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novaursa · 15 days ago

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The Second Daughter

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Note: This is a sneak peek into a story that will take over after Between Pride and Fire.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: the princess and the lion

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

Excerpts from Fire and Blood: The Life of Y/N Targaryen

The Birth of Y/N Targaryen (99 AC)

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"It was on the night of a full moon, under skies alight with silver, that Lady Aemma Arryn gave birth to her second child at the manse in King's Landing. The labor was long and fraught, though Lady Aemma endured with the stoic grace for which she was known. When the hour of the bat arrived, the child came forth—a girl, pale-haired and lilac-eyed, with all the hallmarks of her Valyrian lineage. The babe, whom her parents would name Y/N, was the picture of perfection save for one cruel twist of fate: she did not see."

Mushroom, the fool, provides his account:

"When the baby first let out her wail, King Viserys (though not yet a king, mind you) burst into the birthing chamber. He had expected a boy, as men often do, but the sight of his daughter softened him at once. I saw him hold her, weeping openly, calling her ‘my little star.’ But the joy turned to sorrow before the sun rose. The maesters whispered their findings to the King and Queen—little Y/N was blind. Her lilac eyes, though beautiful as a spring morn, would never see the world around her. The joy in that room turned as cold as a long winter’s night."

Lady Aemma, overcome with grief, clutched the babe to her chest, her tears mingling with her husband's. Yet despite this sorrow, Y/N was loved fiercely by her parents. "She will never see the world," Viserys said, "but she will feel its love."

The Accession of King Viserys I (103 AC)

Grand Maester Mellos records:

"Upon the passing of the Old King Jaehaerys I in 103 AC, Viserys ascended to the Iron Throne. Y/N, though but four years old, was present at her father’s coronation, sitting quietly beside her elder sister, Rhaenyra, who delighted in the pageantry. Y/N, by contrast, showed little interest in the pomp of court life, even at so young an age. Though blind, she was said to have a preternatural sense of calm, often described as ‘otherworldly.’”

Mushroom recalls:

"Even as a babe, Y/N seemed to find no pleasure in the games of court. She clung to her mother’s skirts or her sister’s hand, never crying, never laughing as the other children did. Her blindness marked her apart, but so too did her gentleness. ‘Aemma’s grace reborn,’ the lords would whisper. Little did they know how much Viserys would favor her, sparing her from the demands placed upon her elder sister. Rhaenyra learned to charm and command, while Y/N was left to dream in her quiet world of dark."

The Bonding with Silverwing (108 AC)

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"It was during the royal family’s visit to Dragonstone in 108 AC that Y/N Targaryen, then but nine years of age, performed a feat that astonished even the most seasoned Dragonkeepers. Drawn to the abandoned dragon Silverwing, once ridden by Queen Alysanne, Y/N approached her in Dragonmont. Those who witnessed it spoke of how the child sang to the dragon in High Valyrian, her voice carrying a melody so hauntingly beautiful that it seemed the dragon wept. Silverwing, known for her gentle nature, bent her great head to the blind girl, allowing her to touch her snout. From that moment forth, Y/N was counted as a dragonrider, though she could not see the skies she now commanded."

Mushroom, ever dramatic, adds:

"When Y/N sang, even the stones seemed to shiver. I swear on my twisted back, I saw Silverwing shed a tear as she lowered herself to the girl. ‘She knows her rider,’ said the Dragonkeepers, and I believed it. How could I not? Y/N could not see, but she felt the dragon’s heart, and that was enough."

Her Life at Court

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"As Y/N grew, her beauty became a topic of much admiration. Her pale hair, always intricately braided by her own hand, and her serene demeanor earned her the adoration of lords and ladies alike. Yet, she remained a rare sight at court, preferring the solitude of the gardens or the companionship of her sister, Rhaenyra. King Viserys, protective of his second daughter, seldom required her presence at formal functions. When she did appear, her soft-spoken nature and gentle grace captivated all who met her."

Ser Lorent Marbrand, her sworn shield since childhood, was ever at her side, guiding her through the halls of the Red Keep and beyond. “She has no need of sight,” Ser Lorent once said. “She sees with her heart, and that is sharper than any blade.”

Mushroom, however, whispers of her loneliness:

"Though the court praised her beauty and grace, Y/N was no fool. She knew she was overlooked in favor of her elder sister. Rhaenyra, the Realm’s Delight, drew suitors like moths to a flame, while Y/N’s blindness and quiet demeanor made her an afterthought to many. Yet, those who truly knew her—her sister, her father, and even her dragon—held her in the highest regard."

The Princess and the Black Mare

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"When Princess Y/N turned ten, her father, King Viserys, gifted her a black mare of remarkable intelligence. The horse, trained by the finest horsemasters in the realm, was taught to respond to subtle cues, guiding her blind rider with unmatched care. Though Y/N was hesitant at first, under the watchful eye of Ser Lorent Marbrand, her sworn shield, she quickly took to riding. The sight of the younger princess atop the sleek black mare became a source of wonder in King’s Landing. Lords and ladies alike would lean from their windows to catch a glimpse of her as she rode through the city with her knight."

Mushroom recounts:

"I remember the day the younger princess first rode through the streets of King's Landing. Her hair, pale as the moon, trailed behind her like a banner, and her lilac eyes stared forward as if she could see clearer than the rest of us. The people marveled, saying she was a dragon in human form, radiant even in her blindness. Courtiers, who should have been attending to their duties, would abandon their posts just to watch her ride. One minor lord—whose name I will not sully this account with—rushed out of the Great Sept mid-chant to witness her. He tripped, fell into a distillery of summerberry wine, and drowned. It took three days to find his body, and when they did, Septa Rhaedis claimed he looked like ‘a pickled egg.’ The court spoke of little else for weeks.”

The Art of Touch

Grand Maester Mellos records:

"In addition to her accomplishments as a rider, Y/N Targaryen also became skilled in embroidery, a talent few believed possible for one without sight. Guided by her Septa, Rhaedis, she learned to identify patterns by touch, stitching elaborate designs into fabrics with a precision that amazed even the most experienced needleworkers at court."

When asked how she knew what she was embroidering, the princess is said to have replied:

"I see it in my dreams. The threads whisper to me as the stars whisper to the skies."

Mushroom, of course, adds his own embellishment:

"The court marveled at her works, and some claimed she was blessed by the Seven or perhaps cursed by the Old Gods. Whatever the truth, her hands created beauty beyond compare. One such tapestry, depicting dragons in flight, hung in the Great Hall of the Red Keep for many years until it was destroyed during the Black Council."

Her Bond with Prince Daemon

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"Among those closest to the princess, none held a more unique bond with her than Prince Daemon Targaryen, her uncle. Daemon, often described as brash and hot-tempered, was uncharacteristically gentle in her presence. He called her ‘little star,’ a name that echoed her father’s first words upon her birth. It was said that he would sit with her for hours, recounting tales of his travels and victories in the Stepstones, always mindful to paint vivid pictures with his words so that she might see the world through his voice."

Mushroom offers a more colorful account:

"Daemon adored the girl, perhaps more than he did his own ambitions. He’d sit beside her, polishing Dark Sister while she listened to his tales. ‘Do you dream of dragons, little star?’ he’d ask her. ‘I dream of them always,’ she’d reply. I daresay the Rogue Prince would have brought her the moon if she asked for it. He once told me that the gods gave her blindness so she might better see the truths the rest of us are too blind to notice."

Despite their closeness, some whispered that Daemon’s affection for Y/N was an act of defiance against Viserys, a way to provoke the King. Yet others believed it was genuine—a rare display of softness from a man known for his sharp edges.

The Death of Queen Aemma and the Naming of Rhaenyra (105 AC)

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"The year 105 AC marked a time of profound sorrow and upheaval for House Targaryen. Queen Aemma Arryn, beloved by all, passed away in childbirth, her body unable to endure the strain of delivering the long-awaited male heir. The child, a boy named Baelon, survived but a day, his life as brief as a candle in the wind. The Red Keep was plunged into mourning, for the King had not only lost his queen but his hope for a son to secure the succession."

Mushroom, ever the dramatist, recounts:

"I was there when the Queen’s screams echoed through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, haunting us all. The maesters whispered of the impossible choice the King had made—save the babe or save the mother. In the end, neither survived. When King Viserys emerged from the chamber, his face was as pale as bone, and in his arms, he carried the lifeless child. The court fell silent as he whispered, ‘Aemma is gone.’ Yet, in his grief, his gaze fell upon his daughters, Rhaenyra and Y/N, as if to remind himself of what remained."

Y/N, only six years old, was said to have clung to her elder sister during the days of mourning. Blind though she was, she is said to have been acutely aware of the grief that permeated the Red Keep. “I heard her tears,” she later told her Septa, “and they sounded like rain upon stone.”

It was in the wake of Aemma’s death that Viserys made the momentous decision to name Rhaenyra his heir. Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"The King, bereft of sons, gathered his council and declared his eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, the Princess of Dragonstone and his chosen successor. The proclamation was met with mixed reactions, though none dared speak against it openly. Y/N, still a child, sat beside her sister during the ceremony, her small hand clutching Rhaenyra’s, as if to lend her strength. The court whispered of the younger princess’s quiet courage, though few noticed the tears that slipped from her unseeing eyes as the crown was placed upon Rhaenyra’s head."

The Marriage to Alicent Hightower (106 AC)

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"In the year following Queen Aemma’s death, King Viserys shocked the realm by announcing his intention to marry Alicent Hightower, daughter of Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. The match, though politically advantageous, was seen by many as a betrayal of Aemma’s memory. None felt this more keenly than the King’s daughters, Rhaenyra and Y/N, who had grown close to Alicent during her time at court."

Mushroom provides his usual flair:

"The whispers began long before the announcement. I saw Lady Alicent visiting the King’s chambers more often than a lady ought. Some said she was there to comfort him, others to ensnare him. When the match was declared, Rhaenyra stormed from the Small Council chamber, her fury unmistakable. Y/N, by contrast, said nothing. She simply withdrew to her chambers, though I later heard her weeping through the walls. ‘She feels too deeply,’ Ser Lorent said. ‘Her heart sees what her eyes cannot.’”

Despite her youth, Y/N was said to have been torn between her affection for Alicent and her loyalty to her late mother and sister. Alicent, aware of the tension her marriage caused, reportedly sought to win over the younger princess. Mushroom recounts:

"Alicent would visit Y/N often, bringing her gifts of perfumes and silks, hoping to mend the rift. ‘I am still your friend,’ she would say. But Y/N, though polite, grew distant. She would not speak against Alicent, but neither did she embrace her. When asked by her Septa why she avoided the Queen, she simply replied, ‘I dream of Mother, and in my dreams, she is crying.’”

The Court’s Reaction

Grand Maester Mellos records:

"The court, ever a cauldron of intrigue, buzzed with speculation over the King’s remarriage. While some saw Alicent as a stabilizing influence, others whispered of her ambition. Rhaenyra’s displeasure was evident, and though Y/N’s feelings remained a mystery to many, her absence from court functions spoke volumes. It was said that the younger princess spent more time in the gardens or with her dragon, Silverwing, seeking solace in the quiet places of the Red Keep."

Mushroom, in his usual irreverence, concludes:

"If the King’s marriage to Alicent Hightower was a political move, it was a clumsy one. It drove a wedge between father and daughters, a rift that would only grow wider in the years to come. As for Y/N, the court often wondered what went on behind her lilac eyes, for she remained silent, even as the storm clouds gathered. ‘A storm is coming,’ she once told her Septa. ‘And when it breaks, none will escape the rain.’”

Thus began a new chapter for the Targaryen family, one marked by tension and the seeds of division that would later engulf the realm.

The Birth of Prince Aegon (107 AC)

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"In the year 107 AC, Queen Alicent Hightower gave birth to her first child, a son named Aegon. The boy’s safe delivery was met with great celebration throughout the realm. King Viserys, whose grief over the loss of his firstborn son had lingered like a shadow, was said to have wept with joy at the sight of his living heir. The court rejoiced, though not all shared the King’s unbridled happiness."

Mushroom adds, with his usual candor:

"The King threw a grand feast for the birth of his son, lavishing praise upon Alicent as if she had brought forth a dragon herself. Rhaenyra sat stiffly at the high table, her face pale as milk, while Y/N, ever the quiet one, simply lowered her head. When the King raised a goblet and declared Aegon his 'future pride,' the Realm's Delight left the hall in silence. Y/N, as always, followed her sister like a shadow. The court murmured, but none dared speak their thoughts aloud."

The younger princess, blind though she was, seemed to sense the shifting tides. Septa Rhaedis later claimed that Y/N confided in her, saying, “The boy’s cries are like thunder. I hear storms in his wake.”

The Suitors of Rhaenyra

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"Following the birth of Prince Aegon, the King turned his attention to securing alliances through marriage. Rhaenyra, now in her tenth year of life, had grown into a striking young woman, admired by all for her beauty and fiery spirit. Suitors from every corner of the realm descended upon King’s Landing, eager to win the hand of the Princess of Dragonstone."

The accounts of the court speak of endless gatherings in the throne room, where lords presented gifts and pledges of loyalty. Mushroom, who was privy to these events, recounts:

"The lords came with jewels, horses, and promises of wealth, each one more desperate than the last. The Princess, seated beside her father, bore it all with a grace that belied her young age. Y/N, though often absent from such displays, was occasionally seen by her sister’s side, her unseeing lilac eyes lending an ethereal air to the proceedings. Some whispered that her presence was a silent rebuke to the King, a reminder of the family’s losses and the fragility of alliances forged by marriage."

The Shadow of the Younger Princess

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"Amidst the fanfare surrounding Rhaenyra’s suitors and the birth of Prince Aegon, Y/N remained largely in the background, a deliberate choice by her father. The King, ever protective of his younger daughter, sought to shield her from the court’s scrutiny. Unlike her sister, Y/N was spared the endless parade of lords and their gifts. Instead, she spent her days in the gardens, on the back of her black mare, or in the company of her dragon, Silverwing."

Septa Rhaedis later wrote:

"The younger princess was not overlooked out of neglect, but out of love. The King feared that her blindness, though it inspired awe in some, would make her a target for others. He believed that by keeping her out of the court’s spotlight, he was protecting her. Yet, Y/N, for all her quiet demeanor, was no fool. She knew her father’s intentions, and though she did not voice her objections, her distance from court life created a rift between her and her family that would never fully heal."

Mushroom, ever irreverent, offers his perspective:

"While Rhaenyra was paraded before the realm like a dragon ready to take flight, Y/N was kept hidden, a jewel locked away in a vault. But jewels cannot stay hidden forever. I heard whispers even then—lords asking about the 'blind beauty' and whether the King had plans for her. Viserys, blind in his own way, dismissed such inquiries with a wave of his hand. 'She is too young,' he would say. But the court knew better. He feared what they might see in her, and what ambitions she might awaken."

The Bonds of Sisterhood

Despite the growing tension in the court, Rhaenyra and Y/N’s bond remained strong. Mushroom writes:

"The two sisters were as different as fire and moonlight, yet they shared a closeness that no storm could break. Rhaenyra often brought her suitors’ gifts to Y/N, describing them in vivid detail so her sister might share in the spectacle. Y/N, for her part, offered quiet counsel to Rhaenyra, soothing her elder sister’s frustrations with her gentle words."

Grand Maester Mellos records:

"Though the court focused its attention on Rhaenyra, it was said that she confided more in her younger sister than in anyone else. Y/N, with her serene demeanor, provided a calming presence in the storm of Rhaenyra’s life. The Realm’s Delight, for all her strength, leaned on her blind sister as one might lean on a crutch. Together, they weathered the growing tensions of the Red Keep, their bond a rare light in a darkening world."

Thus, the stage was set for the years to come, as the lines between duty, family, and ambition grew ever more tangled. While Rhaenyra shone brightly before the court, Y/N remained in the shadows, a quiet flame that many would underestimate to their peril.

