#Robert Sully

[thenovamuse]

[that1nerd-20]

Being in love with a fictional character includes:

buying love letters off Etsy for yourself

buying stuffed animals based off the character

having a large Pinterest board full of pictures of them

crying late at night because they are not real

creating scenarios in your head about you and them

reading every possible fanfiction you can

buying clothes with their name on it to fuel your delusions

buying candles with their scent

writing their last name and your first name on margins of papers to test it out

doodling pictures of them

thinking about them 24/7

legitimatly thinking about getting a cardboard cut out (if theres even one available)

marking their height somewhere so you can compare yours all the time

totally not me rn

[iamyouknow-yours]

Hello fellow station 19 fans (do we have a name?)

My best friend has started watching the show and she was wondering what episodes portray racism/racist violence? She watches tv to escape and does not want to fully watch any of these episodes. She does not need awareness of these issues she is well aware.

I have brain fog and adhd and a terrible memory and I don't know how to remember exactly what happens when.

I don't need specific episodes just events and a season if you have it. Thus I can find the episode numbers myself.

So far I've thought of:

Dean and Sullivan getting arrested and that entire plotline/episode.

The episode where they discuss racist violence in relation to George Floyd.

Andy's assault and the aftermath was racist as well as misogynistic.

The boy in season 5/6 who was getting ingredients for a pound cake.

[camyfilms]

PRINCESS PROTECTION PROGRAM 2009

Since I've been here, I've learned many wonderful things. Most importantly, I've learned about friendship and loyalty and trust. And that those are not things that are just given, but things we must earn. So I want to thank Carter Mason for teaching me these things. And for being my friend.

[obaewankenope]

The thing I learned when analysing poetry in high school English Literature class was that it depended entirely on your own experiences and perspective. Of course there was the Syllabus Approved Answers to things but, largely, if you can look at the material and use it to justify or support your perspective, you're gonna get a good mark on your exam. At least, that's what I got and I largely didn't bother with the "conventional" arguments and explanations.

When reading poetry, it's important to recall that you may not be the audience that poem is meant for but you're still an audience. That means that your interpretation is still valid and if you can look at that poem and go "okay that third line in the second stanza makes me think of this thing (x) and not that thing (y) my teacher says it should, how can I argue my perspective instead?" and usually, the answer is simple:

Metaphor.

Symbolism.

Personal. Feelings.

Literature analysis is subjective and dependent on what you have been through, read, experienced, and how you think. There can be a "right" analysis that comes from the author themselves, and every other analysis is simply "different" or "an alternative perspective/analysis".

For example, The Last Duchess by Robert Browning is a poem that forever sticks in my brain from high school. By and large, it's basically just a poem about a noble going on about his late wife who he felt was just too... Unsuited to being a good representative of his family and his status (as a Duke). There's implications that she was easily impressed, unreliable, possibly unfaithful, and that the Duke was/is a possessive, jealous, objectifying individual.

A feminist reading of the poem would centre on how the poem is an example of how women were perceived at the time the poem was based. Late 1700s if my memory serves (it may not). With how a woman is meant to act as an accessory to her husband, especially with nobility. There is a crassness to the poem when the Duke talks about his late wife and her "flighty" nature:

She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one!

It sounds flowery and like nice prose but a feminist reading can easily go "he thought she was sleeping around/unfaithful and thus this is a shameful thing that he brings up with a stranger who saw the painting (after the Duke purposefully points it out) and shows the Duke has no respect or regard for his late wife or women in general for how casually he remarks on something that, in terms of polite society, would be impolite and even crude to discuss with a stranger".

That reading, btw, is one I generally agree with.

A more neutral reading of the same lines could argue that the Duke saw his late wife as vapid, or easily impressed by compliments but that she lacked any suitable political skills or sense for the position of Duchess. Again, the exact same lines could suggest this, especially: "Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er / She looked on, and her looks went everywhere." Essentially, this differing reading could argue that the Duke cared for how inept his late wife appeared to others, how easily led she was, and the negative impact that had on him and his position. Again, it relates back to his worth and his value, and using the Duchess as a tool to measure the Duke's worth and status.

And for both of these readings of the poem, the following lines can be used as supporting evidence:

She thanked men—good! but thanked

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift.

Reading #1: suggests she "thanked" men in particular by having extra marital affairs and considered these more important than the status and prestige an inherited, landed name affords her husband (but not necessarily herself, as, like the name, the Duchess only has value to the men in her life, especially her husband who benefits from both his landed title, name, and having her as his 'arm candy' to show off).

Reading #2: the Duchess was free with her kindness and friendliness, even to those below her "station" and the Duke thought this insulting to his family name and his position as a Duke. This pulls in classicism and traditionalist ideology of the belief that the common people were unworthy of respect or value unless they attained wealth, education, and better breeding which the nobility and upperclasses valued.

Both readings are valid and both readings would get you good points in an exam. I can't quite recall which reading I did but I'm pretty sure I spent most of my exam time ripping into the Duke and chatting shit about historical classicism and the societal devaluing of women as possessing their own agency and value.

Either way, I got high marks because my reading differed from what my teacher had been angling my class towards and I used the poem and additional knowledge to back up my perspective.

So yeah.

Any analysis of a poem, a piece of literature, any sort of media that is consumed or created, can be argued for if you're able to use the material and additional knowledge to back it up.

Hello, sir! I'm annotating and interpreting one of your poems, "Conjunctions", for an assignment. Do you have any advice on how to go about dissecting this work, or poems in general? Thanks much. :)

Read it silently to yourself. What's it about?

Then read it aloud. What do the sounds do? What kind of verse is it? Are there things the words do when spoken aloud that you weren't expecting?

What's the overall effect of the poem? How do the things in the poem add up to create that effect? Where were you at the start of the poem? Where did it leave you?

What do you think it was about?

[raynbowclown]

The Boogie Man Will Get You

In The Boogie Man Will Get You, mad scientist Boris Karloff sells his colonial house to Winnie, frustrating banker Peter Lorre. But he’s been experimenting on traveling salesmen — whose corpses are in the basement! Then Winnie’s ex-husband shows up … Continue reading The Boogie Man Will Get You

[rosyjn]

happy Father’s Day to all the beautiful dilfs 💐

[roseshavethoughts]

Mechanical Cinematics: My Top 5 Films Involving Planes

Mechanical Cinematics: My Top 5 Films Involving Planes. #Film #Cinema

Films about flight have been a popular genre in the film industry for decades, with many iconic movies featuring aeroplanes and the aviation industry. These films often showcase the thrill of flying, the danger that comes with it, and the human stories that unfold both on and off the plane. Below are 5 movies that I find especially enjoyable. Photo by Eric Masur on Unsplash Top…

[novaursa]

Legacy (of dragons and gods)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Canon events have been altered to compliment the plot for this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: the march

- Next part: dragonfire

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

The Lannister procession had stopped for the night along the banks of a winding river, its waters sluggish under the pale light of the waning sun. The camp spread out like a sea of crimson and gold, with soldiers pitching tents and stoking fires, the metallic clink of armor and the murmur of voices filling the evening air. At the center of it all, beneath the largest tent adorned with a golden lion on a blood-red field, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a table, his mood as cold and unyielding as the steel dagger he turned between his fingers.

The air within the tent was stifling, thick with the heat of the gathered torches and the heavy silence that followed the latest report. Kevan Lannister sat to Tywin’s right, his face pale and set in a stern frown. Jaime stood near the tent flap, his armor dull beneath the flickering light, his expression impassive. Between them, the messenger—a frail man in dusty robes—shifted uneasily on his feet, his gaze flicking nervously between the powerful men before him.

Tywin’s voice, when it came, was low and dangerous, like the first rumble of thunder before a storm. “Repeat what you just said.”

The messenger swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming at his brow. “M-my lord, the High Sparrow… the Faith has taken hold of the city. King’s Landing is no longer under full control of the crown. The Sept has been fortified, and the Faith Militant patrols the streets.”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the dagger. “And my daughter?”

The man visibly flinched at the icy edge in Tywin’s voice. “Queen Mother Cersei… she was arrested, my lord. The High Sparrow accused her of sin and impropriety, and…” He faltered, choosing his next words carefully. “She has been made to atone. Her… walk has already taken place.”

There was a beat of silence so heavy it felt as though the air itself froze. Kevan let out a soft breath, his face etched with disbelief and anger, while Jaime remained silent, his jaw tense as he looked away, refusing to meet his father’s gaze.

Tywin’s expression, however, was unreadable, his green eyes fixed unblinkingly on the trembling messenger. “You will tell me every detail,” he said coldly.

The messenger hesitated, but there was no escaping Tywin’s command. “The queen was stripped of her clothing and marched from the Great Sept to the Red Keep, barefoot and unarmed. The people were… merciless, my lord. They hurled insults, food, stones. The walk lasted hours.”

