#finally drawing jon again

[cybrrspidrr]

Laugh.

[wojtekaneko]

It just keeps coming at me in waves, rolling over me, filling my head with such awful sights.

Bonus:

While drawing the upper one i was wondering why am i even drawing Jon without clothes? Like I know, its for the ✨aesthethic✨but! it got me thinking like in what situation would that happen?? (og post, without the bonus drawing)

[moonchemistry]

oh, archivist

[anarchyspider]

Drawing the boostie (booster bestie)

[creepyscritches]

Is there a magnus archives revival happening rn?? A lot of my 2020 TMA art is getting dug back out lately lol

[acid-ixx]

You mention in the first story that the Batfam finally realizes where we are because jon showed Damian our picture while calling us his parent- so I was wondering about how Damian reacted to that? Like did he realize we’d left at that point or did he just get hit in the face with that info?

— related post !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated

a/n: y'all i have clogged nose and i hate it LMAO. anyways, i'm gonna write smth about this soon but damian's character for both the series again & again and this series is genuinely one of the more complicated to write because of how he's raised but it really goes like this—

"jon... what do you mean? that's my—"

he cuts himself off before he could continue running his mouth off. damian ignores the slight raise of jon's eyebrow, his thoughts running a mile every second.

his parent? no, never once in his life has damian considered you his parent, pushing you away whenever you try to bond with him. whatever gifts you gave him, no matter how small, or big, expensive, or inexpensive they are, he always makes a show of ripping them away right in front of you.

he told you himself. you are not his parent, never will be his parent, you'll never replace talia's standing, and there will never be a time where damian will see you as one. dick, jason, tim, literally anyone can consider you as theirs, but damian is a product of two genetically perfect individuals— you are imperfect, and it's not your business to coddle him just because you are merely married to his father in paper.

no matter how much you softly gaze at him with loving eyes, invite him with welcoming arms, praise his passion for drawing; all you'll do is weaken him and damian hates feeling weak, hates how you tempt him into melting into a puddle. that automatically makes you a burden in his book.

he hates you, and he should've been glad you disappeared off of the face of the manor.

yet the record stands still: why are you with jon? why do you hold him like he is the world in the picture? what does he mean by "sorry, damian, but me and my parents are gonna go to the carnival later!"? you, as in, bruce's spouse? why are you with them, of all people?

... why does jon get to have fun, with you? and he doesn't...?

and yet he couldn't reply to him, not when his friend babbles on for longer about his... parent. about how you, make him feel so complete. that you'll be the one helping him with his science fare project, how you two spent the night yesterday building a volcano, how you treat him with ice cream every time he achieves a good enough grade for a subject, how you, you, you always spoil jon, always comfort him, read him bedtime stories, matched bracelets, sung karaoke together, played board games with each other, picked him up from school, help him with assignments—

the more jon goes on, the more damian wants to rip his hair out. he doesn't know, doesn't know why he's suddenly pissed. is it because jon can never shut up, or because he couldn't shut up about you? about how perfect you are apparently? how you're the ideal parent he never once bat an eye on? the domestic life jon seems to brag about, it's something damian secretly wanted, and it's all ripped away from him.

it makes damian wonder, would you have done the same for him?

he knows it in himself, that if he hadn't pushed you away, he might've been in jon's place.

[nnobodoodles]

Happy 24th Anniversary to the movie, ever! ✨

(Closer images under the cut)

I drew Rick, Evy, Jon and Ardeth back in September like this, and they looked pretty bad, so I thought I'd try my hand at them again AND finally draw Imhotep and Anck. Tried to somewhat stay loyal to the actor's likenesses, somewhat get more shapey and cartoony, but nevertheless, had a LOT of fun.

Universal, please, I need another sequel, comics and a new animated show 🥹

[mothhball]

If There's No End

Pairing | Jonathan Crane x Reader

Warnings | DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!! MAJOR CHARACTER DE*TH – Reader d*es! ANGST, HURT, NO COMFORT, CANN*BALISM, do NOT read if any of this feels too uncomfortable!! Jon is very, very delusional in this, drugging, lobotomy, established relationship, again - CANN*BALISM. (tumblr wants me to censor this :'] )

Summary | Jonathan reminisces about your shared life and the day you found out his secret.

Words | 2.7k

Notes | Don’t yell at me for this, you’ve been warned! Not proofread, please don’t beat me up.

@kiss-me-cill-me welp, this is the cannibalism fic lmao bon appetit

Jonathan never thought he’d know guilt. But now that he’s hunched over on his knees, digging through the mud with trembling hands, he suspects that this might be it. His vision is still blurry. Has been for the past few hours. The tears have turned his world into a faded, abstract mess, like a child’s chalk drawings that are in the middle of being washed away by the rain. If it had been anyone else, he would have settled for the large dump of hazardous waste behind ACE Chemicals. But not in this case. Never in this case.

Jonathan never thought he’d grow to respect another person, but you crashed into his life with an earth-shattering intensity that nearly made his knees give out as soon as you turned to greet him. Hi. Two letters, one syllable. And it affected him in such a profound way that his ears still burn at the memory. Even during that first fleeting conversation, he felt as if the edges of his person began to become cloudy. Desperate to merge with yours until there was no end and no beginning to the two of you as separate people. Until flesh and bone and viscera were a shared commodity between him and you. A fever dream with the appropriate symptoms. Some nights he woke from a beautiful dream, a fantasy in which the two of you were irrevocably merged into one being. And on those nights, hot tears of disappointment and anger burned so harshly on his cheeks that he expected his sheets to sizzle where the drops fell.

It was love. It had to be. And when the universe finally relented to the prayers and wishes he whispered until his throat became hoarse, his life exploded with color. Fleeting glances and coy small talk managed to bloom into something more, something deeper and more intimate than Jonathan’s analytical vocabulary could ever fully explain. You loved him in a way that was entirely foreign to him. Unconditional and patient. You just… got him. Without even trying to. Your gaze traveled past skin and ribs down to his very heart and soul, and you didn’t turn away. But you didn’t know everything back then. How could you? He was so secretive about everything involving his studies. Sometimes, he couldn’t resist the temptation of monologuing about fear and its shackles on humanity. But that was all he was willing to share with you. He granted you a microscopic detail of the true extend of his passion. A laughably small excerpt of his obsession.

Jonathan never thought he’d know love. But you proved him wrong with every smile, every whisper of praise, every tender touch upon his skin.

He knows how cliché it is to claim that settling down with someone never occurred to him before he met you, but it's the truth. In a life that was filled with hurt and contempt, you were the first to take a chance on him. Undeterred by his sometimes standoffish nature and cold attitude, you pressed onwards until he cracked, revealing the mush that you've managed to melt him into.

A future with you was worth everything he had endured up to that point. The plan was to graduate, find jobs and get hitched immediately. He wanted to put his last name on you, give you a part of himself that you would take wherever you went.

The first two steps were already completed with him getting a PhD and a professorship, that he quickly lost again, somewhere in the middle. Aside from a few mishaps and arguments about his attitude towards his patients at Arkham, all seemed right in paradise.

Often, the two of you would lie awake at night, talking about your future while you played with his fingers. "I'd like to get married in Spring," you said. And he just nodded, already imagining your bright smile when he'd put the ring on your finger. On those nights, the urge to become one often overtook him, and he rolled on top of you to devour you in a different way. In hindsight, he should've told you. Given you a chance to see the true extend of his rotten soul. You already knew so much about him, yet you still wanted a life with him. You often said how much you craved the mundane with him. Lazy Sunday mornings, standing in line to get groceries, gossiping about your neighbors in the quiet part in the outskirts Gotham City that you wanted to move to. He should've told you about the toxin he keeps stashed away in his office, no more than 15 feet behind the pillow you rested your pretty head on.

He didn't dare to think about what could've been. No, he made the right decision. Surely.

He still remembers your wide eyes. The way the color vanished from your complexion as you turned towards him with his mask in your hands. He remembers how wrong the burlap looked, crushed between your beautiful fingers. You asked him to explain, even though you were already tearing up just by looking at him. Jonathan was always convinced that he could read you like a book, but in that moment, he doubted himself. And he panicked. From one second to the next, he lunged at you, putting you into a headlock that constricted the blood flow to your brain, and you wheezed and wailed for him to stop, but he couldn’t. If he let go, you’d let yourself be ruled by secondary emotions. Emotions like betrayal and heartbreak that threatened to overshadow the deep, deep love you felt for him. It was an act of mercy for both of you. So, he held you until your struggling stopped, and your consciousness slipped away. It always takes longer in real life than in the movies. And he cried with you. God, did he cry, soaking your hair with his tears as he choked you into a blackout.  

You were out for ten minutes. Ten agonizing minutes which he used to prepare for what needed to be done. Your happiness was his happiness, so he had to do something to take your mind off of the situation. Or any situation for that matter. He has never done this before, but the thought of desperate measures during desperate times, didn’t give him the opportunity to hesitate. A local anesthetic and a muscle relaxant would suffice, he decided as he rushed to gather the equipment. By the time you came to, he was already straddling your torso, leaning over you with fresh tears in his eyes. As you began to silently panic, Jonathan was quick to try and shush you. Oh, how it hurt him more than it hurt you. The lobotomy set was a Christmas gift from you. A tongue-in-cheek nod to the history of the profession he chose. It was fate. It had to be.

