of the cost of this war. But within the walls of the Red Keep, a flicker of hope remained. Alicent and Vaella's secret communication was a lifeline that kept them both grounded and resolute.

…

Vaella Targaryen sat in the dimly lit confines of her chambers, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with tension, her heart pounding with the weight of the plan she was about to set into motion. She was not alone; several men, still loyal to Aegon and herself, huddled around her. Some of these men had recently turned away from Rhaenyra, sensing her impending fall and placing their bets on the queen who could restore balance. Among them were spies placed by Larys Strong, whose loyalty was now a crucial part of their plan.

"Vaella," whispered Ser William Storm, a basted son of a Lord from the Stormlands and one of her most trusted allies, "the time is ripe. Rhaenyra's rule is crumbling. The people are starving, and the unrest is growing by the day."

Vaella nodded, her indigo eyes filled with determination. "We cannot wait any longer. We must move tonight. The dragons are our only chance."

A murmur of agreement swept through the group. Ser William leaned forward, his voice low but urgent. "We've secured a route through the town to the Dragonpit. The guards there are few and poorly motivated. We can overpower them and unchain the dragons."

Vaella took a deep breath, her mind racing with the gravity of what they were about to do. "What of my children’s dragons and those of Helaena's twins? They must be freed as well."

Ser William nodded. "We have men stationed at their chains. Once we secure the Dragonpit, they will be released."

Vaella’s gaze hardened. "And Cannibal?"

"He is ready," Ser William replied. "Recovered and eager to fly."

Vaella stood, her heart pounding. "Then let us proceed. We must be swift and silent."

Under the cover of night, Vaella donned a simple cloak, the hood pulled low over her face. Her loyalists, similarly disguised, escorted her through the labyrinthine passages of the Red Keep. They moved quickly, their footsteps barely a whisper on the stone floors.

As they gathered in Vaella’s chambers for the final briefing, the air was thick with anticipation and fear. Larys Strong’s spies had been instrumental in gathering the necessary intelligence and ensuring that their plan had a chance of success.

"Larys’s spies report that the guards at the Dragonpit change shifts at midnight," Ser William explained, pointing to a crude map of the Red Keep and its surroundings. "That will be our window to strike."

Vaella nodded, her mind racing with the details of their plan. "What of the passageways? Are they clear?"

Ser William glanced at one of Larys’s spies, a wiry man named Roderick. "Roderick?"

Roderick nodded. "The passageways are clear, Your Grace. We've ensured that the patrols will be diverted at the crucial moment."

Vaella turned to the rest of the group. "Remember, our primary objective is to unchain the dragons. Once they are free, we can make our escape. Any distractions or delays could cost us dearly."

The men nodded, their expressions grim but determined. Vaella felt a surge of gratitude for their loyalty and bravery. They were risking everything to see her and her family safe.

As the night deepened, the group moved into position. Vaella’s heart pounded with each step, the weight of their mission pressing down on her. She clutched the hilt of a dagger hidden beneath her cloak, ready to defend herself if necessary.

They navigated the darkened corridors of the Red Keep, their movements silent and purposeful. At each corner, Roderick signaled the all-clear, his keen eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger.

Finally, they reached a hidden door that led to a narrow passageway. Ser William turned to Vaella, his expression serious. "This passage will take us out of the Red Keep and into the city. From there, it’s a short distance to the hill where the Dragonpit stands."

Vaella nodded, her heart racing with anticipation. "Let’s go."

As they slipped into the passageway, the sound of their footsteps echoed faintly off the stone walls. The air grew cooler as they descended, the weight of the earth pressing in around them. Vaella’s mind was focused on the task ahead, her thoughts racing with the details of their plan.

Emerging from the passageway, they found themselves in a dark alleyway at the edge of the Red Keep. The city of King’s Landing sprawled before them, the streets eerily quiet under the cover of night. They moved quickly, keeping to the shadows as they made their way through the winding streets.

The tension was palpable, each step fraught with the risk of discovery. Vaella’s heart pounded as they neared the hill where the Dragonpit stood. The massive structure loomed in the distance, a silent sentinel against the night sky.

Suddenly, the group halted as Roderick raised his hand, signaling for silence. The faint sound of voices reached their ears, growing louder with each passing moment. They pressed themselves against the walls of a narrow alley, holding their breath as a patrol of guards passed by.

The guards paused, their torches casting flickering shadows on the walls. "Did you hear something?" one of the guards asked, his tone suspicious.

The other guard shook his head. "Probably just the wind. But keep your eyes open. The Queen doesn’t want any surprises tonight."

Vaella’s heart raced as the guards moved past, their footsteps fading into the distance. She let out a slow breath, her mind racing with the realization of how close they had come to being discovered.

Ser William signaled for them to move again, and they continued their cautious journey through the city. Every sound seemed amplified in the silence, every shadow a potential threat.

As they neared the base of the hill, Vaella felt a surge of hope. They were so close to the Dragonpit, their objective almost within reach. But as they turned a corner, they were met with an unexpected sight: a group of armed men, clearly loyal to Rhaenyra, blocking their path.

The leader of the group stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in Vaella and her companions. "Going somewhere, Princess?" he sneered.

Vaella’s hand tightened around the hilt of her dagger. "We mean no harm. Let us pass."

The man laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "I don’t think so. The Queen has ordered that no one is to leave the Red Keep without her permission."

Ser William stepped forward, his voice cold and steady. "Stand aside. We have no quarrel with you."

The man’s expression darkened. "You do now."

The alley erupted into chaos as the two groups clashed. Vaella fought with all her strength, her dagger flashing in the dim light. The sounds of steel clashing and men shouting filled the air, the battle fierce and desperate.

Despite their determination, Vaella’s group was outnumbered. One by one, her loyalists were overwhelmed, their bodies falling to the cobblestones. Vaella’s heart pounded with fear and rage as she struggled to fend off her attackers.

Just as it seemed they were doomed, a sudden shout rang out. A group of cloaked figures emerged from the shadows, joining the fray with lethal precision. Larys Strong’s spies, their timing impeccable, had arrived to turn the tide.

The fight was brutal and swift. Within moments, the attackers were either dead or fleeing into the night. Vaella, breathless and bloodied, looked around at the fallen men, her heart heavy with the cost of their mission.

Ser William approached her, his expression grim. "We must move quickly, Your Grace. The Dragonpit is within reach."

Vaella nodded, her determination undimmed despite the setback. "Let’s go. We have no time to waste."