The Festivities of Prince Aegon’s Eighth Nameday (115 AC)

Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"In the year 115 AC, the Red Keep hosted a grand celebration in honor of Prince Aegon’s eighth nameday. Lords and ladies from across the realm gathered to pay homage to the young prince and revel in the accompanying festivities. Among the notable attendees was Lord Jason Lannister, the proud and ambitious Lord of Casterly Rock, whose presence stirred no small amount of intrigue. It was widely known that Jason had set his sights on the hand of Princess Rhaenyra, and his bold attempts to court her became a point of great amusement—and anxiety—during the celebrations."

Mushroom, in his irreverent style, recounts:

"Lord Jason, as proud as the lions on his banners, approached the Princess of Dragonstone with the subtlety of a hammer striking an anvil. He presented her with a golden spear—a finely crafted thing, no doubt—and boasted of the hunts they might share at Casterly Rock. Rhaenyra, unimpressed, replied that she had no need for a spear, as her dragon could handle any beast that might trouble her. The court erupted in laughter, leaving Lord Jason red-faced and sputtering."

Having been rebuffed by Rhaenyra, Jason sought out King Viserys, hoping to gain the monarch’s favor. Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"Lord Jason approached the King with a proposal as blunt as it was ambitious: a marriage alliance between House Targaryen and House Lannister. King Viserys, still devoted to his plan to wed Rhaenyra to Laenor Velaryon, dismissed the offer with a firm but polite refusal. Jason left the King’s presence visibly frustrated, his composure shaken by the double rejection."

The Collision That Almost Was

It was as Lord Jason retreated from the King’s chambers, nursing his wounded pride, that he first encountered Y/N Targaryen. Grand Maester Mellos records:

"At the request of her father, Princess Y/N, seldom seen at court in recent years, made an unexpected appearance at the festivities. Her arrival, though quiet, caused a ripple of curiosity among the assembled lords and ladies. Clad in silver and black, with her pale hair braided intricately about her head, the blind princess moved through the throng with a serenity that belied the chaos of the celebrations. Ser Lorent Marbrand, her sworn shield, guided her with care."

Mushroom describes the moment with his usual flair:

"Imagine it! Lord Jason, storming through the halls like a lion with a thorn in his paw, nearly barreled into the younger princess. If not for Ser Lorent’s quick hand, the two would have collided. As it was, Jason stopped short, staring at the blind princess as if she were a ghost. I swear by the Seven, his jaw dropped so low I thought he might swallow his own pride."

It was the first time Jason Lannister laid eyes upon Y/N, and the effect was immediate. Tyland Lannister, Jason’s younger twin and a sharp observer of human folly, later recounted the scene with amusement:

"Jason, ever the picture of confidence, found himself utterly out of his element. The blind princess, serene and unflinching, greeted him with a quiet grace that seemed to rob him of speech. For a man so accustomed to admiration, it was a humbling moment. I, for one, enjoyed every second of it."

Jason, regaining his composure, offered a hasty apology, which Y/N accepted with her usual gentleness. Grand Maester Mellos writes:

"The encounter was brief, but those who witnessed it spoke of how the Lord of Casterly Rock seemed momentarily unmoored, as if the blind princess had seen through him in a way that others could not. Whether by fate or chance, it was a meeting that would linger in Jason’s mind for years to come."

Reflections and Whispers

The court, ever quick to seize upon any moment of intrigue, buzzed with speculation about Jason’s reaction to Y/N. Mushroom, always eager to stir the pot, writes:

"Some said the Lord of Casterly Rock left the festivities with more than his pride bruised. Others whispered that he had found a new prize to pursue, though how one courts a woman who cannot see their fine clothes or lavish gifts, I cannot say. Still, I’d wager Jason would find a way—lions are nothing if not persistent."

Tyland, reflecting on the event years later, remarked:

"That day marked the first time I saw my brother truly at a loss for words. Princess Y/N Targaryen, with her quiet grace and unseeing eyes, had a way of disarming even the most self-assured of men. Jason was no exception. It was as if the gods themselves had decided to humble him, and they chose her to do it."

Though the moment passed quickly, it became a tale retold in the halls of Casterly Rock and King’s Landing alike, a small but significant thread in the tapestry of Y/N’s life and the ever-turning wheel of power in the realm.

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #house targaryen #house lannister #hotd jason #jason lannister #jason x reader #jason x you #jason x y/n

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lov4gor3 · 2 months ago

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A Dragon is Born

TW- childbirth, talks of death,and the stranger himself💀

RHAENYRA POV

“ ARGGH YOU CUNT “, she hears herself scream hoarsely, a sound that was came from deep within, so far yet so close. Her body burned with pain and agony, terror visible in her face as she breathes through her nose and exhales through her mouth. She swallows, terror now replaced with determination “ I will not end up like my mother “ she swallows the lump in her throat so thick as if she is choking on a rock.

Rhaenyra was incredibly nervous and terrified of giving birth, of dying like her late mother, those memories still ached into her memory forever ingrained into her mind. she wishes her mother was here to soother her, to guide her through the pain. But she is gone, of ashes and dust and she will never meet any of her grandchildren and that pains the princess deeply.

she continues to push and breathe, every breath like flames in her lungs, just like she was told and the pain…. oh the pain …… agonizing. The child bed is our battle field, her mother had one said. How Wise Queen Aemma was….. and how brutal she died.

Rhaenyra so deep in her thoughts didn’t feel the pressure between her legs,gone… empty, she opens her purple eyes, shrill screams of another…. a babe…. her babe… her firstborn.

There is still pain lingering in her body, but without a babe clawing there way out, the pain almost immediately subsided and she was grateful for it. She cries when she sees her babe, oh how beautiful her darling girl was, her babe being wrapped in a cloth and placed in her arms.

oh this feeling… this is what her mother always tried to tell her and there was nothing like it….. oh a mothers love for it is beautifully haunting. She looks down at her little one, her girl, her heir. There is a small tuft of white hair on her head and her skin is dark but a bit lighter than laenor but certainly darker than hers. This makes rhaenrya want to cry and scream with relief and accomplishment, a heir of house Velaryon and House Targaryen.

So enchanted by her babe she barely registered the midwives calling the guards to call for her husband and father. her cries have quieted down the long she feels her mothers warmth causes Rhaenyra to coo at her.

You will understand how much I love you when you have your own children, her late mother once said to her. In her younger years she scoffed at her mother claiming them to be foolish terms for she thought she would never have children, but now she understands the words of her late mother. It only took one look at her daughter to realize what she would do whatever it cost to make sure her babe was safe, unharmed, happy.

“ You little one have caused me a great deal of pain, but how can I scold you for when I’m so in love with you my darling girl. My little dragon i see it, you were born for this world to conquer it like our ancestors, to lead men into armies, to make them kneel and obey. my sweet girl you will show this world that women can be anything they put there mind to. “

Rhaenyra brings the babe to her chest cherishing this moment, peaceful and quiet, looking at the babe she carried in her belly for nine moons, so beautiful…

When she looked up she realized the sky was clear and the sun shone directly on her babe, creating an ethereal look... something inhuman... something dark....

"The Dragon has been born and they shall foresee a great prophecy in which the Prince that was promised shall fight in the war of death and darkness. For they shall bring the light-bringer and the Prince that was promised together to foresee and defeat death. For they are the most important piece in the game." whispered the stranger, looking down at the babe in the arms of her ethereal mother.

to be continued......

#black!reader #house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #laena velaryon #rhaenys targaryen #aegon the conqueror #hotd oc #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #house velaryon #game of thrones #daenerys targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #cregan stark x reader

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quinnred · 11 months ago

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Tilshek: God of the Ugly Rage, WindRammer, He-Who-Drums-The-Summit.

Tilshek is the embodiment of warm storms, tantrum, frenzy, spasm, drunken fury, and unjust punishment. He is represented by the Urchin and Cactus in the South and by the Porcupine and Thistle in the North. Berserking warriors may don quills to evoke Tilshek in their rages, while others may wear a flower of a thistle or cactus to evoke his merciful servant, Mahtaa.

Tilshek was born from the abuse of two Feather Gods within the halls of The Sun. He emerged stillborn, fused with the bestial Jak that all Feathers Gods are pregnant with, and was denied feathers by his reckless parents. The babe was tossed from the sky and quickly forgotten upon the land. No god dare claim parentage as even they know shame.

Abandoned and with no guidance, the naked and pained god became a wild storm of knuckle and claw, scarring the land and terrorising all that lived on it. Only one, a young Manava named Mahtaa, would recognize this mindless wreaking as the divine bawl of a newborn god and calm it with soft word and tenderness and succour. The beaked giant would ever seethe, but placation allowed Mahtaa to guide Tilshek to the home of the Shell Gods, The Mesa.

The Shell Gods were impressed with the mad orphan’s strength and the wisdom of his guardian, asking what drove the new god to such a rage. He cawed to them that he was born of poor love and left naked and wronged, wishing that he could return to his home if only to pluck and maul his kin until The Sun hung red. The chief of the Shell Gods, mighty Zridtara, was greatly amused and sympathetic to Tilshek’s rage against their rival pantheon, welcoming him into his Mesa home as an honorary Shell God. Being too rowdy to live within it’s halls, Tilshek was appeased by sitting atop The Mesa, tended to by often smashed Godler servants and the soothing Mahtaa as he stared at the ever enraging Sun.

While the Godlers would serve their master divine boozes and sacrifices (and suffer pummeling due to minor grievances), Mahtaa’s role was to herd the ram skulled god away from fool furies. He became most needed whenever Tilshek was sent on an “errand” by his new kin, a distraction so the Shell and Feather god pantheons could visit and negotiate without conflict. As Tilshek would rampage across the mortal lands, Mahtaa would outwit his master and aim his rages away from innocent mortals, earning him the title “Storm-Guide”.

One day the tantrummer had been told of a piece of the moon that held Jak yolk, as it was the egg that The Mountain and The Sky conceived the Jaks from, and that it may yield him god feather. Mahtaa did not take this seriously, seeing it as yet another teasing of his master, yet Tilshek was ecstatic that his solar massacre dreams may yet be fulfilled. As they travelled Mahtaa would ponder that, if the moon yolk was real, should his idiot charge receive such a boon, even if it was his birthright as Feather God and as a Half-Jak? Surely he would not only kill his sun kin but also be slain himself in such a mad fervour?

And so Mahtaa would deny Tilshek his prize upon it’s discovery, allowing it to be taken and hidden by Godlers of the Feather Gods. In confusion, the normally unhesitating Tilshek paused for once in his life before striking down an offender. In those moments Mahtaa stood strong and loving, even as his god sprouted a pair of arms to strangle him with. But rather than suffocate, his head bloomed into a kind flower, his godhood blossoming into a champion of mercy due to his many good deeds. From then on Tilshek would ever carry the flower faced god as punishment for his betrayal, and in part as a comfort, like a child may clutch their blanket.

This arrangement would only end upon the coming of the Deiomachy, when peace between gods eroded and fate grew hungry for war. Tilshek silently granted his one and only mercy, releasing his beloved and loyal prisoner so as to spare him from the doom-drum of divine combat.

The Mesa would be capped by a false peak as Tilshek flung himself with a rising storm towards his twin-by-fate: Shrileket the Sun-Dropper. Their clash would announce war between the Feather and Shell, booming as only gods could for days until they fell upon each other’s impalements.

#slaughtermauch #tilshek #gods #quinn red #art #fantasy

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tteokdoroki · 11 months ago

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⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⟡. — KATSUKU BAKUGOU. homemade love.

about. katsuki takes the pain of his middle-born daughter to heart, and does anything he can to fix it.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! sfw, fluff, characters aged up, bakugou is a girl dad of three, reader is referred to as ‘ma’, their daughter is quirkless like deku lol, he makes her pasta, pro hero!bakugou, fem!reader, … a draft from a long time ago!! enjoy please <3

katsuki who cooks and makes his middle daughter her favourite pasta recipe whenever she’s down.

she comes home from middle school with scraped palms and knees, teary eyed and with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“they don’t like me ‘cause ‘m quirkless.” she says as soon as she’s through the door — the authentic bakugou twang thick in her shaky voice. her face is pressed into your torso when you make eye contact with katsuki, who’s emerged from the kitchen down the hall and to your left.

you see it all flash before his eyes — his childhood, his high school career and the day he died. the way he treated the number one, uncle izuku, for so many years. it’s all reflected in the familiar red of his middle child’s eyes and it kills him.

“c’mere squirt,” katsuki calls to her, drying off his hands with the red riot tea towel slung lazily over his shoulder. he’d been washing dishes before she got home. “we’re makin’ dinner together.”

“but i—“

“i wasn’t askin’, i was tellin’.” the older blonde nudges his head towards the kitchen, reaching a hand out for his daughter which she tenderly takes. when she sniffles, bakugou tucks her into his side as if to protect her from the horrors of the world. you let them go without interrupting, knowing the importance of this moment for the two.

it’s not easy, being a bakugou when you’ve got dynamight’s reputation to live up to. he’s fearsome and fiery, confident and calculated. your husband and the father of your three beautiful daughters is one of the main reasons why japan is safe today. the burden and weight of his reputation that your children carry is unimaginable — only made worse by the fact that your middle is quirkless.

and yet, dynamight’s love for her doesn’t falter. since the moment he first held his baby girl she’s been his entire world, his moon along with his sun and now his stars. he’s adored her before she even became a twinkle in his eye — no amount of power or special ability would change that for him.

she’s katsuki’s girl, not just dynamight’s daughter. he’d tear the world apart to find anyone who ever hurt her.

“hold the knife properly. you cut your finger off ‘n yer ma will have my head.” his gruff voice, holding no malice, makes your sweet girl snort with laughter — a change from her earlier wobbly bottom lip and teary eyes. “we’re tryna mince garlic for the sauce, not yer little hands, squirt.”

she sticks her tongue out at him, bright blonde curls bouncing when she narrowly misses a playful swat from her father. “i’m trying,” your middle child wails with faux upset — her nose scrunches all too similarly to how yours and it sends an arrow of love straight through katsuki’s chest. for a moment, the kitchen falls to silence and the elder of the two turns his attention to the pasta dough in his large floured hands — focusing on shaping them into little bow ties just how his daughter likes, on occasion adding them to a boiling pot of water.

“i’m trying,” she says again, but quieter. “but daddy, everythin’s so hard.”

and like pot simmering away on the stove, her emotions start to boil over — tiny hiccups forming a sad symphony with the sounds of a working kitchen.

bakugou instantly springs into dad mode, dropping everything that he had been doing to take your daughter’s hand in his. despite how messy it may be. “hey now gorgeous, don’t cry…tell me what’s wrong, yeah?”

“i-i don’t want to disappoint you by not havin’ a quirk n not bein’ a hero…” she manages to get out through her blubbering — digging the heal of her palm into wet eyes. “i jus’ wanna make you proud!”

katsuki’s face softens, everything except for love for his daughter melting away. “‘nd i am proud. fiercely fuckin’ so…ah, shit, don’t tell yer ma i cursed, kay?” he stumbles over his words, he’s never been the best at comforting people but when bakugou’s child needs him, he’ll be damned if he leaves her in any pain. “from the moment y’first came into this shitty — i mean — crappy world, i’ve been proud of you. you’ve always pushed yourself beyond anythin’ i could achieve, you’re kind to people when they don’t deserve it, you smile whenever things get tough…”

taking a moment from his passionate rant, katsuki slows his breathing and composed himself — squeezing his little girl close. “yer the best thing that’s ever happened t’me ‘n yer ma. my proudest moment… i love ya so much. you’d never disappoint me.”

“really, daddy?” your baby sniffles, rubbing at her snotty nose.

bakugou nods with a gentle smile, cupping her face between his two floury hands before kissing her forehead z “really.” he affirms. “now get yer choppin’ skills together, this pasta sauce ain’t gonna make itself.”

the two blonde’s return to cooking, a comfortable silence settling in your family kitchen, also full of love. that night, your family of five sit together munching on homemade pasta bow ties in a sauce that your middle daughter had worked so hard to make. she grins brightly between her sisters, staring at her father with her shining red eyes thankfully.

in that moment, she knows that she is loved no matter what the status of her quirk is.

you link your fingers with bakugou’s under the table. “you did good, dad.” you whisper to him, stabbing through your pasta with your fork. “

“so did you, ma.” he whispers back gruffly, thumb running over your wedding band as he eats his pasta too.

