#all. lothar

[prcspero]

It felt…karmic that he’d lose them and there would be nothing he could do to save them.

@lotharx & @alrikhart & @alessiathepath

[atomeja]

i NEEEED wrathion to return!! i need to see these 3 interact!!!!!

[prcspero]

Amongst the things Prospero could have expected in his life, this was not one of them. When he had gone through the Arches and come out, it had felt like he lost everything. The family he had and the family he had formed had been lost to him in what felt like the blink of an eye. Never would he have expected to get even one of those things back. It had been at the cost of his soul, but he had been okay with that. He would suffer if it meant he could have at least one of those things in his life to care for. The druid had been...lost. He'd been wandering aimlessly for several years before he had gotten to Iskaldrik. A blessing and a curse, he guessed. Nevertheless, he wasn't going to look back on the past when the present could slip away from him just as fast. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.

There was one other thing he hadn't expected and that was the soft nature in which he was hugged back. From the length of time they had known each other, he hadn't known the other to be that way. He was all harsh lines and blunt words whenever they spoke. Prospero had grown used to it. He actually liked it on the brute where he probably normally wouldn't. There was no part of him that wanted to let go of this hug for that reason alone. Who knew when he would get this again? They couldn't stay like this forever though. After a few minutes, he pulled away from the hug enough that his arms were at his sides, but he didn't step away. He couldn't find it in himself to put any space between them. "I see you, too, you know." Prospero didn't look away from Lothar's eyes as he spoke. His hands lifted back up to rest on the sides of the other's neck. "You...you're my safe space. Let me be yours, too."

Lothar couldn't say he'd ever known Prospero to be quiet, this sad rumination settling over the other like a tenebrous, unyielding cloud. Such feeling shrouded them like an omen, something yet to pass, and maybe if Lothar was wiser he'd turn away from any such thing that felt eclipsed with a saturation of pure dark but the crux of the matter was that the barbarian tended to gravitate towards these with ease. He'd chased such shadows his entire life, hunting apparitions and shades as though Lothar could revert time and prevent the crucial moment which set him on this path. The Wheel weaves, it's what a certain runic knight repeated to Lothar several times since meeting him, and standing here in Prospero's doorway, Lothar realized he didn't have to keep chasing something that proved ceaseless.

Iniquity, evil, it was an endless cycle, but the barbarian could fight it from one place if he willed it so; he'd the power of the giants in his blood, the heart of a Red Hand, he could pause, even if for a moment. Still, even a barbarian could squeak out a sound of surprise, rigid muscles meeting the embrace before they softened and wound around the other in inevitable acceptance. Lothar wasn't used to such softness, even if it was surely meant to salve the other's emotional wounds, but it stunted him all the same. Eventually, even bordering on a touch dumbfounded, Lothar said, "Okay."

[macabrebatz]

One of my favorite moments in the Warcraft movie is when Lothar checks the passed out orc and both him and the audience get an up close view of just how massive orcs are compared to humans. Sure, we already knew that orcs are big and strong but seeing it up close is an amazing visual to me. Like are you kidding me?? Lothar can't fully wrap his hand around ONE orc finger. ONE FINGER. The size difference is blowing my mind.

[claret-ash]

I don't often share my WIPs to tumblr, but I just had to share my thoughts here! 👀

Faerin would COMPLETELY be the type of friend to tease Anduin over his unusually focused, but soft tone whenever he talks about this mysterious "Wrathion". She's determined to meet this dragon who Anduin seems to have so many stories about... so that she has two future teasing targets! 😈✨

[skymagpie]

I recently read "The Last Guardian" and I am absolutely delighted by it, I feel like when it comes to Khadgar content this is a huge "must read" because the whole book is just so good-natured despite the fact that this sets off a never-ending series of deeply traumatizing events for Khadgar.

Here's some things that canonically happen in this book and that I just found so endearing or fun:

The Kirin Tor literally sends Khadgar off to Medivh because Khadgar kept wandering the halls of the Violet Citadel at night and being so nosy that he caught his professors on drinking binges, sleeping with students or trying to summon demons. Medivh knows that they sent him here hoping he dies because he knows too much.