The tip of the ice pick-like instrument felt cold against your eye socket, and he clenched his teeth at the shiver that ran down your spine. His hands were violently shaking already, and your involuntary movements didn’t make it any better.

“Shh… shh… don’t move, angel… It’ll… it’ll be so quick, I promise.”

Another sob wrecked through his body as he lifted the delicate metal hammer.

“You need to try and sing for me, okay? Or hum. Or anything. I need… I need to know when it’s deep enough. Just try, angel. Just try, okay?”

Jonathan’s voice was as shaky as the grip on the instruments. But by God, he had to do this. He had to keep you by his side. His other half, his future, his everything. The vessel of every passion and love he poured into you. You just stared up at him through watery eyes, unable to open your mouth anymore, so you settled for humming. It was a nonsensical melody, a mish-mash of several nursery rhymes without a title. The first strike of the hammer against the orbitoclast caused an incredible pressure to spread in your skull, and black spots settled in your vision as the tip of the instrument breached bone. The crack was nauseating, but you couldn’t even struggle. Jonathan’s breathing became heavy, and he wheezed out a sob that sounded like it came from a dying animal when he saw the blood that began to fill your eye. But he had to continue.

“Just like that. Just like that, angel.”

With trembling hands, he prepared himself for the second strike, but he underestimated the adrenaline that his blackened heart was pumping through his veins. Something went wrong, his sweaty hands slipped off the equipment, skewing the angle of the pick when he hit it. And he hit it hard. Immediately, your humming stopped and turned into stuttered noises. A bead of clear fluid dripped from your nose, rolling down over your lips. This wasn’t blood.

The crushing realization that he messed up caused Jonathan to freeze entirely. Cerebrospinal fluid was leaking out of your nose at a quick rate, sending him into a blind panic. He tried to pull the pick from your eye, causing even more damage to your precious brain. A brain that was meant to love, not hurt. But here you are, wasting away before his very eyes. You’re suffering beneath him like a bird that hit a window in a curious attempt to explore. And you did explore.

Back in his childhood, he once found an injured crow in the shade of the family house. The poor thing was twitching and bleeding, much like you are now. Jonathan remembered the crushing emotions that he felt when he looked at the animal. And he also remembered the feeling when his grandmother put it out of its misery by crushing the crow’s head under her shoe like it was nothing. Like it was nothing. You weren’t nothing, but you still deserved that brand of mercy.

He doesn’t remember how he did it. Whether he wrapped his hands around your throat or injected you with enough muscle relaxant to put you down. In fact, he doesn’t remember much of the first night of complete silence. When he emerged from the blur, his throat felt raw from sobbing, and his eyes were swollen and red. He had left the room that contained your body immediately, fearing that he’d catch fire from stepping into a place that had been consecrated by the death of an angel. Eventually, after he had bitten his lips bloody and used up every tear in his eyes, he dared to face you again. And God, were you still so beautiful. And as ashamed as he was for thinking this way, there was also a positive to this. A big one at that. You would always be his. No one else would ever get the privilege of seeing your eyes or hearing your voice again. You truly belonged to him in every way. And as he stepped over to kneel besides your body and take your hand in his, he actually smiled. It was just the two of you. Like you always planned.

It was a grueling process. To strip skin from flesh, and flesh from bone. But he was patient. Patient in the same way that you were with him. Patient in a tender, saccharine way that made his insides squirm as if he was infested by maggots. But the only parasite inside of him was love. That's how it works, right? You can never truly get rid of it.

Once the bones were clean, he had to step back for a while. The impending loneliness made him stumble into the bathroom to vomit into the toiled bowl. For a good 30 minutes, he sat there. Doubled over and white-knuckling the porcelain. There was no disgust involved. Just fear. God, he was terrified of being alone again. Terrified of truly losing the one thing he couldn't breathe without. And as he sat there, heaving like a dog, he found a solution.

He ate your heart first.

Every bite, every mashing of teeth against teeth was an act of love. He had to pause a few times, chuckling at himself for his choice. How cheesy it was to go for the heart first. But how could he not? Even Jonathan wasn't immune to symbolism. It wasn't about taste or texture. It was about the growing sensation of having his stomach filled. Of having his hunger satiated by forming an everlasting connection with you. You would never be wearing his wedding ring, but you'd be with him forever in a different way. You'd be his until the day that he died. And even then, he hoped, your spirits would be so entangled that there was no way of separating the two of you. Maybe you'll get reincarnated as one soul together.

Over the course of three weeks, he forced himself to consume as much of you as he possibly could, setting the table for two since you were there as well. It always started off tame. He tried to savor the feeling of becoming one, but at some point, his composure always cracked, and he ate your body like he was a starving animal trying to fill the never-ending pit inside of him. The part that hurt him more than anything, though, was crafting a story. In the process of keeping you to himself, he had to ruin your reputation.

It was easy for others to believe. Of course, you would leave Jonathan for someone else. Most people in your small circle secretly never believed that this relationship would last. It was easy to make them believe something they had already expected to happen at some point. In this crafted lie, you went off to live with someone else, far away from Gotham. But in reality, you were always here with him. Beneath his skin that now became your own.

Jonathan never thought he’d feel peace. But now, that he has finished digging this hole in Gotham Central Park, he thinks he’s gotten pretty close. It has started to rain a few minutes ago, but he’s not bothered. In his mind, it’s your doing. Your loving attempt to wash the sin and guilt from his body. Because you know the depths of his devotion, know the intend behind his actions. This isn’t the first hole he has dug since the two of you became one. But it’s the final one. Back when he was confronted with the reality of what to do with your bones, he decided to do what you would want. You always were the romantic in the relationship, so he decided to leave your remains in places that were significant to the both of you.

His hands aren’t shaking anymore, as he pulls the plastic bag that he brought closer to himself. The material shreds quickly as his fingers tear through it, and he pulls it open to reveal the last pieces of your previous body. A tender smile spreads over his face as he reaches into the bag to pull out the bones of your fingers and wrists, remembering how he tore off the flesh and skin with his teeth. Your loving touch would always be with him. Carefully, he lowers everything into the hole he dug before he turns to the final piece. Tears of relief well up in his eyes as he gazes upon the empty sockets of your lovely skull. With the caution and gentleness of a mother setting down her newborn, he places your skull into the earth, whispering promises of everlasting love under his breath. This isn’t the end. Far from it. Once he wipes his eyes with his sleeve, he notices something else. It takes a moment to dislodge one of your molars from your jawbone, but Jonathan eventually manages. The piece of ivory bone almost seems to glow in the dim light that’s being casted by a distant street lamp. It’s your tooth. You share his now, so there’s no need for it anymore. But it’s one last piece of your smile.

And in a final act of completion, he swallows it.

[fox-guardian]

I am still thinking so hard about artist Jon.

Like. It's a hobby for him, purely, he doesn't plan to make money off of it. It's just for fun. He doodled a bit in his free time and then took life drawing classes in uni because Georgie insisted he needed to get out and do something more than studying so he. Kept studying. But just art this time.

He would describe his style as a kind of realism, but its definitely stylized in colors at least, as he's impatient and goes for bolder colors for lighting pretty early in his process so he doesn't lose the feeling of the piece, especially if it never gets finished. He wants to keep the vibes, just in case he wants to go back to it, so he doesn't forget.

He kinda falls of drawing after he starts at the institute, but I think during season 4 he picks it up again to cope with. Everything. He's not using his fancy drawing supplies since he doesn't have them anymore, just office pens and pencils. It's a lot of Martin, of course. But also Tim. He wishes he could ask Melanie to describe Sasha for him so he could try to draw her too, but he figures that wouldn't go down very well. Besides, telling his coworkers he draws is too much vulnerability anyway. Sometimes he even draws The Admiral, but he doesn't often draw animals so it never does him justice in his eyes.

Then at the safehouse, he works up the nerve and asks if Martin could sit for him for a bit. He doesn't need to pose or anything, just stay right there, Martin, keep reading that book, just don't move too much for a while, the lighting is perfect, he needs to capture it. He needs to map it with pen and paper. His phone camera could never catch the golden light on Martin's hair, and besides, the photo could lie to him later. But muscle memory and scratches in paper are harder to change, surely. He needs to record the moment like this. Hold it to his heart. Feel it in his wrist as he swipes strands of hair across the page, in his shoulder as his arm arcs down the curve of Martin's stomach, in his fingertips as he smudges the pigment he bought from the local craft supply shop to form a reddened cheek.

And Martin's cheeks are red. After everything that's happened, all the distance, his heart wasn't prepared for the intimacy of sitting before the man he loves being lovingly analyzed and having his likeness put to paper. It's exciting and agonizing at the same time, feeling eyes on him for hours as Jon stares down every curve, maps out every freckle, mole, and blemish. And when Martin sees the final image as Jon sheepishly presents it to him, he cries. He remembers feeling the fear of statement givers as he read their stories, living it through the words written. It was kind of like that, only instead of fear, he felt the overwhelming love pressed into every line on the page. Every stroke, every smudge, even tucked into the negative space, filling him up until it couldn't be contained, and he burst into tears. (Which worried Jon greatly until Martin reassured him with a hug and a kiss.)

