#and then!! the acting itself!!!

[good-beans]

I know most of our focus goes (rightfully) to the trial songs, but I genuinely believe Baptism of Fire is equally a masterpiece of meaningful writing and intense vocal acting

Incoming tag rant because I need to yell about this, feel free to yell back

[lazyveran]

thinking back to what rio said in episode 1, i wonder if she was being literal. as in, agatha was literally able to hide from rio with the darkhold.

if so it makes rio's actions even funnier and more desperate too. the literal second her ex-wife is back on the map after magically ghosting her for however many decades she goes and breaks down her front door

[claraoswalds]

This is a brand new science for me, and I love it. The language of luck. 'Cause what is a coincidence but a form of accident? Two things bumping together unexpectedly. Like you and me.

[jadecantcreate]

ouaw meme adjacent doodles part ivelostcounttheyhavetakenovermylifefreeme

edit: this is mostly just about them in general guys, they all care so much (too much, even)

[manhattan-gamestop]

As much as I shit on Microsoft, at least Windows devices act like computers. Chromebooks are tablets that hate you

[letitbehurt]

A trope I adore: not only a drugged Whumpee, but the act of drugging Whumpee.

Pinning Whumpee’s arm to the ground or a table, keeping them still enough to push the needle into their arm

Causing a sharp, sudden pain that makes Whumpee cry out, their mouth opened just long enough to shove a pill inside—then holding a hand over Whumpee’s nose and mouth until they swallow or suffocate

Forcing Whumpee to drink something they know is laced (or don’t)

Waving a strong chemical beneath an unconscious or exhausted Whumpee’s nose, and watching the effects hit their system almost immediately

Making Whumpee finish a suspiciously chalky meal

Restraining Whumpee and hooking them up to a constant drip of fluids meant to keep them docile. Bonus: Whumpee fighting tooth and nail to keep the needle from their arm because they know—once it’s in, there’s no chance to escape

[thelethalsilence]

[twig-tea]

Saw the director of Addicted Heroin Thailand had posted this on his Facebook account:

This man looked at the show that was the tipping point of the first big anti-gay censorship wave in China in the 2010s, and decided to remake it and intentionally self-censor, just to see if he could attract the "Chinese BL is superior because it doesn't rely on kisses or NC scenes to show the emotions" audience to Thai BL?

I am so mad about this.

[the-bitter-ocean]

(ACT 5 SPOILERS) Ageswap MDP Moments (RUH ROH)

[serpentface]

Faiza performing the Kagnoma Odo (pretty literally 'lion dance'), a weapons dance and one of the more important ritual duties of Odonii priestesses. A relatively new addition to this traditional dance involves the musket as the primary weapon, which is fired mid-twirl into the ground at the climax of the dance. Faiza is experiencing an 'oh fuck' moment because her shot is more than ideally diagonal, but she’s being so cool with it.

This is a wholly ceremonial performance at the onset of the pilgrimage, performed in full regalia and lion skin (of the small, semi-domesticated strain) but no armor. It’s also distinctly a display of political allegiance between the powerful and beloved Odonii priesthood (and its loyal military) with the increasingly reviled and destabilized imperial family, with Faiza prominently wearing a bracelet of the royal serpent, which was gifted (along with the musket) by the usoma Stavis Amanti himself (Usoma is the Wardi word for king, which has been retained in the context of emperors).

The Kagnoma Odo is the ultimate demonstration of the Odonii as an embodiment of the Lion Face of God and living vessel of military might and sovereignty, demonstrating her fitness and proficiency with weapons and as a spiritual unifier for soldiers. It is accompanied by drumming and occurs in stages, running through the three keymost weapons used in war- the spear, the sword, and the musket. The musket is of the most significance, given the weapon has developed a particular esteem as the ultimate embodiment of might and superiority. Assistants (almost always other priestesses, occasionally high ranking soldiers) load and prime the musket to be fired at the climax of the dance, where it is shot into the ground as the priestess leaps out of range of the shot. The firing signals the end of the dance and the rite itself.

