#central heating radiators

[bathroomforless]

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[huariqueje]

Winter Morning - Claudia Keep , 2022.

American , b. 1993 -

Oil on masonite panel , 25.4 x 20.3 cm. 10 x 8 in.

[an-ruraiocht]

the worst bit about owning your own flat is having to figure out how to contact the gas engineers to fix your boiler when your central heating is on the blink instead of just making your landlord do it (and also having to pay for that) and the best bit is everything else

[battleangel]

Hospital Hellhole

Where are the open windows in hospitals?

Hospitals are exactly like corporate cubicle farms, where you see the windows in your office, but theyre never open.

So, no fresh air ever gets in.

Stuffy, recirculated air with zero outside fresh air + constant either central indoor heating or air conditioning + a bunch of sick ass people stuffed into one building isnt exactly a recipe for holistic health.

Nor is it meant to be.

Its actually a veritable hotbed for communicable diseases, viruses, infections, germs and bacteria to develop, spread and grow.

Idgaf about how "well the hospital is ventilated" -- you need fresh air, jackass!

Good luck ever getting it at a hospital.

They'll just parade you around bare ass in a drab ass drag ass light blue gown that doesnt even close all the way in the back yet have the nerve to talk about how "functional" it is.

They'll parade your literal bare ass through the hospital hallways so you can "walk around" -- but nevah outside.

Yeah okay.

There are windows, why cant I open them?

Because you cant.

The air inside a hospital is endlessly recirculated, stuffy as hell and filled to the brim with germs, bacteria, viruses and pathogens given that a hospital is, y'know, a building full of sick ass people.

Who in the hell thinks this is a good idea?

Exactly noone as hospitals are designed to mentally break you, dehumanize you and give you a different illness then the one you checked in with or make whatever your current issue is worse.

Being in a building with no outside fresh air and no open windows full of sick, dying, dead, incapacitated, vomiting, diarrhea, coughing, sneezing, wheezing, bleeding people isnt supposed to make anyone else sicker?

Yeah okay.

You need fresh air even in the best of circumstances forget about when youre sick.

You need to be in nature as it literally heals us, even their studies confirm that.

You need fresh, unrecirculated air from outside.

You need the sky, the sun, the grass and the trees.

But what do you get?

A dark, drab, sterile, lonely room with a large ass loud ass TV in it, a phone, a bed that you will be stuck in for most of your stay, a bathroom and a window you cant open.

Sounds exactly like prison.

Being stationary -- unless you are a literal invalid or completely physically incapacitated -- is awful for you.

They know this.

They know that being stationary in bed can cause DVT (deep vein thrombosis), blood clots, embolisms, poor blood circulation and bloodflow, swelling, edemas, muscle atrophy, weight gain, bed sores.

Not to mention depression, lack of mental sharpness and acuity, lethargy, anxiety, fatigue, listlessness, hopelessness, dread...

Its almost like its by design, isnt it?

Hospitals should be near parks or be built inside of parks.

All patients that are literally physically capable of going outside for fresh air and natural sunlight should do so, or if possible, should be taken outside in wheelchairs.

Blinding white bright ass unnatural fluorescent lighting has repeatedly been proven to deplete our melatonin levels, disrupt our natural circadian rhythyms, disrupt our sleep, cause insomnia and other sleep disorders -- so why is the lighting in hospitals so fucking bright???

Why do you think?

They dont want you well.

If you happen to get better after being hospitalized, its an unintended side effect.

The goal is to find -- or make up -- other things that are wrong with you so they can feed you further into the many tentacled medical industrial complex.

More diagnoses, more pills, more injections, more shots, more IVs, more surgeries, more specialists, more tests, more false positive results.

Just the way they intend it.

If youve ever visited someone in the hospital or ever been hospitalized yourself, youve probably experienced a general feeling of feeling run down, fatigued, sore, tired, like you were coming down with a cold, feeling out of sorts and out of it if you were inside a hospital for a few hours or more (days, weeks or even months).

Thats by design.

Patients should be outside every day, breathing fresh air, getting natural sunlight, touching fresh grass, hugging and sitting by trees, looking up at the clear blue sky, soaking up the sun, picking flowers and soaking up natures natural healing properties.

Nope, you get to walk up and down a ridiculously overilluminated bright ass fluorescent hallway with drab muted colors surrounding you, machines beeping, nurses having bored conversations at lunch, doctors being self-important and your bare ass cheeks on full display in your gown that doesnt "quite fully close all the way in the back."

You should be letting butterflies land on your hand, picking sunflowers, laying against trees, walking barefoot in grass, staring up at the sun and soaking up the individual rays, taking deep breaths of the fresh air all around you, looking at the clear blue sky, observing some of the cloud formations, lying on your back on the grass and staring up at the big blue sky supervised by hospital staff for about an hour a day.

That should be happening every day in every hospital.

It could be done in shifts.

Even a small park or garden even on hospital grounds or property would suffice.

In your everyday life, dont you walk outside once a day?

Even just to check the mail? Run errands? Pick up groceries? Go to work? Get takeout? Go shopping? Go to work? Meet up with friends and family? Go out to eat? See a movie? Take a walk? Go jogging?

Why is this simple freedom denied to you in a hospital?

When you need nature the most, they wont even open a window for you.

Antiseptic sterility, vomiting bleeding dying patients, coughing sneezing wheezing patients, patients with viruses, bacterial infections, open wounds, bodily fluids and emissions, mucus, phlegm, stitches, sutures, transfusions, transplants.

How would you NOT need fresh air even after one day in a hospital?

Why is hospital food so comically bad?

Youre literally back to the slop you were being force fed in elementary school but as an adult.

Since youre sick, shouldnt there be an interest in providing you with nourishing, holistic, healthy, fresh organic foods that will help heal you and aid in your recovery?

If youve ever been hospitalized, it took you back to your school days with rubbery chicken, mystery lunch meat, dry bread, nothing is seasoned, everything is out of a box, warmed over and bland as hell.

Why?

It doesnt have to be expensive!

Fresh spinach for salad is cheap, quinoa is cheap, tofu is inexpensive, steel cut oats are inexpensive, chickpeas are cheap, hummus is inexpensive, lentil beans are cheap, kale is inexpensive, kidney and black beans are cheap - these are all chock full of protein, cheap, healthy, good for you and can be prepared with fresh or cookied veggies, rice, noodles.

It doesnt have to be like this.

They want you sick and defeated.

Hospitals are literal hellholes.

Its not you.

Youre right to think they are creepy depressing prisons and incubators for all kinds of diseases and infections.

Because they are. By design.

[mydignityisinflames]

My butch credentials are really coming along :)

[thrapstonheating]

Home Heating Solutions in Thrapston

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[ap-emergency-services-24h]

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[powerflushgeek]

Radiator Power Flush Liverpool: Revitalizing Heating Systems

A power flush does not remove radiators from the wall. When they are flushed, the sludge in them will become looser by being hammered or vibrated. A Radiator Power Flush Liverpool uses more pressure than a standard pump, causing loose sludge to be forced back to the magnets and attached to the pump Powerflush Liverpool is a comprehensive, deep cleaning of your heating system and boiler to remove grime, rust, dirt, and other contaminants.

[tradeplumbingsblog]

The Benefits of Installing a Electrical Central Heating Boiler: A Comprehensive Guide

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[huariqueje]

Breakfast at the radiator - Pierre Bonard , 1930.