Tywin’s grip on the dagger finally stilled, his eyes narrowing. “And you allowed this to happen?” His voice barely rose, but the fury in it was enough to make Kevan stiffen.

“The Faith controls the city, my lord,” the messenger stammered. “The crown has lost its power.”

Tywin’s silence was thunderous. He turned his gaze to Kevan, whose face was carved in stone. “This is the result of my daughter’s arrogance. Her foolish decisions have not only humiliated herself but sullied the name of House Lannister. She has given our enemies something they will not soon forget.”

Kevan nodded curtly. “The Faith must be dealt with. This cannot stand.”

“And it will not,” Tywin replied, his voice as sharp as a blade. His gaze snapped to Jaime, who still stood motionless by the tent flap. “You have nothing to say, Jaime?”

Jaime finally turned to look at his father, his face unreadable. “What would you have me say? That it should never have come to this? That I warned her?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly in disgust. “Your warnings fell on deaf ears because you failed to command her respect.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Before another word could be exchanged, a deep, thunderous roar echoed across the camp, cutting through the murmurs of men and the crackling of fires. The ground beneath them trembled faintly, and every man within the tent turned sharply toward the sound. Outside, voices rose in alarm, and the shadow of something vast passed briefly over the canvas walls of the tent.

Kevan shot Tywin a concerned look. “The dragon.”

Tywin straightened, setting the dagger on the table with deliberate care. “Dismiss the men,” he commanded curtly.

Kevan opened his mouth to object but thought better of it, rising swiftly to usher the remaining guards and the messenger out of the tent. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing toward his father, but Tywin waved him off with a sharp flick of his hand. “Go.”

Once the tent had emptied and silence returned, Tywin rose from his seat and strode to the entrance of the tent. He stepped outside into the fading light, the faint chill of evening brushing against his face as he looked up toward the source of the disturbance.

Viserion descended from the darkening sky, her great wings beating the air with an almost deafening rhythm. The fires of the camp guttered and danced wildly in her wake as she landed with a massive thud just beyond the edge of the tents. Her cream and gold scales gleamed in the twilight, and her neck curved as her golden eyes fixed on the men who scattered in fear at her arrival. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils, and her chest rumbled with a sound so deep it made the earth itself shiver.

And then you appeared, sliding smoothly from the dragon’s back, your dark riding cloak billowing around you as you landed with practiced ease. You placed a steadying hand on Viserion’s snout, murmuring something softly to her before turning to face Tywin.

Tywin stood his ground, unflinching even as Viserion’s great eyes fixed on him. The anxiety in the camp was felt, men watching from the shadows as the Lord of Casterly Rock and the dragon stared one another down. For a moment, it seemed as though Viserion might let out another roar, but at your touch, she stilled, the smoke in her breath dissipating as she settled.

“Tywin,” you greeted coolly, pulling back your hood to reveal the silver cascade of your hair. The wind carried faint embers and the scent of smoke, as though the dragon’s fire lingered on your skin.

Tywin’s gaze did not waver as he took in the sight of you and the creature at your side. “Your arrival was… dramatic.”

“Viserion does not know subtlety,” you replied smoothly, stroking the dragon’s warm scales. “Neither do the Lannisters, from what I’ve learned.”

Tywin’s lip twitched faintly, though it was impossible to tell if it was amusement or irritation. He stepped forward, stopping just a few paces away from you, though his gaze remained locked on Viserion. “Is she so wild that you cannot control her?”

“She is not wild,” you countered sharply. “She is mine. She answers to me.”

“And yet her presence unnerves my men,” Tywin said, his voice cold. “You do not need to remind them of their place.”

“Then perhaps they should find their courage,” you replied pointedly. “The dragon will be with us in King’s Landing. They had best learn to accept it.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered briefly to you, something sharp and considering in his expression. “We’ll see about that.”

You stepped closer, your violet eyes steady as you looked up at him. “What is it you summoned me for, Tywin?”

He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing his words. “The city is no longer what it was,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “The Faith has seized power, and my daughter—has humiliated this house through her recklessness.”

You frowned slightly, sensing the anger simmering beneath his carefully measured tone. “What has happened to her?”

Tywin’s expression darkened. “She was paraded through the streets, stripped and shamed for all to see. It was a spectacle. A disgrace.”

You exhaled softly, a flicker of pity passing through you despite everything. “And you blame her for this.”

“I blame her for giving our enemies the means to harm us,” Tywin snapped. “Power demands discipline. She has forgotten that.”

You tilted your head slightly, your tone measured. “And what of the Faith, then? What do you plan to do about them?”

Tywin’s gaze was hard, unrelenting. “I will deal with the Faith as I have dealt with every other threat to my house.”

“And me?” you asked softly, your voice almost a challenge. “What do you plan for me and Viserion in the capital?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “You will stand where I tell you to stand, Y/N. And your dragon will serve as a reminder to those who would oppose us.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “I hope you know what you’re inviting into that city, Tywin. Fire does not play by the rules of men.”

Tywin stared at you for a long moment before his voice dropped to a soft, dangerous murmur. “Then we will ensure the fire serves our cause.”

Viserion shifted behind you, her chest rumbling faintly as if echoing your thoughts. You turned back to the dragon, running a hand along her warm scales. “Be careful, Tywin,” you said quietly. “Fire is not so easily tamed.”

Tywin watched you for another moment, then turned sharply away.

The soft light of candles flickered inside the tent as Tywin Lannister ducked through the heavy flap, the air still tinged with the chill of the evening. Outside, the camp buzzed faintly with the sounds of men settling in for the night—boots on dirt, the crackle of fires, distant voices murmuring—but inside, there was nothing but quiet. A welcome reprieve.

The tent was a well-ordered sanctuary. Rich crimson fabrics lined the walls, the Lannister sigil subtly embroidered into their folds. The centerpiece was a sturdy bed with a carved wooden frame, draped in thick furs and silken sheets. Across the room, Damon slept soundly in his crib, his soft breathing barely audible beneath the gentle hum of the wind outside. The sight of his son—safe, warm, untroubled—brought the faintest softening to Tywin’s otherwise stern features.

You sat by the small table, clad in a loose gown of black and silver that cascaded around you like a midnight cloud. Your hair tumbled over your shoulders, illuminated faintly by the golden glow of the lantern. At the sound of his arrival, you glanced up, your violet eyes catching the light and shining with that unspoken challenge you always seemed to carry.

“Your men are watching Viserion like she might swoop down and devour them whole,” you remarked quietly, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you sat back in your chair. “Is she making them nervous, or are you?”

Tywin snorted softly, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face as he began to remove his crimson cloak, hanging it on a nearby hook. “The dragon unnerves them, as does her rider. It is a good lesson in fear.”

“And what of you, Lord Tywin?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do I unnerve you?”

He shot you a look that could have flayed lesser men, but there was no true sharpness in it. “Not nearly as much as you would like to believe.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you stood, walking toward him with deliberate grace. “It’s been a long day. You must be exhausted.”

“Exhaustion is a luxury,” Tywin replied simply, though there was no denying the faint relief in the way he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. His gaze flicked briefly to Damon, still asleep in the crib. “He is well?”

“Fast asleep,” you replied, glancing toward your son with a softness that did not often appear in your voice. “It seems he takes after you. He barely stirs, even with the roar of a dragon.”

Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, as if considering a retort, but he let it pass. Instead, he stepped toward the table and poured himself a goblet of wine, the liquid dark as blood beneath the candlelight. “Tomorrow will be a day history records,” he said finally, the weight of his words deliberate. “Our arrival in King’s Landing, with a dragon at our side—it will not be forgotten.”

You folded your arms across your chest, the playful edge fading from your expression. “That depends, doesn’t it?”

Tywin turned toward you, brow arching faintly. “On what?”

“On how it goes,” you replied smoothly, stepping closer until only a breath of space separated you. “If the city welcomes us with open arms, it will be a moment of strength. If they resist, if they see us as a threat…” Your voice trailed off, your gaze steady. “The histories could tell a very different story.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. “Then I will ensure they see it the way I intend them to.”

You reached out, your hand brushing lightly against the front of his tunic. “You always did believe you could shape the world to your will.”

Tywin’s green eyes locked onto yours, the flicker of heat behind them unmistakable. “Because I can.”

“And what will you do with me?” you murmured, your voice softening into something huskier. “Am I to be part of this vision of yours? A Targaryen astride her dragon, or something far less… mythic?”

He set his goblet down with deliberate care, his hands coming to rest on your waist, pulling you just slightly closer. “You are my wife,” he said, his voice low but firm, as though that truth alone carried all the weight in the world. “And you are more than myth. You are fire made flesh.”

The words sent a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your belly as you looked up into his face. Tywin Lannister, cold and unyielding to the world, was a man of stone to everyone but you. With you, there was something deeper—something raw, something burning just beneath the surface. And in moments like this, when the world outside fell away, you saw it in him.

