#devron

[autoacafiles]

[weirdbabs]

fucking clown ass move of mine, to watch the companion trailer and be inched towards wanting to play what i know is going to be a Very Basic Game with a Very Basic Plot at best bc of the shot of 2 characters

[sluttysnowangel666]

The Woman Beyond the Wall

Cregan Stark x Wilding!Fem reader

Summary: Cregan must go beyond the wall to aid Castle Black after a large group of Nights Watch men are killed under strange circumstances, only for him to discover the “strange circumstance” is a beautiful and mysterious wilding woman that will make him forget everything he thought he knew.

not proof read yet!!

cw: angst, smut, dom fem reader, dom cregan, freaky cregan, reader is kind of odd 😭

word count: long af

part 2 , masterlist

⛫ ⛫ ⛫

Cregan sat, contemplating the decision before him.

“Forgive me, sirs. The kingdom greatly appreciates the sacrifice you men have made to serve the Nights Watch, but I cannot abandon my duties as a lord to go beyond the wall for Gods knows how long.” He tells them, hoping they won’t take offense to his declination to participate.

“We wouldn’t ask if we were not desperate, my lord.” The maester says, “But 15 men have disappeared just in this past exhibition. The Nights Watch grows scarce of fighters the more men beyond the wall continue to disappear.”

Cregan sighs, not wanting to go beyond the wall and leave his kingdom without a lord, but also not wanting to leave the Watch vulnerable.

“Alright, Maester Devron.” Cregan sighs, “We owe you men a great debt… I need to know what are these strange circumstances you speak of?”

“Men have reported finding the abandoned bodies with arrows in both their eyes, perfectly positioned every time. It’s rather… unusual how perfectly calculated the shot is. It never changes. Then, the bodies are positioned in circles, with no footsteps left behind. We fear it to be witching.”

A shiver ran up Cregan’s spine, but he hid it well. Witches were almost always stories told by Septs to children in an attempt to get them to behave, so to hear a maester say it was unnerving.

“Don’t be ridiculous, maester.”

“I am not jesting, my lord. When you find the group of men who disappeared only a fortnight ago, you’ll see.”

“When? Not if? How can you be so sure I’ll find them?” Cregan asks.

“She leaves them in the same place every time. About 20 miles beyond the wall, facing north.” The maester says.

Cregan sighs, already frustrated with the venture, and eager to kill a wildling.

———

3 days later, 15 miles beyond the wall, and alone in the blistering cold, Cregan couldn’t help but contemplate his decision. Although he was miserable, he knew it was the honorable thing to do. He wouldn’t have done it, if otherwise.

His horse stopped suddenly, its hair raising and body becoming stiff.

“Dusk.” He said her name. “Move.”

His horse ignored him, standing her ground. “Dusk!” He yelled at her.

She sensed something, but he didn’t know what.

They sat there for what felt like hours, but what was merely seconds.

Finally, the horse began to tredge forward… very, very, slowly. Cregan groaned in frustration, his hands gripping the reins.

They walked like that for miles. No matter how much Cregan tugged the reins, Dusk maintained her slow pace, as if anticipating something was nearby, ready to pounce on them at any given moment.

Night eventually came, and Cregan was forced to set up camp.

“Bloody horse.” He mumbled to himself as he tied her to a nearby tree.

He set up a fire nearby Dusk, then leaned against the tree she was tied to. He fidgeted with the dagger he kept in his armor, carving little dire wolves in the bark. He spoke to Dusk, hoping the already timid horse would comfort his feeling of isolation in the barren icy landscape. It didn’t help.

He eventually fell asleep standing up, leaning his weight against the tree, too on edge to leave himself vulnerable on the ground.

The fire near him had gone out, leaving nothing but the red glowing embers.

The wildling who had been following them for miles used this to her advantage.

She stalked quietly, her boots making no noise or crunch as if she weren’t even there, floating like a ghost.

She made no attempt to immediately kill him, but kept her bow poised, ready to grab an arrow and fly it into his eye if he woke. Normally, any crow out here would’ve been dead miles ago, but this man wasn’t a crow.

She believed him to be a lord, and when her fingers grazed the dire wolf on his chest she knew him to be a Stark. Excitement fueled the fire burning in her veins. She had never seen a lord, especially one so handsome.

Her fingers twirled one of his brown locks, but when he shuffled in his sleep she quickly backed away like a scared bunny.

She decided she would let the cold kill the handsome man, but not before taking a souvenir to remember him.

Her slim, dainty fingers wove into his furs, silently snagging the dagger strapped to his chest. She twirled it in her fingers, admiring the craftsmanship. No smith she had ever met was as talented as the one who made this dagger. She traced the wolf sigil on the handle, then ran the sharp tip of the blade along her finger. A drop of blood hit the snow in front of their feet, and then she ran, snow immediately falling to cover her tracks.

When Cregan awoke, he immediately knew someone had been in the camp. But, how? How could someone have even passed through without him waking?

He looked down, and picked up the snow with the drop of blood on it. His blood immediately ran cold, colder than it already was. There were no footprints. Where could this have even come from?

He checked himself, but was free of any cuts. It was here he noticed… his dagger.

“What in Gods…” He mumbled, feeling all around his body to make sure he hadn’t misplaced it.

He angrily yells into the trees, cursing and violently threatening the woman who stole his dagger, hoping she heard him.

And she does. She quietly giggles in a nearby tree at his brutish behavior. He kicks the burnt wood from the fire, startling his horse.

He mounts the horse, slowly trekking onward to find the bodies of the missing men.

Within the hour, he finds himself at the base of the men’s camp, their bodies positioned like how the maester said they would be.

Cregan sighs, dismounting his horse and staring at the corpses, their bodies frozen and not yet decomposed from the harsh cold.

He was, for the first time in his life, unsure of what to do. He knew the woman had already found him, but how was he to find her? He assumed she left him alive out of mercy, but he knew there was no chance of finding her unless she wanted him to.

“Fuck.” He mumbled, slightly embarrassed at his desperation. “Alright, witch! I know you’re out there!” He yelled into the trees, not actually knowing if she was out there.

She was, and she paid attention as he continued.

“I don’t know your goal, if you even have one!” He paused, not even knowing what else to say. “Stop killing these men!” He said, lacking in confidence. She giggled again. Quite an entertaining man he was.

He gave up, tired of feeling foolish. He began dragging the bodies into a pile, preparing to burn them. It took nearly half of his day, and when he was done he finally sat, sweating, despite the cold.

After his brief rest, he burnt them, saying the custom words, “And now their watch is ended.”

He watched, silently mourning the fallen men who gave their life.

Afterwards, he mounted his horse and started his journey back to the wall. There would be no finding the woman. She was rogue, didn’t run in a pack. He’d be searching for the rest of his life if he stayed.

He didn’t make it far, only a few miles before night fell upon him and his horse. He didn’t want to rest, but he had no choice. The day had worn him, and traveling at night was unwise when he couldn’t see his surroundings.

He set a fire again, and sat down, forcing himself to stay awake.

Suddenly, his horse whined. He whipped his head around, standing to his feet quickly.

“Whoa, whoa. Calm down.” He said, trying to shush the mare. The horse bucked, breaking its reins from the tree before scurrying off.

“Fuck!” Cregan cursed, angrily. What in Gods names was he to do now?

A voice rang out behind him.

“Pretty little beast you’ve got there.”

He whipped around again, unsheathing his sword.

A woman knelt across the fire, her bow and arrow already drawn. She wore gray, thick pelts and gloves, and a pair of fur clad boots. No wonder she was so silent. She pulled her thick hood off, revealing the most beautiful set of eyes Cregan had ever seen. The woman was gorgeous, ethereal. She literally took his breath away.

