#and a targe is a small round shield

[novaursa]

Legacy

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

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: dinner with a lion

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

The heat of Harrenhal’s stone walls suffocates you as you sit, bound and chained, in a shadowed cell, distanced from the other prisoners. The silence presses down heavily, disturbed only by the occasional scurry of rats in the corners and the distant, echoing clamor of soldiers outside. They’ve kept you here as a prisoner of value, locked away from the common rabble. No one dared speak your name aloud, but you know what you are to them—a Targaryen, a relic of a world shattered and hunted by Robert’s Rebellion.

Your eyes trace the rough-hewn stones, your thoughts lost in Winterfell's cold embrace, where you’d been a ward, a stranger among wolves yet somehow belonging. Ned Stark's honor had felt like a shield back then, the North your sanctuary. That safety, of course, had long been stripped away. The warmth of winter fires, the laughter of his children, Arya’s giggling fits as she followed you through halls… You press those memories deep, lest they break you here in this hollowed-out fortress of despair.

The iron door creaks open. You don’t lift your head, knowing that if it’s a guard, his words will be as cold as his chainmail. Instead, you hear the soft scuff of small, light footsteps—a child’s, perhaps, or someone pretending to be one.

“Y/N?” The whisper is barely audible, like a breeze skimming across snow. You jerk your head up, blinking to adjust to the light spilling into the cell. A thin figure stands just outside the barred door, cloaked in rags, dark hair wild and tangled around a dirt-smeared face. The eyes, however, are unmistakable—storm-grey, fierce with a fire that the years hadn’t dimmed.

“Arya…” you breathe, hardly believing what you’re seeing.

She glances around quickly, as if expecting someone to appear out of the shadows, then steps closer to the bars, wrapping her hands around them. She is small, thin, but you can feel her strength through the steel.

“They’ve separated you from the others,” she says, her voice low but urgent. “Why?”

A bitter smile tugs at your lips. “They know what I am. Who I am.” You can’t help but reach through the bars, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. “But they don’t know you, it seems.” You pause, studying her. “Why are you dressed like…?”

Her face hardens, though her eyes still shimmer with the relief of seeing you. “I’m Ary. A boy.” She grins a little. “Keeps me safer that way. They don’t look too closely at boys.”

You nod, understanding. Clever girl. Brave girl. Your heart aches at the thought of her wandering through these deadly halls, relying only on wit and stealth. “You shouldn't be here, Arya.”

“Neither should you,” she retorts, voice fierce. “You think I’d just stay hidden, knowing they have you locked up like some...prize?” She gestures toward your chains. “You’re all they talk about.”

The words sting, though you knew what you were to them—what you’d always been in the eyes of those who held power. “Yes, well, they love parading relics of conquest.”

Arya scoffs, glancing down the hall as the clang of footsteps grows closer. She pulls back slightly, but her gaze holds yours. “I’m going to find a way to help you.”

Before you can respond, the guard rounds the corner, a hulking brute who grunts upon seeing Arya standing too close to the bars.

“Oi, boy!” he barks, jabbing a gloved finger toward her. “What’re you loitering around here for? Get along!”

Arya nods quickly, ducking her head. “Sorry, m’lord. Was just looking for scraps.”

The guard snorts, shoving her away with a meaty hand. “Scavenge elsewhere, rat.” His eyes slide back to you, cold and suspicious, before he turns and lumbers away down the hall.

You exhale slowly, your fingers trembling against the rough metal of your chains. In another life, Arya would have been free to roam Winterfell’s hills, a wild little shadow among wolves. And yet, she’s here, risking herself to reach you. As she slips away, she looks back just once, her expression determined, her eyes flashing with a promise.

The hours blur together after that. Servants and guards move past occasionally, sneaking glances but offering no words. No one knows what to do with you; even here, your Targaryen blood marks you as something foreign, an unpredictable fire they’d rather keep contained.

But then, as night falls and the cold sets in, Arya returns, slipping through the shadows. She brings a small hunk of bread and a waterskin, passing them through the bars.

“Eat,” she whispers, watching you with a fierce, protective glint. “You need to keep your strength.”

You take the food gratefully, feeling a spark of warmth. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice low. “How did you…?”

“I’m faster than most of these lumbering fools,” she says, a spark of pride in her tone. “I’ve learned things. I know how to make myself invisible.”

You chuckle softly, the sound echoing in the quiet cell. “You always did have a knack for hiding. Even in Winterfell, you could vanish like a shadow.”

Her face softens, a brief flicker of nostalgia crossing her expression. “Winterfell feels like a lifetime ago.”

“For both of us,” you reply, meeting her gaze, the weight of shared memories hanging heavy between you. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Arya. These people…they won’t think twice about harming you if they suspect anything.”

She nods, her expression fierce. “I’ll be fine. But I’ll come back. I’ll find a way to get you out.”

There’s a fire in her eyes, a determination that reminds you so painfully of her father. And as she slips away into the darkness, leaving you alone once more, you feel a renewed sense of hope—a fragile, flickering ember amidst the cold stone walls of Harrenhal.

The hours drag on, each one marked by the slow drip of water echoing in your cell, but eventually, the familiar rhythm of Harrenhal’s dungeons changes. You feel it before you see it—a shift in the air, the sound of hurried footsteps, the murmur of anxious voices reverberating through the stone walls. The guards move with unusual purpose, stiffening as they march past, casting wary glances at each other.

And then it clicks. A name floats through the muted conversations, spoken in low, reverent tones. Tywin Lannister.

Of course, he would come. Tywin would never leave something—or someone—of value to fate or neglect, and as a Targaryen in Lannister captivity, you are valuable. The realization sends a chill through you; you know what Tywin’s arrival means. After all, this was the man who orchestrated Robert’s Rebellion from the shadows, who ensured your family’s ruin.

Hours pass, leaving you with your thoughts, steeling yourself for the inevitable. It is nearly dusk when you hear his unmistakable footfalls—a measured, deliberate pace, the stride of a man who owns every room he steps into. The door to your cell opens, and there he stands, backlit by the torches in the hallway, his sharp gaze fixed upon you with that calculating intensity that has always defined him.

You rise slowly, the chains at your wrists clinking softly as you meet his gaze, refusing to bow or avert your eyes. He steps forward, and the guard closes the door behind him, leaving just the two of you in the silence of the cell.

"Y/N," he greets, his voice low and steady, as if he were greeting an old friend rather than a prisoner.

"Lord Tywin," you reply, keeping your tone neutral, though a simmering resentment lies beneath it. "I wondered how long it would take you to come see me."

He inclines his head, a barely perceptible acknowledgment. "I was surprised to learn you were here. I'd thought my orders were… clear."

"Well," you reply, voice laced with defiance, "your orders seem to have missed me by a few years and several hundred leagues."

A flicker of something passes over his expression—irritation, perhaps, or simply the mild inconvenience of something not going precisely to his plans. He regards you with that unyielding gaze, assessing, calculating. "You always did possess a certain… rebellious streak."

You lift your chin, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "It was a trait I shared with my family. At least, those who survived."

"Indeed," he says, with a faint curl of distaste. "And yet here you are, once again, a ward of sorts—though not of Winterfell this time." He studies you a moment longer before taking a step back, hands folded behind his back. "I did not expect you to involve yourself in… certain matters."

"I didn’t choose this," you reply, the bitterness plain in your voice. "Do you think I wanted to end up here, in the middle of this war, far from my family?"

Tywin raises an eyebrow. "Family? The very family that plunged the realm into chaos and left nothing but ashes and memories?"

You grit your teeth, the anger simmering within you. "My family fought for what was theirs. They believed in protecting their own."

"Their own." He almost laughs, the sound devoid of warmth. "A convenient justification." He takes a measured step toward you, his voice lowering. "But there are two choices now—obey, or find yourself utterly without power or purpose in this realm. It’s time to accept which path will ensure your survival."

The implication hangs heavy in the air, but you hold your ground. “And what path is that, exactly?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestures toward the door with an almost casual wave of his hand. “You will be brought to me, Y/N. The other prisoners here… they are of no value, save for labor. They’ll be put to work.”

You look away, unable to hold his gaze, a knot of resentment building in your chest. You know what this means—that he intends to keep you close, in his grasp, as leverage, as something he can wield. Just another prize in his relentless pursuit of control.

“Then I suppose I don’t have much of a choice,” you say quietly, resigned.

“Choice?” Tywin’s lips twist into a thin smile. “Perhaps not. But survival? That, you do.”

He pauses, his gaze lingering on you, assessing you once more before turning toward the door. Just before he leaves, he speaks again, softer this time, though there’s no warmth in his tone. “There was a time I believed you would find your place at Winterfell. Let’s hope you find it here in Harrenhal, though I doubt it will be as kind.”