“Then claim me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His gaze darkened with desire, and in an instant, his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips descended on yours, firm and demanding, sending sparks across your skin as you melted into the kiss. Tywin was not a man prone to tenderness; he kissed with purpose, with possession, and yet there was something almost reverent in the way his hand came up to cradle your jaw.

You responded in kind, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed closer, your body molding to his. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss, feeling his breath catch ever so slightly. When you pulled back, lips swollen and breath shallow, you looked up at him with a wicked smile.

“Undress me,” you whispered, your voice a challenge and a plea all at once.

Tywin’s gaze roamed over you, his eyes dark with hunger as his hands moved to the laces of your gown. He was deliberate, each tug of fabric exposing more of your skin, his fingers lingering where they brushed against you. He lowered the gown slowly, letting it pool at your feet until you stood before him, bare but for the faint glow of firelight against your skin.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, his voice rough with restrained need.

You stepped forward, your fingers moving to the buckles of his leather doublet, loosening each one until you could push the heavy garment from his shoulders. You tugged at his tunic next, your touch lingering against the hard planes of his chest and the scarred strength of his body. When he stood before you, equally bare, the fire between you seemed to burn hotter.

Tywin’s hands slid to your hips, his grip firm as he guided you toward the bed. You stepped back with him, the furs cool against your calves as he eased you onto the mattress. He followed, his body pressing over yours, the weight of him grounding you as he braced himself above you.

You reached for him, your legs parting as you drew him closer, the anticipation thick between you. “Tywin,” you whispered, your voice soft and wanting.

His gaze met yours, his green eyes locking with your violet ones as he lowered himself. You felt him press against you, the sensation sending a thrill through you as your body arched instinctively beneath him. He entered you slowly, his movements controlled, deliberate, as though savoring every inch of you. Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as he filled you completely.

For a moment, he stilled, his face hovering just above yours as you both adjusted to the intimacy of the moment. You reached up, cupping his jaw as you whispered, “Don’t stop.”

Tywin’s control began to fray as he started to move, his thrusts steady and powerful, each one drawing a gasp or a moan from you. You met him with equal fervor, your hips rising to meet his rhythm, your nails dragging lightly down his back as the pleasure built between you. His mouth found the hollow of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there before trailing up to claim your lips again.

“Mine,” he murmured against your mouth, the word rough and possessive.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking as you clung to him, the world outside fading to nothing but the two of you.

The pace quickened, the tension coiling tighter with each movement, the fire between you consuming everything. You cried out softly as the pleasure crested, your body trembling beneath his as he followed moments later, his breath ragged as he buried himself fully within you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still entwined as you caught your breath. Tywin finally shifted, rolling onto his side but keeping you close, his arm draped possessively over your waist. The quiet of the tent wrapped around you like a blanket, the faint sounds of the camp distant and unimportant.

You turned your head to look at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as you whispered, “Do you still think you can control fire?”

Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, though he did not open his eyes. “I control what matters.”

You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple as you whispered, “We shall see, my lord. We shall see.”

And with that, you closed your eyes, the weight of the day finally giving way to the warmth of sleep, Tywin’s steady breathing a comforting presence beside you. Outside, the fires burned low, and the dragon watched, her golden eyes glowing in the dark.

The air in Cersei’s chambers felt stifling, heavy with the scent of lavender oil that did nothing to soothe the throbbing ache in her body or the sharp sting of her pride. She sat on the edge of a cushioned divan, draped in a simple gown of muted black. A far cry from the golden silks and rich velvets she had once worn as queen. Her golden hair—shorn during her walk of atonement—barely grazed her shoulders, and her face, though still beautiful, was pale and hollowed with weariness.

Tommen sat nervously beside her, perched like a boy who no longer knew how to comfort his mother. His hands fidgeted in his lap as he glanced toward Qyburn, who stood silently near the hearth. The man had been her most trusted ally since her fall, but even he could not erase what had been done to her.

“Mother,” Tommen spoke softly, his voice tentative. “You shouldn’t stay cooped up in here. The maesters say you should—”

“I know what they say, Tommen,” Cersei cut him off sharply, her tone brittle. Her green eyes turned to him, and her expression softened—just barely. She reached for his hand, her grip weak but insistent. “I am not hiding. I will not cower before them again.”

Tommen nodded faintly, though his youthful face betrayed his unease. “We still have Margaery,” he offered quietly. “She’s in the Sept. You told me the Tyrells were weak. If Tywin—” He faltered, unsure if the word still applied. “If Grandsire returns, he’ll make things right, won’t he?”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. “Your grandsire will see what I’ve done and scorn me for it. He’ll act as though it’s his house they mocked, not mine.” Her voice turned cold, a faint tremor of fury beneath it. “He’ll set the world right as he always does—through fear, not shame.”

Qyburn cleared his throat softly, stepping forward. “My queen, if I may. Tywin Lannister’s return could provide you with a path to redemption. There is still strength in your name.”

Before Cersei could answer, a loud blare of horns echoed from outside the Red Keep. The sound was sharp and jarring, splitting the quiet of the morning like a blade. Tommen jumped slightly, his head snapping toward the window, where the banners of the capital fluttered lazily in the breeze.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice high with worry.

Cersei straightened, her back stiff despite the lingering pain. “Horns,” she murmured, a shadow crossing her face. “A summons.”

The door burst open before another word could be spoken, and Varys stepped inside with his usual calm grace, though his expression was far from serene. His eyes darted briefly to Tommen before settling on Cersei. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice low and urgent. “Lord Tywin has returned.”

Cersei’s face remained still, though her nails dug faintly into the cushion beneath her hand. “So soon,” she said coldly. “And what has brought such a spectacle with him that the horns must scream about it?”

Varys inclined his head, his tone careful. “Your father does not travel lightly, as you know. His banners march through the gates as we speak. But…” He hesitated.

Cersei’s gaze snapped to him. “But what?”

Before Varys could reply, a sound pierced the air—high, unearthly, a shriek so terrible that it seemed to silence everything else in the world. It echoed through the walls of the Red Keep, reverberating like a distant wail of doom. Tommen clutched his ears with a cry, and even Qyburn startled visibly.

“What in the name of—” Cersei began, but another shriek cut her off, louder this time. Outside, chaos erupted. Horns blared anew, more frantically now, and distant screams carried on the wind. The sound of boots thundering across the courtyard and the cries of panicked soldiers filled the air like a rising tide.

Cersei stood quickly, ignoring the ache in her limbs as she crossed the room to the window. When she looked out, her breath caught in her throat.

The streets of King’s Landing swarmed like an anthill kicked apart. People scattered in every direction, pointing toward the sky. Guards yelled orders that fell on deaf ears, their swords raised uselessly. In the distance, high above the city, a vast shadow passed across the sun.

And then she saw it.

A dragon.

Viserion’s cream and gold scales gleamed like molten fire in the morning light, her massive wings stretched wide as she soared high above the capital. Her shadow swept over the streets and rooftops, darkening everything it touched, and for a moment, it seemed as though the very air stilled in her wake. She circled the city, her movements graceful and deliberate, her shrieks echoing as though announcing the end of all things.

“She’s circling,” Varys said softly, his gaze fixed on the sky with something akin to awe. “Three times.”

Cersei’s fingers gripped the edge of the window frame tightly, her knuckles white. “Is this Tywin’s doing?” she asked, her voice trembling with fury. “Did he bring this to my city?”

Varys’s gaze remained calm, though his words were clipped. “Yes. And it appears he means to make a statement.”

As Viserion completed her second circuit, the shrieks grew louder, almost deafening. The city below had descended into chaos—citizens dropping to their knees in prayer, others fleeing into doorways and alleyways. Mothers clutched their children, and soldiers, pale-faced, stared upward as though witnessing the stuff of nightmares made flesh.

The dragon dipped lower, her wings sending gusts of wind across the streets, rattling shutters and banners. And then, as she began her third circle, she turned sharply toward the Sept of Baelor.

The Sept loomed in the center of the city, its grand dome a beacon of the Faith—and a fitting perch for a creature of fire and fury. Viserion beat her wings powerfully, rising higher before descending with deliberate grace. Her talons curled as she landed atop the dome, the metal groaning under her weight. Her body coiled, tail curling down one side of the structure while her wings folded tightly against her back. From the streets below, she appeared like a living statue of destruction.

The city watched in stunned silence, awe and terror mingling as one.

Cersei took a step back from the window, her breath shallow as she turned to Varys. “Where is she? Where is the Targaryen whore who rides that beast?”

Varys did not flinch at the venom in her tone. “Your Grace, it is Lady Y/N. She has returned with your father. On his orders, I presume.”

Cersei’s face twisted with fury, though it was undercut by something far more dangerous: fear. She turned back to the window, her lips pressing into a thin line as she watched the dragon remain perched atop the Sept, her eyes scanning the city as though she owned it.

“She circles us like prey,” Cersei murmured darkly, her voice trembling with rage. “And my father allows it.”