French, 1867 - 1947

Oil on canvas

[scottfindlayplumbers]

Some new photos of our team!

[shurisneakers]

cold hands in warm hands + hand kisses with my beloved bucky

Warnings: swearing, snow??

A/N: I see that you all like those grumpy x grumpy assholes. well here have some more of them

All it takes is one bad decision, and now the two of you are stuck in what has to be a walk-in freezer. Or maybe Siberia. Either way, it’s cold enough to regret every choice you’ve made today.

"You're not getting my jacket."

"Don't need it."

"Glasses are mine too."

"Don't need that either "

"Not givi--"

"I don't need your stuff," Bucky interrupts, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm fine."

You’re too cold to argue, so instead, you stomp off to the corner of the freezer to rummage through empty boxes, hoping to find something remotely helpful. Nothing. Just the sound of Bucky’s boots crunching in the snow behind you, breathing down your neck like some clingy demon.

"You’re really looking for gloves?" he deadpans.

"Some of us don’t come with central heating."

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he’s impervious to the cold. Like this whole thing is a minor inconvenience and not, you know, a potential frostbite situation.

You don't respond, pulling out tins and empty boxes but nothing that can help warm your freezing fingers.

"Give me your hands," he mumbles.

"Get your own."

"You're gonna get frostbite."

"Promise?"

His eye twitches.

Half an hour later, you've turned away from him to hide the fact that you're blowing into your hands for any semblance of warmth.

"Just give me your hands," he sighs, clearly at the end of his patience.

"I’m fine," you grit out.

"You’re an idiot," he says instantly.

You send him the middle finger.

"Gonna be hard to flip me off once your fingers snap off."

You glare at him as he thrusts his flesh hand toward you, clearly daring you to refuse.

Reluctantly, you slap your hands into his, grumbling under your breath the whole time.

"Christ, your hands are fuckin' ice."

"Who's asking you to hold onto them," you snap, trying to tug them away.

"Quit movin'," he mumbles, tightening his grip. "I just said they were cold, nothing else."

Bucky's a space heater in human form. His hand radiates heat, almost immediately warming your fingers. You hate how good it feels. The additional heat the annoyance he provides you with also helps.

"Where'd the metal one go?"

"It's metal," he replies, tone flat. "What d'you think happens to metal in the cold?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Pipe down, Mr Science. You're so fuckin' bitchy."

"Shut up," he groans, "Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking for."

Still, he stays where he is. The warmth from his hand is enough to have you regain feeling in your fingers, the sting of thawing making you wince.

"Give it," you demand after a moment.

"What."

You pry one hand loose of his, holding it out expectantly, sending an eyebrow at his metal hand that hung loose over his knee.

"What, one's not enough for you?" he evades.

"It's only fair," you argue.

"Fair? You think this is a democracy?"

"It's called paying it forward, asshole," you retort. "I'm not gonna let your one hand stay cold."

"No."

"It's so funny that you say that, because I don't remember asking."

"You’re cold enough as it is. It’d freeze your hands solid in seconds."

"Good to know you’re selectively useful," you mutter, but your voice is quieter now.

The two of you stare at each other, deadlocked, frost gathering in the air between you.

You pull your hands back.

"Christ alive, what are you? Six?"

"Either both hands are getting warm or neither are," you declare. "Cry about it. You've got both hands free to wipe your tears."

He sighs irritatedly.

You both sit in the cold, arms crossed over your chests.

"Give me your hands," he says, voice low.

"You first."

Finally, with a muttered curse, Bucky thrusts his metal hand at you. "Happy now?"

You clasp both his hands, and the two of you sit in sulky silence as the warmth slowly spreads.

You glance at him after a moment. "We look like we’re auditioning for Les Misérables."

He huffs a laugh, his breath freezing in the air.

Bucky lifts the arm holding his metal hand, and presses a kiss to your open palm, lingering for a second, before letting it down again.

"You argue too damn much," he mumbles.

The tips of your ears feel warm, and you don't think it's from the cold.

You roll your eyes, "You're the one who threw a hissy fit."

Either way, you shuffle closer to him as you wait for someone to come pick you both up.

[moonselune]

oh nooo, tavs tent got flooded by rain ans now theyre forced to share a bed with someone! can i rq a one bed troupe with male tav with karlach, wyll, astarion, halsin?

oh noooo how could this happen??

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

The storm rolled in unexpectedly, drenching the camp in a relentless downpour. You were still trying to salvage what you could when a deafening crack of thunder shook the ground, sending the rivers of rainwater cascading directly into your tent. By the time you managed to crawl out, sputtering and soaked, your belongings were hopelessly waterlogged.

Karlach, of course, was there to witness your predicament. She jogged over, her broad grin illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning.

“Rough night, huh, soldier?” she teased, shaking her head at the state of your tent.

You groaned, wringing out your shirt. “You could say that. Looks like I’m going to be sleeping under the stars tonight—well, under the rain, more like.”

“Nonsense!” Karlach’s voice was as warm as the heat radiating from her. She slapped a hand on your shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle. “You can bunk with me. My tent’s dry, and, uh, let’s just say I come with central heating.”

The thought made your stomach twist with equal parts relief and trepidation. Sharing a tent—no, a bed—with Karlach? The woman you’d been nursing an embarrassingly obvious crush on for weeks? Your throat went dry despite the rain drenching you.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

She cut you off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll freeze to death out here otherwise. Let’s go.”

Her tent was modest but well-kept, and most importantly, dry. You hesitated at the entrance, dripping onto the canvas floor. Karlach turned, hands on her hips, and raised a brow.

“Get in here before you catch something, will ya?” She rummaged through her belongings, tossing a dry blanket your way. “Strip out of that wet stuff and wrap yourself up. I’ll, uh, look the other way if you’re shy.”

You managed a weak laugh, your heart thudding in your chest as you turned your back to her. Peeling off your soaked clothes felt awkward under her presence, even though she kept her word and busied herself adjusting the bedroll. Once you were as dry as you could get, you turned around, clutching the blanket like a shield.

Karlach motioned to the bedroll, sitting down and patting the spot beside her. “Come on. I don’t bite... unless you ask nicely.”

Her teasing tone was lighthearted, but it didn’t stop your face from burning as you awkwardly settled beside her. The proximity was unavoidable; the bedroll wasn’t made for two people. Your shoulder brushed against hers, and despite the chill of the rain, her warmth seeped through the thin blanket you shared.

“You’re shivering,” she said, her voice softening. “Hang on.”

Before you could protest, Karlach shifted closer, wrapping her arm around you. The heat from her infernal heart radiated through her skin, chasing away the chill almost instantly. It was overwhelming—comforting, yes, but also intensely intimate.

“You’re like a living furnace,” you muttered, trying to sound casual despite the way your pulse hammered in your ears.

She laughed, a sound that was equal parts amusement and kindness. “Perks of the infernal engine, huh? You should take advantage of it. No sense in freezing when you’ve got me around.”

The words were innocent enough, but the tension in the air was anything but. Every small movement felt magnified—the way her arm lingered around your shoulders, the way her breath tickled your neck when she laughed. You could swear she noticed your nervousness because her fingers gave your arm a small squeeze, grounding you.

For a while, you sat in companionable silence, the sound of the rain pattering against the tent mingling with the steady hum of Karlach’s warmth. But the tension remained, unspoken and heavy.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said eventually, tilting her head to look at you. Her voice was low, almost hesitant.

“Just... thinking,” you managed, cursing yourself for how obvious your voice sounded.