With that, he turns, his cloak sweeping behind him, and the door closes. You are left in silence, the chains at your wrists heavier than ever as you stare at the empty doorway, Tywin's words echoing in your mind.

They bring you through the winding stone corridors of Harrenhal, flanked by guards who grip their weapons as though you might suddenly decide to fight. You don’t look at them, choosing instead to lift your chin, steeling yourself for what awaits. Soon, you reach a heavy iron door and are led into the dimly lit council chamber, where Tywin Lannister sits at a rough-hewn table surrounded by maps and documents. His eyes flick up as you enter, cold and unblinking, assessing you as if you were a pawn on one of his battle maps.

"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chair across from him.

You hesitate, a beat of defiance thrumming in your chest, but there’s little point in resisting now. With a quiet dignity, you take the seat, keeping your posture poised, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you appear weak.

For a moment, he says nothing, his piercing gaze steady as he studies you, hands clasped before him. The silence between you is thick, heavy with the weight of a past neither of you acknowledges directly.

"Have you thought of what your place here will be, Y/N?" His voice is measured, devoid of warmth. “It’s time you learn that your loyalty—whatever remains of it—has a purpose.”

“Is that what you’re hoping to extract from me?” you reply, tone cool, unwilling to betray any weakness. “Loyalty?”

Tywin’s mouth forms a thin line. “I had thought that was something you would recognize. I recall a time when I gave you something very few in Westeros would have considered—a chance. Yet, here you are.”

You raise an eyebrow, the bitterness you’ve tried to suppress bubbling to the surface. “If you’re expecting a thank you, Lord Tywin, for ‘saving my life’ and sending me North, you’ll be disappointed.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, though his face remains otherwise impassive. “I expect no gratitude. Only an understanding of what is required.” His gaze sharpens, icy and relentless. “The time for grudges and sentiment is over. We are at war, Y/N, and there are no innocents in war.”

You bite back a retort, letting the words settle. Tywin had always been a strategist, a man who saw lives as currency in his endless schemes for power. To him, you were a valuable piece in this game, nothing more.

Before you can respond, there’s a shuffle at the door. A small figure enters, head down, dressed in rags that disguise her almost entirely. You freeze, a flicker of recognition sparking within you. Arya. She’s keeping her head low, her gaze on the floor, playing the part of a servant boy with remarkable precision.

Tywin barely acknowledges her, but you sense the tension rolling off him as he glances briefly at the child. “Good,” he mutters, gesturing for her to approach. “Pour us some wine.”

You catch her eye just for a split second, then force yourself to look away, masking any flicker of recognition that might betray her. Fear coils in your stomach, a sick dread gnawing at you. Arya is so close to him, close enough to be touched by the man whose armies are locked in a brutal struggle against her brother Robb.

She moves with surprising grace, her hands steady as she picks up a pitcher of wine and fills Tywin’s cup first, then yours. You can sense her nervousness—the slight tremor in her hands, the careful restraint in her movements. Every instinct screams for you to shield her, to pull her away from Tywin’s cold gaze, but you force yourself to remain still, trusting in her disguise.l

Tywin raises his goblet, studying you over the rim, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You’ve come a long way from the girl I once sent North,” he says, taking a slow sip. “And yet, I wonder if you truly understand the stakes of the game you’re caught in.”

You meet his gaze head-on, a defiant spark igniting in your chest. “Perhaps it’s not the game I care about, Tywin. Perhaps I’ve come to understand that there’s more at stake than power.”

He sets down his goblet, fingers steepling before him, his expression hardening. “That’s where you are mistaken, Y/N. Power is the only thing that matters. It is the only reason you are here, alive, in this moment.” He gestures to the chamber around him, as though the walls themselves bear witness to his authority.

Beside you, Arya keeps her head down, silent as she completes her task, retreating a step as if hoping to melt into the shadows. Yet, despite her best efforts, your gaze drifts to her, a rush of protectiveness coursing through you, though you know it’s a risk. You want to shield her, to keep her far from Tywin’s attention, from his scrutiny. Her fate hangs by a thread, poised perilously close to discovery, and you cannot allow yourself to falter.

Tywin’s gaze sharpens as he notes your momentary glance toward Arya. He doesn’t ask, but there’s an unspoken question in the air as his eyes linger on you, piercing and calculating.

With Arya now lingering in the background, Tywin returns his attention fully to you, his tone softening just enough to sound almost conversational. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe that loyalty alone will ensure victory? Or will it take more?”

He waits, and you know that beneath his words lies a deeper question—a challenge, a demand for allegiance that you cannot easily give. 

You swallow, feeling the weight of Tywin’s question linger in the room like a shadow. He watches you closely, his gaze dissecting every breath, every shift of your expression.

“Loyalty alone doesn’t ensure anything,” you answer finally, your voice carefully neutral. “It’s a weapon, a means to an end, but hardly the end itself.”

He inclines his head slightly, as if acknowledging your answer. “Precisely. Loyalty is useful—necessary, even—but it is not enough to build a legacy.” His tone is cool, distant, almost as if lecturing a pupil. “Power is what matters, Y/N. Power builds kingdoms, reshapes worlds, burns down houses that have stood for centuries.”

The words are exactly what you expected from him: cold, ruthless, and unyielding. Yet, as he continues, there’s an intensity beneath them, a deeper thread of something that you can’t quite name.

“Legacy,” he says, his voice lowering to a murmur. “What we leave behind is all that remains when we are gone. Our names, our accomplishments… these are what endure. Without them, we are dust, forgotten.”

You meet his gaze, holding it with a defiance you can’t quite suppress. “I thought you cared little for anything but victory, Tywin. For all this talk of legacy, I hadn’t pegged you for someone who worried about what others would remember.”

A shadow of a smirk flits across his face. “Perhaps you misunderstand me. I care little for how others perceive me—but I care greatly for what they cannot ignore. For the things that endure, long after I’m gone. It is not enough for House Lannister to survive. It must be unassailable.”

You nod slowly, absorbing his words, though a part of you bristles against his philosophy. He sees people as tools, pawns in his endless game. That’s all you are to him, a valuable piece he can wield to achieve his vision.

But then, he leans forward slightly, his eyes fixed on you with a sudden, burning intensity. “And that is why I’ve decided to take you as my wife.”

The words strike you like a blow, leaving you momentarily stunned, the breath stolen from your lungs. You blink, trying to process what he’s just said, wondering if you’ve misunderstood. But the certainty in his eyes tells you that he means every word.

“Your… wife?” The words come out in a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Yes.” His tone is final, unyielding. “This union would serve both of us well. You would be restored to a place of power—protected, in the only way that matters.”

For a moment, you struggle for words, reeling from the unexpected declaration. You’d braced yourself for talk of alliances, of politics, even of Tywin’s usual calculated strategies—but this? This was something you hadn’t anticipated.

“Is that what you think I want?” you manage, forcing your voice to remain steady. “A position, a title, the protection of your name?”

He studies you, expression unchanging. “You may not realize it yet, Y/N, but your value is not solely in your bloodline. You are a weapon that could be sharpened, a tool with the potential to fortify both our legacies.”

Just then, a clatter erupts from the corner of the room as Arya accidentally knocks over a pitcher. The clay shatters, water spilling across the stone floor, jolting you back to reality. Arya’s face blanches, and she drops quickly to her knees, mumbling apologies as she gathers the broken pieces.

Tywin’s gaze flicks to her, his expression hardening. “Be more careful in the future, Ary,” he says, his tone sharp but controlled. “I don’t tolerate carelessness.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Arya replies, her voice low, strained, as she hurriedly cleans up the mess, hands moving with a practiced grace.

Your eyes dart to her for a heartbeat, concern flooding through you despite your best efforts to mask it. You don’t want to give her away, to betray her presence as anything other than a humble servant, but the fear lingers, sharp and gnawing. She’s too close to him, too vulnerable here under his scrutiny. Each moment she spends in this room feels like a risk, a danger you can’t control.

Tywin’s attention returns to you, his piercing gaze heavy with expectation. “As I was saying,” he continues smoothly, as if the interruption had barely registered, “this union would be… advantageous. For you, for me, for both of our houses.”

You take a steadying breath, suppressing the whirlwind of emotions roiling within you. “And what if I refuse?” you ask quietly, testing him, though you already suspect the answer.

Tywin’s expression hardens, his tone cold as steel. “I am not offering you a choice, Y/N. I am informing you of your future. It would be wise to accept it.”

A shiver runs through you, the weight of his words pressing down upon you. Arya continues cleaning in silence, her movements careful, but you feel the tension radiating from her. You force yourself to look away from her, to keep your focus on Tywin, unwilling to risk drawing his attention back to her.

Tywin’s eyes linger on you, cold and calculating, as he gestures to the guards stationed by the door. With a curt nod, he speaks in that same low, commanding tone, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Escort Lady Y/N to her chambers,” he orders. “See to it that the servants prepare her properly.” He pauses, considering you for a moment, as if appraising your reaction. “She is to be made presentable.”