Tommen crept closer to the window, his wide blue eyes fixed on the dragon with awe. “It's… beautiful,” he whispered.

Cersei spun on him, her voice sharp. “It's a weapon, Tommen. And don’t you forget it.”

Outside, the horns continued to blare, but the panic had begun to ebb as soldiers recognized the banners of House Lannister streaming through the city gates. The gold lions marched in disciplined formation, banners unfurling like rivers of blood and gold. The Lannister host had returned—but with a dragon at its back, the city would never see it the same way again.

Cersei turned away from the window, her face pale and taut with anger. “Summon the council,” she snapped at Qyburn. “And find out where my father is. I want answers.”

Qyburn bowed quickly and exited the chamber, leaving Varys standing in silence beside the window.

“This changes everything,” Varys murmured softly, half to himself as he looked out at the dragon. “Fire has returned to the capital.”

Cersei sank heavily onto the divan, her hands trembling faintly as she curled them into fists. “And so has my father.”

She stared blankly ahead, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “I will not let him take everything from me.”

But even as she spoke, the faint shrieks of the dragon echoed again in the distance, a sound that promised power, chaos, and a future that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could fully control.

The streets of King’s Landing trembled under the boots of marching soldiers. The sound was thunderous, echoing off the stone walls of buildings and the cobbled streets as Tywin Lannister’s procession carved its path toward the Sept of Baelor. The golden lions of House Lannister gleamed in the sunlight, their banners streaming like rivers of fire and blood, punctuated only by the green-and-gold sigils of House Tyrell fluttering in time with the wind. Lord Mace Tyrell, stout and beaming, rode at Tywin’s side with all the self-importance of a man convinced of his own worth.

The city had quieted. Fear still lingered thick in the air—fear of the dragon that perched atop the Sept like an ancient god made flesh—but there was also the growing hum of curiosity. Windows cracked open, and desperate eyes peered down from rooftops as the procession approached the grand square before the Sept. The people were quiet, hushed, too afraid to jeer, too in awe to cheer.

At the head of it all rode Tywin Lannister, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind, his golden armor polished to a mirror’s sheen. His face was cold, composed as always, though his green eyes carried the weight of expectation, the certainty of a man who did not come to parley but to rule. Beside him, Mace Tyrell bounced slightly in his saddle, his bearded face twitching nervously as he glanced toward the looming form of Viserion still perched atop the Sept.

“Your dragon is a fine deterrent, Lord Tywin,” Mace muttered, tugging nervously at his green doublet. “The Faith will surely see reason now.”

Tywin did not look at him as he replied, his voice clipped and firm. “They will see what I tell them to see.”

The Sept loomed before them, its massive steps already filling with robed figures. The Faith Militant gathered like a black tide, armed with spiked cudgels, spears, and shields marked with the seven-pointed star. The sun gleamed off their crude armor, their faces hidden beneath thick hoods, yet the fervor in their posture was unmistakable. At the head of them, emerging from the shadowed entrance to the Sept, came the High Sparrow.

The man was as Tywin remembered him—frail, weathered, his simple robes of grey and beige hanging loosely from his thin frame. But it was his eyes that held a strange power, the unwavering gaze of a man who believed himself unshakable. He moved slowly, his hands clasped in front of him as he descended the steps. The Faith Militant parted for him like water, their presence unyielding but silent as the grave.

Above them, Viserion moved. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. With the practiced grace of a creature far more agile than her size would suggest, Viserion began to climb down from her perch. Her talons dug into the sides of the Sept, causing great plumes of dust to rise as bits of stone crumbled under her weight. She slithered to the square below, wings furling close to her body as her long tail swept the ground with ominous finality.

Atop her back, you sat tall in your saddle, silver hair gleaming like molten silk in the light. The dragon’s motion was fluid beneath you, and when Viserion’s massive body finally came to rest upon the square, her wings curled neatly, and she let out a low, ominous hiss. You were a vision of power—your black riding leathers embroidered with Valyrian sigils in silver thread, the saddle a masterpiece of black and gold.

The High Sparrow stopped mid-step, his gaze fixed not on Tywin Lannister, but on you and the beast at your command. For the first time, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossed his otherwise serene expression.

Tywin reined his horse in at the foot of the Sept steps, dismounting with practiced efficiency. His polished boots struck the stone square as he turned sharply to face the High Sparrow. Mace Tyrell followed clumsily, huffing as he struggled to dismount with his dignity intact. Behind them, the Lannister and Tyrell men fanned out in disciplined ranks, swords at their sides, their banners snapping in the wind.

The High Sparrow inclined his head faintly, his weathered face calm. “Lord Tywin,” he said, his voice soft yet clear enough to carry across the square. “It has been some time since you last darkened the steps of the Sept. What brings you to this holy place with such… pageantry?”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly, the expression cold and humorless. “The Faith has overstepped its bounds, as foolish men often do. I have come to see that order is restored.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze did not falter. “Order, my lord? Or obedience? There is a difference.”

“Semantics do not concern me,” Tywin replied curtly. “You will surrender Queen Margaery back into the custody of her family. You will dissolve your hold over this city and the throne. Do this, and you may yet live to see another sunrise.”

The gathered Faith Militant bristled at the words, their grips tightening on weapons, but the High Sparrow raised a hand, calming them. He turned his attention to you now, his gaze lingering as though assessing something far older, far more dangerous than the man standing before him.

“And you,” he said softly, addressing you for the first time. “A child of fire and blood, astride a creature of chaos. Tell me, do you serve the lions of House Lannister willingly? Or have they chained you as men have always sought to chain beasts?”

You smiled faintly, unbuckling yourself from the saddle and sliding gracefully down Viserion’s side. The dragon shifted slightly at your absence, but remained still, her golden eyes locked on the gathered men before her. You stepped forward, your boots striking the stone square as you came to stand at Tywin’s side.

“I am not chained,” you replied coolly, your voice carrying easily. “And I am no beast. I stand here because I choose to.”

The High Sparrow tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “Then you choose to stand with those who corrupt and defile. With those who believe power grants them the right to rule without faith, without penance.”

Tywin’s voice cut through like a blade. “Save your sermons for the fearful and the weak. I am neither.”

The High Sparrow turned back to him, his expression calm once more. “And yet you come here demanding surrender. Why? Because you hold swords? Because you bring a dragon?” He gestured toward the Sept, the great dome behind him rising high and holy above their heads. “This is the house of the gods. No beast, no army, no man is greater than the Seven.”

Tywin stepped forward, his presence looming like a shadow cast across the square. “The gods cannot save you from what comes next, Sparrow. Nor will your Faith Militant hold against my men.”

The High Sparrow held his ground, though his followers shifted uneasily behind him. “You are a man of numbers and gold, Lord Tywin, but you do not understand faith. Faith cannot be cut with swords. It cannot be burned with fire.”

A sound interrupted him then—a low, guttural rumble that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Viserion shifted her great head, her golden eyes narrowing as she bared her fangs, smoke curling lazily from her nostrils. The sound of her growl carried across the square like a warning, sending chills down the spines of those gathered.

The High Sparrow turned slightly to look at the beast behind you. For the first time, his voice faltered. “Dragons do not belong here anymore.”

You stepped forward, your voice calm but edged with steel. “They belong wherever we will them to be.”

Tywin glanced at you, the faintest flicker of approval in his gaze before he turned back to the High Sparrow. “You have until sunset to decide, High Sparrow. Surrender Queen Margaery, dissolve your militant farce, and relinquish control of this city. Defy me, and the Faith will burn.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze lingered on both of you, his expression unreadable. “The gods will decide,” he said softly. “Not men, and not dragons.”

Tywin did not reply. He turned sharply, motioning for his men to hold their positions as he stepped back toward his horse. You lingered a moment longer, your gaze meeting the High Sparrow’s. For a moment, it seemed as though he would speak again, but he did not. Instead, he turned and ascended the steps of the Sept, the Faith Militant closing ranks behind him.

You glanced at Tywin as you rejoined him, your tone low. “Do you think he’ll surrender?”

Tywin’s expression was hard as stone. “Men like him never surrender willingly.”

“Then what happens next?” you asked, your voice calm.

Tywin glanced back toward the Sept, his gaze lingering on Viserion as she loomed like a living weapon in the center of the square. “Negotiation,” he said quietly. “And if that fails, fire.”

You said nothing, but as you looked back at the great dome of the Sept, you could not shake the feeling that the High Sparrow’s defiance would be his

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavernous expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, its gilded edges dulled by years of neglect and turmoil. The Iron Throne loomed at its far end, a jagged monstrosity of twisted steel, a reminder of power as cruel as it was absolute. Today, the room buzzed with quiet tension, courtiers and guards lingering in uncertain clusters as the sound of heavy Lannister boots echoed through the long hall.