“Suppose I should say had there.” She teases.

“It’s you.” He finally says, after a moment of silence.

“Mm.” She hums in response. “And who might you be?”

“I think you already know, given you raided my camp last night.”

She laughs. “Raided? You southerners.”

“You’d do well to mind your tongue, witch.” Cregan spits at her, tightening his grip on his sword.

She notices and stands, raising her bow, “And you’d do well to mind yours, crow.”

“I’m not a crow.”

“And I’m not a witch.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Sharp little tongue on you. Ain’t you lords supposed to treat ladies with respect?”

“What kind of lady are you? Killing good men and desecrating their bodies?”

“I never desecrated them. In fact, I left them better than I found them.”

“Those were noble men.”

“Please.” She laughs. “Those crows were rapists and thieves. The north is better without them coming into our land.”

Cregan says nothing, so she continues. “I suggest you watch how you speak to me, Lord Stark. I could shoot this arrow right through those pretty gray eyes before you’d even realize what happened.”

“Try it, witch.”

“I already told you. I’m no witch!” She lets the arrow fly, only intending to let it kiss his ear and hit the tree behind him, but he raises his sword, and the arrow shatters against the Valyrian steel.

She lowers her bow, shocked, before her features return to their stoic form.

“It appears I’ve met my match.” She smirks, impressed.

“Perhaps you have. For that reason, I’d suggest returning my dagger.”

She pulls it out. “Oh, this pretty thing? I think I’ll keep it… Unless you’re brave enough to come take it from me.”

Heat flushed through his stomach. For the first time in his life, a woman repeatedly left him at a loss for words. He did not know how to approach her, or how to respond.

“You obviously walk these woods often. How do I get back to the wall?”

“Simple.” She smiles, “South.”

Cregan stomps towards her. She nervously laughs, backing into a tree as he presses himself against her, his height towering above her own.

“Show me the way or I’ll put your pretty little head above my mantel.”

She breathlessly chuckles, “All you have to do is ask nicely, Stark.” She places her hand on his broad chest, giving it a light push yet keeping her hands entangled in his armor straps. He grabs her wrist, pulling it from him. He removes her quiver from her back, tossing it on the ground. He takes her bow from her other hand, going to give it the same treatment before she stops him.

“No, wait, please don’t leave my bow.” She asks, genuineness in her voice for the first time. He searches her eyes, but finds no answer there.

“You won’t need it where you’re going.” He responds.

“Leave my bow and you’ll die in these woods. And trust me, southerner, you’ll die long before I do.” He looks at the darkness that clouds her eyes, then grunts and puts the large bow around his body.

She smirks as he ties her wrists together, dragging her along behind him. “We’re going now? These woods aren’t safe at night.”

“The sooner you’re no longer my problem, the better.”

She stops in her place, but he gives her a yank that pulls her to the ground, dragging her body behind him. “I’m serious! We need to stay at your sad little camp.”

“One more word out of you and I’ll cut out your tongue.” He says. He takes a few more steps, still dragging her, before stopping. He knows she’s right, but refuses to admit it. He growls in frustration, turning back towards the camp.

She laughs, still being dragged on the ground. What a strange woman. He thinks to himself.

He sits back in front of the fire, still holding the rope attached to her wrist as she crawls towards him.

“Do you have any food?” She asks. He sighs, taking out a little sack of dried meat. He holds a piece out to her, and not moving from her knees, takes it from his hand with her mouth.

“You’re bloody off.” He mumbles to himself. She laughs, a strange and wicked laugh in an attempt to scare him, as well as mock him for thinking she was a witch.

It works, as it startles him into giving her a confused look. He picks up a big pile of snow, throwing it into the fire to put it out.

He lays down on the snow, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. She crawls towards him, opening his arms and lying against his chest.

“Get off me, woman.” He says, pushing her.

“I’m cold! You’re telling me an honorable Stark is going to let a woman freeze to death?”

“Witches don’t get cold. Your blood runs with fire.”

“You southerners and your silly little-“ He pulls her into him, wrapping his big arms around her. He hates to admit it, but her warmth comforted him from the cold.

“I’ll keep you warm if you shut up.”

She listens for once, saying nothing and nuzzling her head into his chest. He sighs, not having the strength to push her away… but not really wanting to either.

Her knee forces his legs apart to push her leg between his, slowly lifting it towards his crotch. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing?” She says, playing dumb. He doesn’t respond. She wiggles her knee more, rubbing her thigh against the leather covering his manhood.

“Stop. Moving.” He says.

“Was I? Sorry, didn’t notice.”

He shifts, trying to keep her from noticing the bulge growing in his leathers.

———

Cregan awakes before her. He stares down at the woman against his chest, her cheeks are tinted from the cold, and her lips are parted slightly. He admires her for a long time before she stirs. He pushes her away, thinking she’s awake.

“Ow.” She grumbles, sleepily. “Why’d you do that?”

“We need to get moving.” He stands, brushing the snow off him.

“Can’t we just lay a bit longer? I didn’t sleep well with you poking me with that thing all night.” She says, running her hand up his knee.

“I wasn’t.” He responds quickly, pushing her hand down. She stands, stretching as best as she can with her hands tied.

They begin walking for a few miles, with her trying to make conversation with him.

“You’re a rather quiet man.” She says, when her previous questions get no response.

“I just don’t have many words for a woman like you.”

“I leave you speechless?” She says, with a smirk.

“Try annoyed.” He responds flatly.

She steps close to him, pressing her chest into his back.

“What are you-“ Before he can realize what she’s doing, she cuts the rope on her wrists on his sword.

He whips around, prepared to knock her unconscious, but she’s too quick. She ducks, kicking his ankle and sweeping him down.

He hits the ground hard, but is back on his feet almost instantly. She runs, fast, beyond him.

He chases after her.

“Witch!” He yells, turning to look for her in every direction after she seemingly vanished.

“I told you I’m not a witch.” She says, stepping from behind a tree.

He stomps towards her, grabbing her by both of her arms, itching to give her a good smack across the face.

He looks down at her, that sly little smirk on her face, her cheeks red and flush, staring back up at him through her wet eyelashes.

She moves her arms from his grip, tracing her skinny fingers up his armor.

“You’re…” He whispers, starting to lose his strength. “Unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”

She grabs him by his neck, and he gasps in shock, but it’s quickly cut off as she pulls him down to meet her lips. Her kiss is harsh and fierce. Cregan had known women, but never one so blatantly unapologetic to be herself. She growls like an animal, ripping to get off his furs and leathers.

He matches her intensity, kissing her with the same energy. He lets the anger she ignited in him release itself unto her by biting and kissing her neck. She tugs at his hair, grinding her hips into his.

“Are you a virgin?” He asks.

“Don’t be stupid.” She responds, taking a step back to remove her own furs. He steps back towards her, pulling them off her himself.

“I only ask for your comfort.” He growls, frustrated with her attitude.

“Comfort? This isn’t the south.” She pushes him back, standing before him naked and unashamed. He breathes in the sight before him, his length growing at her beauty.

She practically pounces on him, pushing him to the snow before he’s even fully undressed.

“You are a fucking witch.” He moans, as she crawls her way up his body to rest her wetness above his face.

“Are you hungry, wolf?” She asks him.

“Starving.” He whines, wanting to taste her.

Her grip on his hair pulls him towards her, finally bringing his mouth to taste her sweet cunt. He can’t help but look at her as he eats her. Her nose and cheeks are so red from the cold, all he wants to do is warm her up. His large arms have a hold on her thighs, his fingers resting between them. She pulls off his gloves, letting his fingers grip into her warm legs.