You feel the urge to rebel against his words, to refuse, to assert the independence he seems so intent on stripping from you. Yet, you know that any defiance here would only play into his hands. Tywin Lannister has you cornered, and he knows it. His intentions are clear—control, alliance, and power, as always. And now, he intends for you to become part of that legacy.

The guards approach, and as they move to escort you, you stand, casting a final glance at Arya. You want to say something, anything to reassure her, to let her know you will look out for her. But you cannot. Not here, not now. Her head remains down, eyes trained on the floor as she finishes cleaning the broken shards of the pitcher, and you feel a pang of fear for her, lodged deep in your chest. You force yourself to look away, to keep your expression neutral as the guards lead you from the room.

As you reach the doorway, Tywin’s voice calls out, halting you momentarily.

“Ary,” he says, turning his sharp gaze upon her, “go to the kitchens and tell them to prepare a dinner for two.”

Arya nods quickly, bowing her head as she mumbles a quick acknowledgment, then scurries out of the room, slipping past you without so much as a glance. You feel a twinge of relief at her quick escape, but the fear doesn’t ease fully as the guards guide you down the halls.

The walk to your chambers feels long and heavy, the walls of Harrenhal closing in around you, a sharp reminder of your captivity. As you near the chambers Tywin has commanded be made “presentable” for you, your mind races, grappling with the implications of his intentions. A marriage—his twisted idea of protection, of binding you to him, as if that could erase the past or reshape your allegiance.

The door to your chambers opens, and the servants immediately set to work, preparing clothes, linens, a bath—all of it designed to fulfill Tywin’s idea of what a “presentable” lady should be. You endure it silently, your mind still reeling from his words, the promise of a future that feels more like a cage.

And somewhere, perhaps in the very kitchens beneath you, Arya is carrying out his orders, a young wolf in disguise, dancing on the edge of discovery.

[cherriecove]

Fine Line Between Duty and Oaths (Part 7)

Gwayne Hightower x Targ!Reader

Summary: The second born daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma is just as brave, beautiful and stubborn as her older sister but cannot deny her growing love for a certain red haired knight who just so happens to be a dear friend's brother. Cherrie's Note: The Valyrian may not be correct i used a translator, please let me know! Use of she/her, mentions of injury with some descriptions, birth, death and child death. Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

The atmosphere of the tourney was electric, filled with the clamour of cheering crowds, colourful banners, and the resounding clash of metal on metal as knights battled in the lists. You sat in the royal box, your eyes flickering between the spectacle in the arena and the uneasy glances exchanged by the lords and ladies around you. The Queen was in the birthing bed, and though the event was meant to celebrate her labour and the anticipated birth of a new royal heir, an undercurrent of anxiety was palpable. 

Your sister, Rhaenyra, sat beside you, her posture rigid, her face tight with concern. Despite her efforts to appear composed, the tension between you both was tangible. The cheers and festive air of the tourney seemed overshadowed by a growing sense of unease.

Leaning towards Rhaenyra, you whispered in Valyrian, "Ziry dōrī nykēda, issa mandia?" She’s not well, is she, sister?

Rhaenyra's lips tightened as she gave a small shake of her head, replying softly, "Ñuha prūmia iātykes. Rāelagon īlva sīmonagon." My heart is heavy. Let us hope she is strong.

The trumpets blared once more, signalling the next round of jousts, but your mind couldn’t fully focus on the tournament. The clash of steel and the roar of the crowd felt distant, drowned out by the growing dread gnawing at your heart. As the tourney continued, your eyes instinctively searched for Gwayne in the lists, a fleeting distraction from the heavy weight of worry for your mother.

Just as the next match was set to begin, a runner entered the royal box, breathless and pale. He knelt before your father, King Viserys, whispering something urgent in his ear. The King’s expression darkened immediately. Without a word, he rose and departed, his absence now noticeable. The lords and ladies exchanged anxious glances, the festive mood dipping. Your hand gripped Rhaeynera’s tighter.

The air was heavy, but the crowd quickly erupted into excited cheers as your uncle, Daemon Targaryen, rode out onto the field, his dark armour gleaming menacingly in the sunlight. The Rogue Prince's reputation preceded him—brilliant in battle, unpredictable, and dangerous.

Next came Gwayne, his green and white banner fluttering proudly as he took his place on the field. A pang of pride mixed with apprehension tugged at your heart. Gwayne was a skilled knight, but Daemon was something else entirely. You glanced at Rhaenyra, her expression mirroring your unease, though her fondness for your uncle was no secret to you.

The joust began with a thunderous charge, both knights hurtling towards each other with lances aimed true. The first clash sent a tremor through the stands as Daemon’s lance splintered against Gwayne’s shield. Both men remained upright, but the raw aggression in Daemon’s attacks was unmistakable. With each pass, his strikes grew sharper, faster, and more brutal. Gwayne held his ground, but Daemon’s relentless assault began to wear him down.

On the fourth pass, disaster struck. Daemon’s lance struck Gwayne square in the chest, the force of the blow sending him crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. You leapt to your feet, heart hammering in your throat. The arena was a blur of noise as the crowd cheered, oblivious to the danger.

“Gwayne!” you gasped, gripping the edge of the railing.

Rhaenyra’s hand shot out to steady you. “Stay calm,” she whispered, though her voice trembled with worry.

Maesters and squires rushed to the field, but you could already see how Gwayne lay motionless, his armour dented, blood seeping from beneath his breastplate. You cared little for propriety or the eyes of the crowd as you hurried down from the royal box, your heart racing.

By the time you reached him, Gwayne was conscious but clearly in pain. His face was pale, his breaths shallow, and a trickle of blood ran down his chin. The maester bent over him, assessing the wound as you knelt by his side.

“Gwayne,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached for his hand. “I’m here.”

He managed a weak smile, his eyes finding yours through the haze of pain. “Princess...we need to stop meeting like this,” he murmured, his voice strained but laced with a flicker of humour.

Tears stung your eyes as you squeezed his hand, managing a dry laugh. “You’ll be fine,” you whispered, though fear gnawed at you. “You’re going to be fine.”

The maester worked quickly to stabilise him, instructing the squires to carefully lift him from the field. You followed closely, ignoring the rest of the tourney, your thoughts consumed with worry for Gwayne and the dread hanging over your mother’s labour.

Hours later, as Gwayne was being tended to in the keep, word came.

Rhaenyra found you in the hallway, her face pale, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She didn’t need to say the words—your heart already knew.

“The Queen... our mother,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “She’s gone.”

The shock hit you like a blow to the chest, stealing the breath from your lungs. The world spun, the walls of the keep closing in around you. Rhaenyra’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. Both of you clung to each other in shared grief, tears flowing freely.

The news of your mother's passing weighed heavy on your chest, a burden too vast to comprehend in that moment. Rhaenyra's arms tightened around you as your legs threatened to give way beneath you, both of you trembling with the shock of the loss. The Queen—your mother, who had been so strong, so regal—was gone, swept away by the very event that was supposed to bring joy. The child she had laboured to bring into the world, the son your father had so desperately wished for, lay in his cradle, struggling for life.

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled away from Rhaenyra, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Anger mixed with sorrow, and your thoughts darkened. Your father’s obsession with a male heir has cost you your mother. You could not suppress the bitter thought, no matter how much you wanted to. It felt as though this had all been for nothing, as though her life had been sacrificed in a desperate attempt to fulfill his need for a son.

Rhaenyra, too, looked stricken, her usual fire dampened by grief. She shook her head slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was all for him... for a son." Her eyes flickered with hurt as they met yours. "Father... he never stopped, not once, even though Mother could hardly bear it. He would have kept trying, no matter what it cost her."

You felt the sting of tears once more, biting your lip to contain the sobs rising in your throat. Your father’s love for your mother had been real, but it had been overshadowed by his desire for an heir—a boy. A son to sit on the Iron Throne. The ache in your chest swelled, a painful, gnawing sorrow. “She was more than just a vessel for a son,” you murmured, voice breaking. “She deserved more... she deserved better.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her lips tight with unshed tears. "I know," she whispered. "And now she's gone, and all he has is..." She trailed off, her voice faltering as if she couldn’t bear to complete the thought. The child, the boy, was innocent in all of this. It wasn’t his fault, and you both knew it.

Together, you made your way to the chambers where the babe lay. Despite the hurt in your hearts, you could not bring yourself to blame him. The baby boy, your brother, was a tiny, fragile thing swaddled in silk. His breath was shallow, his tiny fists curling and uncurling with each laboured exhale. The sight of him stirred something deep within you, a love that overcame even your deepest grief. He was so small, so helpless. He had taken your mother from you, but it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t asked to be born into this world of crowns and kings.