While not the utmost exemplar of trigger discipline, only fully inducted and senior (and therefore very thoroughly trained) Odonii are permitted to perform the dance, and injuries during actual performances are quite rare (though are known to occur during training, more than a few Odonii have burns and wounds on their feet).

The most important renditions of this dance are performed upon declarations of war and before battles (in this case, generally done in full armor along with the lion pelt). It is also done during some trainings (while a dance, it is carefully choreographed to include naturalistic maneuvers of the weapons involved and helps soldiers limber up and learn to move their weapons). It is regarded as an impressive and motivating sight and a morale booster, and, seen at a distance, potentially intimidating to enemies.

A special variant of this dance is performed as means of fully incarnating the Odomache, which is done in full nudity with the body covered in the blood of the freshly sacrificed lion and cloaked in its raw pelt (the lion has become the corpse of Odomache in the moment of death, as part of its recreation of God's sacrifice). Her public, full nude appearance once (and only once) in this act is what allows the Lion Face of God to incarnate within her. Those in attendance see the spiritually vulnerable, naked human body obscured with the sanctified and deified blood and cloaked in the sanctified and deified skin. It is a merger of the contradictions of mortality and divinity, the boundaries between the two indistinct in flickering firelight and the flash of musketfire. She is witnessed by her people, dangling in between humanity and divinity and leading them in dance, and and is thus transformed.

[naamahdarling]

You know, I don't think medical professionals should even be allowed to label a patient as "noncompliant" in their record. I'm putting it on a shelf until they learn not to be assholes.

[wonder-worker]

A central element of the myth of [Eleanor of Aquitaine] is that of her exceptionalism. Historians and Eleanor biographers have tended to take literally Richard of Devizes’s conventional panegyric of her as ‘an incomparable woman’ [and] a woman out of her time. […] Amazement at Eleanor’s power and independence is born from a presentism that assumes generally that the Middle Ages were a backward age, and specifically that medieval women were all downtrodden and marginalized. Eleanor’s career can, from such a perspective, only be explained by assuming that she was an exception who rose by sheer force of personality above the restrictions placed upon twelfth-century women.

-Michael R. Evans, Inventing Eleanor: The Medieval and Post-Medieval Image of Eleanor of Aquitaine

"...The idea of Eleanor’s exceptionalism rests on an assumption that women of her age were powerless. On the contrary, in Western Europe before the twelfth century there were ‘no really effective barriers to the capacity of women to exercise power; they appear as military leaders, judges, castellans, controllers of property’. […] In an important article published in 1992, Jane Martindale sought to locate Eleanor in context, stripping away much of the conjecture that had grown up around her, and returning to primary sources, including her charters. Martindale also demonstrated how Eleanor was not out of the ordinary for a twelfth-century queen either in the extent of her power or in the criticisms levelled against her.

If we look at Eleanor’s predecessors as Anglo-Norman queens of England, we find many examples of women wielding political power. Matilda of Flanders (wife of William the Conqueror) acted as regent in Normandy during his frequent absences in England following the Conquest, and [the first wife of Henry I, Matilda of Scotland, played some role in governing England during her husband's absences], while during the civil war of Stephen’s reign Matilda of Boulogne led the fight for a time on behalf of her royal husband, who had been captured by the forces of the empress. And if we wish to seek a rebel woman, we need look no further than Juliana, illegitimate daughter of Henry I, who attempted to assassinate him with a crossbow, or Adèle of Champagne, the third wife of Louis VII, who ‘[a]t the moment when Henry II held Eleanor of Aquitaine in jail for her revolt … led a revolt with her brothers against her son, Philip II'.