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ancientgoddessofegypt · 6 months ago

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The First House Glow

The first house is the side of us that blooms when we first enter into the world. It is the energy we merged with and bring with us upon meeting new people and enjoying our experiences here. It is the first song we listen to upon birth, and throughout this life time we will listen to its words, time and time again.

Today, I present a short n sweet diary of small interps of each planet in this house. Enjoy <3

Sun in the 1st - A personality that is big and boastful. Light hearted and full of joy. A person you want to get to know and always keep on your side. It is as if they shine a light on your behalf, just so you can see the beauty that is life. Special individuals who's purpose is to show who they are no matter what the world tells them. Have angels by their side guiding them into the sun, as they we're born to be it after all.

Moon in the 1st - Empathetic souls who's desire to bring love into the universe is heard from the stars and is brought back down to them as a gift to us. These individuals carry a heart that heals the world in some way shape or form. Their desire to heal themselves helps others see the internal light that is in us all. They have an ability to see beyond what others wish for them to see, and whatever they show back to you is a blessing in disguise, truly.

Mercury in the 1st - Very patient individuals. Fun, loving, child-like creatures who's playfulness can cause an uproar. They will give you a round of emotions just dealing with them, but its alright. There is always a purpose in it. They enjoy the rollercoaster that life brings. They could be naughty or nice, like a sour patch kid. You never know what's truly up with them. They're tricky beings after all.

Venus in the 1st - A poised, graceful personality. A beautiful delight to the world and everyone knows it. They're chosen to be well-known for their looks, beauty & charm and they use this to their advantage. Delicate creatures who's joy brings people to a full stop. Having to take a picture before they go, just so they can hold onto it forever more. Very brilliant underneath the surface. Stick around longer, don't just keep staring at em!

Mars in the 1st - Wise, strong, gifted creators of their world. They take all of their strength and vigor and find the path worth taking. Their confidence is looked upon as something that most people would never be able to conquer themselves. How do they get up each day without a care in the world? Even when the world is constantly throwing stones, they pick them up and throw them right back. Or, they make a special throne out of them. Glued together with sticks and used as a comfort seat for all the times people tried to hurt them, but they always got back up wiser and stronger every time.

Uranus in the 1st - The Impeccable, brilliant star has to back to earth to show us what they're really made of. The lightening that strikes before the storm. They are comfortable in their universe and as should you. A compass of the future, and a super star that ignites the flame in those who need it for themselves. Energy healers who's code is to open up the minds of a few, to prepare for world domination. Stellar individuals who's experience isn't like anyone elses. Simply came to be a new version of society.

Neptune in the 1st - Angels of the delight. The muse of the heavens. The imagination is their physical experience. Whatever it is they wish to see, it comes true times three. In the mind, soul and body, they become the world that is inside of themselves, and they bring it out for you all to watch. Compassionate hearts that lead them to the true path. That is to connect to the highest waters that reaches to the divine. Only here for a little while, to show the universe what the heart wants.

Jupiter in the 1st - Captivating auras who's presence takes us on a journey with God. Divine experiences can happen at any moment. You call it luck, while they call it a blessing. Only the real will survive with this placement. Their optimism is more of a medicine than something that you just do. They came a long way just to get there, and in no way shape or form will anyone ruin it. Life changing experiences happen only once and a lifetime, and they can tell the difference between that and something that isn't aligned with their true calling.

Pluto in the 1st - Precise thinkers. Level headed warriors. Strong survivors of the life they once lived, and only they know what it is like to live a certain way and come out on top. They do not hold on to lasting behaviors that drain them, they conquer their deepest desires by hunting for the deep, darkest part of themselves and opening a doorway for that new reality to enter. Very special people when you get to know them, they never hide in the dark for long.

Saturn in the 1st - Capable of anything because their hearts beg for it. If they want it they always go for it with a strong mind.No one can stop them from enjoying the fruits of their labor because they sought after it for years on end. Mature individuals that depend on themselves more than anyone, and their beautiful souls go on an every lasting journey to find it. Smooth, charismatic individuals who are looked up to by others. Can be very sweet, when they want to be.

I hope you all enjoyed this one ! Let me know what you think in the comments !

#astrology theories #astrology thoughts #astrology observations #tropical astrology #astro observations #spirituality #astro knowledge #astrology #1st house #short n sweet

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quitealotofsodapop · 5 months ago

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because this ask brought the Jttw Stone Egged Au (+the Post au) to the front of my brain;

I suggest an... interesting encounter the Pilgrims can have on their Journey while in the Country of Jisai. Macaque was in the middle of baby-carrying duty (a task he accepted wholeheartedly) when he encountered a stranger with odd words to say;

Stranger: "Nüwa blesses you." Macaque, surprised: "Oh! Thanks..." Stranger: "Do they have a name yet?" Macaque, focuses on the baby in his arms: "Yeah, we've been considering Xiaotian. Our Little Heaven." Stranger: "Beautiful." Macaque, cheeky smile: "I credit my mate though. I probably would have called them"Macaque's Kid" or something. I'm terrible for names." Stranger, chuckling: "He certainly has far to go to fit his title! It will take him a long time to be recognised with the renown such a name begets." Macaque, amused: "Oh, let me guess, you're some kind of fortune-teller?" Stranger: "In a way. I can sense when certain actions affect the future." Macaque, interested: "Huh. I have a similar ability, though it's not very reliable. I need the wind to pass by my ears and block out everything else to get something tangible." Stranger: "I know. Your title is Six Eared Macaque for a reason." Macaque, suspicious: "So you know who I am..." Stranger: "I do not wish any harm. I only wish to see the little one who's altered so much of the future. Even I was taken aback by what was changed..." Macaque, cautious: "You can look at them. But if he makes a single chirp, you're history." Stranger, carefully peers past the sling: "I understand. He's too precious. Your lives are enriched tenfold by his presence. Which is why I was surprised to see him born so early this time." Macaque: "This time? Do you mean-" Wukong:, some distance away "Moon! Master found a place for us to stay for the night! Time to regroup!" Stranger: "That's my cue to leave. I don't need the sight of the chaos to tell me that Mama isn't keen on well-wishers at the moment. Take care of that child, Liu'er Mihou. And take care of Sun Wukong. They're the only reason you breath at this moment." Macaque: "Wait! What do you mean-!" Stranger: (*transforms into a green bird and flies away*) Wukong, catches up: "Who was that Mihou?" Macaque, holds out baby for Wukong: "I dunno. Some demon with fortune-telling abilities wanting to see the cub. Says he has far to go in the future." Wukong, taking the baby into his arms: "Hopefully not a future as as eventful as our pasts. How's my little apricot doing?" Xiaotian: (*lazily yawns, having slept through the whole encounter. Reaches out chubby little hands to his parent.*) Macaque, smiling fondly: "Nah. Nothing big. Xiaotian is going to have a childhood we never got. A normal one." Wukong, sly smile as he cuddles the baby: "Oh, is it Xiaotian now?" Macaque: (*blushes as he realises*) Wukong: "Did you finally come around to my naming suggestion? Or did the fortune-teller say you would?" Macaque, still sheepish: "Whatever, sunshine."

A certain green bird would appear from time to time after this encounter. Mostly watching from afar to make sure that the little family stayed safe and out of harm's way. Macaque and Wukong were always suspicious of the creature, but it soon left without much explanation.

Xiangliu is happy that Xiaotian managed to find another way to be born before his time. Hopefully he'll have more time to prepare for what is to come...

#jttw stone egged au #sun wukong #six eared macaque #liu er mihou #shadowpeach #qi xiaotian #lmk mk #lmk xiangliu #lmk nine headed demon #lmk aus #lmk #lego monkie kid

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yuesya · 5 months ago

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‘Kibutsuji Muzan.’

This was the name of the King of Demons, a heinous monster and unrepentant murderer responsible for untold numbers of atrocities through the ages. Both by his own actions, and by proxy through existing as the progenitor of demonkind–

And most shamefully, one who had been born of the Ubuyashiki bloodline.

The birth of a demon brought down a curse upon the bloodline that gave birth to such a monster; all children born of Ubuyashiki blood are cursed to fall ill and die young, and Ubuyashiki Kagaya is no different. His own father had died young as well, and Kagaya had been trained from an early age to succeed his father’s role as the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps. And so his own children followed in his very same footsteps as well. It was cruel to place such burdens on the shoulders of children, but…

There was no other choice.

Thus, Ubuyashiki fastidiously, meticulously carries out his duties and responsibilities as the oyakata-sama.

It was not an easy task that he had inherited from his forebears. The records showed multiple events throughout the Demon Slayer Corps’ history in which the organization itself had been pushed to the brink of total annihilation.

But there is also something to be said for the resilience of humanity, even when faced against the preternatural strength and regeneration of demons that far outstrips anything of human ability. Time and again, the Demon Slayer Corps has held on tooth and nail to overcome adversity and continue moving forward, in hopes of realizing their ultimate goal:

The death of Kibutsuji Muzan, Father of Demons.

Slowly, the pieces were finally falling into place.

Ubuyashiki Kagaya is certain that the current generation of pillars ranks among the highest in terms of their strength in the history of the organization. Then the appearance of young Kamado Tanjiro, and his sister Kamado Nezuko…

And now, the emergence of another new variable.

An unnamed demon slayer. One who had shown herself to be capable of fighting and killing Upper Moon Three.

A girl who had fought and slain Upper Moon Three in the dead of night, without use of a nichirin blade.

It boggled the mind, really –and Ubuyashiki Kagaya dearly hoped to be able to meet the child. To speak with her, and learn of how she had accomplished such a thing, in order that they might be able to use the knowledge against Muzan. To ask the child to lend her strength to the Demon Slayer Corps, for she was most certainly not one of the swordsmen they’d trained.

She did not use any breathing style, Kyojuro had said. Then, what technique had she used, to become capable of fighting on par with a demon?

According to Kyojuro and the young demon slayers who’d been with him that night, the girl had long white hair. As white as the color borne by priestesses of the Himorogi clan, as his dear wife Amane hailed from. But priestesses were not trained to fight, and Amane had confirmed that, of the Himorogi children in this generation, none possessed deep blue eyes.

Who was this child, then? Who was this child who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and slain one of the most powerful demons without even wielding the strength of a sun-blessed blade?

Ubuyashiki Kagaya does not know the answer. But if they can find her again, and enlist her strength, then there is no doubt that they will be one step closer towards ending the horrific terror of Kibutsuji Muzan, once and for all.

#writing #zenith of stars au #demon slayer au #ubuyashiki perspective #meanwhile shiki is running around and making her way to tokyo #special thank you to ko-fi friends!

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sehaedazokla · 3 months ago

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he that dares

part seven

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

word count: 10.0k

a/n: this chapter got a little longer than intended so grab some popcorn for this one and thank you to everyone who has sent asks / left comments on this work! i am having so much fun writing this and it is lovely that it is being enjoyed.

previous part | next part | series masterlist

Highgarden is recalled as a soft spring day upon Lady Tyrell’s mind. A clear afternoon spent tucked into a shaded passage underneath an archway of flowers, a thick book with aging pages raptly capturing her attention as a lute player’s song drifts over the hedges in melodical swirls. The evening winds upon her and her sister, barefoot and dressed in slips of light silks, running through fields of golden roses that stretch out endlessly until the sun sets into pinks and oranges and yellows against the horizon. Crystalline laughs, blithe and innocent, when she and the other young ladies would convince their parents to allow them to take gracefully carved boats out upon the Mander, weeping willows dipping over the river full of emerald grasses and brilliantly colored flowers that grow beneath the water’s surface. She can picture her mother, under the shade of a large and lacy parasol of pastel fabrics, who would occasionally lift one gloved hand to wave elegantly at her daughters from the banks.

As a child, her mother had been the very pinnacle of desired sophistication and grace. With easy charm and poise, the Lady of Highgarden can command any room simply by entering it. From the moment Lady Tyrell was born, it has been expected of her to carry herself with similar elegance. To shine, to play darling and enchant those she meets, to excel at all typical ladylike pursuits. Unfortunately for her, it had not all come naturally. But what she had not been blessed with upon her birth – an easygoing nature, a soft-spoken tongue, a quiet countenance – she found could be learned.

And as time passed, as she gained the perspective upon her parents that only time could provide, Lady Tyrell came to realize that she is certainly, undoubtedly, her mother’s daughter. What she had perceived as perfection as a child was actually patience. The ability to bide one’s time productively, to study oneself and to learn one’s flaws and weaknesses and those of their allies and enemies. When weaponized, patience and a sharp eye blossom into a spider’s web that ensnares unsuspecting prey lured in by the beauty of a blooming rose. How astutely the lady has watched this dance unfold beneath the glittering stars since her mother rose to power in Highgarden. The enemies of House Tyrell did not survive the succession war, although one could hardly say it solely happened by fate’s generous hands. Tongues that rose up against them soon found themselves choking and spitting over their words, poison sweet and lethal upon them.

If the Lady Tyrell is considered clever and fierce, these traits passed to her through her mother’s blood. When the hour draws late, the bells chiming and tolling out the highest point of the moon in the sky, she often wonders if she possesses as ruthless a spirit. She does not long for the day when that might be tested. To secure the safety of their family, of her children, Elinor Tyrell has tightened her grip upon her web, drawing in the flies and scorpions and snakes. Yet in her recent years, the Lady of Highgarden has grown more and more ambitious, eyes often cast to the winds of fortune and their ever-changing flow. With two eligible daughters, now would be the ideal time to firmly grasp power through advantageous betrothals.

Betrothals without consideration for the character of the men in question.

A letter of rolled parchment is gripped tightly within Lady Tyrell’s closed fist, her fingers crumpling the tan paper with a constricting hold. Peaking out from beneath her fingers is a wax seal of a single rose, the color of the darkest blue. As her shoes echo sharply within the decadent halls of the Red Keep, a spiked anxiety jumps rapidly underneath her skin. Her brows are drawn above her eyes, which dart from stone wall to marble pillar as her mind composes and discards a multiplicity of strategies that might convince her mother to abandon her quest for greater power. The more she considers the issue at hand, the more abrupt her steps grow. Once upon a time, when the notion of fairy tales was still harbored with childish hope in the cavity beneath her breastbone, she had spun similar designs for a far more romantic purpose. Childhood love, falsely and treacherously placed as it was, drove her nearly mad.

As she approaches the Queen’s Chambers, the guards immediately draw back from her path, nodding at her after growing quite accustomed to her presence in Maegor’s Holdfast. There is no need to question her being there after their liege lord has brought her past them on many a night. The early hour of the day does not seem to give them pause, nor does her agitated expression and pace. With the arrival of more nobles to the castle that very afternoon, notable allies of the Northern forces whom had recently finished with the remaining issues in the Riverlands, neither Cregan nor Lady Tyrell could surmise how much time the meetings might take as the upcoming trials were further discussed. Unwilling to allow a day to pass without seeing Jaehaera, she had inquired if Cregan might accompany her for a visit in the earlier hours of the day as opposed to their usual meetings which occurred after supper. The Lord of Winterfell had been swift in his granting of her request. She purposefully declined to dwell on how frequent and genuine his accommodations of her desires have become as of late.

So distraught by the contents of the letter in her hand, Lady Tyrell cannot even muster a saccharine smile to wax demurely across her face. The skirts of her morning gown swish in an angry rhythm across the cold floor, the noise prominent in the otherwise silent passageway. Once, this section of the castle had brimmed with busy servants and giggling ladies maids, clinging upon each other’s arms as their eyes shone with laughter and mischief. Now, it served only as place for ghosts and fragmented memories to linger in hazy and liminal echoes.