Her brow furrowed, her expression softening. “You’re not still worried about being a bother, are you? Because if you are—”

“No!” you blurted, turning to face her. You realized too late how close you were, your noses almost brushing. Your voice caught in your throat, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Her gaze flicked between your eyes and your lips, something unspoken passing through her expression. But then she smiled—gentle, teasing, and yet somehow protective. “You’re really something, you know that?”

The moment stretched, and your heart thundered in your chest. You weren’t sure what would’ve happened if she hadn’t leaned back, breaking the tension.

“Get some sleep,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I’ll keep you warm.”

As you lay down beside her, her arm still draped around you, you couldn’t help but think about how much you wanted to stay like this forever. It was comforting, yes, but it was also maddening—being so close to her, feeling her heat, and yet knowing the line between you remained unspoken.

But for now, you let yourself savor the moment, even if it left you yearning for something more.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

The storm came out of nowhere, drenching the camp in sheets of rain so thick you could barely see beyond your own hands. You’d thought your tent was secure, but the deluge proved you wrong. By the time you realized the rain was seeping in, it was too late—your bedroll was soaked, your belongings waterlogged. Swearing under your breath, you tried to salvage what you could, shivering in the cold.

“Oh, darling,” Astarion’s lilting voice rang out from the shadows, cutting through the sound of the rain. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

You turned to see him leaning against a nearby tree, his arms crossed, an infuriating smirk playing on his lips. Despite the weather, he looked immaculate, as always, his pale skin almost glowing against the dark backdrop of the storm.

“My tent flooded,” you muttered, trying not to sound as miserable as you felt.

Astarion’s smirk widened as he sauntered closer, looking you up and down with a mockingly critical eye. “My, my, such a pitiful sight. You’re dripping like a wet dog. And here I thought you’d have more... dignity.”

You shot him a glare, though your teeth chattering probably undermined the effect. “Unless you’re here to help, Astarion, maybe keep walking.”

“Help?” He placed a hand dramatically on his chest, feigning offense. “Darling, I’m not in the business of charity. But... I suppose I could take pity on you, just this once. After all, I’m nothing if not magnanimous.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he drawled, leaning in closer, his crimson eyes glinting with mischief, “you’re welcome to my tent. Though, I must warn you, it comes with a price.”

“What price?”

He tapped a finger against his lips, pretending to think. “Hmm... let’s see. Enduring my company, for one. My delightful teasing, for another. And, of course, you’ll have to control yourself. Sharing close quarters with someone as devastatingly attractive as me? Quite the challenge, no?”

You flushed, heat creeping up your neck despite the cold. “I’ll manage.”

Astarion’s tent was—unsurprisingly—pristine. The interior was lit with a soft glow from a single lantern, casting flickering shadows on the canvas walls. His bedroll was luxurious compared to yours, layered with thick blankets and pillows that looked far too indulgent for a camp in the wilderness.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing grandly. “And by that, I mean don’t ruin anything.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious as you stepped inside. Your wet clothes clung to you, and you were acutely aware of every move you made. Astarion, of course, noticed.

“Oh, do take those off,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ll freeze otherwise, and I’m not about to have you shivering all over me all night.”

“I’m fine—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he interrupted, already digging through his belongings. He tossed you a dry shirt and a blanket. “Here. Change. I’ll avert my eyes, though it’s hardly necessary.”

Your face burned as you turned your back to him, peeling off your soaked clothes and quickly pulling on the shirt he’d given you. It was soft, and it smelled faintly of him—a mix of something earthy and rich, with a hint of sweetness.

When you turned back around, Astarion was already lounging on the bedroll, propped up on one elbow, watching you with a smug expression.

“You clean up nicely,” he remarked, patting the spot beside him. “Now, come along. Let’s get this over with before you catch your death.”

Reluctantly, you sat down, pulling the blanket over yourself. The space was tight, and you couldn’t avoid brushing against him as you lay down. His body was cool, his proximity sending a shiver down your spine—not from the cold, but from the unspoken tension that hung between you like a storm cloud.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“Not really,” you muttered, though that was a lie.

He chuckled, his breath brushing against your ear. “I can feel your pulse racing, you know. Are you nervous, darling? Or is it just... me?”

You turned your head to glare at him, only to realize how close he was—his face mere inches from yours, his crimson eyes glinting with something unreadable. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world outside the tent seemed to disappear.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “I’m only teasing. Mostly.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing. “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

Astarion grinned, his fangs catching the light. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Despite his teasing, he shifted slightly, giving you a bit more space. The tension between you remained, unspoken but palpable, as the rain continued to patter against the tent. It was both maddening and exhilarating, being so close to him, knowing he could probably hear every erratic beat of your heart.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the day began to catch up with you. As you started to drift off, you felt him shift beside you, his voice a quiet murmur in the dark.

“Sleep well, darling,” he said, his tone surprisingly sincere.

And despite everything—despite the teasing, the tension, and the racing thoughts that refused to quiet—you did.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

The rain had started as a drizzle, an annoyance more than anything, but by midnight it had turned into a full-blown storm. You’d woken to the sound of water pooling under your bedroll, the fabric of your tent flapping wildly in the wind. It didn’t take long to realize your tent wasn’t holding up—water seeped in through every seam, soaking everything in its path.

Soaked and miserable, you stumbled into the camp’s common area, clutching your blanket and trying not to curse the heavens too loudly. That’s when Wyll, ever the gentleman, emerged from his own tent, lantern in hand.

“You look like a drowned rat,” he teased gently, his voice warm despite the storm.

“My tent flooded,” you muttered, feeling like a fool as you wrung out your blanket.

Wyll’s brow furrowed in concern, and he quickly stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “You can’t stay out here in this. Come, share my tent. It’s dry, and there’s enough room for both of us.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”

“I insist,” Wyll interrupted, giving you a reassuring smile. “I’d never leave a friend out in this storm.”

Wyll’s tent was cozy, far better maintained than yours. The interior was neat and organized, his bedroll lined with extra blankets that gave it an almost luxurious appearance. A small lantern cast a warm glow, the storm muffled by the sturdy canvas walls.

“Here,” he said, gesturing to the bedroll. “You take the left side.”

You hesitated, feeling a little self-conscious as you stepped inside. Your clothes clung to you, damp and uncomfortable, and you were acutely aware of the unspoken tension between the two of you. Wyll had always been kind, always so composed, but there was something about the way his eyes lingered on you for just a second too long that made your heart race.

“You’re shivering,” he observed, pulling a dry blanket from his pack. “Get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.”

You flushed, your mind immediately racing to places it shouldn’t. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, though your teeth were chattering.

Wyll raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and concern. “Fine, is it? If you fall ill, it’s on my conscience. Here.” He turned his back, giving you privacy as he busied himself with the lantern. “I promise I won’t peek.”

Reluctantly, you stripped out of your wet clothes, replacing them with the spare shirt and pants Wyll handed you. The fabric was soft and warm, and it smelled of him—a subtle mix of cedarwood and something earthy, like freshly turned soil.

When you finally settled onto the bedroll, Wyll joined you, keeping a respectful distance. But the space was tight, and no matter how you tried to position yourself, you couldn’t avoid brushing against him.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and soothing.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though your heart was pounding in your chest.

The storm raged on outside, but inside the tent, the air was thick with an entirely different kind of tension. You were hyper-aware of every little movement, every rustle of the blankets, every time his arm brushed against yours.