Khadgar rambling and babbling and being delightfully awkward

Khadgar forgets how to talk when he meets Medivh and makes some strange sound to which Medivh asks Moroes if "the lad is ill."

Medivh having scheduled times for breakfast, lunch and dinner and keeping to them. Also he and Khadgar are just eating porridge with sausages for breakfast every day when he is around.

Khadgar having his inscription set with him that he carries all neatly packaged and tidied up, even though he is this scruffy dirty looking teen boy.

Lothar and Medivh both have this dad relationship with Khadgar, but Lothar is like the cool supportive dad who would take you to a soccer game and would support you at pride with the wrong flag.

During this particularly deep conversation about time and space, Medivh encourages Khadgar to have a bit of wine, Khadgar gets a little tipsy and then Medivh encourages Khadgar to live a little and try to levitate e mug with his magic even though he has been drinking - naturally it ends with Khadgar cleaning the floor afterwards.

When Medivh falls into a coma after their demon encounter at Stormwind, he entrusts Khadgar with handling his mail and Khadgar spends most of his free time sitting next to Medivh's bed and reading him the mail - especially the funny parts.

In the same situation when Medivh wakes up, he sees the startled Khadgar on the floor (after a vision of Sargeras) and softly asks him why he didn't ask Moroes to set up a bed for him there if he wanted to stay in his room.

Khadgar goes very quickly from "Guardian! There is an ORC in the tower!!!" to "Garona is my friend :)"

Khadgar and Garona spend a lot of time rebuilding the library after Garon thrashes the place in order to save Khadgar's life. They make a makeshift woodwork station in the stables outside Karazhan.

Khadgar has like a lowkey puppy crush on Garona and this is actually innocently cute.

Khadgar and Garona on the road when they flee from Medivh is such a nice sequence because they protect each other (from the orcs and humans who would hurt the other one) and also about the fact that they feel betrayed by Medivh. Also Khadgar just wants her to like and trust him 😭

Lothar gets Garona to wear the Stormwind armor by telling her that it matches her eyes and that Khadgar will wear it - and then Khadgar also tells her it matches her eyes and she looks good in it. Lothar using elementary school level tactics to get them to wear the Stormwind armor is so funny.

I just feel like this book was really fun and the pacing of the story was great between building up Medivh as an antagonist who genuinely cared for Khadgar, solving the murder-mystery around him and had the right amount of just daily domestic stuff between Khadgar and him and Khadgar and Garona. Not to mention the excellent parallels between Medivh losing his youth and waking up as an old man and Khadgar losing his youth while also going through what is a very sad coming of age story for him.

[druidonity2]

Since the moment Faerin Lothar was datamined i've seen alot of 'OoHh aNDUIN'S FUTURE WIFE????' and as annoying as that is you know what?? Ill accept it if he takes her last name.

[rage-claw]

this is insane the female night elf model is 7ft even, are u telling me faerin is 7ft+

[mariocki]

Funny Games (1997)

"Why are you doing this to us?"

"Why not?"

[warcraftish]

On a scale of 1-10, how much would it hurt Wranduin shippers if Anduin turned up to the Dragon Isles and immediately started putting the moves on Sabellian?

[prcspero]

closed starter for @lotharx location: lostlands note: :angrytiddies:

Tired was the word he would use for how he felt right now after everything that had transpired. Prospero had never really been through a fight quite like that one before, but he had to say that facing down a dragon and speaking with some deities was not on his bucket list. Maybe he should have put those things on there though. That seemed to be the least of their concerns now. He should've been with Alrik and Alessia right now. Instead, he was here looking at this barrier. This wasn't magic he had ever seen himself, but he'd read about it. Seven layers of elemental and spiritual magic formed this prismatic barrier surrounding Iskaldrik. It would take precise movements to even make a dent in it. And he may have been old, but this was not something that one person could do alone.