A frown creases upon her face at the sight of the arched oak door, already partially ajar. A warm ray of golden sunlight has snuck past the marble pillars upon the walkway overlooking the enclosed courtyard below, relaxing languorously before the doorway. Her steps draw to a halt before the wood, her unoccupied hand outstretched to press the pads of her fingertips against the smooth wood, the centers of her brows drawn together as she peers into the room. Before her eyes might inform her of anything, a voice that has grown all too familiar reaches her ears.

“Good, princess. Now attempt it once more.” The Lord of Winterfell’s low timbre, stern still albeit it considerably more gentle in that moment, fills her agitated mind as she pushes the door the remainder of the way open. Inside the extensive chambers of the room stand Cregan and Jaehaera, the latter of whom clutches a small wooden sword in her hands. The girl has an expression of utmost concentration upon her face as she swings the toy weapon through the air in front of her, her wide eyes immediately gazing up to the lord to inquire as to how she had performed. Her hair has been pulled back into a single braid, similar to the style the Lady Tyrell has often woven in the princess’ silvery locks. Cregan parts his lips to speak, the telltale raise of the corners of his lips signaling his approval, when both become alerted to the lady’s presence within the room. Jaehaera lights up immediately, a sweet smile upon her face as she lowers the sword. Cregan, in turn, finds his immediate softening at her arrival rapidly morph into hesitation when he sees the look upon her visage.

So familiar with her expressions has he become, that as Jaehaera hurries across the room to take Lady Tyrell by the hand and begin to explain what she has been learning, Cregan experiences a slight drop in his stomach at the tightness of her closed fists and the creases at the corners of her mouth. As the princess extends the pretend weapon for the lady to view, he wonders if she is angry with him for providing the young girl with lessons, no matter how rudimentary. Perhaps he has overstepped in his decision, in acting prior to consulting her first. With some effort, the lady gives Jaehaera a smile and nods as the girl continues to speak, but Cregan can surely perceive it to be forced. He shifts his weight to his alternate foot as he finds himself with the rare and uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty. A cool morning breeze blows the sheer curtains into the room further, billowing as if the sails of a boat.

Jaehaera reaches out a small hand to bequeath the wooden sword to Lady Tyrell as the princess wanders into the next room to retrieve a book in High Valyrian she has been reading, the lady’s eyes following the girl out of the main chamber. Only when Jaehaera has slipped through the connecting door does Cregan speak, his voice lowered to a deep hush so that the girl might not overhear. With a single step towards her, a squaring of his broad shoulders as his stern eyes search her face thoroughly, he attempts to phrase his intention clearly. “If I have overstepped, Lady Tyrell, I do apologize. I had only thought upon your own anxieties and wished to perhaps provide the princess with basic knowledge to defend herself.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes widen as the words fall from his lips, her own parting in soft denial as she realizes how Cregan has interpreted her distressed stance and expression. Her shoulders lift and then sag as a portion of the weight from her turbulent thoughts escapes through a concentrated sigh and she intentionally loosens her hold upon the parchment clutched in her anxious hands. The movement causes light to catch the delicate gold jewelry atop her prominent collarbone, drawing attention when juxtaposed by the depth of the neckline of her gown. She can feel the parchment retaining its crushed shape from the strength with which she had been squeezing it.

“No,” It comes out as a weary breath, followed by a soft swallow and the brief closing of her eyes as she collects her thoughts that have been scattered about her brain like blushing petals from a spring tree. A hand reaches up to her forehead, lingering tiredly atop her skin as if the motion might vanquish the headache that has formed from her incessant worrying. Should she fret any longer, her skin will surely erupt into reddish hives that bloom across her arms like the remnants of a wayward flame. It is impossible to not be softened by the gentle look she had glimpsed in Cregan’s eyes as he had instructed the princess, by the way the girl has seemed to grow accustomed to Cregan’s presence slowly. For that brief moment she had witnessed them, uninterrupted by the world, she could tell at once how kind and attentive of a father Cregan must be to his own young son. It had seemed as natural as drawing breath, to spend time instructing and guiding the girl. “No, you are right to teach her. You have my gratitude for it, Lord Stark, please do not mistake me.”

In truth, she might rest easier at night with the knowledge that Jaehaera can at least make a valiant attempt at defending herself if something were to happen. She desperately wishes to keep weapons from the girl’s hand, considering her young age and the violent tragedies that have befallen her family, but there shall be no safety for the princess so long as she remains within the castle. The last of her direct lineage, the sole survivor amongst her immediate family upon that side of the war. Many watch with drool dripping from their fangs, twisting hands reaching out to ensnare the child within their grasp and attach puppet strings to her back. If they cannot control her, it is likely at least one attempt on her life shall be made. At present, she remains safe within her chambers, a constant system of guards posted outside her door. But such measures of security shall not last forever, and Lady Tyrell would much rather give the girl a fighting chance rather than end up like her, unable to truly physically protect herself. “You do me a great favor by instructing her, if you truly do not mind doing so. I do wish for her to have some knowledge, given the precarity of her position.”

As Cregan approaches her, seemingly placated by her gentle correction of his misunderstanding, worry of his own flickers tenderly across his face as he seeks out the cause of her agitation. As his imposing figure shadows her own, strands of reddish hair fall about his face and to the tops of his shoulders when he brings his voice impossibly lower, impossibly deeper. Merely a breath away from him, her chin lifts with gentle hesitation to reveal the depth of her concern to his prodding eyes, the distinct color of storm clouds. “Then what troubles you so, my lady? Allow me to rectify it, if it might be within my power.”

How certain his quiet words are, nearly comforting in their strength and assurance. If only it were so simple, to surrender her worries to the Lord of Winterfell and wait patiently for him to straighten each one out. But far too much rests upon his plate at present, and this matter might be out of even his control. Another soft sigh from her lips and she clasps her hands together, unable to resist the childish habit of pressing her fingers into her palms. Cregan’s eyes flick down at this, finding himself only barely able to resist the urge to draw her smaller hands into his own, the way he had when he had bandaged her wrists within the quiet warmth of her chambers. Instead, he involuntarily tightens his jaw while waiting with the steady patience he has come to extend to her whenever she might need it.

“You need not send Lord Blackwood to treat with Highgarden,” The airy and exasperated quality of her words is far from lost upon Cregan, as her tone adapts the rushed cadence she speaks with when her mind becomes embroiled with worry. The letter in her hands seems to hold a weight akin to a stone pulled from a garden’s soft dirt. “Highgarden shall come to you, my lord. My mother and sister will arrive with a small traveling party within the week. She has long since been underway.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow at this, his gaze continuing to search her face while the implication of the news takes firm root within his mind. With a quiet inhale through his nose, he gives her a slow nod. “I had imagined the upcoming trials might draw in more of the prominent families of the South. I did not know your lady mother would wish to attend.”

“The scales of power are in constant motion at this time, and the turbulence of the war has only increased the amount of opportunities for those who have long since minded themselves and heeded the Targaryen rule,” Lady Tyrell might do well to mind herself and her own words, tending to her personal interests before she foolhardily presents her honest opinion to another, but finds it difficult to not tell Cregan the entirety of the truth. She need not wonder upon how long it has been since she has had a true confidant in whom she can confess the extent of her thoughts – the lady can count the exact number of days that have passed. Perhaps that is why conversing honestly with the Lord of Winterfell has proven so undeniably tantalizing. His stature and countenance might play a considerable role, but following their first truthful encounter it would seem neither of them is eager to raise the issue of the tension up in conversation. Jaehaera’s quiet voice can be heard briefly from the connecting room, in soft conversation with her Septa. “With two eligible daughters, she ought to be here, where she might confirm what I suspect are her desired matches.”

The lady gives a sharp breath at this, managing only barely to keep the words from dripping with sardonic bitterness and exhausted dread. Her eyes drift to the window, as they so often do when unpleasant emotions coil up in her stomach, and she misses entirely the seriousness with which Cregan Stark is taken aback by her words. His eyes narrow further, his shoulders drawing back so that he might appraise her with tight lips and an even tighter jaw that twitches slightly as he is met with an unexpected brush of an emotion adjacent to irritation twisting within his chest. His gaze moves about her face, before he looks down and makes a stoic attempt to reason with himself over how improper it might be to speak brashly upon the matter. Given her beauty, it will prove exceedingly difficult to find a man who would not fall to his knees for but a taste of her, to claim her as his own. The idea of such an atrocity only serves to bring his hand into a tight fist, knuckles nearly white at the thought. She, who has fought so valiantly with the skills she possesses in the face of brutal masculine strength and wanton violence, should not be subjected to such a fate after surviving the war while living amongst vipers and dragons.

“Are you not of an age where you might seek out a match yourself, my lady?” The words are offered as a low interjection into the silence that has fallen between them, yet perhaps Cregan is unable to fully banish the sharpness from his tone as he presents his inquiry. She is barely younger than Cregan himself, and having been in such a prolonged betrothal with the late prince Daeron she has avoided the fate of marriage in her teenage years. While she has spoken upon a number of occasions about the upcoming engagement of her sister, she has not mentioned an imminent marriage for herself. One edge of her mouth twists up resentfully at his words and she tilts her chin slowly, eyes still cast away as the curtains sway gently in the breeze seeping in through the open window.

“Such an age seems like a lovely dream, one I have not the luxury of possessing.” The bitter lamentation disfigures itself into forlorn and disconsolate acceptance. She desires to cease discussion upon the matter, holding no wish to appear as one who complains futilely of their fate. Yet thickly veiled sorrow flickers behind the curtain of indifference she sweeps over her glassy eyes. “It matters little. Of greater importance, you shall not be seeing a host from Oldtown within the coming days nor months. They have agreed to stand down.”

This brings the turbulent discourse within Cregan’s mind to a temporary stillness, the leader within him long since used to prioritizing matters of duty over matters of a more personal consequence. There is a quiet mix of relief and lassitude at the realization that the fighting truly has ended, combined with worry over his people, who will have to march north to return to their struggling families as winter bares its fangs and prepares to descend upon the lands. His eyes drift downwards, her expression growing sterner and then weary as he sighs heavily. “Good then, that the trials shall commence sooner rather than late. Too long has this crisis endured, and now it shall end.”

Her hands remain drawn together atop the light fabrics of her gown, her shoulders lowered and her eyes big as she watches him with a reserved look upon her features. The subtle manner in which she recalls all hints of emotion, as if reigning in every outer expression of her own thoughts upon the matter, does not go undetected by Cregan. So much has she lost in the war and so little she gained, save for a broken heart and a tiredness unbecoming of her age. The concept of such a catastrophe within her life having finality to it must weigh disconcertingly upon her heart. He does not envy her for experiencing it now, as he has experienced it before. “I shall not forget your assistance with the Hightowers, nor with the princess or managing the nobles at court. You have been of great help to me, Lady Tyrell.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes narrow with ambiguous deflection, her brows raising as she draws her arms across her chest slowly. The concept of being thanked with such solemn genuineness has become foreign to her as of late and sets her lashes aflutter as she searches internally for a way to change the topic of discussion once again. But any thoughts upon the matter – or any thoughts at all, in truth – are vanquished from her mind into wispy clouds of white smoke as Cregan draws impossibly closer to her, broad shoulders leaning forth. Her eyes instantly meet his own, delicate confusion and wariness upon her face even after their growing familiarity. The memory of his hands upon her lower back and the curve of her hip as he taught her to fight burn hot against her skin, and perhaps this is why her eyes traitorously flicker to his lips, parted softly as he considers his next words.

At the nearly imperceptible drop of her eyes, Cregan too is robbed of words and coherent thought. His face seems to melt with slow wanting, heavy and thick as golden honey. The hesitation within her eyes is not lost upon him, nor the very gradual manner in which he has been seemingly gaining some amount of trust from her. He knows it is not an easy thing for her to give. There is a flutter of breath that catches within her chest, the effect of steeling herself to stand before him rather than draw away at such weighted proximity. Cregan’s brows draw together with an aching softness at the sweetness of her acceptance, of her belief in his character and intention. Never will he allow a hand to harm her again, never does he wish to see fear upon her lovely countenance. Her heart is well-guarded, separated from the everyday happenings of the capital by barbarous briar hedging, but he swears he can catch a glimpse of the pure tenderness through the twisted maze. The Queen’s Chambers have faded to a soft and distant background behind her, she who shines in perfect focus within his gaze. Any wish to verbally affirm the appreciation he has for her has been lost, replaced by a burning yet tempered desire to provide physical proof of it. Words such as decency and propriety dance briefly upon his mind but are hesitantly pushed aside with the slow raise of his arm. Unlike when teaching her the sword, Cregan has no excuse for his closeness nor the want within his eyes. “You said once that I might endeavor to act upon my gratitude, rather than speak of it.”

His large hand casts a warm shadow upon the skin of her cheek, as she parts her lips unconsciously, mirroring Cregan’s own. Her refusal to draw away from him only solidifies the timid trust she has placed in him, and if it were not wholly unbecoming, the Lord of Winterfell might find himself upon his knees to ask her for something he should not. The concept of her marrying a stranger only fuels the fire within his chest, a petulant selfishness whispering in his ears to forbid someone who does not know her from attempting to come near. To whisk her back to Winterfell, with her approval, if only to keep her out of the reach of unworthy hands. But in this moment, his desire is simple.

“May I, my lady?” A tantalizingly low echo of his previous words, just as reverent yet more needing than when he had last spoken them. At her silent consideration, that hint of a smile she has come to long for finds its way to his lips. “I am not above petitioning at length, should it please you.”

Lady Tyrell cannot claim that she understands exactly what Cregan Stark is seeking permission for. In an even more dire realization, she finds it does not matter to her. Her answer remains the same, so long as it is he who is asking. A soft breath of disbelieving protest at her own foolishness escapes her lips, the near whine sending heat directly between Cregan’s thighs. Ally or not, she might kill him yet.

“You need not do such a thing.” The phrase does not take as certain of a shape as she might wish, but the lady manages to whisper the words into the small space between them without her voice breaking. Curse her own idiocy, her own desires. It would seem she has not become wise regarding matters of this nature, despite previous lessons hardly and cruelly learned. A long time coming has this intimacy been, from the very moment their eyes locked within the throne room. Before there had been respect and wary alliance, there had been want.

The pads of his fingers brush against the plush skin of her cheek, the roughness of them a stark contrast to her softness. Cregan inhales quietly at the touch, the callouses of his battle worn hands tender upon her face as he slowly envelopes her cheek within his grasp, cupping it with a gentleness she imagines few would expect from such an intimidating and large leader of men. His towering over her matters little when his caress is so fond, as if she is some sacrosanct being he wonders over the rightness of touching. Her head leans almost instinctively into his palm, her chin raised so that she might look him in the eye. His eyes are low-lidded, his warm breath dancing gently atop her own.

Her given name is breathed into the space between them, reverent and weighty upon his lips as if from sacred scripture.

No sooner do light footsteps pad through the door of connecting chamber, and Lady Tyrell jolts back from Cregan as if lightning has descended upon her. In her absorption in their intimate moment, she has nearly forgotten they stand in Jaehaera’s chambers, with the intention of spending time with her. The guilt at this lapse of memory has her quickly turning her back to Cregan, forcing an easy smile upon her face as the princess begins to explain the book she has retrieved. The lady’s heartbeat is so rapid, she wonders if Cregan can hear it as he stands behind her.

“Would you read it with me?” Jaehaera inquires softly, unaware of the tension that hangs thickly between the adults in the room. With such precious little time that the lady has to spend with the princess, she can hardly refuse her. She reaches her hand to gently brush a strand of silver hair that has fallen loose from Jaehaera’s braid and gives an earnest nod.

“Of course, darling. Come, let us begin now.” Lady Tyrell’s voice is soft and full of the tender love she only presents when around the child. As the two of them cross the room to the cabriole leg sofa by the fire, discussing the book in gentle voices, Cregan can hardly find himself displeased. Conversely, a rather clear image has settled into his mind of tender moments interrupted by the soft voices of children, the halls of Winterfell once more filled with laughter and light. How long it has been since he has acknowledged this dream, let alone believed it might yet happen within his lifetime? When the lady pulls Jaehaera into her lap, opening the book with a sweet smile of pure and devotional love upon her face, there is no doubt in Cregan’s mind upon what he feels within his chest. It is love.