“You’re still shivering,” Wyll said after a moment.

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not,” he insisted, his tone gentle but firm. “Here.” Before you could protest, he shifted closer, draping the blanket over both of you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Body heat. It’s the fastest way to warm up.”

Your breath hitched as you felt the warmth of his body against yours. He was so close, his scent enveloping you, his touch sending shivers down your spine for an entirely different reason now. You were just glad you were facing away from him for less than gentlemanly reasons.

“Better?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice.

The minutes stretched on, the storm outside fading into the background as the tension between you grew. Every time his hand shifted against your shoulder, every time his breath brushed against your temple, it sent your thoughts spiraling.

At one point, you turned your head slightly, only to find his face inches from yours. His dark eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt charged, every unspoken feeling hovering just out of reach. Wyll was the first to break the silence, clearing his throat and pulling back slightly.

“You should get some rest,” he said, his voice a little too even, as though he were trying to mask his own thoughts.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice barely audible. “Good idea.”

But sleep didn’t come easily. Not with the way his arm stayed draped over your shoulders, his warmth seeping into you, his presence so close it was almost overwhelming.

As the storm began to wane, the tension in the tent softened, replaced by a quiet comfort. And though neither of you said anything more, you couldn’t help but wonder if Wyll felt the same way you did—that unspoken pull, the lingering desire that neither of you dared to yet acknowledge.

For now, though, it was enough to simply be near him, the storm outside forgotten as you drifted off to the sound of his steady breathing, wrapped in his warm, strong arms.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

The storm that swept through camp hit with an intensity no one had anticipated. Rain lashed against the tents, and your own��already a little worse for wear—didn’t stand a chance. You woke to water pooling around you, your belongings soaked, and your blankets utterly useless. Grumbling, you gathered what you could and sloshed through the camp to find somewhere dry.

Halsin’s tent stood out, sturdy and secure against the storm, its entrance softly illuminated by a warm glow. You hesitated for a moment before calling out.

“Halsin? You awake?”

The flap of the tent opened, revealing the towering figure of the druid, his expression immediately softening when he saw your drenched form. “Your tent couldn’t withstand the storm?”

“No,” you admitted, shivering slightly. “Do you mind if I...?”

“Of course,” he said with a reassuring smile, stepping aside to let you in.

Halsin’s tent was everything yours wasn’t: dry, spacious, and undeniably cozy. The thick pelts lining the floor and the earthy, woodsy scent made it feel like a sanctuary. The warmth inside hit you immediately, and you realized it wasn’t just from the well-insulated tent—it was Halsin himself. He radiated heat like a furnace, the air around him almost stiflingly warm.

“You can set your things over there,” he said, gesturing to a corner before kneeling to adjust the blankets on his bedroll. “And don’t worry, there’s plenty of room for the both of us.”

You tried not to overthink that last part as you settled in, draping a dry blanket over your shoulders. But as the rain continued to hammer against the tent, the unspoken tension between you became almost palpable. You’d always felt a certain pull toward Halsin—his kindness, his strength, the way he carried himself with such quiet confidence. Sharing a space with him now, so close, was enough to make your heart race.

“Warm enough?” he asked, his voice low and soothing as he settled onto the bedroll beside you.

“More than enough,” you said, trying to sound casual, though the heat radiating from him felt almost overwhelming.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable at first but quickly giving way to that same tension. You couldn’t help but notice the way Halsin shifted slightly, as though trying to find a position that didn’t discomfort him. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he looked almost... uneasy.

“Is everything okay?” you asked softly, turning to face him. “If this is too much, I can—”

“No, no,” he interrupted, chuckling quietly. “It’s not that. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. I just...” He hesitated, his cheeks darkening slightly, which was rare for someone so self-assured.

“What is it?” you pressed, your curiosity piqued. Halsin exhaled a laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m not used to sleeping with clothes on,” he admitted, his voice laced with amusement but also honesty. “It’s a little... restrictive.”

You blinked, his words sinking in as your mind instantly spiraled into dangerous territory.

“Oh,” you managed, your voice embarrassingly high-pitched with a voice crack that could rival teenage you.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t...” he started, but you quickly shook your head.

���No, it’s fine! I mean, you should be comfortable,” you said, your words tumbling over each other in your attempt to sound unaffected.

Halsin gave you a knowing smile, his eyes glinting with that same warmth that seemed to envelop the entire tent. “You’re kind to say so, but I think I’ll manage for one night.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you’d regret. The unspoken tension thickened as the storm continued to rage outside, the sound of the rain mingling with the steady rhythm of Halsin’s breathing.

The heat he radiated wasn’t just physical—it was in the way his presence seemed to fill the space, in the way his voice lingered in the air, deep and comforting. You found yourself hyper-aware of every movement, every shift of the blankets, every time his arm brushed against yours.

“Try to rest,” Halsin murmured, his voice low and velvety. “The storm will pass by morning.”

You nodded again, lying back and trying to focus on anything but the warmth of his body so close to yours, or the way your heart seemed to pound louder with each passing second.

And though sleep didn’t come easily, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude for the storm that had brought you here, to this moment, even if it left you feeling like you were on the edge of something both thrilling and terrifying.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This was so fun to write, it came out more gn, but i did my best to do allusions that it was a male tav. Hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

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[novaursa]

Legacy (what whispers)

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

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: what burns

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The settlement below was eerily silent, cloaked in the thick, oppressive darkness of the endless winter. Viserion circled above, her powerful wings stirring the snow-covered earth with gusts of wind as she descended into the abandoned village. Her scales shimmered faintly in the moonlight, reflecting off the snow-covered roofs, and her low growls resonated through the empty air like a warning.

You slid down from the saddle, boots crunching against the frozen ground, and felt the chill seep through your heavy fur-lined cloak. The air was unnaturally still, carrying an edge that made the hair on the back of your neck rise. You rested a hand on Viserion’s side, her warmth a sharp contrast to the icy surroundings. The she-dragon sniffed the air, her head jerking toward the far edge of the settlement, and let out a guttural hiss.

“Easy,” you murmured, brushing your gloved hand against her scales. “Stay close.”

The village was small, no more than a collection of cottages clustered around a central square, where a well sat frozen in the heart of it. Snow blanketed everything, but the absence of life was the most unnerving part. No footprints, no sounds of animals, no flickering lights in the windows. It was as if the village had been wiped clean of any trace of its people.

“Where is everyone?” you whispered, though no one was there to answer.

You stepped carefully through the main path, your boots crunching against the snow. Viserion followed closely behind, her massive body moving with an almost feline grace as she sniffed at the air. Her golden eyes were wide and alert, scanning the darkness around you. Every so often, she let out a low, rumbling growl, as though sensing something unseen.

The first cottage you approached had its door wide open, swinging faintly in the wind. You pushed it open further, the creak of the hinges unnaturally loud in the stillness. Inside, the hearth was cold, its ashes scattered across the stone floor as if someone had left in a hurry. A wooden table was overturned, and scattered plates and mugs hinted at a meal interrupted. You crouched to pick up a child’s toy—a small, carved horse—its surface smooth from years of use.

“They left in a hurry,” you muttered to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper. “Or… something drove them out.”

Viserion rumbled outside, her claws scraping against the stone as she turned her head toward the woods bordering the village. She hissed, her breath visible in the frigid air, and you felt a knot of unease tighten in your stomach.

