#fire debt

[mostlysignssomeportents]

But HP is still in business. Apple is still in business. Google is still in business. Microsoft is still in business. IBM is still in business. Facebook is still in business.

We don’t have those controlled burns anymore. Yesterday’s giants tower over all, forming a thick canopy. The internet is “five giant websites, each filled with screenshots of the other four.”

These tech companies have produced a lot of fire-debt. Over and over, they erupt in flames—in this short decade alone, every one of our tech giants has experienced a privacy scandal that should have permanently disqualified it from continuing to enjoy our patronage (and I do mean every one of them, including the one that spends millions telling you that it’s the pro-privacy alternative to the others).

Privacy is just one way that these firms are enshittifying themselves. There are the ghastly moderation failures, the community betrayals, the frauds and the billions squandered on follies.

We hate these companies. We hate their products. They are always on fire. They can’t help it. It’s the curse of bigness.

Companies cannot unilaterally mediate the lives of hundreds of millions — or even billions — of people, speaking thousands of languages, living in hundreds of countries.

- Let the Platforms Burn: The Opposite of Good Fires is Wildfires

[crazyness-overpowers]

something about the mirror of haymitch stepping in to pull katniss out of being completely idiotic and getting herself horribly hurt when gale is being lashed and burdock being the one who laid flat on haymitch’s chest to physically stop him from running into his house when his family was burning

[annabelle--cane]

you doing alright bestie? you reblogged 'guild complex? i find it quite simple' 4 times

actually it was five times

[novaursa]

A Debt Paid (2/2)

- Summary: A story where a dragon underestimates the ambition of a lion.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: 1/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @melsunshine @idenyimimdenial

The days that followed Daemon’s return to the Small Council had been nothing short of a quiet war in the halls of the Red Keep. Whispers followed every step he took, servants murmuring behind their hands, lords casting uneasy glances in his direction, while Otto Hightower did everything within his power to mask his mounting frustration. But Daemon thrived in it, reveling in the tension he had brought back to court like a storm rolling through the palace, unpredictable and undeniable.

And through it all, Tyland had watched.

He had played his role, as he always did, listening and observing, weighing every shift in power, every glance exchanged in council chambers, every carefully worded response from the king. Daemon had not overstepped—yet. Instead, he remained at Viserys’s side, speaking in low tones when decisions were being made, slipping his influence back into the very seat from which Otto had sought to banish him.

It was a victory, and yet—Tyland could not shake the sense of unease that had settled over him.

Not because of Daemon. Not because of Otto.

But because of her.

You had not called for him. Not once since Daemon had taken his seat among the council again. Not a summons, not a secretive note, not even a glance in his direction when they crossed paths in the halls.

At first, he had told himself it was nothing. You had achieved what you had set out to do. The game had been played, the board reset, and now you no longer had a use for him. That was the way of court, was it not? Alliances formed and broken with the changing of tides. Perhaps he had merely been a convenient piece for you to move when necessary.

And yet, despite his pragmatic mind, despite the years he had spent in court learning to temper foolish notions of expectation, Tyland found himself seeking you out.

It was an unspoken thing at first. His gaze would skim the gathered lords and ladies during courtly feasts, seeking that unmistakable glint of silver-gold hair among the crowd. When he passed through the corridors of the Red Keep, he found himself glancing down the long stretches of stone, watching for a flicker of movement, for the swish of a dark gown against the torchlight.

And now, standing at the edge of the throne room, he watched you from across the court.

You were seated beside Rhaenyra, your laughter light as you whispered something in her ear, your delicate fingers tracing the rim of a goblet filled with rich Dornish red. Your expression was unreadable—relaxed, untouched by the currents shifting around you. The picture of effortless grace.

As if you had not unraveled him with a single look.

As if you had not spent nights tangled in sheets with him, your voice a whisper in the dark, promising debts to be repaid, favors exchanged in shadows.

Tyland exhaled slowly, gripping the hilt of his dagger where it rested against his belt. He told himself it was absurd. You are a Lannister. Do not chase ghosts in the halls of dragons.

And yet, as if drawn by some unseen thread, you turned your head.

Your gaze met his, steady, unwavering.

A moment stretched between you, silent, charged.

And then—your lips curved into the faintest, most knowing smile.

Tyland inhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the dagger’s hilt.

Perhaps the game was not yet finished after all.

The Red Keep was quiet at this hour, wrapped in the hush of midnight, the usual hum of voices and footfalls reduced to nothing but the distant crackling of torches and the occasional echo of armor shifting as the guards made their rounds. Tyland Lannister knew the routine well—how the watch changed posts just before the hour turned, creating the briefest of lapses in their patrols, a moment where the eyes upon the halls flickered elsewhere.

He moved through the dim corridors with the precision of a man accustomed to slipping through spaces unseen, his crimson cloak left behind in favor of dark leathers, his footfalls softened against the cold stone. This was not the way a lord should behave—not the way the Master of Ships or a trusted councilor of the king should conduct himself—but Tyland had never shied away from risk when the reward was worth it.

And you were worth it.

Reaching your chambers, he paused just long enough to ensure the corridor was clear before slipping inside, closing the door behind him with practiced ease. The fire was still burning, its glow licking at the walls, casting shifting shadows over the rich tapestries and silken sheets that adorned the space. The air was thick with warmth, scented faintly with lilies and something unmistakably you.

And as always, you were awake.

You sat near the window, the moonlight tracing over the pale column of your throat, pooling silver in your hair. You did not look up in surprise, nor did you startle at the sound of the door’s latch settling back into place. Instead, you simply let out a quiet breath, turning your head ever so slightly, your expression unreadable but your amusement unmistakable.

“I was wondering when you would finally break,” you murmured, your voice as smooth as the silk that lined your bed.

Tyland smirked, shaking his head as he stepped further inside. “You assume much, princess.”

You lifted a brow. “Do I?”

You watched him, those violet eyes of yours cutting through the dim light like twin embers. Your gaze was patient, knowing, as if you had seen the battle warring within him long before he had even admitted it to himself.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his golden hair before meeting your gaze again. “You struck a deal with me,” he said, voice low, controlled. “A favor for a favor. The debt was paid.”

You hummed in agreement, tracing your fingers along the carved edge of your seat. “Yes,” you said simply. “It was.”

Tyland swallowed, resisting the urge to run his tongue over his lips, to drag his hands through his hair again in frustration. He had played this game for years—had navigated court politics, secured deals with men far more dangerous than himself, brokered alliances that shaped the realm. And yet, standing here, before you, he felt unsteady in a way he could not quite name.

“I can still be of use to you,” he murmured.

Your lips twitched at the edges, the ghost of a smirk playing there. “Oh?”

Tyland took another step forward, closing more of the space between you. “The court is shifting,” he pressed, his voice softer now, as if speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile thread tethered him to you in this moment. “Otto Hightower does not sit idle when the board tilts against him. He will strike back, and when he does, you will need more than Daemon’s temper to hold your ground.”

You tilted your head, considering him. “And you would offer yourself as my shield?”

Tyland shook his head. “I am no knight.”

“No,” you murmured, amusement flickering in your gaze. “You are something far more useful than that.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with something neither of you were quite willing to name.

Then, slowly, you stood.

Tyland watched as you moved toward him, unhurried, graceful, your sheer robe shifting against your skin with each measured step. When you stopped before him, close enough that he could see the moonlight reflecting in your eyes, you lifted a hand, tracing the edge of his collar with idle fingers.

“You are persistent,” you mused.

Tyland inhaled, his hands twitching at his sides, resisting the urge to touch you, to claim what had already consumed his thoughts for far too long. “I am patient,” he corrected, though his voice was rougher now.

You smiled then, slow and knowing. “Are you?”

And then, before he could respond, before he could steel himself against the pull of you, you leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw, the faintest of touches, the barest hint of warmth.

Tyland’s breath caught, his resolve snapping like a thread pulled too tight.

His hands found your waist, his grip firm, possessive, and before he could stop himself, he murmured against your ear, his voice laced with something between warning and promise: “This time, I will name the terms of the bargain.”

And you—Targaryen blooded, dragon-hearted, untouchable to so many—laughed. Low, rich, utterly delighted.

“You may try, my lion,” you purred, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “But I fear it is far too late for that.”

And as he captured your lips with his own, as your hands pulled him deeper into your world, into the fire that burned beneath your skin, Tyland Lannister finally understood—

He had never stood a chance.

Tyland did not waste a moment. The instant your lips met his, all pretense of restraint crumbled, replaced by the hunger that had simmered beneath the surface since the first time you had drawn him into your web. His hands, rough and heated, made quick work of the silk that draped your form, slipping the fabric from your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet like a discarded offering. Your skin was warm beneath his touch, burning even, the heat of you pulling him deeper, demanding more.

Your fingers were not idle either. You tore at the clasps of his doublet, your impatience showing through the fevered way your hands moved over him. “You did not say,” you murmured between kisses, your lips tracing along the line of his jaw, down his throat, teeth grazing just enough to make him shudder. “What terms were you planning to name?”

Tyland let out a low, breathless chuckle, dragging his fingers down your spine, feeling the way you pressed into him, as if drawing every last bit of warmth he had to offer. “You are a vixen,” he muttered against your lips, nipping at the bottom one before gripping your waist and lifting you in one swift motion.

A surprised gasp left you, followed by laughter as he set you down on the nearby wooden table, the polished surface cool against your bare thighs. The amusement in your gaze was unmistakable, but so was the heat, the desire that flickered in those violet depths, watching him as though he were something to be devoured.

He spread your legs apart with his knee, stepping between them, his hands gripping the curve of your hips. “And yet you are here,” you teased, voice lilting, though it caught slightly when his fingers trailed lower, parting you, teasing but not yet giving.

Tyland smirked, reveling in the way your body reacted to him, in the way you leaned forward ever so slightly, already seeking more. He let his lips graze the shell of your ear as he murmured, “My terms were simple.”

You let out a quiet hum, pretending to consider. “Oh?”

His grip on your hips tightened, just enough to make you gasp. “You are mine,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “That is the only term I care for.”

Your laughter was wicked, delicious, your nails scraping lightly down his back as you pulled him closer. “A lion, laying claim to a dragon,” you mused, tilting your head, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “How very bold of you.”

Tyland did not waste another word. He guided himself against you, the heat of him pressing insistently, demanding, yet still holding onto that last sliver of control. He waited, just for a moment, watching you, waiting for the next tease to leave your lips, the next challenge—

And there it was, the slow, knowing smirk that curled at the corners of your mouth as you reached for him, your fingers curling into the fabric still clinging to his shoulders. “Well?” you murmured, voice thick with amusement and desire. “Are you going to take what is yours, or do you mean to make me wait?”

That was all it took.

Tyland let out a sharp curse, his patience shattering as he pushed into you in one smooth motion, swallowing the gasp that left your lips with his mouth against yours. You were hot, tight, and the sensation threatened to undo him entirely, but he held on, just for a moment, savoring the feel of you wrapped around him, the reality of this—of you.

For all your teasing, your composure faltered for a brief moment, your breath stuttering as your fingers dug into his back. And Tyland—ever observant, ever the man who saw things others missed—noticed.

Smirking, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Where is your wit now, princess?” he murmured, rolling his hips just enough to make you shudder.

You bit your lip, but the defiance was still there, flickering through your pleasure-lidded gaze. “Still here,” you breathed, shifting your hips, meeting him stroke for stroke. “I fear you will have to try harder, my lion.”

Tyland chuckled, low and dangerous.

“Gladly.”

And with that, he began to move in earnest, losing himself to the fire that only you could ignite.

The chamber of the Small Council was thick with the scent of parchment and candle wax, the air carrying the quiet hum of men murmuring over affairs of the realm. It had been a moon since Daemon’s return, and the tides of power had shifted more than most at court were willing to acknowledge.

King Viserys, once a man easily swayed by the steady, honeyed words of Otto Hightower, had begun to listen elsewhere. Not to his Hand, but to the men who offered him something different—an alternative voice, a counter to Otto’s endless insistence on caution and control. And more often than not, that voice belonged to Tyland Lannister.