Rhaenyra stood by his crib, gazing down at him with a mixture of sorrow and tenderness. "He's beautiful," she whispered, her hand hovering over his small form as though she feared touching him might cause him more harm. You nodded silently, your heart aching for the brother you would barely get to know. His tiny breaths, each one a struggle, filled the room with the sound of a life hanging by a thread.

Without thinking, you reached down and gently stroked his cheek. His skin was soft, warm, and beneath your touch, he stirred ever so slightly. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of your lips. "He’s a fighter," you whispered, hoping, praying that somehow he would survive.

Rhaenyra’s voice was thick with emotion as she added, “He shouldn’t have to fight this hard just to live. He’s only a babe.”

The silence in the room was heavy as you both watched him, two sisters standing on the precipice of a shared grief that neither of you had wanted. The baby’s breaths slowed, becoming more and more laboured as the hours wore on. His little body, too frail for this world, finally gave in, his chest rising one last time before falling still.

The room was eerily quiet in the wake of his passing. You felt Rhaenyra’s hand slip into yours, her grip tight as tears streamed silently down both your faces. Your mother, your brother, gone within the span of a day. It was almost too much to bear.

The day of the funeral arrived, shrouded in the somber rituals of Targaryen tradition. The Red Keep was draped in black, and the air was thick with the scent of incense and the solemn hush of mourners. The Queen and the babe-prince were to be laid to rest in a ceremony befitting their royal blood, their bodies to be committed to the flames, as was the Targaryen way. The funeral pyre stood on the cliffs outside the city, overlooking the sea—a place of both beauty and sadness.

The sky was grey, clouds swirling ominously overhead as the dragons circled above, their low, mournful cries echoing across the cliffs. You stood beside Rhaenyra, your hand clutching hers as the ceremony began. Your father, King Viserys, stood at the forefront, his face a mask of grief and regret, though you couldn’t shake the lingering bitterness you felt towards him. His love for your mother was evident in the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes stared blankly at the pyres, but his relentless pursuit of a son had led to this moment.

The fire was lit, the flames licking hungrily at the wood piled beneath the bodies of your mother and the babe. The Queen’s face, serene in death, was still as beautiful as you remembered. The small form of your brother lay beside her, the two of them consumed by the fire. The smell of smoke filled the air, and the heat from the flames washed over you, though it did little to thaw the coldness in your heart.

You watched as the fire rose higher, its crackling roar swallowing the prayers of the septons and the low murmurs of the gathered lords and ladies. As the flames claimed the bodies, your mother’s soul and that of your little brother were sent to the gods, to join the legacy of your ancestors.

The dragons let out another mournful cry, their wings casting shadows over the cliffs as they flew low over the flames. You closed your eyes, a silent prayer forming on your lips, hoping your mother had found peace in whatever world lay beyond.

Rhaenyra’s hand tightened in yours, and you turned to her, both of you finding solace in each other’s presence. The funeral was a blur, but the bond between the two of you had never felt stronger. The pain of losing your mother and brother was a shared burden, one you would carry together.

And as the flames died down and the sky grew darker, you both knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

[darkestspring]

Yan! Targ boys (Aegon I & II, Aemond, Daemon, Maegor, etc) finding out that some servant girl they fucked years ago (how many is up to you) had their twin sons?

They don't currently have a 'darling' so how would they react?

i feel very sorry for that servant girl, im gonna say it right now.

Aegon I "The Conquerer" Targaryen

Oh boy, Oh boy, Oh boy. This is going to be a mess. Once he finds the boys and then finds you, its just a complete flip of switch.

he'll end up bringing you in as his wife, he refuses to listen to anyone who tries to convince him otherwise, his firstborn son will become the king after him, no questions about it.

You're still reeling from all of this and he binds you both together in the tradition of valyria, whispering that now that you're his wife he won't let you go.

He'll look after you almost obsessively, he follows you around, watching you very closely to find what you like. He'll be all too glad to give you everything you could want. You're his wife now, there's nothing he won't do for you.

He shares your bed frequently, his hands gripping you hard enough to bruise as he groans, thrusting into you wildly. He can't help it, he'll whisper in your ear, our children are already big. Shall i give you more babies? Tie you to me once more?

And it's a surprise to no one that you fall pregnant once more. Aegon will find that he enjoys watching you swell with his child, all round and cute.

Aegon II "The Usurper" Targaryen

It had been only a few years after you had left the palace that Prince Aegon came across you again, you were the same as he remembered you. All beauty and curves, all quietness and bashfulness.

What does surprise him is the twin boys that you shield, even as you stare at him with fear in your eyes. You're no stranger to the rumors. You're the only one to give birth to his bastards, you had left before Queen Alicent could find you or force moon tea down your throat.

Something ignites in him, how he had enjoyed you all those years ago and he had managed to convince his mother out of marrying him to his weird sister but he still needed a wife.

The thought made him excited. You would be his wife, yes. Your children would be his heirs, you should be grateful to him. He had dragged you back to his home and you were too scared to do or say anything as you clung to your children, tears in your eyes.

In all honesty, they all felt bad for you. Alicent had been filled with horror watching her first child drag in a tearful girl with twin white haired boys in her arms. Aemond stood next to Helaena as they both stared at you in horror.

There had been no choice given, Aegon had insisted on marrying you, you already carried his children. and you were. You were married to Prince Aegon, even as Alicent had expressed her concerns to you and you in return, shut down completely.

Our of fear for your children, you only did what he wanted and it was clear to everyone there.

Aemond "The One-Eyed" Targaryen

you had been the only one to serve him after he had lost an eye, chosen for your overly gentle disposition. You had been at least seven years older than him. You had grown with him, following his every request with ease.

it had all escalated too quickly and you ended up sleeping with him in a laspse of judgement when he was already a grown man and you fled from the palace, hiding away in your small little house.

Aemond had been disappointed by your departure but focused on other things until he saw you with two white haired boys. there's no way those boys weren't his.

he couldn't help it, the feeling of possessiveness that filled him. you had given birth to his children. They had been deprived of the life of a targaryen.

despite all the protests you have, he'll basically kidnap you to the palace once more and demand to marry you. everyone refuses until they see the children and by then, aemond knows he's won.

You'll be his wife, he knows it and if by some chance he's denied, well aemond has been training for the past decade so he has no fear of violence should his demands not be met.

One way or another, you will be his wife.

Daemon "The Rogue Prince" Targaryen

Oof, that's all i got to say. Daemon is one of the worst yanderes to have. Of course having this powerful man love you is exhilarating but he's so unpredictable.

he's not afraid to get his hands dirty to prove a point or to deliver his own version of justice. he's not afraid to hurt people around you to prove that no one is safe. the safest place for you is right beside him because any other place he will create a danger for you.

daemon most likely didn't even remember you until he saw you with two children who were undoubtedly his. His obsession starts with the children and then transfers to you. He'll want more white haired children and he'll want them with you.

no matter how far you run from him, he'll hunt you down on caraxes and take you to dragonstone to marry you in the valyrian tradition, successfully binding you to him as his wife.

He won't listen to protests from anyone. Not viserys, not rhaenyra, not any of the lord or his extended family. You're his wife, he has valyrian children. He won't stop until your swelling with child once more.

It would be best to say goodbye to your past life because you'll never return to it, as long as you're the wife of daemon targaryen, you'll never know peace. He'll be obsessed with you until the day you die, and even then the happy days are as big as the bodies that pile up as proof of daemon's love.

Maegor "The Cruel" Targaryen

double oof to you, dear reader because if you thought daemon was bad, maegor is even worse. He's very skilled with a sword and even more skilled at wielding his rage.

you'll always stay in his mind, the second you escape from his grasp, he's looking after you. It takes him two years but he finds you. You and your twin sons. You've done the thing none of his wives have been able to and his obsession will spark because of that.

He'll abandon all of his wives for you, either divorcing them or killing them, it doesn't matter. You've given him two sons, you take priority to him.

He'll marry you in the valyrian tradition with his mother's support and encouragement.

maegor is skilled with his rage but he's still incredibly cruel. Every moment not spent filling you with his cum so that you might swell with his babe once more is spent massacring houses that speak out against you. No one is spared or given mercy.

He'll return to you, covered in blood and grinning at you. He did all of this for you, and he'll tell you as much. To protect you, our children and the children who are yet to be born.

It's all for you.

[tinyozlion]

“Tallgeese”: Why Is It Called That?

Okay, so, I have a theory. 

 Bear with me a moment.  As far as I know, I’m the only person who thinks this might be the reason why the Tallgeese is called Tallgeese; I don’t know if it’s the RIGHT reason, but at least it's an explanation I think is etymologically and contextually feasible:

--If I may draw your attention to my man Tallgeese’s shield for a moment: you will see that it is a small, round buckler. Tallgeese is styled with a very fetching crest reminiscent of a Greek hoplite, and hoplites did indeed carry a round shield called an aspis. 

