#like those were their epithets

[astrababyy]

Tamlin and Nesta for the character bingo!

tamlin and nesta in order :DDD

[username8746489]

So what is Sylvie and Rick's relationship? What made them connect

I'm gonna be honest, I 100% know little to NOTHING about their canon relationship

There was this period of time like a week ago where I drove myself insane trying to look for the confirmation that Sylvie and Rick were gonna be the POV investigation duo of Horizontal Pilot Command (The fifth novel in the series) because there was nothing listed in the wikis and I was staying up until 2am every night listening to streams to find it (This is relevant for later).

At 2:51:55 in the Prison of Plastic - CAST LIVESTREAM [PART 2], the Sylvie and Rick POV duo is brought up. A little while later, their dynamic is described as

Sylvie: Follow me, I know exactly what to do! (Has watched a lot of Detective Conan and is going to do his best)

Rick: Ah, okay! I have no idea what I'm doing but will copy you exactly!

During the period of time when I was trying to find that, I resorted to straight up closing my eyes and trying to skim through the Anime Campaign wiki without spoiling myself upon which I learned their relationship was meant to be brotherly but they didn't really get to explore that.

So from that, I assume that'll carry over into epithet erased, but there is the possibility that it won't.

[riggedbones]

see the thing about the explosion of indie animation that’s happening right now is that it still isn’t really… like. with a lot of indie games things are often more “retro” because the increase in tools and processing power etc means that making a simpler game like that is a lot easier nowadays and can be reasonably accomplished with a small team. animation however has always been very resource intensive in ways that have often just switched out for different strategies that may lessen that workload in some ways but be just as intensive in other ways or just depend on context. so just being “retro” and making something that comes off as just a bit older and not as advanced doesn’t really do much. so in order to lessen the cost and workload instead something new has to be done and while that does happen occasionally, it’s not the sort of thing that’s catching on atm

[blackvahana]

[ctrlkenma]

☆ I'M GETTING RIPPED TONIGHT, RIP THAT PUSSY!

☆ — summary. the hq boys, and how they work you out ☆

☆ — content warning. f!reader, timeskip, vaginal fingering, oral sex, slight degradation (kenma), bimbofication (kenma), streamer!kenma, streamer!user, pre-established relationships, mature.

☆ — word count. 0.9k.

☆ — includes. kei tsukishima, kenma kozume, ☆

☆ KEI TSUKISHIMA.

The Sendai Frogs exhaust him to no extent. 

Truth be told, they conducted themselves as if they were juniors in high school, the lot of them. If he’d known any better, Kei would’ve thought he was being compensated for chaperoning his team - the designation as a “middle blocker” long forgotten as his time, in lieu, was spent predominantly providing adult supervision for those who missed the memo on maturity.

In spite of the many years he spent pottering in high school volleyball, Tsukishima considered himself to be equipped with the skills needed to start childminding (though, granted, not at such an early age).

In contrast though, Kei, despite the nonchalant facade he upheld that many failed to peer through - found his energy siphoned due to the constant immaturity - to phrase it better, his teammates’ stupid fucking antics - Kyotani’s continuous yelling and Koganegawa’s talkative nature, not to mention their overuse of that annoying, cliched nickname - “tsukki”, which ticked him off even more because it sounded so fucking pathetic if it didn’t come from you.

With volleyball practice feeling more like babysitting than training, Tsukishima was left with a single, solitary outlet through which he could channel his simmering frustration in a relatively healthy way—sex. For Kei, especially, that translated into eating you out, legs sprawled open as you lay on the sofa, exhausted from the constant edging and quite frankly, desperate for an orgasm. 

“Kei…” You beg, lip quivering as you throw your head back, finally being met with the incredible sensation of stimulation onto your clit, his hands prying open your thighs impossibly further, tongue invading your wet entrance as his nose pressed against your core, glasses fogged up from the heat you emanated. 

If Kei died at this moment, he’d leave a happy man.

At last, those sweet, saccharine words bless his ears as if they were a long awaited lullaby - a broken, hushed cry of the epithet, “T-Tsukki!”, which, really, as all it took for Tsukishima to come undone, lapping up at your sweet release as he finally drags down his boxers, providing some much needed oxygen to his erection, which would finally be met with sweet relief once plunged inside your warmth. 

☆ KENMA KOZUME.

There was, perhaps, nothing in this world Kenma Kozume abhorred more than fanmeets.