She moans and whines in ecstasy. The sound turns him into a wreck, clawing and gripping at her thighs to the point he draws blood. She doesn’t even care, relishing the sweet pain.

She pulls and tugs on his hair so harshly, forcing his face so deep into her cunt. If he even thought of stopping, she’d kill him herself. She grinds her hips into his tongue, crying and whining into the cold air. It seems as if everything has gone silent, even the winds, the world around them stopping to hear her sweet ecstasy. He moans her name into her cunt every time she pulls his hair, wanting to be her release. He’s desperate to taste her release, she’s desperate to give it to him.

Cregan, the man he was, never having been with a woman so lust driven, couldn’t help but urge his own desires to see her writhe in his arms. One of his hands left her bloody thigh, grabbing a cold chunk of snow to rub against her warm cunt. She gasped at the feeling, whining from the cold. He rubbed his fingers against her sweet spot. Her nails dug into the arm still on her leg, moaning his name as she finally let herself go onto his tongue.

He swallowed every drop, only wanting to taste her sweetness for the rest of his life.

When she came down, he shoved her off him, mounting her and positioning himself between her legs.

Her body was growing red from touching the bitter snow, but it seems like she hadn’t even noticed.

Cregan wrapped his hands around her throat, leaning in and giving her a deep kiss. “I could kill you right now if I wanted, get this whole mess you’ve caused for me over with.” He whispered into her lips.

“You won’t.” She whispered back. “Not before you get to even fuck my sweet cunt.” She reaches her cold hand down, snaking it into his breeches and rubbing his length.

“You’re right.” He kisses her again. “I want all of you.” She unlaces his breeches, pushing it down along with his soft clothes.

She glides him along her wet entrance, and Cregan groans. He pushes himself into her, eliciting a sweet gasp from her lips. He gives her no time to adjust, immediately thrusting his hips back and forth.

She moans, tears brimming her eyes, having never been fucked by a man so large as Cregan.

“What? Why are you crying? Never been fucked like how you deserve?” He growls. She does nothing but nod.

“Nothing?” He asks. “Have I finally shut you up?” He fucks her harder, and she pulls on his brown curls, using her other hand to scratch all along his back. Cregan loved the thought of it, coming home with battle scars from her. He kisses her jaw, licking her salty tears.

He stands and picks her up, worried about the cold getting to her skin. He pins her to a tree, her back scraping against the bark. It hurts in such a sweet way, better than the cold snow. She cries out his name so loud as he fucks her against it. His hands roam her body, wanting to feel all of her but also wanting to warm her up.

“Tell me it true, Cregan.” She moans, her naughty attitude returning with a smirk. “Are you going to kill me?”

She knows his answer before he even does. He growls as a response, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing that sweet cunt bested the Lord of Winterfell.

“I hate you.” He growls, fucking her even harder so she shuts up. “You killed innocent men.”

She laughs and moans at the same time, “I killed crows, My Lord.” He moans at ‘My Lord’ “I’d never… fuck… harm an innocent man. That’s why you’re here now, fucking my dripping cunt.”

He wraps one of his hands around her throat, the other holding her up, his thrusts growing sloppy as he nears his peak. “Fucking witch.”

To his surprise, her hand finds his throat too, but he loves it. He loves her aggressiveness. She matches him, she’s practically a savage wolf herself.

He wants to pull out, knows he should pull out, but he can’t find the strength. All he can focus on is the wetness surrounding his length. His hands grip her waist in such a harsh way it’s bound to bruise, and he relishes in the thought of marking her so those other wildlings knew she was his now. He had claimed her, and any other man who dared try to touch her would meet the Gods.

He grabs her and pushes her back into the snow, falling on her hands and knees. His hand takes a grip in her hair, pulling her head back toward him and forcing her to arch her back. He fucks her in such a shameful way. If any lady in Winterfell were fucked like this, she’d nearly be a whore. But she was not a lady, so he felt no guilt fucking her how she deserved, and how she eagerly wanted. Her hips bucked into him, matching his rhythm.

She cried such sweet moans at the pleasure, finding her peak so close. Her fingers spread into the snow, shaking, and she released onto him again, and he growled, fucking into her until he found his own peak.

His spilled into her so deep it touched her womb. She rested her face in the snow, panting. He pushed her off of his length, her body falling into the cold. Cregan stood, out of breath, staring down at the woman in the snow, her body curled into a fetal position as she laid there catching her breath. He was hooked. Obsessed with her beauty and madness, even as she laid there sweaty and cold.

He grabbed his furs and sat beside her, pulling her into his lap and wrapping the warm furs around her.

“You might catch a chill.” He whispered, slightly worried now that their lust had subsided.

“I’m a witch, right? My blood runs with fire.” She breathed. He laughed softly.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile, Lord Stark.” She smiled, a soft and sweet smile. His heart nearly melted.

After dressing, they began walking again.

“Can we make a quick stop?” She asked, not letting him answer before she ran towards a cave in the not far off distance.

He sighs, not making an effort to chase her.

He walks into the dimly lit cave. It appeared lived in. He eyed the area, while pulling at his collar, due to the heat in the cave.

“Is this where you live?” He asked, his voice echoed back to him, making him feel alone.

She nodded, undressing herself again. “It’s a hot spring.”

She jumped into the water, moaning at the warmth. He twitched.

“You gonna just stand there lookin’ pretty?” She asked, her thick northern accent appearing. He sighed, slowly taking off his furs and armor before stepping into the hot water. She spit some of the water at him with a little smirk. He tried to hide his smile, but couldn’t. He grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him and into his lap. She curled her legs up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Let’s stay here.” She said, voice unsure. “You’re a wolf. You belong out here, not in the south.”

He took her hand in his. “My place is in Winterfell.”

“Then stay with me just for tonight.” She said. He sighed, pressing a soft kiss to her hand and nodding. She rested her wet head against his chest.

“I won’t cause any more trouble for you, Lord Stark.”

He sighed, knowing what it meant.

He yearned to bring her back to Winterfell, to give her a place in the castle, and to take her in his bed at night, but she was too wild. She would cause too much trouble for the servants and handmaidens. She would never be happy either.

He made it count, fucking her over and over again in that cave. When they slept, he held her close to him, refusing to even let her roll over. Her head fit perfectly against his neck. It felt like a crime to let her go.

———

They had been walking for three days to return to the wall, only growing closer and closer with each moment they spent together.

“I thought you said it was a day’s journey.” Cregan said.

“On horse.” He shot her a look, frustrated with the forgotten mention. She only smirked. He didn’t want to part from her just yet anyway.

“Lord Stark!” A voice yelled. He quickly pushed her behind him, unsheathing his sword and searching for where the voice came from. He was terrified for her, but she showed no fear. He knew if they seen her, they would kill her immediately.

4 men in black, all on horses trotted up besides them, encircling them.

“Gods, I can’t believe it.” The Lord Commander said, “You Starks, damn it. You put the rest of the North to shame. I can’t believe you found the witch.”

“I’m not a witch.” She said, but Cregan only grabbed her and wrapped his hand around her mouth, preventing her from starting a fight. She kicked and growled into his hand, but eventually submitted.

“Why is she still alive, m’lord? You should have taken her head the moment you found her.” A boy said.

“It’s not that easy. She’s strong, more useful alive.” Cregan said.

She kicked her foot back into his shin, stealing his sword from his hand. Cregan yelled and grabbed his leg. He grabbed her arm with his other hand with a harsh grip. Her elbow met his face, knocking him on the ground as blood pooled from his nose.