It had not been a rapid change, nor an overt one. Tyland had been careful. Precise. He never opposed Otto outright, never made the mistake of challenging him too boldly. Instead, he wove himself into the king’s favor with quiet consistency, offering solutions where Otto only offered warnings, making observations that drew Viserys into thoughtful consideration, rather than dismissals.

And it was working.

Now, as the council gathered once more to discuss matters of trade, of coin, of the ever-lingering unrest beyond Westeros’s borders, Viserys found himself nodding along more often to Tyland’s words than to Otto’s. It was a subtle shift, but one that had not gone unnoticed.

Least of all by Otto himself.

The Lord Hand sat stiff in his chair, his fingers curled tightly over the arms of his seat, his expression schooled but unmistakably tense. Tyland did not need to look directly at him to know that the man was simmering, that he had begun to see what was happening. That the king’s ear was no longer only his.

And then, as the discussion drew to a close, Viserys exhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair with an expression of pleased satisfaction. “Lord Tyland,” he said suddenly, turning his gaze toward him.

Tyland lifted a brow, inclining his head. “Your Grace?”

The king smiled, gesturing lightly toward him. “You have served the Crown well. Your counsel has been of great benefit, and your loyalty has not gone unnoticed.”

Tyland remained impassive, his hands clasped before him as he listened.

Viserys continued, his tone warm, genuine. “It is rare to find a man who serves not only with ambition, but with reason. You have proven yourself to be such a man.” He paused, tilting his head. “Tell me, my lord—how would you have me reward your service?”

The room fell silent.

Otto’s lips thinned, his gaze steady and unreadable. The others, Lyonel Strong, Beesbury, Jasper Wylde, all turned their eyes toward Tyland with measured curiosity.

Tyland exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his expression carefully neutral. He had anticipated this moment—planned for it. He had spent weeks cementing his place within Viserys’s good graces, ensuring that when the time came, when the king’s favor was within reach, he could take what he wanted.

And so, he did.

“If it pleases Your Grace,” Tyland said smoothly, his voice even, betraying none of the tension curling in the room, “I would ask for the hand of your niece, Princess Y/N Targaryen.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a moment, not a single man at the table moved. Beesbury blinked, as if uncertain he had heard correctly. Lyonel Strong shifted slightly in his chair, his brows lifting in surprise. Otto Hightower remained utterly still, but the tightening of his jaw was unmistakable.

Viserys, caught between surprise and uncertainty, blinked at him, his mouth parting as if to speak but finding no immediate words.

And then—Daemon laughed.

It was not a mere chuckle or an amused smirk. It was full-bodied, rich and unapologetic, his head tilting back slightly as he let out a sound of pure, unfiltered amusement. His silver hair fell across his face as he shook his head, a wicked grin carved into his features.

“Oh,” Daemon exhaled, smirking as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “That is bold, my lord.”

Tyland did not flinch under the weight of his gaze, nor did he acknowledge the murmurs now rippling through the council. Instead, he remained poised, composed, his green eyes steady as they met Viserys’s.

The king exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the table, his expression uncertain. “That is… quite the request, Lord Tyland.”

Tyland inclined his head. “It is, Your Grace. And yet, it is a request made in good faith.”

Viserys’s brow furrowed, his gaze flickering briefly toward Daemon before returning to Tyland. “And what, may I ask, has prompted such a request?”

Tyland did not hesitate. “The princess is of marriageable age,” he stated plainly. “And she is deserving of a match befitting her station.” He paused, his voice steady. “I believe I can offer her one.”

Daemon smirked, his violet eyes gleaming. “Do you, now?”

Tyland turned his gaze toward him, his expression unreadable. “I do.”

The prince leaned back, studying him. “And tell me, my lord, do you love my daughter?”

There was something dangerous in his tone, something deceptively light but sharp beneath the surface.

Tyland did not flinch. “I respect her,” he answered evenly. “I desire her. And I believe we would be well-matched.” He let his words settle before adding, “But I do not believe love to be the foundation upon which great houses build their alliances.”

Daemon chuckled, shaking his head. “A Lannister to the bone,” he murmured.

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temple, still seemingly unsure how to process the request before him. “This is… unexpected,” he admitted.

Tyland bowed his head. “Perhaps. But it is not unreasonable.”

Silence stretched again.

Otto Hightower, silent all this while, finally spoke, his voice measured, tight. “The princess’s hand is no small matter. Her match must be considered carefully.”

Daemon grinned. “Oh, I think it has been.”

Otto ignored him, his eyes fixed on Viserys. “Your Grace, I would advise—”

Viserys lifted a hand, silencing him. He inhaled deeply, his expression still clouded with uncertainty. “I must consider this.”

Tyland inclined his head once more, unbothered. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Daemon, still grinning, merely leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming idly against the table as he looked toward Tyland with something that almost resembled respect.

Almost.

The game had changed.

And Tyland Lannister had just made his boldest move yet.

The private dining chamber was warm, the rich scent of roasted meats and spiced wine curling through the air. A modest spread had been laid before you—freshly baked bread, thick slices of venison dripping in butter, honeyed figs, and a flagon of Dornish red. It was a rare occasion, to dine in such intimacy with your father, without the scrutiny of court, without the weight of watchful eyes pressing upon you both.

Daemon sat across from you, his silver hair falling loosely over his shoulders, his goblet turning idly in his hand as he studied you with his usual air of amusement. There was something almost lazy in the way he lounged against his chair, but you knew better—Daemon was never truly at ease, even when he appeared to be. He was watching you, as he always did, waiting to see how you would react before he decided how much of his mind to share.

You raised your goblet to your lips, taking a slow sip before setting it down. “You have that look,” you mused, breaking the silence between you.

Daemon smirked. “And what look would that be?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him as he studied you. “Like you have something to say but are debating whether to amuse yourself by drawing it out.”

Your father let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You know me too well, daughter.” He paused, savoring another sip of wine before leaning forward slightly. “Tell me, what do you think of Lord Tyland Lannister?”

Your fingers stilled against the stem of your goblet.

It was not an unusual question—not on the surface. Tyland had made his presence known in court more than ever these past moons, his influence growing with each passing council session. But something in the way Daemon asked it, the deliberate nature of his tone, made you pause.

You chose your words carefully. “He is… capable,” you admitted. “Shrewd. Calculating. Unlike his brother, he does not let arrogance rule his judgment.”

Daemon hummed, swirling the wine in his cup. “A fair assessment.” He tilted his head, watching you closely. “And do you find him agreeable?”

You raised a brow. “What an odd thing to ask.”

Your father’s smirk deepened, his amusement sharpening at the edges. “Is it?”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach tighten, though not in unease. In awareness.

You leaned back slightly, lifting your goblet once more, your gaze never leaving his. “If you wish to say something, father, I would advise you to do so plainly.”

Daemon chuckled again, setting his cup down with a quiet clink against the wood. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make you wait, just long enough to let the anticipation curl in the air between you.

And then, he said it.

“In return for his service to the crown,” Daemon mused, watching your face with pointed interest, “Tyland Lannister asked for your hand.”

The words hung in the air, thick and weighted.

You did not react immediately, though the pause in your movement was telling enough. Slowly, deliberately, you set your goblet down, your fingers trailing idly along the rim as you processed the revelation.

You knew Tyland was an ambitious man. You had known from the moment he agreed to your bargain that he was not one to act without purpose, without benefit. But even you had not anticipated this.

Your eyes flicked back to your father’s, searching his expression. “And what did my uncle say?”

Daemon smirked, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest. “Viserys was taken aback, as you might imagine. He had not expected such a request.” His grin widened. “But he did not refuse it outright.”

You considered that. Viserys was a man who often leaned toward caution, who avoided confrontation where he could. The fact that he had not immediately dismissed the notion spoke volumes.

“And Otto?” you asked.

Daemon let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Oh, the Lord Hand was seething.” He took another sip of wine, grinning. “I dare say he had hoped to use you as a piece in his game, and now another man has moved first.”

You exhaled slowly, tilting your head. “And you?”

Daemon’s amusement did not falter, but his gaze sharpened slightly, the teasing edge tempered with something more thoughtful. “I find it interesting,” he admitted. “Tyland is not a fool. He knows what it means to ask for a Targaryen princess. He knows the weight of such a request.” He paused. “And yet, he still made it.”

You studied him, waiting for the rest.

Daemon smirked. “Which means one of two things,” he mused. “Either he is so deeply ambitious that he wishes to tie himself to our house for power alone…” He let the words linger before his smirk widened. “Or he wants you.”

Your stomach twisted, though you kept your expression schooled.

Daemon watched you, eyes gleaming with unspoken amusement. “So, daughter,” he drawled, propping his chin on his fist, “which do you think it is?”

You met his gaze without flinching, though your fingers curled slightly against the wood of the table. “Perhaps both,” you murmured.

Daemon laughed, delighted. “Oh, I like that answer.”

You exhaled slowly, reaching for your wine once more, letting the taste of it settle on your tongue. Tyland Lannister had made his move.

And now, you would have to decide how you would play yours.

The chamber was filled with the thick, heady scent of sweat and firelight, the air heavy with the sound of ragged breathing, of bodies moving in tandem, the gasp of pleasure melting into a low, breathless chuckle. The silk sheets beneath you were tangled, half-dragged from the bed in the fervor of your passion, your limbs wrapped around Tyland’s bare form, his golden hair falling loose around his face as he braced himself above you. His skin was slick with the heat of your coupling, his breath warm against your throat as his lips traced along the column of your neck, lingering at the pulse point before dragging lower.

His movements were fervent, unrestrained, the slow and steady control he so often wielded in court utterly abandoned in the shadows of your chambers. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he drove himself into you with measured precision, each thrust pushing you further toward the brink, drawing moans from your lips that only seemed to fuel the fire in his gaze.

You felt it, the urgency in him, the way his body sought to claim and possess, the way he buried himself deeper each time, as if he meant to brand himself into you, to ensure that even in sleep, even in absence, you would still feel him.

And yet, despite the fevered pace, despite the way his mouth sought yours again and again, you found your mind drifting—drifting to the words you had been wanting to say since the night your father had spoken them to you.

A slow smirk curled at your lips, your fingers trailing along his back, nails raking lightly down the ridges of muscle, drawing a low groan from his throat. “My lion,” you purred, voice thick with amusement and desire, your breath hot against his ear. “Did you truly ask for my hand from the king in front of his entire small council?”

Tyland stiffened for the briefest of moments, his rhythm faltering just enough for you to notice before he recovered, his grip tightening on your hips as he drove into you with renewed force. “You have an unfortunate habit,” he murmured against your skin, his lips ghosting along your jaw, “of discussing politics at the most inconvenient times.”

You let out a breathy laugh, arching against him, deliberately meeting his thrust with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. “Is that a complaint?”

His teeth grazed along the sensitive skin beneath your ear, a low growl vibrating in his chest. “Far from it,” he muttered.

You hummed, your fingers trailing up to tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Then answer me,” you teased, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze, your violet eyes gleaming with mischief. “Did you truly ask my uncle for my hand?”

Tyland exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. “Would it displease you if I had?”

You tilted your head, considering him. “That depends,” you mused, shifting slightly beneath him, drawing another sharp breath from his lips as you clenched around him, smirking at the way his composure briefly faltered. “Was it for ambition… or for desire?”

Tyland’s jaw tensed, his green eyes darkening, and before you could push further, he rolled his hips in a way that stole the breath from your lungs, a gasp spilling from your lips as pleasure coiled in your belly once more. “Does it matter?” he murmured, his voice lower now, husky, rough. “You knew what I was from the moment you set your sights on me. You knew what I wanted.”

You smirked, your nails dragging lightly down his back, making him shudder. “And what is it that you want, my lord?”

Tyland let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head before dipping down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pressed himself deeper, swallowing the soft moans that spilled from your mouth. He broke the kiss only long enough to murmur against your lips, his breath uneven, his voice raw.

“You.”

The word was a vow, a claim, a declaration that left no room for doubt.

And in that moment, as his body moved against yours, as the fire burned between you, you realized—perhaps you had underestimated the lion after all.