They wore him out, unnecessarily so, as all it required was to sit still in a chair and talk hours on end about the importance of gaming to the community and whatnot at a fucking twitch panel, as if Kenma’s job didn’t just consist of streaming whenever he felt like playing on his PC.

The job was rewarding, yes, but it was just as time-consuming and annoying, despite the income it may have generated. Being under the constant, watchful eye of anonymous users and being under public scrutiny served as an added bonus (read: sarcasm) to fuel his ever-thriving ego.

It didn't help that you were in the same boat as him - sitting in front of a screen 25/8, bimbofied for all to see. That, perhaps, and seeing you be unceasingly sexualized perhaps replaced his hatred for public speaking and social interaction, dethroning it from the top spot. Honestly, how much lower could your audience stoop? As if having thirst traps be made of him over the littlest things weren’t enough, he now had to endure the thousands of fans you boasted as you sat next to him on that very panel. 

And so, you found yourself being pushed against the wall by a very sweaty, excessively worn out, and an extremely hormonal Kenma. 

“Ken, what are you-,” you started, but he cut you off with a soft “shh,” his hand reaching to latch the door, locking it with a soft click!

“You liked them looking, didn’t you?” His voice was a low growl against your neck, possessive. He pressed wet, insistent kisses to your skin as his hands slid down, a slow, deliberate exploration before he roughly shoved your panties down to your ankles. He didn't hesitate, his fingers plunging deep inside you, slick with your immediate arousal. The sound was wet and messy, a stark contrast to the sterile environment. “You fucking loved the attention, didn’t you? Look at this mess,” he muttered, his fingers churning within you, pulling apart your folds, smearing your slickness across your skin. “So fucking wet for them.” His taunt was a breath away from your lips as he captured them in a hard, wet kiss, his fingers inside you now pumping with a brutal, uneven rhythm.

You gasped, a choked sound as your hips instinctively bucked against his hand. Kenma’s fingers were relentless, stretching you, exploring every ridge with a rough possessiveness. He slid in another finger, forcing you wider, the wet sounds echoing in the small room. He began to fist you, his knuckles pressing deep, his movements almost violent as he filled you completely. It was rather animalistic, sloppy, and undeniably intimate, unlike the secretive, vanilla moments you shared with Kenma, in the quiet of your bedroom. He moved within you like he was trying to claim every inch, his grip tight and demanding. Just like getting that perfect S+ on 1980’s mode in Yandere Simulator – precise, brutal, and utterly focused.

“Tell me their eyes on you meant nothing,” he grunted, his thumb pressing hard against your swollen clit, grinding against it as his fingers continued their brutal work inside. You cried out, your body arching, the sensations too intense, too raw. He continued, his fingers a slick, messy whirlwind within you, until your muscles clenched around his hand, a shuddering orgasm ripping through you. The sounds were wet - desperate, rather, a testament to his forceful invasion.

Kenma held you pinned, his fingers still buried deep, feeling the violent tremors of your release. “Still think they deserved to look?” he whispered, his voice thick with a possessive hunger, frown replaced with a mocking smirk painted across his face, hands now soaked in the aftermath of your orgasm.

©ctrlkenma, 2025. no redistribution, translation or plagiarism is authorized.

[breesperez139]

DC x DP Prompt #7

The Dragon has Three Heads

After their High King was crowned, he was taken in by the Ancients. He was a child with continuously growing power forced to bear the weight of the Infinite Realms and in need of guidance, who better to advise him than the almighty Ancients themselves?

At first, none could decide on who would take their young king in. Not because he was unwanted, but because he was. The Ancients nearly sent the Realms to war with their myriad of reasons and excuses as to why they should be the only ones to take the ghost child in as their own.

In the end, the Ancients came to the agreement of split custody. They would all adopt their little king, but the consequences were dire and unprecedented. With so many powerful beings claiming an even more powerful being as their own child, their little one’s power increased to an all time high nearly breaking the mortal body he resided in.

Every being dead and alive could feel the birth of a new primordial being born. Primordials, beings even more powerful than Ancients, were an extinct species. Any who existed would eventually fade into their domains and lose their sentience for all of existence.

But the Ancients did not want this. They did not want this end for their child. They would not allow it.

Instead, they planned. They traveled different worlds and planets, spreading tales of the Great King Phantom. The epithets they gave him were grand and they would not leave until their work was finished. Their child would be revered, feared, and most importantly, he would be remembered and sentient and alive.

Belief is a powerful tool. Powerful enough to keep Gods immortal, and Primordials from fading. So long as the mortals believed the Primordials were still walking among them, their child would never die. He might not understand why he had to visit his worshippers every few years, but it is for his own good.