“Took you long enough to find your own way back here, crow.” She said, looking at the Lord Commander specifically, the heavy valyrian steel sword dragging from her hands onto the ground.

He only snickered at her.

“Don’t hurt yourself trying to lift that sword. I’d rather watch Stark behead you himself.”

“Can’t do your own dirty work?” She sneers.

Cregan sensed the tension but said nothing. He stood and grabbed her by the back of her neck, pulling her back and taking his sword from her. He stared her down, breathing angrily, his eyes fuming with rage. He wanted to take her on the snow again as revenge for breaking his nose, but restrained himself.

She looked back up at him, anger in her own eyes, his hand lingered on the back of her neck.

Cregan turned back around to face the Lord Commander. “I will not behead her. She is a prisoner of Winterfell.”

The Lord Commander fumed. “She’s killed half our men-“

“You killed half your men when you sent them searching for me.” She spits.

“Enough!” Cregan yelled, but she ignored him. She broke from his grip and ran at the Lord Commander. The horses spooked, bucking the other men off them and scattering.

She jumped, using the stirs of the saddle of his horse to mount it. She pulled out the dagger she stole from Cregan earlier, and slit the Lord Commander’s neck.

Hot blood spewed onto her face as he weakly grabbed at her throat. She smiled, that wicked smile again, licking the blood that spat across her face, her eyes wide with madness.

“Goodnight, crow.” She whispered.

Cregan ripped her off the horse, throwing her onto the ground.

“Do you understand what you have just done?!” He screamed at her. She smiled up at him, blood staining her teeth. She kissed him, the blood on their faces smearing. He briefly matched her love with the kiss, before pulling away.

He tried snatching the dagger back from her, “No, it’s mine!” She yelled.

He pulled her by her collar close to his face, “You have to go now… or I’ll kill you.”

Sadness swept across her face, her lip trembling like a scorned child.

“Keep your fucking dagger, then!” She yelled, stabbing it into his shoulder.

Cregan cried out, letting her go, and falling to the ground. He ripped the dagger from his shoulder. She used this as an opportunity to take her bow back from his body.

She reached into her boot, pulling out an arrow. She knocked it and drew it back. Cregan weakly jumped on the Lord Commander’s horse. The other Night’s Watch men were returning on their horses, having calmed and gathered them.

“Back to the wall!” Cregan commanded them. He didn’t turn to look at her. He knew if he had, she would’ve shot the arrow right through his eye. Instead, she hit him in his rib, perfectly hitting where it would hurt, but wouldn’t kill him. Cregan yelled in pain again.

The men rode off, not stopping until they made it to the wall. Cregan passed out multiple times on the way, visions of her flooding his thoughts as the men had to drag him to the maester.

She stayed in the same place for hours, sobbing and sobbing, as the icy cold froze her tears. Only when night fell then did she turn and leave, knowing she would never see the Lord again.

[overseer-picard]

What in the actual Devron system was happening with season one and two's dress uniforms? Specifically in the leg area.

Don't get me wrong, I love the overall look: the knee length drapery, the gold clavicle stripe, the chestal accentuation, but WHAT-

WHAT ARE THESE? Are they... sock boots? Sock boot PANTS?? I genuinely don't understand what I'm looking at.

"Hm, yes, sockbootpants are the way of the future. Not a zipper in sight. The Gene will be pleased with me." - someone in the costuming department.

Luckily, by season three, the executive officer in charge of dress uniforms awoke from their stupor and decided that normal pants were fine.

Much less calf accentuation but also much less emotional damage

[culturefrancaise]

Je crois qu'on peut dire qu'on a eu chaud aux fesses.

Je n'oublie pas les 11 millions de voix que le RN a eues la semaine dernière.

Je n'oublie pas les sièges qu'ils ont eu à l'Assemblée nationale.

Nous devrons garder notre vigilance, et œuvrer sans relâche pour une France meilleure, pour un monde meilleur.

Soyons solidaires, entraidons-nous. Militons. Aucune tolérance pour les discriminations.

Et j'emmerde le Rassemblement National.

Maintenant... Je crois qu'on peut faire la fête.

Ce 14 juillet sera très intéressant.

[blueikeproductions]

Age of the Primes was officially revealed, and the first guy shown off Prime wise was Megatronus.

And they decided to go back to the Dreamwave design that kickstarted all this.

The main difference is he has equipped the Requiem Blaster, based on its Prime Wars design….

…and a new version of the Void Scepter based on the TFONE version.

So The Fallen alone implies that some of the preexisting Thirteen might be based on their originating designs but cherry pick things from other incarnations.

The box art shows off Liege Maximo in his original G2 design.

That’s a surprise since the G2 design is rarely acknowledged, in favor of a more humanoid design instead of a monster.

Most of what the new Liege Maximo takes from his other counterparts is his Aligned’s self legs. Liege skipped leg day a lot it seems…

The other robot represents The Thirteenth Prime, who recently in TFONE became Zeta Prime.

The original concept via Aligned had this 13th member be the so called “Arisen” was actually just Optimus Prime. This robot’s design appears to homage that, resembling Powermaster Optimus Prime.

It also loosely resembles Star Convoy and God Ginrai…

Star Convoy is in this toy line, but I don’t think he’s meant to be the Thirteenth, just yet another Optimus variant. So who this is supposed to be we don’t know yet.

It does reinforce an observation that Hasbro has moved away from the unpopular idea Optimus was one of the original 13, and that the robot is whoever it needs to be for a given story, with Zeta Prime filling in the role specifically in TFONE.

So safe bet it’s Zeta based on trends, or it’s a Ginrai homage called Apeximus Prime or something. (It would be a clever way of giving the Apex Armor a Prime unique to it, since Godbomber (Ginrai’s drone partner) is often dubbed as Apex Bomber and Optimus’ non Roller drone. Might as well complete the reference.)

Incidentally, the Primes cast as gold statutes on the packaging is likely a nod to the G1 Decepticon Hall of Heroes.

I don’t think we’re getting toys of any of these guys such as Bloodron or Murdron anytime soon, though Devron maybe since he resembles Scourge (and probably was meant to be him, had old plans about the Hall’s Life Sparks been used instead).

Admittedly, one thing that would be cool is seeing a toyline based on past Decepticon leaders, since even relatively newer stuff has shown other wars before Optimus and Megatron existed, so you could justify it. Doubly so in you found have some of these Decepticons from the Hall be reinterpreted as The Fallen’s and Liege Maximo’s followers. Something to consider maybe~!

[klarieona]

How hot can she get

Jeremy Gilbert x fem!reader(romantic) Tyler Lockwood x fem!reader(platonic) x Caroline Forbes(platonic) x Rebekah mikaelson(siblings) x Matt devron(platonic)

Summary: Jeremy, Matt and Tyler take Rebekah, Caroline and you dress shopping for prom and Jeremy finds out that you just get hotter

warning: Cursing

“oh come on dude it hasn’t been that long” Matt says hitting Tyler on the arm “I swear it’s been an hour” Tyler said in a annoyed tone “we just have to see [reader] dress then we can go” Rebekah said with a smile looking at the dressing room “how hot do you think [reader] is going to be when she comes out” Tyler says with a playful tone “dude that’s my girlfriend” Jeremy said with a creoles out look on his face “she already super hot, how hot can she get” Caroline said looking at the boys. “Done!” [reader] yelled as she walked out of the changing room “so hot” Jeremy mutters under his breath “holy shit” Rebekah said with a smile as she went to go hug her sister “this one” Jeremy and Caroline said at once which made [reader] jump “okay” she said smiling

“you look so hot” Jeremy whispered in my ear “I know” I whispered back.