You stepped out of the cottage and scanned the surroundings. The woods were dense, their skeletal branches reaching out like claws against the black sky. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, as though eyes were following your every move. Your breath came in visible puffs as you turned to Viserion, her agitation matching your own.

“What do you see?” you asked softly, your hand instinctively moving to the hilt of your sword.

The dragon let out a sharp roar, her head snapping toward the shadows near the edge of the village. The sound echoed through the empty streets, sending a flock of crows scattering from the treetops. You turned to face the direction she was looking, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Who’s there?” you called out, your voice firm despite the unease crawling up your spine.

There was no answer, only the sound of the wind howling through the trees. You stepped closer to Viserion, her body radiating heat as she shifted uneasily, her wings half-unfurled. You could feel the tension in her muscles, ready to pounce or take flight at a moment’s notice.

“Something isn’t right,” you muttered, your grip tightening on the hilt of your sword. “We should—”

A sudden movement caught your eye—a flicker of shadow darting between the trees at the edge of the village. You turned abruply, drawing your sword in one smooth motion. Viserion roared again, louder this time, her golden eyes locking onto the same spot.

“Show yourself!” you demanded, your voice cutting through the stillness.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, faintly, you heard it—a low, guttural growl, almost animalistic but not quite. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively stepped closer to Viserion, who crouched low, her tail swishing behind her.

The growl grew louder, joined by the sound of branches snapping and snow crunching. Your heart raced as you scanned the treeline, searching for the source. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the sound stopped.

The silence was deafening.

“We’re leaving,” you said firmly, sheathing your sword and turning to Viserion. “Now.”

You climbed back into the saddle, your hands gripping the reins tightly. Viserion shifted beneath you, her body coiled like a spring. As you urged her to take flight, she let out one final roar, the sound reverberating through the empty village. Her powerful wings beat against the air, lifting you both into the sky.

From above, the village looked even smaller, its emptiness more pronounced against the vast, dark expanse of the woods. You glanced back once, and in the faint moonlight, you thought you saw movement—shadows slipping back into the forest.

Viserion growled low in her throat, and you patted her neck. “Let’s go home.”

The she-dragon soared higher, her scales gleaming faintly in the darkness as she carried you away from the haunting emptiness below. But the feeling of being watched lingered, like a weight pressing down on your chest. Whatever had happened in that village, you knew it was only the beginning.

The road below stretched like a silver ribbon through the snow-blanketed land, leading to a lone watchtower standing sentinel in the endless dark. It was a vital point for supply deliveries, one of the last strongholds along the route back to Casterly Rock. From high above, Viserion's growls were low and uneasy, rumbling like thunder against your back.

You narrowed your eyes as the watchtower came into view. Something was off. The tower was surrounded by an eerie stillness, the usual activity of sentinels entirely absent. The wooden gate at the base of the structure hung ajar, swinging gently in the wind. Your heart tightened with unease.

“Where are the sentinels?” you muttered, gripping the reins tightly. “This isn’t right.”

Viserion rumbled again, her massive wings beating against the frigid air as you urged her to descend. The ground rushed up to meet you, the snow crunching beneath her claws as she landed a short distance from the tower. You slid down from the saddle, your boots sinking into the frost-covered ground. Viserion’s head snapped toward the tower, her eyes narrowing as a low growl escaped her throat.

“Stay close,” you whispered, resting a hand on her warm flank before stepping forward.

The tower loomed over you, its stone walls worn by time and weather. The faint flicker of a torch burned in one of the upper windows, but no voices called out to challenge your approach. You stopped at the base of the structure, your breath visible in the frigid air.

“Sentinel!” you called, your voice echoing through the stillness. “This is Lady Lannister. Report your status!”

Silence.

You felt a chill crawl up your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Viserion shifted behind you, her tail sweeping through the snow as she growled softly, her gaze fixed on the shadows clinging to the edges of the tower.

Then you saw it.

A pale, humanoid creature clung to the side of the tower, its long, spindly limbs moving with unnatural ease as it crawled upward. Its flesh was almost translucent, its head jerking toward you with a grotesque speed. Glowing blue, empty pits stared at you where eyes should have been, and a wide, toothy grin stretched across its face.

Your heart stopped. You stumbled back, your hand instinctively going to the hilt of your sword. “What in the name of the Seven…”

The creature hissed, the sound sharp and inhuman, before skittering around the tower like a spider. Viserion let out a deafening roar, her wings flaring as she bared her teeth at the abomination. The creature froze for a moment, tilting its head unnaturally, before vanishing into the darkness.

“Viserion, what was that?” you whispered, your voice shaking.

Before you could make sense of what you had seen, a voice called out from within the tower, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Y/N.”

You froze. The voice was soft, familiar, and achingly distant. A voice you hadn’t heard in more than two decades.

“Rhaegar?” you whispered, your eyes wide as you turned toward the open gate.

“Y/N,” the voice called again, filled with a strange warmth that made your chest tighten. “Come to me.”

It felt like your legs moved on their own, your heart hammering in your chest as you took a step forward. The cold seemed to disappear, replaced by a strange, almost soothing warmth. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, only the sound of that voice pulling you closer.

“Rhaegar…” you murmured, your hand reaching out toward the gate.

Viserion let out a piercing shriek, the sound breaking through the spell like shattering glass. You stumbled back, gasping as the chill of the air hit you once more. The weight of what you were about to do crashed down on you like a tidal wave.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head violently. “That’s not possible.”

The she-dragon stepped closer to you, her massive body a barrier between you and the tower. Her growls were low and menacing, her gaze fixed on the structure as though daring anything within to come closer.

“Thank you, girl,” you said breathlessly, placing a trembling hand on her side. “Let’s get out of here. For good this time.”

With a final glance at the tower, you climbed into the saddle, your hands shaking as you gripped the reins. Viserion roared again, a sound that echoed through the silent night, before launching into the air. The wind rushed past you as she ascended, her powerful wings carrying you far from the cursed place below.

As the tower disappeared into the distance, you couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of those empty, blue eyes watching you. Or the sound of your brother’s voice calling your name.

The heavy flapping of wings filled the air as Viserion descended into the courtyard of Casterly Rock, her golden cream scales were brilliant in the dim light of the endless winter. Snow swirled around the she-dragon as her talons struck the ground, her massive form creating a gust of wind that sent cloaks and banners fluttering. Servants and guards scrambled to clear her path, their faces a mixture of awe and unease.

You dismounted from the saddle, your heart heavy after the troubling discoveries you had made during your journey. The cold bit at your cheeks, but you barely noticed as you glanced back at Viserion, who fixed her molten gaze on you. For a moment, the she-dragon simply watched, her posture stiff and alert, before letting out a low, rumbling growl and retreating toward the mines beneath the Rock, her wings folding tightly against her body.

Tywin was already striding into the courtyard by the time you turned around, his expression set in a rare display of urgency. His crimson cloak billowed behind him, and his piercing green eyes locked onto you the moment you dismounted. There was no mistaking the relief that flashed across his face, though it was quickly replaced by something far graver.

“Tywin,” you began, your voice edged with worry. “I’ve seen things out there—things I cannot explain. Something is—”

“Later,” Tywin interrupted, his voice firm but strained, his usual composure cracking ever so slightly. “It will have to wait. There’s been an incident.”

The way he said it made your stomach twist. “What happened?”

“It’s Damon,” he said, his tone clipped and heavy with frustration. “The boy sneaked into the mines again. He tried to claim the black dragon.”