Then came two more. Not quite Primordials, but they were certainly on their way. The girl was made in their child’s own image, a mirror. The boy was their child but different. From the moment he appeared, he was no longer outside of time, but outside of space itself.

And with them, came the human female. She was a fierce warrior. Headstrong and bold and so very protective of their little ones. She too became theirs. She too became their child. Yet she was too mortal, too fragile. They could not let this stand.

So they spread tales and created myths. Anything to ascend their mortal daughter into godhood and keep their immortal children alive. So came the legend of the Dragon. The legend of their children.

The Dragon has three heads

Jasmine, their little dragon. Three heads, one for each of her siblings. One head for each mouth she had to feed. One head for each mouth she had to teach. One head for each mouth she had to protect. Three heads for the three children she had to raise as a mere child herself.

And like a dragon, she persevered. Like a dragon, she fought with passion and power and pride. With the strength and determination of a dragon because in truth, she is a dragon. Born by fire, kissed by fire, loved by fire. None could deny the dragon blood running through her veins.

One to be a murderer who will unleash death

Daniel, their little destroyer. He who creates destruction and chaos with every step he takes. He who embodies rage and despair, love and fury, grief and sorrow. His emotions high and potent when it comes to those he loves, as well as those he hates. Having lost everyone he held so dearly, it is not a wonder as to why he is so ruthless and possessive over the family he has now.

One to be a monarch whose crown will weigh heavy

Danyal, their little savior. The assassin prince destined to defeat the tyrant and rule them for all of eternity. The boy king destined to lead and protect them for all of eternity. The holy emperor destined to ensure peace and prosperity spread throughout the Infinite Realms for all of eternity. The perfect and omnipotent God meant to be praised and worshipped for all of eternity.

And One to be mad whose ideas will change history

Danielle, their little wanderer. She who broke free from the unknowing chains that shackled her. She who bent and molded reality, forcefully rewriting the ancient laws. She who bowed to no man, no ideal, no predestined fate as she roamed and reshaped worlds. The little princess would create what she wanted, transform what she wanted, change what she wanted and none could stop her. Not when she was evolution itself.

[mareastrorum]

I love what Brennan is doing with faith in Divergence so far.

The skies of the Riftenmist peninsula in Gwessar (not yet Tal’dorei) have been choked with ash and smoke for decades. Most of the short lived races have never seen a clear sky.

Starmian saw the rain when he was younger. He knew it existed once, and his faith was that it would again. He told Nia about it and used it as encouragement that this struggle would be worth it. She watched him die moments before the rains finally came.

Luz was a Moonweaver worshiper in a land where any reverence for a Prime Deity was systematically crushed by the Strife Emperor. Even prisoners in a labor camp, the bottom rung of society, looked upon them with scorn—because if they were good, why did they let this happen? Why would any idiot worship the goddess of a moon that most living people had never even seen it through choked skies? For all they know, the Betrayers could have destroyed it, too, so what is she even the goddess of anymore? Even Sehanine’s epithet seemed like a fabrication. Perhaps it was true once, and in this barren wasteland, how could anyone say that it’s still true? Then Luz died fighting for people who did not share her faith and who thought she deserved scorn for her belief. After the fight ended, the skies parted and the moon shone down on those same people: a crescent, a sabre, and a smile all in one. Sehanine wasn’t with them anymore, but she still provided what help she could through those willing to forge a connection through the gate.

Their faith mattered both to them and to the world even when they didn’t live to see the result. The point of faith isn’t to see it proved true: it’s to bolster your resolve when all the world is against you. Faith is hope when you have no evidence in hand. Faith is vital to surviving a world fraught with danger. Whether it’s placed in a god, in other people, or in the mere idea that things will get better: faith matters.

It’s exactly the kind of story a lot of people need right now.

[lichtluxx]

A guide to demonolatry

What is demonolatry?

Modern Demonolatry is a polytheistic religion, focusing on the worship and cult of demons, both adepts and students of the Left Hand can adopt it in two ways, one through a more theistic view and another more practical and modern view. Demons are spirits with a great degree of wisdom that the magician can access their energies, the adept can choose to worship them, or just work with the energies by performing ceremonial rituals.

In Demonolatry, we invoke them without trapping them in magic circles - like in goetia - because we are similar to them and like us, they deserve their freedom and autonomy.

