#fire and blood verse

[localechoes]

and before she died, she remembered who she was

[wild0moon]

they are 14 and unmedicated

[unbloodiedmartyr]

never dreamt of such sterile hands. you keep 'em folded in your lap and raise them up to beg for scraps. you know he's holding you down with the tips of his fingers, just the same.

[murmel-malt]

Daera and Viserys presenting baby Rhaenyra to their father Baelon.

a doodle to accompany this Hedaera snippet

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

every time ryan condal talks about the things he did in season two that he's proud of, and then starts explaining them, it just makes things worse.

all i hear is incoherent, meaningless bullshit.

does he ever listen to what he really says?

this is what he had to say about the blood and cheese scene:

“its a big event, and we wanted to cast it in a very real light, that's why we built the idea around a revenge plot against aemond that goes horribly awry.”

“we wanted to make it feel more like a crime caper gone wrong verses these two highly competent psychopaths.”

they took the real horror out of B&C.

he doesn't understand the characters at all and everything that happened in ‘fire & blood.’

that's why season two started and ended up being a disaster.

the only ones saving this show are the actors.

[swordluck]

❝ for you? i will be any believer you want me to be. ❞

They were a most unlikely pair: the Powderkeg, shabby and smouldering, and the Blood Saint, shrouded in virginal white.

Cobblestones glistened in the sickly light of a fat, full moon, each shadow stretched elongated and dark as pitch. They retreated from the main thoroughfare into the pooling darkness of a side street, in the wake of yet another violent encounter.

Laurentius staggered into the backalley, his gait jagged, one hand pressed tight to his side, the other heaving that infernal flamethrower. The iron beast gleamed beneath his fist, slick with the oil of his strange, heretical alchemy. Still, even Anri had to admit there was something noble in the way he lugged its weight, defiance carved into every laboured step.

High, suffocating walls glistened around them, making for a miserable sanctuary – but safety found squatting amongst overflowing bin and empty coffins was safety all the same. Laurentius slid down against the stone, his breathing ragged, boots leaving bloody smears on the ground. Anri flew to his side, every inch the church dove he claimed her to be.

“Stay still,” she instructed, her voice carrying a musical lilt that lent itself to lullabies sung to lonely children. Comparatively harsh was the clink of her satchel, the whisper of her skirts brushing the ground, sullied by the night’s filth.

Without hesitation, she knelt in the grime, hands steady as she unfastened the brass clasp of her bag. The cloudy scent of blood hung between them as she withdrew a transfusion kit, its gleaming syringes and coiled tubes a macabre testament to Yharnam’s ingenuity.

“I offer you no sermon,” she murmured, arranging the apparatus. “Only this.”

At their first meeting, she had saved him, but since then the Powderkeg had put himself between her peach-flesh and the fangs of beasts a dozen times over. There was no need to ask where belief ended, and humanity began.

Laurentius made a sound that might have been a chuckle had it not dissolved into a cough, flecks of red staining the leather of his gloves as he pressed them to his lips.

Anri frowned but said nothing, sliding a needle beneath her skin with terrible ease. A fresh bite among the lattice of bruises and puncture marks that covered the backs of her hands. Laurentius stilled at her proximity, as she gently sought the vein beneath his torn sleeve and pierced him there. The needle slid in with precision, the siphon’s mechanism hissing faintly as her blood began its journey into him – a direct link between the holy and the heretical. Such a thing would be frowned upon by her order, to put in its mildest terms. It was one thing to bleed into vials and cannisters, it was quite another to pour directly into a heathen’s veins.

Star-blue eyes, ringed with dark circles, remained fixed on his face, searching for pain, for change, for some flicker of the monstrous. All she found was weariness and an embers-deep determination.

“You should consider yourself lucky. What runs in you now is a nectar normally reserved for those of faith.”

The absurdity of the moment seemed to catch up with Laurentius, and this time his soft, rasping laugh did not evade him.

“For you? I will be any believer you want me to be.”