The summons had come unexpectedly, a royal messenger appearing at your chamber doors at the height of midday, clad in black and crimson livery of the king’s personal retinue. His words had been formal, carefully chosen��His Grace, King Viserys, requests your presence in the Great Hall at once. No further explanation was given, though you had no doubt what this was about.

The walk through the halls of the Red Keep was slow, deliberate, the heavy silence of the long corridors wrapping around you like a cloak. You had spent your life maneuvering these halls, learning the unspoken rules that governed them, the subtle shifts in power, the whispered words exchanged behind closed doors. And now, it seemed, you were being summoned not as a player in the game, but as a piece to be moved.

When you entered the Great Hall, your gaze immediately swept the chamber, taking in the gathered court, the small cluster of lords lingering near the edges, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes sharp with interest. At the far end of the room, seated upon the Iron Throne, was your uncle. Viserys looked as he often did—his face kind but weary, the weight of his crown pressing heavier upon him with each passing year. His fingers drummed idly against the armrest, a small gesture, but one that betrayed the thoughts turning behind his eyes.

To his right stood Daemon.

Your father was dressed in his usual dark leathers, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his silver hair falling slightly into his eyes. There was amusement in his gaze, but beneath it, there was something else—something quieter, something unreadable.

And then, to Viserys’s left, stood him.

Tyland Lannister was clad in the finest of crimson and gold, the lion of his house embroidered in intricate golden thread upon his tunic, his posture as composed as ever. But you could see it, the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sides as he watched you approach.

You did not smile. You did not rush.

Instead, you took your time, your steps measured, deliberate, letting the weight of the moment stretch just long enough to make Tyland uncomfortable.

When you finally stopped before the throne, you bowed your head slightly in acknowledgment. “Your Grace.”

Viserys exhaled, shifting in his seat. “You have been summoned here,” he began, his tone carefully even, “because Lord Tyland has made a request of me. One that concerns you.”

You lifted a brow, feigning curiosity. “Has he?”

From the corner of your eye, you caught the briefest flicker of something in Tyland’s expression—something between exasperation and amusement.

Viserys let out a slow breath. “He has asked for your hand in marriage.”

You made a thoughtful sound, tilting your head ever so slightly. “A bold request.”

Daemon smirked, clearly enjoying himself, but said nothing.

Viserys pressed on, his fingers tightening slightly on the armrest. “I have given the matter due consideration, but I will not make any decision without your approval.” He met your gaze, his expression earnest. “You are of Targaryen blood. It is your right to choose.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered lords—soft, barely audible, but unmistakable.

You smiled, slow and knowing, your gaze sliding toward Tyland.

“And what say you, my lord?” you mused, your voice teasing, your lips curling in amusement. “Do you think yourself worthy of a dragon’s hand?”

Tyland inhaled slowly through his nose, his green eyes focused, unwavering. He had known, of course he had known, that you would do this—that you would stretch the moment, draw it out just to watch him squirm.

But to his credit, he did not falter.

“I think myself capable,” he replied smoothly, his voice steady, though you caught the faintest hint of something else beneath it—something dangerous. “And I think you knew what my answer would be before you ever asked the question.”

You let the silence linger, let the weight of your consideration fill the room, your fingers tracing idly along the fabric of your sleeve.

Viserys sighed. “Must you make a spectacle of this?”

You smiled. “Of course.”

Daemon laughed aloud, shaking his head.

Tyland remained silent, watching you, waiting.

Finally, you inhaled deeply, shifting your gaze back to the king. “Very well,” you murmured. “I accept.”

The court fell into a hush.

For the first time since entering the room, Tyland moved, his shoulders easing just slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

Viserys exhaled, nodding. “Then it is settled.”

Daemon smirked, nudging Tyland’s shoulder as he passed. “Best of luck, lion,” he murmured, low enough that only the two of you could hear. “You will need it.”

Tyland’s gaze flickered to yours, something unreadable passing between you.

And then, just barely above a whisper, he murmured:

“I already have it.”

And as you watched him, as the weight of your decision settled over you both, you knew—

The game was no longer being played.

It had already been won.

[weepingtalecowboy]

Fanfic prompt : I love it when Tetra and wind have this ridiculously big age gap because the triforce of wisdom and courage are usually around the same age

But wind made himself a hero and therefore the age is off

Because imagine her point of view

You are an actual criminal with a height bounty and every sailor has heard of you at some point

You are tracking down a bird who steals girls

It grabs you and then you fall down and another girl gets taken

And a small essentially toddler begs you to take him to get his sister back

He defeats you with the most powerful sad puppy dog eyes ever (the only reason why tetra even had to agree would definitely be because of kids being kids like have you seen what she and her crew did with Aryll she was pretty much a family member the second they got her)

And you drag him with you and then proceed to lose him immediately after the heist

Then find him again and then get locked up in a weird castle while the kid does whatever

Get kidnapped

Beat up an old man watch an ancient civilization collapse

and then get saved by that small creature

He definitely ends up her son after this adventure considering that he gets to be a crew mate

Tetra deserves to be a mom for once (a cool mom who lets her kid blow stuff up)

Like the entire crew adopted Aryll and they only had a few days together

She got to do whatever she wants with no consequences

Wind spent even more time with her

You are telling me that he wouldn’t be the son of the entire crew and get to do whatever he wants to

Like tetra would probably jokingly promote him to co captain the second she can

And then make him the actual captain after phantom hourglass because that kid is the only reason she is still alive

She owns him that one

If the chain dares to try to command her little captain they will get thrown overboard very quickly

That is a personal insult to the crew

Which is how wind gets to be fully accepted as a very important and useful member because he got raised to be a total gremlin and if anyone tries to tell him that he can’t fight because he is too young he will do what tetra taught him and evaporate their kneecaps with the skull hammer

Warriors quickly learned not to doubt him

And he also steals wallets whenever possible

Even legend somehow lost his despite using any and all protection possible

[c0ffe3c4t]

❝ THE WOLF AND THE LION MAKE A RARE COMBINATION. ❞

PAIRING : Cersei Lannister x Male! Stark! Reader

SYNOPSIS : Lovers were made to defy fate, even when it tears them apart.

WARNINGS : Explicit sexual content, mentions of violence, torture, toxic relationship, attempted murder, murder, morally questionable actions, infidelity.

They say that first love is never forgotten, and the one between Reader and Cersei was one that overflowed with the inevitability of destiny. Wolf and Lion, Lannister and Stark, two forces so antagonistic that, when united, they seemed to defy all logic. Their story was more than a forbidden love; it was a bond so deep that neither the whispers of the court, nor betrayals, nor the weight of the years could undo it. Over the years, their relationship shifted from a secret, fiery romance to a silent, almost imperceptible alliance, where they no longer recognized each other as lovers, but as something more: as those who were made to be together, despite the fate that opposed them.

Though their love began in darkness, in the shadows of broken promises and unlikely alliances, what grew between them was more than passion: it was an unbreakable complicity. Cersei loved Reader like no one else. He was not only her first lover, her first betrothed, her first everything, but also the only person who ever understood the desire and fear that nestled in her heart. When her engagement was torn apart to marry Robert Baratheon, a close friend of Reader’s, her world collapsed. But that was not enough to separate them. It couldn’t, and she didn’t want it to. The passion they shared didn’t die; it grew in secret, fueled by the certainty that, despite everything, their love would endure.

Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella were the tangible proof of their hidden relationship. Bastards born from a love that no one saw, but that had always been there. As for Reader, he also came to know fatherhood with the birth of Sansa, a daughter born under painful circumstances, after the death of his wife, Cassandra Tully. He had never loved Cassandra, but he didn’t hate her either. Her death was a silent shadow that never disappeared, but Sansa filled that space with her presence. And despite the discomfort in his chest from losing the mother of his daughter, his love for her was a comfort in his heart.

Cersei, for her part, had loved Reader with the purity of a first love that neither time nor ambition could corrupt. In fact, over the years, she came to forget her desire to be queen. She didn’t care about the throne or the crown; all she wanted was him. Only him. No one else could take his place, no one else could understand her the way he did. The ambition for power faded when she realized that Reader’s love was all she needed, more than any golden crown.

Fate, however, had other plans. When Jon Arryn discovered their secret, he planned to reveal the truth to Robert, but death came to him from a sudden “illness,” and Reader was named Hand of the King. Upon arriving in the capital, his relationship with Cersei not only continued but intensified. They found each other once more, between the shadows and hallways of a palace full of lies. The walls could hear their whispers, and the servants saw the looks charged with desire, but the world would never know the truth they shared.

Yet, it didn’t matter what the world thought. Cersei and Reader, despite their flaws, were two beings destined to unite, two souls born to intertwine despite the challenges life presented them. Both were selfish, ambitious, bad people by the court’s judgment, but together, in their secret union, they were invincible. Wolves disguised as lambs, ruling with cunning and passion, while the world beyond their doors continued to ignore who they truly were.

Fate could try to separate them, but they would always, always find their way back to each other. Because somewhere in the universe, where the stars couldn’t see, the wolf and the lion had chosen each other, and there was no force in this world or the next that could break that bond.

Made to be together, they always had been. Though the world was a stage of lies and betrayals, they remained the only truths amidst the chaos. And perhaps that was the most beautiful thing of all: that their love, though veiled in shadows, was stronger than anything that could separate them.

Cersei Lannister was not a particularly affectionate woman. Her love, when she gave it, was often harsh, wrapped in thorns, camouflaged in biting words and sharp looks. But she knew Reader well enough to notice when something tormented him, when the demons of his mind swirled around him with an intensity that not even the strongest wine could dissipate.

That morning, she found him sitting by the window, a cup in his hand, his gaze lost in the horizon. The golden sunlight of King’s Landing illuminated his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the shadow of a thought he didn’t share with anyone.

Without a word, Cersei approached and slid a hand across his cheek, an unexpectedly gentle gesture. Reader blinked, surprised, and their eyes met. In silence, she brought her palm to her lips and placed a soft kiss on his skin.

—Since when are you so melancholic? —Cersei murmured with a hint of mockery, though she didn’t move her hand.

Reader didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he drew Cersei closer and rested his head against her hip, like a wolf seeking refuge in its lioness. Her scent enveloped him, that intoxicating mix of wine and floral perfume that felt so familiar.

—I’m not melancholic —he finally replied, his usual nonchalant tone, though his posture betrayed something else.

Cersei clicked her tongue, running her fingers through his hair absentmindedly.

—Of course not —she said with a sly smile—. You’re just clinging to me like a puppy needing affection.

Reader let out a low laugh, not moving.

—I’m surprised you didn’t call me a “dog” instead of a “puppy.”

—I respect you too much for that —Cersei replied, pretending to be serious. Then, leaning in just slightly, she whispered against his ear—. Besides, wolves are much more entertaining.

Reader shook his head, smiling faintly.

—If this is your way of consoling me, I must say it’s terribly ineffective.

Cersei laughed softly, tangling her fingers in his hair with a gesture that seemed more instinctive than deliberate.

—I don’t console —she said with her usual arrogance—. But if you want a distraction… I can offer that.

Reader raised an eyebrow, looking up at her.

—you have a very particular idea of what compassion is, dear.

—And you of what distraction is? —Cersei retorted with a mischievous smile, leaning in to steal a quick kiss.

Reader sighed and, without thinking much, rubbed his face against Cersei’s fine dress, enjoying the texture of the fabric against his skin.

—Sometimes you’re so tame, did you know that? —she said with amusement and a hint of curiosity.

—You’re comfortable, beautiful —he replied, his voice muffled against the fabric.

Cersei let out a brief laugh, part amused, part incredulous.

—you could have said something more poetic.

—I could have —he conceded—, but I prefer the truth.

Cersei sighed, but didn’t pull away. Her fingers continued to slide through his hair absentmindedly, as if the gesture had become a silent habit between them. It wasn’t something she would do with anyone, not even with her own children, but Reader had always been the exception.

—Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you’d better fix it quickly —she said in her usual carefree tone, though there was a hidden truth in her words—. I don’t like seeing you like this.

Reader smiled faintly.

—Do you care about my well-being?

Cersei clicked her tongue.

—Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just saying I don’t like seeing you with that beaten-dog look. It ruins my mood.

Reader let out a soft chuckle.