The air seemed to leave your lungs all at once. “No...” you whispered, your heart pounding. “No, no, no.”

“The dragon rejected him,” Tywin continued, his face hard. “It burned him.”

You didn’t wait to hear more. Without a word, you turned and ran toward the keep, your boots crunching against the snow as you pushed past the startled guards. Tywin called after you, but his voice was distant, drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

The warmth of the castle did little to ease the chill that had settled in your bones. Servants and guards stepped aside as you hurried past, their murmured words falling on deaf ears. All you could think about was Damon, your eldest son, your lion cub.

When you reached his chambers, you pushed the door open to find Maester Aldren bent over Damon’s bed, his hands steady as he applied a salve to the boy’s burns. The air was thick with the pungent scent of herbs and ointments. Kevan Lannister stood near the hearth, his face pale and drawn, while Ser Barristan Selmy lingered by the door, his expression grim.

Damon lay still in the bed, his small frame dwarfed by the thick blankets piled around him. His left side, from his shoulder down to his chest and arm, was covered in bandages. The skin that was visible bore angry red burns that stretched across his face, pulling the corner of his lips into a permanent, pained sneer.

You froze for a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you took in the sight of your son. Then, with trembling hands, you moved to his bedside, sinking into the chair beside him.

“Damon,” you whispered, your voice cracking. His eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused, but they met yours, and for a brief moment, the corners of his lips twitched into something that might have been a smile.

“Mother,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

You reached out, brushing your fingers gently against his uninjured cheek. “I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

Tywin entered the room then, his boots heavy against the stone floor. He stopped beside you, his gaze shifting between you and Damon. “The boy was reckless,” he said, his voice low. “He could have—”

“Not now, Tywin,” you cut him off sharply, not taking your eyes off Damon. “Please.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more, stepping back to allow you your moment.

Damon stirred weakly, his small hand reaching for yours. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, tears blurring your vision. “Don’t you dare apologize, Damon. Just rest. That’s all you need to do right now.”

Maester Aldren straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth. “He’s strong, my lady,” the maester said softly. “But the burns are severe. It will take time for him to heal.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Thank you, Maester Aldren.”

As the room fell into a heavy silence, you leaned closer to Damon, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re going to be fine, my sweet boy,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “You’re strong. Stronger than you know.”

Damon’s eyes drifted closed, his breathing shallow but steady. You stayed by his side, your hand never leaving his, as the weight of what had happened settled over you. Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard the low rumble of Viserion from the mines, as if the she-dragon, too, mourned the pain of your lion cub.

Maester Aldren adjusted the bandages around Damon’s burns with meticulous care, his movements steady despite the weight of the moment. His weathered features betrayed nothing, though the faint lines around his eyes deepened with concern. You stood by the bedside, your hands trembling as you smoothed Damon’s blanket, unable to tear your gaze away from his fragile form.

Finally, Aldren straightened and turned to you, his voice measured but soft. “He’s stable for now, my lady. I managed to save his left eye—it was touch and go for a time, but it remains intact.”

Relief mingled with the anxiety already churning in your chest. “And the burns?” you asked, your voice cracking despite your effort to stay composed.

“The burns are severe, but not insurmountable,” Aldren replied, his expression grave. “The greatest threat now is infection. That’s what we must guard against. He is young, strong. That works in his favor.”

You nodded, clutching the edge of the chair for support. “Thank you, Aldren,” you murmured. “Do everything you can. He’s—he’s just a boy.”

Aldren inclined his head, his tone quiet but firm. “I will, my lady. He has the best care I can provide.”

As he turned to gather more salves and tinctures, you stood motionless, staring at Damon’s face. His breaths came slow but steady, and his small hand twitched faintly beneath the blanket. He looked so vulnerable, so unlike the spirited child who often darted through the castle halls.

A quiet presence at your side made you turn slightly. Tywin, his face carved in stone, placed a hand on your shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding, yet there was a rare gentleness in the gesture. For a moment, the weight of his touch was the only thing keeping you from crumbling entirely.

“Come,” Tywin said, his voice low but commanding. “There is nothing more you can do here.”

You shook your head, your tears spilling freely now. “He’s just a child, Tywin. Our child. He was trying to prove himself—trying to be brave, like he thinks we want him to be.”

“He will recover,” Tywin said firmly, though there was an undercurrent of tension in his tone. “You must compose yourself. Damon needs his mother strong, not broken.”

His words, though harsh, carried a truth that cut through your grief. You nodded slowly, wiping at your tears, but your legs felt heavy as if they didn’t want to carry you away from Damon’s side.

As if sensing your hesitation, Tywin’s hand slid from your shoulder to the small of your back, guiding you toward the door. His touch was steady, unyielding, but it wasn’t until the two of you stepped into the corridor that your resolve crumbled completely. You let out a choked sob, covering your mouth as tears streamed down your face.

Tywin stopped, turning to face you. His green eyes, normally so piercing and unreadable, softened for just a moment. Without a word, he pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you in a gesture so rare it felt almost surreal. You buried your face in his chest, your shoulders shaking as the weight of the day overwhelmed you.

“I can’t lose him,” you whispered, your voice muffled. “I can’t, Tywin.”

“You won’t,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “We won’t.”

For several moments, you stayed there, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. The chill of the stone corridor faded in the warmth of his embrace, and though the fear for Damon’s life still gripped your heart, there was a flicker of solace in Tywin’s presence.

When your sobs finally began to subside, Tywin stepped back just enough to look at you. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his expression calm but resolute. “Come,” he said again, his voice softer this time. “The great hall awaits.”

You nodded, though your tears continued to fall. Together, you walked toward the great hall, Tywin’s hand remaining firm at your back. The world outside felt colder, darker, but with him beside you, you allowed yourself the faintest hope that the storm, for now, would pass.

Tywin guided you to a chair near the head of the room, his hand firm but not unkind on your arm. You could feel his silent command to sit, to breathe, to collect yourself after the turmoil you had just endured.

“Sit,” Tywin said, his tone calm yet unyielding. “You need to steady yourself before we discuss anything else.”

Reluctantly, you sank into the chair, the weight of your worry for Damon still pressing heavily on your chest. Tywin stood over you, his green eyes scrutinizing your every move, ensuring you would not crumble further.

“You mentioned before,” Tywin began, his voice measured as he pulled out a chair for himself, “that you saw something while you were away. Something disturbing. Tell me what it was.”

You hesitated, your hands trembling as you clasped them in your lap. “It was… shadows,” you started, your voice uneven. “The settlement I went to was abandoned—completely empty. No signs of a struggle, no bodies. Just silence. Viserion was agitated the entire time.”

Tywin leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Shadows?”

You nodded, your gaze distant as the memory surfaced. “There was… something near a watchtower, Tywin. Something climbing its walls. It wasn’t human. It moved on all fours, pale and unnatural. And then…” You faltered, your voice catching.

Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, but his attention was unwavering. “And then what?”

You swallowed hard, your eyes meeting his. “I heard his voice, Tywin. Rhaegar’s voice. Calling my name from inside the tower.”

The hall fell silent, the crackle of the torches the only sound as your words hung in the air. Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing slightly. “Rhaegar?” he echoed, his tone disbelieving but not dismissive.

“Yes,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “I haven’t heard my brother’s voice in decades, but I know it was him. It froze me in place. I almost—” You stopped, shivering at the thought. “If it weren’t for Viserion, I don’t know what would have happened.”