He doesn't ask Jon to stop drawing him. How could he, when it was always with such love behind it? Not to mention Jon was getting back in the swing of it, oiling his rusty skills, and he was so happy doing it. But he will admit it was mildly mortifying seeing their home fill up with so many portraits of him, steadily increasing in their flattering composition. Jon was drawing from his imagination now that he had memorized most of Martin's form, and it was getting out of hand. He once caught a glimpse of a work in progress of Martin lounging and being fed grapes by cherubs. Good lord.

[ai-manre]

Following the Roses: A Meta

Having remerged into the fandom now after a long break, I was surprised to see all the currently prevailing ideas on a lot of things. It looks like the longer we go without the books, the more cycles and counter-cycles of convictions we have as a fandom, as our echo-chamber gets more intense and the contexts that much matter so much in canon fade. It was interesting to see all the different ideas and head-canons of people regarding R+L now in particular (with many now stalwartly characterizing Rhaegar as a prophecy-obsessed lunatic who impregnated Lyanna, with or without her will, and that Lyanna later grew to hate him). That made me curious into delving back to see what the books tell us and try to see where the narrative is leading us. Or maybe, more specifically, it's the roses I want to follow. The winter roses.

**The Introduction**

GRRM does a beautiful misdirection in the first book. Having Ned associate Lyanna again and again with the winter roses in his thoughts, by the time the origin of the winter roses is shown in Ned's last chapter, we have already associated Lyanna singularly with the roses. Rather than feeling the full impact of them being associated with her. So I'd like to go through the winter roses chronologically instead, according to the timeline.

**What is the narrative telling us?**

>Yet when the jousting began, the day belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. The crown prince wore the armor he would die in: gleaming black plate with the three-headed dragon of his House wrought in rubies on the breast. A plume of scarlet silk streamed behind him when he rode, and it seemed no lance could touch him. Brandon fell to him, and Bronze Yohn Royce, and even the splendid Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

>Robert had been jesting with Jon and old Lord Hunter as the prince circled the field after unhorsing Ser Barristan in the final tilt to claim the champion's crown. Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when*Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Lyanna's lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost*.

>*Ned Stark reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers, and woke, trembling, in the dark.*

>*Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses. "Gods save me," Ned wept. "I am going mad."

This is the origin of the winter roses according to the timeline. We do not get mentions of Lyanna with the winter roses before Rhaegar crowned her with them. When Bran looks back in time and sees Lyanna, she's not seen around those roses. When the Northmen discuss her in her childhood, they don't mention her roses, only her horse-riding skills. In Howland's story of the wolf maid, she is not associated with them. Winter roses start featuring prominently around Lyanna Stark only after Rhaegar crowns her with them. Considering this to be the origin of the roses, I would find it safe to interpret that the roses don't solely symbolize Lyanna, but rather *the bond that grew between Rhaegar and Lyanna*. This way, the roses also work as a great narrative device for Ned to covertly think of R+L without directly giving it away to the readers.

This interpretation fits in very well with the next words, where Ned reaches out to touch the flower crown and feels the thorns underneath that claw at him. The beauty of the petals was hiding the "sharp and cruel" thorns underneath which could draw blood. Just like R+L's love which likely seemed a thing of great beauty to them, but resulted in pain and suffering for both of them and all around them. If, as some other interpretations go, the roses were meant to symbolize only Lyanna as a Stark maiden or represent her connection to Winterfell, it would make no sense for the sharp and cruel thorns to appear underneath.

In the words after, Ned describes her words from bed of blood and again, seemingly out of nowhere mentions how she had loved the scent of winter roses. Why was this sentence put here? In the middle of a seemingly irrelevant of her death? Following the narrative flow of where the roses began a few sentences ago, the meaning is clear. Lyanna had loved the scent of winter roses, loved the beauty of her bond with Rhaegar, maybe ignorant or uncaring of the thorns underneath.

>"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light. "No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends." As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. "Eddard!" she called. *A storm of **rose** petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as **blue** as the eyes of death.*

This is our next memory of Lyanna after the crowning at Harrenhal. Ned clashes with the Kingsguard trying to get to Lyanna, Ned's subconscious and the narrative associates this clash against a background of *storm of rose petals as blue as the eyes of death*. Again, the rose petals are associated with things like pain and blood and death. The blood-streaked sky is the background of the war, the war sparked by R+L's actions, the beautiful petals are still blowing, though they are "death". Rhaegar who is dead and Lyanna who is dying, their love that has started the fire that killed them both and many more including all the kingsguard and many northmen here here. (Though the situation was far more nuanced than just R+L being responsible for all the bloodshed that happened).

> "I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." He could hear her still at times. *Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses.* Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. *Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the **rose** petals spilling from her palm, dead and black.* After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. "I bring her flowers when I can," he said. *"Lyanna was … fond of flowers."*

Now we come to her death. Ned remembers her room which had smelled of blood and roses. More importantly, he recalls the rose petals spilling from her palm as she died, implying that she had been holding on to them until the point of the death. The fact that her room smelled of roses itself implies that she had been making an effort to keep the roses around her, nothing was forcing her to have them around considering Rhaegar had left her months ago and died as well. (Unless anyone thinks evil Rhaegar ordered his Kingsguard to keep bringing roses to her against Lyanna's will? Or that the Kingsguard wanted to force her to continue having the roses around her? Imo that's ridiculous). It seems clear if we follow the narrative that the only roses these can be are the winter roses which connects her with Rhaegar. The fact that she took the effort to keep surrounding herself with roses, that she held onto the roses *until the moment of her death*, seems pretty irrefutable proof that she loved Rhaegar till the very end.

I have seen interpretations before that she was holding onto the roses as they symbolized her connection with Winterfell and her home. Apart from the reasons I had already mentioned above regarding why the roses clearly don't represent Winterfell, there is also the fact that if Lyanna wanted a connection to her home, her brother Ned Stark should be a much clearer option to cling onto rather than the roses connected heavily with Rhaegar (who according to this interpretation, she must have grown to hate). If it was only about her desire for home, we would have only gotten mentions of how hard she clung to Ned, there was no reason to mention the roses. But they were mentioned. And she did. She clung onto the roses as hard as she'd clung on to Ned, until death forced her to let go. This is capital R romanticism, Rhaegar died with Lyanna's name on his lips, Lyanna died with his roses (the last remnant of their love) in her palm. They died thinking of each other. And the roses, the roses are now "dead and black" just as both of them are.

After remembering that moment, Ned tells Robert that he brings her flowers. That Lyanna had loved flowers (note the ellipses). Lyanna had loved the scent of winter roses, even as they'd brought her death. She had loved Rhaegar, even as that brought her so much pain.

> Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna." *Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep.* "I do not know which of you I pity most."The queen seemed amused by that. "Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it."

Next, Ned thinks of the roses when he speaks with Cersei. And this, I love this!! Ned having to confront Robert's love for his sister and all that had cost him (not getting into Robert's vices here), knowing that Lyanna had loved Rhaegar. To see his friend cost himself a life and the love of Cersei by not getting over Lyanna, unknowing that Lyanna had never loved him! What Ned doesn't know but the narrative enriches is "I do not know which of you I pity the most" because Cersei had wanted Rhaegar as much as Robert had wanted Lyanna. Both were defeated so thoroughly by R+L's love for eachother.

>He was walking through the crypts beneath Winterfell, as he had walked a thousand times before. The Kings of Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at their feet turned their great stone heads and snarled. Last of all, he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandon and Lyanna beside him. "Promise me, Ned," Lyanna's statue whispered. *She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood.* Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets tangled around him. The room was black as pitch, and someone was hammering on the door. "Lord Eddard," a voice called loudly.

Nothing much here, just Lyanna again with her garland of roses (aka R+L) reminding Ned of his promise to protect their only son. This is a covert reference to R+L=J. With this, we end Ned's POV and move on to the next references of winter roses.

>She smiled again, a flash of white teeth. *"And she never sung you the song o' the winter rose?" "I never knew my mother. Or any such song."*

The next time the mentions of winter roses crop up again is in Jon's story, where Ygritte asks him if his mother had never sung the song of winter rose to him. To which he responds that he'd never known his mother or such a song, unknowing that this song was the hint to his mother, that this song represented her life.

>North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark's own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, and new ones he'd made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. 'All I ask is a flower,' Bael answered, 'the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o' Winterfell.'"

>*"Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o' the winter roses be plucked for the singer's payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished . . . and so had Lord Brandon's maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain." Jon had never heard this tale before.*

A singer and a Stark maiden. The Stark girl who loved Bael so much that she'd given him a son (just as Jon himself was born) and who later threw herself off a tower when her son brought her Bael's head. Quite a few narrative resonances here, death of the Stark maid in a tower, a relative who had a hand in the death of her love. "No flower so rare nor precious". Is there anything so rare and precious as true, unconditional love? As Maester Aemon says, "We are only human after all, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory and our great tragedy."

> But there were others with faces he had never known in life, faces he had seen only in stone. *The slim, sad girl who wore a crown of pale blue roses and a white gown spattered with gore could only be Lyanna.* - Theon V, ACOK

The next mention is, oddly enough, in Theon's prophetic dreams. Again, Lyanna is associated with the crown of roses Rhaegar gave her and death. The white gown might represent marriage as it is an interesting detail to have mentioned (instead of just calling it a gown) but I don't have strong opinions on it either way.