—Oh, how considerate of you.

—I know —she said with a teasing smile.

Definitely, the lion and the wolf were a strange combination, two beasts who shouldn’t coexist, but somehow, they worked. In their twisted way, their love was a balance between arrogance and devotion, between mockery and loyalty. And, against all odds, they kept choosing each other. Again and again.

୨୧

The Red Keep was a labyrinth of intrigue and silence, but that night, the solitude of the walls and the flickering shadows of the candles created the perfect atmosphere for a forbidden meeting.

Cersei had entered without warning, as always, with her elegant bearing and presence that seemed to fill every corner of the room. Reader was at his desk, going through some papers, but their eyes met with the same intensity they had crossed paths with so many times before. There were no words at first, just a look, one that carried more history and desire than words could describe.

Cersei approached, not in a hurry, with a smile on her lips that reflected a mix of amusement and challenge.

—Don't you get tired of working so much, Reader? —Her voice was soft, but there was something sharp about it, as always.

—And don't you get tired of entering without being invited? —he replied, not lifting his eyes from the papers, though his tone suggested he enjoyed the situation.

Cersei walked towards him, with the confidence that defined her, and when she reached his side, her fingers lightly touched his shoulders, moving up toward his neck. Her proximity always had an effect on him, though he tried not to show it.

—Sometimes I wonder how someone as... serious as you can be so much fun. —Cersei let out a low laugh, one that was both a mockery and an invitation.

Reader finally lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting hers, and the tension between them became palpable. It wasn't the first time Cersei was in his space, and it wasn't the first time they shared such closeness. Both knew that what existed between them was something impossible, something that should never exist, but like a sweet poison, it always resurfaced.

—Maybe it's because I'm so serious that I make things more interesting for you. —His tone grew a little more challenging, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Cersei couldn't help but smile again, this time more seductively. Without saying more, she sat in Reader's lap, without asking permission. Her body adjusted easily to his, and her hands began playing with the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning them with an almost exasperating slowness, while her lips brushed against his neck with that familiarity only Cersei could achieve.

—You're very confident for someone who doesn't have control, —she said, as her hands slid over his skin.

Reader, with a smile that escaped between his lips, held her hips, not with force, but with a gentleness that conveyed everything they both knew, even though they didn't speak it aloud.

—And you, very impatient for someone who has everything under control. —His voice was filled with sarcasm, but also a calm amusement.

Cersei laughed, moving a little more, enjoying the game between them. He was her challenge, her temptation, and although both knew it wasn't something meant to last longer than the night could offer, there was something about those stolen moments that was irresistible.

—We'll see who has control in the end, Reader —she said, raising an eyebrow as her lips sought his, trapping him in a kiss that left them both breathless for a moment.

And so, the distance between them faded once again, in a secluded corner of the Red Keep, where shadows danced and time seemed to stop. Without words, without promises, only the heat of their bodies and the need to give in to a dangerous, yet inevitable desire.

In the heart of the darkness, unseen by anyone, the wolf and the lion surrendered to their own game. A forbidden love, but one that always found a way to be reborn, time and time again.

The candles flickered with the night breeze, casting trembling shadows on the walls of the Hand of the King's chambers. Cersei's wine glass had been forgotten on the table, and the only thing left between them was the shared warmth of their bodies and the tension that always enveloped them when they were alone.

Cersei was still on him, with her lap as an improvised throne, Reader's hands firm on her waist, as if he were holding her there purely by instinct. She played with the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning them with an almost irritating slowness, while a mocking smile adorned her lips.

—You're always so patient, —she whispered, brushing her lips against his without kissing him completely—. I wonder how much more you can bear.

Reader let out a sigh, part amused and part exasperated.

—Patience is a virtue, dear.

—A virtue you don't have, —she replied, sliding a nail down his exposed collarbone.

He raised an eyebrow.

—You offend me.

Cersei smiled maliciously, leaning in slightly to bite his lower lip softly before trapping it in a deep kiss, one that he responded to with equal intensity. Her hands slowly descended down his sides until they met the ribbon of her dress, but before releasing it, she paused.

—Doubt? —she teased, her voice barely a whisper.

—No —he answered without hesitation—. I just enjoy watching how impatient you become when you don't have control.

Cersei let out a soft, dangerous laugh.

—I let you believe you have control because it amuses me, not because it's true.

Reader smiled to the side, not taking his eyes off hers.

—Then amuse me.

The air between them grew even thicker, and this time, there were no more provocations, just the brush of skin against skin, the broken sound of their breaths, and the echo of a love that was never meant to exist... but always found a way to be reborn in the dark.

Cersei adjusted herself better on his lap, moving just enough to provoke a reaction in him. Reader didn't give her the satisfaction of reacting immediately, although his grip on her waist tightened slightly. The queen noticed and smiled, with that sly expression that had always fascinated and exasperated him equally.

—You still haven't done anything, —she murmured against his ear, her warm breath sending a shiver down his spine.

Reader let out a low laugh, tired but amused.

—Since when do you enjoy torturing me so much?

Cersei ran her fingers along the opening of his shirt, her nails barely grazing his skin.

—Since I discovered how easy it is to make you lose your head.

He looked at her with feigned indifference, though his eyes betrayed him. It was always like this between them. A dangerous game, a constant struggle for control that, in the end, they were both willing to lose.

—What if someone enters? —he asked, his tone clearly mocking.

Cersei let out a soft laugh.

—You're the Hand of the King, no one would dare interrupt you.

—Oh, what an honor —he said sarcastically, finally sliding a hand to remove her low-cut dress.

She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation, before looking at him with intensity.

—Is that all you've got, Stark? —she challenged, with a dangerous smile.

Reader smiled to the side.

—You tell me.

There were no more words. They didn't need any.

Reader, without letting go of her, lifted her with surprising ease, his hands firm on her hips. He carried her to the large mahogany desk, gently letting her fall onto the cold, polished surface. The impact made her moan, a low, guttural sound that echoed in the silence of the room. Her dress, already partially torn from their passionate struggle, slid down her legs, exposing her naked body, her breasts pressing against Reader's chest.

—Shit, Stark... —Cersei gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her full, firm breasts moved with each thrust, brushing against his skin, creating friction that sparked the fire of her desire even more.

Reader looked at her, the intensity in his eyes reflecting the passion that consumed them. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to penetrate her, his body moving against hers with a force that made her arch over the desk. Each thrust was a strike, a claim, an act of possession.

—You're a delicious whore, Cersei... —murmured Reader, his voice rough with pleasure. His hands gripped her hips, squeezing tightly, as his body moved in an unrelenting rhythm.

—Fuck... yes... more... —Cersei moaned, her words broken by pleasure. Her nails scratched his back, leaving red marks that would soon become memories of their encounter. Her breasts, pressed against his chest, moved with each thrust, the friction intensifying the sensation.

The sound of their bodies colliding, the rubbing of skin against cold mahogany, the gasping of their breaths intertwined, filled the room with a symphony of unrestrained passion. Reader kissed her fiercely, his lips seeking hers, his tongue exploring her mouth with a hungry urgency. His hands roamed her body, caressing her skin, exploring every curve, every inch.

—I want you... —Cersei whispered, her voice barely audible among her moans. The words, spoken in the middle of ecstasy, carried greater weight, an intensity that transcended mere physical pleasure. It was a total surrender, a confession of love and desire amid the whirlwind of their bodies.

Reader, overcome by passion, thrust into her with more force, his body moving with brutal intensity. Cersei moaned, her body arching, her fingers gripping his hair. The pleasure intensified, a wave that dragged them both to a point of no return. Their bodies became one, a whirlwind of sensations that took them to the limit.

—Bastard... —Cersei gasped, just before reaching climax. Her body tensed, a powerful release that left her trembling, exhausted but satisfied.

Reader collapsed on top of her, his body heavy on hers. Silence returned, broken only by the sound of their labored breaths and the rapid beating of their hearts. The heat of their intertwined bodies, the scent of their sweat, and the memory of their passion remained as an indelible mark on the cold mahogany of the desk. The wolf and the lion, united in a wild and dangerous act of love, had surrendered completely to the storm of their desire.

୨୧

Reader was not known for being a good person. His reputation was dark, tainted by the shadows of his past. During Robert's Rebellion, he had played a feared and bloody role, a man willing to capture and torture those on the opposite side of the Lannisters. Those who did not yield under the weight of his interrogations knew that the reward for their resistance was even more cruel: the torture with which he extracted secrets, breaking men down to their bones, to their souls. The stories that circulated about him said that he had even forced a direwolf, with black fur and a mark around its eye, to tear apart alive the men who dared to be loyal to the Targaryens. There was no mercy in his methods, no remorse, only the need to get what he wanted, at any cost.

Cersei, of course, was not much different. Though her name was wrapped in the gold of House Lannister and the intrigues of the court, her heart was as hardened as Reader's. She, the woman who had witnessed betrayals, murders, who had maneuvered through shadows with cunning and without hesitation, dirtying her hands with blood if necessary. She was not the protective mother she pretended to be, nor the just queen the stories claimed her to be; her ambition and desire for power were above all else, even the family bonds she so loudly proclaimed. The idea of morality was never something Cersei embraced; the end always justified the means, and her enemies were always enemies to the death.

In the context of their relationship, both Reader and Cersei understood each other in their harsh view of the world. It was not about finding comfort in each other, but about finding a unique complicity, one that only men and women willing to dirty their hands could understand. They were two pieces of the same board, willing to do whatever it took to win, regardless of what the rest of the world thought of them.

Of course, they knew they were not good, nor did they pretend to be. On the contrary, they embraced their darkness, knowing that the world they lived in left no room for the weak. In that sense, there was a palpable attraction between them: both moved through the same shadows, willing to do whatever necessary to seize power, even if it meant descending into vileness.

Reader did not expect Cersei to understand him in the same way that he understood her. Their minds were as sharp as their swords, but they shared a mutual respect for their indifference toward good and evil. There was only what they wanted, what they needed, what they were willing to sacrifice to achieve their goals. And in that moral abyss, they found each other again, seeking solace in the company of another monster, knowing that the world would not stop to judge them.

It was a dirty game, one of power, of survival, and both knew that in this game, only the most ruthless would come out victorious.

୨୧

Reader wrapped his arms around Cersei’s waist from behind, his hands gliding over her abdomen with deceptive softness. He leaned in just enough to leave a kiss on her bare shoulder, a gesture almost absent, more habit than tenderness. Cersei, with her gaze lost in the dimly lit room, didn’t react immediately. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and he noticed.

—I don’t like it when you get like this —murmured Reader against her skin, his warm breath sliding over her collarbone.

Cersei let out a soft sigh before responding.

—The boy woke up.

Reader paused his caresses for a moment. He didn’t need to ask which boy she was referring to. Bran Stark. Her nephew. The little one who, without thinking too much, had seen them kiss and halfway undress, and hadn’t hesitated to throw him from the tower. Not with hate, not even with rage, but with the cold determination of a man who knew secrets were nothing more than daggers waiting to pierce the backs of the careless.

—And he still doesn’t remember anything —Reader replied, his tone indifferent, though it didn’t quite match the tension in his jaw.

Cersei then turned to face him, her golden eyes sharp as the edge of a sword.

—For now. But if he ever does…

—If he ever does, we’ll take care of it —Reader declared, placing a hand on her cheek. His thumb caressed her skin with an unexpectedly intimate gesture, briefly dispelling the coldness of the matter they were concerned with.

Cersei tilted her face slightly, enjoying the touch. Despite everything, Reader always had that way of calming her mind, anchoring it to the present.

—We can’t afford mistakes —she whispered, more to herself than to him.

—We’ve never allowed them, and we won’t start now —Reader murmured, drawing close enough for their lips to brush in a silent promise.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she slid her fingers through his hair, gripping it as if she could extract certainty from the contact. Then, with the same calm with which they shared every dangerous secret, their lips met in a slow kiss, more possessive than affectionate.

Reader smiled faintly against her mouth.

—Don’t look at me like that —he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice.

—Like what? —Cersei asked, arching an eyebrow.

—Like you want to devour me.

Cersei let out a brief laugh and tangled her fingers in his hair more firmly.