Eleanor is, therefore, less the exception than the rule – albeit an extreme example of that rule. This can be illustrated by comparing her with a twelfth century woman who has attracted less literary and historical attention. Adela of Blois died in 1137, the year of Eleanor’s marriage to Louis VII. […] The chronicle and charter evidence reveals Adela to have ‘legitimately exercised the powers of comital lordship’ in the domains of Blois-Champagne, both in consort with her husband and alone during his absence on crusade and after his death. […] There was, however, nothing atypical about the nature of Adela’s power. In the words of her biographer Kimberley LoPrete, ‘while the extent of Adela’s powers and the political impact of her actions were exceptional for a woman of her day (and indeed for most men), the sources of her powers and the activities she engaged in were not fundamentally different from those of other women of lordly rank’. These words could equally apply to Eleanor; the extent of her power, as heiress to the richest lordship in France, wife of two kings and mother of two or three more, was remarkable, but the nature of her power was not exceptional. Other noble or royal women governed, arranged marriages and alliances, and were patrons of the church. Eleanor represents one end of a continuum, not an isolated outlier."

[charlotte-family-apologist]

Yes Suchin fem Kenshi is hot but there's this little thing known as time and place

No text version

[j-k-writes]

The Bronze Targaryen - 4

Summary - In the weeks leading up to the royal wedding, Prince (Y/N) spends his time getting used to the workings of his uncle’s court, Princess Rhaenyra attempts to better understand her betrothed, and Prince Daemon leaves for Dragonstone with hopes that his son will find his fire.

Warnings - classic Daemon behavior (the man's got anger issues), general HOTD warnings, injuries

The sunlight burned through (Y/N) like Dragonfire, and he groaned, head pounding, he turned over in his bed and pulled the bedding up to cover his face. He heard a man laugh at his actions, causing him to groan again. (Y/N) silently prayed to the old gods as he slowly opened his eyes, pulling the bedding down slightly. 

He was greeted by his father’s smug face peering down at him, “Did you have a fun night?” 

“What do you want, father?” (Y/N) shut his eyes again. 

“I am flying to Dragonstone.” Daemon said, “I will be gone for a while.” 

(Y/N) ran his hand down his face. “I am sure someone would have informed me, you did not have to wake me.” 

He felt the bed dipped near his legs, and opened his eyes to see his father sitting on his bed. “I wished to say goodbye.” 

“You never have before.” 

Daemon scoffed, giving his son a long level look. “Must you make everything an argument?” 

(Y/N) sat up, letting the blankets pool by his hips, “I was simply pointing out a fact.” 

Daemon glared. “You were acting like a child.” 

The only response (Y/N) gave was a hum, which seemed to agitate his father further. He reached (Y/N) before the teen could have time to respond, grabbing his face harshly and digging his fingers into (Y/N)’s cheek. (Y/N) struggled, but his father’s grip only grew tighter. 

“You can blame me for the strain in our relationship, (Y/N).” Daemon seethed, “But know this, your mother is not as blameless as you would like to believe” 

“Liar.” 

Daemon released (Y/N)’s face, hand moving to gently cup this stinging skin, “I have never lied to you. Not once, and I do not intend to start now.” 

(Y/N) averted his gaze, and when he received no verbal response from his son Daemon sighed. He stood up, straightening his tunic. “I will be back in time for the start of the celebrations. You should dress, Rhaenyra will come looking for you soon enough.” 

Daemon turned on his heel to leave, and (Y/N) opened his mouth to call out but thought better of it and silenced himself. He watched his father walk out of the room, flopping back down onto his bed with a sigh. Servants soon entered the room, and (Y/N) laid there as they worked. 

“We have brought food, and laid out clothes for you, my prince.” 

“Thank you. I will dress and eat on my own, you may go.” 

(Y/N) dressed and ate in silence. He chuckled at the dragon-embroidered coat laid out for him, putting it away in favor of a plain brown coat. He accepted the rings laid out for him, adoring his fingers with the metal and gems. He brushed his hair back into a neat bun, smiling to himself when in the mirror he saw Rhaenyra enter his chambers behind him. 