The next mention is the most interesting to me, as for the first time, the roses lead to the future rather than the past.

>Then phantoms shivered through the murk, images in indigo. Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth. A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him. Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman's name. . . . mother of dragons, daughter of death . . . Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow. A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. From a smoking tower, a great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire. . . . mother of dragons, slayer of lies . . . Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . - Dany IV, ACOK

>"Perhaps," she said reluctantly. "Yet the things I saw . . .""A dead man in the prow of a ship, a blue rose, a banquet of blood . . . what does any of it mean, Khaleesi? A mummer's dragon, you said. What is a mummer's dragon, pray?" - Dany V, ACOK

And what a lovely image it is. Jon, the sole child of Rhaegar and Lyanna, the only remnant of their love, growing at the Wall. For once, the imagery is overwhelmingly positive. The beautiful blue rose, against all odds, flourishes in the harshest of environments and what's more, it "fills the air with sweetness". Rhaegar and Lyanna might have died, but the child that resulted from their bond is making the world better.

The Conclusion

What's more, even in the latest calendar illustration GRRM had [commissioned](https://www.reddit.com/r/ImaginaryWesteros/comments/1093bgk/2024_calendar_cover_art_by_justin_sweet/), we know instinctively that it is Rhaegar and Lyanna thanks to the winter roses. Rhaegar who crowned Lyanna with these roses. Lyanna who died clutching them till the last moment. Their son who fights to protect the realms of men, doing the duty of a King without even knowing that he is one, that he is the King of the narrative. The blue rose who continues to bloom in the harshest of places.

The significance that in the text, it's Jon and only **JON** who is connected with/represented as the blue winter rose is important. Neither of the Stark maidens, Sansa or Arya, are ever connected with the blue rose in the text itself despite both having love for flowers. No other Stark has this motif in their story. The motif belongs solely to Bael and his Lady Stark, to Rhaegar and Lyanna, to Jon himself. It's the motif of love. Prince Rhaegar had loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it. Lady Lyanna had loved her Prince Rhaegar and their child is saving the realms of men.

The roses that bloomed for them and between them. That showed how beautiful their love was and how painful. The world is cruel, the world is beautiful.

[phantom-of-the-ruckus]

Just some lonely man and his crows

-

I just recently found out that Jon actually has two crows named "Craw" and "Nightmare" (Kudos to Mistress of Fear for the info!), so as the Crow and Raven lover that I am, I had to sketch Jonathan and his birbs.

I did try to use the cell shading, which I have improved, but certainly it shows it is still out of my comfort zone hahaha.

I did base of his design of some of the comic looks and Maxwell as I kinda did shoot myself in the foot by not drawing my version of Jonathan first, but oh well XD. Likewise, I did want to keep him Ginger as outside The Dark Knight (aka my intro to Jonathan) is the iconic Batman the Animated series. I prefer his S2 design, but i enjoyed his episodes but I wished he was on more.

Anyway, here's the drawing without effects

And the bare colors!

I did originally thought about drawing him in a funny incorrect quote I found, but it might go into another day, although I finally got the idea for Jonathan x my OC (Elizabeth) drawing too. I can't 100% guarantee I'll get this done as I am a very busy buzz person (who does get hit with depresso mood swings, but I'll do my best)

Aaah yeepers, i forgot to link the post hahaha its this ONE

Once again, kudos to @jonathan-cranes-mistress-of-fear for the post and the many info about Jon! Please check Moffy's blog out and give lots of love, and fear toxin! Haha

Thank you so much for liking and reblogging my stuff, it brings a huge smile to my face and helps me a lot!

As you can tell, I am very chatty on my posts, but I am a quiet ball when it comes to dms, although they're always free XD.

[foxdrawdoodles]

Six Fanarts - Gerard Keay, Homophobic Vase, Elias Bouchard, Jorden Kennedy, Jane Prentiss and Michael Shelley

I’ve finished my six fanarts and had so much fun!! I was so excited to draw Jane Prentiss I’ve been meaning to draw her for awhile know so I’m glad that I finally had the chance to know. I’m not a hundred percent on the Michael design and probably might try some other designs for him somewhere in the future. Elias was weirdly the hardest to draw, I thought because I had a pretty clear vision of him in my head that he would be the easiest to figure out how to draw but it actually took a lot of try’s until he was look right but in the end I’m happy I put in the work because he actually turned out looking pretty good. It was fun drawing Gerry again, he’s becoming easy to draw the more I draw him. I feel like a lot of Jon’s problems would have been solved if he just sicked that Vase onto Elias and also LOOK AT THAT HAND!! I have never been more proud of a hand in my life than I am of the hand sticking out of the Vase.

Also I might draw more of these in the future so if you have any more characters from TMA that you want me to draw in these “Six Fanarts” post then leave them done in the comments <3

[ad-astrah]

Finally Watched Cinderella's Castle Digital Ticket (Twice) and I Gotta Get My Feelings Out Somewhere, Somehow (Part I)

Feel free to light up my DMs to chat about it!

And now, for my personal highlights/live reactions:

immediately I'm drawn in by Nick Lang's silly narrator voice and the way he warns us of what's coming. Especially the "muRrrDder!"

Jeff Blim cut his hair. JEFF BLIM CUT HIS HAIR. Not that I didn't like the long locks, but something about his Aladdin Era short hair gets me, man.

Jeff Blim literally getting to own the stage like the man was born to

Jeff Blim's slutty bard getup with the artfully messy hair and the heavy guyliner. That sinful bastard.

"Let's go." I'll follow you anyway, slutty bard.

Okay 80s rock jam! Hell yes.

idk why but I just love the line "There are tales in those walls, are they true or are they tall?"

THIS SET, THO. 80s vibes. Muppets vibes. Princess Bride vibes. Spooky, ethereal fairytale vibes. I love it! Props to the team who designed and built it.

prance, slutty bard boy, prance around that stage.

Jesus Fuck, I've only seen Joey's puppet but I'm already SOLD. Nick and Matt Lang and whoever else had a hand in making these puppets fucking OUTDID themselves! Did they use the Black Book and resurrect Jim Henson?

Throughout the show, the muppet vibes just absolutely amaze and delight me. Makes me feel like a little kid, spellbound by this fairytale. Except it's much darker, more gruesome, way more explicit, and extremely horny.

Oh look, it's Joey's Jingle/Jangle (whichever elf he was) voice from Black Friday.

Love me some o' dat non-binary representation from Ragweed. Starkid once again screaming GAY RIGHTS bitches.

I'm getting some of Jeff's Aragog from AVPS in this Narrator. Anyone else?

Stupid STUPID butcher!

Jon Matteson's accent. *giggles madly*

Angela IMMEDIATELY having to pause for applause before she finishes her first freaking line. The queen deserves it all, though.

The foreshadowing of the Stepmother cutting off Ella's feet. O_O

"It's furryyyyy and fouuuuul and full o' maGOTTTSSaaaaaggghhhh!"

Angela doing the little spinny finger thing in a guy's face to fluster them just like Max did to her character in Nerdy Prudes. I love these physical running gags. My fave being the Smoke Club, though.

OIIIINK oinkoinkoinkoinkoinkoink

Sir Preston asking for help from the audience. His "ELLAaaaaa....nooooo....."

The lighting in this entire show is SO COOL.

Again, Jeff just louging like a whore about the set like its his bitch. I live for it.

James' COSTUME. He looks SO FUCKING GOOD. Props to the costume folks...and to James' rockin' genes.

"But nothing compares to the juice and the hairs..." Oh no. Ohhhhh no I see where this is going. Don't say it, James, don't-- omg he said it.

er ee er ee er ee *window rolling down*

I thought the Prince drawing bewbies on the frosty window was funny already, and then he goes WAH WAH WAH and pretends to pinch them and I fucking lost it.

The Prince checkin' out DAT AZZZZZZ XD

"I'd wager she's wetter now than when I first found her bobbing in the river." OH MY GOD. PRINCE. THAT'S HER NOT-MOM.

If his highness has had every STD and beaten it, that's so fucked up but also damn, that boy's immune system is killin' it. Literally.

"Poor mad EllaAH"

"This is one thirsty FUCKING house." For real, omg.

"The offer stands firm. Come calling if you are!" *screams*

Jeff miming being crew and pulling the ropes for the curtains.

*audience member sneezes* "Bless you."

Angela's diction is next fucking level. PUNY. PINK. KIND.

The epic troll reveal! The puppets are SO GOOD.

THE FROG FUCKING TURNING AWAY AS SHE ASKED FOR IT TO DO SO SHE COULD KILL IT. CHRIST.

This bayou boogie song of Ella's is an absolute KILLER BOP. Holy shit. And it's SO perfect for Bryce's funky, sassy voice.

Speaking of which, BRYCE'S VOCALS. I'm gonna scream about them for forever and ever and ever. I love her voice SO FUCKING MUCH. I could listen to nothing else for the rest of my days and die a happy little gay.

"ohhhh woah woah waohhh" *flips the bird* She's such a queen for that.