—Maybe I will.

Reader tilted his head, his gaze burning.

—Do it.

And as so many times before, amidst intrigue and danger, they abandoned themselves to each other in the only certainty they had left: their own.

Reader loved Cersei, and Cersei loved Reader. It was not a tender or gentle love, but a love that was ravenous, possessive, and dark, fueled by desire and ambition. They belonged to each other, body and soul, but more than that, they consumed each other with a mutual obsession.

They understood each other on a level beyond words. Reader could read in Cersei’s golden eyes every thought, every fear disguised as arrogance. And she, in turn, knew that he would never hesitate to stain his hands with blood for her, just as she would for him. No boundaries or morals mattered, only the two of them.

—You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you? —Cersei whispered, a cryptic smile on her lips as she ran her fingers along the line of his jaw.

—You know I would —Reader replied without hesitation, leaning in to brush his lips against hers, barely a touch but full of silent promises.

—Even if it meant burning the entire world?

—On the ashes, you’d still be my queen.

Cersei smiled, satisfied with the answer, and pulled him closer, intertwining her fingers in his hair. They kissed with the same passion with which they ruled, with the same intensity with which they destroyed.

They weren’t the kind of love that inspired bards’ songs. They were the kind of love that would be whispered over wine, the kind of love that brought ruin to those who stood in their way. And yet, neither of them cared.

Because in the game of power, the only safe refuge they had was in each other.

—Maggie ☕

[doe-drawz]

A Lannister always Drinks and Knows Things or Something like that

🐺STARKS OF WINTERFELL DRAWING HERE

They are all terrible but I love them all so much, they’re consistently making me laugh.. maybe not Cersei too much in the later seasons but Peak Lannister is season 2 in my opinion so! Here’s some season 2 lannisters! (Except Jaime since I’ll have a new post in the future with Prisoner Jaime ) So! Take Jaime in his goldcloak uniform instead!

[eccehomo511]

Reducing debt isn’t inherently rebellion

Yeah, it feels like telling the system to fuck off—because you’re breaking out of the trap of owing everyone all the time. And that’s part of it. Less debt = fewer invisible leashes around your neck.

But don’t confuse paying off loans with actual resistance. The system doesn’t care if you’re a debtor or not, as long as you keep grinding and buying. Debt repayment is literally the machinery functioning as designed.

Want it to mean something? Don’t just get debt-free—stay free. Stop compulsive consumption. Stop trading your life for status garbage. Use your autonomy to create, to heal, to build something outside the logic of endless extraction.

Debt reduction is just step one. The real “fuck off” is what you do with the freedom.

Pay off what you owe. Need less. Own your days. That’s the quiet revolution.

[moldypoff]

I am not sleeping tonight I will not rest until the Pyro sweep comes in

And in case you didn’t know

WE HAVE A WAR AT HAND SOLDIERS MOVE MOVE MOVE SUPPORT THE PYRO!!!!

[curse-d-owl]

Three Houses is hilarious by claiming to care about the oppressed commoners of Fodlan and the injustice of nepotism being rewarded over merit and yet the only native from Fodlan who's a commoner with zero connections to wealthy individuals and doesn't have any leg up in society is Leonie.

Dorothea is a famous songstress with many nobles trying to curry her favor.

Ignatz and Raphael are connected to successful merchants who have the money to enroll them into Garegg Mach.

Leonie on the other hand has nothing. She needed her entire village to pool together money and borrow money from a noble to gain a recommendation into garreg mach on top of needing the recommendation.

She is the only and genuine example of a commoner being denied success cause of her status in favor of nepotism.

Hilda and Linhardt are lazy bums who don't even want to lift a finger and they got enrolled in Garreg Mach without any issue. Hell even during the timeskip they do nothing except laze around while Leonie was out here fighting battles throughout Fodlan.

And how does the story handle a character like Leonie? They don't. On top of being a side character she infact gets drowned in even more debts by a high ranking knight from the knights of Seiros from a rich church despite having helped the church in 3 out of 4 routes.

It's worse in cf cause Leonie refused to get Alois to be responsible cause she somehow felt sympathy for a retired bum that forced a young woman to do his dirty work.

This goes to show that the devs can't handle these types of topics and make their main lords and nobles look worse by not helping a downtrodden commoner. Especially Edelgard since wanting to reward people by merit and not nepotism is her whole shtick and yet Leonie is out here paying debts that don't belong to her.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Frank Wilhoit described conservativism as “exactly one proposition”:

There must be in-groups whom the law protects but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect.This is likewise the project of corporatism. Tech platforms are urgently committed to ensuring that they can do anything they want on their platforms — and they’re even more dedicated to the proposition that you must not do anything they don’t want on their platforms.

They can lock you in. You can’t unlock yourself. Facebook attained network-effects growth by giving its users bots that logged into Myspace on their behalf, scraped the contents of their inboxes for the messages from the friends they left behind, and plunked them in their Facebook inboxes.

Facebook then sued a company that did the same thing to Facebook, who wanted to make it as easy for Facebook users to leave Facebook as it had been to get started there.

Apple reverse-engineered Microsoft’s crown jewels — the Office file-formats that kept users locked to its operating systems — so it could clone them and let users change OSes.

Try to do that today — say, to make a runtime so you can use your iOS apps and media on an Android device or a non-Apple desktop — and Apple will reduce you to radioactive rubble.

- Let the Platforms Burn: The Opposite of Good Fires is Wildfires

[coyotecrumb]

dragon rider kunigami THIS ONE GOES OUT TO KITTY!❤️

[pilferingapples]

y'all y'all

Les Mis 2000 is not very good

[novaursa]

A Debt Paid (1/2)

- Summary: A story where a dragon underestimates the ambition of a lion.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Next part: 2/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @melsunshine @idenyimimdenial

The hour was late when Tyland Lannister arrived at your chambers, his presence heralded by the soft knock against the heavy oaken door. You had been expecting him, of course, having sent word that you wished to speak in private. There were few members of your uncle's council that you would trust to grant you an audience without suspicion, and though Lord Tyland was among them, he was not a man easily swayed. Clever, pragmatic, and careful—qualities that had elevated him to his current position—he would not be lured by honeyed words alone. But you had not summoned him simply to test his resolve. You needed something, and a Lannister never gave without knowing what he might receive in turn.

When he stepped inside, the flickering light of the hearth cast shadows across his features, the angles of his face sharp with contemplation. His crimson cloak, pinned with a lion brooch at his shoulder, stood in stark contrast to the dark velvets of his doublet. Though he carried himself with the poised confidence of a man long accustomed to the game of court, there was something cautious in the way he regarded you, his eyes sweeping over your figure as he bowed his head in polite greeting.

“Princess,” he said smoothly, voice even, betraying nothing. “I had not expected such a summons at this hour. What matter is so pressing that it could not wait until the morrow?”

You smiled at that, tilting your head slightly, allowing your long silver-gold hair to spill over one shoulder. You had dressed with purpose, in a gown that clung to your form, the deep wine-red fabric embroidered with golden thread, mirroring the colors of his house in a way that would not go unnoticed. It was a calculated gesture—one of many you had made to ensure you had his full attention.

“Surely you would not deny a princess her request for a private audience?” you mused, stepping closer, watching as his posture stiffened slightly. He was wary of you, and rightfully so. Your blood was that of dragons, and dragons were unpredictable creatures.

“I would not dare,” he answered, but his expression did not soften. “Yet I must wonder what it is you seek of me.”

You let out a quiet laugh, a sound that was neither cruel nor kind, merely amused. “You sit on my uncle’s council,” you said, circling him slowly, forcing him to turn his head slightly to follow your movement. “And yet my father has been kept away from it. Otto Hightower ensures that. My father is a prince of the realm, and still, he is treated as though his counsel is of no consequence.”

Tyland did not reply at once. His fingers twitched at his side, a subtle movement that betrayed his unease. “The Hand of the King believes his presence to be... disruptive,” he said carefully. “Prince Daemon is not known for his patience.”

“And yet you do not share Hightower’s distaste for him.”

He exhaled sharply, his lips pressing together for the briefest moment. “I have no personal quarrel with your father, my lady, but I do not make decisions without reason. If you seek my intervention, you must offer me a compelling one.”

You stopped before him then, tilting your chin up slightly as you met his gaze, your violet eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “I am aware that Lannisters love their debts paid,” you said, voice silken. “What if I were to offer you one in turn?”

His expression did not shift, but his brows lifted ever so slightly, intrigued despite himself. “A debt from a Targaryen princess,” he murmured, as if weighing the worth of such a thing. “And how, pray, would you repay it?”

Your smile deepened, and before he could react, your fingers reached for the laces of your gown. With a slow, deliberate motion, you pulled them free, allowing the heavy fabric to slip from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of silk. The firelight danced over your bare skin, casting warm golds and deep shadows in the hollows of your collarbones, the curve of your waist. You did not move to cover yourself, nor did you look away, meeting his gaze with a knowing smirk.

For the first time, you saw his careful composure crack. His throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze flickering down before jerking back up, as though unsure whether to look or to avert his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, and for a long moment, he did not move.

You let the silence stretch between you before speaking again, your voice a soft, teasing murmur. “Do you not find me to your liking, my lord?”

His breath left him in a harsh exhale, and he cursed under his breath, barely above a whisper. “That is far from the truth,” he admitted, voice rougher than before.

His restraint lasted only a moment longer. Then, as though some unseen tether had snapped, he closed the space between you in a single step, his hands finding your waist, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough force to remind you that you were no longer the one in control. His lips crashed against yours, the taste of wine and something distinctly him flooding your senses, his warmth searing against you as he pulled you flush against him.

You had expected him to resist, to hesitate. But now, as he kissed you, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. The careful, calculating man you had summoned was gone, replaced by something far more primal, something that burned beneath the surface of his composed exterior.

Perhaps lions were not so different from dragons after all.

Your fingers move with practiced ease as you tug at the fastenings of his doublet, feeling the warmth of his body seep through the fabric as you work each clasp loose. His breath is shallow, controlled, yet you can feel the tension thrumming beneath his skin, his restraint wavering with each brush of your fingers against him. His eyes never leave yours, even as you push the heavy crimson fabric from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a careless heap. Beneath it, the linen of his tunic is thin, stretched taut across the hard lines of his chest, and you trace the outline of his ribs with a featherlight touch, reveling in the way his muscles tense beneath your hands.

"You seem eager, my lady," he murmurs, though his voice lacks the usual smooth detachment. There is something rougher there, something unguarded. His hands slide over your bare back, firm and possessive, as though anchoring himself to reality, lest he lose himself entirely in the moment.

You laugh softly, pressing closer until your bodies are flush, the heat of him bleeding into your skin. "And you seem hesitant, my lord," you counter, a teasing lilt in your voice. Your fingers reach for the laces at his waist, tugging them loose with a deliberate slowness, watching as his breath hitches, as his control frays further. "Shall I stop?"

His response is immediate, his hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your flesh just enough to make you gasp. "Do not dare," he growls, the words barely more than a breath against your lips.

You smile at that, satisfied, and push his breeches down over his hips, freeing him from the last barrier between you. He is hard and wanting, the evidence of his restraint betrayed by the urgency in which he grips you now, guiding you back toward the bed. His composure is breaking, his usual meticulous control slipping through his fingers, and you revel in it, in the way his golden hair falls slightly into his eyes, in the way his breath comes faster as he lowers you down against the plush furs.

But for all his urgency, he hesitates now, poised between restraint and desire. You feel the head of him press against you, teasing, testing, yet he does not move further. His jaw is clenched, his muscles taut, as though still trying to cling to the last vestiges of control.

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your gaze as you shift your hips slightly, making him groan low in his throat. "Why do you hesitate, my lord?" you whisper, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. "Have you found yourself in unfamiliar waters?"

He exhales sharply, his grip on you tightening. "You are—" He cuts himself off, as though uncertain how to finish the thought. You can see the conflict in his gaze, the brief moment of realization as it dawns on him fully—what he is doing, who he is with, the ramifications of it all. But that moment is fleeting, vanishing the instant you arch against him, your body coaxing him forward.