“Good you are awake.” 

“My father paid me a visit.” (Y/N) turned to face her. 

“Daemon?” Rhaenyra stood in front of him, pulling a loose piece of hair from his bun. “Why?” 

“He wished to say goodbye.” (Y/N) said, “He is leaving for Dragonstone.” 

“To what end?” 

“We did not get to that part.” 

Rhaenyra clicked her tongue knowingly, “You two fight like children.” 

“He started it.” 

“Oh I doubt that.” Rhaenyra laughed. She grabbed his hand, tugging him up from his seat. “Come, I wish to go flying.” 

“You do not need me for that, Nyra.” 

She tugged him along, smiling at him. “Come.”

She dragged him through the halls, laughing as they went, and (Y/N) followed, smiling at his cousin. 

His weeks at Kingslanding had been more pleasant than he had expected. His cousin had taken the task of showing (Y/N) around the keep and its courtiers. Rhaenyra had introduced him to her dragon, Syrax, just days after their official betrothal, finding delight in (Y/N)’s wariness around dragons. 

“Perhaps I could have a new saddle made, one fit for two?” Rhaenyra said as (Y/N) finally allowed himself to relax by the dragon. “Or, perhaps you could claim your own.” 

“I fear I am content as a spectator.” 

King Viserys seemed delighted in the activities of the two, likely priding himself on a match well made. (Y/N) paid his uncle's pride little mind, focusing his attention on his newly betrothed. He found himself genuinely enjoying Rhaenyra’s company, seeking her out even when he had no real need for her. He was glad to have found friendship with his cousin if nothing more. 

“My Princess,” Ser Harrold nodded to them as they approached, three stable boys leading steeds behind them. “My Prince.” 

“Ser Harrold,” (Y/N) smiled at the knight, another surprising friendship in the court. “Will you be keeping me company at the Dragonpit today?” 

Rhaenyra scoffed, “I thought I was your company.” 

“How can you be my company from atop a dragon?” (Y/N) asked, mounting the horse given to him. 

Rhaenyra followed suit, “You can always join me.” 

“Then who would keep Ser Harrold company?” (Y/N) heard Ser Harrold sigh, and he gave him a smile. 

“Keep yourselves company then.” And with that Rhaenyra took off to the surprise of the two men. He and Ser Harrold spurred their horses, racing after the princess. 

The three rode to the Dragonpit in relative silence, (Y/N) breathing in the fresher air deeply, he hadn’t grown as used to the stench of Kingslanding as he had hoped. Rhaenyra seemed more relaxed herself the closer they got to the Dragonpit. 

Syrax was already outside the Dragonpit when they arrived, chirping at the sight of the riding party. Rhaenyra dismounted eagerly, and (Y/N) followed her lead. Rhaenyra pressed her face to Syrax’s side, and (Y/N) smiled at the sight. He stepped up to the dragon, pressing his palm next to Rhaenyra’s head. Syrax rumbled at the touch, and Rhaenyra turned to smile at her betrothed. 

“She likes you.” 

“I am glad,” (Y/N) said, “I’m far too young to become dragon food.” 

Rhaenyra playfully swatted at his shoulder, “You’re ridiculous.” 

(Y/N) took his place next to Ser Harrold, watching Rhaenyra take to the sky. (Y/N) walked toward the Dragonpit, taking in the vast cavern. The dragonkeepers were always eager to talk to the young prince, answering his questions about their profession happily. One of the last features of Old Valyria left to the world would always be interesting to (Y/N), even if he had no desire himself to claim the sigil of his father’s house.

When Rhaenyra returned, Syrax landed in front of the prince bowing her head, and (Y/N) obliged the dragon’s wishes and softly rubbed her snout. Rhaenyra dismounted, hair windswept, and face flushed. She smiled at the sight of her betrothed and Syrax, she grabbed his free arm and rested her forehead against his bicep. 

“Do you have any plans for today?” Rhaenyra asked, looking up at (Y/N). 