"It needs oregano" WORK BITCH

Bryce's stage presence is fucking INSANE. I dunno how she's not on Broadway, but thank goodness we got her!

SIRE MANY TADPOLES!

GOD I love this absolutely depraved, horny little bastard of a prince.

It's amazing Tadeus hasn't murdered the prince yet. The man deserves a medal for the literal shit he's put up with.

Bugette?! I thought you choked on shit died and were consumed by the Hive Queen?

Rancilda being a typical troll and loving lurking under bridges and telling riddles.

Schuyler Sister vibes from the song with Justine and Lucy. So cute.

Justine and Lucy are SUCH real ones for IMMEDIATELY believing Ella about her family being trolls and for saying "fuck the ball, we're leaving NOW."

Shake dat ass, Mariah!

Lauren's physical comedy as Rancilda is NEXT LEVEL. I'm wheezing over here!

iSNn'tT it A BiiIItTcH?!

I LOOK GOOD IN THIS. What an absolute fucking BANGER. This song is gonna play in my head on repeat for the next decade. What a next level villain song.

Also this gives me some strongass Joan Jett vibes. "I love wearin' the skin of dead girls rock 'n' roll!"

and I hEEeaARr yoU'Re RiiiCCHhH

Seriously, is this the next Top Chart breakup revenge song? It should be.

"I really LIKE that song!" XD Putrice. I love how much of an absolute BIMBO she is.

Rancilda singing the song again. "SHUT UP STUPID BITCH, THE SONG'S OVER." "Okaaaaiiii"

Matt Dahan's ability to riff off the main songs and create motifs is otherworldly.

General MacNamara? Is that you?! Oh wait, nope. Still my slutty, slutty bard.

I LOOOOOOOVE this badass electric guitar intro, holy shit.

Kim Whalen, the queen, getting the bitchin' entrance she deserves.

Starkid is so, so good at their sound design to help immerse you in a scene without blowing a big budget or doing anything elaborate.

...Kim. My girl. Your arms must be tired.

She's just standing there, but Kim's stage presence is still so strong.

I can't get over how Jon's Sir Hops-A-Lot's voice is just a small...ahem. Hop, skip, and a jump away from Wiggly's.

JOEY. THAT ACCENT. You ABSOLUTE genius idiot. I love you for this stupidass voice.

Joey's bowl cut makes me giggle like mad.

I love these two puppets SO much.

GIT IT, KIM.

The call and response bit with Ella and the Goddess reminds me of Hamilton when Washington is dictating his Farewell Address. I know it's gotta be in other musicals, too, but that's the clearest comparison for this nerd at the moment.

Jeff sneaking in the "castle on a hill" song reference in this song.

Kim and Bryce dueting together is just Power incarnate. Holy cow. It's so good.

"You shall be as radiant and terrible as I." Ooooooh. Yes. Gimme.

The Narrator sneaking out from amidst the ensemble to finish off the song was really neat.

That fading spotlight before curtain for intermission with just Ella's face in view is so beautiful and haunting. What an epic close to Act I.

Also, it seems like this was also a strategic way to imply Ella's outfit being transformed there on stage during the song without actually having to do the tricky costume designing quick-change theater miracles of an ACTUAL outfit transformation. Which is really brilliant. Leave the audience to wonder until post-intermission about what Ella's starlight dress will look like.

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

You're the Only Girl for Me - Chapter 23

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

❤ Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

All OC Characters belong to me

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

August 22nd 2021 ~ 3 am

Airielle couldn’t sleep. Everytime she closed her eyes, all she could see was Christopher and the rage in his eyes as he spat out Josh’s name to her. He obviously knew where she was at because of the PLE, but how did he know what hotel she was staying at? And how did he get her room number? She felt hopeless and she hated feeling like that.  She jumped as Josh shifted next to her. 

“You okay?” He asked her, his voice with sleep as he cracked open an eye to look at her. After she had calmed down and all her tears had subsided, he still wouldn’t let her out of his sight. He would never admit it out loud, but hearing her screaming, crying out for help while she was in the room with Christopher scared him to death. He never ever wanted to hear her scream like that ever again. 

“Yeah, I'm okay. Just can’t sleep.”  she whispered back, drawing her knees up to her chest. 

He’s in jail now Airielle, everything is ok” Josh tried to soothe her but she shook her head, knowing that was not the case. 

“He’s not in jail. He’s in a holding cell somewhere downtown waiting to be let out once the sun is up. His dad leaves him there overnight so it’s not too suspicious or anything.” 

“This isn’t the first time he’s been arrested for this?” Airielle shook her head, keeping her eyes on the blanket.  “I thought it only happened two times.” 

“No, we met in 2009 and didn’t break up until two years ago., so..” She trailed off with a shrug. “You do the math.” 

“Airi-” 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Can we talk about anything else.” She cut him off, finally looking up and meeting his eyes and not liking the look of pity on his face. “Please.” 

Josh sighed but nodded anyway. “Fine. did you really not get me anything for my birthday?” For the first time in hours Airielle cracked a smile. 

“Seriously?” She giggled. 

“Deadass.” He smiled back at her. And just like that, It felt like she was transports to five months ago before she ruined their relationship. Sitting in bed talking with Josh felt normal, it felt good.  

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. I got you a present, but I gave it to Trin and Jon.”  She let out a loud laugh at the way his eyes widened as he sat up in the bed. 

“You did what?! Damn Airi, that’s cold as hell.” 

“Well, you pissed me off.” She shrugged with a teasing smile on her lips. 

He scoffed and playfully rolled his eyes at her. “What was it?”  When she opened her mouth to answer he quickly interjected her. “Nah, never mind, don’t tell me.” 

“Okay, that's fine.” She said, covering her mouth as she let out a yawn. Laying down in the bed and covering her body with the blanket. “It was a trip to Turks & Caicos. Me and Trin planned it for the four of us.” She laughed again when he just gaped at her before reaching over to the night stand to grab his phone, a playful glare on his face as he put the call on speaker.

“Uce, everything ight? Is it Airielle?”  

“I’m fine Jon.” she said as she smiled softly at his concern for her. 

“Yeah she good, but I'm not.” Jon snorted,  “Give me our damn tickets.” 

Trinity laughed, causing Airielle to laugh again.  “The flight leaves in 2 hours, we’re already at the airport.” Josh hung up the phone and jumped out of the bed to start gathering his things and hers, thankfully she had started packing his stuff since she couldn’t sleep. 

“What are you doing?” Airielle asked, still giggling. 

“Call the damn Uber Airielle. We’re going on this trip.”  

Turks & Caicos

august 22nd 2021

AirielleJones

liked by: trinity_fatu, uceyjucey and 194,000 others

AirielleJones: 🤎🧸

edit: 📸 : @ UCEYJUCEY

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uceyjucey: cred?

↪AirielleJones: omg jahir needs to stop teaching you stuff ↪ user: are y'all back together? 🤞🏽 loveyara: @ user no they are not.

loveyara: ?

yasmine_jones : #1 umm, hello i like trips and #2 ole girl mad af in ur comments 😭

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loveyara: replied to your story: who is that? i swear if this is Airielle i'm done with you!

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TRINITY_FATU added to their story!

Airielle let out a deep sigh and sunk further into the lounge chair. This was exactly what she needed. To be on the sandy beach 6 hours away for all of her problems. Well, not all of them. One of her problems was making his way back over to her with both of their drinks with a big ass smile on his face. 

It was like Josh completely forgot that they actually had beef. He was treating her as if she was his girlfriend and last time she checked, she wasn’t! 

“Here you go babygirl.” He winked and set her Rum Punch down on the tray at the end of her lounger. Airielle pushed her glasses to the top of her head and cut her eyes at him. “What?” 

“I’m not your babygirl.”

“You definitely my babygirl. That aint never gon change.”  

“Hmm.” She hummed as grabbed the sun screen, putting some on her legs. “What about Yara, what is she? What do you call her?” She finished, arching her eyebrow at him when he straddled the chair facing her and pushed her hands away from her legs. “Josh.” She whispered, watching as he massaged the lotion into her skin, his hands trailing higher and higher up her thighs. 

“I don’t call her anything.” He stated looking her directly in her eyes. “It was a mistake that I wish I could take back, Airielle. I do a lot of dumb shit when I’m hurt.” 

“Josh I didn’t mean -” 

“I know you didn’t mean to do it.” He cut her off. “You told me why you wanted to break up and I understood. You wanted to let go of the shit he did to you, but how does that shift into you going on two dates with Ray and kissing him Rih? That shit hurt Rih. I felt played and betrayed like I’ve never felt before.” 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, scooting down the lounger, so now her thighs were rating over his. “I thought I was doing the right thing by breaking up with you. I was trying to protect myself. I- then I heard Yara and Thea talking about you and then I actually seen you and her walk into catering that day and I just figured you had moved on, so I thought I should too.” She said, still whisperering so nobody else around them could hear what they were saying. “I never meant to hurt you Joshua.” 

“There is no moving on from you Airi. I never felt like this with anyone else before.” 

“Not even Traci?” 

“Not like this.” He confirmed, cupping her jaw. “I’m in love with you Airielle.” He whispered as their lips touched. 