Tywin Lannister entered first, flanked by rows of his crimson-cloaked guards, each step measured and deliberate. His polished armor glinted in the light, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a mantle of blood. At his side, you strode with equal confidence, your black riding leathers and silver-threaded cloak still dusted with the residue of dragon flight. Every eye in the room turned to you—whispers rising like a storm—but none dared to linger too long on the sight of the dragon bride of the Lion of Lannister.

A distant, haunting roar shattered the murmurs, sending a ripple of fear through the gathered crowd. The sound echoed over the castle walls, reverberating through the Red Keep with primal force. Viserion’s massive shadow swept across the narrow windows of the hall as she circled above, her shriek a declaration that fire and power had returned to the capital.

Tommen sat on the Iron Throne, his small frame swallowed by the immense seat of swords. His face lit up with joy and relief at the sight of his grandsire, the golden curls of his hair catching the dim light as he rose to his feet. “Grandsire!” he called, his young voice breaking the silence as he all but ran down the steps of the dais to meet him.

Tywin’s expression softened—slightly—as he stopped to face his grandson. Tommen’s small hands reached for him, clutching his grandsire’s armored forearm as though anchoring himself. “I knew you’d come,” Tommen said breathlessly, his blue eyes wide. “They said you were still marching, but I knew you’d come.”

“You are a king,” Tywin said, his voice steady and calm as he studied the boy. “A king should never doubt the strength of his house.”

Tommen nodded fervently, smiling. “It’s stronger now. You’re here. And… and the dragon is real, isn’t it?”

Before Tywin could reply, another voice cut through the air—sharp and biting.

“So it *is true,” Cersei said, her tone dripping with venom as she descended the steps of the dais. She wore a gown of dark gold that hung loosely on her diminished frame, her face pale, her hair shorn and harsh against the sharp lines of her features. But despite her weakened state, her green eyes burned with resentment as they landed on you. “The Targaryen whore and her beast have come to King’s Landing under your banners, Father.”

The room fell silent at her words, the tension thick enough to choke. Even Tommen flinched, turning to look at his mother in confusion. You said nothing, though your expression remained cold, your violet gaze meeting hers without so much as a blink.

Tywin did not look at her immediately. Instead, he turned to one of his men and gestured curtly. “Take the king to his chambers. He does not need to be here for this.”

“Grandsire—” Tommen began, but Tywin’s gaze flicked sharply toward him, brooking no argument.

“Go, Tommen,” he commanded softly, though there was steel behind the words. Tommen hesitated, glancing between his mother and his grandsire before reluctantly following the guards who ushered him out of the hall.

As the doors closed behind him, Tywin turned fully to face Cersei. His presence seemed to darken the hall itself, his expression one of pure, cold fury.

“Watch your tongue, Cersei,” he said, his voice low and even, yet it carried through the hall like a physical blow. “I will not have my return marred by your pettiness.”

Cersei’s lip curled, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Pettiness? You bring dragons and Targaryens into my city, and you call me petty?”

“Your city?” Tywin’s voice turned sharper, his words slicing through her like a knife. “Is this the city you claimed as your own when you were paraded naked through its streets? The city you surrendered to the Faith Militant through your arrogance and your utter lack of discipline?”

Cersei recoiled as though struck, her pale face flushing crimson. “I did what I had to do to protect our family!”

Tywin advanced toward her, and for all her bravado, she stepped back, her eyes wide. “Your recklessness has humiliated this house. You invited the Faith into power, thinking you could wield them as a tool. Now, they rule your city while you cling to scraps of pride and wounded vanity.” His voice grew colder still. “And in your folly, you lost the respect of every lord who might have stood by you.”

Cersei’s mouth opened as though to retort, but Tywin cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Do not speak.”

She faltered, her teeth snapping shut as she seethed in silence, her fists clenched at her sides.

Tywin turned slightly, his gaze shifting to you where you stood calm and unbothered. “Lady Y/N is here because I brought her. She is my wife and the mother of my heir, and her dragon now stands as a symbol of our strength.” He turned back to Cersei, his words a final blow. “You will accept that, or you will leave this city entirely. I will not tolerate your undermining of what must be done.”

Cersei’s chest heaved with barely contained fury, her face pinched and red, but she said nothing.

Viserion’s roar split the air once more, louder this time as she flew low over the Red Keep, her wings casting vast shadows across the throne room. The distant cries of startled courtiers carried faintly through the heavy windows.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on his daughter for a long moment before he turned away dismissively. “Return to your chambers. You are no use to me here.”

Cersei froze, her face twisting with indignation. “Father—”

“Go,” Tywin said sharply, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Cersei’s hands trembled at her sides, her mouth opening and closing as though searching for words that would not come. Finally, she turned on her heel, her movements stiff with humiliation as she strode toward the doors, her shorn hair catching the light like a tarnished crown.

The room remained deathly silent as Tywin turned back toward you. His expression had softened—slightly—as he regarded you with a measured calm. “We have work to do,” he said quietly.

You nodded faintly, stepping toward him. “The Faith Militant will not yield easily.”

“No,” Tywin agreed, his voice like steel. “But they will yield.”

The doors to the throne room closed behind Cersei with a heavy thud, and Tywin’s presence seemed to fill the hall once more. The Lion of Lannister had returned to King’s Landing, and with him came the fire and fury of the dragon at his command.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

……cersei corrupting little sister reader mayhaps 🤭

Here you go, Babybel. I hope my lesbian offering pleases you.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT. Incest, corruption kink, dubcon, fingering. Word count: ~1k

Cersei is in her cups again. You can tell by the faintest tint of rouge that stains her lips and the gleam she gets in her green eyes when she’s overindulged in Arbor red. It’s gotten worse since Jaime went away to the Riverlands and there is little you can do to stop it.

Truthfully, you are glad he’s gone. Growing up you’d always envied the closeness he shared with your older sister, the gap in age between you and your siblings made childhood lonely for you. Tyrion didn’t take an interest in you, but you’d always adored Cersei. You idolised the grace with which she carried herself, her effortless beauty and sharp tongue. She never really paid you any mind though, too preoccupied with her twin to notice you.

It was only when Jaime wasn’t around that she deigned to give you any attention, but you basked in being her plaything, even though it was only temporary. You had heard the rumours regarding your siblings’ incestuous relationship, but your father had scoffed derisively when you dared to ask, telling you that was a scandalous practice that had died with the Targaryens. The Lannisters would never debase themselves with such depravity. You’d believed him, you had no reason not to.

That was until you grew older, Cersei married King Robert, and Jaime’s absences became more frequent. Something shifted in the affection that your sister lavished upon you. It evolved into something darker, more intimate and filled you with feelings of burning shame, amidst a deep seated warmth in your lower belly that you could never quite find the words to articulate.

Lingering kisses to the lips, insistence that you share her bed while she kept you cuddled close to her replaced games of make believe and hide and seek. You supposed it was part of her becoming Queen. People change. She had to grow up and so would you.

This feels too grown up though; as she stands, wine goblet in hand, eyeing you closely as you run your hands over the rich, crimson brocade fabric of the gown draped over the folding screen.

“I cannot wear this,” You tell her, shaking your head and snatching your hands back as though you may sully the material with your very touch. “It is too much.”

She smirks at you, taking a slow sip of her wine and letting her eyes travel the length of you. “You are a Lannister. Nothing is too much.” She says with a slight tilt of her head.

“You have worn this gown to hold Court before!” You protest. “I cannot wear the Queen’s clothes.”

She steps closer, taking your jaw between thumb and forefinger. You can smell cloves and berried fruits upon her breath as it fans across your face, her eyes boring into yours. “Do you remember how much fun we had playing dress up when you were a girl?” She whispers.

You swallow thickly, hating the way your lower belly flutters under her attention. “Y-yes.” You peep meekly.

“Will you dress up once more, sweet sister, just for me?” She purrs.

You want to tell her no, you long to wrench from her grasp and flee back to your own chambers, if only to put a stop to the uncomfortable stickiness that gathers between your legs. You hate this, and yet you will not deny her anything. She is your sister, your Queen. 

You nod your head and she releases you with a demure smile. “Good girl.” She praises stepping back.

Your hands move to lift your thin cotton shift over your head, then pause, uncertainty paralysing you. “Aren’t you going to leave while I dress?”

She scoffs, a grin briefly flashes across her pretty features before it’s gone again. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” She says with a soft shrug.

You hesitate a moment, before pulling off your nightgown, leaving you bare before your sister. It may be nothing she hasn’t seen before, but she has certainly never looked at you like that before.

There is a predatory hunger, dark and urgent, in the way she stares at you. It makes you want to shrink into yourself, cover whatever parts of you she can see with your hands. The silent threat to rob you of your innocence looms heavy and oppressive. It frightens you, but not as much as the urge you have to simply give in to her.

“Here, allow me.” She says, setting her goblet down and stepping forward to take the dress from the screen.

Your breath hitches as her fingertips drag across your skin as she helps you into it, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. You have to bite back a whimper as she grazes your pebbled nipples lightly as she pulls the bodice over your breasts. You are sure it is deliberate.