(Image from the Harvard collection)

However! There is another kind of small, round shield that was used in less ancient times called a targe, or targa, or the diminutive target, where we get the word “target" from. The targe was a shield used largely for jousting and dueling– something the Tallgeese excels at!

When full plate armor was developed around the late 14th century, knights switched from using large, triangular shields, to the smaller and variously shaped targe shields, specifically for the sport of jousting¹. If you're looking at shields from medieval Europe in a museum you'll see a lot of fancy-shaped ones labeled targes.

Much later, it became synonymous with the Scottish targe, which is a regular combat shield and not a jousting shield, but it shares the same name and more importantly, is a small, round buckler typically used with a sword-- like the Tallgeese uses!

(A Highland targe exhibited in the National Museum of Scotland)

--Which leads me to my main point:

If you were looking up cool words for round or otherwise knightly shields, you might well come across the word “targe”. And if you pass the word “targe”(especially if you pronounce the final ‘e’) or “targes” through a Japanese phonetic filter, you might well get something close to “Tōrugisu” (トールギス), which is the name of our mobile suit.

…It might not be the canonical explanation for the Tallgeese’s name (to the best of my knowledge, there isn’t one²) but at least it’s slightly more relevant to its theming than is a waterfowl of alarming height-- though perhaps only a tenth as horrifying on the field of battle. 

...Still I hear it in my dreams; the fell slapping of orange feet, the distant honk, the snapping beak...

________________

1) "The Seven Shields of Behaim: New Evidence": Metropolitan Museum Journal, v. 30, Nickel, Helmut (1995)

2) The Gundam Fan Wiki states in its Trivia section that: “The name Tallgeese is derived from the word "theurgist" (トールギスト), a ritualist who attempts to channel divine power to work miracles”. This is apparently from one of the SD Gundam games? Anyway, I find this source to be INCREDIBLY DUBIOUS.

[steel-and-fire]

Ferenir's shield is actually not too large. It's around the size of the Scottish targe, a round small-ish shield, although it's made of steel.

Too large shields offer a lot in terms of defense, but they also severely limit offensive ability and maneuverability. Which is completely fine in war and a formation, because that's your job, to defend, while the spearmen behind you stab over your shoulder.

But in a solo situations, just defending is not enough, you cant have a shield that limits your offensive options. Instead the shield must be able to be part of them.

That's why smaller, round shields (or dedicated 'bashing' shields for that matter) are much more prefered in those situations. The shield isn't there to 'block', but to parry, deflect, create openings, and very importantly, BASH your opponent with it.

And not the useless video game bash with the flat, but the 'punch the enemy with the side of the shield' one. Unless you got a massive spike on the flat, at least.

A large shield is also a massive pain in the ass to carry around. Which is extremely important in not hating your life every time you try to function as a normal person.

For these reasons, Ferenir has opted for a smaller shield that he uses mostly for parrying and bashing.

[boghermit]

Obsessed with these Clan Chattan crests. 

[slicing-clovers]

MOON-WHITE || CLOSED.

The late-night patrol shift. A means by which the personnel of the Snowplow Outpost could retain their influence in the domain of twilight, beating back any metal aberrants that dared to make their place on facility grounds.

For a person like Sung-jin, however, it simply meant the likes of another calm and serene Wednesday night. That north-northeastern patch of the territory was often made his realm by daylight— a glowing trail of fine gravel and dirt, rolling meadows of a dazzling emerald in which a lone tower stood vigil, and a smaller patch of trees that discouraged the presence of wanderers.  However, even despite the majesty of it all, and the capabilities of his fellow cohorts, only the Demoknight himself had the skill to see through to its safety.

His barely rickety camper van had sat parked under the light of a full moon, bearing him the only company he needed. With the help of a small electric stove, a couple canteens of water, and some ingredients, he was also set for dinner: a serving of chicken teriyaki for one, with a side of vegetables and rice.

Ever since he departed from the doors of the Prongs Building that evening, Sung-jin had noticed something. Past all of the time he had spent enjoying himself amongst his fellow mercenaries, his friends, his family... it became astoundingly clear. 

Not even the blessings of camaraderie, or dare he say it, wonderful food, was enough to beat a few moments of personal tranquility. As such, hearing the flowing carols that nature gave from below the exterior structures of his work was quite a powerful gift, more than any albeit gracious pay could provide.

And relish it he did— as his meal was on the verge of being fully cooked, he readjusted his hair tie where he stood before finally giving an almost longing glance towards the moon.  Even the startled chattering of birds and thundering crashes of trees from behind were enough to— ...wait.

Already, he was fumbling for the stock of his shell launcher, slamming a clip of concussion rounds into the receiver. The fact that those sounds were explosively getting louder and louder told him no mere blade could handle whatever was making them...

“Oh, come on, not now, not now! Not while the burner’s on high... ah, forget it.” The next moment left him with a defeated frown, and with much resignation in his heart and stomach, he snapped the stove off, yanking out its power plug. Better a couple burned soles than a few acres of electrical fire.

Steeling himself for the threat to come, he whipped the barrel of his launcher forwards, flipping up and adjusting the weapon’s iron-sights as his eyes once again met the open forest. A few tugs at the strap on his forearm signified that his targe shield was on tight.

“Alright, then... while it’s still hot, come and get it!” Not wanting to pull any punches with whatever this was, he sped right towards the noise, as quickly as his legs could take him.

@monmuses

[sketchingchaos]

What if the TF2 Mercs were Heroes in Overwatch?

cI’ve made this post somewhere else but I’ve altering it a bit so that Overwatch players who haven’t played Teamfortress 2 can understand what I’m saying.

So I was wondering, what would happened if you turned the TF2 mercs into heroes in Overwatch ? what would be their abilities and ultimate be? For what I've thought of so far mostly revolves around using stock(the default weapons for the Mercs in TF2) loadouts with using their other weapons as abilities(most of the alternate weapons for the Mercs are side-grades or weapons that alter how the class plays). I'm also unsure if the mercs would only have 1 or 2 weapons to use normally(and being able to quick melee) or let them have a primary, secondary and a melee weapon(they wouldn't be able to quick melee if tho) like they do in TF2. Here's some of the ones I've thought of so far, I'm iffy on a few of them(I'll list them as maybes if I am). Unless I say otherwise  everyone had 200 HP like most heroes do in OW. I’m also assuming the the Mercs have a primary, secondary and a melee weapon that you switch between. I also haven’t thought of the damage numbers or stuff like that so I’ll use list the numbers that are in TF2 for the OW players. (Note to Overwatch players, melee weapons must be manually equipped and deal about 65 damage when you hit someone with it) 

Pyro; goal here is to have him be a flexible close range DPS class with some support capabilities Weapons Primary Stock Flamethrower: a flamethrower that deals high damage at close range with it’s primary fire. Enemies hit by the primary fire are inflicted with afterburn, afterburn damages enemies after the Pyro stops shooting them with the flamethrower. This affect last for about 3-10 seconds depending how long you were hit by the flamethrower. Alt-fire is an Airblast. Fires a blast of compressed air that pushes back enemies and reflects some projectiles likes rockets, arrows and stuff like that(Pyro would be broken if he could reflect every projectile in Overwatch). Airblast friendlies to extinguish afterburn, this heals 20hp for yourself. Note; afterburn can be removed from some abilities(use common sense for which OW abilities will do that) or by picking up health kits.  Secondary Shotgun: a shotgun that does decent damage from close to medium-ish range, Has 6 shells, each shell must be loaded individually.(note to OW players, a lot of Mercs use a shotgun a keep this description in mind)  Melee Fire Axe, go chop someone with it  1st ability: Flare shot, shoot a flare from the flare gun, can be held down for aiming. Inflicts 7 sec afterburn. Does extra damage to burning players.

2nd ability: Thermal Thrust. basically the thermal thruster without the hidden hostler time.It’s a jumpjet that boosts the Pyro in the air. You jump up and reequip the last weapon you were using at the height of your jump

Ultimate: Inferno

 Pyro throws a gas can with an incendiary grenade attached to it. Lights the the area where it lands on fire with a 5 or 6 meter radius. Enemies who steps inside are damaged and even if you step out from Inferno’s AoW you’re afflicted with afterburn. Idk how long it'd last. Basically it's used to deny an area to the enemy team. Or straight out kill them if you use it right. Sound que is just Pyro's insane muffled laughter can be reflected or deleted from other abilities(D.va's defense matrix or Geji's deflect.)