"You think too much," you murmur, brushing your lips against his. "Perhaps it is time you allowed yourself to simply feel."

That is all it takes. His restraint snaps, and in one swift, fluid motion, he pushes into you, filling you completely. The sensation is sudden, overwhelming, and he groans low in his throat, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he stills for a moment, savoring the feel of you around him, the heat, the tightness, the sheer intoxicating reality of it. His breath is unsteady, his fingers trembling slightly where they grip your hips, and for a moment, he does not move.

You let out a breathy chuckle, shifting slightly beneath him, feeling the way his body tenses at the movement. "So eager before, and now you hesitate the second time," you tease, voice laced with amusement. "Do I overwhelm you, my lion?"

His response is wordless—a low growl of frustration as his hands tighten on your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there before he begins to move, his careful restraint dissolving into something raw and unrestrained. His thrusts are deep and deliberate at first, savoring every inch of you, before urgency takes over, his pace growing more desperate, more relentless. The sound of your bodies moving together fills the chamber, mingling with the crackling of the fire, the ragged breaths, the gasps that escape unbidden from your lips.

"You enjoy testing me," he mutters against your skin, his lips trailing along your throat, the words spoken between heated kisses.

"Of course I do," you breathe, arching against him, nails raking lightly down his back, drawing another groan from him.

He does not answer, but he does not need to. His body speaks for him, each thrust, each touch, each whispered curse against your skin betraying just how deeply you have undone him. His control, so carefully maintained in court, is utterly shattered in your presence, and you relish in it, in the way he gives himself over to you completely.

Tyland’s breath is ragged, uneven, the weight of his body pressing down on you as his rhythm grows erratic. His hands, usually so steady and deliberate, tremble against your skin, his grip tightening as he chases the final, inevitable breaking point. Every carefully placed wall, every layer of composure that he had spent years perfecting, is crumbling now, undone by the sheer intensity of you, the way you meet his every movement with equal fervor, the way your body tightens around him, dragging him closer to that edge.

His hair clings to his damp forehead, and the firelight casts his skin in a warm, golden hue, as though the very flames themselves sought to claim him. His jaw is clenched, his lips parted slightly, as though he wishes to speak but has forgotten how to form words entirely. He is lost, drowning in sensation, in the feel of you beneath him, surrounding him, pulling him deeper into a heat he cannot hope to escape.

"Do not hold back, my lord," you murmur against his ear, your voice a sultry whisper, teasing yet commanding all the same. "Let go."

A shudder rolls through him at your words, and with a groan, he does just that. His thrusts turn frantic, urgent, his fingers digging into your hips with enough force to leave bruises, his breath hot against your neck. He curses lowly, a sharp, breathless sound, his voice uncharacteristically rough, stripped of all refinement. He clings to you, as though you are the only thing anchoring him to this world, as though he has forgotten himself entirely in the depths of you.

And then, with a final, shuddering thrust, he stills, his entire body seizing as his release overtakes him. He groans, low and guttural, his grip on you tightening as he spills into you, lost in the waves of pleasure that wrack through him, his restraint shattered beyond repair. He collapses slightly, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath coming in short, uneven pants, as though he has just run a battle’s length across the field.

For a moment, there is only the sound of his breathing, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant howling of the wind beyond the walls of your chambers. His body remains tense against yours, his muscles still coiled with the remnants of his fervor, his hands still gripping your waist, reluctant to let go. You can feel the wild pounding of his heart against your chest, a frantic rhythm that betrays just how deeply he has unraveled in your arms.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head, his eyes finding yours. His gaze is different now, dazed yet sharp all at once, flickering with the realization of what he has done—of who he has just laid with, of what this means. A dozen thoughts must be racing through his mind, calculations, consequences, the weight of his own actions pressing down upon him.

You, however, only smile, trailing your fingers idly along the golden strands at the nape of his neck, thoroughly amused by the loss of control you have so easily pulled from him. "You leapt quite eagerly into my offer," you purr, tilting your head slightly as you regard him with mirth. "And yet, I do not recall you asking what favor I sought from you before taking your reward."

Tyland blinks, his breath still uneven, his body still pressed flush against yours, and you see it in his eyes—the moment he realizes the truth of your words.

A curse slips past his lips, soft but sharp, and he exhales, shaking his head slightly, as if to clear the haze of pleasure still clinging to him. "Seven hells," he mutters, a wry edge creeping into his voice. "You truly are your father’s daughter."

You laugh at that, dragging your nails lightly down his spine, feeling the way he shudders slightly beneath your touch. "Oh, come now, my lion," you chide, feigning innocence. "Surely a man as shrewd as you would not accept such an offer without first hearing the full terms?"

Tyland groans, though there is something almost rueful in the sound, as though he cannot quite decide whether to curse you or admire you. "You truly mean to discuss this now?" he asks, lifting a brow as he gazes down at you, his expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

You hum thoughtfully, running a hand along his chest, tracing the defined muscles beneath your fingertips. "Perhaps not," you concede, tilting your head, watching as his gaze follows the movement of your lips. "But you should know better than to strike a bargain with a Targaryen before hearing all the terms."

His eyes darken at that, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. He is still recovering, still caught in the aftershocks of what has just transpired between you, but you know he is already thinking ahead, already calculating. Tyland Lannister is a careful man, a cautious man—but you have unraveled him tonight, shattered that control he clings to so fiercely, and now he is left to reckon with the aftermath.

Slowly, he shifts, rolling onto his back beside you, an arm draped over his forehead as he exhales deeply. "I fear I may have just made a deal with the devil herself," he mutters, though there is no true malice in his tone—only reluctant admiration, begrudging acceptance.

You smirk, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gaze down at him, your silver-gold hair spilling over your shoulder like liquid moonlight. "And yet," you whisper, leaning in until your lips brush the shell of his ear, "you do not regret it."

He does not answer immediately. Instead, his fingers curl against your waist, his touch slow and deliberate, his body still thrumming with the remnants of desire.

"No," he murmurs finally, his voice rough, resigned. "I do not."

The scent of warm embers and lingering passion clung to the air, thick and heavy, as you lay beside Tyland, your body still thrumming from the aftermath of your joining. The sheets were tangled between you, the silk warm against your bare skin, though neither of you had moved much since the frenzy had passed. His arm still rested against his forehead, golden hair disheveled, chest rising and falling in steady, measured breaths. Yet his mind, you knew, was already at work, sifting through the implications of what had just transpired between you.

You traced idle patterns against his skin, letting your fingers skim along the firm planes of his chest, feeling the slow, steady heartbeat beneath your palm. He had not spoken since his quiet admission that he held no regrets—perhaps he was still coming to terms with that truth. Yet you could feel the weight of your unspoken words settling between you, an unspoken question lingering in the dim glow of candlelight.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice a silken murmur against the quiet. “I did not summon you merely to warm my bed, my lord.”

Tyland let out a slow, deep breath, turning his head slightly to regard you with those sharp golden eyes. “So I have come to understand,” he mused, his tone edged with wry amusement. Yet beneath it, there was something else—something watchful. A careful man, even now.

You smirked, shifting onto your side to better face him, the weight of your hair spilling over your shoulder. “I require a favor,” you admitted, trailing your fingers lower, brushing against the taut muscles of his abdomen, watching as he tensed ever so slightly beneath your touch. It pleased you, knowing that even now, after all that had passed between you, you still had the power to affect him so. “Something only a man who sits on my uncle’s council can do.”

Tyland let out a short, quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly as he studied you. “I should have known,” he murmured, running a hand through his unruly hair, still lying back against the sheets. “I take you to bed, and before I have even caught my breath, you seek to entangle me in whatever scheme you have devised.”

You smiled, unbothered by his remark. “Do you take me for a fool?” you asked, tilting your chin, letting your fingers trail up to his jaw, feeling the stubble rough beneath your fingertips. “I would not waste such an opportunity.”

He sighed, exasperated yet entertained all the same, rolling onto his side to face you fully. “Very well,” he conceded. “Tell me, then—what is it you seek of me?”

Your amusement faded, replaced by something sharper, something colder. “I need someone to convince my uncle to call back my father,” you said, your voice losing its teasing lilt, turning serious. “Where he belongs. At the king’s table. Not sulking through the gutters of Flea Bottom while Otto Hightower whispers poison in Viserys’s ear.”

Tyland was silent for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. He studied you, searching your face, the intensity of his scrutiny enough to make lesser men falter. But you were not lesser, and you did not look away.

Finally, he exhaled, tilting his head. “Prince Daemon is not a man easily controlled,” he said carefully. “The king exiled him for a reason.”

You scoffed, sitting up slightly, letting the sheets pool around your waist. “He was exiled because Otto willed it,” you snapped, your temper flaring in a way that was unmistakably your father’s. “Because Otto fears him, fears his influence over my uncle. And so, he sent him away like a dog banished from the hall, forced to wander without purpose.”

Tyland watched you, his gaze steady, ever calculating. “And you believe his place is here?” he asked, voice steady.

“I know it is,” you countered, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “Daemon is no saint, nor has he ever pretended to be. But he is my father. And he is Viserys’s brother. He belongs here, not slumming through the dregs of King’s Landing like some forgotten rogue.”

Tyland considered this, his expression thoughtful. “Your father is his own worst enemy,” he pointed out. “Even if Viserys were convinced to call him back, what is to say Daemon would not squander the opportunity? He does not make allies easily.”

“He does not need to make allies,” you replied firmly. “He is a prince of the blood. That alone should be enough.”

Tyland huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You truly are your father’s daughter,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You smirked, leaning closer, your breath brushing against his lips. “Does that unsettle you, my lion?” you purred.

His eyes darkened slightly, but he did not answer. Instead, he reached out, his fingers skimming along your bare shoulder, his touch deceptively light. “And what do you expect me to do?” he asked. “Otto Hightower controls the council. Convincing the king to recall your father will not be an easy feat.”

“You are not without influence,” you countered. “Your voice carries weight.”

Tyland sighed, rubbing his fingers against his temple. “You ask much of me,” he said, though there was no true resistance in his tone. “And what, pray, do I receive in return?”

You smiled then, slow and knowing, tilting your head as you regarded him. “I have already repaid you, have I not?” you murmured, trailing your fingers down his chest. “Or would you seek further compensation?”

His breath hitched slightly, but he masked it well, lips twitching into something half a smirk. “You are dangerous,” he muttered. “And I fear I may regret indulging you.”

You laughed, shifting to straddle him, your hands pressing against his chest. “Then perhaps,” you whispered, leaning down until your lips barely brushed his, “you should not indulge me at all.”

Tyland’s fingers tightened on your hips, his green eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I fear it is far too late for that,” he admitted, voice rough.

And with that, he pulled you down into another kiss, sealing the unspoken pact between you.

The chamber of the Small Council was thick with the scent of parchment and heated candle wax, the air stagnant with the weight of politics and whispered alliances. The long oaken table bore the scratches and grooves of decades of deliberation, of men who had sat in these very seats and played their part in shaping the realm’s history. Tyland Lannister sat among them, his crimson-and-gold attire pristine, his golden mane tamed into its usual elegance, yet beneath the carefully constructed façade of poise and calculation, his mind was troubled.

He had spent the night in your bed, tangled in silk and shadows, listening to the urgency in your voice, the conviction with which you had spoken of your father. You had not pleaded, nor had you begged—no, that was not your way. You had presented him with a choice, the same way one might present a deal before sealing it with blood. And Tyland had made his choice.

Now, as the king’s council convened, he sat in silence as Otto Hightower droned on about the state of the treasury, about trade agreements in the Stepstones, about the strength of their alliances with the Free Cities. It was the same monotonous routine, the same carefully maintained control. Viserys, seated at the head of the table, nodded along absently, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair, half-listening as he always did, his thoughts likely elsewhere—perhaps with his daughter, Rhaenyra, or with whatever delicate sculpture he had been carving of late.

It was the same, predictable cadence of politics. Until Tyland changed it.

“My lords,” he interjected smoothly, his voice measured, yet carrying enough weight to command attention. Otto fell silent, his brows furrowing slightly as he turned his gaze toward the Lannister lord. “While the affairs of coin and trade are certainly pressing matters, I believe we would be remiss if we did not address another concern of great importance to the crown.”