Nevertheless, he had been on his way back from observing it only to run into his future date. He still wasn't sure if they were actually going to go on that date or if it had been a joke, but he'd keep pretending that it was the former. There was a question lingering in his mind though. "And here I thought you were a normal, stoic soldier with an ax. Little did I know you were sipping colossus juice."

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

#after being given an honored role at her father’s funeral #before telling robb that winterfell had been burnt to the ground #and almost everyone he had ever known was dead #as he sits there and shares a meal with them#and plays the nice guy #while ​being the main orchestrator of their approaching deaths #and the mass slaughter of their army

yeah the red wedding was bad but actually the worst thing house frey ever did was lothar frey giving catelyn stark his condolences for bran and rickon’s deaths before proceeding to bait her only remaining son into a death trap.

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (runaway)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: what remains

- Next part: the hill

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis @urdxrling @meowmeowmothermeower @nen-nyy

The banners of House Lannister rippled in the wind, a sea of crimson and gold stretching across the fields before Riverrun. The Riverlands had always been a land of deep greens and rolling waters, but now it stood scarred by war. The campfires of the siege burned in steady rows outside the castle walls, surrounding the ancient fortress like vultures waiting for a corpse to still.

Jaime rode at the head of his host, his golden hand gleaming in the morning sun as his men approached the Frey encampment. The Frey banners, duller and less grand than the Lannister lion, fluttered weakly atop their makeshift barricades, and the men within their ranks stood with slouched shoulders and restless eyes. They had been here for moons, wasting away in stagnation, unable to break the Blackfish’s defenses.

Beside Jaime, Bronn adjusted the reins of his horse, his expression unimpressed as he surveyed the state of the Frey forces. “Seven hells, Jaime, I thought this was supposed to be a siege, not a farmer’s gathering. These men look like they’d rather be anywhere else.”

Jaime smirked faintly, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s because they would.”

Bronn scoffed, shaking his head. “If I were the Blackfish, I’d be laughing myself to sleep every night watching this lot try to take his castle.”

Jaime said nothing, but he couldn’t disagree. The Freys had botched this siege from the start. Even as he rode through their camp, he could see the lack of discipline, the slackened formations, the outright boredom in their eyes. These weren’t soldiers eager for battle; they were men waiting for someone else to solve their problem.

And now that someone was him.

As he dismounted, several of the Frey commanders rushed forward, their stiff-backed forms doing little to disguise their clear discomfort. Lame Lothar Frey and Walder Rivers led the group, their expressions sour with thinly veiled resentment.

“Ser Jaime,” Lothar greeted, his voice coated with forced civility. “An honor to see you take command.”

Jaime raised a brow. “Is it?”

Walder Rivers cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “We’ve maintained the siege as ordered, but the Blackfish refuses all terms of surrender. The old man is as stubborn as they come.”

Jaime removed his glove, tucking it into his belt as he surveyed the scene before him. The walls of Riverrun loomed ahead, high and impenetrable, the Tully banners still flying defiantly from the ramparts. The drawbridge remained raised, the gate sealed, and despite the weeks of siege, the fortress itself looked far from weary.

Jaime exhaled slowly. “You’ve been here for moons, and yet the castle still stands, its defenses unbroken, its men unfazed.” His gaze flickered back to the Frey commanders. “Tell me, do you want to take Riverrun, or are you content to sit outside these walls like beggars at a feast?”

Lothar bristled, his jaw tightening. “We have followed Lord Walder’s orders to the letter.”

Jaime smirked. “And what an excellent job you’ve done.”

Bronn snorted behind him.

Walder Rivers scowled. “The Blackfish will not yield. We have sent envoys, offered terms—he will not listen.”

Jaime tilted his head, studying them. “Perhaps you sent the wrong men.”

Lothar scoffed. “And you believe you’ll fare better?”

Jaime smiled coldly. “Yes.”

The Freys exchanged uneasy glances, but neither argued.