Josh groaned into Airielle’s mouth, bending his knees a little to grab the back of her thighs, lifting her and hooking them around his waist, as he walked them through the threshold of the villa. He gently laid her down on the bed and watched with hungry eyes as she untied her bikini top and let it fall away from her breast. 

“J, please” She whispered as he kissed down her body. She sat up on her elbows and watched as he got settled between her thighs, lifting her hips to help him take off her bottoms. She felt herself shiver as they made eye contact. 

Josh flicked his tongue out, sliding it against Airielle’s slit and she moaned letting her head and body fall back against the bed.  

He took his time with her, alternating between licking and sucking on her clit. Airielle's hands searched for something to grab, Josh reached one hand up and laced their fingers together placing them on her belly. With his other hand, he teased her entrance with his fingers. 

He pushed his index finger in “Shit” she moaned out as he added another finger, curling them. Airielle let out a loud moan as she came apart. He didn’t stop as she came, pumping his fingers into her faster. Her thighs started to shake as she felt herself about to fall apart again. She moaned, back arching off the bed, chanting his name over and over. She closed her eyes as she came again moaning as she felt herself gush on his fingers.

“Fuck” She moaned as she lay there trying to catch her breath as he started to kiss his way back up her body. 

“You love me?” He asked her, staring deep into her eyes. 

“Yes.” She nodded, “I love you Josh.” She whispered, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as he pushed himself inside of her.

Don't beat me up.. please 🙏🏼 I knowwwww Josh still needs to pay for his sins, BUT airielle needed this, she needed Intimacy

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[puppiesandnightlock]

LINK: lucky i’m in love with my best friend

Summary: Damian knew better then to speak unauthorized to the press, especially after the less than platonic nature of what had just occurred. Oh well, no one expected a normal press conference for a Wayne coming out, not after the last few of them.

prompt that won on the Tumblr poll: "Is Wayne heir Damian Wayne gay?" "I don't know," Damian smirks, grabbing Jon's hand. "Maybe a little."

Theoretically, Damian should have known better than to egg on the press. After all, he’d been raised in the spotlight since his mother had dropped him on his father’s doorstep, trained in PR perfection, and generally had distaste for the scandals or big things his family would cause, purposefully or not. 

But sometimes it was just so hard not to, especially when it was so amusing to see them scouting for any crumb of information, drawing their own far-fetched conclusions that made them seem even stupider to those who knew the truth.

The annual Wayne gala had arrived, and speculations about just who the Wayne boys would be bringing as their dates were up in the air. Reporters were getting antsy as they always did that time of year, sloppily hidden and jumping for scoops. Tabloids were printing off theory after theory, each more laughable than the last, especially about the youngest Wayne. 

This year, Damian was finally considered of age to be taking a proper date, despite the fact that they had never managed to catch him with a romantic partner of any kind—or at least with one of the female variety. 

Reporters swarmed the entrances of the gala, taking pictures and brandishing their microphones like swords. Damian scoffed as he looked outside the tinted window of their limo.

“Vultures, the lot of them.” 

“You’ve had years to get used to it by now.” Tim said from across the car. “Complaining only makes it worse.”

He scowled as his eldest brother pulled him into a headlock, threatening to mess up his delicately arranged hair.

“Lighten up, Baby Bat! Jon goes every year, and I think some of your school friends will show up.”

“Tt.” He made a valiant effort to push his brother away without messing up his outfit, straightening his jacket, and smoothing out the wrinkles that weren’t there.

“Who’re you tryn’ to impress?” Jason snorted, legs crossed over. Damian blessed his training, keeping his face straight and his heartbeat steady while fighting to cool his rising body temperature. 

“Just because I despise these things does not mean I wish to go looking like a slob. Although I suppose the sentiment is not often shared.”

He looked around the car, his father in the corner, Tim on his phone, Duke with his headphones blocking out the conversations, Jason with a book, and Dick at his side scrolling through social media. Cassandra and Stephanie had taken the other limo with Barbara, insisting it was a girls-only deal. Tim had decided to go with Bart, Cassie, and Kon, much to Bruce’s despair, and the three of them would be arriving on their own, in whatever shape Damian couldn’t say. 

No one responded to his quite obvious jab, as was to be expected. His brothers often remarked that he would get prickly in times like these, which was completely preposterous, but that wasn't the point. The point of this was that they were pulling up to the entrance and would be completely bombarded by people who hadn’t anything better to do than ask invasive questions and draw incriminating conclusions.

“Time to face the music!” His father said cheerily, already in his Brucie Wayne, father of six, not including the in-laws persona. 

“Dying again sounds nice, actually.” Jason muttered, shoving Dick out after Bruce. He went next, followed by Tim, Duke, and then Damian himself. 

“Damian, Damian, who’s your date for tonight? You seem to be missing one!”

“Mr. Drake-Wayne, care to comment on the recent Wayne Enterprises partnership?”

“Mr. Wayne, how is your most recent investment?”

They pushed past, stopping only to smile and wave at the cameras, making it safely through the doors and into the ballroom. Damian slipped away as Tim and Bruce were swarmed, with Dick and Duke veering off to the side to meet the girls. Jason had gone off in search of Roy Harper, no doubt, seeing as he’d invited the red-haired man as his date.

He found a relatively nice spot to hide in, scanning the room to see if any of his Gotham Academy schoolmates had been invited and if he had to avoid them. Finding none, he picked up a flute offered by a passing waiter (sparkling cider, goddammit.) and prayed to whatever deity would listen that no old people would come by to remark on how big he was getting and if he’d like to meet their granddaughter?

The dances had long since started, and he amused himself watching his family switch between making fools of themselves and actually being sweet. There was his sister, Cassandra leading Stephanie into an elegant dance, catching the awe of partygoers. 

And then there was Tim’s group, all of whom were failing spectacularly. Damian really didn’t expect much else, simply taking a picture for blackmail. As he was angling his camera, he heard rustling from behind him, making light steps as if someone were barely touching the ground. He relaxed, not even pretending to be surprised as hands came over his eyes and a chin came to rest on his shoulder.

“Guess who!” The voice of his farm boy came to his ears. “You only get one, so make sure it's good.”

“My significant annoyance.” Damian smirked, putting his flute to the side and tapping the hands over his eyes three times in a gentle gesture. 

“If that’s what you’re labeling this.” Jon grumbled, dropping his hands and glancing around to see how hidden they were before slipping his arms around Damian's waist. “I also accept better half, significant other, romantic partner, boyyyyyfriend~”

“Never say it like that again.” Damian sighed, letting the taller boy sway them back and forth to the soft music. 

They had a few seconds of silence before Jon quickly dropped his arms and pushed Damian away. Damian getting the hint and grabbing the flute of cider. The two of them went back into more of the open space, leaving some room between them.

“Hey Mom.” Jon waved, Damian just barked behind him. 

“Mrs. Lane.” He looked to the side. “Father.”

“You can call me Lois, Damian.” She said as she had since the first year of his and Jon's friendship. “Where did you boys disappear to?”

“Not causing any trouble, I hope.” Bruce grinned next to her, reaching out to ruffle his son’s hair. 

Damian dodged, with Jon standing in front of him dutifully. “No, Father. If I wished to cause a scandal, I would have done it by now.”

“I know, son.” Bruce said, tired parent bleeding into his tone. “Just watch what you’re doing. Some of the more bloodthirsty ones are out tonight, and not the ones like the Kents.”

Damian’s nose wrinkled, rolling his eyes and tugging on Jon’s suit jacket. Oh, that was something he hadn’t noticed before. “I understand, Father. However, if I am provoked, I cannot say I will mind my tongue.”

Bruce’s response was lost in the crowd as Damian pulled Jon along, unwilling to lose his partner in the masses. He wound up at a table where his siblings were residing, the two sitting at a respectable distance from each other. 

“Babies of the families!” Dick cheered as they sat down, Jon and Damian with similar expressions of distaste.

They were roped into the conversation, inching closer and closer with each moment. Damian felt an ankle hook over his, and he looked up to see Jon carrying on speaking, waving with his hands and laughing. He would be content to listen to him ramble forever. 

God, he was getting soft.

His other leg was kicked from under the table, and he turned in that direction, defense ready. He dropped it as he realized it was just Cass, who raised a teasing eyebrow at him.

“Have something to say, Cassandra?” He gritted out, daring her to say something. There was a reason Jon and he had kept their relationship under wraps for almost a year, and it certainly wasn’t for the press.

One of Damian’s siblings or Connor would find out and spread it to the next until the entirety of their stupidly large family knew, endlessly hounding both of them for the rest of the year. They would make a big deal out of nothing, insisting they couldn’t go anywhere together without a chaperone or the press seeing them, even though they were 17, dammit.

Cass looked between the two of them, shaking her head but keeping the smug look that had begun to rise. For the love of all that was holy, he hoped there wasn’t an on-going bet that she had just won. His siblings never did tire of humiliating him.

He pulled away from Jon, getting closer to his sister for better privacy. ”You are not to tell anyone; whatever you think is going on is absolutely not.” 

She shrugged at him before motioning to their father on the other side of the room. ”Better to tell now. Press are hungry.”

Better a sweet teen love story than whatever scandal was on the corner? Damian looked around their table, noting the disappearance of some couples, knowing she was correct. Leave it to him to save his siblings’ asses, yet again.