To his surprise, the princess then looks across the room at Cregan expectantly. She does not request anything, but she does not need to. Cregan gives a small nod to indicate his understanding, and makes his way to the sofa, sinking down next to Lady Tyrell as the woman’s face conveys how softly impressed she is by his winning the princess over. As Jaehaera begins to read the words of the story aloud, a gallant tale of the adventures of a knight and his squire, a warm peace has filled the room.

For the first time since the Northerners arrived at the Red Keep, new forces are allowed past the castle’s imposing gates and into the expansive front courtyard. Allies of the Lord of Winterfell, those who had fought beside him during the arduous descent from the North to the capital city, that had been straightening out the remnants of those who had supported Aegon II and the Green faction during the war. The open iron-barred gates let in a long line of weary soldiers, shoulders raising as they dismount their armored horses within the walls of the ruling seat of the Seven Kingdoms. Banners decrying the identity of the gathering Houses are taken careful note of by Lady Tyrell, who remains atop a balcony overlooking the bustling activity below. At her side is the Lady Jeyne Arryn, whom had suggested that the lady join her to observe the happenings prior to the meeting that is to be held. Lady Tyrell has developed a true fondness for Lady Arryn, her admiration for the Lady of the Vale having been in great supply since their first meeting. Learning more of her past has only served to increase her desire to learn from the other woman.

Many wagons roll through the gates, carrying what little supplies are still possessed by the troops, their wooden wheels bumping atop the tiny rocks dotting the courtyard’s ground. Loud and deep voices boom out into the air, laughter heard as friends reunite and begin to speak of their great victories during the campaign. Men clap each other upon the back, talk of drinking and whoring within the capital city that night already heard in plethora throughout the busy space. There are sounds of metal clanking together as armor is stripped and swords are sheathed, of neighing of the horses, of interspersed shouting from guards as the gates are manned. It is such a lively scene that the lady is swept into the unwilling remembrance of a bitter nostalgia, her mind recalling days where such vivacity occurred at the gates each time the sun rose. A cool breeze upon her cheek and the smell of seawater drifting in from the Blackwater stirs her from her thoughts, a quiet acceptance upon her countenance.

“Lord Stark has told me of the resolution of our problem regarding House Hightower,” Lady Arryn muses in an even tone, her eyes as sharp as steel as they scan the incoming men. Yet there is no harshness to her words, simply the direct Northern practicality that Lady Tyrell has come to find unfortunately endearing. “And so this shall be the remaining arrival of troops to your doorstep. I imagine you shall be relieved to see us depart, Lady Tyrell.”

“I cannot lie and pretend I do not wish for the ending of being trapped within these walls, nor the ending of such a tragedy,” Lady Tyrell finds that the resigned smile upon her lips is rather genuine, and she tilts her chin, eyes wandering across the commotion beneath them calmly. The matter is far too complicated for her to voice her true opinions on, should she herself even manage to ever put her thoughts upon the war into words. The strangeness of its ending has not yet settled fully within her chest. “Yet neither can I truthfully say I wish you all to be gone from my sight permanently.”

Cregan Stark’s Northern council is filled with those the lady truly does not mind the company of. Lady Arryn is perhaps her favorite, but the young Tully lords are bold and entertaining, and she still retains the hope of introducing her sister to Lord Blackwood. Even the lords Corbray have grown upon her, despite her initial uncertainty. It speaks to the quality of Cregan’s character, to surround himself and fill the chairs of his table with those who uphold honor and integrity. As she meets the other woman’s eyes, her smile softens. “Perhaps I shall pay a visit to the Vale once matters have settled further. Your bannermen speak often of the beauty of the Eyrie.”

Lady Arryn beholds her with an unreadable expression for a moment before her eyes crease slightly at the corners, a dip of her head indicating her approval. “We would be honored to host you, my lady.”

“And I honored to be received into your halls.” Another gust of wind graces Lady Tyrell’s face, blowing sections of hair behind her in a gentle wave. Remembering the rumors that had stirred in the castle prior to the arrival of the men from the North, she is quite glad to have discovered for herself their true nature. Rather than bloodlust and violent savagery, the Northern nobles carry a stern upholding of duty and a blunt pragmatism that has served the capital well since their rise to power. Not far in the past are days when she could never have imagined herself with allies from the North, and yet here she stands.

Her attention wanders down to the courtyard as she steps forward with reserved curiosity to gaze upon the lord who has caused her such upheaval since the day he arrived. Cregan Stark appears every inch the fearsome warlord when amongst the other men, and it is clear from the manner in which they acknowledge him that he commands great respect. But when she catches sight of him, her eyes narrow and her expression grows more serious as she watches.

Before the Lord of Winterfell stands a lady, dressed in attire far more suited to hunting and fighting than a gown might be. Hair as dark as a starless sky, cascading in small curls down to the tops of her hips as the edges catch loose droplets of warm afternoon sun. A quiver of black arrows rests upon her back, and the ease with which she holds a bow within one leather-gloved hand signals to many years spent familiarizing herself with its use. Her height leaves her upon even footing with many of the men within the courtyard, and her wiry frame still reveals the strength of her arms and of her lithe legs. Boots are laced up to her knees, meant for riding far distances. There have been no alterations to emphasize any one quality about her; it would seem she simply adorns herself with what might be beneficial in battle. She might not be considered a great beauty amongst the nigh impossible standards at Court, but that matters little to Lady Tyrell at present. It is the way Cregan looks at her. Dark eyes shimmer as she laughs, hearty and genuine, at words the lord speaks to her with a stoic fondness. There is an effortlessness to the exchange, a familiarity with each other that sends a worrying gnaw into the pit of Lady Tyrell’s stomach.

This, she finds unacceptable. To be driven to worry over a conversation – it is entirely possible, the Lady Tyrell decides silently, that she has lost her mind altogether. The recollection of the sensation of Cregan’s fingers upon her face flutters delicately atop her skin and disappears at the sight of the corners of the Lord of Winterfell’s lips upturning to indicate true liking for the woman before him. Never has she seen him look at another in such a way. Her mind races to identify the emotion in his reserved eyes, her own darting across his face as her posture draws up tightly, strung and sharp.

“The lady whom Lord Stark converses with,” She begins, intentionally manipulating her voice to be pleasant and soft to avoid giving any external indication of the nonsensical concern tugging insistently at the strings of her heart. Especially in front of Lady Arryn, who seems to take great pride in being exceptionally practical. “Who might she be?”

Lady Arryn’s eyes scan the courtyard, her head tilting as she searches for the origin of the lady’s line of questioning. When the other woman notices the exchange below, she observes for a brief moment before leaning towards Lady Tyrell, her eyes remaining fixed upon the two within the courtyard. “That would be the Lady Alysanne Blackwood. She lead her men upon the battlefields as they marched south.”

The name sparks a quiet grasping for any information that Lady Tyrell has ever heard regarding the other woman. With some difficulty, she remembers that Lord Benjicot Blackwood has an aunt upon his father’s side, a lady of true Blackwood blood who has been assisting the young lord since the death of the previous Lord of Raventree Hall. It had been a passing fact she had learned and paid little mind to, but as she watches the conversation continue with smiles from both parties, she curses herself for not seeking out more information on Lady Blackwood. Nothing makes her more anxious than to be uninformed or unprepared, and she seems to have become both of those over a rather unexpected matter. It is not unimaginable that Lord Stark has admirers, nor women he is fond of. She cannot say she has not thought upon the matter briefly, but her time at court has left her rather confident in her ability to outmaneuver another to seek out what she wants. She is familiar with the games the other ladies play at court to win the attention of men. Alysanne Blackwood does not seem to be playing a game at all. It is the raw and brash manner in which she carries herself and speaks that stands out to the Lady Tyrell and with another sickening drop of her stomach, she realizes that this is likely what Cregan finds appealing.

“She fought in the battles herself, then?” It is with practiced expertise that she keeps her voice light and airy, as sweet and nonchalant as if she were asking about the state of the weather. Truthfully, the concept of a woman fighting upon the battlefield is quite fascinating to her. If only the Lady Blackwood had not captured Cregan’s attention so, Lady Tyrell might have found herself eager to converse with the woman herself.

“Aye. And a rarity it is, even with her talent. I myself cannot claim to have done so.” Lady Arryn’s casual remarks upon the matter do little to soothe the lady’s troubled mind. She wonders briefly if a lady need not have beauty if she is instead utterly fascinating, and then if perhaps the Lord of Winterfell prefers to be fascinated himself. The conversation within the courtyard carries on quite amiably amidst the bustle of the incoming troops.

“A rarity indeed.” It is a saccharine breath of agreement, accompanied by the brief narrowing of her eyes and upturning of her chin. Over the tip of her nose, she watches the easy way that Cregan angles his broad shoulders towards Alysanne Blackwood, nodding his head as he explains some happening that has occurred since their last meeting. As the Lord of Winterfell leans forward to brush off a dry leaf that has fallen upon Alysanne’s hair, the pit in her stomach hollows in cavernously and the Lady Tyrell is left all but reeling once more, her mind scrambling for logic or sense or a reference of information that might prove a useful balm to her tumultuous state of being at the simple touch. All she manages to do is press her lips together tightly, her smile slipping from sweet to sickeningly so. “He appears rather fond of her.”

Lady Arryn’s expression is tinged at the edges with something akin to amusement at this, and the other woman gives the lady a look out of the corner of her eye. Lady Tyrell is far too occupied with staring quite pointedly down at Cregan – the Lady Arryn finds it a wonder that her liege lord does not simply burst into flames from the severity of the gaze. After a moment, she dips her head in acknowledgement. “I believe they enjoyed each other’s company when their armies met.”

A crinkling of the corner of her eyes is the only indication of Lady Tyrell’s agitation. The phrase is quite vague, and while she desires fiercely to delve further into the meaning of it, she restrains herself. The lady is far too ruffled by this, more so than she cares to be, and she need not allow Lady Arryn to perceive any more of that frustration than the other woman already has. Little can be kept from the discerning gaze of the Lady of the Vale, but she shall try nonetheless.

The nobles gather in the former Small Council chamber soon after the troops have all entered the walls, talking amongst themselves whilst standing around the long rectangular wooden table. It is not as crowded as she might have expected, most of the men eager to engage in more pleasurable pursuits despite the night not yet having fallen, but Lady Tyrell is not as vigilant as she ought to be. The new faces in the room would normally draw her observant gaze, as she might attempt to study their character and decide who might prove useful in the remaining days the Northerners will reside at the Red Keep. She knows well she captures their attention, her effect on men is severely understood by her and she remains the only Southern presence within the room aside from the twin princesses Baela and Rhaena, whom Cregan has invited to the meeting as an offering of peace. But wandering eyes and wistful looks are spared no thought, not when Alysanne Blackwood has seemingly settled comfortably at Cregan’s side, walking next to him as they discuss something in a low tone.

The Lord of Winterfell is met with a pair of icy eyes when he scans the room for the Lady Tyrel’s presence. It gives him pause.

She does not seem interested in elaborating her thoughts upon the matter, busying herself with a soft smile and pleasant conversation with the lord standing next to her who is all too eager to speak to the lady. Soft light streams in through the small circular windowpanes upon the far wall of the room, the rather dull space only slightly more revitalized by the welcoming of more lords and ladies within its stone columns. Lady Tyrell’s hands remain folded atop her gown the color of the clearest sky as she asks politely after the battles seen by the lord at her side – Lord Hugo Vance, who appears to be around her age and is not an abhorrent partner to converse with. On the contrary, she finds his manner of speaking rather interesting, and he seems to be both grounded and reasonable. Not traits in high supply at King’s Landing. Despite the general geniality of the conversation, the matter with Lady Blackwood has another masculine voice echoing in the darker parts of her mind.

A flash of violet eyes, the curl of a scornful lip, whisperings of her worst traits and shortcomings. How brutally foolish she had been once, manipulated by the sweet fruit of childhood love that had led to a garden of poisoned apples and dying trees. For all her shrewdness, nothing can save her from the way she can twist the cruelest truths to better reflect upon a person she adores until a knife is pressed to her throat and only her own spilled blood can wake her from the dream. As Lord Vance recounts a particular sword fight from the war, Lady Tyrell cannot shake the numbness accompanying her wondering upon whether or not she has been led astray once again. Wrapped in weary cynicism, she cannot help but consider that she has made the same disastrous mistake twice. She will not be made a fool of by a man again.

Nodding sweetly, she gives a smile that does not quite reflect in her dulling eyes. As Cregan calls for the attention of the nobles, never needing to work too hard to command a room, Lady Tyrell does not bother to gaze in his direction. His speech thanking the lords and ladies for all their hard work, for all the sacrifices made to achieve the peace that is only just upon the horizon, is nothing but a faint hum in her mind. With Lady Blackwood at his side, a woman who is more familiar with the world of battle and typically masculine pursuits than Lady Tyrell can ever hope to be, she can see a vision of the true North. A glimpse of something she wants – power and strength, a respect that is given only to those whom men consider strong.Callouses upon hands that come from wielding weapons, from being able to defend oneself in a way that she cannot. To live without such fear, to be seen as someone who might be an equal. There is a lady who can stand by the Lord of Winterfell.

Exhaustion has seeped far into her bones by the time Cregan finishes speaking, earning a rousing cheer and applause from the other men. Her eyes briefly catch sight of Rhaena and Baela, their faces still rather grim. Lady Arryn is observing with calm seriousness, a matter clearly weighing upon her mind. The few women within the room do not seem nearly as enthused as the lords. Lady Tyrell cannot bring herself to look to Lady Blackwood again, but it would not seem she needs to gaze far. As Lord Vance attempts kindly to rekindle their conversation, she hears her name and title upon Cregan’s lips behind her. She pauses, her figure drawing up tighter, a thin swallow making its way down her drying throat. Wondering briefly upon how rude it might be considered to pretend she simply has not heard, she continues to nod and smile. The warmth of a gentle hand upon her lower back signifies she shall not be escaping so soon.

Sucking in a soft breath, she turns as the Lord of Winterfell offers a small dip of his head to her and then Lord Vance for interrupting their conversation. At the sight of his liege lord’s hand upon the lady, Lord Vance is quick to nod in understanding and give her a bow before departing to speak with one of the Tully lords. Cregan’s large hand has settled into the small of her back as he guides her closer, the action bringing all of her pessimistic thoughts to an abrupt halt. Never has he touched her so casually, and certainly not in the presence of others. She blinks up at him, soft eyes that only partially reveal her confusion and desire for clarification upon this change. A few of the other lords seem to have taken note of this familiarity, raised eyebrows and meaningful looks exchanged with knowing smiles between the men. Lady Tyrell might have been angry if any other man had reached for her in such a familiar manner, but she allows him this closeness as Lady Blackwood approaches.

“Lady Tyrell, I wish for you to meet Lady Alysanne Blackwood. Our forces fought together on our journey south.” The introduction is simple and straightforward, and Lady Tyrell merely smiles pleasantly as Lady Blackwood gives a firm nod, offering her a neutral look. Lady Tyrell offers a small curtsy in response, her fingers curling into the embroidered fabrics of her skirts tighter than necessary.

“It is my pleasure, Lady Blackwood. The realm is grateful for your service.” Lady Tyrell’s voice retains a sugary quality, her posture demure and her hands returning to clasping each other delicately in front of her dress. Her lashes flutter slightly as she speaks, her chin tilting down. Lady Blackwood does not seem to harbor any of the pressures expected of a lady during introductions, something the Lady Tyrell finds envious. Instead, the other woman simply presents a look of general affability and regards her thoughtfully.