As described by S. Connolly on her book: The complete guide of demonolatry: "A DEITY IS COMPOSED OF MATTER. WE WORSHIP (WORK WITH) THIS "MATTER". THROUGH PRAYER, WE GIVE IT FORM AND POSITIVE ENERGY. IN TURN, IT WILL RETURN THE FAVOR."

In other words, we work with and honor demons to discover our true potential as imperfect but divine beings bound to a physical plane of existence. They do not control or harm us, we control ourselves, we remain our own person as we worship them.

WHAT ARE DEMONS?

Demons/daemon = spirit of knowledge and wisdom, a devil in Christian mythology, daemon derives from daimon which means full of wisdom, divine power, the word is of Greek origin. These deities were worshipped in the pre-Christian (pagan) era and religions, many entities of paganism, Roman, Greek, Egyptian pantheons were classified as demons by the Christian church. We can say that these spirits are great teachers, ancient gods.

CATEGORIES OF DEMONOLATRY

First let's understand what demonolatry and demonology mean, just so you don't get confused.

Demonology = the study and cataloging of demons.

Demonololatry = the worship of demons and/or the practice of ritual magic with the help of entities known as demons.

Demonolators = those who practice demonolatry in the form of worship or practice magic.

Theistic Demonolatry: they see demons as real entities, they are gods of the past, ancient gods, they are rulers of the world, like Satan, the whole, the universe.

Modern Demonolatry: In this current, demons are forces of elemental energies that help with spiritual self-knowledge and magical operations. They personify an emotion, an element or an idea. Demonolatry is an individual system, each follower has their beliefs regarding demons, if you work with demons you are a demonolator.

As pointed out before, many entities considered "demons" were ancient gods that were demonized by Christianity, with this image perpetuated for so long that many people still believe that they are, in fact, just demons.

An example of this would be the Canaanite god Baal, whose origins are distorted but also complex. Analysis of archaeological and epigraphic artifacts points to Upper Mesopotamia, associating him with the Gods of "time." Specifically, his origins date back to Aleppo, considered the motherland of the God Hadu. During the Middle and Late Bronze Age, the cult of Hadu expanded throughout the Levant. In Lower Mesopotamia, he was known under the names Haddu, Hadda, Hadad, Addu, and Adad. On the Syro-Palestinian coast, in the middle of the second millennium BCE, Hadu was initially worshiped with the epithet "Baal" (Baal-Hadu). Over time, this epithet replaced the original name, transforming Hadu into the "new" God Baal.

As one can presume, Baal lost his origin and was turned into one of the demons in the Ars Goetia, described as the King of the East, Lord of storm and fertility.

He has a very fascinating origin, but let's get back to the topic we were discussing!

ENNS

Enns are magical invocations designed to summon demonic spirits. No one knows what language the Enns come from - some have said that they were given to us by a demon. They were first considered demonic enns in the late 16th century by the demonolator Alexander Willit. Enns are unique in that they appear in several family grimoires from different geographic locations and always remain the same.

You can chant the enn while you meditate so you and the demon can connect to each other, you can use it as a form of flattery. There's many ways one can use it.

SIGILS OF DEMONS

Sigils are symbols created for a specific magical purpose.

In Demonolatry, sigils are representations of demonic entities. Sigils allow the practitioner to focus on the demonic entity, connect with the demon's energy, and also simply honor the demon. They are tools used to help the practitioner summon a Demonic Entity.

THE NINE DIVINITIES

The nine deities, according to Richard Dukante, are the demons of the fundamental energy of the universe, of existence and balance. These energies are: fire, earth, air, water, positive polarity (health), negative polarity (destruction), life and death. All these energies together form Satan (the Whole), but individually, they are distinct demons.

These demons are:

Fire – Flereous

Earth – Belial

Air – Lucifer

Water – Leviathan

Health – Verrine

Destruction – Amducious

Life – Unsere

Death – Euronymous

HOW TO WORK THEM / TYPES OF OFFERINGS

In Demonolatry, offerings depend on the purpose and the demon you are working with. You can offer blood, as it contains our vital energy, or you can offer sexual fluids, an hour of study about a demon, or the disclosure of their seal and names.

In Demonolatry, the magician does not use a triangle or a circle of protection, because contact with these energies (demons) will not be aggressive or hostile, and there is no need for banishments and threats. Here, the magician and the entity work in partnership. You can light the candle and invite them to come to you, and many times, they will come. Research about them and make a sincere offering as a thank you for their time and for them coming to your ritual.

What's the difference between Satanism and demonolatry?