With renewed urgency, they continued their journey, the hill of the Dragonpit rising before them. The path was fraught with danger, but Vaella knew they had come too far to turn back now. The fate of her family and their legacy depended on the success of their mission.

As they neared the entrance to the Dragonpit, Vaella’s heart swelled with hope. They were almost there, their objective within sight. But as they prepared to make their final approach, the sounds of the city in turmoil reached their ears, a reminder of the unrest that still threatened to unravel their plans.

With a deep breath, Vaella steeled herself for the final push. Disguised and determined, she knew that the next moments would be critical. But to their relief, the Dragonkeepers offered no resistance. The sight of Queen Vaella, beloved by many, was enough to quell any objections they might have had.

"Your Grace," one of the Dragonkeepers said, bowing deeply. "What brings you here at this hour?"

"We are here to free the dragons," Vaella replied, her voice steady and commanding. "Stand aside."

The Dragonkeepers nodded, stepping back to allow Vaella and her men to pass. The massive doors of the Dragonpit creaked open, and Vaella stepped inside, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and smoke. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows on the walls, illuminating the forms of the great beasts within.

[urauntiefaye]

are your requests still open?

If still, may I request something😩 ||

Scenario : i am the lady's in waiting of Jo's mother who is the queen (jo is the crown prince). jo secretly loves me and has wanted to 'make me his' for a long time. One day I asked the queen for permission to marry a man of my parents' choice (even though I don't love the man my parents chose, because he is 20 years different from me ewww🤢). that means I have to withdraw from the palace to get married. when jo found out about this, jo got angry and jealousy and I ended up making love in his room and he claimed me as his, planting his seed in me so that I don't marry the man my parents chose and he wants me to be his wife bcuz i have his 'kid'🥺

You Will Be Mine (Jo Asakura Royalty Au🔞👑)

Word Count: 970

CW: Smut, breeding, exhibition(Kind of?), y/n is AFAB(I assumed since you wrote lady in waiting, if not please let me know and I will fix it!), Penetration(P in V)

A/N: ROYAL AU ROYAL AU ROYAL AU!!!!!! Anonnie you have no idea what you just fed me. Now, this was a little difficult for me, like my wording seems off to me and I feel like I didn’t do this concept justice enough. I do apologize, however I do hope you like it! Content is below the line!

Your family has always worked closely with the Royal family of the kingdom. It was in your blood to serve the Asakuras, So growing up with the Prince wasn’t unusual. When you were both young you would often find yourselves playing together. Running around in the open fields, playing hide and seek and in the castle, even sneaking off into the woods to find a little lake and a Gazebo. It was yours, the place where Prince Jo went to blow off steam from the responsibilities, a place where you went to cry, both a place where you two comforted each other in times of need.

 It would be safe to say that you two were the best of friends. However play time had to be cut short once the prince turned 13. At the age he was often found in the library with a tutor or in the Kings office to attend and watch silently during important meetings. You both stayed close yet apart, interactions cut short and more professional as he fulfilled his Princely duties and yours as the Queen's lady in waiting. It would be a lie that you didn’t miss him, but you knew that this was how it was supposed to be. Only if you knew that Jo always had his on you, longing and missing you. As you both became adults not only did your duties become more frequent and more serious, but the time for you to be wedded also came. Your parents had arranged a meeting for you to meet a Lord in another kingdom, with you not being too keen on meeting him and dreading it you had run off to the little Gazebo, surprised it was still standing. You spent some time trying to get your thoughts together, you knew it was your responsibility, but you never thought your parents would agree nonetheless even choose to marry you off to some forty year old Lord in another kingdom which was miles upon miles away from your home. 

“Thought I’d find you here” a soft gentle voice was heard from behind you, as you turned around you saw Jo. “Was it that obvious I’d be here? After All these years?”. He came closer to you, sitting down, his knee slightly touching yours. “Kind of?...I heard the news by the way”, you smiled sadly and sighed. “Yeah…guess it can’t be helped though right?”, he hummed as a response, you couldn’t help but notice the disappointment on his face as he looked away from you. Both sitting in silence enjoying each other's presence, “what if there was a way?, a way that will keep you here, with me?”, confused by his sudden words you retort back “what are you talking about Jo?, there’s no way-” you words being cut off as you felt a pair of soft lips pressed against yours. Taken back you didn’t move, trying to process what was happening. Jo rested his hand on your thigh, leaning into you more, kissing you with passion and what seemed to be hunger. You kissed him back, your brain going blank and just following his lead. He pushed you down so you were laying on your back, as he deepened the kiss he pushed your knee signaling to spread your legs more to which you did. His slender hands squeezing your thighs and his lips make their way down your neck making sure to leave little evidence of his touch. A soft moan escaping your lips as you tangled your fingers through his hair, Jo settled himself in between your legs and raised your dress to settle at your hips. His action getting more aggressive and rough, not wasting a single moment he tore your underwear off. The next thing you know you feel the tip of his dick rub slowly from your clit to your aching hole. A groan leaving his lips as you also moan, he brought his lips to yours and kissed you roughly, he eased the tip of his member in slowly, the stretch already making you whine. Sinking down more into you, inch by inch slowly until he finally filled you up. The initial feeling sending shivers of pleasure down his spine, “f-fuck, you feel so good” he said with a shaky breath. It didn’t take him long enough to start thrusting into you at a brutal pace though, his hips rutting against yours as your name fell from his lips like a mantra. You tried to cover your mouth in an attempt of downing out your moans so you won’t get caught, but he stopped you quickly by pinning your hands above your head. “Don’t hide your pretty moans” he groaned as he snapped his hips harshly against your erupting a loud almost screaming moan. “Want everyone to hear who you belong to” his words going straight to your cunt, clenching around his dick hard. This got him more worked up and he flushed chest against yours and started whispering out even more sinful things to you. Such as how he was going to breed you and make sure you will have to marry him since you’ll be the one carrying his heirs. His promises of making you his and filling you up where you have no choice but to end up getting pregnant by him made you not only emotional but it’s what also helped you get pushed over the edge reaching your climax with no warning. Jo, also reaching his end as his cum shot deep inside you, not daring to pull out or stop his thrusts until he knew for sure you would end up pregnant with his children. To say you two went at it till the sunset might be an overstatement, but damn does it sure as hell feel like it. 