Jaime turned back toward the castle, the weight of the coming battle settling over him. Riverrun would not fall easily. He had known that before arriving, but now, seeing the state of the siege, he realized just how much work lay ahead.

Still, it had to be done.

His father had commanded it.

The war needed to end.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered how you would react when you learned that he was the one leading the charge.

Would you hate him more than you already did?

Or had you always known this was inevitable?

Jaime exhaled sharply, pushing those thoughts aside. He had a siege to win.

And the Blackfish was waiting.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time Jaime rode to the walls of Riverrun, his crimson cloak trailing behind him as he approached the drawbridge. A handful of his men followed at a distance, Bronn among them, though Jaime had made it clear that this was to be a conversation, not a battle.

The Blackfish was waiting for him.

Ser Brynden Tully stood atop the battlements, his armor gleaming under the fading sunlight, his expression carved from stone. His presence was unshaken, his shoulders squared with the pride of a man who had never once surrendered.

Jaime tilted his head, resting his golden hand against the hilt of his sword. “Ser Brynden,” he called, his voice carrying over the still air. “It’s been some time.”

The Blackfish peered down at him with cool disinterest. “Not long enough.”

Jaime smirked faintly, though there was little humor in it. “I was hoping we could speak.”

The older knight exhaled sharply through his nose before nodding to one of the guards. The gate remained shut, but after a moment, the drawbridge was lowered just enough to allow Jaime through. Two armed men flanked the Blackfish as Jaime dismounted, their hands resting on their weapons, but Brynden himself seemed unbothered.

Jaime stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll keep this brief. You’re surrounded. Your supplies won’t last forever. Surrender Riverrun, and I’ll ensure your men are given fair terms.”

Brynden crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Fair terms from a Lannister? Forgive me if I don’t place my faith in your father’s mercy.”

Jaime inhaled slowly. “My father isn’t here. I am.”

The Blackfish scoffed. “And I should trust you?” His gaze flickered to Jaime’s golden hand before settling back on his face. “You haven’t won a real battle in years, Kingslayer. Tell me, how many oaths have you broken since last we met?”

Jaime smirked, though his patience was already thinning. “I’ve never broken an oath to my wife.”

The Blackfish’s expression darkened instantly.

Jaime tilted his head. “Ah, so you do know. I thought you might.”

Brynden stepped closer, his glare sharp enough to cut. “I know you forced her into this farce.”

Jaime’s smirk faded. “I did no such thing.”

The Blackfish scoffed. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that Eddard Stark’s daughter chose to wed you?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “She made her choice.”

Brynden let out a bitter laugh. “Aye, a choice with a lion’s claws at her throat, no doubt.” He took another step closer, his voice lowering. “Tell me, did she weep on your wedding night? Did she flinch when you touched her? Did you break her as you Lannisters have broken so many others?”

Something inside Jaime snapped.

His smirk vanished, his fingers clenching into fists. “Watch your tongue, old man.”

Brynden did not flinch. “Or what? Will you push me from a tower, too?”

Jaime shifted on his feet, steadying himself. He had expected resistance, had known that speaking of you would only provoke the Blackfish further—but still, the words cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

Brynden’s eyes burned with barely restrained fury. “Your father orchestrated the deaths of her kin. He gave the order that killed her brother unfairly in battle. And now, you claim to call her your wife?” He spat at Jaime’s feet, his voice dripping with disgust. “Eddard Stark is turning in his grave.”

Jaime’s fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword. He forced himself to remain still.

“I didn’t come here to debate my marriage.”

Brynden scoffed. “Then why did you come here, Lannister? To gloat? To tell me I should be grateful you took my niece’s daughter as your broodmare instead of handing her to the Boltons?”

Jaime inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “I came here to offer you a way out. Surrender Riverrun, and your men will live.”

Brynden shook his head. “You’ve wasted your breath. This castle belongs to House Tully, and as long as I draw breath, I will not yield it to the likes of you.”

Jaime studied him for a long moment, then spoke slowly. “You know this war is over.”