A movement to your right drew your attention. Beric Dondarrion, who had been sitting with his men near the hearth, had gone still, his one good eye fixed on you. His usual casual demeanor was replaced with something far more solemn.

“What did the voice say?” Beric asked, his voice low but carrying across the hall.

You turned to him, startled by his sudden interest. “It called my name. Nothing else. Just my name, over and over.”

Beric exchanged a glance with Thoros of Myr, who sat beside him. Thoros’s expression was grave as he leaned forward. “And the creature? The one on the tower?” Thoros asked. “Did it vanish when the voice spoke?”

You shook your head. “No. It climbed higher, faster. It was watching me, I think. And then Viserion shrieked, and it was like a spell was broken. I ran back to her and flew away.”

Beric’s gaze darkened, his expression contemplative. “Shadows and voices of the dead,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “The Long Night brings horrors we have yet to understand.”

Tywin’s focus snapped to Beric. “What do you know of this?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the growing tension in the room.

Beric met Tywin’s gaze evenly. “Only that the dead do not rest as they once did, Lord Lannister. And the creatures of shadow serve no master we know.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “And now we know nothing more than before: that the enemy is not content to stay in the North.”

You looked down, the weight of his words sinking in. “I’ll go back if I have to,” you said quietly. “I’ll find out what—”

“No,” Tywin interrupted, his voice firm. “You’ve done enough. We will find another way.”

Beric rose from his seat, his men following his lead. “If you wish it, my lord,” Beric said, addressing Tywin, “we can investigate this further. My men and I have dealt with shadows before.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “You offer much, Dondarrion. And what do you expect in return?”

Beric smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eye. “The same thing you want, my lord. Survival.”

The room grew quiet again as Tywin considered the offer. You glanced at Beric, grateful for his words but still uneasy. Tywin finally nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “We’ll discuss it further in the morning.”

Beric inclined his head and led his men out of the hall, leaving you and Tywin alone once more. He turned back to you, his gaze softening just enough to reveal the concern beneath.

“You should rest,” Tywin said, his tone gentler now. “There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

You nodded, though the heaviness in your chest remained. As he stood and offered you his hand, you took it, letting him guide you from the hall. The shadows that haunted your thoughts felt no less distant, but with Tywin’s steady presence beside you, you allowed yourself a moment’s reprieve.

The chamber was quiet except for the crackle of the hearth and the soft rustling of Maelor’s toys as he played on the rug nearby. Damon, still confined to his bed, was propped up against a pile of pillows, his face a blend of youthful determination and regret. The burns on the left side of his body had begun to scar, leaving his cheek taut and pulling his lips into a permanent sneer. Despite his injuries, the boy’s spirit had not wavered entirely. He watched his mother with a mix of guilt and yearning as she gently dabbed a cloth against his unburned cheek, her touch careful and tender.

“You should rest more,” you said softly, your tone warm but firm. “Healing takes time.”

Damon shifted uncomfortably, his right hand gripping the edge of his blanket. “I’m tired of resting, Mother,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. “I feel useless.”

Maelor, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a wooden lion in his hands, glanced up at his brother. “You’re not useless,” he said with the blunt honesty of a child. “You’re just burned.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips, though you quickly suppressed it, turning your attention back to Damon. “Maelor’s right,” you said, smoothing Damon’s hair. “And I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself that again.”

Damon’s eyes lowered, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I only wanted to help,” he admitted after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stilled, your hand pausing mid-stroke. “Help with what?” you asked gently, though you already suspected the answer.

“To help like you,” Damon said, his gaze meeting yours, his expression earnest. “I thought… if I had a dragon, like you, I could make a difference. I could protect everyone.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of pride and heartache swelling within you. You took his hand in yours, careful not to brush against his bandages. “Damon,” you said softly, “you have nothing to prove. You are still so young. The weight of protecting others is not yours to bear, not yet.”

He frowned, his youthful determination bubbling to the surface. “But you do it,” he said. “You and Viserion. You’ve always been so strong, so brave. I wanted to be like you.”

The words struck you deeply, and for a moment, you couldn’t find the right response. Maelor, oblivious to the gravity of the conversation, crawled up onto the edge of Damon’s bed, his tiny hands clutching the blanket as he peered at his brother.

“You’re already brave,” Maelor said matter-of-factly. “Even when you got burned, you didn’t cry.”

Damon let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I cried plenty,” he admitted, his gaze shifting back to you. “But it still wasn’t enough. Arraxes rejected me.”

The name hung in the air, heavy with significance. You hadn’t heard him speak it before, but it was clear he had already claimed it in his heart.

You squeezed his hand gently, leaning closer. “Damon,” you said firmly, “dragons are not easily won. They choose their riders, just as Viserion chose me. Arraxes may not have been meant for you, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But what if no dragon ever chooses me?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “What if I’m not like you after all?”

You reached out, cupping his unburned cheek and guiding his gaze to yours. “You are my son,” you said, your voice filled with quiet strength. “You are strong and brave in ways you don’t even realize yet. A dragon will come to you when the time is right. But until then, you have no need to rush. You are already more than enough.”

Damon’s eyes glistened, though he blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. “I just wanted to be like you,” he murmured again.

“And you are,” you assured him, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You are more like me than you know. But you are also your father’s son, and he would say the same thing I’m saying now: your time will come. Until then, you must heal, learn, and grow.”

Maelor clambered onto the bed fully now, his small arms wrapping around Damon in a clumsy but heartfelt hug. “Don’t worry,” Maelor said. “You’ll get your dragon. I know it.”

Damon let out a soft laugh, though it was tinged with emotion. “Thanks, Maelor.”

You watched the two boys, your heart swelling with both love and sorrow. No mother wanted to see their child suffer, and Damon’s ordeal had been almost as painful for you as it had been for him. But as you sat there, watching Maelor’s unwavering faith in his older brother, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope.

Leaning down, you pressed a gentle kiss to Damon’s forehead. “Rest now,” you said softly. “Both of you.”

As you tucked the blanket around them, Damon’s eyes began to flutter shut, exhaustion finally overtaking him. Maelor stayed close, his small hand resting protectively on Damon’s arm.

You stayed for a while longer, watching over them, your thoughts a swirl of gratitude, worry, and resolve. 

The private chamber of Casterly Rock was heavy with silence, save for the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner. Tywin Lannister stood near the tall windows, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over the snow-covered courtyard below. His expression was as stern as ever, but there was an air of tension about him, a tightness in his jaw that betrayed the thoughts swirling in his mind.

The door creaked open, and Maester Aldren entered, his chain jangling softly as he carried a worn leather satchel. His lined face was solemn, the weight of his duty evident in his weary posture. Tywin turned slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as the old maester approached.

“You sent for me, my lord?” Aldren asked, inclining his head respectfully.

Tywin gestured to a nearby chair, his voice clipped but calm. “Sit. I wish to discuss my son’s condition.”

Aldren obeyed, settling into the chair and placing the satchel on the table between them. He began to retrieve small vials and folded parchments, his movements deliberate. “How is young Damon faring, my lord? Has there been any change in his behavior since the incident?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, and he turned fully to face the maester. “He is restless,” he said bluntly. “The burns trouble him, and his demeanor has grown… quieter. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror, and I do not tolerate weakness, even in children.”

Aldren nodded, though his brow furrowed slightly. “The physical scars will heal in time, my lord, though some will remain as reminders. But the wounds of the mind and spirit… those require a different sort of care.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Speak plainly, Aldren. What are you suggesting?”