[catherinetheprincessofwales]

The Guardian view on the Princess of Wales: she has the right to heal privately- Editorial

A cancer diagnosis is shocking for anyone, but particularly for younger people, in whom cancer is much rarer. In the UK, adults aged 25 to 49 account for 9% of new cases. For people with dependent children, this dreadful news can be even harder to manage; sometimes the person most upset by bad news is not the patient. It was clear from Friday’s video recording of the Princess of Wales that the impact of her illness on her three children – aged 10, eight and five – was foremost among the reasons why the news was kept from the public until then. Her explanation resonated with millions of people, whatever their opinions about the royal family. The sharing of more details about the future queen’s health was inevitable. Her three-month absence, after a 13-day hospital stay and abdominal surgery in January, led to an information vacuum. The coincidence of the king’s cancer diagnosis – and the fact that the pair were in the same private London hospital at the same time – served to magnify interest in the royal family’s health. The issuing of a digitally altered photograph of Catherine with her children to mark Mother’s Day (10 March in the UK this year) was a disastrous misstep. Far from cooling the rumours about her absence, the furore surrounding the image’s withdrawal by picture agencies – on the grounds that it had been manipulated – poured fuel on the fire. However, one former adviser said at the weekend that while the choreography of Friday’s announcement might have changed as a result, the timing did not. The family was determined not to tell the public until the children broke up from school. By appearing on camera, and making the announcement herself, Catherine has done what she can to calm the media frenzy. In a two-minute message, filmed by the BBC, she thanked people for their support and understanding – a message echoed at the weekend by Kensington Palace. But she was also very clear in her appeal for “time, space and privacy” while she undergoes chemotherapy. This is an appeal that must be granted. Even for holders of high-profile public roles, illness is a deeply private matter, unfolding as it does inside the body. Catherine, who is 42, made a point of being positive in her statement, saying she is “well and getting stronger”. But cancer is a serious illness and chemotherapy is a challenging treatment. Curiosity about her condition comes with the territory. She is the wife of the future head of state, not an ordinary citizen. Netflix’s The Crown, Harry and Meghan’s move to the US and Prince Andrew’s disgrace have all fed the global appetite for royal drama – and blurred the line between fact and fiction. In our social media age, anyone with an account has a platform to share their fantasies, however cranky – indeed the algorithms of some platforms seem to positively encourage it. But in recent weeks the rumours swirling around Catherine have become prurient and unpleasant, as gossip has shaded into conspiracy theories. No single politician or media organisation has the power to end such speculation. But journalists and public figures can set an example. Those who treated Catherine’s illness as a voyeuristic guessing game should be ashamed – as some have already admitted. Most of us have no idea what it would be like to have such personal information so widely shared. Despite her global celebrity, Catherine is entitled to privacy regarding her health. Once the apologies are out of the way, some reticence is called for.

[lamarseillasie]

When Marat meets Jeanne D'Arc

This is a little Marat anecdote that I discovered recently, reading some of the issues of L'Ami du Peuple: apparently, Jeanne d'Arc has been venturing into revolutionary France as a true patriot - she even appears in Marat's newspaper!

In February 1791, Marat received letters from a certainly somewhat mysterious person who signed them "Jeanne d'Arc". In the March 4 issue, Marat displayed one of the letters in L'Ami du Peuple, along with some other letters he had also received:

Jeanne d'Arc's letter denounces the Marquis de La Fayette in particular, and also recounts an episode in which his officers apparently violently intimidate some citizens in the Tuileries. In the letter, she refers to La Fayette as 'Mottié', which was also the way Marat used to call him in his newspaper. I'm not sure if it was Marat himself who changed his name to 'Mottié' when transcribing the letter or if it was actually originally written that way. In any case, it's interesting and a little funny to think that Marat might have induced other citizens to "defame" La Fayette by calling him by his family name. Here's a rather poor translation I made of the letter itself:

"The officers of l'état-major entered the Thuileries last Thursday, bayonets out to repel the people. Vinezac pushed the indignity to the point of striking a peaceful citizen with his sword, another citizen who blamed this violence was arrested by the aide-de-camp who usually accompanies the king's wife: but the people soon forced him to release him. A cent-suisse assured me that yesterday they had a man in bourgeois dress at their head to command them; he added that Mottié was a scoundrel who was betraying us; and that l'état-major was made up of nothing but brigands who had sold out to him. Mottié was heard to tell the king "that he had nothing to fear from the populace, that he was going to make them see that this scoundrel was not ready to reason, that the Parisian guard was devoted to him, that he had them marching to the beat, and that he would reply that everything would go as he might wish": a discourse that he had held at Gutgnart dit St.-Priest, when he wanted to withdraw. He knows you, Badauts, this vile scoundrel; he treats you as automatons who do his bidding, as brute beasts who know only the voice of your leaders, as ferocious satellites who would disembowel your mothers, and he does you justice. This is only for the flat soldiers who blindly obey their officers, against their fellow citizens, against their brothers. Among the large number who refuse to treat them badly, and who know their rights, how can there not be someone with a heart, who will put the bayonet in the belly of a Vinezac, a la Jarre, a d'Arbelay, and other brigands on l'état-major? Ah! If only one of them had the courage to put a bullet through the head of the counter-revolutionary Mottié, he would be the liberator of the fatherland, and France would be saved!

Signée Jeanne d'Arc.

Ce 29 février 1791."

Curiously, this is not the only time that Jeanne d'Arc appears in L'Ami du Peuple. In the issue of February 13, 1791, Marat briefly evokes her, praising her and asking her to get in touch.

"Warning.

The excellent patriot who signed her letters Jeanne d'Arc, is asked to give her well hidden address to the doorman of the Hotel de la Faudriere, rue de l'ancienne Comédie. We have something interesting to pass on to her: until now, she has been advised to remain silent, and we wish to obtain information on the important facts she has denounced. We will gratefully receive her new information,

Marat, l'ami du peuple."

It's not known whether Jeanne d'Arc passed her address on to Marat or whether they actually got in touch, as I couldn't find any other record in his newspapers, pamphlets or correspondence that mentioned her. Apparently, her identity was never revealed either and, considering that Marat received numerous letters from various readers of L'Ami Du Peuple, it is practically impossible to deduce who the real person behind these letters was. However, it is clear that she did at least pass on important information to Marat.

Doing a bit more research on the subject, I came across a short thread by historian Paul Chopelin on Twitter, in which he talks about this anecdote. According to him, the year before Jeanne d'Arc appeared in Marat's newspapers, the "Chronique du Manège", a royalist newspaper, mocked the militant activist Théroigne de Méricourt, calling her an "anti-Jeanne d'Arc". In this context, the Jeanne d'Arc who wrote to Marat may have adopted this pseudonym as a way of avenging Madame de Méricourt... Who knows!?