The word and its derivation “Satanist” appeared for the first time in French and English in the sixteenth century during the European Wars of Religion. In publications from this period, Roman Catholic authors directed it against Protestant Christians, and vice versa, while both applied the epithet to Anabaptists.

Their polemical use of the term did not necessarily mean that they thought their religious counterparts were self-consciously and secretly worshipping the devil — although mutual abuse might occasionally spill over into such allegations, particularly with regard to the Anabaptists — but rather that Roman Catholic veneration for “graven images” or Protestant adherence to “heresy” implied being a fellow traveler on Satan’s bandwagon. In the early nineteenth century, the terms “Satanist” and “Satanism” acquired even broader meanings and came to designate a person or thing with a “Satanic character,” a person or thing inherently evil or wicked.

Only toward the end of the nineteenth century did the word “Satanism” come to hold the significance that it still has, for historians of religion, B-film directors, and the general public alike, namely, as the intentional and explicit worship of Satan. This is not to say that the concepts and practices embodied in this word did not exist prior to that time.

According to Children of Lucifer: The origins of modern religious Satanism - Ruben Van Luikj.

Satanism as we know now is divided into two: theistic Satanism and atheistic Satanism. Let's delve a little into how differente they are now.

Modern Satanism has its roots in the 20th century, with figures such as Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan in 1966, and writer of the Satanic Bible. LaVey also structured his own commandments, which are: I - You shall love and hate with equal intensity.

II - You shall love yourself above all else.

III - You shall love others as they love you.

IV - You shall know yourself.

V - You shall always seek material and spiritual improvement.

VI - You shall not use Satan's name for wrongful purposes.

VII - You shall respect and protect children and animals.

VIII - You shall live every second as if it were your last.

IX - You shall walk your own path but respect the path of others.

X - You shall give your best in everything you do

LaVeyan Satanism, for example, is more of an atheistic philosophy that uses the figure of Satan as a symbol of rebellion, individualism, and skepticism. There is no belief in literal demons or deities. Theistic Satanism, though, involves belief in Satan or demons as real entities and may include worship practices similar to Demonolatry.

In LaVeyan Satanism, practices include symbolic rituals, ritual magic, and the celebration of values such as hedonism and rational selfishness. In Theistic Satanism, practices may include worship, invocations, and offerings to Satan or demons.

Demonolatry involves the worship of demons as deities, and is more devotional and spiritual. LaVeyan Satanism does not believe in literal demons, and focuses more on an atheistic philosophy focused on individualism and skepticism, while Theistic Satanism may involve the belief in Satan or demons as real entities.

What's the difference between Goetia and demonolatry?

Luciferian Goetia is a modern evolution of Solomonic Goetia, adapting ancient practices to a more contemporary philosophy. It emphasizes collaboration and learning from demons, viewing them as spiritual mentors or allies. The approach is more enlightened and less authoritarian, focusing on spiritual growth and self-knowledge. This branch uses rituals, sigils, and invocations, but with an intention of partnership and mutual respect rather than control or domination.

Solomonic Goetia has its roots in ancient texts such as the "Lemegeton" or "The Lesser Key of Solomon". It is a traditional and well-structured practice. It involves the evocation and control of demons through detailed and authoritative rituals. The practitioner seeks to dominate and command these entities to obtain benefits or perform specific tasks. Its practices include the creation of magic circles, the use of sigils and the performance of complex rituals to evoke and control demons. The focus is on controlling and dominating demons to achieve specific goals, such as power, knowledge or the accomplishment of tasks.

Demonolatry = Veneration and worship of demons as deities.

Luciferian Goetia = Collaboration and learning with demons as mentors.

Solomonic Goetia = Control and domination of demons to obtain benefits.

Each of these practices offers a unique path for those seeking to interact with demonic entities, but with different philosophies, methods, and goals.

A/n: there was so much info i could write about, but i think this went really well. If I notices that I missed an important detail, I may do a part 2. Hopefully I was able to shed some light on this topic!

[arabellasleopardcoat]

One Thousand Ships (Cregan Stark x Reader) 

Summary: Epithets have a funny way of growing out of control. Thankfully, your husband has a way of seeing you for what you are, and not the myth attached to your name. Or, the nightmare of being coveted by a Targaryen Prince skips a generation or two, but you are never safe from it. Thank the Gods Cregan is more sensible. 

A/N: Requested. In which you get to play Helen of Troy while being completely normal. Enjoy. (Blame my thesis advisor, who called me Molly Bloom. I am in a classic's mood) 

Warnings: Mature language, period typical repression, mature themes. Canon typical violence. Lots of Cregan fluff.