[asofterepilogue]

Il y a quelques temps j'ai lu un article (que je ne retrouve évidemment pas) qui disait que le vote FN des classes populaires est en très grande partie motivé par la conviction que le système (capitaliste) injuste et douloureux dans lequel nous vivons est le seul possible et ne peut donc pas être changé, et qu'il s'agit alors pour ces fachos en puissance de s'assurer de ne pas passer dernier, c'est-à-dire de s'assurer que les "immigrés" ne bénéficient pas de la solidarité nationale et qu'ils vivent moins bien qu'eux-mêmes.

On sait aussi que l'abstention de plus en plus haute (à une exception récente près) est en partie due aux trahisons successives des politiciens, qui ont persuadé une grande partie de la population que voter ne servait à rien (même parmi ceux qui ne s'abstiennent pas, d'ailleurs).

Sachant cela, est-il judicieux pour une gauche qui se veut "de rupture" de se rapprocher de tout ce qui n'est clairement pas, ne souhaite pas être, ne sera jamais du côté de la rupture ? Est-il judicieux de soutenir François Hollande dit le fossoyeur de la gauche, ou un ancien ministre macroniste ? Est-il judicieux de s'allier avec Raphaël Glücksmann ? Est-il judicieux de faire renaître une alliance des gauches "mise à mort" il y a quelques mois par la gauche qui a déjà régné - et trahi - encore et encore et encore, avec plus de concessions à l'aile droite encore que lors de l'alliance précédente ? Est-il judicieux pour n'importe quel parti de gauche d'être représenté par quelqu'un qui utilise ouvertement les termes et les raisonnements de la droite en parlant "assistanat" ou en défendant sans nuance la police ? Est-il judicieux d'appeler à voter pour des candidats LR ou LREM qui voteraient les mêmes lois que les candidats FN et l'ont d'ailleurs déjà fait ?

Évidemment, il faut empêcher que l'extrême-droite ne gouverne. Mais si le danger est si réel aujourd'hui, c'est bien parce que l'ensemble de l'échiquier politique l'a encouragé pendant des décennies - par stratégie, par aveuglement, par inconscience, par complaisance.

À court terme, la stratégie de l'alliance peut porter ses fruits. Mais nous devrons de nouveau voter dans 3 ans (ou l'année prochaine en cas de nouvelle dissolution), et ce n'est pas en continuant à n'offrir aucune alternative crédible que les politiciens changeront la donne. Au-delà de ces élections, la stratégie des concessions à la gauche d'accompagnement la plus molle et la plus consensuelle est une stratégie perdante.

[aurevoirmonty]

"[…] chacun doit déterminer sa propre position. Il s'agit d'un tournant idéologique. Le libéralisme est complètement épuisé, même s'il existe encore par inertie. Mais aujourd'hui, la technocratie exécutive ne suffit plus. Face à la guerre, face aux ennemis intérieurs des cinquième et sixième colonnes, face aux migrations destructrices et à la démographie catastrophique, face aux valeurs traditionnelles et non traditionnelles, chacun doit faire un choix. Un choix clair et net. Non pas en chuchotant sotto voce, mais en parlant haut et fort. Et nous devrons répondre de ce choix et le mener jusqu'au bout."

Alexandre Douguine, Geopolitika.ru (2024)

[beardedmrbean]

Trop jeunes pétales soufflés par les vents noirs Échoués sur les rives d'une mer de silence Combien encore devrons-nous attendre Que passent les orages

Ô fuge dissonnante Berce nos pas vers l'horizon

Car tout au bout de ces sentiers de cendres Nous attend la promesse d'un ciel plus calme Et si de nos peines naissеnt de nouveaux espoirs Lеs flammes éteintes trouveront leur grâce

Trop loin de nos terres où chantent les ruisseaux Trop loin de nos frères en proie aux nuits d'ombre

Pourrons-nous un jour, retrouver ensemble Ces verts paysages

Car c'est là que nous chantons depuis des âges Ignorant l'hiver et la foudre des armes Dorés souvenirs de nos innoncences Aujourd'hui envolées si loin

This is pretty

[firebirdxvi]

Fils du Feu 02 ~ Flamme d'Espoir

Maître Cyril avait rassemblé tous les Immortels après que l'agitation générale se soit calmée. Dans la grande salle de réunion, celle qui leur servait à méditer ou à communier ensemble, les murmures allaient bon train. Cette ambiance était tout à fait inhabituelle, et il du attendre un moment pour obtenir le silence. Lui-même se sentait gagné par une fébrilité nouvelle, et il se força à garder le ton calme et monocorde que tout le monde lui connaissait. Son rôle allait devenir encore bien plus important...

Il tendit les mains et commença à parler :

- "Vous savez tous que le grand jour que nous attendions est arrivé : le sérénissime Phénix, flamme de vie, de mort et de renaissance, nous a fait la grâce de s'éveiller et de nous bénir de sa divine présence." Il ressentait un plaisir coupable à prononcer enfin ces mots. "Cependant, son voyage fut long et son retour dans son vaisseau charnel peut s'accompagner de quelques difficultés que nous devrons aider Sa Grâce à surmonter. Bien des années se sont écoulées, notre archiduché est détruit, la famille Rosfield anéantie, mais l'espoir de tout reconstruire perdure."

Des soupirs se firent entendre autour de lui.

- "Le secret absolu doit demeurer. Aucun d'entre vous ne doit évoquer le Phénix hors de ses murs. Celui qui s'en rendra coupable sera exécuté sur le champ. Tel est la loi de notre ordre dont je suis le garant."

Après ce rappel intimidant, un adepte leva la main avec révérence pour demander la parole.

- "Allons-nous le laisser sortir ? Il voudra sûrement découvrir comment le monde a changé en son absence... Comment se porte-t-il ?"

Cyril prit le temps de choisir ses mots.

- "Sa Grâce se remet à peine de son long coma. Des traumatismes physiques et mentaux semblent l'affecter, mais rien que nous ne pourrons surmonter. Si le Phénix est puissant, la chair est faible ; nous devons nous en accommoder. Pour le moment, sa guérisseuse attitrée" - il désigna la concernée - "continuera de s'occuper de sa santé."

- Vous avez parlé de problèmes... mentaux...", risqua un autre adepte sans avoir levé la main.

Il coupa court à sa question en notant le regard courroucé que Cyril lui lançait de dessous sa capuche. Le Maître consentit malgré tout à répondre :

- "Il est inutile de vous cacher la vérité : son esprit a été abîmé par la terrible expérience de Fort Phénix. Sa mémoire semble défaillante et il peine à se souvenir de ce qui s'est passé." Il attendit quelques instants avant de reprendre. "Nous faisons face à un autre problème que nous n'avions pas envisagé. Si son corps a changé, son esprit est toujours celui d'un enfant de dix ans... En plus de cela, il paraît avoir oublié beaucoup des usages de la vie quotidienne. Même parler lui est difficile. Il doit réapprendre tout ce qu'un enfant est censé assimiler en l'espace de plusieurs années. Il restera dans le Nid encore un moment je crois."

- "Mais c'est terrible !...", se plaignit une adepte prête à fondre en larmes.

- "Ses pouvoirs d'Emissaire semblent intacts, n'est-ce pas l'essentiel ?" répondit Cyril, sur la défensive. "Ce n'est qu'une question de temps avant que Sa Grâce ne retrouve toutes ses facultés. Il pourra marcher au milieu de vous quand le moment sera venu." Les adeptes joignirent les mains et quelques-uns tombèrent à genoux. "Continuez de le servir comme il se doit, et la meilleure manière pour vous de le faire, c'est de suivre mes ordres. Retournez à vos taches."