Medic; Goal is to have a support that can break the frontline loudout is stock Primary: Syringe Gun, a gun that fires syringes. The syringes themselves do low damage and have travel time and fire in an arc. Secondary Medigun: Fire a heal beam(Basically Mercy’s heal beam without the damage boost option) that heals friendlies. The Medigun can overheal friendlies past their max HP. Overheal decays after the medic stops healing you.  Melee Bonesaw, it’s a bonesaw.  1st ability: Crossbow Shot, fire a shot from the crusader's crossbow. Bolts from this crossbow either heal friendlies or damage enemies. The healing/damage effect scales with how far away the target is. With max healing ranging from 75 at point blank and max being 150. Damage being 38 at close range and max being 75. (Note this are the damage numbers from TF2 and prob would be adjusted in Overwatch) 2nd ability: Medi-sheild, it's the shield from MvM(TF2′s horde mode against robots). Blocks incoming damage while allows teammates to fire and walk thru. Is either on a short timer where all damaged is block or has it's own HP. Unlike in MvM the shield does not damage enemies that walk into it. Ultimate: Uber-charge, functions like it does in TF2 but is tied to an ultimate meter instead. Uber-charge makes the person you are healing,as well as yourself, completely invincible. Uber-ing multiple friends shorts the duration of ubercharge. To balance this in OW, ubered friendlies cannot be buffed with Ana’s nanoboost. Nanoboosted friendlies cannot be ubered.   sound que enemies hear "I am ze ubermensch" friendlies hear "Go, forwards"

Heavy, Goal be meatsheild for your teammates while being able to do a lot of damage at short to medium range(would prob be an off-tank). Heavy would have about 400 Hp Weapons.  Minigun, does a lot of damage at close range, decent damage at medium range and light damage at long range. The Minigun must be revved up before it can fire. You can pre-rev the minigun with the alt-fire button. Your movement speed is slowed while revved. Secondary Shotgun Melee Fists, go punch people as a giant Russian man. 1st ability: Sandvich, using this ability give you and sandwich. Primary fire with it will make the Heavy eat it for a full heal(must go through a 4 second animation were the heavy is eating, cannot cancel this animation once it starts). Alt-fire will throw the sandvich for your teammates, acts like a medium health kit.  2nd:  I have no clue honestly, only thing I could think of was a shield that Heavy holds in front of himself. For TF2 players think of the fists of steel. The shield would either give Heavy a damage reduction, while blocking all damage from going past him or have the shield have it’s own HP. The shield slows Heavy’s movement speed. The shield cannot be fired thru or walked past by anyone. Can't fire while it's out. Ultimate: idk sound que  Enemy hears "CAN YOU OUTSMART BULLET NOW?!" Or "HEAVY IS MAD, AND YOU'RE DEAD!" Friends hear "HEAVY WILL PROTECT, STAY BEHIND HEAVY"

Demoman: I sorta want him to be a mix of Demoman and Demoknight(For OW players Demoknight is when you switch out your grenade launcher and stick bomb launcher for a shield and boots that increase your max HP). Since I know He’ll be compared to Junkrat, the Demoman is not immune to his own explosives like Junkrat.  Demoman might have about 250 HP weapons Primary Grenade Launcher, holds a max of 4 grenades. Each grenade must be loaded individually, explode on contact with enemies or enemy building if they did not bounce off something. Grenades are fired off at an arc.You can bounce the grenades off walls and the ground for indirect fire. Will explode after 2.3 seconds after they bounce. Secondary (note that some players treats this like a primary, Demo sorta has 2 primaries if that makes sense) Stick bomb launcher primary fire fires sticky grenades that sticks to just about any surface. Stickies can only explode after arming themselves for .7 seconds. Laid up to 8 stickies that disappear if the Demoman dies. Hold the primary fire button to launch stickies further(note this makes stickies less accurate). Alt-fire detonates stickies. Can be used to launch the Demoman at the cost of self damage(Can kill yourself with it) Melee The Eyelander, a big sword. IT doesn't have it's downsides like it does in TF2 instead just deploys slower and has a larger range than other Melees. It doesn't collect heads either. 1st ability: Chargin' n Targe, rapidly charge forward with the Chargin 'n Targe(A small shield). Does hurt enemies if you charge into them with it. Can only be used when the Eyelander is out(that's a maybe) 2nd: idk Ultimate:  Cluster charge,(once again this is a maybe) Demoman throws a bundle of TNT that explodes and splits into sticks of TNT that also explode(the sticks of TNT have a smaller blast radius than the bundle). sound que enemies hear "Not one of ya is gunna to survive this" friendlies hear "Cover yer ears, this is gunna be loud"

Soldier: Goal is to have a mobile and dependable damage dealer abilities, idk Primary Rocket launcher, hold up to 4 rockets max. Rockets must be loaded individually. Shoot a rocket off your feet to launcher yourself upward at the cost of self damage.(OW players go look up rocket jumping in TF2 to see how crazy of the pros are with this) Secondary Shotgun Melee Shovel  Ultimate: Rally Flag/Rally Call  Soldier blows on a horn then emits an aura that buffs teammates. for this I'm thinking either a combination of 2 or all 3 of the banners. Some tweaking for the banners might be needed. For the OW players, a banner is a support weapon that replaces your shotgun with a horn. The Buff Banner gives everyone a damage boost, The Battalion’s back gives everyone a 35% defense boost, 50% defense boost from enemies building(does not stack with previous  boost). The Concheror gives teammates a speed boost and heals 35% of all damage they do. And for the TF2 players Soldier will not have the passive affects from the banners.     Sound que, Enemies hear the horn, friendlies hear "ATTACK!!!"

Scout: Goal Have a mobile and fast flanker Can double jump and moves 133% faster than everyone else.  has 150 HP weapons Primary Scattergun, a lever action shotgun still holds 6 shells that must be loaded individually. Secondary Pistol, does okay damage at meduim range, 12 rounds magazine. Melee Bat, it’s a metal baseball bat.  1st ability: Homerun Hit, launch a baseball with the sandman that stuns enemies. 2nd idk Ultimate: Maybe a rework of the crit-a-cola? remember it's tied to an ultimate meter. For the OW players crit-a-cola takes the place of the pistol gives you a damage boost at the cost of taking more damage once it’s affect wears off. Be lucky that this would be an ultimate instead of something Scout can do when ever he wants like in TF2. sound que idk

Engineer: Goal is to deny your enemy from a certain area while supporting your team I honestly don't know how to make Engie without breaking OW and making 2 of the heroes useless. I’ll explain what he does in TF2 to the OW players. Maybe you guys can think of an idea. I should also note that in TF2 everyone has a limited amount of ammo which complicates Engineer even further. Primary Shotgun Secondary Pistol(same as scouts) Melee Wrench Engineer can making building to support his team with metal. Engineer can have up to 200 at a time. Use metal to build, heal and upgrade building. Can replenish metal from spawn, or from ammo sources. Upgrading a building will take 200 metal for each level. Healing building takes up metal from a 1/3 ratio (one metal for 3 points of HP, I don’t remember the max HP you can heal with one wrench hit, I think it’s 60 or 75). Building must be a full health and ammo to be upgraded. Each building has 3 levels. Sentry (something that’ll break OW and make Torb useless) A Sentry gun has a limited ranged(the game will show you it’s ranged before your build it) cost 130 metal to build. Level one has 150 HP and has a DPS of 64. Level 2 has 180 HP and has a DPS of 128. Level 3 sentry has 216 HP, does 128 DPS and has rockets for burst damage Dispenser gives health ammo and metal to friendlies, cost 100 metal to build level one has 100 HP, gives 10hp per sec, 20% ammo per sec and 40 metal per 5 seconds. Level 2 has 150 HP, heals 15 per sec, 30% ammo per sec and 50 metal per 5 seconds. Level 3 has 216 HP, heals 20 HP per sec, 40% ammo per sec and 60 ammo per 5 seconds. OW players you can ignore the ammo per second. Teleporter (and the thing that breaks OW even more and makes Symettra useless) must fully charge before it can teleport someone, the exit and entrance(both must be manually placed and the entrance cannot be build in spawn). Both exit and entrance are upgraded at the same time(if you upgrade one to lvl 2 the other will go to lvl 2) and both cost 50 metal to build. Level 1, 150 HP, 10 sec recharge. Level 2, 180 HP, 5 sec recharge. Level 3, 216 HP, 3 sec recharge. Ult, hell if I know

Spy: Goal is to have a stealth class that takes out high value targets. has 150 HP weapons Primary Revolver, it’s a 6 shot revolver Secondary Sapper, in TF2 it destroys builds be sapping away it’s health. You can speed up the process of which a building is sapped by shooting the building.  Melee Knife, it’s a butterfly knife 1st Ability: Cloak Press the alt-fire button to cloak which works off it’s own cloak meter. The Spy cannot attack while cloaked It takes around 1 second to fully Cloak, during which Cloak energy is already consumed. Decloaking requires the Spy to wait approximately 2 seconds for the process to be complete. While cloaked, the Spy receives 20% less damage from all sources. In addition, while the Spy is invisible, debuffs will have reduced duration. If the Spy takes any damage while cloaked, or bumps into an enemy player, then his cloak will momentarily 'flicker' and be visible to enemy players. Cannot place sappers while cloaked. 2nd ability: Disguise  either lets you disguise as someone on the enemy team or randomly disguises you as someone on the enemy team (Does not disguise you as a tank or Bastion expect for Zarya or if the enemy team is nothing but tanks).Attacking while disguised will remove the disguise. I’m going to explain how to counter disguises and Cloak to the OW players. Do something called Spy-checking, they take damage it’s a spy. Spies can still be debuffed and take damage from abilities that both heal and damage. Use something that has a noticeable debuff effect to track the Spy while he’s cloaked(After burn, Mei’s freeze, Jarate) 3rd ability: Backstab, this one is a BIG maybe. In TF2 this is Spy main method of killing players in TF2 but I think it’d be a bit too powerful if it were a standard attack in Overwatch. It’s an instant kill from behind, refills cloak. Don’t know what the cool down would be tho. 