Although there is no concrete proof that can tell us who the mysterious person who signed her letters to Marat as Jeanne d'Arc really was, there is no doubt that this is all very fascinating: It shows us, in the end, that Marat really did have all sorts of people in his secret network of informants and patriotic companions!

[janeway-lover]

A couple days ago, my uncle would've been 40. I didn't really get the chance to know him growing up; he died the day after my eighth birthday.

He used to work in food service, at a variety of restaurants, and he was apparently quite the character. So, here's my Uncle Doug's List of 79 Things I Am No Longer Allowed To Say Or Do At Work.

DISCLAIMER: My uncle was not responsible for every item on this list. This is a mix of things he's done, things he's witnessed, things he was told, and things he was warned about.

The Holy Roman Empire is no more, it dissolved in 1806, and therefore I am not the Holy Roman Emperor.

I am not allowed to restart the Holy Roman Empire so I can be the Holy Roman Emperor.

I am not the "Server King."

To solve and prevent all further issues, I have not, will not nor will ever be royal or nobility, and thus can not refer to myself as such.

I am not the "Server God."

I have not, will not nor ever will be a deity (added to #4).

I am not to refer to any member of management as royalty.

I am not to refer to any member of management as deities, regardless of good or evil.

I am not to refer to senior management as "daddy" and lower level management as "the fun uncle."

Management has names, and I should learn to use them.

I should only use Management's actual names, not the names I have assigned them.

The people at my tables are "guests" not "customers."

Again, the people at my tables are "guests" not "Tweedle-dee" and "Tweedle-dumbass."

#13 still applies to me even if my manager uses those terms to describe my "guests."

Laughter is not the correct response to assignments given to me by Management.

I may not file "Hostile Work Place" if I am considered the most intimidating person in the restaurant.

I am not allowed to measure the speed at which an empty whipped cream canister can move across the floor.

I am not allowed to race empty whipped cream canisters across the floor.

Gambling on #18 is also strictly prohibited.

I am not allowed to antagonize any members of management going through rehab or withdrawals.

I am not allowed to refer to management's meetings as "AA" or "just a bad idea in general."

All staff meetings are all staff meetings, not "an intervention for the GM."

I may not place all crucial items (keys, books, swipe cards, etc) at least 6 high if my manager is only 5'4".

"Really? Seriously?" is not a proper response to management.

I do not have the authority to appoint myself management in the absence of 1 or more managers.

Nor do I have the authority to replace a present manager.

The servers do not have the authority to vote a manager out "Survivor style."

Even if I try and contact the actual host of Survivor.

I am not to use the security cameras and microphones as a personal video diary like "Real World."

Managerial incompetence is not an excuse for my behavior.

Managerial incompetence is not to be mocked or documented (photos, audio recordings, video, etc).

If managerial incompetence is recorded, it may not be used as a desktop, ringtone, or posted on YouTube.

I am not allowed to openly defy rules to prove the inefficiency of the rule.

I am not allowed to strictly follow the rules to prove the inefficiency of the rule.

If I am following the rules, it is to be assumed that I am doing so with sarcastic intent.

To help simplify items 33, 34, and 35, for henceforth I am not allowed to follow rules. (I am serious, I was told I was no longer allowed to follow rules.)

Servers may not say "Thar she blows" when directing management to a table of guests. (Not me.)

I am not authorized to contact Playboy about a "Girls of [COMPANY]" issue.

#38 also applies to Playgirl and Penthouse.

I am not authorized to sell any decorations or non-food items (i.e. chairs, plants) found in the restaurant.

[COMPANY] policy is NOT "Sexual harassment will not be tolerated, but it will be graded" and I should not imply or tell new employees that it is.

I may not explain what classifies as an A+ in #41.

I may not tell a manager that no matter what she will never break a C- either.

There is no policy for Employee Happy Hour and I may not create one.

There is no 2 drink minimum before work.

If a breathalyzer is used at work, it is to ensure employees blow a .00, not to see who can serve the most tanked.

Regardless of #44, #45, and #46, no employee may show up more drunk than management.

I may not up-sell frozen non-alcoholic drinks just to piss off the bartender.

Servers must remember what color straw means alcoholic and which means non-alcoholic. This is especially important in serving children. (Not me.)

"To conquer small European countries" is not an acceptable response to what my goal is for the shift.

"To leave a blood skid that takes over a month to wash on I-45" is also not a proper response. (Not me, said by a coworker who rides a motorcycle to work on an icy day.)

"To shake daddy's little money maker to earn all the tips I can" is also not an appropriate response.

I am no longer allowed to come up with my own shift goals, they will be assigned to me.

I am not allowed to start a sentence with "I believe..."

Or "I think..."

I may not use the phrase "In my humble opinion..." since there is nothing humble about my opinion.

I am not "a nameless cog in [COMPANY]'s imperial system."

The Holy Roman Empire is no more, it dissolved in 1806, and therefore I am not the Holy Roman Emperor.

I am not allowed to restart the Holy Roman Empire so I can be the Holy Roman Emperor.

I am not the "Server King."

To solve and prevent all further issues, I have not, will not nor will ever be royal or nobility, and thus can not refer to myself as such.

I am not the "Server God."

I have not, will not nor ever will be a deity (added to #4).

I am not to refer to any member of management as royalty.

I am not to refer to any member of management as deities, regardless of good or evil.

I am not to refer to senior management as "daddy" and lower level management as "the fun uncle."

Management has names, and I should learn to use them.

I should only use Management's actual names, not the names I have assigned them.

The people at my tables are "guests" not "customers."

Again, the people at my tables are "guests" not "Tweedle-dee" and "Tweedle-dumbass."

#13 still applies to me even if my manager uses those terms to describe my "guests."

Laughter is not the correct response to assignments given to me by Management.

I may not file "Hostile Work Place" if I am considered the most intimidating person in the restaurant.

I am not allowed to measure the speed at which an empty whipped cream canister can move across the floor.

I am not allowed to race empty whipped cream canisters across the floor.

Gambling on #18 is also strictly prohibited.

I am not allowed to antagonize any members of management going through rehab or withdrawals.

I am not allowed to refer to management's meetings as "AA" or "just a bad idea in general."

All staff meetings are all staff meetings, not "an intervention for the GM."