The maester folded his hands on the table, his eyes meeting Tywin’s. “Damon is a boy of strong will, my lord. But what he endured in the mines—the fire, the pain—it has left an impression. He will need guidance and patience to process it. If he does not face what happened, those fears may fester and grow.”

Tywin scoffed quietly, though there was no true derision in the sound. “My son will not wallow in fear. He is a Lannister.”

“Of course, my lord,” Aldren said carefully. “But even lions have moments of doubt, especially at such a tender age. If Damon feels unsupported in his struggle, it may lead to anger or recklessness. Both are dangerous paths for a boy with his lineage.”

Tywin stepped closer to the table, his sharp gaze locking onto the maester. “What do you propose? I will not coddle him.”

Aldren opened one of the parchments, revealing a detailed sketch of a burn salve recipe. “There are herbs and ointments that will soothe the physical discomfort, making it easier for him to rest. As for his mind, it may help to allow him small victories—to rebuild his confidence. Teach him that the fire did not defeat him, and that he is still strong.”

Tywin considered this, his expression unreadable. “And his schooling? Can he continue?”

“With some adjustments, yes,” Aldren replied. “His burns require careful tending, and strenuous activities may irritate the skin. But keeping his mind occupied with his lessons will be beneficial—it will give him a sense of purpose.”

Tywin’s gaze drifted toward the fire, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. After a long pause, he spoke again, his tone quieter but no less resolute. “What of the scars? They will mark him for life.”

Aldren hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, my lord. But scars are not merely blemishes—they are stories, reminders of survival. If Damon learns to see them as a symbol of his strength rather than his pain, they may serve him well.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his sharp mind weighing every word. “He is my heir, Aldren. The weight of our house will rest on his shoulders one day. I will not allow this incident to weaken him.”

“It will not, my lord,” Aldren said firmly. “With your guidance—and that of Lady Lannister—he will emerge stronger. But he needs to feel your support, even if it is not spoken outright.”

Tywin turned his gaze back to the window, his expression contemplative. For a moment, he said nothing, the only sound the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a nod, he straightened his shoulders and looked back at Aldren.

“Very well,” he said. “Prepare the salves and the necessary herbs. I expect a full regimen for his care by tonight.”

“Of course, my lord,” Aldren said, rising from his chair and bowing his head.

As the maester gathered his belongings and prepared to leave, Tywin’s voice stopped him at the door. “One more thing.”

Aldren turned, his brow raised in question. “Yes, my lord?”

“Do not let anyone speak of weakness in my son,” Tywin said, his tone cold and commanding. “Not the servants, not the guards, not anyone. Is that understood?”

Aldren inclined his head once more. “Perfectly, my lord.”

With that, the maester exited the solar, leaving Tywin alone in the flickering light of the hearth. He remained still for a long moment, his mind heavy with thoughts of his son and the future of House Lannister.

Finally, he turned back to the window, his gaze piercing the dark horizon. The weight of his name, his house, and his legacy bore down on him—but Tywin Lannister had never been one to yield.

The heavy wooden door to Damon’s chambers creaked slightly as Tyrion Lannister pushed it open, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Inside, the room was warm, the hearth crackling brightly against the harsh chill of the endless winter outside. The golden lion banners draped on the walls swayed faintly in the draft, and near the window, Damon sat in a cushioned chair, his face turned away as he fiddled with a wooden lion toy.

Tyrion stepped inside, his movements slow and deliberate. The guards at the door had hesitated to let him pass, but his sharp tongue and reputation for stubbornness had won out. As the door shut softly behind him, Damon glanced over his shoulder, his left side still visibly marked from the burns he had sustained weeks ago. The scars pulled at his features, making his expression harder to read, but his bright eyes gleamed with curiosity.

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Tyrion began in a theatrical tone, “or has the great lion cub of Casterly Rock decided to hide himself away from the world?”

Damon frowned slightly but didn’t respond immediately, instead watching Tyrion as he approached. “What are you doing here?” the boy asked, his tone guarded but not unkind.

Tyrion gestured to the chair opposite Damon, lowering himself into it with a groan of exaggerated effort. “I thought I’d pay a visit to my youngest half-brother. I’m told you’ve become quite the talk of the Rock. Though, judging by your expression, it seems the stories of your charm may be a touch exaggerated.”

Damon frowned deeper, crossing his arms. “Father said you’re not supposed to be near me or Maelor.”

“Ah, yes,” Tyrion replied with a mockingly serious nod. “Father did mention something to that effect. But, as you’ll soon learn, Damon, rules set by Tywin Lannister are often more… suggestions than absolutes.”

Damon tilted his head, unsure how to respond. “Father won’t like it if he finds out.”

Tyrion chuckled, his mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief. “No, he won’t. But I’ve found that annoying him is one of life’s greatest small pleasures. And you, my dear brother, are far too interesting to avoid simply because of a decree.”

Damon shifted in his chair, the toy lion now forgotten in his lap. “Why do you want to talk to me?”

Tyrion leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re my family, Damon. My blood. Besides,” he added with a sly grin, “I hear you’ve been getting into all sorts of trouble lately. Sneaking into mines, naming dragons, and now brooding by windows like a proper young lord.”

Damon flushed slightly, looking away. “I wasn’t brooding.”

“Of course not,” Tyrion said, his tone light. “You were contemplating, which is a much more respectable pastime. Tell me, Damon, what does a young lion like you think about when the days are dark, and the world feels too big?”

Damon hesitated, glancing back at Tyrion. Despite his father’s warnings, there was something oddly comforting about Tyrion’s presence—his wit, his easy manner, the way he seemed to see right through the walls Damon tried to build. “I think about… the dragons,” Damon admitted quietly.

Tyrion’s expression softened, though his voice remained teasing. “Ah, yes. Our fiery friends beneath the Rock. I hear you’ve named the black one Arraxes. A fine choice, though I hope he doesn’t mind the name.”

Damon’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “He didn’t seem to.”

“Good,” Tyrion said with a nod. “Dragons are temperamental creatures, much like our father. Best to keep them on your good side.”

At that, Damon let out a small laugh, the sound surprising them both. Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his tone more earnest now. “You’re going to be great one day, Damon. I can see it. The scars you bear, the burdens you carry—they’ll shape you into someone strong, someone clever. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Damon’s smile faltered, and he looked down at his hands. “But Father says I shouldn’t have gone into the mines. That I was reckless.”

Tyrion reached out, placing a reassuring hand on the boy’s knee. “Father says many things, and most of them are true. But do you know what I see? I see a boy who wanted to claim his place in the world. A boy who was brave enough to face fire and live to tell the tale. That, Damon, is something no one can take from you.”

Damon met Tyrion’s gaze, his eyes searching for something—approval, perhaps, or understanding. After a moment, he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Tyrion patted his knee before pulling back. “Anytime, my boy. Just remember, if you ever want to annoy Father, you know where to find me.”

The door creaked open then, and one of the guards poked his head inside, his expression wary. “My lord Tyrion, Lord Tywin is asking for you.”

Tyrion sighed dramatically, rising from his chair with a mock groan. “Ah, duty calls. Or perhaps it’s my sentencing—always hard to tell with Father.”

He winked at Damon before heading for the door, pausing briefly to look back. “Take care of yourself, Damon. And try not to burn down the castle.”

Damon smiled faintly, watching as Tyrion left the room. For the first time in days, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter.

[thrapstonheating]