Brynden’s jaw tightened. “Then let it end with steel, not surrender.”

Jaime closed his eyes briefly before opening them again, something heavy settling in his chest.

“Very well,” he murmured.

The Blackfish gave him one last long look before stepping back. The moment between them passed, and just like that, the drawbridge was raised, sealing Riverrun once more.

Jaime stood there for a moment longer, staring up at the castle walls.

Then, with a slow breath, he turned and walked away, the weight of what had to come pressing down on him.

Because, one way or another, Riverrun would fall.

And this time, there would be no Starks left to save it.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky by the time Jaime rode back through the siege lines, the weight of his conversation with the Blackfish still pressing against his ribs like a vice. His horse’s hooves kicked up dirt as he passed rows of campfires, where Frey and Lannister men loitered, some sharpening their swords, others drinking their fill of sour ale as if this was any other evening. They were waiting—waiting for him to end this siege, waiting for the next command, waiting for Riverrun to fall.

And for now, all Jaime had to offer them was action.

Bronn was the first to greet him as he dismounted, the sellsword stepping out from where he had been leaning against a wooden barricade. He was already smirking, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Jaime like a man who had already guessed the outcome.

“So,” Bronn drawled, “I’m guessing talking didn’t work.”

Jaime clicks his tongue as he passes his reins off to a nearby soldier before rolling his shoulders. “How very perceptive of you.”

Bronn grinned. “Well, you do have that look about you.” He gestured vaguely at Jaime’s face. “That ‘I just wasted my fucking time’ look.”

Jaime unfastened his cloak, shaking the dust from it before draping it over a nearby wooden post. “The Blackfish isn’t surrendering.”

Bronn let out a mock gasp. “You don’t say.”

Jaime shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

Bronn chuckled, falling into step beside him as Jaime moved toward the command tent. “So what now? We keep sitting outside their walls like a bunch of idiots hoping they die of boredom?”

Jaime ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. “No. We take Riverrun by force.”

Bronn lifted a brow. “Now we’re talking.”

Jaime paused just outside the tent, his fingers flexing. “We begin the assault at first light. No more waiting. No more wasted time. The Blackfish had his chance. He made his choice.”

Bronn nodded approvingly. “Can’t say I’ll miss sitting around doing nothing.”

Jaime exhaled, stepping inside. The command tent was filled with scattered maps and reports, detailing every attempt the Freys had made to breach Riverrun’s walls—all failures. The Blackfish had held this castle with fewer men than any Lannister commander would have thought possible. But even the strongest walls could not withstand a full force battering against them.

Lothar Frey and Walder Rivers were already inside, awaiting him. Their expressions were sour, their patience clearly wearing thin.

“Well?” Lothar asked, arms crossed. “Did the Tully scum bend the knee?”

Jaime shot him a flat look. “No.”

Walder Rivers scoffed. “Of course not. The old fool’s been holed up in there for too long. He still thinks there’s something left to fight for.”

Jaime stepped closer to the map, tracing his fingers along the rough lines of the Riverlands. “There’s always something left to fight for,” he muttered under his breath.

Bronn, standing just behind him, let out a snort. “Sentimental, aren’t we?”

Jaime ignored him, shifting his attention back to the Freys. “We take the castle by force. No more waiting. The siege ends tomorrow.”

Lothar frowned. “You’re sure?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “Would you rather sit outside these walls for another six moons?”

Walder Rivers nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. “It’ll be bloody.”

Jaime didn't even look at him. “Then let’s make sure we’re not the ones bleeding.”

Lothar hesitated, then smirked. “What about Lord Edmure? We still have him.”

Jaime inhaled deeply. Edmure Tully, the Blackfish’s nephew, the true lord of Riverrun—if only by name. A hostage, nothing more, another piece to be played.

Jaime shakes his head lightly. “Not yet.”

Lothar and Walder exchanged glances but did not argue.

Bronn sighed, clapping Jaime on the back. “Well, I guess I’ll start making sure your grand plan goes smoothly.” He grinned. “I always did enjoy a proper fight.”