I may not place all crucial items (keys, books, swipe cards, etc) at least 6 high if my manager is only 5'4".

"Really? Seriously?" is not a proper response to management.

I do not have the authority to appoint myself management in the absence of 1 or more managers.

Nor do I have the authority to replace a present manager.

The servers do not have the authority to vote a manager out "Survivor style."

Even if I try and contact the actual host of Survivor.

I am not to use the security cameras and microphones as a personal video diary like "Real World."

Managerial incompetence is not an excuse for my behavior.

Managerial incompetence is not to be mocked or documented (photos, audio recordings, video, etc).

If managerial incompetence is recorded, it may not be used as a desktop, ringtone, or posted on YouTube.

I am not allowed to openly defy rules to prove the inefficiency of the rule.

I am not allowed to strictly follow the rules to prove the inefficiency of the rule.

If I am following the rules, it is to be assumed that I am doing so with sarcastic intent.

To help simplify items 33, 34, and 35, for henceforth I am not allowed to follow rules. (I am serious, I was told I was no longer allowed to follow rules.)

Servers may not say "Thar she blows" when directing management to a table of guests. (Not me.)

I am not authorized to contact Playboy about a "Girls of [COMPANY]" issue.

#38 also applies to Playgirl and Penthouse.

I am not authorized to sell any decorations or non-food items (i.e. chairs, plants) found in the restaurant.

[COMPANY] policy is NOT "Sexual harassment will not be tolerated, but it will be graded" and I should not imply or tell new employees that it is.

I may not explain what classifies as an A+ in #41.

I may not tell a manager that no matter what she will never break a C- either.

There is no policy for Employee Happy Hour and I may not create one.

There is no 2 drink minimum before work.

If a breathalyzer is used at work, it is to ensure employees blow a .00, not to see who can serve the most tanked.

Regardless of #44, #45, and #46, no employee may show up more drunk than management.

I may not up-sell frozen non-alcoholic drinks just to piss off the bartender.

Servers must remember what color straw means alcoholic and which means non-alcoholic. This is especially important in serving children. (Not me.)

"To conquer small European countries" is not an acceptable response to what my goal is for the shift.

"To leave a blood skid that takes over a month to wash on I-45" is also not a proper response. (Not me, said by a coworker who rides a motorcycle to work on an icy day.)

"To shake daddy's little money maker to earn all the tips I can" is also not an appropriate response.

I am no longer allowed to come up with my own shift goals, they will be assigned to me.

I am not allowed to start a sentence with "I believe..."

Or "I think..."

I may not use the phrase "In my humble opinion..." since there is nothing humble about my opinion.

I am not "a nameless cog in [COMPANY]'s imperial system."

Even if #58 is true, I may not refer to myself as such.

Management are not the "bourgeoisie" and the servers are not the exploited "proletariat."

Management is not "The Man" and they are not "keeping us down."

I am not "Spartacus" and I may not lead a group of servers in proclaiming themselves "Spartacus" either.

There will not be an "Apron coup de tat." (#57 through #62 happened in one night. While another server was arguing with management, I would interrupt with the phrases listed.)

I may not question the legality and constitutionality of orders given to me.

Lobsters are food, not toys.

I may not high-five "guests" for making awkward passes at my managers.

In the event of conflict or dispute I am to let the managers handle it.

I am however supposed to intervene BEFORE the manager is punched.

I may not take punishment or criticism as compliments.

And yes, I am supposed to be able to tell which is which.

Servers may not speculate or place bets on which member of management knocked up the hostess.

No employee of [COMPANY] has ever or is currently using drugs and I may not speculate otherwise.

Hell is a biblical place of torment and is not a fitting description of my place of employment.

"I told you I could" and "Beat that" are not motivational phrases and may not be used in management reports.

If I am relieved of my employment I may not leave wearing "only an apron and a smile."

If I do leave the restaurant in "only an apron and a smile" it will count as my resignation.

Espresso shot contest is not an acceptable way to kill time on an overnight shift.

Despite my, and the boxes, objections I AM allowed to set off bug bombs in the restaurant.

"I have a headache, and I hope I survive the night" is not an acceptable entry in manager's log after being told to stay in the building after setting off the bug bombs.

"I am just that damn good" is apparently arrogant and should not be my response to any employee review.

I don't remember a whole lot about my uncle, but the fact that he used to work in the same industry I'm currently working in makes me feel a little closer to him. And also I AM going to save some of these for conversations with my managers.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Future Glory of Israel

1 Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you. 2 For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples; but the Lord will arise upon you, and his glory will be seen upon you. 3 And nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your rising. 4 Lift up your eyes all round, and see; they all gather together, they come to you; your sons shall come from afar, and your daughters shall be carried on the hip. 5 Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and exult, because the abundance of the sea shall be turned to you, the wealth of the nations shall come to you. 6 A multitude of camels shall cover you, the young camels of Midian and Ephah; all those from Sheba shall come. They shall bring gold and frankincense, and shall bring good news, the praises of the Lord. 7 All the flocks of Kedar shall be gathered to you; the rams of Nebaioth shall minister to you; they shall come up with acceptance on my altar, and I will beautify my beautiful house. 8 Who are these that fly like a cloud, and like doves to their windows? 9 For the coastlands shall hope for me, the ships of Tarshish first, to bring your children from afar, their silver and gold with them, for the name of the Lord your God, and for the Holy One of Israel, because he has made you beautiful. 10 Foreigners shall build up your walls, and their kings shall minister to you; for in my wrath I struck you, but in my favour I have had mercy on you. 11 Your gates shall be open continually; day and night they shall not be shut, that people may bring to you the wealth of the nations, with their kings led in procession. 12 For the nation and kingdom that will not serve you shall perish; those nations shall be utterly laid waste. 13 The glory of Lebanon shall come to you, the cypress, the plane, and the pine, to beautify the place of my sanctuary, and I will make the place of my feet glorious. 14 The sons of those who afflicted you shall come bending low to you, and all who despised you shall bow down at your feet; they shall call you the City of the Lord, the Zion of the Holy One of Israel. 15 Whereas you have been forsaken and hated, with no one passing through, I will make you majestic for ever, a joy from age to age. 16 You shall suck the milk of nations; you shall nurse at the breast of kings; and you shall know that I, the Lord, am your Saviour and your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob. 17 Instead of bronze I will bring gold, and instead of iron I will bring silver; instead of wood, bronze, instead of stones, iron. I will make your overseers peace and your taskmasters righteousness. 18 Violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls Salvation, and your gates Praise. 19 The sun shall be no more your light by day, nor for brightness shall the moon give you light; but the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory. 20 Your sun shall no more go down, nor your moon withdraw itself; for the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of mourning shall be ended. 21 Your people shall all be righteous; they shall possess the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands, that I might be glorified. 22 The least one shall become a clan, and the smallest one a mighty nation; I am the Lord; in its time I will hasten it. — Isaiah 60 | English Standard Version Anglicised (ESVUK) The Holy Bible, English Standard Version Anglicised Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. Cross References: Genesis 25:13; Genesis 27:29; Exodus 6:7; 2 Samuel 7:10; 1 Chronicles 28:2; Psalm 48:7; Psalm 102:13; Psalm 147:14; Isaiah 1:7; Isaiah 10:22; Isaiah 11:12; Isaiah 49:21; Matthew 2:11; Matthew 4:16; Matthew 15:13; 2 Corinthians 6:11; Colossians 1:13; Hebrews 12:22; Revelation 21:4; Revelation 21:23,24,25 and 26; Revelation 22:5