He smiled at her, “I was going to watch the training in the yard, unless you have other ideas.” 

She shook her head, blushing softly, but enough for (Y/N) to take notice. “No, no, I was just wondering if I could join you.” 

“Of course.” 

They rode slowly and silently back to the keep, Ser Harrold trailing just far enough behind them to give the illusion of privacy. Rhaenyra glanced over to the prince every so often, but as soon as (Y/N) would catch her eye she would look away. 

The knights were already training when they reached the yard, Ser Criston leading the session. They handed the reins of their mounts to the stable boys, and Rhaenyra followed (Y/N) as he took a place off to the side to watch the spectacle. 

(Y/N) spent most of his time in the yard at Runestone, but he felt more out of place in the yard of the Red Keep than he’d ever felt in his life. He didn’t know these knights, and they didn’t know him. He could feel their eyes sizing up the son of the famous Daemon Targaryen every time he moved through the yard. 

“Will you be joining us today, my prince?” (Y/N) turned at the sound of the voice, coming face to face with a tall man with long brown hair, and soft eyes. The man smiled at him and Rhaenyra, nodding to the princess. “Princess.” 

“Ser Harwin.” Rhaenyra smiled, “(Y/N) this is Ser Harwin Strong, Commander of the City Watch, and son of The Hand.” 

(Y/N) eyed up the man. “Ah. Well, it’s nice to be able to put a face to the name. I’ve heard much about you Ser Harwin.” 

“Good things I hope.” 

“Very good.” (Y/N) smiled at the man, and Rhaenyra made a sound under her breath. (Y/N) looked at her, and she just gave him a look that made his skin hot under his tunic. 

Rhaenyra cleared her throat, looking between the two men, “You have not answered Ser Harwin’s question, (Y/N). You should join.” 

She nodded toward the training grounds, and Harwin extended a blunted sword toward the boy, raising an eyebrow. 

“I-” (Y/N) laughed, “I am not sure the knights would be happy with my presence.” 

“All the more reason to join, my prince.” Harwin wiggled the sword playfully, and Rhaenyra pushed him forward. 

“Do not pretend to be shy, (Y/N).” She smiled, making a shooing motion. “I will still be here when you are finished.” 

(Y/N) sighed, smiling at the both of them. He took the sword from Ser Harwin whose face lit up at his decision. “Alright then.”

“I hope Lord Lannister chokes on his wine.” (Y/N) whispered to Rhaenyra who stifled a laugh. She walked away from the Prince, making her way to the opposite side of the table to pour the lords of the small council their wine. 

(Y/N) was really only in these meetings to observe, at least that’s what his Uncle had told the lords when they’d commented on his appearance. He could tell they had no love for the young heir, likely stemming from their own distaste for his father. He paid them little mind, their distaste of him did not matter when he would inherit Runestone and his wife would inherit the Iron Throne, they could keep their love for all he cared. 

(Y/N) held little love for the politics of the realm, he understood its importance of course, how could he not? But the cunning whims of some fat lord made his stomach twist, and he’d rather face enemies on the battlefield than in council chambers. At least on the battlefield, he could tell who he was fighting and who was fighting beside him, the lords of his uncle’s council did not wear their alliances on their sleeves. 

A commotion at the door of the chambers caught the attention of everybody in the room. Ser Harrold opened the door, and a dragonkeeper came rushing in, breathing heavy. 

Another Kingsgaurd followed him in, “I am sorry, your grace. But there is a raven from Dragonstone.” 

Viserys’ eyes widened, “What is it?” 

The Dragonkeeper spoke, “Vermithor ēza geptot.” 

“Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma geptot?”  Viserys asked, eyes slowly falling on (Y/N). (Y/N) tensed, he knew his uncle was thinking of Daemon as the dragonkeeper continued to speak.

“Gaomi daor gīmigon skoro syt, yn ēza geptot Zaldrīzesdōron. Gaomi daor gīmigon skoriot issa.” 