The room feels too hot, your skin blazes and you grow wetter between your thighs, guilt eating away at you for it.

Lannisters would never debase themselves with such depravity.

What if you are depraved? What if she knows? She’d tell your father and it would bring shame upon your entire house.

You are broken from your thoughts as Cersei’s hand cups your mound beneath your skirts, her lips parting slightly as she feels the arousal gathered there.

You gasp, attempting to pull back, but she follows, keeping her hand exactly where it is. You bump into the wall, backed up against it as she spreads her fingers through your sodden folds, exploring.

“S-stop.” You stammer, unable to comprehend that your own sister would touch you in such a way.

She tuts, but makes no move to halt her ministrations. “Don’t you wish to play, little lion?”

Your eyes widen, your breathing becoming more laboured as the urge to resist her grows weaker. Realisation dawns, horrifying and intriguing all at once. “Is…is this how you and Jaime play?”

She laughs softly, plunging a finger inside of you, the sudden stretch of it making you yelp. “Oh, how Jaime and I play is much more intimate. Would you like me to show you?”

No is precisely what you should say, if you were to listen to the way your mind screams at you to run. However, driven by the fluttering in your cunt and the excitement that flurries in your belly, you answer in the affirmative. “Show me.”

[devildomwriter]

Have you ever thought about what names would the brothers adopt when theyre in the human world? Since they cant just go around with their demon names

I think about that a lot actually.

Their Human World Names

I think Lucifer would choose something similar like Lucious, Lucian, Lucas or “Luke” to mess with Luke

Mammon doesn’t have names too similar so he’d probably choose a name that starts with M and is around the same length like Matthew, Matteo, Manny, Mamoru, etc.

Leviathan has it easy because Levi is a fairly well known name and not know solely as a demon-related name. So he’d probably just go by Levi, or maybe Henry if he wanted to change things up.

Satan has a canonical nickname Sully, but he hates it so he’d probably go by Stan, Stanford, Stanley, or something very similar.

Asmodeus I’ve always thought would be a wonderful Amadeus, but he might choose something very random that he thinks sounds sexy or pretty like Ariel (actually the name of a fallen angel), Azalea, Aries, etc.

Beelzebub and Belphegor would want “twin names” names that just go together like Beel and Belphie do. They’d probably choose names that begin with “Ben” like Benjamin, Bentley, Ben, Benny, Benedict, and Bennett. I think Beel would choose Benedict because it reminds him of eggs and Belphie feels like a Benjamin to me.

Other than the brothers, Simeon, Raphael, Luke, Michael, and Solomon are also decently well known or not associated with demons. Though Simeon canonically also goes by Christopher.

Diavolo was once given the nickname Jon and he loved it so he might keep going by that or by a nickname like Dia, or Diablo, and Barbatos I feel would be a good Robert but he may choose something more similar like a name starting with "Bar" like Bartholomew, Bartley, or Barlas.

Thirteen, surprisingly enough is a human world female name although it’s not popular. And we all know Thirteen isn’t changing her name to blend in, she doesn’t care about that kind of thing,

Lastly, Mephistopheles also doesn’t feel like the type to want to change his name to a human one unless he thinks of it like he’s under cover. In that case he’d probably go for something German or similar to his name like Phelps, Pheles, or Phillips. May also go for a more obvious name like Faust or Faustus.

[aelenavelaryon]

Hey guys! This story will have three or four parts. Or at least I’m hoping it will. Also, please bear with me as I recently started posting here so things are still new to me. I’m not quite sure on how to use tumblr to post yet so it might take a while! Thank you! 🤍

Robert Baratheon x Reader

Summary: In which history repeats itself once again. Or does it?

Robert had known young Rhaenyra all his life and they were sort of friends and some would even say they were somewhat close. When he sat on the Iron Throne she was the only one brought out, Jon Arryn saw it fit for the eldest of the Targaryen's to be the one to confront Robert. There she stood, in the middle of the room. All the lords eyes were on her. She said nothing, what could she say? "Your brother is dead" was the first thing Robert said to her. "I killed him. I wish I could kill him again" Rhaenyra's eyes filled with tears but none fell out. She didn't want to cry. She wouldn't allow them that satisfaction.

"What will happen to us?" she asked. "To Viserys, to Jaehaerys" everyone turned to her as he said the other name. "Who is Jaehaerys?" Jon asked. "He is my son. My son with Brandon Stark" Brandon lived but he was now married to Catelyn. "He is married to Catelyn Tully now" Robert said and she nodded. "I know" she replied. "The boy is a bastard" Tywin said and she glared at the man. "Kill her now. Avoid another rebellion" Tywin Lannister said and everyone turned to look at him. "I know you would like that, my lord. Did you enjoy having Elia and her children murdered as well?" she asked. "Lannisters. They have always been traitors. That has not changed in the past two hundred years it seems" he took a step but Ned Stark stood near her.

"Princess Rhaenyra is not at fault for her brother's sins. She is innocent" he spoke for her. "She's a whore! She and that bastard son of hers will bring nothing but trouble to the realm just as her brother has!" Tywin said. Ser Arthur, pulled out his sword as did Ned. "Hold your tongue, Lannister" was all Ser Arthur said. "Mind your tongue, Lannister" Robert stood in front of her. Rhaenyra was known as the Realm's Angel. or the Realm's Desire. Some even called her the Realm's Delight, referring at the nickname the realm gave the black queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, her ancestor.

"I propose a marriage between King Robert Baratheon and princess Rhaenyra Targaryen" Jon said making both Robert and Rhaenyra to look at him. "She's a child" Arthur said. "A child who bore a healthy son" Tywin scoffed. "She's been sullied. She cannot marry a king" he stated. "Robert has bed at least half of Westeros. It will not matter. Let's remember that House Velaryon, House Tyrell, and House Martell still support house Targaryen. This will ensure the peace in the realm. Specially after the chaos that this rebellion imposed on the realm" Robert looked at Rhaenyra. She was a child. She was seven years younger than him. She nodded. She did not object. She hoped that as the queen she could keep her son and brother safe.

It wasn't long before she was married off. The princess did not complain, she did not fight, she obeyed. They got married on the Great Sept. Brandon arrived with his family. With his wife and their son. Their legitimate son. It was said that Brandon loved her, he married Catelyn Tully for duty. He married her so her father could be on their side when the war was just beginning. He loved Rhaenyra as some said she loved him. But, the world will never know if she loved him as much as he did her. That was another secret she would take to her grave.

She sat with her husband as he drank himself numb. Robert didn't love her, she was sure he never would but he cared for her. When she arrived to her new chambers she found a box, inside laid three eggs. One was a black with red. The other was red with gold, and the other one was a blue and white color. Robert arrived a while later. The two did her their duty as quick as possible, Robert tried to be gentle but Rhaenyra was a woman of passion and asked for more and he complied. Perhaps it would not be so bad.

Princess Rhaenyra gave birth nine moons later to a son. A son who she named Daemon Baratheon Targaryen. Daemon was all his mother but the eyes. He held Rhaegar Targaryen's eyes. A year after him came Orys Baratheon, now that one was a Baratheon through and through. There was no ounce of Rhaenyra on him. Prince Aemon came two years later along with Aemond who were the spitting image of his mother. Robert used to laugh when he spoke to Rhaenyra about their sons as the boys all resemble her but not him aside from Orys.

Robert loved Jaehaerys as his own son, he had taken him and Viserys as his wards. He began to teach them how to fight. When the princess decided to visit Dragonstone a tragedy struck her. She had miscarried. The Maester had told her she had been poisoned. To bury her child, she had pyre made for the cremation and her dragon eggs were set inside alongside the babe. Her child had died but she left her mother with the greatest gift she could ask for. Dragons. Three of them. The eldest she called Balerion as the dragon was the spitting image of the black dread. The other she named Caraxes as the dragon was the same color and it seemed he too would look like the first blood wyrm. The third she named Syrax as he had been just like queen Rhaenyra's dragon. When she returned she returned with three dragons on her shoulder. House Targaryen would prevail.

[bked0n-lorazepam]

My Requests are open!

Hi guys, I know it's been a while, but I'm back, and with new people who I'll be happy to write for you; here's my list!