Viserys lifted his head slightly, intrigued by the shift in conversation. “And what concern is that, Lord Tyland?”

Tyland did not rush. He allowed the moment to settle, the weight of anticipation thickening in the room before he finally spoke again. “The matter of Prince Daemon.”

Silence fell like a blade upon the council.

Otto’s expression hardened instantly, his jaw tightening, while Lord Beesbury blinked in confusion, as though he had misheard the words entirely. Lord Lyonel Strong, ever the measured voice among them, merely observed with a flicker of interest, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. But it was Viserys who reacted most visibly, his gaze snapping toward Tyland with something unreadable in his weary violet eyes.

“Daemon?” the king repeated, his voice softer now, yet carrying something… else.

Tyland nodded, keeping his posture relaxed, controlled. “Yes, Your Grace. It has not gone unnoticed that your brother remains… estranged from court. There are whispers, of course, about his whereabouts, his dealings in the city. A prince of the blood should not be left to languish in the streets, nor should he be left absent from the affairs of this realm indefinitely.”

Otto shifted in his seat, his fingers curling slightly against the table. “Prince Daemon has been absent because he has made himself so,” he countered, his tone clipped, carefully controlled. “And need I remind you, my lord, that it was the king’s decision to see him removed from the Small Council? A decision made with reason.”

Tyland did not meet Otto’s gaze. Instead, he kept his eyes on Viserys.

“Perhaps,” he conceded smoothly. “And yet, Prince Daemon remains the brother of the king. His voice has value, as does his presence. One must consider the optics of such an exile—what message does it send that the king’s own brother is unwelcome at his table?”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, the flicker of irritation unmistakable in his eyes. “Daemon Targaryen is no victim,” he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. “His actions have warranted consequence. His impulsiveness, his reckless nature, his disregard for—”

“It is not a question of his past conduct,” Tyland interrupted smoothly. “It is a question of what is best for the stability of the crown. The realm watches, my lords. The lords and bannermen of Westeros take notice when a prince of the blood is cast aside. We must ask ourselves—does it benefit the king to keep his own brother at arm’s length? Or does it weaken the perception of unity within House Targaryen?”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the room, subtle but undeniable.

Viserys said nothing, but Tyland saw the way his fingers twitched slightly against the table, the way his expression shifted, conflicted. There was something there—something old, something deep. Despite everything, despite the years of strain and separation, Daemon was still his brother. And Tyland, for the first time, had put voice to a thought that Viserys himself had likely wrestled with in the quiet hours of the night.

Lord Strong cleared his throat. “The argument is not without merit,” he admitted, his deep voice even. “Though Prince Daemon’s past actions have not always been in alignment with the crown’s best interests, his continued absence leaves a… void of sorts. There are those who still hold him in high regard, despite his indiscretions. His presence at court, should it be tempered appropriately, could serve a purpose.”

Otto’s glare was sharp enough to slice through steel. “A purpose?” he scoffed. “And what purpose, Lord Strong, do you believe Daemon Targaryen would serve? He has made a mockery of this council before. He will do so again.”

Tyland did not allow the conversation to stray too far. He leaned forward slightly, his voice cool, measured. “The decision, of course, rests with His Grace.” He turned his gaze back toward Viserys, allowing a pause to settle between them, to let the weight of the moment sink in. “But I would be remiss if I did not at least pose the question—whether it is wise to leave matters as they are, or whether it is time to reconsider.”

Viserys inhaled slowly, his gaze distant, lost in thought. For the first time in years, someone had spoken on Daemon’s behalf in this room. Not out of obligation, not out of familial duty, but as a matter of discussion, of strategy, of optics.

Tyland had planted the seed. Now, he only had to wait to see how it would grow.

The air here was thick with the scent of parchment, aged wood, and the lingering tension of the meeting just adjourned. Tyland Lannister stepped into the cool hall, his expression composed, his stride steady, betraying none of the satisfaction that curled within him like a well-fed lion. He had done what he intended—he had placed the thought of Daemon Targaryen’s return into the king’s mind, and for the first time in years, Viserys had listened. Truly listened.

But Tyland had not taken five steps before he heard the measured approach of another behind him. He did not need to turn to know who it was. Otto Hightower had always moved with the weight of authority, each step precise, calculated, carrying the expectation that men would stop and listen.

Tyland exhaled silently, bracing himself for what was to come before finally slowing his stride.

“My lord Hand,” he greeted, turning slightly, just enough to meet Otto’s gaze.

The Hand of the King did not return the pleasantries. His expression was as cutting as the edge of a blade, his eyes gleaming with cold scrutiny, his mouth set in a thin, disapproving line. He stood just close enough to impose, but not enough to seem openly hostile. That was Otto’s way—always calculated, always measured, even in his displeasure.

Tyland tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity, as if he were nothing more than an obedient courtier who had merely spoken out of turn in the chamber. “Something troubles you, my lord?”

Otto’s lips pressed together further, a flicker of irritation flashing across his otherwise impassive face. “You move carelessly, Lord Tyland.” His voice was low, even, yet beneath it lay the unmistakable undercurrent of warning. “There are things best left undisturbed. The matter of Prince Daemon was one of them.”

Tyland allowed a small, polite smile to touch his lips, his green eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Ah,” he mused, as if only just realizing the source of Otto’s displeasure. “You disapprove of my words.”

“I disapprove of reckless interference,” Otto corrected sharply. “You spoke of unity, of perception, of optics. But tell me, my lord, what is the true purpose behind your sudden concern for Prince Daemon?”

Tyland chuckled softly, shaking his head as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Must there be some grand conspiracy?” he asked lightly. “I merely spoke what many have thought but dared not voice. His Grace is a man of great heart. He has been torn between his love for his brother and his duty as king for years. Is it so great an offense to suggest that perhaps there is a way forward?”

Otto’s eyes narrowed. “You forget yourself, Lannister. I know what you are.”

Tyland’s brow lifted ever so slightly, his amusement only deepening. “Do you?”

The Hand of the King exhaled sharply, stepping closer, lowering his voice so that none of the passing guards or servants could overhear. “You are an opportunist,” he said, his tone a blade wrapped in silk. “You speak with the voice of a man who does not act without purpose. So tell me, my lord, who whispers in your ear?”

Tyland remained unfazed, his smirk never faltering, though he felt the sharp tug of the secret lying just beneath the surface. Your voice echoed in his mind, the conviction in your words, the fire in your eyes as you had lain beneath him, whispering of debts and alliances in the hush of your chambers. You had asked him for a favor, and he had granted it, though he had not yet decided if he had done so for strategy or something else entirely.

But Otto could not know that.

“You wound me, Lord Hightower,” Tyland replied smoothly, spreading his hands. “I am but a humble servant of the crown, doing my part to ensure the prosperity of the realm.”

Otto scoffed, unimpressed by the performance. “Daemon Targaryen is a scourge,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. “A rabid dog, prone to disobedience, prone to chaos. You would invite that back into court? You would see him return to his brother’s side, where his poison may take root once more?”

Tyland’s smile did not waver, but his eyes sharpened. “Or perhaps,” he countered, “you fear that with Daemon returned, your influence over His Grace may begin to wane.”

Otto stilled.

It was the smallest of reactions—a slight tightening around the mouth, the briefest flicker of something unreadable in his gaze—but Tyland saw it. And he knew.

The silence between them stretched, tense and weighted.

Finally, Otto let out a slow breath, schooling his features once more into cold neutrality. “Be mindful of where you place your loyalties, my lord,” he said, his tone now utterly devoid of warmth. “The winds of favor shift swiftly in court. A misstep can cost a great deal.”

Tyland merely inclined his head, as if receiving wise counsel rather than a veiled threat. “I shall take your words to heart, Lord Hightower.”

Otto studied him for a long moment, as if deciding whether to say more. Then, with a final, lingering look, he turned on his heel and strode down the hall, his crimson cloak billowing behind him.

Tyland watched him go, his own expression unreadable, his mind already working through the next steps.

The game was moving now. The pieces shifting.

And he, for better or worse, had just placed himself in the center of it.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet at this hour, the usual hum of courtiers and servants reduced to nothing but the distant crackling of torches. Tyland moved with practiced ease, his steps measured, his cloak pulled close around him as he ensured he was not followed. He was a careful man—he had to be, especially now. The weight of Otto Hightower’s warning still lingered in his mind, but the Hand’s disapproval did little to sway him. Tyland had played this game long enough to know when to retreat and when to press forward. And tonight, he was pressing forward.

By the time he reached your chambers, his pulse had settled into its usual, steady rhythm. He rapped his knuckles against the heavy door, once, twice, before stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You were already waiting for him.

Draped in a robe of deep black, lined with Valyrian silk, your silver-gold hair spilled over your shoulders, cascading like liquid moonlight against the dark fabric. The firelight flickered in your violet eyes, casting them in molten hues, as if they burned from within. There was no surprise in your gaze, no curiosity—only expectation, as if you had known all along that he would come to you.

Tyland let the door shut behind him, fastening the latch. “You knew I was coming,” he murmured, stepping further into the chamber.

You smiled, slow and knowing, tilting your head as you regarded him. “Of course.” You turned slightly, as though inspecting the fire, but he knew better—you were watching him, measuring him. “You did as I asked.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his fingers together as he moved closer, his boots soundless against the stone floor. “I did,” he admitted, his voice low. “And Otto Hightower is alarmed.”

Your lips twitched, though whether in amusement or something else, he could not tell. “I heard.”

That gave him pause. He studied you, his green eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “How?”

Your smirk deepened, but you did not answer.

Tyland huffed, shaking his head. “I should not be surprised,” he muttered. “But I must tell you—Hightower will not let this go unanswered. He has ruled the council with his whispers for too long to allow any dissent, especially when it concerns Daemon.”

At that, you turned to fully face him, your gaze sharpening. “And yet, for the first time in years, my uncle is thinking with his own head,” you countered, voice edged with satisfaction. “That is all that matters.”

Tyland could not argue with that.

Viserys had listened. Not Otto, not the council, but Viserys himself. He had leaned forward at the mere mention of his brother, had let the words sink into his thoughts rather than dismissing them outright. That was more than could be said for past discussions of Daemon’s worth.

And yet, that was not the reason Tyland had come tonight.

You studied him carefully now, taking a slow step forward, and though you were smaller than him, there was something about your presence, something about the way you carried yourself, that made it seem as though you were the one looking down at him.

“You did not come here simply to tell me what I already know,” you murmured, your tone soft, almost amused.

He smirked, tilting his head as he let the truth settle between you. “No,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower.

He took a step toward you.

And then another.

Until the space between you was nothing more than a breath.

His fingers found the edge of your robe, his touch deliberate, teasing. “I came to remind you,” he murmured, his lips curving slightly, “that our arrangement is still in effect.”

The fire crackled behind you, sending a soft glow over your skin, casting deep shadows against the lines of his face.

A slow, knowing smirk curled upon your lips as you tilted your head ever so slightly, amusement flickering in your violet gaze like the embers in the hearth. The golden lion before you had come to claim what was his, to remind you of the agreement sealed not in ink and parchment but in the fevered touch of flesh and whispered oaths exchanged beneath the cover of night. Yet, you did not yield so easily. You wanted to see him unravel first—to watch the carefully constructed walls of Tyland Lannister’s composure fracture before you.

You reached for the belt at your waist, your movements deliberate, unhurried, the silk of your robe parting ever so slightly, teasing him with glimpses of bare skin beneath. “I have not forgotten, my lion,” you purred, letting the words linger in the air as you slowly, lazily, undid the knot. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, gliding down your arms before pooling at your feet in a dark river of silk.

Tyland’s breath hitched—brief, but noticeable.

His gaze roamed over you, drinking in the sight before him, his restraint hanging by the thinnest of threads. He had been with women before—courtesans, highborn ladies, women drawn to his wealth, his name, his status—but this was different. You were no common prize to be won in the courts of King’s Landing. You were a Targaryen princess, dragon’s blood running hot in your veins, and you had chosen him.