[aelyxmagnus]

A list explaining how renly is hadrian reborn:

1. Hadrian and Renly both lost their parents when they were young, Hadrian was around 10 when his dad, Hadrianus Afer died along with his mother, while Renly was around 1 year old when Steffon and Cassana died off the shore of Cape wrath. Hadrian was taken in as a ward (not adopted) by his cousin, the future emperor Trajan, who seems to have not have liked his cousin much, just looked after him and set up his education, similar to how Robert and Stannis just had Cressen and the Storms End staff look after Renly. Hadrian was very interested in Greek Culture and much more Hellenistic, earning him the mocking nickname of the Greekling, similar to how people make fun of Renly for spending more money on his wardrobe than a woman.

2. Neither Hadrian nor Renly were born into the ruling family, We all know what happened with Robert’s rebellion, while in Hadrian’s case, the emperor Nerva was forced to adopt Trajan due to fear or rebelliousness. It is said that it was Hadrian who told Trajan of the news of his adoption (doubtful). After their relatives were placed onto the throne, neither of them got very important jobs (or in Renly’s case, not do much with the power.), with Hadrian having a normal roman public career, which might have got him some power in the old republic, but which was mostly just honorary by this time.

3. Both of their successions/usurpations of the throne were spearheaded by women, in Renly’s case Olenna and Margaery are two of the most important people that allowed him to claim the crown, while In Hadrian’s case, it was claimed by Plotina(Trajan’s wife) that Trajan had adopted Hadrian on his deathbed, which could not be easily verified as Trajan had died returning from a grand Persian campaign, leading many to suspect, me included, that this was a fictitious story.

4. After killing some senators who might have opposed him, Hadrian shocked the Roman world by withdrawing from Trajan’s Persian conquests, realizing (correctly) that the empire had overextended. Similarly, Renly offers Robb further autonomy and even allow him to keep calling him king, which goes against everything that Aegon’s conquest did by having only one king in westeros, similar to how Hadrian’s abandonment went against the roman ethic of imperial expansion.

Now, we come to the part I have been wanting to deal with and which is the reason I started writing this: their love lives, more specifically, I think Renloras is a reversal of the Hadrian Antinous story

Both Renly and Hadrian were gay. Neither of them seems to have shown even the slightest interest in sleeping with their wives. Hadrian was also quite controlling of his wife, famously sending away Suetonius, author of the twelve caesars for being too friendly with his wife, Trajan’s grandniece, who he seems to have almost loathed, but was on very good terms with Plotina, who shared his hellenistic values. We don’t enough about Alerie to know what her relationship with renly was

Somewhere on his many travels, Hadrian met a boy called Antinous, who might have been only around 13-14 when Hadrian first met him, while Hadrian would have been around 47, while Renly and Loras have a much less troubling age gap of five years, cuz even grrm knew that was too much of an age gap I guess. It is said that Hadrian was deeply in love with Antinous, whether Antinous was or was not will probably never be known, similar to how some readers think Loras was just a fling for Renly (I’m unconvinced by that), but Hadrian was fucking obsessed with this dude, similar to how Loras was to Renly. Royston Lambert says of their relationship: “The way that Hadrian took the boy on his travels, kept close to him at moments of spiritual, moral or physical exaltation, and, after his death, surrounded himself with his images, shows an obsessive craving for his presence, a mystical-religious need for his companionship.”

Then their deaths. Similar to how most of westeros is confused about who killed Renly or have the wrong culprit in mind, usually Brienne, we don’t know how Antinous died, except that that it was an ‘accident’ on the Nile, with some reports that Hadrian killed him in a blood magic ritual, which almost certainly didn’t happen seeing how Hadrian reacted to his death, (although if we assume it was true, there is a sort of parallel with Hadrian’s reaction and Stannis’ thoughts about Renly, but that’s off-topic.)

Hadrian deified Antinous after returning to Rome, and built temple after temple for him, with many towns enthusiastically taking up the worship of the new cult to curry imperial favor. Loras might not have gone to such a great extent, but his mass killing spree is exactly what might be expected of a young man in love who finds his lover killed, while Hadrian’s obsessive building is what an old administrator who built so much stuff that historians say we could make a good account of his reign with just them, is also sorta expected.

There’s a further parallel if we’re going by perceptions of hadrian:

“The caprice of Hadrian influenced his choice of a successor. After revolving in his mind several men of distinguished merit, whom he esteemed and hated, he adopted Ælius Verus, a gay and voluptuous nobleman, recommended by uncommon beauty to the lover of Antinous.2” (Edward Gibbon, The decline and fall of the roman empire.)

Gibbon seems to think that Hadrian appointed men to powerful positions just because their beauty attracted him (as a hadrian lover, I thoroughly disagree.) . As the post linked above makes a pretty convincing argument for, the Tyrells are a pretty good stand-in for the beautiful men, in both a figurative and literal sense with Loras.

[brostateexam]

A week ago, Sam Bankman-Fried was the boy-wonder face of crypto: A 30-year-old who founded one of the biggest cryptocurrency exchanges in the world, a celebrated philanthropist worth an estimated $16 billion, and a major Democratic donor who quickly found favor in Washington. By Friday, he was at the center of an epic flameout that left his empire and his image as an uncannily sharp, altruistic billionaire in ruins.