“It is good to meet you, my lady. Cregan has written of you in his letters, it is excellent to put a face to your name.” Her tone is light yet has a weight to it that wraps around her words and bestows upon them a quality of certainty. Lady Tyrell does her utmost not to let her smile twitch at the casual use of the lord’s given name, nor the revelation that they have been exchanging letters. Her stomach continues to twist itself into a nauseating knot. The information regarding her being mentioned in such letters seems of little consequence compared to the anxiety filling her chest. She scoffs internally at her own thoughts, wishing that this sort of worry would be beneath her. Rather than attempting to formulate a proper answers, she merely widens her smile slightly, her eyes narrowing a moment as she does. Cregan looks down at her, hand still pressed firmly to her back, and tilts his head slightly.

“A dinner shall be held tonight, to welcome those who have just arrived. Shall you join us, my lady?” The Lord of Winterfell extends the invitation with the utmost sincerity and courtesy but Lady Tyrell has worked herself up into such a state, one that will surely worsen if she is forced to endure a whole meal in this situation.

“I must unfortunately decline, my lord. I am quite weary and shall leave the festivities to all of you.” As she speaks, she gently maneuvers herself out of Cregan’s grasp, sliding her waist out from his warm hand. She does not look up to register the slight frown, nor the drawing of his brows at her obvious desire to escape him. Offering a small smile to Lady Blackwood, she slips out with the rest of the nobles before she can be questioned further.

Late is the hour when a heavy knock falls upon her chamber door. It rouses her from her aimless staring into the depths of her fireplace, eyes empty as they gaze into the golden flames and crackling logs of thick wood. Her intentions for the remainder of the night had been to soak in a hot bath, allowing time for her nerves to settle and her mind to still. The warm water had only served to send her thoughts into a further spiral, the scents of various florals reminding her poignantly of her own fragility. Adelin had been given the night off, casting a long look at the lady before she had left. Sinking into her plush armchair, barely having the energy to adorn her body with a thin nightgown the color of sea pearls, Lady Tyrell had only wished to sit for a moment.

One part of her wishes to pretend she has gone to sleep, but she knows the firelight casts a soft glow underneath the crack of the door. And her heart, exhausted as it is, gives a weak flutter at the weight of the knuckles rapping against the wood. Inhaling through her nose, she wraps a sheer robe atop her evening slip and softly makes her way across her chambers. Hands upon the cool metal of the latch, she barely pulls the door open wide enough for her figure to be seen before she pauses, hovering about the edge of the wood. The Lord of Winterfell stands before her, stoic and steady as always, his eyebrows lifting slightly upon seeing her. Within his hands he holds a bowl of soup, steam curling upwards in silvery helices.

The door is left to drift ajar lazily, leaving her fully visible as she stands beneath the door frame. Cregan is given momentary pause at the casualness of her dress, the slip clinging precariously to each soft curve of her body as if fresh powdered snow atop gentle hills. Despite the heat in his lower stomach, he forces his attention upward. Her eyes reflect the slight surprise that bubbles within her chest at the sight of him, hopeful yet hesitant at the unexpected visit. The warm scent of the hearty soup drifts softly to her nose, greeting her with hints of potatoes, tomatoes, onions and carrots. As her gaze devours the bowl with thinly veiled interest, Cregan gives her a softer look.

“I had not known if you had eaten, my lady,” His low tone is a welcome wave that washes over her body with a comforting and slow rhythm. Her gaze stutters slightly at the simplicity of the words, yet the thoughtfulness they imply. From the heat of the soup, which she can feel as she steps closer to Cregan, it would not seem that he has merely grabbed her leftovers either. “I asked the kitchen which soup you might prefer. I hope it is to your liking, if you are still in need of supper.”

As she turns her gaze upward to meet Cregan’s, she can scarcely keep the affection from flickering warmly in her eyes as if candlelight dancing behind stained glass. Lips press together as her brows draw closer, gratitude light upon her tongue.

“I am, it would seem.” She breathes it between them, a feather of a phrase that floats in the silence of the hall. Torchlight burns low across the stone corridor, illuminating Cregan’s commanding figure at the edges. There is that golden glow at the tips of his reddish hair that always calls her attention so captivatingly. Her weariness still aches deep within her tired body, but the small gesture has rekindled the dying embers in her chest. So quick is she to dismiss the possibility of affection and attachment, but she has not done so completely. As he reaches out to hand her the soup, his lips part slowly.

“Careful, it is quite warm.” The Lord of Winterfell cautions softly, ensuring she cups the bowl from the sides before he allows it to pass to her hands. His own calloused fingers brush tenderly against hers as he releases his hold, filling his senses with her smooth skin. Her lashes flutter gently at the innocent touch, a soft swallow upon her throat as she draws the warm soup closer to her chest. After a moment of easy silence, Cregan dips his head low. “I ought not to keep you from your rest, Lady Tyrell.”

As she lingers uncertainly in her doorway, her mind recalls earlier that day when Cregan had spoken her given name as a sacred devotion into the centimeters between their lips. How anxious she has been since then, how fretful over a man who is not her betrothed nor beloved. It is not in her character to be so easily swayed, not after her previous dealings in matters of the heart. And she finds, much to her own concern, that Cregan Stark has unexpectedly become a matter of the heart indeed. Taking a small breath, she resolves not to be so quick to resort to judgement. “I shall not retire until I have finished my soup, my lord. Perhaps you might join me until then?”

The invitation catches Cregan’s attention at once, his eyes widening slightly as his shoulders lower. Given the agitated state she had been existing in for most of the day, he had not believed she would wish to speak with him further. The opportunity for a quiet moment to sit beside her is not one he desires to ignore. “Aye, I would gladly do so.”

Lady Tyrell turns without further comment, not wishing to be caught standing before a man in her nightgown by any who might be passing by at the late hour. As she pads across the floor, her slippers soft upon the rich oak, she returns to her armchair and settles into it with a swish of her sheer robe. Cregan is left to watch for a moment, eyes tracking every move and step as the lady makes herself comfortable in front of the golden fire glowing within the hearth. Despite the stress from the day, she looks comfortable and soft within the firelit room. He then endeavors to join her, sinking into the chair across from hers as she begins to sip the hot soup with a neutral expression of content upon her face. As the liquid brushes her tongue, she winces at the heat and her brows knit together in a small frown. Cregan can do nothing but smile gently at the endearing expression.

“I did warn you it is hot.” Cregan offers quietly, amusement flickering across his face alongside light from the fire. Lady Tyrell lets out a huff in return, frustration upon her visage as she blows harshly overtop of the creamy soup.

“So you did.” It is the closest thing to a growl that he has heard escape her pretty lips. Shaking his head, the rumblings of a low laugh echo into the warm air between them, accompanied by the crackling of logs within the fireplace. Lady Tyrell wholly forgets the soup in her grasp and the stress of the day and every other thought that has ever entered her mind. Her mouth drops open slightly, her eyes wide as saucers as she stares blankly at him. Here sits the Lord of Winterfell, the feared Wolf of the North, laughing so easily within her chambers. The warmth in her chest is hotter than the bowl in her hands.

“I have missed the soups of the North,” Cregan sighs nearly wistfully as he gazes into the flames. The smell from the earthy potatoes had brought him back to days of wild youth, running breathlessly through fallen snow and underneath ancient pines. The puff of his own breath before him, his fingertips turning red from the biting cold. “Too long has it been since I have tasted home.”

The lady is completely placated by his presence, by the taste of the rich soup within her mouth. She sighs, pleased and warm, curling her legs beneath her in a most unladylike manner. “You have been away for some time. It must be difficult.”

It is a soft murmur, spoken around breaths used to blow gently into her food to spare her tongue the burning sensation each time the creamy liquid sits atop it. Cregan watches with a gentle approval, pleased to see her eating. He had worried over her, when she had declined to join the nobles for dinner and is glad he decided to ensure she had gotten something for supper. “And you, my lady? Do you miss home as well?”

“I do not know, in truth,” Lady Tyrell muses, her shoulders dropping elegantly as she shifts within her seat. Her eyes wander slightly, as if her mind is drifting to a place far from here. After a second with her thoughts, she shakes her head, the edges of her hair glowing in the warm firelight. “I had always known I would leave Highgarden one day. It was only that I believed King’s Landing would be my home, and it is…not. Not any longer.”

A small, weak smile is offered with the explanation. Her attention returns to her soup, the silver spoon held tenderly within her delicate grasp. As she brings it to her lips, she tries not to dwell upon the idea of home too seriously.

Cregan frowns at this, his brows low as he casts his gaze down to the plush rug that rests upon the wood in front of the hearth. Winterfell has been his home for the entirety of his life, and while he had been forced to fight for that home, it has always been his. His birthright, the lands that have raised him and all of his ancestors before him. How strange it would be, to have such uncertainty surrounding where one belongs. The North is in his blood and in his bones – he would not know his own identity if he were forced away from it permanently. The idea of her not having a place to belong to does not sit right within his chest. “You ought to have a home you can be certain of.”

A light raise of her eyebrows is given at this, while she keeps her eyes upon her soup. Her hands shift the ivory bowl back and forth absentmindedly, yet the seriousness of his voice is not lost on her. Still, there is not much she can do to rectify her own situation. Instead, she merely gives a small dip of her chin. “I would very much like that, my lord.”

“I hope that after the trials conclude, the Realm might have a better chance at peace.” Cregan sighs, a weight to the phrase from all the pressure that he has been carrying since his arrival. Being the Warden of the North has prepared him well for the power he currently holds within the capital, but it does exhaust him so. He cares little for Southern politics and the tumultuous remnants of the succession war. Although he cannot truthfully say he wishes he had never come – not when she sits across from him, gently lit by warm firelight, her visage a heavenly blessing upon his tired eyes.

“You have worked tirelessly for the bettering of the Seven Kingdoms,” The lady acknowledges, her voice quiet as she stirs her soup while keeping her gaze downwards. There is a certain comfort in sitting here with Cregan at the late hour, in simply being around him within the familiarity of her chambers, with no chance of being caught or interrupted. “I had strong doubt at first, but I do now believe you genuinely mean to carry out justice and return to the North.”

Cregan rubs a hand across his face, trailing it up through his hair as his eyes close. There has been far more ruling involved than he had anticipated when he had agreed to fight for Rhaenyra Targaryen. But fate has its own plans for the Lord of Winterfell, and he cannot turn away from a situation that mirrors his past so closely. “The young prince Aegon reminds me much of myself, when I was a lad. Mine own family had a similar issue with succession. My seat was hard won, against kin.”

Lady Tyrell has heard tale of how Cregan had imprisoned his own uncle and cousins after they had attempted to retain power once the lord came of age. Hearing him speak of it now, the way his jaw tenses as he does, she can tell it is something that was quite difficult for him. Her eyes flicker across his face, the way his reddish lashes fall atop the curves of his cheeks. The softness of her voice, barely above a whisper, betrays hints of the true affection she has come to hold in her heart for him. “It is kind of you then, to extend to Aegon the assistance you did not receive as a child.”

His eyes open at this, his chin lowering as he fixes his heavy gaze upon her. The lady holds his stare for a moment, before taking a small sip of her soup once more. “it is in my nature, I suppose. The need to rectify a present situation to ease the pain of a past one, even if it only is for the next generation. And in yours as well, I would say.”

It is an accurate assessment of her character; one she suspects few would know. But there is no hiding the truth from Cregan, who has seen her with Jaehaera every night. While she loves Jaehaera deeply, as she has since the girl was born, her guilt and pain over Helaena does additionally drive her need to ensure that the princess has a brighter future than her mother did. It cannot fix anything, but the thought of creating a peaceful life for Jaehaera does bring the lady some semblance of hope.

“It is all I can think, somedays. If only to give myself something to do, lest I go mad from my own helplessness.” It is a soft musing, spoken from someone who has sat for many hours within the cold grasp of grief’s unyielding hands. Cregan recognizes it well, as he so often does. It is peculiar to him at times, how he sees himself mirrored in this woman whose upbringing was vastly different than his own. Yet there she is, reflecting pieces of himself he needs to examine more closely, forcing him to think harder about why he is the way he is.

“We cannot change our past, but we have it in our power to make an attempt towards a better future. It might be in vain. We might never see it, or we might fail before we create it. It is our mortal duty to try nonetheless.” The heaviness in his tone forces her to look up at him, her eyes meeting his as she inhales softly. A better future – might it yet be possible for her, for Jaehaera? As she gazes into Cregan Stark’s eyes, searching for any sign of doubt and finding only stern certainty, it does not seem like a distant dream.

a/n: slowburn is definitely slow but stay tuned for the next chapter, i imagine it's what a few of you have been waiting for ;)

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criminalmindsgonewrong · 5 months ago

Text

how I percieve Hotchniss:

as requested by @em-prentiss

emily:

tropes: action girl, blue blood, lady in a powersuit, back from the dead, brainy brunette, dark and troubled past, honour before reason, sarcasm personified, reckless and sexy

she/her

libra sun, scorpio moon, leo rising

bisexual

born 12th october 1970

chaotic neutral

ENFJ personality type

cat person

only child - and very much gives only child energy

red is her favourite colour

body count: "private, thank you very much!"

her favourite movie of all time is 'Carrie' - but she can't resist a good old mystery novel

has some secret skills she doesn't really talk about or use until she needs them; plays the piano, did ballet until she was 15, can horseback ride.

her favourite book of all time is 'Jane Eyre'

dog ears her books to save her pages - either that or uses literally anything as a bookmark. argues that it makes her books look 'loved'

her favourite meal is a good cheeseburger (although she'll tell you its some kind of fancy pasta)

chews her nails when she's stressed

grew up in multiple embassies across the world including: UK, Iraq, Russia, Italy, France, Greece, Spain, and Egypt.

mommy issues galore although she'd never admit it

daddy issues, too, while we're at it.

absentee father who was 'working' all the time - only 'working' meant having affairs and avoiding their home as much as possible

her parents only put on the show of a functional, happy marriage for elizabeth's career, a charade emily was also expected to play a part in. she did so until she went away to college

her dad died when she was 23

nomadic lifestyle all her life due to her mom's job - finds it hard to settle down as a result

has a little box of mementos from each of the places she's lived, trinkets that would be of no value to anyone else but mean a lot to her

has a few small, discreet tattoos

multi-lingual but not a show off about it - sometimes dreams in italian

is also multilingual in sarcasm and often uses it to diffuse tense situations.

had an abortion when she was 15 - doesn't regret it but has always wondered. marks the day each year, even if it's just with a prayer. it's the only time she prays

✨️ religious trauma ✨️

rebelled against her mother as a teenager and their relationship has never really recovered

spoilt, privileged lifestyle

likes her luxuries as a result and doesn't shy away from them

never had too many close friends growing up - due to the moving around a lot

bit of a wild girl at college, there's not really a sexual position or an illegal substance she hasn't tried at least once (except the ones you inject, she's not insane)

still sneaks the occasional cigarette

cannot abide by any rule she considers arbitrary

loves a good horror movie, the gorier the better but the supernatural ones freak her out

has a secret passion for classical music when she’s stressed - particularly beethoven and bach

emily has a love for fine wine and is something of an amateur connoisseur, able to tell the difference between a good vintage and a cheap bottle. she and rossi bond over this.

her passion for coffee, however, is much more lax and she can drink even the roughest of instant crap.

can also whip up a mean martini

she’s a cat person but never had a pet growing up due to all the moving around.

emily’s guilty pleasure is reality TV—she finds it oddly comforting and a way to unwind from the seriousness of her day-to-day life.

often doodles when she's on the phone—her notebooks are full of random sketches.

loves an indoor plant but finds it incredibly difficult to keep them alive

fucking loves technology and is slightly addicted to TikTok. has to limit her own screen time.

speaking of TikTok, she's totally on BookTok and loved the ACOTAR series.

loves spicy foods - often challenges herself to try the hottest dish on the menu.