A quiet curse left his lips as he reached for his own tunic, his fingers working quickly, efficiently, to rid himself of the barriers between you. His doublet was the first to go, tossed carelessly to the floor, followed by his undershirt, revealing the toned lines of his chest and stomach. You could see the rise and fall of his breath, see the way he fought to maintain control, even as his need for you grew.

“You take your time, my lord,” you mused, tilting your chin, feigning nonchalance even as your own body hummed in anticipation.

Tyland let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he stepped closer, grasping your waist with firm hands. “You,” he murmured, his voice huskier now, laced with something dangerous, something possessive, “are dangerous.”

And then his lips were on yours.

It was not the careful, measured kiss of a calculating man—it was hungry, fevered, claiming. His hands gripped your waist as he pulled you flush against him, your bare skin meeting the warmth of his. The taste of him was intoxicating, the remnants of wine and something richer lingering on his tongue as he deepened the kiss, swallowing the quiet sounds that escaped your lips.

You could feel the restraint in him still, the battle between control and unbridled desire, but it was slipping. The lion in him was losing to the man.

He nudged you back, his steps guiding yours, his grip never loosening as he maneuvered you toward the bed. You let him lead, let him think he was in control—until you stopped just before reaching the edge, smirking against his lips.

“You seem eager this time, Lord Tyland,” you teased, voice lilting, your fingers ghosting over his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

Tyland let out a breathless laugh, though there was no amusement in his green eyes—only heat, only longing. “And you,” he countered, nudging your legs against the bed frame, “enjoy testing my patience.”

You hummed in mock consideration, running your hands up his chest, your nails raking ever so lightly, just enough to make him shudder. “Perhaps,” you murmured, letting your lips graze his jaw, trailing down the column of his throat. “And yet, you keep returning to me.”

Tyland exhaled sharply, grasping your chin and tilting your face back toward his. “And I always will,” he admitted, his voice raw, unguarded.

For the briefest of moments, something unspoken passed between you—something beyond lust, beyond arrangement, beyond the careful games played in court.

And then the moment was gone, swallowed by the fervor that consumed you both.

Tyland kissed you again, harder this time, as he pushed you back onto the bed, his body following, his weight settling atop you. His hands roamed, mapping the planes of your body, learning every curve, every dip, as though committing you to memory.

It struck him then, as his lips traced the curve of your throat, that not every man was welcomed into a Targaryen princess’s bed. You could have had any man you desired—princes, lords, warriors, men of higher standing, men with dragons of their own. And yet, you had chosen him.

And that realization sent a new, burning wave of possession through him.

His fingers trailed lower, eliciting a quiet gasp from you as he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger:

“Mine.”

The chamber of the Small Council was steeped in its usual air of dull deliberation, the steady drone of voices layered with the scratching of quills on parchment, the shifting of papers, and the occasional murmur of agreement or dissent. Candles flickered in their iron sconces, the thick scent of melting wax clinging to the air. It was meant to be just another meeting, another day spent discussing trade routes, the state of the royal treasury, and the ever-looming concerns of the Stepstones.

Tyland Lannister sat in his usual place, his gaze keen as he listened with the careful patience he had cultivated over years in court. He had been waiting. Watching. The tension in the room had been subtly building for days, ever since he had first introduced the notion of Daemon’s return. Viserys had not outright declared his decision in front of them, had not made his intentions known beyond a few passing words. But Tyland had recognized the shift in the king’s demeanor, the way his brother’s name lingered on his lips longer than before, the way his fingers twitched as though he were resisting the urge to summon him immediately.

Otto Hightower, of course, had not missed this either. The Hand had doubled his efforts, subtly reinforcing his position against Daemon’s return, guiding conversations back to the prince’s past indiscretions, ensuring that the court remained skeptical of his worth. But it had not been enough. Not this time.

A low murmur rippled through the room as the doors to the chamber creaked open mid-session. It was not the usual entrance of a servant, nor the slow, heavy step of the king himself. No, this was something else—something deliberate.

Tyland did not react immediately, but he saw it before he even turned his head—the stiffening of Otto’s posture, the way the Lord Hand’s fingers curled ever so slightly against the table, his mouth drawing into the thinnest of lines. It was a rare thing, to see Otto Hightower so visibly unsettled.

Tyland finally allowed himself to glance toward the entrance just as the figure stepped through the threshold.

Prince Daemon Targaryen entered the chamber like he owned it.

He did not rush, did not bow his head in false deference. No, he strolled in with the slow, confident swagger of a man who knew the very air shifted in his presence. His leathers were of deep black, the collar lined with Valyrian embroidery, his silver-gold hair swept back, framing the sharp angles of his face. He was unarmored, yet he carried himself as though he were marching onto a battlefield, his smirk carved into his lips, eyes gleaming with open amusement.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Daemon took in the room, dragging the silence out as long as he pleased, watching the way every member of the council reacted. The cautious flicker of Lyonel Strong’s eyes, the nervous twitch of Lord Beesbury’s quill, the poorly concealed distaste on Otto’s face. And then, finally, his gaze landed on Tyland.

And there was the amusement.

Daemon’s smirk deepened, and though he said nothing, the look he gave was unmistakable—Well played, lion.

Tyland did not smile in return, but he inclined his head ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the game they were playing.

Otto Hightower finally found his voice, though it was taut, clipped. “Prince Daemon,” he said, his tone carefully controlled, though his displeasure was plain for all to see. “This meeting is already in progress.”

Daemon’s smirk did not falter as he strolled toward the table, placing a gloved hand upon the back of an empty chair—his chair. The one that had sat unoccupied for far too long.

“I was invited, Lord Hand,” he said, drawing out the words as though they were laced with honey and venom in equal measure. He tilted his head toward Viserys, whose expression was unreadable, though his fingers still drummed thoughtfully against the table’s surface. “By order of the king.”

A muscle in Otto’s jaw twitched.

Tyland leaned back slightly, watching as the tension in the room grew thick enough to choke on. Otto had ruled this council for years, his influence woven into every decision, every whisper that passed through the halls of the Red Keep. And now, before his very eyes, that hold was beginning to loosen.

Daemon did not wait for a response. With an air of exaggerated ease, he pulled back the chair and sank into it, stretching his legs out beneath the table as if he had never left at all. He exhaled dramatically, rolling his shoulders, before flashing Otto a slow, wolfish grin.

“Do not let me interrupt,” he said, voice dripping with false innocence. “Please. Continue.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Viserys finally leaned forward, his eyes flicking between Otto and Daemon, before settling on the latter. And then, in a voice far steadier than the council had heard from him in some time, he said, “We were just speaking of the Crown’s alliances. Perhaps you would have insight, brother.”

Daemon’s smirk did not waver, but something flickered in his gaze.

Tyland said nothing, but inwardly, he noted the shift—the subtle but undeniable truth that Otto Hightower was no longer the only voice the king was listening to.

The game had changed.

And Tyland Lannister, the ever-cautious lion, had just placed his first winning move.

The air in the chamber still crackled with the tension left in Daemon’s wake, though the council had managed to stumble through the remainder of its discussions. Otto Hightower had barely spoken after Daemon’s arrival, his mouth a thin, grim line, his fingers occasionally twitching as if yearning to wrap themselves around something solid—perhaps a quill, perhaps a dagger. Tyland had watched it all unfold with quiet amusement, the subtle unraveling of Otto’s control, the way Viserys had sat a little straighter, a little firmer, as if his brother’s presence reminded him of the strength he had forgotten he possessed.

Now, as the lords filed out, Tyland found himself lingering just beyond the doors, speaking in low tones with Jasper Wylde. Jasper, ever the pragmatist, was more concerned with the shifting dynamics at play than the personal rivalries between the men in the room.

“The king is listening to him,” Jasper murmured, stroking his graying beard, his eyes flickering toward the door. “Hightower will not take that lightly.”

Tyland smirked, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “No, he will not. But Viserys is the king, not Otto.”

Jasper let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You are playing a careful game, my lord.” His gaze turned knowing. “One that I suspect did not begin at your own behest.”

Tyland merely lifted a brow but did not answer.

Before Jasper could press further, a shadow fell over them.

Tyland knew who it was before even turning his head.

Daemon Targaryen moved like a man who commanded the space around him, his very presence a force that demanded acknowledgment. He did not need to clear his throat or announce himself; he simply was, and the weight of that was enough to make Jasper pause mid-sentence.

The older man, ever tactful, gave a small nod. “Prince Daemon,” he greeted smoothly. “If you will excuse me, my lords.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving only the two of them.

Tyland sighed, rubbing his temple, before leveling his gaze at the rogue prince. “You are quite skilled at clearing a room,” he remarked dryly.

Daemon smirked, unbothered, his dark violet eyes gleaming with amusement. “A talent I have cultivated, I assure you.”

Tyland expected him to make some cutting remark about Otto or the council, to boast about his return, but instead, Daemon merely crossed his arms over his chest and regarded him for a long moment, head tilting slightly in mock consideration.

“I suppose,” Daemon mused, “that you are the one I should thank for my seat at the table.”

Tyland smirked, clasping his hands behind his back. “If you are expecting gratitude, my prince, you will find that I do not require it.”

Daemon chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I expect nothing. But I must admit, I did not take you for a man inclined to such risks.” He exhaled through his nose, eyes glinting with something almost appreciative. “You must have known Otto would not take it kindly.”

Tyland inclined his head. “Otto Hightower does not frighten me.”

Daemon laughed at that, sharp and delighted. “I should hope not. I would be insulted if my return had been orchestrated by a coward.” He leaned slightly closer, his smirk deepening. “And yet… I find myself curious, Lord Tyland.”

Tyland lifted a brow. “Oh?”

Daemon’s gaze darkened with knowing amusement. “How, exactly, did she convince you?”

Tyland froze for the briefest of moments.

It was a subtle thing—so brief that most would not have noticed it. But Daemon was not most. He saw the way Tyland’s posture shifted ever so slightly, the way his fingers curled at his sides before he masked it with careful indifference.

“I’m afraid I do not follow,” Tyland said smoothly, though he already knew it was futile.

Daemon grinned like a cat that had cornered its prey.

“Oh, come now, my lord,” he drawled, his tone light, teasing, yet edged with something sharper beneath the surface. “You expect me to believe you did this out of the goodness of your heart? That you simply woke one morning and thought, You know, Daemon Targaryen really ought to have a seat at the council again?” He tsked, shaking his head. “No, no, no. You are not a good man, Tyland Lannister. You are a smart one.”

Tyland inhaled slowly through his nose, schooling his features. “If you have something to say, Prince Daemon, I suggest you say it.”

Daemon’s grin widened, and he took a step closer, just enough to lower his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My daughter,” he murmured.

Tyland’s throat went dry, but he did not let it show.

Daemon tilted his head, studying him like a beast might study its prey, his gaze flickering over him, as if peeling back every carefully constructed layer with nothing but sheer perception.

“How did she convince you?” Daemon mused, his voice laced with mock curiosity. “Did she bat those violet eyes at you? Stroke your ego? Whisper sweet promises in the dark?”

Tyland remained silent.

Daemon smirked. “Or was it something more… tangible?”

Tyland clenched his jaw. “Your daughter is a woman of great conviction.”

“Oh, that she is,” Daemon agreed, grinning, unbothered, entertained. “And she knows how to get what she wants. Just like her father.”

Tyland exhaled sharply, leveling him with a steady gaze. “If you are asking whether your daughter is capable of persuasion, then I would say you already know the answer.”

Daemon chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “Oh, I do.” He stepped back slightly, tilting his head once more in amusement. “And I rather think she’s chosen well.”

Tyland narrowed his eyes, but Daemon only smirked further before turning on his heel, walking away without another word.

Tyland watched him go, his mind racing.

Daemon had not threatened him, nor had he expressed any particular displeasure. If anything, he seemed amused—as if he had known all along what had transpired between his daughter and Tyland, and had merely been waiting for confirmation.

And now, Tyland supposed, he had it.

[kingzombear]

drawing rarijack zombie apocalypse yuri while watching mlp creepypastas rn

[ghonorrhead]

FAT JONI MY BELOVED I WILL NEVER TIRE OR YOUR EXCELLENCE and neither will gyro 🤓