Anri allowed herself the barest smile, and might have blushed had she not been bleeding out, bleeding into him. When the transfusion finished, she wiped the wounds with a handkerchief, her trembling fingers brushing his wrist briefly before retreating. Laurentius flexed a soot-stained hand, testing the restoration of strength, then rose. His shadow loomed over her, a hulking silhouette against the moon’s pallid glow. Only hours before, Anri would have startled as the dark swallowed her – him, a Powderkeg, and the night so full of terror. Now, she looked up at him with something approaching warmth.

“Laurentius,” she said softly, the name an anchor against the foul dark. “You need only believe in us – and in our ability to survive this night.”

[zobriezalarys]

things daemon has managed in his green verse: security for baela and rhaena, not sending them away to another continent. a possible velaryon/targaryen marriage to turn corlys to their side, another marriage proposal for the other daughter with either a lysani prince or prince of pentos. and will suggest a marriage of jaehaera to aegon iii.

[azmenka]

also small list of reasons why Maron is forever more likely to be Team Green, aside from the fact that he seems to think the kids are puppies that need saving for some reason . . .

he is more likely to be made Master of Ships without having to compete with Corlys. which, lbr, is something he really doesn't wanna do. he respects no man or god, but the Sea Snake is someone he genuinely admires in a slightly antagonistic way so he wouldn't wanna get in his way. queue later conflict of interests ofc but tbh that's the crown's problem, not his.

although his HOTD verse is based on him replacing Dalton, he's not as insane and bloodthirsty as Dalton is in canon and thus cannot be lured in with a simple promise of bloodshed. he's not basic like that, sorry.

the simple idea of beheading a small child. a toddler. in front of his mother. is so horrifying even to him that he absolutely doesn't wanna associate with anyone doing that. like, his morals are as wonky as Viserys' teeth a week pre-death but this is going too far, even for him.

he has better chances of gaining Aegon's favor, as compared to Rhaenyra's, because one look suffices and he knows Aegon has no fucking clue what he's doing.

speaking of looks: he took one of those at Daemon and immediately went "ahahaha yeah no, that one's a cunt and I'm not dealing with that".

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

After all- life is interesting when you’re furious! 

("Fury" by Yevgeny Yevtushenko. Inspired by @birdgeon)

[grcvewctcher]

It's vividly tactile, the way her hands drift up and over his shoulders to his chest, her palms smoothing down his vest as wayward digits slip between fastened buttons to reach his skin. Her touch is salacious, lightly pulling his dress shirt's tuck from his trousers. He can feel her breath on his neck as she presses her chest tightly to his back.

" Do you miss me? " her voice whispers, barely audible, nearly gulped into his ear as full lips brushing over the shell of it. He can only nod, the intimacy overwhelming as he tries to turn to kiss her but her grip halts him.

Her grip starts to tighten on his chest, almost uncomfortably so as a rattle croaks from her lungs. It's then he notices how cold her touch is, his own quick to pull it free from his chest to try to warm it between both of his but the limb evaporates into green smoke. Much like the way her magic faded. He finally turns to look behind him to find she's laying beside him—wearing the armor he last saw her in. Her skin is snow white, dark circles almost bruising against her scarred face as she pleads with tears in her eyes,

" Then where am I, dragul meu? Why have you left me here? "

But the sound of a grating voice rips the nightmare away—

" Volkarin! You've been laying there for hours, wake up! " Hezenkoss's booming voice wipes the image of her clean, and leaves behind only a spiral staircase and the empty space beside him.

@berthindeath got their revenge i fear

The dream starts something as relief, his sleeping, exhausted mind not processing the truth, not processing what has truly been happening. She is here, she's with him, and-

And that's all that matters, right now, isn't it? He could weep for the relief of it, for the love of her. It's so strong that his mind brushes right over the warning bells in his mind, through the tiny voice whispering that something is wrong; that he's forgetting something, that it's something important, Gwen is...