“Kepa.” (Y/N) spoke, meeting Viserys' eyes. Viserys seemed to understand his nephew's tense posture, and he nodded to (Y/N). 

“I will send word to Daemon,” Viserys stood. “I would talk to my family alone, the council is dismissed.” 

The dragonkeeper took his leave, as did the lords, albeit with discontented grumblings. Viserys’ rubbed his brow wearily. 

(Y/N) approached his uncle cautiously, “Do you think my father is behind this?”

“I do not know.” Viserys said. “It is possible, although I doubt even Daemon can force Vermithor to do anything.” 

“He’s been at Dragonstone for days.” (Y/N) said, voice tightening as he spoke. “He did not give an explanation when he left, and now a dragon has gone missing.” 

Rhaenyra touched his arm, “You are looking for guilt in Daemon, (Y/N). We do not know the truth of things.” 

“I don’t trust him.” (Y/N) bit out, the venom of his voice causing Rhaenyra to step back. 

“You do not know your father, (Y/N).” Viserys said, taking a long hard look at his nephew. 

“And who is at fault for that?” 

Viserys sighed, looking down at the floor. Rhaenyra stayed silent, watching her father and cousin warily. (Y/N) scoffed, turning sharply on his heel and exiting the chambers. He shoved the doors open, paying no mind to the, now startled, guards. His feet carried him to his own chambers, and he turned to the guard stationed outside of them. 

“No one is allowed to enter. I would like to be left alone for the rest of the day.” He didn’t wait for an answer before entering his chambers and closing the doors behind him.

Sneaking through the halls of The Red Keep was harder than (Y/N) thought it was going to be. He was allowed anywhere at any time without so much as a sideways glance, his grandsire's attempts at keeping the boy from leaving at night long forgotten. 

Dressed in a black cape, hood pulled down to the tops of his eyes, (Y/N) silently crept through the halls of the keep. He did not doubt that he’d most likely been spotted leaving the keep at the hour of the owl, but his uncle would simply have to find it in himself to forgive him. He could not stew in the suffocation of his chambers any longer, he needed fresh air, as fresh as he could find in Kingslanding. 

He made his way through Flea Bottom, keeping to the alley’s and the darkness of the night to stay unnoticed by the smallfolk. His hand rested atop the dagger at his side. As desperate as he was to find his way out of Kingslanding for the night, he was not fool enough to forget the dangers that surrounded a man of his title. 

He made it to the Iron Gate unapproached, and a small smile made its way to his face as he slipped through the gate- only to crash directly into someone. He immediately tightened his grip on his knife, taking a defensive stand before he got a good look at the man he ran into. 

Ser Harwin looked confused at the sight of the prince. “Prince (Y/N), what are you-” 

(Y/N) shushed the man, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a dark corner. “You must let me pass.” 

Harwin looked around, “How did you- are you alone?” 

“Please, Harwin.” (Y/N) pleaded, he could not remember a time in his life when he genuinely pleaded for something from anyone other than his family. “I will be fine, I just-” 

He sighed, rubbing his hand down his face. “I just need some fresh air. I won’t stray off Rosby Road, and I’ll be back before they even know I am missing.” 

If they didn’t already know. 

Harwin looked conflicted, “If anything happens to you-” 

“It won’t.” (Y/N) clutched the commander’s arms. “Please, Ser Harwin.” 

(Y/N) could see the moment Ser Harwin relented. He sighed, “Off you go then.” 

He beamed, “Thank you, my friend.” 

And then he was off, slipping silently through the gates and making his way toward Rosby Road. 

He did end up straying off the road, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad for lying to Harwin. He would forgive him if he found out, and (Y/N) would have gone mad if Harwin brought him back to the keep. When he determined he was deep enough in the trees to be safe from onlookers he took his hood off, relishing in the cool air against his skin. He untied his hair, running his fingers through it. 