Sniper: Goal is to have a long range pick class. He's kinda hard to make without taking Widow's spot weapons Primary Sniper rifle: Long range rifle. Fires a single shot before having to recamber the next round. Alt to zoom in. While zoomed in shots charge for extra damage. Headshots deal extra damage. To balance this with Widow I’d make Sniper’s shots charge longer but maybe penetrate players to compensate.  Secondary SMG, light damage hitscan weapon. Melee Kukri, it’s a really big knife  1st ability: Jarate (this word is a combo of Jar and Karate), works like it does in TF2. To the OW players, you throw a jar of piss at your enemies. Enemies douse in piss take extra damage, it partially nullifies Spy’s cloak(and I’d assume Sombra’s as well), extinguishes teammates.  2nd: idk Ultimate: Sniper's focus, pull out and use a fully charged hitman's heatmaker(one of sniper’s alternate rifles). Shots charge faster but you can't unscope Sound que, enemies hear "Time for some heads to roll" friendlies hear "I got 'em"

what ideas do you guys have, anything you would change/add ?

[novaursa]

I love your writing! Could you please do one where Targaryen reader (it can be Rhaenyra's sister) is taking Gwayne for the first time to meet her dragon and takes him for a ride. Thanks

The Wild Heart

- Summary: You introduce Gwayne to your dragon, Grey Ghost.

- Paring: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: The reader is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and bonded to the dragon Grey Ghost. I've broken my own rule about 1000 words here, but since you guys like Gwayne so much, I've decided to expand this a bit more. Enjoy.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

You stand on the edge of the ridge, the sea breeze tangling itself in your silver-blonde hair, lifting strands into the crisp, salt-filled air. Below, the waters of Blackwater Bay shimmer like molten silver, catching the light of the setting sun. Behind you, the Red Keep is barely visible, a hulking shadow against the vast sky. But it's not the castle that holds your attention today—it’s the man beside you, Gwayne Hightower, and the dragon that waits in the distance, somewhere between the clouds and the sea, hidden in the wilderness just beyond the Dragonpit.

He stands close, his expression serious, but you can feel the underlying excitement radiating from him. Gwayne has heard the tales, the whispered stories of your dragon, Grey Ghost—wild, elusive, temperamental. Unlike the dragons housed in the Dragonpit, Grey Ghost has never truly been tamed. He lingers along the coast and cliffs, only returning when he chooses. Not a single rider before you had ever claimed him, not until you.

You glance at Gwayne, studying his face as the wind picks up. His strong jaw is set in a determined line, and his eyes, a bright shade of blue, seem darker in the fading light. He’s dressed in his Hightower armor, though you both know he’s not here for battle. The armor is more a shield for his nerves, a thin veil of control in the face of what’s to come.

"Are you ready?" you ask, your voice quiet but firm, just loud enough to be heard over the gusts of wind.

Gwayne turns to you, and for a moment, a flicker of something—perhaps doubt, or wonder—passes across his face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a faint, teasing smile. "As ready as a man can be to meet his future wife's dragon," he replies, the words tinged with amusement, though there’s a touch of nervousness there too.

You smile at that, a small curl of your lips. "Grey Ghost isn’t like the others in the pit. He won’t simply obey because I will it. He’s… unpredictable." You let the words hang in the air for a moment, hoping to prepare him for what’s coming. "But he’ll listen to me. Trust that."

Gwayne nods, though you can sense the weight of his uncertainty. He’s seen dragons before, of course. As a member of House Hightower, he’s familiar with their majesty and their danger. But this is different. This is your dragon, your bond. And Grey Ghost is no mere dragon of the pit. He is wild fire made flesh, with wings of smoke and ash.

You take a step forward, motioning for him to follow as you descend the rocky path that leads to the clearing below. Your boots crunch against the stones, the sea below crashing against the cliffs. Gwayne is right behind you, silent now, his presence a steady warmth at your back. Together, you approach the place where you know Grey Ghost waits.

As you round a bend in the path, the clearing opens up before you, vast and wild, with tall grasses swaying in the breeze. And there, at the far end, resting in the shadow of a massive stone outcrop, lies Grey Ghost.

Even from this distance, the size of him is breathtaking. His scales, a smoky grey that gleam faintly in the dying light, seem to blend with the rocks around him, making him appear almost ethereal, as though he’s part of the landscape itself. His wings are folded close to his body, but you know their full span would darken the sky if he chose to spread them wide.

Gwayne inhales sharply, and you feel his awe as though it were your own.

"Gods," he murmurs, almost under his breath, as he gazes upon the beast.

You step closer, your heart quickening with the familiar pull of your bond. Grey Ghost stirs, his massive head lifting as he senses your approach. His eyes, burning like molten gold, lock onto yours. There’s recognition there, an unspoken understanding, but also a warning—a reminder of his wild nature.

You stop a few feet from him and extend a hand, palm up, in a gesture of peace. "Come forth." You speak in the High Valyrian tongue, your voice steady, commanding.

Grey Ghost watches you for a moment longer, then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he rises to his feet. His wings unfurl slightly, the leather-like membranes rustling in the wind as he stretches his neck toward you. There’s a rumble deep in his throat, a sound that vibrates through the ground beneath your feet. But he does as you bid, moving forward with a grace that belies his size.

Gwayne stands frozen at your side, his breath caught in his throat, though his hand instinctively moves to the hilt of his sword—a gesture of protection more than aggression. You place a calming hand on his arm, shaking your head gently.

"He won’t harm you," you whisper, though you’re not entirely sure if you’re saying it to reassure him or yourself. "Not if I’m here."

With slow, deliberate movements, you step closer to Grey Ghost, your fingers brushing against the rough texture of his scales. He is warm beneath your touch, like the heat of a roaring fire contained within his massive frame. Grey Ghost’s eyes never leave you, and for a moment, there’s a connection, a silent exchange of trust and respect.

Turning back to Gwayne, you gesture for him to come closer. "It’s alright," you say softly. "He knows me. And now, he must know you."

Gwayne hesitates, his hand still hovering near his sword, but after a brief moment of consideration, he takes a step forward. His gaze never leaves Grey Ghost’s hulking form, his caution palpable. Slowly, almost reverently, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against the dragon’s side, just as yours had moments before.

The air between the three of you seems to still, the wind dying down as though the world itself is holding its breath. Grey Ghost rumbles again, a low, deep sound that resonates through the ground, but he doesn’t move. He allows the touch. 

Gwayne exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he keeps his hand on the dragon’s scales. "He’s… magnificent," Gwayne says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve never seen anything like him."

You smile softly, feeling a swell of pride for both your dragon and for the man standing beside you. "He is," you agree, your voice filled with warmth. "And now, he knows you. We are bonded, all three of us."

Gwayne turns to you then, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, the world around you seems to fade away—the cliffs, the sea, even the dragon. It’s just the two of you, standing on the precipice of something new, something shared.

"I never thought…" he begins, his voice trailing off as he searches for the right words. "I never thought I could be part of something like this. With you, and with him."

You step closer to him, your hand finding his, your fingers intertwining. "You are," you say softly, your voice full of certainty. "We’re a family now, Gwayne. You, me, and Grey Ghost. Nothing will come between us."

The wind whips around you as you stand before Grey Ghost, the great dragon looming like a mountain of muscle and smoke. His golden eyes, burning with an otherworldly light, follow your movements as you step back, placing yourself beside Gwayne. The sun has set below the horizon now, leaving the world bathed in twilight, and the only sounds are the crashing of the waves far below the cliffs and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the dragon.

Gwayne stands beside you, his hand still resting on the dragon’s rough scales. His expression, a mixture of awe and anticipation, is hard to miss. He’s faced battle, seen the dangers of war, but this—this is something entirely different. You can sense the excitement beneath his calm demeanor, the way his hand trembles ever so slightly as he brushes his fingers against Grey Ghost's side.