But she's so cold, and almost desperately he tries to move, the moment of trying to kiss her forgotten, only wishing to warm her, only wishing to try and grant her comfort. She's been through something, hasn't she? Hasn't something happened?...

And then she fades into green mist, and reality crashes into him like a wrecking ball. Quickly he spins, heart in his throat- and she looks like someone who has been tortured. Emmrich stares at her and cannot bear it, cannot breathe for the way he intrinsically knows he's failed to protect her. He's failed her.

"Gwen-" he whispers, frantic, as he realizes; this is how she looked when he'd found her in Tylus' dungeon. This pallor, this horrible pain and chill. On instinct, he reaches for her, reaches for a cloak that he is not wearing, irreverent of the armor she wears, of that she is not in that dungeon-

He doesn't know where she is. He doesn't know what she's going through. "My darling, please- I- I will find you, I promise, please-" It matters not that this is not her, that this is the Fade or some spirit preying upon his pain, preying upon his desperation, for a moment all that matters is comforting her. Finding her. All that matters is finding her. "I won't leave you- I am searching, I will never stop, please, beloved, hold strong-" His voice cracks, desperate and pain-wracked as his hands just cannot grasp her, cannot reach her.

He startles awake and he doesn't know if he's relieved or horrified.

"Ah!" he rolls almost out of bed, almost falls to the floor, before catching himself- and stifling the sob that tries to tear from his lungs, that drowning grief, that burning fear tearing into him anew. Rest did not help them. Nothing did.

"- Quite right. I must- return to work," he murmurs, voice distant even to his own ears, as he forces himself to his feet. "I've rested more than long enough." He couldn't stop.

The person- the love- that he's waited his entire life for needs him. He cannot stop.

[perfectmetaphore]

Plotted starter for @cxptainflint

"There he is! Get him!" He is running for his life, sprinting through the forest, fighting through the thick snow as he hears the howling of dogs approaching from behind. This is it. His story ending before it even has the time to begin.

Next thing, he is falling. Falling into the abyss where nothing else awaits him but a certain death

It's so fucking cold. This is the first pinch of reality. The moistness of the pillow which his head rests upon. Then the damn brightness around, even despite the rainy clouds, the world is far too bright. He curls and uncurls his fingers, clawing at the wet dirt under his fingernails. ( what a familiar feeling )

The sound falling from his lips is more towards a whimper than anything, like a wounded animal trying its damndest to will the body into movement. ( you have to move )

He pushes himself up, eyes squinting at the world, then collapses back onto the ground. ' fuck ' is uttered under his breath. Good God, but his head hurt, as if someone decided to send up firework behind his eyes. A sob follows, then a deep breath, once more he makes an attempt to push himself up. Slowly but surely. ( get up )

It takes some time, but several trials and errors later, and he is almost on his feet. Eyes squinting at the world around him, grasping at a tree branch with an iron grip. Victory is short lived, however, for his legs give up under him, and a new sharp pain shoots from his side, as he collapses back to the ground on his knees so hard his teeth clatter. ( pathetic )

Bile rises in his throat, the nausea so strong he has to truly fight against the need to spill his guts all over the ground. "Shitshitshitshit..." He touches his forehead and through his blurry vision, he can see his fingers slick with blood. ( that explains a lot )

He sits for a moment. Tears staining his grime-covered face. Arms hanging uselessly at his sides, as his head tilts back to stare at the falling rain. This pain... he's felt it before... funny how the brain makes you forget such trauma. ( breathe, john )

"This is just perfect..."

[heterochromatica]

Anonymous asked: The league should have kept that insolent brat, he really belongs with them, how can you defend a bully? He's more a villain than a hero with that quirk!

It feels like a moment of blind rage. The fire that burns in his chest becoming almost unbearable. He can't take it anymore. If this is proving them right, so be it. Enough is enough. He doesn't wanna hear it anymore. He can't take it anymore.