bit of an adrenaline junkie, whether in her home or professional life. overly impulsive sometimes as a result

what she wears:

aaron:

tropes: badass in a nice suit, stoic leader, chronic hero syndrome, highest kill count, death glare, grumpy to her sunshine, deadpan snarker

he/him

scorpio sun, taurus moon, virgo rising

heterosexual

born 2nd november 1965

lawful good

ISTJ personality type

dog person

bodycount: 2

favourite colour is navy blue

eldest son, his brother, sean, is 11 years younger than him

his favourite book is 'one hundred years of solitude'

prioritizes his fitness and likes to take on fitness challenges to keep himself healthy

lonely childhood even though he had a little brother

abusive, drunk for a father

emotionally absent mother who was trying to deal with her own trauma

his mom died when he was 25

his dad is still alive out there somewhere but they're not in contact, and aaron has no intention of being

had to be the strong one for his little brother

comes from a pretty poor background, has built himself up to be and have everything he is and has

always felt like more of a father than a brother to Sean because of their age gap, and the fact that he practically raised him

loves to go camping and be in the wilderness

a morning person - likes to get up and out of the house as early as possible

a very neat person - you'd be forgiven for thinking he was in the military (he never was) by the way he makes his bed and stacks his clothes

collected coins as a kid, something he never grew out of. has a very well organised collection he values greatly

keeps his books neat and tidy - always uses a bookmark

loves an old western, likes an action movie, horrors make him uncomfy and he's a secret sucker for a rom-com

reluctant green thumb and often ends up taking care of the plants that emily brings home and gives up on or gets distracted from

has a soft spot for old-school jazz and sometimes listens to it when he needs to decompress.

he's a surprisingly good cook, which is a skill he honed while having to take care of his brother, although the recipes were a lot more basic back then

still has his parents wedding rings, a fact about himself that he wrestles with since he doubts they were ever in love

prefers handwritten notes to digital reminders, is a very tactile person. never really fell in love with his phone.

hums softly when he's concentrating, a habit he's more often than not completely unaware of, and emily finds it adorable

keeps a stash of chocolate in his drawer in the office - stocks it with emily's favourites

wears his grandfather's class ring. it's the only family heirloom he has, and sometimes he feels guilty for not giving it to sean

has a collection of old vinyls from the 70s

visits the same diner every saturday for breakfast. after getting together with emily, the visits become less frequent but they still go now and then. aaron says they have the best eggs. emily thinks they're just ok, but she likes to see him happy

aaron isn't a big drinker; he'll have a few beers on a night out, or a whiskey after work occasionally, but he very rarely engages in any binge drinking. emily's only seen him really drunk a handful of times throughout their relationship.

he is, however, partial to the occasional cigar and although emily sneaks her own cigarette now and then, she can't stand the smell of them.

what he wears:

Hotchniss:

the only time hotch is not a morning person is when emily is in his bed, then he never wants to leave the comfort of the covers and the warmth of her body

hotch will watch a horror movie with emily with a straight face, but hate it the whole way through. emily will pretend to be into his action movies, and doesn't let him know she's actually bored out of her mind. their middle ground is a good western or a rom-com.

their first big fight is over a clash between their idea of 'tidy' - emily is laid back, doesn't mind a bit of clutter. aaron is...borderline ocd. they fall out over her having left a towel on the floor...again.

they are very well matched at chess, and often their games can go on for weeks in between cases and life. currently emily is winning by two games.

aaron would rather to repairs around the house himself, where as emily is used to throwing money at a problem and making it go away. they try to compromise but they're away so often for work that more often than not, emily wins because aaron just doesn't have the time, but when he does take on a project he loves the manual labour, and emily loves to sit back and watch x

it was his dream to restore a classical care so emily bought him one for his 50th birthday and its his pride and joy. he painted it red just for her

emily reads before bed and aaron does the crossword, with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and emily thinks it's the cutest thing.

emily's love of spicy foods means that more often than not aaron has to resign himself to buying her two meals when the spiciest dish on the menu is just 'a little too spicy' - he doesn't mind, really

they're both incredibly competitive. emily gets sweary and loud when she's in competition, aaron gets smug and smirky and that drives emily up the wall. their second biggest fight, ever, was over a game of monopoly. it's been banned in their household ever since.

emily takes aaron to a ranch for one of his birthdays - to celebrate his love for an old western, and because she thinks he'll love it! turns out aaron hotchner is terrified of horses. emily spent the first day riding and trying to convince him to do the same, and after that they just enjoyed the views and each other's company, and the horses, but from afar.

emily often teases hotch about his love for organization and can’t resist occasionally hiding a few items just to see his reaction. he pretends to be frustrated but secretly finds her antics adorable.

surprisingly, when they go on vacation, it's emily who wants their days planned down to the moment so that they don't miss anything, and aaron who just - finally- wants to relax and 'go with the flow'. emily finds this version of her husband disconcerting.

emily loves to surprise hotch with impromptu weekend getaways. he pretends to grumble about the lack of planning and the expense of it all but secretly enjoys the surprises and the thought she puts into them.

financially, aaron and emily grew up in two very different places. aaron watched his mother scrimp and save every penny to try and provide for him and sean, when she was lucid. when she wasn't, he had to figure it out himself. he's worked since the age of 14. emily had everything in life given to her on a silver platter and, even now, occasionally spends out of her trust fund. aaron gets frustrated by spending that he sees as frivolous and emily has to remind him that they're well off - she still has her trust fund, even if neither of them were working. it's infrequently a source of contention between them, though.

they dated before emily's 'death', before paris. he visited her in paris, where their flame sparked again but when she came back to the team nothing happened. then beth happened. then emily left again.

they stayed in contact while she was in london and eventually realised they were miserable without each other. emily moves back to the states, returns to the BAU and they get back together.

they marry that same year. it's a really small ceremony, attended only by the team, jack and sean. neither of their surviving parents are invited.

they started a two-person book club where they choose a book to read each month and discuss it over dinner. they always donate one copy - whether to charity or a friend. sometimes both if they agree that the book sucked.

they create the 'hotchner cup' which is a trophy that they play for every family game night. it's an old, tarnished badge of hotch's with 'Hotchner' written across it super-glued to an old ballet trophy of emily's. it's currently in emily's possession...due to the chess situation.

emily's a cat person and hotch loves dogs. as a compromise, they have one of each.

when emily has their kids, they share the position of Unit Chief at the BAU and alternate shifts, so someone's always at home with the kids. it's their one rule; the kids never get left alone.

they have three kids together, ava, livvy and alex. jack is aaron's son from his previous marriage to haley, and emily loves him like her own.

they share a home office and walking into it is hysterical; there are two desks and it's immediately obvious whose is whose because aaron's is meticulously organised and emily's is a mess.

aaron always dreads his weeks 'on' at work, because he knows he's going into his desk being an absolute mess. emily is the same because she says whenever he cleans up, he puts her stuff away and she can't find anything. she prefers her 'organised chaos'.

even though emily is a luxury resort kind of girl, aaron forces the family to take an annual camping trip. every year, emily complains about it; alex and ava follow her suit. jack and livvy love the camping trip like their father. even though emily and the kids complain, they also secretly love it.

they take an annual family photo during every camping trip

every year they all celebrate haley's birthday together with a special meal; homemade lasagne followed by apple pie and ice cream, both favourites of haley.

when it comes to parenting, there's no doubt who's the strict parent. emily definitely takes a more relaxed approach than her husband.

however, when it comes to bullying or the kids being in danger, emily has to be kept in check. more than once she's threatened to pull her badge on a kid - or parent - at school. more than once, she's had to be talked down by her husband, and sometimes the kids.

when aaron eventually retires early, he takes up teaching at the academy. they still have lunch together most days.

after aaron retires, emily takes on the role of unit chief by herself and eventually progresses to section chief, which is more of a bureaucratic role than she ever imagined for herself, but it means she gets home to her family every night.

Hotchniss tropes:

grumpy x sunshine rich girl x poor boy he's her boss mutual pining will they/won't they jealousy trope friends to lovers 'touch her and you die'

Photos Aaron takes of Emily:

Photos Emily takes of Aaron:

Joint camera roll:

How Hotchniss text:

Hotchniss playlist:

#this got long #hotchniss #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #sorry for everyone who doesn't care who had to scroll past it x #criminal minds #how i percieve

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bussyyeukie · 1 month ago

Text

Call of the Sea

(poly!141x siren!reader)

The seas were not evil; not rough and dark as the stories made it to be. Water crashing in a white mess against creaking hulls, dragging helpless souls and flailing arms. People say it’s dangerous, ugly, to not go out there. You’ll rarely come back if you don’t respect the power of the waves lapping up against the ship. The tide pulls at your knees until you’re suddenly to your hips, then your chest, and the cold sting sinks into you until your lips are blue and your lungs burn as the current pulls you.

The sea was beautiful, it was home to many creatures. Life giving creatures. Its waters reflected light, shining golden, shining blue, green, pink, orange. It’s lull carrying you on the surface, floating gently until it gifts you back to the shore. Many made their living from the sea. Many lived their whole lives dependent on the kindness it gifted to them.

You didn’t have a choice, not that you minded. All you could see was the beauty of the ocean. Even the beauty in the death it would bring, completing the cycle and inviting room for new life to start. Your home was the sea, and you’d never known any different.

Born from the frothy foam of the white wash, the crash of the ocean waves. Your lullaby, the sun that dried the drops on your face a forbidden fruit, the feel of warm earth and the absence of the waters cradle holding you a forgotten longing.

Your sister's songs resting on the water's surface. Your own song is a mix of the melody.

You remember laying on the rocks, with the moon's light basking over your skin, shining opalescent, hair fanning out across the rock, ends dipping back into the calm water. You remember laughing with your sisters, giggles bursting from throats and silly stories passed around as silken hands ran through damp hair. Placing bands of metal and shells into the braids littering your locks.

You remembered the first time you heard of the dangers of some humans.

The ones who were stronger than you, the ones who weren’t as swayed by the haunting songs rolling off your tongues. The ones who hurt, the ones who killed. Caught you up in nets and spears, committing horrific acts, chopping tails and hair, drying scales and collecting tears. As a child, it made you wary of approaching the surface, opting out of games and laying low in the darkness of the oceans depths. The older you got, the less afraid you became, being assured that you and your sisters were safe, too far from shore or populated ports to cause panic. It was rare to hear of a killing recently as well. Every once in a while someone would go missing, but there were never sights of ships, or rogue sailors to blame.

The older you got, the stronger you got. Teeth sharper, your tail gaining a more distinct pattern, the shine glowing brighter under the moon, your sound growing smoother and less banshee like.

With that came confidence. You’d approach the surface with your sisters, breaching water, wrapping your arms around the railings of small fishing boats, round luminescent eyes shining in the moon, hair sticking to wet skin. Voice soft and rolled over like fog into the ears of the sailors.

You no longer feared humans. Almost foolishly.

Growing reckless in your approach to stray boats.

Not realizing that, at times, those dangerous humans were trickier than yourself.

Floating in the water, the dawn barely creeping up on the horizon, you watched the dark shadow of the hull sit on the surface. It wasn’t necessarily a large boat, in fact, the closer you got you realized it was fit for about five people at most. It had been a minute since you’d eaten, stomach rolling as you thought of the previous two weeks, dinnerless. It wasn’t that bad though, you really didn’t need to eat as often as a human, but the lack of substantial food didn’t help.

Your hair swayed around you, pushing it from your line of sight, you pursed your lips as you watched the shadow rock. Really you should’ve thought it through a little more, called someone over with you. Better yet, went along, swam by, left it be. But you didn’t. You were hungry.

Snapping your tail, you approached the underside of the boat, nose almost touching the wood. The water is warmer up there compared to the depths beneath you. Tail tucked under you, the water wasn’t clear, nowhere near it, but you didn’t want to risk it over something stupid.

Face turned, licking your plump lips, ear pressing against the underside of the hull.

You heard some shifting, and a rock of the boat, footsteps, then the thunk of someone sitting. They sounded heavy. You felt a grin tug at your lips, muffled voices filling your ears. Sounded like three. Three was easy.

Flicking your tail, you rose, peeking up out of the water till your eyes blinked away droplets. It was foggy out, so thick you could just barely see five feet away. Catching a glimpse of the bearded man sitting in the boat, his voice thick as he spoke to the others in the boat. They hadn’t noticed you yet.

“Beautiful as the warm breeze,” the man laughed, mockingly, “As if waking up to a pile ‘a gold on ya’ pillow!”

Your hair stuck to your face as you emerged more, chin dipping in the water, hair fanned out around you. The hair on your face framing it, lips wet and cheeks flushed. Eyelashes clumped with water. Skin shiny and an almost hollowed look to your undereyes. You grinned.

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s nonsense, the fact that he has our asses out here in the cold anyway it’s–”

You had peeked out a bit more, neck visible, pearlish pattering on your jaw and neck glinting in certain lights. Catching the man's eye. He jerked violently to the side, grasping wildly behind him.

“Bloody hell!’

The boat rocked and you sank down, acting spooked as you hid to your eyes again. Wide and gazing up at the man. Glancing over to the other two men in the boat. Who looked to you as well, snapping to attention as they moved as far back on their seats as possible.

The water rippled.

“What the fuck,” the bearded man’s jaw was agape, brows knit close together. He was older than the other two. Hard to tell by how much, his face was well sea worn.

“Get it!” One of the other men shouted, his hands trembling as he jolted for something on the bottom of the boat. Your eyes widened as you ducked down more, tail flicking under the boat.

A quick hand grabbed the man who reached. The older man was still in shock, trying to push himself as far back as possible, brows knit tightly together.

You looked to the side, a younger boy was sitting there, lips chapped and cracked, tanned face and hat wedged on his head. Curled hair sticking out of it.

“Wait! Wait…” he turned to you, eyes wide, he was thin, very lean, and not very tall.

The other man, who had thin hair, and a potbelly, looked at the boy in shock.

“Boy, let go of me–!”

“Hold on a second!” he snapped, looking from you to the pot-bellied man, “Look at ‘er…”

The three looked to you, you breached the water again, to your chin.

“Hello,” you whispered, voice silken and carried across the water and into the boat. You watched the three men’s shoulders drop, eyes wide as they watched you.

“Hello…” the young man licked his lips, swallowing roughly, “What are you doing? O-out here?”

The bearded man grunted, “What the bloody hell do you think she’s doin’ out here! She’s a mermaid!”

You giggled.

The three men looked at you. Boat creaking as it rocked.

“Mermaids?” you preened, moving closer slowly, till your hands creeped up the sides of the hull, gripping it as you crossed your arms, leaning on it, the men moving back as you moved forward, “How silly, to believe in fairytales like that? Isn’t it?”

The younger man laughed nervously, “Y-yeah, very silly.”

You tilted your head, wet hair sticking to the smooth skin of your back and shoulders.

Seemingly glowing under the light, dawn still far off as it creeped.

“Y-you,” the pot-bellied man gulped, “You’re tricking us, I know it! You are!”

“I am? That wouldn’t be very nice of me,” you giggled, tail swishing and flicking under the dark ripples.

“He, cap’n told us remember, he told us it would do this,” the pot-bellied man said again.

The young man smacking him in the arm, “Watch your tongue! She has a name!”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that then?” the bearded man spat, leaning forward to frown, then jolting back when he realized he’d gotten so close to you.

The young man stuttered, then turned to you. Your smiled broadening, sweetly, a subtle hum starting at the back of your throat, matching the tune of the lapping of the waves brought to the side of the little fishing boat.

If you’d thought about it a little more, or at all really. You would have left at the mention of a captain, the three men in a fishing boat in the middle of the ocean. It was strange.

But you didn’t.

The three men turned to you.

The young one leaning forward a bit, getting to a knee in front of you, you grinned at him.

“Yes?”

“D-do, do you have one?” he gulped, hands twitchy on his thighs, “A name I mean?”

“Of course I do,” the subtle note still ringing through the air as you spoke, carrying through your words, “My name is Y/N, why wouldn’t I have a name?”

The men seemed lost, the bearded one having relaxed into his seat. The young one mere inches from your face.

He chuckled, “I, I don’t know.”

“What’s your name?” you reached out, tender and slow, water droplets rolling off skin onto the fabric of his pants, he closed his eyes, leaning into your hand as you pushed it forward. Your fingers twitched.