Jaime barely heard him. His mind was already turning, already moving through every possible path forward. He knew how this would end—Riverrun would fall. Whether it took days or weeks, it would fall.

And when it did, he would have to live with the fact that he was the one who made it happen.

The halls of Casterly Rock felt heavier in Jaime’s absence. The golden fortress of the Lannisters, carved into the very bones of the cliffs, stood unmoved by time, war, or the burdens of those who walked its gilded corridors. But to you, it felt suffocating. The weight of it pressed against your chest, a silent reminder that you were not home, that you were never meant to belong here.

Jaime had left days ago with his host, marching for Riverrun under the Lannister banner, leaving you behind to oversee the Rock in his absence. It had been Kevan’s idea, and even Tywin had agreed—it would not do for his son’s wife to be seen as a mere prisoner. You were to rule in Jaime’s stead, to play the role of Lady of the West, to tend to the affairs of Casterly Rock as if you were one of them.

But you were not one of them.

And you were anything but calm.

Lady Dorna Lannister had done her best to keep you engaged, to instruct you on the matters of the keep, the dealings with merchants, the demands of the bannermen. You had listened—at least, in the beginning. But now, seated in the grand solar with ledgers open before you, your mind was elsewhere. Your fingers curled against the edge of the wooden table, your jaw tight as the weight of your helplessness coiled inside you like a snake ready to strike.

Winter, sensing your unease, sat close to you, his great silver-white form a constant shadow by your side. His eyes flickered up every time you shifted, every time you sighed or drummed your fingers impatiently against the table. He was watching, waiting—just as restless as you.

Lady Dorna set her goblet down with a quiet sigh, folding her hands before her. “You will wear through the table if you keep doing that.”

You stilled your fingers. “Perhaps I should ride for Riverrun instead. I might be of better use there.”

Dorna’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “You know that would not be wise.”

You looked at her then, your gaze biting. “Why? Because your lords would see it as treason? Because I would bring shame to the Lannister name?”

Dorna did not flinch. She had been married to Kevan Lannister for decades; she had long since learned the art of patience. “Because you would be riding into a warzone with no allies and no plan. Because Jaime—despite what you might think of him—would chase you down himself if he had to.”

Your breath caught, your fingers curling into fists beneath the table.

Jaime.

You could still hear his voice from the night before he left, still see the way his expression had tightened when he told you where he was going, what he had to do.

"It won’t change anything."

"It changes everything."

You had been furious, had wanted to scream, to claw your way out of this wretched marriage, out of this wretched Rock that held you prisoner. But he had only looked at you with that same unreadable expression, as if he had already accepted that no matter what he did, it would never be enough.

And then, in the cold light of dawn, he was gone.

The memory left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Winter let out a low growl, his ears twitching as he sensed the storm brewing inside you.

Lady Dorna exhaled, leaning forward slightly. “You are not powerless here, you know.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I feel like I am.”

Dorna studied you for a long moment, then sighed. “Power is not always in swords and battlefields, my lady. Sometimes, it is in patience. In knowing when to act and when to wait.”

Your jaw clenched. “And if I wait too long?”

Dorna’s expression softened slightly, though her voice remained steady. “Then you will have to trust that Jaime knows what he is doing.”

You let out a shallow breath, turning your gaze toward the open balcony, where the light of the afternoon stretched over the sea beyond the cliffs. The waves crashed against the rocks below, endless and unmoving.

Trust.

It was such a foreign thing to ask of you.

But what choice did you have?

You glanced down at Winter, running your fingers through his thick fur, grounding yourself.

For now, you would wait.

But you would not wait forever.

The halls of Casterly Rock had never felt more stifling. The walls, gilded and adorned with the banners of the golden lion, seemed to press in on you, suffocating with their weight. The days since Jaime’s departure had crawled by in agonizing stillness, each moment stretching like an eternity. You had done what was expected—played the role of Lady of the Rock, overseen affairs, listened to Dorna’s words of caution—but it was all meaningless. Riverrun was under siege, your uncle fighting against impossible odds, and you were trapped, useless, within the lion’s den.