"You’ve never flown before," you say quietly, watching him as his eyes trace the dragon's form.

He turns his gaze to you, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. "No. Never." His tone is light, but there’s a seriousness beneath it, a readiness that makes your pulse quicken.

Grey Ghost shifts his weight, the massive bulk of his body rumbling like distant thunder as he crouches low, the leathery membranes of his wings unfolding slightly. He is waiting, waiting for your command, and though you feel his wildness, his untamed spirit, you know that in this moment, he will listen to you.

You take Gwayne’s hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. "Do you trust me?" you ask, though you already know his answer.

He doesn’t hesitate. "Always," he replies, his voice steady, his eyes locked on yours.

You squeeze his hand gently, then release it as you step toward Grey Ghost. With practiced ease, you place one hand on the dragon's flank, the other gripping the harness that’s fastened around his neck and shoulders. You swing yourself up onto his back, settling into the familiar place between his powerful wings. The leather beneath you is warm, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your legs.

You look down at Gwayne, who is still standing at the dragon’s side, his expression now unreadable.

"Come," you say, holding out your hand to him. "You won’t fall. I promise."

For a moment, he hesitates, glancing from you to Grey Ghost’s immense, heaving body. But then, with a nod of determination, he steps forward, gripping the harness as you had shown him. With a bit of effort, he hoists himself up behind you, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as he settles into place.

You can feel the tension in his body, the uncertainty of being so high above the ground, but there is also trust—trust in you, trust in the dragon.

You glance back at him, offering a reassuring smile. "Hold on tightly. The first flight is always… exhilarating."

Before he can respond, you lean forward and place your hands against Grey Ghost’s neck. "Fly!" you command in High Valyrian.

With a roar that shakes the ground beneath you, Grey Ghost unfurls his wings, the massive span of them catching the wind in a sudden, powerful gust. The muscles beneath you ripple as the dragon gathers his strength, and then, with a single, mighty leap, you are airborne.

The world falls away beneath you, the cliffs and sea nothing but distant shapes as Grey Ghost ascends, his wings beating with a rhythm that you can feel deep in your chest. The wind tears at your hair and clothes, the rush of air so loud it drowns out all other sound, but you don’t mind. This—this is freedom, the sky opening up before you, endless and vast.

Behind you, Gwayne holds on tightly, his arms firm around your waist. You can feel his heart pounding against your back, the thrill of the flight coursing through him as it does through you. The dragon rises higher, soaring above the clouds, and for a moment, you are suspended in the sky, weightless and free.

Grey Ghost lets out a triumphant roar, a sound that echoes across the sky, and you laugh, the exhilaration of the moment filling you with joy. You glance back at Gwayne, his face flushed from the wind, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Are you alright?" you shout over the wind, your voice barely carrying in the rushing air.

He grins, a wide, genuine smile that lights up his entire face. "This is incredible!" he calls back, his voice filled with awe and exhilaration. "I never imagined…"

His words trail off as Grey Ghost dips suddenly, his wings folding slightly as he begins a rapid descent, plummeting toward the sea below. You feel Gwayne’s grip tighten around you, his breath catching in his throat, but you don’t panic. You know Grey Ghost, know his every move, and this—this is part of the ride.

At the last moment, just before you reach the surface of the water, Grey Ghost flares his wings, catching the air and leveling out. The sea stretches out beneath you, the waves glistening in the moonlight, so close you can almost touch them. The dragon skims the surface, his claws barely grazing the water, sending up sprays of mist as you fly.

You laugh again, the sound of it lost to the wind, and Gwayne’s laughter soon joins yours. His tension is gone now, replaced by the sheer thrill of the flight. He leans into the movement, trusting you, trusting the dragon, and for a moment, it feels like the three of you are one—a single being soaring through the sky, untethered and wild.

After what feels like an eternity—and yet, not nearly long enough—Grey Ghost begins to climb again, his powerful wings lifting you up, up, up, until you are soaring high above the sea once more. The land is a distant memory now, the world below nothing but a blur of blue and grey.

You turn your head slightly, glancing back at Gwayne, who is still grinning, his eyes alight with excitement. "This is only the beginning," you say, your voice soft, though you know he can hear you over the wind.

He meets your gaze, his expression suddenly serious, though the joy still lingers in his eyes. "I’ll follow you anywhere," he says, his voice steady, filled with quiet resolve. "Wherever you go—whether it’s the skies or the earth—I’ll be with you."

Your heart swells at his words, and for a moment, you are overwhelmed by the depth of his devotion. You reach back, placing your hand over his where it rests at your waist, your fingers intertwining with his.

"And I’ll always have you by my side," you whisper, though the wind carries your words away.

Grey Ghost lets out a soft rumble, a sound that vibrates through both of you, as though he, too, understands the significance of this moment. Together, the three of you fly on, the stars beginning to twinkle above, as the night stretches out endlessly before you.

[monmuses]

slicing-clovers​:

MOON-WHITE || CLOSED.

The late-night patrol shift. A means by which the personnel of the Snowplow Outpost could retain their influence in the domain of twilight, beating back any metal aberrants that dared to make their place on facility grounds.

For a person like Sung-jin, however, it simply meant the likes of another calm and serene Wednesday night. That north-northeastern patch of the territory was often made his realm by daylight— a glowing trail of fine gravel and dirt, rolling meadows of a dazzling emerald in which a lone tower stood vigil, and a smaller patch of trees that discouraged the presence of wanderers.  However, even despite the majesty of it all, and the capabilities of his fellow cohorts, only the Demoknight himself had the skill to see through to its safety.

His barely rickety camper van had sat parked under the light of a full moon, bearing him the only company he needed. With the help of a small electric stove, a couple canteens of water, and some ingredients, he was also set for dinner: a serving of chicken teriyaki for one, with a side of vegetables and rice.

Ever since he departed from the doors of the Prongs Building that evening, Sung-jin had noticed something. Past all of the time he had spent enjoying himself amongst his fellow mercenaries, his friends, his family… it became astoundingly clear. 

Not even the blessings of camaraderie, or dare he say it, wonderful food, was enough to beat a few moments of personal tranquility. As such, hearing the flowing carols that nature gave from below the exterior structures of his work was quite a powerful gift, more than any albeit gracious pay could provide.

And relish it he did— as his meal was on the verge of being fully cooked, he readjusted his hair tie where he stood before finally giving an almost longing glance towards the moon.  Even the startled chattering of birds and thundering crashes of trees from behind were enough to— …wait.

Already, he was fumbling for the stock of his shell launcher, slamming a clip of concussion rounds into the receiver. The fact that those sounds were explosively getting louder and louder told him no mere blade could handle whatever was making them…

“Oh, come on, not now, not now! Not while the burner’s on high… ah, forget it.” The next moment left him with a defeated frown, and with much resignation in his heart and stomach, he snapped the stove off, yanking out its power plug. Better a couple burned soles than a few acres of electrical fire.

Steeling himself for the threat to come, he whipped the barrel of his launcher forwards, flipping up and adjusting the weapon’s iron-sights as his eyes once again met the open forest. A few tugs at the strap on his forearm signified that his targe shield was on tight.

“Alright, then… while it’s still hot, come and get it!” Not wanting to pull any punches with whatever this was, he sped right towards the noise, as quickly as his legs could take him.

@monmuses

     The beaming full moon behind the partially clouded sky had taken affect on many of the beings within those woods. A particularly large and feral creature had emerged from the night, causing the trees within the forest to tumble over in a strange pathway. Ominous growls and snarls came out of the beast, along with incoherent human thoughts passing through its adrenaline-riddled brain.

     “No, it’s too much!” It cried within, “Too much pain! Make it stop! Can’t... stop... moving!”

     Its claws gripped through the bark of the trees, tearing through every chunk of grass and dirt it could plow through. The pain the beast was feeling was great and immense; it was too much for the small-minded fellow inside it. Its name was... Xena. Quickly, her fluffy ears twitched and perked up at the sounds of running steps that were coming her way.

     A sudden rush of bloodlust came over her brain, feeling her eyes fill with red. Her teeth started to come through, dripping with saliva and blood. The fur on her back rose up as she prepared herself for whatever “hero” came to stop her trampling. Her tail fluffed up and swayed from side to side, keeping her eye on every side that pointed to her.

     Wings sprouted from her back suddenly, forcing her to succumb to the grassy floor in even more pain with blood staining her black fur. Her senses brought her to a slow burning fire that she could barely feel the heat of. It was a distance, but that figure that she could hear was right in front of it. With a growl and a hiss, she charged in the direction of the figure, hoping to ram him down with a bite.

     It was to be warned, however, that a werewolf’s bite was infectious... with a vampiric spice to it...