Il mit fin à la réunion et les Immortels se dispersèrent. Seuls restèrent dans la pièce Cyril, la soigneuse du Phénix et la jeune Jote. Elles avaient assisté à tout ce qui s'était passé et même à certaines choses qu'il n'avait pas révélées aux adeptes.

- "Il va sans dire que je vous ordonne le silence sur ce que j'ai moi-même tu", annonça-t-il. "Ils n'ont pas besoin de tout savoir. Et de toute façon, tout ceci passera. Il lui faut du temps..."

- Oui, Maître. Sa Grâce est restée endormie cinq ans...", soupira la soigneuse. "Imaginez le choc qu'il a eu en se levant de son lit et en voyant son image sur la surface polie du mur de sa chambre..."

- "Il vous l'a dit ?" s'étonna Cyril.

- "Pas vraiment. Il ne prononçait pas encore des sons... articulés quand je l'ai quitté. Mai je pense l'avoir deviné. Il se tenait tout près de ce miroir improvisé quand nous l'avons trouvé. Il sanglotait et essayait de se... déchirer le visage..."

- "Vous me l'avez déjà dit, ne prenez pas cet air dramatique", lui intima le Maître. Il détestait par-dessus tout les démonstrations de sensiblerie. "Vous lui avez donné des sédatifs ?"

- "Oui, même si je pense pour ma part qu'il a assez dormi. Mais je ne voulais pas qu'il se fasse du mal..."

- "Evidemment, ce serait désastreux. Il vaut mieux ne rien révéler de la détresse mentale de Sa Grâce aux adeptes. Je compte sur vous pour remédier à ce problème."

- "Je sais soigner les maux physiques, mais ceux de l'esprit me sont plus obscurs... Le savoir des Immortels n'inclut pas..."

- Je suis sûr que vous y arriverez, vous vous occupez de lui depuis longtemps." Il baissa les yeux sur Jote, qui avait écouté en silence jusque-là. "Il serait sans doute bon pour lui d'avoir à ses côtés la compagnie d'une jeune personne..."

La petite fille se raidit et son regard se fit déterminé.

- "C'est un grand honneur, Maître..."

- "Pas de familiarités avec Sa Grâce, cela va de soi. Vous n'êtes pas son amie mais sa servante. S'il vous demande l'impossible, vous obéissez ; s'il vous demande de mourir, vous le faites. Et il est inutile de le rappeler : personne ne doit lui parler de ce qui est advenu de sa famille. Pour l'instant. Quand la mémoire lui reviendra, nous aviserons."

Jote hocha la tête machinalement, comme hypnotisée par le regard pénétrant du Maître des Immortels.

- "C'est ce que nous sommes tous disposés à faire, moi y compris. Nos vies ne servent qu'à son usage. Ne l'oubliez jamais : vous n'existez que pour permettre au Phénix de déployer à nouveau ses ailes."

Il leur indiqua de disposer, ce qui signifiait retourner au Nid. Les deux adeptes seraient même sans doute forcées d'y demeurer la plupart du temps, pour surveiller les moindres faits et gestes de l'Emissaire. Cependant, le Maître exprima son désir de les accompagner.

- "Je veux me rendre compte par moi-même de son état et lui rendre hommage, même s'il est inconscient", expliqua-t-il avant de les précéder dans le couloir.

Arrivés devant la porte en forme d'anneau, la soigneuse présenta de nouveau la clef et la chambre s'ouvrit. Une forte chaleur régnait dans la pièce, et ce qui ressemblait à de minuscules plumes de fin duvet blanc flottaient dans les airs... Cyril balaya l'espace devant lui de la main pour les écarter, se demandant bien d'où elles pouvaient venir...

Joshua Rosfield ne dormait pas. Il était allongé dans son lit, le corps recouvert de son draps, et contemplait sa main au bout de son bras tendu vers le plafond. Il ne faisait pas attention à eux. Il tournait et retournait sa main tout en bougeant les doigts, de longs doigts fins et délicats... qui devaient lui apparaître comme tout à fait étrangers. Puis, il ramena sa main et en posa le dos sur son front en gémissant faiblement. La soigneuse eu de nouveau un mouvement de réconfort en se portant vers lui. Cyril l'arrêta.

- "Pas d'apitoiements inutiles, vous n'êtes pas sa mère."

- "Je devrais peut-être l'être si vous voulez que je guérisse son esprit", rétorqua-t-elle, avec un ton de défi à peine dissimulé.

Cyril ne répondit pas mais se dirigea vers le lit de son seigneur. S'arrêtant à une distance respectueuse, il s'inclina profondément devant l'Emissaire, qui se mit à le regarder sans comprendre ce qui se passait. Son regard faisait penser à une page vide...

- "Je suis Cyril, le Maître des Immortels. Permettez-moi, illustre Phénix, de vous rendre l'hommage que je vous dois. Sachez que ma vie et celle de tous les adeptes sont vôtres. Ordonnez, nous obéirons. Vous n'avez qu'un seul mot à dire..."

Mais Joshua ne dit rien, et le bleu-vert de ses yeux sous sa frange de cheveux blonds le transperça, comme s'il pouvait sonder son âme. C'était un regard d'enfant qui venait de naître, mais dans le visage émacié d'un adolescent qui s'éveillait d'un très long rêve. Cyril fut presque tenté de le plaindre... mais se reprit immédiatement. Il s'éloigna de la couche.

- "Prenez bien soin de lui. Je veux un rapport quotidien sur ses progrès. Dès qu'il sera capable de comprendre et de parler de façon correcte, je veux le savoir."

- "A vos ordres, Maître", s'exclamèrent ensemble les deux adeptes.

Cyril quitta alors la pièce, non sans un dernier regard et une ultime révérence vers Joshua qui avait entreprit à présent d'examiner la plante de ses pieds en dérangeant tout à fait l'agencement de ses draps. Il semblait avoir bien du mal à utiliser ses longs membres filiformes... Enfin, il laissa les deux adeptes avec leur patient.

La soigneuse se porta au chevet de l'Emissaire et l'invita à se couvrir de nouveau de son draps. Joshua obéit machinalement, comme un enfant grondé, et croisa sagement ses mains sur ses genoux. Mais on voyait bien qu'il était au bord des larmes. La soigneuse le rassura et balaya les mèches folles et humides de son front avant de l'observer plus attentivement.

- "N'ayez aucune crainte...", souffla-t-elle doucement. "Personne ici ne vous fera le moindre mal..."

Si elle était parvenue à conserver intactes ses fonctions vitales, l'Emissaire était très amaigri et sa peau avait pris la blancheur de la craie et la fragilité du papier. Ses cheveux blonds-roux avaient aussi considérablement poussés et lui tombaient dans le bas des reins. Elle n'avait pas eu le coeur de les couper car elle ignorait alors s'il désirerait les garder à cette longueur... Ils méritaient par contre un bon nettoyage.

Joshua ne fuyait pas devant elle, comme s'il la reconnaissait en quelque sorte. Mais il la laissa examiner le moindre recoin de son anatomie avec appréhension, d'abord ses cicatrices sur le torse, sur les cuisses, les bras ; puis celle sur son crâne, qui avait causé bien du souci à la soigneuse. Enfin, elle osa lui poser une question :

- "Avez-vous mal quelque part, Votre Grâce ?"

Elle avait parlé dans un doux murmure, comme une mère l'aurait fait pour son petit garçon malade. Il pencha la tête, comme s'il entendait un son familier et tenta à son tour de communiquer.

- "Grr.... rrr... aaaa..."

Cela resta coincé dans sa gorge et la soigneuse adopta alors un type de langage universel : celui des signes. Il sembla comprendre ce qu'elle lui demandait et indiqua son propre visage.