Until today.

You had made your decision long before Tywin summoned you.

The summons had come in the morning, carried by one of the stewards in that stiff, impersonal tone that made your blood boil. It had not been a request. It had been an order.

And so, you went.

The chamber was dimly lit, the high windows allowing only slivers of sunlight to cut through the cool interior. Tywin stood at the head of the room, his posture as rigid as ever, his hands folded behind his back. Kevan was absent, leaving only guards stationed at the doors. This was not a council meeting. This was something else.

Tywin did not look up as you entered, but the weight of his presence was suffocating nonetheless.

"You’ve been restless," he said, his voice even, controlled.

You stopped a few paces from him, lifting your chin. "What a keen observation."

His gaze flicked to you then, sharp and piercing. "Do not mistake my patience for tolerance. Your behavior has been noted."

You scoffed. "Noted by whom? Your spies? Your servants? Or do you simply take pleasure in watching me pace the halls like a caged beast?"

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I allowed you the courtesy of overseeing Casterly Rock in Jaime’s absence, believing you understood your place. Instead, you sulk and scheme, making a spectacle of yourself in front of my bannermen."

You clenched your jaw. "My place is not here while my family is being slaughtered."

His expression did not change. "Your family is dead. Those who remain have chosen their fate."

Your fingers curled into fists, anger burning hot under your skin. "My mother is alive."

"And she is nothing but a shadow of what she was." Tywin stepped forward then, his gaze never wavering. "Do you think she will embrace you if you ride to her side? That she will take you into her arms and fight beside you?" His voice was quiet, cutting. "She is not the woman who bore you. She is something else now. Something broken. You would throw away your position, your protection, for what? A ghost?"

Your throat tightened.

You hated him.

You hated the way he spoke with such certainty, as if he had already decided what you would become. As if he had won.

"I would rather fight beside a ghost," you said, voice steady, "than rot here as your prisoner."

Tywin’s expression did not change, but something in the air shifted.

"You are not a prisoner," he said, though the words felt hollow. "You are Jaime’s wife. You are Lady of Casterly Rock. Your duty is here."

You inhaled sharply, forcing down the lump in your throat. "No," you whispered. "My duty is to my family."

The silence between you was suffocating.

Tywin studied you for a long moment, and then, finally, he exhaled. "You will not leave these walls."

A finality. A decree.

But he had underestimated you.

For the first time since you've met, you did not answer him.

You turned and walked away.

It was nearly dusk by the time you reached the stables. The sky was painted in hues of deep amber and violet, the salty breeze from the sea biting against your skin. The guards stationed at the gates had been doubled since Jaime’s departure, a quiet but clear message from Tywin: You were not to leave.

But you had never been one to obey.

Winter was at your heels, his presence steady, his ears twitching with alertness as you approached the stables. The horses shifted restlessly as you entered, the stablemaster turning with a startled expression.

"My lady—"

You didn’t give him time to react. You moved with purpose, reaching for the nearest stallion, a strong, dark-coated beast already saddled.

"Prepare him," you ordered, your voice leaving no room for argument.

The stablemaster hesitated. "My lady, Lord Tywin has given orders—"

"I do not care what Tywin Lannister has ordered," you snapped, turning on him. "Saddle the horse. Now."

The man swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides. He was not a soldier, nor was he brave enough to defy you when you stood before him with fire in your eyes.

He did as he was told.

Within minutes, you pulled yourself into the saddle, gripping the reins as Winter let out a low, eager growl beside you.

The guards at the gate reacted instantly, drawing their swords as you urged the horse forward.

"My lady, you cannot leave," one of them barked, stepping into your path.

You glared down at him. "Move."

The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. "Lord Tywin—"

"Lord Tywin is not here," you interrupted. "And I will not ask again."

Tension crackled in the air. The guards were sworn to House Lannister, to their Warden of the West, but you were his son’s wife. They could not harm you—not without consequences.