In the annals of crypto disasters, the tale of Bankman-Fried may go down as one of the most jaw-dropping. He resigned from his crypto exchange, FTX, as it collapsed from a domino effect of a surge in customers trying to withdraw their funds, and the company filed for bankruptcy. The Wall Street Journal has reported that Bankman-Fried may have illegally taken about $10 billion in FTX customers’ funds for his trading firm, Alameda Research, whose future is also in peril. And Bankman-Fried is now worth close to nothing.

The downfall of FTX isn’t a typical story of crypto’s volatility or investor risk-taking; it didn’t crumble due to bad luck, but what now appears to be unsustainable layers of deception. On the surface, FTX appeared to be thriving — in the past year, it made several high-profile acquisitions and bailed out other failing crypto companies.In reality, it was drowning in debt. At least $1 billion in customer funds is reportedly missing. The stunning contrast between image and reality has resulted in Bankman-Fried facing a reputational fall from grace swifter than any in recent memory. According to reporting from several news outlets, the DOJ and SEC are investigating FTX, andhis friends and admirers in crypto, philanthropic, and political circles have quickly begun distancing themselves from the man widely dubbed the king of crypto.

Shot

___

Last night, Sam Bankman-Fried DMed me on Twitter.

That was surprising. I’d spoken to Bankman-Fried via Zoom earlier in the summer when I was working on a profile of him, so I reached out to him via DM on November 13, after news broke that his cryptocurrency exchange had collapsed, with billions in customer deposits apparently gone. I didn’t expect him to respond — typically, people under investigation by both the Securities and Exchange Commission and the Department of Justice don’t return requests for comment.

Bankman-Fried, though, apparently wanted to talk. About how FTX and his hedge fund Alameda Research had gambled with customer money without, he claims, realizing that’s what they were doing. About who gets lauded as a hero and who’s the fall guy. About regulators. (“Fuck regulators.”) About what he regrets (“Chapter 11,” the decision to declare bankruptcy) and about what he would have done differently with FTX and Alameda (“more careful accounting + offboard Alameda from FTX once FTX could live on its own”).

It was past midnight Bahamas time, where Bankman-Fried is reportedly still located, and we went back and forth on Twitter for more than an hour. He was, he said, still working to try to raise the funding needed to pay back all his depositors.

As we messaged, I was trying to make sense of what, behind the PR and the charitable donations and the lobbying, Bankman-Fried actually believes about what’s right and what’s wrong — and especially the ethics of what he did and the industry he worked in. Looming over our whole conversation was the fact that people who trusted him have lost their savings, and that he’s done incalculable damage to everything he proclaimed only a few weeks ago to care about. The grief and pain he has caused is immense, and I came away from our conversation appalled by much of what he said. But if these mistakes haunted him, he largely didn’t show it.

(Disclosure: This August, Bankman-Fried’s philanthropic family foundation, Building a Stronger Future, awarded Vox’s Future Perfect a grant for a 2023 reporting project. That project is now on pause.)

Chaser

[jtl-fics]

10/30/24 WIP Wednesday Round-Up

Hey everyone, here is everything that requested last week!

Math Nerd - 10 Requests

Banquet: ( 22 - 23 - 24 - 25 - 26 - 27 - 28 - 29 - 30 - 31 )

New Kings - 10 Requests

Ferdinand: ( 42 - 43 - 44 - 45 - 46 ) Withdrawal: ( 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 )

Foxhole Bake - 5 requests

Week 2 Signature Bake: ( 44 - 45 - 46 - 47 ) Week 2 Technical Challenge: ( 1 )

Smalls - 10 Requests

Trial: ( 70 - 71 - 72 - 73 - 74 ) Neil Josten: ( 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 )

TBD - 15 Requests

Chapter 3: ( 29 - 30 - 31 - 32 - 33 - 34 - 35 - 36 - 37 - 38 - 39 - 40 - 41 - 42 - 43 )

Four Horsemen - 5 Requests

Pestilence: ( 23 - 24 - 25 - 26 - 27 )

Total: 55 Requests

[gisellelx]

Twilight Advent 22, Day 13

Masterpost/prompts

Dec. 13- What college major did each one of Bella's human friends choose?

Okay so. So time for some realism. One of the things I hate most about the movies, and then how fandom has taken and run with what was in the movies, is the idea that somehow Forks is like a suburb of Seattle--the school is super multi-cultural and chic; everybody has college dreams, prom is at a gorgeous golf course, everybody has a car, etc.

Forks is nothing like that. I had the privilege, if you can call it that, of traveling there before Twilight took off (who woulda thunk, given how enduring the series wound up being in my life!). There's really fantastic, worth-driving-six-hours-from-Oregon hiking and mountaineering to be done there. But as a tourist, you use Forks as a basecamp and you don't stay long.

Without Twilight, there is nothing in Forks, y'all. There is a diner, and a TruValue, and a bank, and like, a laundromat? The hotel we stayed in was an apartment complex that couldn't make it because there were too few people living there and they finally turned it into a motel because that at least kept people from squatting in the vacant units. It is an economically depressed town and the kids who grow up there don't have many prospects unless they work hard at making them.

So. There basically are no college majors. Few of the kids from Forks go to college. Of those who do, even fewer stay there. Most of them can't hack it. This is actually one thing the books ironically got right (though it was no doubt due to SM not knowing the standard US high school curriculum; she did not do this on purpose). They were teaching Bio I to 11th graders and Romeo and Juliet to seniors, where both would be part of the 9th grade curriculum at a high school with a high rate of college matriculation. So that means there were two levels of science below introductory bio, and three levels of English below what is typically taught as English 9, and so the first two years at that high school are basically a middle school curriculum. Ergo, you have a whole lot of kids who are not going to college.

I think Tyler, Lauren, Mike, Eric and Jessica did not go. Jessica probably attempted to go to Peninsula Community College in pre-nursing but the science was too hard and there was no English there. Eric also went briefly--as the class valedictorian, he got into U-dub and went down to Seattle for most of a year. But it was too far and too hard and after having felt like the king of the hill at his high school, he got depressed and zoned out on the hot new game, Call of Duty, eventually developing a pattern of absences, failing or withdrawing from most of his classes, and having his registration privileges revoked. So he moved back home. They stay in Forks or Port Angeles and have perfectly respectable, pay-the-bills jobs as adults—Mike probably joins the police force, Eric and Tyler take up the trades, Lauren eventually works her way up in one of the in-home daycares in town; Jessica trains as a CNA and works at Forks Community Hospital.