It's what makes him spin around and before he knows it, he has taken a hold of the guys shirt and his fist comes down on his ugly mug, punching him square in the face. "That so called villain has been risiking his life for people in need and unfortunately for pieces of shit like YOU, while you did nothing with your pathetic yapping, so how about you shut your trap or I'll shut if your you!!!"

Shotos fist comes back aching, knuckles growing icy crystals, steaming from the heat on his skin, wafts of smoke emitting from his hair. It hurts. It hurts so much but before he can bring his fist down again-- someones hands take a hold of him and pull him back. The guy stumbles, away from him, now making a mess of himself with his own blood. And Shoto doesn't fight it, feeling lightheaded and nauseous, but that's okay for now.

[truly-quirkless]

Yagi wheezed, his fist dragging on the ground. He'd managed to trip- over nothing, no less- and land front-first on the pavement. It wouldn't be quite so bad, if it weren't for the fact that the startle of the fall had triggered a cough...and he'd hit the ground pretty hard...so now there was a massive pool of red in front of him as he struggled to stand.

"...damnit..."

[murmel-malt]

a few concepts for Hedaera's wardrobe, including a maternity and travel/outdoors-y fit

[onigiram]

TAGS. i didn't like the other ones asjbfjbsdjgb

[phoenixduelist]

An almost top secret level headcanon: Rozália has a twin brother called András Farkas.

Only four people knew of the twins' existence: Gemma who shortly died from blood loss after birth, Bulcsú the father whose decision was to separate them to ensure the bloodline's survival, Marcell who hid the child and his sister Julianna who watched over him.

Bulcsú picked Rozália despite the gender because she was a large, healthy baby and her cry reminded him of a lion. While András was...peaceful, quiet. Small compared to his sister. He only trusted Marcell with his secret, the boy should not know his origin unless absolutely necessary.

András also has green eyes, although with much more blue undertones than Rozália's almost otherworldly emerald green spiked with golden. Due to the massive difference of life and mental state, his features, his face is more gentle, his gaze is brimming with kindness, so does his heart. András knows Julianna as his mother, he was told his father died in a late Ottoman attack. He was raised to be a good man, and Julianna definitely succeeded even with the guilt slowly eating her. Now he is married to a golden hearted lady of his dreams, not of status but the daughter of the village's tailor. His family grew with five children, three daughters and two sons.

With how Rozália has turned out, changed for the worse after the dungeon, Marcell is content with taking this secret to the grave. As much as he loves Rozália like she was his own, he isn't blind to her ruthless ambition and demonic cruelty. He knows if she ever finds out, blood will flow, lives will be snuffed out without mercy and no second thoughts.

And Marcell is right. Especially if she learns this in her Queen verse, a brief interlude of madness spiked breakdown. Because this for Rozália would mean:

Two men, one her actual, the other her sworn father lied to her in their entire lives

If her father picked András instead of her, none of her suffering would've happened. She could've lived a happy, quiet life. Could've had a family she doesn't have to protect with all of wit, strength, rage, skill.

His existence is a threat to everything she's achieved. The knowledge of him could erase all of her hard work even if he wants to stay away from politics and continue being a happy farmer. He's threat no matter what because he's a man and inexperienced regarding ruling, not the cunning chess player she is. And she is both smart and ruthless enough to know that.

Therefore he must be gone as if he never existed, no matter how good the cover is. She's been found multiple times on the seas, the chance increases significantly in a relatively small kingdom. Along with everyone who knew him. She is incapable of killing Marcell; the morning shift would find the captain of the guards in his room with a blade in his heart and his own hand still tight around the grip.

The Devil would visit her brother when he's returning from the market a little later than usual, searching for his wife's favorite flowers. András would learn his true ancestry and no matter how he swears he has no intentions of going near her throne, Rozália's mind is long made up. He would try to reason he has a family. The last thing he'd hear is not to worry, they will join him soon. And they will, the wife, the children; all corpses found after the fire of their house had died down. Julianna? Poor old thing's heart probably gave up when she learned. As a broken windpipe isn't too noticeable.