And they knew it.

One of them hesitated, his grip on his sword loosening.

You saw your opening.

Without another word, you dug your heels into the horse’s side, spurring him forward.

The beast reared for only a second before charging through the gap between the guards, Winter a silver blur at your side.

Shouts erupted behind you.

"Close the gates!"

"Fetch Lord Kevan!"

But it was too late.

You were gone.

The wind howled against your face as you rode, the cliffs of Casterly Rock shrinking behind you. The road stretched ahead, winding toward the Riverlands, toward Riverrun.

Toward Jaime.

Toward war.

And no Lannister was going to stop you now.

[feuerfreiarchive]

In a 2003 interview with Legion, Flake shared a funny anecdote: "When we first came to Mexico City, we played together with Kiss at the Stadion del Sol. We flew back in the middle of the night on a Boeing 747 and shortly after takeoff Till said to me: 'Man, if we crash now, we're going to kill a few thousand people.' You have to know, we just flew over the slums. Suddenly there was a bang and it came from the front. And I thought: 'Aha, the cockpit exploded, bye, thanks!' Till said to me: 'Have a look and see if the engines are burning.' We kept sinking. At that moment I took Till's hand and said: 'I actually don't want to die!'. A stream of sweat ran down between our hands and it was dead quiet around us. The lights were off and the screens were dark too, 'So' I thought, ‘so now I'm going to be on the news’. Just like the magazine List sometimes says: 'Plane crashed - 200 dead - the causes are being investigated.' All I can say is: I now know how it feels to be in a plane like this just before it hits the ground. Paul turned to us. Very slowly, like a puppet, he made a gesture like I'd never seen before: he just waved at us, it was like, 'Guys, it was nice seeing you’. I looked at Till and thought through everything that was in my life that happened so far and somehow in my head there was only one 'Well, yes!'... We didn't hit the ground after all, it kept going... What I only found out much later: the plane was struck by lightning and what happened is that all computer programs failed. From that moment on, the pilots flew this gigantic airplane again like before: with cables to the wings. Suddenly the Stewarts came through again and asked: What do you want to drink? Our connecting flight was then like taking a tram. There is definitely a feeling of being a newborn. In retrospect, Till, who was just writing lyrics just before the bang, said: 'I was about to write ejaculation!'" Quote from Legacy (2003) Photo by Frank Lothar Lange (Teotihuacan, Mexico, April 1999)

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[transgenderer]

Zhou dynasty classic texts (c. 11th–3rd centuries BCE) use the word shi 尸 hundreds of times. Lothar von Falkenhausen contrasts the frequently recorded shi "personator" with the rarely noted wu 巫 "shaman; spirit medium".

At ancestral sacrifices, the ancestral spirits descend into individuals designated from among their descendants, the "Impersonators" (shi 尸). Occupying their ritual rôle by virtue of their kinship position vis-à-vis the ancestor that is sacrificed to, the Impersonators are not trained religious specialists like the Spirit Mediums. Although it has been speculated that the actions of the shi may have originally involved trance and possession, the surviving source materials—none earlier than the Western Zhou period—show them as staid and passive, acting with the utmost demeanor and dignity.[20]

The Shijing ("Classic of Poetry", c. 11th – 6th centuries BCE) contains early and detailed descriptions of personation ceremonies, in the following themes.

There is an abundance of sacrificial wine and food (odes 166, 209, 210, and 248) shared by both the ancestral spirits (through the personator) and their descendants. Drunkenness is frequently mentioned: 209/5 "The spirits [note: 'souls' not 'liquor'] are all drunk," 209/6 "all are happy; they are drunk," 247/1, 2 "We are drunk with wine," and 248/5 "the representative of the (dead) princes comes and feasts and is befumed (by the spirits); the good wine makes you merry." Most significantly, the ancestral spirits speak directly through the intoxicated personators (166, 210, and 247), approve of the sacrificial offerings, and bless their descendants (166, 209, 210, 247, and 248).[24]