Angela and Ben go on. Angela gets in to Evergreen State (Go Geoducks!) and goes there because it's not too far and Ben goes to Peninsula and completes the Bachelor's in Business Management there. Angela gets a degree in early childhood ed, and moves to Seattle to take a job at a montessori school. She eventually gets her master's and becomes an elementary principal many years later. She and Ben don't stay together, but they remain good friends and he eventually also gets hired as an account manager at Microsoft and every now and then, they get a drink together.

[shienslots10]

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[brookstonalmanac]

Events 8.18 (after 1940)

1940 – World War II: The Hardest Day air battle, part of the Battle of Britain, takes place. At that point, it is the largest aerial engagement in history with heavy losses sustained on both sides. 1945 – Sukarno takes office as the first president of Indonesia, following the country's declaration of independence the previous day. 1945 – Soviet-Japanese War: Battle of Shumshu: Soviet forces land at Takeda Beach on Shumshu Island and launch the Battle of Shumshu; the Soviet Union’s Invasion of the Kuril Islands commences. 1949 – Kemi Bloody Thursday: Two protesters die in the scuffle between the police and the strikers' protest procession in Kemi, Finland. 1950 – Julien Lahaut, the chairman of the Communist Party of Belgium, is assassinated. The Party newspaper blames royalists and Rexists. 1958 – Vladimir Nabokov's controversial novel Lolita is published in the United States. 1958 – Brojen Das from Bangladesh swims across the English Channel in a competition as the first Bengali and the first Asian to do so, placing first among the 39 competitors. 1963 – Civil rights movement: James Meredith becomes the first African American to graduate from the University of Mississippi. 1965 – Vietnam War: Operation Starlite begins: United States Marines destroy a Viet Cong stronghold on the Van Tuong peninsula in the first major American ground battle of the war. 1966 – Vietnam War: The Battle of Long Tan ensues after a patrol from the 6th Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment clashes with a Viet Cong force in Phước Tuy Province. 1971 – Vietnam War: Australia and New Zealand decide to withdraw their troops from Vietnam. 1973 – Aeroflot Flight A-13 crashes after takeoff from Baku-Bina International Airport in Azerbaijan, killing 56 people and injuring eight. 1976 – The Korean axe murder incident in Panmunjom results in the deaths of two US Army officers. 1976 – The Soviet Union’s robotic probe Luna 24 successfully lands on the Moon. 1977 – Steve Biko is arrested at a police roadblock under Terrorism Act No. 83 of 1967 in King William's Town, South Africa. He later dies from injuries sustained during this arrest, bringing attention to South Africa's apartheid policies. 1983 – Hurricane Alicia hits the Texas coast, killing 21 people and causing over US$1 billion in damage (1983 dollars). 1989 – Leading presidential hopeful Luis Carlos Galán is assassinated near Bogotá in Colombia. 1993 – American International Airways Flight 808 crashes at Leeward Point Field at Guantanamo Bay Naval Base in Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, injuring the three crew members. 2003 – One-year-old Zachary Turner is murdered in Newfoundland by his mother, who was awarded custody despite facing trial for the murder of Zachary's father. The case was documented in the film Dear Zachary and led to reform of Canada's bail laws. 2005 – A massive power blackout hits the Indonesian island of Java; affecting almost 100 million people, it is one of the largest and most widespread power outages in history. 2008 – The President of Pakistan, Pervez Musharraf, resigns under threat of impeachment. 2008 – War of Afghanistan: The Uzbin Valley ambush occurs. 2011 – A terrorist attack on Israel's Highway 12 near the Egyptian border kills 16 and injures 40. 2017 – The first terrorist attack ever sentenced as a crime in Finland kills two and injures eight. 2019 – One hundred activists, officials, and other concerned citizens in Iceland hold a funeral for Okjökull glacier, which has completely melted after having once covered six square miles (15.5 km2).

[sa7abnews]

Russian UFC champ confirms Khabib rumors

New Post has been published on https://sa7ab.info/2024/08/13/russian-ufc-champ-confirms-khabib-rumors/

Russian UFC champ confirms Khabib rumors

Islam Makhachev takes on the biggest challenge of his career next month

If Islam Makhachev is to become the first fighter in a decade to defeat UFC featherweight champion Alexander Volkanovski, he must do so without the influence of close friend and training partner Khabib Nurmagomedov in his corner. Makhachev takes on the first defense of the UFC lightweight title he won last October when he welcomes reigning featherweight king Volkanovski to 155lbs at next month’s UFC 284 in front of what is expected to be a fiercely partisan Perth crowd cheering on the Australian champion. The scale of the task awaiting Makhachev is already apparent but it has been made that much more difficult by the impending absence of former champion Nurmagomedov, who recently announced that he has decided to step away from mixed martial arts entirely to spend more time with his family. But, according to Makhachev, this won’t change the outcome of the fight. “When the cage door close, no one is there for you,” Makhachev said this week at a media event in Australia promoting the fight alongside Volkanovski. “Of course, it’s going to be different but I’ve already fought without [Khabib there] a couple of times. And he cannot always be with me. Of course, it’s very good when he is here. “I always like when he is with me because he knows all the games being played. He knows what you need for the fight, for the weight cut, you don’t have to worry about any of this.  “It’s always good when you have someone as experienced as him. You don’t have to spend your energy thinking about other things. But I understand that he has to spend more time with his family. Because with all the fighting, the training, his family miss him too. Even though he is retired he’s still traveling a lot. “That’s why I understand.”

Despite Khabib’s insistence that he was withdrawing from the sport, many had expected him to do so only after February’s fight. Nurmagomedov, who previously held the UFC lightweight title which now rests on Makhachev’s shoulder, seemed to be key in helping to arrange the fight – even calling for Volkanovski to be the first title defense just moments after Makhachev won the vacant championship by submitting Charles Oliveira. Khabib had a tremendously successful coaching run in 2022, overseeing the rise to world titles of both Makhachev and his cousin Usman Nurmagomedov, who won the Bellator lightweight championship in November. But the man whose goal it is to seize the title belt next month in Perth says that he is only concerning himself with the fighter who will be standing opposite him when the cage door shuts on February 11. “They better not use it as an excuse once this is all done,” Volkanovski said. “At the end of the day, Makhachev will prepare and we’re going to fight. He doesn’t need someone to hold his hand. Doesn’t need someone to be in there with him. That’s not a real fighter. “So when my hand gets raised, that better not come up.”