- "Il n'y a rien sur votre visage. Il a certes changé mais il n'a rien de laid... Aucune cicatrice n'y est restée, j'ai fais tout mon possible pour ça." Elle lui expliqua par signes.

Le patient se mit alors en tête d'attraper les plumes duveteuses qui semblaient avoir envahi la pièce. Il en saisit une et la regarda avec intérêt, puis la souleva dans les airs pour la voir flotter de nouveau. Comme effrayé par le phénomène, il se cacha le visage sous son draps. La soigneuse lui sourit.

- "C'est vous qui générez ces jolies petites choses douces et légères", lui expliqua-t-elle avec patience. "C'est votre pouvoir d'Emissaire. Vous ne le contrôlez plus très bien mais cela vous reviendra petit à petit."

Joshua semblait un peu apaisé mais la fatigue le gagna. Avant de s'allonger de nouveau sur ses oreillers, il mima des signes dont la signification était évidente, même pour la petite Jote, qui observait tout avec intérêt.

- "Il a soif, c'est ça ?" s'exclama-t-elle.

- "Je crois que oui. Il faut dire qu'il fait une chaleur ici... C'est comme si l'essence du feu elle-même avait envahi la pièce. C'est sans doute bon signe, il n'a pas perdu le Phénix...", soupira la soigneuse, comme si elle avait vraiment craint que cela n'arrivât. "Va lui chercher de l'eau fraîche. Et ensuite, Votre Grâce, je vous ferais prendre un bon bain. Vous aimerez ça, vous verrez."

- "Je reviens vite !", s'écria Jote, toute heureuse de cette mission. "Je ne ferais pas tomber la cruche cette fois !"

Et elle sortit presque en sautillant, insoucieuse qu'on puisse la voir. Le Phénix apportait enfin dans sa vie le changement dont elle avait bien besoin. Elle avait hâte d'apprendre à le connaître.

[transformers-mosaic]

Transformers: Mosaic #543 - "The Magnificent Five"

Originally posted on September 17th, 2010

Story - Juan Pablo Osorio, Franco Villa Art - Ben Pirrie Colours - Sara Guyon-Gellin Injecticon concept - Chris Frayne

deviantART | Seibertron | TFW2005 | BotTalk

Later revised and annotated for Transformers: The Lost Seasons

wada sez: I’m just going to add some hyperlinks to Villa’s annotations from TFW2005: “The title is a nod to both the notorious The Magnificent Seven movie and the Marvel UK Annual "The Magnificent Six" story. The "Kings of the Wild Frontier." credits are a nod to the homonym Marvel US issue. The ending panel is a vague nod to the Beast Wars episode "Coming Of The Fuzor". The Injecticons concept, created by Chris, is backed up by dozens of the characters that Chris designed. [...] The Protectobots are based on their War Within: The Dark Ages version. The Feudal Lord is based on one of the Decepticon statues seen in TFTM86 (Floron? Devron? Don't remember, sorry!). The Lawless Times were created by Juan Pablo for the Lost Seasons project.” Clean inks and Italian translation below, together with a preview of tomorrow’s strip...

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Un immigrant urine sous les fenêtres de la maison d'un italien celui-ci répond je fais pisse où je veux. Malgré l'interdiction il le fait quand même par provocation et par mépris, puis l'insulte et le menace. Combien de temps encore devrons-nous endurer tout cela ?

27 août 2024 15h42

[ltalaynareor]

La fin de Dumbledore

Contexte: Thomas Gaunt, alias Voldemort qui est sain d'esprit se trouve à Poudlard, lors de "l'assassinat" de Dumbledore par Rogue.

Althéïana Potter est la sœur aînée de quelques minutes d'Harry Potter.

Alors que le corps inerte de Dumbledore gisait au pied de la tour d'astronomie, Althéïana Potter ressentit un mélange de soulagement et de culpabilité. Elle savait que le vieil homme était un obstacle à la montée en puissance de Voldemort, ou plutôt Thomas Gaunt, mais elle ne pouvait s'empêcher de ressentir une pointe de tristesse pour la fin tragique du directeur de Poudlard.

Alors qu'elle restait là, perdue dans ses pensées, une main se posa délicatement sur son épaule. C'était Thomas, le nouveau seigneur Serpentard, celui pour qui elle avait tant sacrifié. Son regard était empreint d'une étrange douceur, qui contrastait avec la cruauté qu'il avait affichée par le passé.

"Althéïana," murmura-t-il, sa voix grave résonnant dans le silence de la nuit. "Tu as pris des risques incroyables pour moi, pour notre cause. Je te suis reconnaissant au-delà des mots."

La jeune sorcière détourna son regard sombre vers Thomas, sentant une étrange émotion la submerger. Elle savait qu'elle était profondément liée à lui, que leurs destins étaient entrelacés de manière indéniable.

"Thomas," commença-t-elle d'une voix hésitante. "Je... je ne peux pas tourner le dos à mon frère, à Harry. Il est innocent dans tout cela, il ne mérite pas de souffrir."

Thomas acquiesça lentement, comprenant la loyauté d'Althéïana envers sa famille. "Je comprends, Althéïana. Je respecte ta décision, même si cela signifie que nous devrons avancer séparément dans nos chemins."

Un silence pesant s'installa entre eux, chargé de non-dits et de promesses brisées. Althéïana savait qu'elle devait suivre son propre chemin, même si cela signifiait se séparer de l'homme qu'elle aimait en secret.

Alors, dans l'obscurité de la nuit, Althéïana Potter se détourna de Thomas Gaunt et se perdit dans les ombres de Poudlard, déterminée à protéger son frère et à trouver sa propre voie dans ce monde en proie aux ténèbres.

[queen--kenobi]

My Dear Elayna, Letter #2

Summary: In which Tymon Lannister writes a series of letters to his dear friend his Joanna Elayna Reyne

Western AU, HotD/GoT crossover

This is a dark fic!

Pairings: (eventual) Aemond Targaryen x OFC (Elayna Reyne), unrequited OC x OFC (Tymon Lannister x Elayna Reyne)

Author’s note: This is a really heavy letter because of some of the topics touched upon in. The warnings are up top for a reason. Also, this letter is lore heavy. If y’all want explanations, feel free to ask! I throw a lot of backstory and lore into this one.

Warnings: Hi yes. So. Massive tw for talks of death, murder, branding, and drugging. Implied torture too? Elayna isn’t hurt/branded or drugged in this, but it’s there. Also Tymon romanticizes the fuck out of being branded. It’s not DD: DNE territory, but like. Better be safe than sorry on that one. Also tw for possessive behavior, although Tymon keeps in nebulous. General warnings for gaslighting as well and just all around creepy and terrible behavior.

My dear Elayna,

I know it has only been two weeks since my last letter, but a lot has happened since I last wrote you. Most of these things would be better said in person. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be an option at the moment. So I write.

Devron Tarbeck is dead. He was found in one of the fields, almost as if he'd been dumped there. They think some out of towners attacked him. Elayna, it was brutal to see. The family couldn't have an open casket funeral; he was too bloody and beat. His father found the body and said he wasn't even sure it was Devron anymore. A tattoo on his chest was his only proof. I hesitate to tell you the gory details, but you deserve to know. They could not even use the brand, the one meaning he earned a place in our community, to identify if he was one of ours. The attackers partially flayed him and ripped it right off his back. 

I ache for his mother and father, and his sisters. I could not imagine finding my child like that.

I suppose I ache for you too. Seban said the two of you were close. Devron was one of Alon's ranch hands, right? I know he was the one to escort you to the train station so that implies some closeness. I know Seban trusted him.