Your cold fingertips brushed his cheek before a large hand grabbed your wrist, and the boy was flung back, eliciting a violent thrash of your tail and a screech from you. Brows furrowing and lips curled.

“Get the net now!”

You went to pull your arm back, if fate had been on your side, you would have pulled him under. Tipped the boat. But, fate seemed to be holding something over your head at the moment. As the pot bellied man jumped to his feet and grabbed a bundle of netting. You thrashed, the large man with the beard fighting you, pulling you up and you flailing and hissing.

Your teeth sharp as you barred them at him. Nails clawed and you dug into the cords of his forearm, scarlet blood dripping between your fingers, running down the slope of your forearm till it pooled and dripped at your elbow.

“Throw it! Now! Get her tail!”

Whipping your tail, trying to tip the boat the best you could, the man almost expertly threw the netting, the young man still sat flat on his ass.

The bearded man grabbed a handful of your hair, as if trying to rip it from your scalp.

Snarling as he shouted, “The knife! Spear! Anything!”

The young man looked between the large man standing and you, your tail thrashing violently and your screams and slitted eyes. Net getting tangled up on itself, and unfortunately wrapping around yourself.

“No!” you howled, teeth gnashing, clenching your fist, tearing flesh from the man holding you. Your back arching as he ripped at your hair, squeezing his hand tightly, your wrist aching and popping.

“Don’t mess it up! Cap’n wants a pretty one remember,” the pot-bellied man said, rather snarkily.

“For what?” the boy on the floor asked.

“Knife boy, now!”

The bearded man had spit flying from his lips as he shouted, the boat rocking. Your tail cramping, and shrill screams escaping your throat. The young man jumping to his feet and the sound of clanking drew your attention, watching him sift through a pile of spears and knives at the bottom of the boat. A cold chill running up the back of your spine, wrapping around your jaw and up your face.

“Enough! Stop!’ you cried, the pot-bellied man trying to yank the netting up your tail, scraping off a few scales, which flicked out and smacked his side, causing him to slam to his ass in the boat, a stream of curses falling from his lips.

You tried to shake the netting from yourself, but the young boy popped back up with a spear, sharp and chipped at the end. The handle two feet as he held it up.

You screamed, piercing as he brought it down, sinking into the meat of your tail, above the joint. White pain searing through you and your stomach cramped. Lips pulled over your teeth, the bearded man barking something, and the young boy ripped the spear out, a pouring of dark blood streaming from the deep wound. Throbbing and scalding with pain.

The pot-bellied man grabbed the side of the boat as he spat curses at you more, getting himself to his feet, jerking the rest of the netting back up your tail. Up over your hips. The bearded man pried your hand away from his arm, spitting at you as his blood coated your hand.

“Stupid bitch, you’ll be in for it soon enough…”

The pot-bellied man reached for his hip, pulling a horn looking instrument, and blew on it, a low, sharp sound escaping it. Causing you to wince, flinching your tail, which erupted in pain. The young man looked at you, and jabbed at your tail again with some knife by his side, slicing it again. A cry escaping your throat.

“Enough of that, we need ‘er in one piece aye?”

“Yeah, right” the boy looked at you, the bearded man pulling the netting over your head as he slammed you into the boat, your arms curling into your chest, and protecting your face, hair splayed out messily, tail curled in. The bearded man's feet by your head.

He leaned down over you, “One wrong move, and I stomp that pretty face in.”

You hissed at him, blinking wildly, clenching your fists.

The man tisked, “All that bark for what?”

You bit your tongue, holding off the slurry of insults you were about to throw at him, the threats, the promises of his demise. But, you were the one in the net, on the floor of a boat, injured.

The pot bellied man blew the horn again, and sat down next to your tail, which was over the bench, and over the side of the boat, just barely dipping into the water. The cold of it was inviting compared to the cold of the fog that covered the morning.

Your chest rose fast with breaths, sounding almost labored as the dark blood sank into the indents of your scales on your tail.

The balding man clapped the young man on the back, “wow what a sight! Knew they were real, christ, thing sure is less scary than the stories.”

The young man didn’t tear his eyes away from you, eyes frantic like a caged dog.

“What do you do with them again?”

The man shrugged, “Up to the cap’n, whoever can name the best price. Think he was plannin’ to keep this one in one piece this time, sell it whole.”

He elbowed the boy and laughed, snorting as he did. The sound grated at you.

How could you let this happen, be so foolish, so reckless. Thoughtless!

You felt the boat rock more, snapping your head around to see what was coming. The creaking sound of a big ship soaking into your ears. The feel of a hand grabbing your hair registered too late, not being able to fight it off before the meaty hand raised your head and slammed it back down against the boat's hull. Pain swarming your vision.

“You best keep quiet,” the bearded face made its way into your vision, before he stood, almost directly over you, wrapping some cloth around his forearm, which was near mangled.

You frowned, closing your eyes and flicking the tip of your tail, the water rippling under it, feeling the cold against you. Looking down, the young man had his head in his hands, gripping the knife tightly, your blood dripping off of it and onto his shoes. Almost mesmerized. The pot-bellied man was looking off in the distance, a wicked grin on his face, hooking the horn back onto his belt. Catching a glimpse of the insignia burned into the side of it, it was something you hadn’t seen before.

The bearded man said something to the pot-bellied man, who glanced down at you, sneering. You didn’t listen. Instead, you shot your hand through the netting, grabbing a death grip on the bearded man's waistband, and slapped your tail harder than you ever had in your life. Pulling the man down with you.

“Hey-rotted–!”

Before anyone could balance, you had flipped the boat. Sending all four of you crashing into the dark waters. Bubbles and irritated water rising around you all. Still wrapped in the netting, and bleeding from your tail, you looked around. The young man was struggling to grasp a hold of the flipped boat, weapons sinking slowly into the dark under you. The pot-bellied man sank. Struggling and large bubbles of air rising out of him as he got lower and lower. A silent scream etched onto his face.

The bearded man made one swipe at you, but you pushed yourself out of the way, crying shrilly, and snapping away. Watching him grasp at the overturned boat as well, as you dashed down.

Darker into the depths, the salt water stinging, and your head ringing. You rasped, as you swam, not sparing a look behind you as you fought with the netting, and failing. Getting it tangled more with yourself. The cold of the water surrounding you more than it ever had. It felt almost…uncomfortable. Not as cradling as it had been, but almost heavy, it felt like you were swimming through dense seaweed.

Your breath rang loud in the stillness of the water, the netting falling from you finally, sinking down. Your body cramping, as you spared one look behind, seeing the trail of blood left in your wake. Too much, it was too much blood. Unknowingly swimming sluggish, and sinking down.

word count: 3018

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thesensteawitch · 11 months ago

Text

Insights About Your Destiny!💌🍃

Pick A Pile Reading

(Left to Right- Pile 1, Pile 2, Pile 3)

Hey, Senstea Souls!🤍

This collective reading is divided into three parts:

-Your destiny when you were born

-How it changed due to your karma

-Where it's leading you now (Paid)

Parts 1 & 2 are available in this blog but to know Part 3 you'll need to pay $10 and get a personalised reading about where your destiny is taking you.

Choose your pile intuitively. Take what resonates and leave what doesn't as it's a general reading.

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Pile 1

Your destiny when you were born

Tarot Cards- The Devil, King of Cups, 7 of Swords, The Lovers, The Moon

Okay, my dear pile 1. The first thing that I heard was 'twins'. It's very specific but some of you have twins. I also sense that your mother may have faced difficulty during delivery. Probably a lot of pain. You have been emotional since birth. Cancer, Pisces, and Scorpio are coming up (sun, moon, or rising). I also hear, “When you're young they assume you know nothing.” When you were born your destiny was all about dealing with relationships. You were a child who could easily absorb people's energy. A lot of karma you carried in this lifetime. When you were born some of it started settling in your subconscious. Your destiny was all about choosing because I also sense Gemini energy here which shows confusion and difficulty in finding balance. It was written that you'll find it difficult to say no. I am sorry to say but I also sense that some of you have even dealt with sexual abuse of some kind. That too at a very early age. My heart is with you pile 1. I send you so much healing and love. It was written in your destiny that you will face many betrayals and will see the devil behind sweet faces. But no one would believe you. So you'll keep a lot of truths to yourself. Not to avoid conflict but because you had conflicting thoughts. You questioned yourself when others were the ones to be questioned! Up until now, you may have faced a good number of heartbreaks. All the relationships in your life were/are meant to make you realize your true potential. Because you are so different from the crowd pile 1. You couldn't see that since childhood. You felt like an outcast or maybe unimportant. But that's not true. You were born to be different and realize how unique you are! I also sense that you developed your intelligence. It wasn't like you were born intelligent. Since the day you were born, you are only shedding skin and becoming new now and then. Your destiny was all about finding true connections right through the false and painful ones. Many of you were born to be artists or do something different/out of the league. I also sense that your decisions have always been governed by the trauma you went through and the good thing is that you are aware of it.

How has your destiny changed based on your karma?

Tarot Cards- 7 of Wands, 6 of Swords, The Fool, 4 of Pentacles, 7 of Pentacles

I am so proud of you pile 1. You worked hard to be who you are today. You've changed so much. You were practically pushed towards your purpose. Your soul couldn't take it anymore is exactly when rage intervened and you found your strength. You always did your best. You changed your destiny. Where it was written that you're continuously going to face relationship trauma you found your way out of those patterns. You made yourself aware. Despite opposing forces and disempowering words, you stood your ground. I must say your initial years of stubbornness made you walk to the other side. Your rage and stubbornness were the beginning. You suddenly became the warrior. You have finally unlocked new chapters and have shifted the vibrational frequency of your destiny. Otherworldly concepts influenced you a lot to change your perspective towards life. You left the fear-based reality far behind. You became a risk taker. You have developed some very special gifts and are holding onto them. You're also hoping to grow yourself further. You have got a lot to learn and you know that. You want to learn more. You are continuing to be on this transforming journey. No matter how painful it is, you're still moving ahead. You have a thirst for truth, hence you have the patience to wait for it. Currently, you are letting go of the control. Slowly but steadily.

To know where your destiny is taking you book a reading with me only at $10.

Pile 2

Your destiny when you were born

Tarot Cards- 10 of Pentacles, Ace of Pentacles, 5 of Cups, Page of Pentacles, 4 of Cups

Hello, my beautiful pile 2. The first thing I saw was that either you were born into a well-to-do family or a family that was financially facing a tough time. For some of you, I also see a big family. But when you were born something major happened. Someone with whom you were close to when you were born or someone who loved you dearly when you were born is no more. I say this with utmost sincerity and love for you. I sense that your destiny was about dealing with a family where everyone and everything was perfect except you. You were ridiculed a lot for how you looked or your overall personality. I also sense that you were given everything but still, there was something that you were looking for. Your destiny was about coming out of the cocoon of the perfect world and truly experiencing life with its imperfections. I also sense that you have lived among perfectionist people. Deep in your heart and destiny's chart, you were meant to give something to the world. Everyone around you was focused on taking but you wanted to know how you can make others lives better. You were destined to be dependent on yourself and create a life of your own. A life that is not defined by your background. You are someone who was destined to see the darkness behind the gold and glitters. You have been somebody who always questioned the ways of the world. I hear, “You're on your own kid. You always have been. You were destined to bring a powerful change in your family. Any direction you have chosen was only meant to take you to a better place, closer to your purpose. Some of you may even have gone through some health crises as it was written because you function differently compared to other members of your family. You were meant to be the trailblazer.

How has your destiny changed based on your karma?

Tarot Cards- Knight of Wands, King of Pentacles, 3 of Wands, The Emperor, King of Cups

I hear you had to break your own heart to free yourself and move towards your purpose. You weren't understood and that created a deep wound, a longing to move away, especially from your family dynamics. I strongly sense that you lost someone very dear to you. For a very few of you, it might be literal death. Based on your karma you created a certain reality in your mind and it still gives you pain. You're asked to change your thought patterns and question yourself. To want what you want you had to learn what you don't want. And what you don't want is what you got since the beginning. But I see that you've made yourself firm about certain aspects of life. You have your guard up but deep down you are a very emotional and caring human being. You somewhat have your emotions locked up but you do feel them in silence. You are now moving towards making yourself a better human being and growing yourself so that you can genuinely contribute to the world. I also see that some of you have been traveling for quite a while now but still some days you feel restless. You are still being asked to look within and look closer. You're somewhat distracted and still aren't following your purpose. Making money is not the end goal and you know that. Your soul knows that. Always staying on your guard is stressful and you feel that. You're still living in a survival mode. Though you have made slight progress you still need to see the truth. You're missing the details. You're afraid of expressing yourself. I hear your destiny saying, “I just wanna keep calling your name till you come back home.” Now, go deep into the meaning. Don't read it on the surface level. Stop feeding your mind with negative thoughts. Your destiny is still calling you to look in the right direction and release the pain. You deserve love and you'll find love. For some of you, I also sense that love will heal you. Finding someone who loves you dearly will heal you. All you need is love. You're passionate but you stop yourself as you think you need to present yourself in a certain way. You are looking for something and I am telling you all you need is someone who can provide a safe space for what resides deep within your heart.

To know where your destiny is taking you book a reading with me only at $10.

Pile 3

Your destiny when you were born

Tarot Cards- Knight of Cups, Judgement, King of Swords, 3 of Cups, The Devil

Hello, my beautiful pile 3. The first thing that I observed was that your cards were very eager to come out. There was a desire that you couldn't fulfill in your past life and your soul wanted to have that fulfilled in this lifetime. I sense that you have been an active kid in your childhood. Someone who loved making friends. But there was also something saintly about you. You seem to be a bit flirtatious too. I sense that your purpose was to reconnect with your soul tribe. Some of you are walking on the spiritual path. Your purpose was to find romantic connections that could liberate you from your patterns and make you reborn into a different being every time. You were destined to go through all the unwanted situations and meet unwanted people to finally find what you want. You were meant to heal your wounds around friendship and romantic bonds. I also hear your shadow side saying, “You broke me first.” As you may have been aware of this destiny for a very long time so you lived in pain and stayed in this cycle where you kept hating those who broke your heart or who played with your heart. Some of you may even like to dance. Move your body often and release stuck energy. Dancing can have something to do with your purpose too. Your destiny was to go through emotional ups and downs to finally think logically and see the truth of your life. To see why things happened the way they did. You were meant to reflect years after a situation happened. You may have found many answers to your trauma years after it happened. This is for your inner child, “I keep every hour of every day keeping you safe.” You won't be able to escape your destiny. BECAUSE IT IS THE PATH LEADING YOU TO YOUR SPIRITUAL GROWTH. I also hear, “I am just protecting my innocence. I am just protecting my soul.” Protect your inner child. It's a part of the destiny you were born with.

How has your destiny changed based on your karma?

Tarot Cards- 3 of Swords, Ace of Pentacles, 4 of Wands, 8 of Pentacles, Strength

Wow, pile 3. Well done! You're healing your heart chakra. You're appreciating and seeing the lesson in situations you came across. You're no longer blaming people but trying to see the divine reason behind things. You're not stuck on one polarity. You see all the perspectives and can make peace with them. You've gained a lot of strength right through this desire to find the right people that match your mindset. Though you haven't found them yet you soon will. I see some of you are even working so hard to make yourself financially stable. The painful cycle that you have been in for years is now approaching its end because you were willing to learn the lesson. You're so brave, pile 3. You've developed this spark and light around you that others can't help but notice. You've mastered the art of self-transformation pile 3. You didn't let yourself stay stuck in the energy of looking for your worth in the other people. Some of you may still be realizing it and are working on it. You've finally found your balance. You're keeping your calm and continuously learning the lessons. Some of you may have strong Sagittarius placement (it's not necessary). You are no more afraid of the predators that are out there in the wild. You have trust in your intuition. Consider reading pile 1 too if you were drawn to it. I am finding some similarities. You're currently on the verge of balancing your private and personal life.

To know where your destiny is taking you book a reading with me only at $10.

🐦Bookings Are Open!!!!!!🐦

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