Besides, he’d rather tell them himself than have everyone find out from the gossip chain that was the super-youth community. Now, how to go about it?

”Hey.” Damian tapped on the table to catch Jon’s attention, speaking low enough that only someone with super-hearing could reach. ”Do you remember your ballroom dance lessons?”

A quick, nearly impalpable nod followed. Damian hummed in interest before asking, ”If you think you’re ready, we’ll announce it tonight. Ask me to dance in a few minutes when this dance ends and the other starts.”

The twitch of his lips let Damian know Jon was fighting a smile and struggling to keep his nonchalance, only nodding again.

As the dance ended and the next one began, Jon stood slowly, bowing at the waist in an overly dramatic show, looking up with a grin. 

“May I have this dance, darlin’?” A hand was held out, but he stayed in a bowing position. Murmurs and muffled laughter came from their siblings, Damon rolling his eyes, the action offset by the fond expression and hint of pink on his face.

“I suppose you may.” He placed his hand in Jon’s, following until they were swept into the dance. They could both feel the eyes on them, one more accustomed than the other.

Damian could feel Jon tense and caught his eyes, impossibly blue, flecks of purple highlighting it all. They would always be the thing he could never fully capture in his artwork—icy pools, both still and stormy, pulling him in until he felt like he was drawing in their waters. 

”Don’t mind them; eyes on me, my love.” He murmured, his hand tightening from where it was draped across his shoulder and neck. Jon gave a lopsided smile, spinning them around with the rest of the pairs on the dance floor. 

”Your dad is being followed.” He remarked. ”You know this means we’re going to have to talk to them. Our parents won’t be happy this is how we decided to come out.”

“Better than news getting wind of where Todd and Harper are right now, or someone accusing my father of something.” Damian lowered his voice. “And now I can show you off, beloved. Don’t you want everyone to know I'm yours instead of speculating about all the people I could be dating?”

Jon made a huffing noise, a flush making his freckles more prominent. “You're so mean to me, D.”

“It’s not mean; it’s true.” Damian chuckled as they stepped in time with the slow rhythm. “And I'll use my knowledge of you to my advantage.”

“I'll just have to keep you happy, then.” Jon tapped his forehead with Damian's gently as he turned to face him, the other boy’s cheeks darkening.

They bow to each other as Damian whispers in response, “That shouldn’t be hard; you’ve already done it. You, Jon Kent, have my whole heart, and I have yours, and that is what makes me happy.”

“Oh my God.” Jon pressed a hand to his cheek, his face going red. “You can’t just say things like that in public; I'll explode.”

They stepped off the floor, forgetting momentarily that they had just given a major opening to expose their relationship. No one was making a big deal out of it yet, despite them all noticing. They’d stopped paying attention to the stares fairly quickly, so neither could really tell when they stopped.

Bruce was a few heads away, Lois dragging Clark through the crowds, trying to beat out Vicki Vale, who was on a warpath to them.

“We’re fucked.” Jon muttered to his boyfriend, a rare public curse leaving him. There was one more escape route open, and Damian tugged him towards it, suddenly accosted by a recorder in his face.

”Shit.” Damian backed up into Jon, who stumbled, righting himself and his boyfriend quickly. “Uh, hello? If you’d like an interview, please schedule with my father.

“Please, Mr. Wayne, just a moment of your time.” A reporter in a loose dress shirt and fitted slacks blocked their path, big hoop earrings swinging.

Watching theirs, Damian subconsciously touched the gold cuff in his own ear that connected to a chain in his lobe. “I don’t think I can-”

“Tell me, one question that I know is on everyone’s mind right now-HEY!” They yelped as they were hip-checked to the side—another two recorders in his face now.

Damian looked up in surprise as Vicki Vale replaced the earlier reporter, who was still holding out their recorder. Lois came out of the crowd, pulling her husband by his tie and holding out her own device. Clark had a notepad and a nervous look, scribbling down whatever Lois was telling him to.

"Well, Damian, let’s hear it. Is the Wayne Heir gay?” Vicki waited expectantly, with Lois and the other reporter fuming beside her.

Damian looked at the three black devices in front of him, looked at his father, who was coming up behind him, and then at the Kents, Lois, who was mouthing that he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to.

Then he looked at Jon. His Jon. He was tired of hiding and waiting, and he knew Jon was too. His taller boyfriend gave a tap three times to his arm, a silent permission on his side and a strengthening ‘I love you.’

He shoved down the nerves and willed his hands to stop becoming clammy, smirking at them as he leaned into the microphones.

“I don’t know.” Damian grinned, slipping his hand into Jon’s and squeezing it gently. “Maybe a little.”

Jon covered his mouth with his free hand, trying not to laugh, his mother giving him a nod. The amateur reporter smiled at him, Vicki lunging forward, before Bruce coughed loudly from behind them.

“If I could have a moment with my son, please.” He gave a pointed look at the two of them. ”Withoutrecorders.”

Vicki seemed about to retort; the other reported nodding frantically and scurrying away, not so subtly bumping into her as they passed, causing Vicki to follow after and yell.

“I know I said I wouldn't cause anything with the media, but-” Damian began, stopping as his father placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“While I wish you would have told me first so I could deal with the press properly, I want you to know that I'm proud of you and I love you how you are.”

He paused, confused, before he realized what he had technically just done and what his father was trying to say.

“Oh. Uh, thank you, Father.” 

“I would just like to say that I knew it.” Lois cut in, saving them from further awkwardness. “Jon couldn’t hide a secret about you in his life.”

“Mom!” Jon dropped his face to hide in Damian’s shoulder. “They don’t need to hear about that.”

“I would actually love to.” His boyfriend smirked as he groaned.

“I’m breaking up with you.” Jon informed him, his voice muffled by the suit. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” Damian reached up to tug on his curls. “You would perish without me, farm boy.”

“I would miss you too much.” He lifted his head from where it was buried in his shoulder before flushing and hiding again as his father cleared his throat. 

“Well, as lovely as this all is, you both need to be talked to. And sleepovers are postponed indefinitely. We are going to lay down some ground rules here, since you’re both still living with us.”

Damian sighed, while Jon groaned again. Lois laughed, reaching to ruffle both of their heads, getting the expected complaints. 

"Alright, lover boys, have your night.” She tugged on Bruce's sleeve, and Clark followed them both, leaving Jon and Damian standing in the crowd. 

“Wanna get out of here?” Jon whispered in his ear, his hands resting above his stomach and his chin on his shoulder.

“More than anything.” Damian responded, feeling the table with his siblings burning a hole in the side of his head. 

They untangle themselves from each other, slipping into the crowds and out through a window, Jon zooming them through the cloudy Gotham sky, before landing on one of their favorite spots, the rooftop of a Wayne Enterprise building. He set Damian down gently, sitting next to him, their legs swinging over the edge. 

“Well, we did that.” He bumped his shoulder, entwining his fingers with Damian’s. ”You did that.”

Damian laughed. “We did, didn’t we?”

They fell back into silence, watching the bright city lights shine below them. Damian leaned against him, letting out a breath of air. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to Jon’s, his taller boyfriend parting their hands to tug him closer, and then returned the gesture by kissing his temple.

There would be a media storm to deal with; siblings, parents, friends. But that was something for tomorrow.

Tonight, there were just the two of them, above the city and the lights, away from the cameras, where they could just be. 

[goodqueenaly]

Hello again! Sorry I’m trying to figure out how to make this a question, but if you’re willing to, I’d love to hear any thoughts you have about Myranda Royce? I feel like she’s interesting as a counterpoint to the general depiction of the Vale nobility—it struck me that her open association with “Alayne Stone” could be considered unusual by her contemporaries. Do you think it’s genuine, or being gracious (or both)? Thanks and I hope you are well!

I think Myranda is quite an interesting character! (Long, more under the cut)

On the one hand, Myranda certainly wants to encourage Sansa-as-Alayne to see her as a friend. Throughout their conversation, Myranda asks, indeed demands that Sansa-as-Alayne refer to her as “Randa”, an informal nickname which bridges the class distinction between them (more on that in a bit). Myranda’s genial, self-identified “wicked” gossip, punctuated with laughs and jokes, directly recalls Sansa’s last true experience of female friendship, way back in AGOT - sharing a strawberry pie with Jeyne Poole, “giggling and gossiping and sharing secrets”. Too, as they near the Gates of the Moon, Myranda tells Sansa-as-Alayne of the apartments readied for her but offers to share her own bed with Sansa-as-Alayne, much in the manner of Margaery’s bedsharing with her close-knit cousins. Nor is this proffered friendship an entirely empty hope on the part of Myranda. By TWOW, Sansa is internally referring to Myranda as “her friend”, and when Myranda cheerfully dares Sansa to race the gatehouse by declaring “[l]ast one to the gate must marry Uther Shett”, Sansa laughs and joyfully thinks that “[f]or just a little while … [Sansa] found herself remembering bright cold days at Winterfell, when she would race through Winterfell with her friend Jeyne Poole, with Arya running after them trying to keep up”. Myranda does provide Sansa-as-Alayne, at least eventually, some access to friendship and fun Sansa has not experienced in a very long, very traumatic time; finally, after months turning to years of loneliness, abuse, and fear, Sansa has a young aristocratic woman of an age with her, with whom she can be happy - in fact, feeling “alive again, for the first since her father… [sic] since Lord Eddard Stark had died”.