Everyone at the funeral asked where you were and how you were. It was difficult. I couldn't give them an answer other than you were in King's Landing. I almost felt a fool. I always promised I'd keep you safe, but I don't even know where you are. And as your friend, not knowing how you're doing? Oh, I felt a fool alright. I know you. I know you wouldn't try to make me feel that way on purpose. It doesn't change the fact I did.

Elayna, Devron's death has me so worried for you. You're all alone in an unfamiliar city. Who knows what people plan on doing? You have no one to trust or to turn to if things go wrong. I suppose you're relying on the protection of Viserys and his family, given your father's boyhood friendship with both Viserys and Daemon. But you don't know them well. Alon even admitted it's been some time since he's seen either of the elder Targaryen men. They might not be the men he remembers, especially given Alon's memory slowly seems to be slipping.

It's heartbreaking to watch. More and more I conduct business with Seban. Alon grows steadily sicker by the day. He is in so much pain. It hurts me. I like your father. He is almost family. 

Do you know what exactly ails your father? I ask because I noticed he takes laundnum for his pain. 

It's funny. I only took laundnum once, but I remember how well I slept. It actually touched my pain and let me rest. I've never experienced a sleep like that since. At least, not until the night you left. I know myself and Tywin never stirred once and didn't hear anything. The only thing we had to drink that night, other than water, was the tea your family offered. I got the same kind of tea in an attempt to see if that perhaps was it, but I did not sleep nearly as well.

Alon is an honorable man. He wouldn't do such a thing. I know he loves you. You're his only daughter, and he dotes upon you. I think he would do anything to ensure your safety from real or perceived threats. Drugging someone so you can slip away in the night without being caught seems extreme.

Your absence stays with me. I worry so for you to the point my day to day is affected. My worry bleeds into my regular life. My imagination is consumed with thoughts of all the terrible things that might have befallen you. Perhaps it is my overactive imagination making me suspect Alon.

Alon is an honorable man. Such a thing is beneath him.

Another thing of note. Ryman took the brand this week. Jason, Tyland, Tywin, and myself figured it was time. We also need the help, given what happened to Devron. Your younger brother is a strong man. He did not cry and barely whimpered. He would have made you proud. Besides, it is an honor, especially given he's fourteen. He is not yet a man yet he handled it better than many men do. 

I didn't even take the brand until I was sixteen. It is a life altering experience. I would not be the man I am today had I not done it. 

Do you ever think of taking it? It is unusual but not unheard of for women. Cersei did it. 

I have faith you could handle it. 

I remember the look on your face when I did it. You looked so worried and concerned for me. At one point, I thought you were going to be sick. You weren't, though. 

How sweetly you treated me after. You made sure I did not have a fever or do anything to infect or irritate it. Between your loyalty, caring nature, and smarts, you'll make a perfect wife. 

I hope that is not too forward of me. Marriage can be a sensitive topic. 

Although, I suppose you've grown used to talks of marriage. Alon was trying to find you a suitable husband. I must admit, I don't agree with some of his choices. You would want for the finer things in life, things you've no doubt become accustom to, if you were married off to someone outside of the Westerland territories. Imagine having to slog through life as a Tully, as a fucking trout.

We lions consume fish and birds, not marry them. 

The Tyrells are perhaps the only ones who could give you a life somewhat similar to what you have, but even then. It will always pale in comparison. Besides, Highgarden is boring, and the people pretentious. You would not fit in at all. It would never feel like home.

The Reach would be miserable. It's all conniving people who want power. The Stormlands? Why would you want to spend your life worrying about tornadoes? They’re too proud there, too stuffy. The Riverlands have nothing to do, unless you want to spend your life soggy and wet, worrying if the next rain event will be the one to make the rivers rise over the bank and wash away your house. The Vale is even worse. What good comes from there? What is there even to do in those particular mountains? Dorne might as well be another country, they're so close to the border. The Iron "Islands" are a joke. Being between three lakes does not an island make. And the North? Oh, the people are so plain and boring.

King’s Landing and the Red Keep are out of the question. No matter how close Viserys and Alon are, he would never marry any of his children to you. Why would he? All he would be doing is an old friend a favor. He needs more than that, something of use. Us Lannisters already do business with them; they don’t need the silver and gold from your mines or the oil from your land. They already have that.

No, the only place you could be comfortable and happy is here in the Westerlands.

I could never understand why Alon wanted to send you away. I would think with how close the two of you are, he would want you to stay near. Why not keep you here? You’d be safe. Content and satisfied even. You would not want for anything and live the life you were meant to. You’re not meant to work on some farm in the middle of nowhere; you’re meant to live life to the fullest. You’re meant to live a life of luxury. You’re meant to wear gold and pearls, the finest dresses from London, and silks from Paris. You are meant for the fashion from back East or San Francisco. Not some drab brown or beige smock with no jewelry to your name.

You could travel and see the world. You could sleep on silk sheets and wear satin nightgown to bed. You could drink the best wines imported straight from France and eat foods most would only dare dream of trying. 

So many women would kill to have a life like that. You could have it. All you have to do is come home.

I fear I may have gotten carried away. I recognize I may have overstepped my bounds, and if I made you uncomfortable, I apologize. It’s just that as your friend, I want what’s best for you. I want to see you live a happy and fulfilling life. I know you are destined for more than what you have now. You deserve more. 

Truly, this shows the depth of our friendship. I understand what you need without you telling me. We do not need to speak for me to know what you want and need. Do you know how rare that is, even in marriages? And for it to occur in a friendship is something special.

Elayna, I wish you would come home. I miss my dearest friend. I have not been myself since you left. You ground me, keep me sane. I fear I lose more and more of myself each day you are gone. It must be the same for you. You and I spent years with each other. Being apart from your most treasured friend changes you. It has changed me. I have no doubt it has changed you.

Come home. Come home before you lose yourself too.

Forever yours,

Tymon Lannister

[bonsoirs37]

16/05 étape 42. Terradillos de los Templarios - Calzadilla de los Hermanillos. Désolé, y a pas plus court en Espagne.

Journée particulière pour moi, je bascule au-delà de la soixantaine... hier c'était l'anniversaire de Jean Paul pour qui la soixantaine est largement dépassée. Ce matin fleurs sur le sac à dos sur tout le chemin. Nous partons après le petit déjeuner servi à 6h00... Yes, mais vraiment petit déjeuner.

Le parcours ne change pas beaucoup, nous avons les chemins qui bordent une route, mais en toute sécurité. Sahagun qui me paraissait être une grande ville est plutôt en deçà de ce que j'attendais, peut être que je deviens plus exigeant ! Soit, nous continuons et arrivés à Calzada del Coto : 2 options s'ouvrent à nous : la voie romaine ou el Camino Real ? Nous avons choisi la voie Romaine pour son silence (loin des routes), pour les chemins (apparemment route sur l'autre voie), pour la solitude (voie peu fréquentée). Sur ce large chemin nous allons rencontrer 2 autres pèlerins et surtout un chevreuil et son petit qui traversent à 50 m devant nous. Nous marchons de front mais de chaque côté du chemin sur 9 km sans dire un mot, instant magique sur cette partie.

J'espérais payer la première "cerveza" dans le patelin de Calzada del Coto mais les deux bars étaient fermés et donc nous devrons attendre la fin de l'étape pour arroser "mi cumpleanos" (avec la tilde sur le n).

Rencontre de Kevin (22 ans) Toulousain qui est parti du Puy-en-Velay début avril, il campe sous une simple toile là où il peut et fait des étapes de 30 km de moyenne, donc on va certainement être appelé à se revoir au regard des étapes similaires que JP et moi faisons.