The Walking Dead:

Rick Grimes, Carl Grimes, Daryl Dixon, Negan Smith, Glenn Rhee, Maggie Rhee, Enid Rhee, Michonne, Rosita, Simon, Abraham, Carol, Jesus "Paul", Shane, Sasha, Dwight, Beth

House MD:

Gregory House, Lisa Cuddy, James Wilson, Allison Cameron, Robert Chase, Eric Foreman, "Thirteen"

CreepyPasta:

Jeff The Killer, Toby Rogers, BEN Drowned, Eyeless Jack, Laughing Jack, Jane The Killer, Nina The Killer, Hoodie, Masky, Liu, Sally

Slashers/Creepos:

Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Chucky/Charles Lee Ray, Brahms Heelshire, Michael Myers, Jason Vorhees, BeetleJuice

Criminal Minds:

Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan, Elle Greenaway, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, Penelope Garcia, Tara Lewis, Cat Adams, George Foyet

White Collar:

Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Neal Caffrey, Alex Hunter, Diana Berrigan, Lauren Cruz, Clinton Jones

Hannibal NBC:

Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Alana Bloom, Beverly Katz, Freddie Lounds

Marvel Universe:

Loki Laufeyson, Mobius Mobius, Thor Odinson, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire, Andrew Garfied, and Tom Holland), MJ Watson, Sam Wilson, Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, Prince T'Challa, Princess Shuri, Okoye, Carol Danvers, Gamora, Peter Quill, Nebula

IT (2017 and 2019):

Patrick Hockstetter, Henry Bowers, Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough, Ben Hanscom, Mike Hanlon, Beverly Marsh, Stanley Uris, Pennywise

Stranger Things:

Eleven, Mike Wheeler, Steve Harrington, Joyce Byers, Jonathon Byers, Jim Hopper, Max Mayfield, Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley, Karen Wheeler, Dr. Brenner, Argyle, Billy Hargrove

Once Upon a Time:

Rumplestiltskin, Emma Swan, Prince Charming, Snow White, Regina Mills, Henry Mills, Killian Jones, Baelfire, Robin Hood, Peter Pan, Belle, August/Pinocchio, Ruby/Red, Zelena

Good Omens:

Crowley, Aziraphale, Gabriel, Anathema Device, Newton "Newt" Pulsifer, Beelzebub, Muriel

Avatar:

Jake Sully, Neytiri, Kiri (No smut), Lo'ak (No smut), Neteyam (No smut)

The Boys:

Homelander, Billy Butcher, Becca Butcher, Frenchie, Hughie Campbell, Mothers Milk, Queen Maeve, Starlight, A-Train, Deep, Black Noir, Firecracker, Kimiko "The Female", Ashley Barret, Ryan Butcher (No smut), Victoria Neuman, Soldier Boy

And that's it so far! I'll add more as I go, I swear <3

[seeminglydark]

as much as i don’t like how they treat Caro, i’m kinda curious about their parents…

What to say about Robert and Claire Greensboro. Upper middle class, picket fence house. Rob works as an investor, Claire is a Wine Mom (re: functioning alcoholic in this case) and former beauty queen herself. Their marriage is more of an arrangement, Claire wanted a certain type of life, and Robert wanted a beautiful wife. They both desperately wanted a Boy, but ended up with Caroline (the irony here is outrageous.) When they have trouble keeping up with the Jones, and rack up credit card debt and take out a second mortgage on the house, they audition baby Caro for a tv commercial and what do ya know, there's something special about that kid afterall. Turns out that Caro is a winner automatically at so many things. Pageants, auditions, modeling contracts, and it only gets better the older Caro gets. They go from a disappointment to having a purpose, the ticket to funding their parents lifestyle.

Love just isnt on the menu here, but when Caro is young they do everything they can to try and win it. Their parents are both master manipulators, dangling the promise of happiness or love and yanking it out of reach when Caro doesn't do things just right. Its always something.

The only 'good' thing is when Caro gets a bit older. Their dad likes to go on fishing trips with his neighbor, O'Sullivan. And their mom has lovers, and is usually drunk, so it gets easier to sneak out and see Sully and the gang or do the normal things teenagers are supposed to do like hanging out with friends and going to the movies without it having to be earned. Obviously their parents are transphobic and homophobic, and they believe that Caro being trans will ruin their career, thus lose them their cash cow. They threaten many horrible solutions, but in the end, Caro leaves when they find out about a life insurance policy their parents took out on them, dollar signs are more important than their life and they aren't sure how far their parents will go to keep things the way they are.

Caros parent will show up later in life, of course they will, all apologies and offerings of love. Our hero has friends and found family now, fortunately, to support them, and are aware their parents love and acceptance is a thin veil for greed, they never expected Caro to make it this far, and now that they have, of course their parents want back in their life. These people unfortunately will probably never change.

[pandoras-prada]

Wanted to share this real quick. Robert wallow was 8' 11" (same height as Jake Sully.) Andre the giant 7' 4" was bigger than the average human. Look at the fucking size differences.

Here he is with two women one is about 5' 2" with heels and the other about 5' 8". This is a good image for size comparisons for Na'vi and human readers.

[arcane-vagabond]

Outrun the Devil: Chapter Two

Outrun the Devil: Chapter Two

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Summary: Bob Floyd had always been a good kid. So how did he manage to let his childhood friends rope him into living a life of crime? A member of the famous outlaw group, the Dagger Gang, Bob longs for a future where he can settle down and earn a respectable living. When he meets the new barmaid at the local tavern, that future doesn't seem so farfetched, but will her past catch up to her?

Warnings: Allusions to prostitution, Reader being hard on herself, Low Self-worth, Suspicious Reader. I think that's it, but please let me know if I missed something!

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: Here is the long awaited Chapter Two!! I hope you all enjoy it, and as always, comments, reblogs, and likes are greatly appreciated! 18+ ONLY!! You can also find me on AO3 under arcane_vagabond where I also post my updates! And, if you feel so willing, please consider donating to my ko-fi!

Series Masterlist || DGU Masterlist

You were beginning to develop a rhythm for how your days went. You woke up, got dressed, ate a simple breakfast, cleaned the saloon, took orders from the patrons throughout the day, deal with the evening crowd that always picked up as the sun began to set, and then go to bed. It was simple, and you were glad for the steady work that allowed you to keep busy.

Penny had been kind to you, seeing that you adjusted and settled accordingly over the past week. You had met a girl they called Birdie only a couple of days after you arrived. She was staying with Penny and her husband, Maverick, and had taken on the job as a schoolteacher for the local children. You admired her seemingly endless supply of patience for all of the little ones, a feat you weren’t sure you would be able to manage. You, unsurprisingly, had not been around many children during your time in New Orleans, but you thought you might always like them.

You often found yourself smiling when watching the children run around the streets after school, wondering what it would be like to have your own. You always pushed that thought away, knowing that you would be a terrible mother. How could you be a good one with your past and your lack of understanding about children? Still, the feeling negged at you, whispering for you to just entertain the idea. You found yourself giving in more and more recently, but who would want you? You were sullied, ruined. What man would want you as his wife let alone the mother of his children? No, you decided. You would remain content with what life you had now, not willing to risk the good you had been able to find.

You had been cleaning the glasses from the night before when you heard the saloon doors creak open. Looking up, your heart skipped a beat at the handsome man that made his way towards you. Bob had an eager smile on his face as he approached the bar, and you felt your cheeks heat up under his gaze. That was so unlike you. Normally you were the one making the man feel giddy and excited for activities only you could provide him.

Bob stopped in front of you, placing a basket on the counter with an expectant look on his face. Your eyes darted down before back up to his deep, blue eyes, your eyebrow raising in question. His excited grin transformed into one a little more bashful as he dropped his gaze from yours. It was his turn for his cheeks to flush, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Sorry, I know I came by unannounced.”

“No,” you rushed out. “No, it’s fine. What brings you by?”

Bob cleared his throat again before lifting his gaze back to yours. “I thought you might be hungry?”

“Oh,” you blinked, looking down at the glasses behind the counter.

Bob followed your gaze, and you weren’t sure how it was possible for his skin to grow even redder.

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered, running a hand over his face. “I should have realized that you would be busy. I mean, of course you would be, why wouldn’t you? It’s clear you work really hard, and that you take your job seriously. I shouldn’t have just come by assuming anything different. I don’t want you to think that I don’t-”

He stopped as you placed a gentle hand over his. He swallowed as he looked at you, eyes darting nervously across your face.

“Can you breath for me?” You smiled at him. He returned it nervously before letting out a long exhale. You squeezed his hand with a nod. “Ask me again.”

“What?” He frowned, not understanding. You took your bottom lip in between your teeth to fight off the giggle that threatened to spill out.

“Ask me again,” you prodded. Bob studied you for a moment before taking a deep, calming breath.

“Bunny,” he started, causing you to flush at the new nickname. “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

You hummed, your grin threatening to break out across your face as you pretended to think, tapping your chin thoughtfully. Bob’s eyes took on a pleading look as he watched you silently, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I don’t know,” you giggled. “I still have all of these glasses I need to clean…”

You heard a snort coming from the door to the backroom. Both of you turned to see Penny watching the both of you with a smirk.

“Bunny, quit teasin’ that poor boy and go take a break,” she chuckled, walking over to take the glass out of your hand. “Be back in an hour.”

You smiled sheepishly at her as you moved around the bar to join Bob. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, and Bobby?” Penny called after him as the two of you turn to walk out the saloon. He turned to her with wide eyes.

“Yes, Penny?”