(Y/N) smiled at the quiet sounds of the forest. Breathing in the smell of the trees and moss around him, it was a different scent from the forests of the Vale, but it was a welcomed scent after weeks of the stench of Kingslanding. (Y/N) inspected the trees around him until he found one he deemed fit, and he started to climb. 

He had been banned from climbing the trees in the Vale after he’d stumbled and fell from a high branch when he was a boy. He didn’t remember much from the incident, kept mostly unconscious with dreamwine until he was deemed fit enough to rise from bed. But his mother hadn’t let him attempt to climb for years after the incident, and his back still bore the scars of where the fallen branches had cut him when he hit the ground. 

But his mother was gone, and (Y/N) was no longer a boy of eight, he didn’t fall anymore. 

He took a seat on a thick high branch, resting against the trunk of the tree. He closed his eyes, letting the agitation of his day wash away. Exhaustion crept down his spine, and when he opened his eyes again he wasn’t sitting on the tree. 

He looked around his new surroundings, getting up from where he was sitting. He was in the great hall of Runestone, it was empty and dark as it often was on the nights where his grandsire wasn’t hosting feasts. (Y/N) walked around, running his hand along the wall as he went. He pressed his face into the cold stone, sighing at the relief it brought to his sweaty skin. A sharp wind cut through him, causing him to gasp and jump back from the wall. Whispers filled his ears as he looked around for the cause of the sound. 

“Hello?” (Y/N) called out, reaching for the dagger he kept at his belt. Only to find its sheath empty. He looked down at his clothes, furrowing his brows at the leather armor. He wasn’t dressed for war, that much he was sure of, but the clothes, and the runes carved into them, were still unusual attire for the young man. 

A glimmer of metal caught his attention, drawing it toward the high table at the end of the room. He walked over, taking in the sight of the sword resting on the table. It was unsheathed and glimmering as if someone was holding a candle right to it. (Y/N) immediately recognized the sword, Lamentation, having seen it decorate the great hall his entire childhood. 

He ran his fingers down the runes carved into the Valyrian steel sword. He grasped the hilt of the sword, holding it up to examine it further. It was perfectly balanced in his hand as he adjusted his grip. He gave it an experimental swing, gasping and dropping the sword when the room lit up. The sword hit the ground with a loud clang as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. 

The light grew brighter and brighter, and (Y/N) had to shut his eyes. He covered his ears as the whispers that echoed through the hall earlier started again, louder this time. The whispering grew louder and louder and the light grew brighter, surrounding (Y/N). 

And then it was silent. 

(Y/N) opened his eyes, looking around the now dark room. He breathed out a shaky sigh of relief, laughing softly to himself. He looked down to where he’d dropped the sword, only to find it missing. He turned around confused, only to let out a wordless gasp as his abdomen flared in pain. He looked down at his stomach, finding Lamentation cutting right through him, blood dripping from the blade. 

His eyes shot open with a gasp, and he had to steady himself before he went toppling over the side of the branch. He cursed at the sight of the sun peeking out from behind the hills of Kingslanding. Immediately he began to climb down the tree, swiftly making his way through the woods and back to Rosby Road. 

His legs were shaky as he walked back to the road, his breaths coming in short gasps. He had to stop after just a few feet to rest his forehead against the trunk of a tree. (Y/N) could still feel the blade in his stomach. He’d never had a dream like that one before. He didn’t know what to make of it, and that scared him. Maester Pate had taught him the histories of House Targaryen, including the story of Daenys the Dreamer and her dreams of the doom. 

(Y/N) quickly banished that thought from his head, taking a deep breath and gathering himself. He was stressed and missing Runestone, nothing more. He started on his way once more.  

He’d only been walking for a few minutes when the trees started to bend as the wind picked up, and (Y/N) ducked as a loud whoosh was heard above him. He threw himself to the ground, groaning as the fallen branches cut his exposed skin. He turned onto his back looking up at the sky, and the breath was knocked out of his lungs at the sight. 