Yet Sansa cannot embrace Myranda Royce as her friend without complication, given the context in which she is introduced to Myranda. Before Sansa and Myranda Royce ever meet, Littlefinger warns Sansa that she, Sansa, must “be careful” and “[g]uard [her] tongue around [Myranda]”, because while Myranda “likes to play the merry fool … underneath she’s shrewder than her father”. That Sansa takes this warning to heart is reflected in Sansa-as-Alayne’s greeting to Myranda, allowing Myranda to call her “Alayne” but internally adding “you’ll get no secrets from me”.  Indeed, Myranda’s frank conversation, complete with blunt questions, seems to parallel Olenna Tyrell’s similarly staged interview of Sansa at the start of ASOS; just as the shrewd Queen of Thorns weaponized an attitude of uncourtly candor to make Sansa comfortable enough to admit to Joffrey’s monstrousness, so Myranda seems to want to draw information out of Sansa-as-Alayne, particularly to her true identity, by peppering their chat with candid sexual references and choice bits of gossip. To that end, Myranda does appear to succeed: when Myranda seemingly offhand mentions that “the Night’s Watch has a boy commander, some bastard son of Eddard Stark’s”, Sansa-as-Alayne blurts the name “Jon Snow” - an improbable bit of identification for supposedly the bastard daughter of a minor Vale lord, allegedly living in Gulltown with the Faith until relatively recently. (Whether Myranda then later remarks on Sansa-as-Alayne’s “rosy cheeks and big blue eyes” to make a coy reference to the true Sansa’s Tully appearance, or later still tells Sansa-as-Alayne that “[t]he first Lady Waynwood must have been a mare” as a sly allusion to the Waynwood marriage Catelyn says was made by one of Jocelyn Stark’s Royce daughters, are both open, intriguing possibilities.) In the ongoing theme of truth versus lies so central to Sansa’s storyline, Myranda’s search for knowledge is used by Littlefinger to portray her as an antagonist; falsehood and secrecy, literally defining Sansa for the moment in the guise of “Alayne Stone” must perforce divide Sansa from her would-be friend, at least according to Littlefinger. 

Yet Myranda does not simply represent the duality of friendship and animosity for Sansa-as-Alayne. For all her risqué jokes and targeted requests for information, there is I think a good heart to Myranda, most clearly demonstrated in her treatment of Robert Arryn. Before we even meet Myranda on page, Sansa mentally notes that “Robert [would] be pleased” at the news of Myranda’s coming, because “[h]e liked Myranda”, implying not only that Robert has met her before but that Myranda made a good impression in her prior visit(s). While it’s certainly good political sense for any Vale aristocrat to treat the Lord of the Eyrie with respect, Myranda shows Robert genuine warmth and kindness: kneeling to meet him at his level, grandly lying that he had “grown so big” and would “be taller than me soon”, and joining Sansa-as-Alayne in allaying Robert’s fears by agreeing that the Winged Knight could indeed fly “[h]igher than the mountains” - all important actions to take toward a young boy infantalized and dismissed as sickly for virtually his entire eight years of life. Like Sansa, who plays to Robert’s favorite stories of chivalric heroism to encourage his bravery, Myranda offers Robert a rare opportunity for pride in himself in this trek down the mountain. Indeed, Myranda acts exactly as Sansa believes Mya Stone should have - “greet[ing] him with a smile” and “[telling] him how strong and brave he looks” - a positive reflection on both Myranda’s relationship with Robert and her perceptive sense of manners. 

Related to this point, Myranda seems to have a keen and natural grasp of her position; this is a young woman who understands how to be lady of a castle to her fingertips. The little Sansa initially knows of Myranda Royce includes the fact that Myranda “kept her father's castle for him”, and that “it was a much livelier court when she was home than when she was away”. Myranda’s courtly experience is on full display in Sansa’s TWOW sample chapter. When the Waynwood party arrives to the Gates of the Moon, Myranda curtsies to Lady Anya, politely ignores Wallace Waynwood’s stammer, adds some sweetly witty commentary on the upcoming feast and tourney, and informs the Waynwoods of their and their party’s lodging with both grace and tact. Too, while she might continue to provide her cutting opinions privately to Sansa-as-Alayne, Myranda also seems to know where to express herself more subtly: calling to Sansa-as-Alayne for a less rude escape from her Lipps and Shett admirers, and quietly teasing Lyn Corbray (whom Myranda already identified as an unlikely suitor) by piously wishing for a healthy delivery for that Corbray sister-in-law whose pregnancy Lyn resents so much. 

Which, of course, only highlights the (relative) societal knife edge on which Myranda exists. As the daughter of the head of the lesser branch of her family, Myranda already occupies a place lower than that of other Vale blue-bloods - recall Littlefinger’s note to Sansa that Myranda’s father was in part quite willing to believe Littlefinger precisely because he, Nestor, was “very much aware that he was born of the lesser branch of House Royce”. As “a widow, but scarce used”, to borrow her rueful turn of phrase, Myranda has neither the maidenhood so prized by aristocratic Westerosi nor the dynastic investment of a child with her late husband - and by extension, a socially acceptable role(s) as wife and/or mother. Myranda is, in the cold and unfair calculus of Westerosi aristocratic marriage making, a lesser prize - a fact Myranda herself appears to recognize all too well. As she sighs to Sansa-as-Alayne, Myranda cannot determine “whether it was me she [i.e. Anya Waynwood] found unsuitable [for Harry Hardyng], or just my dowry”; too, as Sansa herself picks up, behind Myranda’s japes of Sansa-as-Alayne’s apparent success in being betrothed to Harry, there is the hurt of a young woman brusquely reminded that she was, at least in the estimation of Lady Waynwood, not good enough for such a match. In the zero sum game of Westerosi matchmaking, Sansa-as-Alayne cannot win (again, only in the  sense of a betrothal to a politically very important fiancé) without Myranda losing out on that exact match. 

This tension, in turn, I think as much defines Myranda’s relationship with Sansa as the duality of Myranda as both (potential) friend and foe does for Sansa’s relationship with her.  Myranda has the name and familial credentials, but not the dowry to make good on them or the aristocratic marriage to show for them; Sansa-as-Alayne is (ostensibly) an unlegitimized bastard of a rather upjumped lord, yet she has the great dowry and (as of the start of TWOW) the brilliant future marriage to the heir presumptive of House Arryn. Consequently, when Myranda first meets Sansa-as-Alayne, it is Myranda who condescends (in the most fundamental meaning of the word) to her: “I am 'my lady' at the Gates”, Myranda reminds Sansa-as-Alayne, “but up here on the mountain you may call me Randa”, a quiet reminder that it is Myranda who can waive the privilege of formal address because she herself is automatically entitled to such a style. It is Myranda who sniffs at the “common girl”, not even dignified with a first name, with whom Harry fathered a child; Myranda who thinly veils the bitterness in her observation that “Harry could have done much worse” than marry her, even if she was, as she reflects, widowed and no longer a maiden; and Myranda who declares that she “shan’t concern [herself]” with Sansa-as-Alayne’s “bastard breasts” when comparing their physical appearances. Likewise, it is Myranda who scathingly asks whether Sansa-as-Alayne “ever knew] a Sisterman who could joust”, as according to Myranda “[t]hey clean their swords with codfish oil and wash in tubs of cold seawater” - proper performance of chivalry being so often equated in Westerosi society with aristocratic bearing. These two young women occupy similar, yet opposed, liminal spaces in their society (as I talked about before specifically with Sansa), operating in an aristocratic sphere that at the same time embraces and rejects them, but for very different reasons. 

What I could certainly see is that when (not if) Sansa-as-Alayne is in fact revealed as Sansa Stark in TWOW (ahem, Shadrich), Myranda helps verify Sansa’s true identity (having, again, perhaps puzzled out as much from observing her). More importantly, I hope that Myranda is not in fact an antagonist to Sansa out of some petty sense of jealousy (I had plenty of negative female relationships in F&B, thank you very much), but rather helps undermine Littlefinger’s governing thesis presence in Sansa’s life (before the final denouncement of Littlefinger by Sansa at Winterfell, anyway). For Littlefinger, who values and employs lies and deception as a fundamental aspect of his character, a figure who seeks out truthful information is indeed a disturbing, dangerous individual. Moreover, as a confident and (again, relatively) independently secure aristocratic young woman in her own right, Myranda Royce almost certainly represents to Littlefinger a threat to his isolation of and control over Sansa; just as Cersei separated Sansa from Jeyne Poole in the immediate aftermath of the purge of the Stark household to keep Sansa alone and friendless (remaking with annoyance that “[t]he gods only know what sort of tales she's been filling Sansa's head with” - that is, true stories of the violence and bloodshed of the purge), so I think Littlefinger fears the appearance of a potential friend to Sansa, unconnected to himself, who could begin to influence and encourage her in ways he would not be able to oversee. In perhaps identifying Sansa as a Stark, but then supporting her, Myranda may appear to Sansa as a deliberate rejection of Littlefinger’s description of her as a truth-seeking villain - and, in turn, begin the downfall of Littlefinger himself.