“That does not mean bring her back on the dot,” she smirked. Another blush crept it’s way up Bob’s neck as he nodded at her, placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you out onto the street. You felt tingles run up your spine where his hand rested againt you, and you wondered if this is how it felt to be a normal girl for a change. It was a new sensation, being nervous around a handsome man. You had had your fair share of moments spent in the company of handsome, young men, but you knew what to expect in those transactions.

Penny spoke highly of Bob, but you had spent time with good men who still wanted the same thing from you. You frowned at the thought. Perhaps Bob was just looking for the same thing. He was certainly putting forth a lot of effort for someone he barely knew.

“I thought we could sit under the tree by the church,” he murmured to you, bringing you out of your contemplation. “It’s one of the few places with shade in town.”

You smiled up at him politely and offered him a nod of your head. You felt bad for jumping to conclusions. If Bob had wanted to do anything, under the tree in front of the church was not the place to do it without inviting some kind of trouble.

“I think that sounds lovely,” you told him quietly. Bob grinned at you, leading you that way. He set the basket down on the ground, kneeling to take out the blanket he had placed carefully on top of the food. He spread it over the ground, offering you his hand as he helped you sit down. You leaned back on your hand, watching as he began to take out the various dishes he had packed.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he smiled. “I think I might have packed too much.”

You giggled, looking at all of the different food items he had placed around you. “Were you planning on more people joining us?”

“No,” he blushed, ducking his head down. “I just wasn’t sure what you would like, so I packed some of everything.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. He cared about what you liked? When you didn’t say anything after a moment, he began to fidget nervously.

“I knew it was stupid,” he muttered, more to himself than you.

“No!” You rushed out, startling him. He looked up at you and the two of you maintained eye contact for a moment.

“It’s not stupid,” you continued shyly, breaking the eye contact to fidget with your hands. “I think it’s very sweet.”

“Yeah?” He looked at you hopefully, eyes brightening. You gave him an encouraging nod.

“Yes,” you whispered, feeling the heat behind your cheeks turn to lava. You searched desperately for something to say as Bob stared at you. “Where did you get all of this?”

“Oh!” Bob exclaimed, a grin gracing his features. “I helped my mama make it all!”

“You can cook?” You asked him, brow raising in shock. He nodded enthusiastically, grabbing for a plate of cornbread.

“Yeah! I love it, actually. Here, tell me how this tastes.”

He held up a piece of the cornbread to you, and you slowly opened your mouth to him. He placed the piece on your tongue, thumb slightly grazing your bottom lip as he pulled back. You began to chew, a burst of flavor exploding over your tongue. You let out a quiet moan at the buttery taste, causing Bob’s grin to become so wide that you wouldn’t be surprised if it hurt.

“That’s really good!” You smiled as you swallowed, looking up at him. Bob’s blue eyes gleamed under your praise, chest puffing up in pride.

“I made that all by myself,” he boasted, offering you more. You took a larger piece enthusiastically.

“I never learned how to cook,” you admitted, averting your gaze once again.

“Really?” Bob asked you, and you nodded, feeling shame crawl up from the depths of your stomach. He hummed thoughtfully, handing you some chicken.

You wondered if your admission had messed everything up, although you weren’t quite sure there was anything to mess up. Nonetheless, you felt a lump begin to form in your throat, both from your inability to do much of anything it seemed, and the thought this this kind man would want nothing to do with you now that he knew you had nothing to offer.

“I could teach you how.”

Your eyes shot up to look at him. You hadn’t even realized that tears had begun to form in your eyes until Bob reached out to wipe them away.

“Hey,” he cooed gently, his thumb moving down to stroke your cheek. “Why’re you cryin’, Bunny? S’okay. Did I say something to upset you?”

“No,” you whimpered, not quite understanding why you were crying yourself. You never cried. Crying never did you any good. You pushed the unexpected feeling down into your chest. “You’d really teach me?”

“Of course,” Bob smiled. “You just tell me when and what you want to cook, and I’ll make it happen.”

You sniffled. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You don’t have to worry about repayin’ me, okay?” He told you. You stared at him with pursed lips and he let out a small chuckle at your expression. “I’m serious! Don’t worry about it. Just think of it as me helping out a friend, yeah?”

“A friend?”

“Yeah,” he blushed, suddenly seeming unsure of himself. “We’re friends, ain’t we?”

You nodded at him slowly, but you felt dissatisfied at the sound of the word. Before you could fully begin to analyze what that meant, you heard the sound of a body collide with the ground. The two of you turned to see a small, blond boy no older than six slowly push himself up off from the dirt. You stood quickly, rushing over to him with Bob right behind you.

“Are you alright?” You asked the boy, placing your hands gently on his arms as he sniffled. He looked up at you with wet, green eyes and a wobbling lower lip.

“Yeah,” he told you tearfully. “I tripped and fell.”

“Billy,” Bob began, voice stern but gentle. “What have we all told you about running around like that?”

“I know!” Billy cried, tears starting to run down his cheeks. “But I was going to be late for class!”

You glanced up at the church door where the last remaining children wandered through. You looked back at Billy, offering him a small smile.

“I’m sure Birdie wouldn’t want you to get hurt just to get to class on time,” you told him softly. “I know she cares a lot about you all, and it would be a shame if you couldn’t make it to class at all because you got hurt, right?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, sniffling as he looked at you. You smoothed your thumbs over the scratches on the palms of his hands.

“Why don’t we go in together and tell Birdie why you’re late now, yeah?”

“Okay,” he whispered, taking your hand in his smaller one. You stood up, walking with him into the Sanctuary, Bob trailing after the two of you. Every head in the room turned as the three of you walked into the sanctuary, and Birdie’s eyes furrowed as she saw the sight before her.

“Billy?” She asked uncertainly, eyes leaving him to look at you. You gestured to the little boy beside you awkwardly.

“We had a little accident outside,” you explained. Birdie took in the dirt on his trousers, frowning at him.

Sighing, she made her way up the aisle towards the lot of you. “You were running again, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t want to be late,” he mumbled, looking up at you and squeezing your hand. You squeezed it back as you gave him a reassuring smile.

“Well, let’s get you to your seat, alright?” Birdie sighed, motioning for him to go on ahead. He slowly let go of your fingers as he made his way to the front. Birdie watched him pass before turning to you with a smile.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and you nodded at her. You turned to walk out of the church with Bob close behind you. You sat back down on the blanket, Bob plopping down next to you. You felt his gaze on your face, and you turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable as he watched you, and you quirked a brow at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said softly, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. “You’re really good with kids, you know?”

Your eyes widened in shock. You weren’t sure what to make of his words, so you instead to chose to focus back on the food. Grabbing a plate of what looked like chicken, you ripped off a chunk and popped it into your mouth.

“Will you teach me how to make this?” You asked him. He chuckled, taking a bite of more cornbread.

“Of course.”

Later that day, you were finishing up some cleaning when Birdie came sulking into the bar. She slid into the stool in front of you, placing her head in her hands glumly.

“What’s eatin’ at you?” Penny asked her, brow raised curiously. The younger girl let out a defeated sigh.

“The children are going to do a play to help raise money for the schoolhouse.”

“And that’s an issue because?” You asked her, eyes darting to Penny to see if she could shed some light on the situation. She shrugged, turning her attention back to Birdie.

“Because,” she grumbled, “It took us an entire week to settle on doing a play. Now they can’t decide what play to do.”

“Ah,” Penny said, leaning against the bartop, “what are the suggestions?”

“Some want to do Cinderella, some want to do Snow White, and others want to do Sleeping Beauty,” she groaned.

You watched her thoughtfully. “Why don’t you just let them make their own play up?”

Birdie’s gaze lifted to yours, eyes gleaming with intrigue.

“Let them do their own play?” She asked you, and you nodded at her.

“That way everyone can do something they like.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Bunny!” Penny grinned, Birdie nodding excitedly. You blushed under the attention.

“It reallly is!” Birdie exclaimed, leaning back and away from the bar. A smirk made it’s way onto her lips. “Have you ever thought of becoming a teacher?”

“Me?” You scoffed, shaking your head. “No, I wouldn’t know what to do. Besides, I can’t even read.”

Birdie’s eyes widened. “You don’t?”

“No,” you said softly, suddenly feeling self concious under her stare. She pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“I can teach you,” she said finally.

“What?” You chuckled with a frown. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well,” Birdie smiled, “it’s a good thing you won’t have to then. I’m volunteering! Unless you don’t want to learn?”

“No, I,” you trailed off. She watched you with kind, shining eyes. You sighed. “I would actually really love that, Birdie. As long as it doesn’t take up too much of your time.”

“It won’t,” she chirped, turning leave as the evening crowd began to file into the saloon. She casted you a wave over her shoulder as she trotted towards the door. “Let’s start tomorrow, okay?”

You didn’t have a chance to argue as your attention was grabbed by some of the patrons who were already demanding their drinks. Penny chuckled, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Let’s go, Bunny,” she grinned. “Don’t want to deal with cranky customers this early in the night, do we?”