An enormous bronze dragon was flying above him, circling the spot where (Y/N) laid. He stumbled to his feet, watching with wide eyes and a pounding heart as the dragon seemed to follow his movements. 

He did the only thing that he thought to do. 

He ran. 

He stumbled as he ran from the beast, tripping over the exposed roots of the trees in his haste. His stomach lurched at the crunch his nose made as his face hit the ground. He did not pause to see if he had lost the beast, for he knew the answer, it was like he could feel the dragon pursuing him. 

He pushed himself up, ignoring the stinging sensation that covered his skin. He continued on, not once looking behind him. The dragon roared, his breath blowing (Y/N)’s cloak like the wind, and (Y/N) pressed forward faster. 

He knew he could not outrun the beast, and the bronze dragon seemed to know it too. The dragon pressed further down into the tree line, tree’s collapsing under the weight of its beating wings. (Y/N) turned to look at it as he ran, screaming at the beast. 

“Keligon!” He cried out, stumbling slightly as he took a sharp left turn. He continued to run, screaming obscenities and commands at the dragon pursuing him. He turned around to catch sight of the dragon, only to skid to a halt at what he saw. He could still hear and sense the dragon, but he could not see it. (Y/N) looked around wildly, taking a defensive stand. He grabbed the dagger at his side, not that it could do much but it brought him some comfort all the same. 

The bronze dragon dove down from behind the boy, causing him to yell. He fell onto his back in shock, dropping the dagger next to him. He closed his eyes tightly, expecting the dreaded dragonfire, but none came. He opened his eyes slowly, watching as the dragon just stared at him, blinking. 

No. 

This was not how it happened. Dragons do not claim Targaryens, Targaryens claim dragons and (Y/N) was a Royce. He would not claim a dragon. 

“I do not claim you!” (Y/N) roared, staring up at the bronze beast. He waved his hands frantically, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Go! Henujagon!” 

The dragon did not move, staring the young man down as he continued to cry out. He screamed at the beast, trying everything from trying to anger the dragon to trying to scare it, nothing worked. He begged, pleading with the old gods, and the new, to let this be false to let the dragon either kill him or leave him in the woods. The dragon did not move, keeping the young prince on the ground. (Y/N) eventually tired himself out after what felt like hours of yelling at the dragon, and he sighed, letting his head fall back against the ground. 

The dragon seemed pleased at his acceptance, bowing his head to the prince. (Y/N) let tears fall down his cheeks, chest rising and falling rapidly. 

It seemed the gods did not care for (Y/N)’s wishes, and neither did his dragon. 

---

Translations -

Vermithor ēza geptot. - Vermithor has left

Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma geptot? - What do you mean left?

Gaomi daor gīmigon skoro syt, yn ēza geptot Zaldrīzesdōron. Gaomi daor gīmigon skoriot issa. - We do not know why, but he has left Dragonstone. We do not know where he is.

Kepa - Paternal Uncle

Keligon! - Stop

Henujagon - Leave

[beanghostprincess]

A bit tired of people complaining about Sanji's principle of "not hitting women" being misogynistic when it has been clearly stated multiple times that he does not choose it and it's heavily tied to his trauma and admiration for his dad and respect for women and definitely not from seeing women as somehow weaker than him

[magnapinnasmachines]

A MACHINE BUILT TO END WAR IS ALWAYS A MACHINE BUILT TO CONTINUE WAR.

YOU WERE BEAUTIFUL, OUTSTRETCHED LIKE ANTENNAS TO HEAVEN. YOU WERE BEYOND YOUR CREATORS. YOU REACHED FOR GOD, AND FELL. NONE WERE LEFT TO SPEAK YOUR EULOGY. NO FINAL WORDS, NO CONCLUDING STATEMENT. NO POINT. PERFECT CLOSURE.

T H I S I S T H E O N L Y W A Y I T S H O U L D H A V E E N D E D .