YOU REMEMBER A story you had been told once, about a girl. A girl so beautiful, her father had made all those who vied for her hand promise they would aid her future husband in a possible war if they were not fortunate enough to marry her. 

A girl whose beauty was enough to start a war, for come a few years later, a cruel, wicked man, had taken her from her home. And the bannermen had answered the call from the husband, and started a war so terrible, it must have lasted thirty years. 

You had never been that girl. You weren’t beautiful enough to start a war, no, but you were beautiful enough to end it. Or perhaps, it had been the fact you had not been in the room when the terrible thing happened. Maybe that was enough for Aemond. 

Your betrothal to him had come after weeks of tense negotiations, screaming matches, and near maiming between the two warring mothers. In the end, it had been your grandsire’s pleas for unity among the family what had settled the matter, deciding the two of you would wed before your next nameday. 

For a few blessed days, it had seemed like war would be avoided. Your marriage to Aemond would sideline the biggest weapons of the Blacks and the Greens. Verminthor would not be able to go against Vhagar, the Greens had thought, when his rider was married to hers. The same logic had prompted the Blacks to agree to the betrothal. 

In hindsight, it had been a doomed effort from the very start. Both sides had celebrated, thinking they were winning a hostage, yet who was winning in truth, only the Gods knew. 

Not you, you now knew. You had been getting the shortest stick from the deal. You just hadn’t known. 

It had all come crumbling down when your grandsire died. 

You hadn’t been in the Red Keep, nor had Aemond been in Dragonstone when it happened. That had been the first mistake of the plan. The second? Aemond had grown too attached to the thought of wedding you. 

As soon as your mother heard of Aegon’s coronation, the betrothal went out in flames. Secretly, you were relieved. Aemond had unnerved you when you had visited the capital. He was not the shy, kind boy you remembered, but a vicious man. 

When you heard you were instead to go North, and wed Cregan Stark, your first thought had been that at least, if you had to choose, you preferred him. He was much kinder. 

It was, of course, not the first thing anyone would think of Cregan Stark. Some would call him honorable, and some would call him cold. A truer King of Winter there had never been, for he had executed his uncle and sent his cousins to the Wall. Nor was there a man as oath bound as he, who had rallied his banners for your mother’s cause for a promise that hadn’t even been his. 

So who was Cregan Stark? Honorable or cold and cruel?  To your four-and-ten-year-old self, he was kind and brave when no one else had dared to be. 

It had been your nameday and you had been terrified. You had never been one for being the center of attention, too self-conscious of your head of dark hair and brown eyes for it. When you were little, you had been the kind of girl who hid in her mother’s skirts, and was called adorable. You had grown up aware of everyone’s eyes on you, and did not like it, so you had learned all your curtsies and managed to behave politely enough to blend in with the crowd. 

But there was a man who had never overlooked you. You were his favorite, much as Jace was Harwin’s and Luke was mother’s and Joff was Laenor’s. You were Viserys’. 

So for your four and ten nameday, to mark your transition into womanhood, your grandsire had chosen to celebrate by throwing a ball with every single highborn in the realm in attendance. 

No expense was spared. Your grandsire commissioned a beautiful blue gown for you, supposedly in the Velaryon colors. But the fabric is Arryn blue, and it looks suspiciously like one of the late Queen Aemma’s dresses. It was the most grown up dress you had ever owned. 

Your mother had cried when she had seen you in it. Your grandfather had praised your beauty. 

Despite how young you had been, you were already aware of the schism inside your family. You had grown up surrounded by cruel japes about your hair color and eyes, and how strong of a lady you were. And even if you had been blind to it, you also had the dubious pleasure of overhearing a row between Alicent and Viserys about this very feast. 

You had been at the first fitting of the beautiful gown, and eager to show your grandfather, when you had heard them arguing about the prices of the silk. 

“I will have no expense spared! It’s her four and ten nameday. She is blossoming into a young woman, she deserves to have a special celebration. Rhaenyra had one just like..” 

“What about your other daughter, Viserys?” Alicent’s words, harsh and cold, had cut even you, who were eavesdropping from the hallway. Suddenly, it felt as if you had swallowed a block of ice. That intense was your dread. 

Helaena had turned four and ten the year before, and her nameday had passed without any sort of celebration. An older you would think of this moment, and realize this was a pivotal moment for Alicent. 

But at the moment, the only consequence that had mattered to you had been that Alicent had been spitting mad, and that she had forbidden either of her sons from asking you to dance. Or even approaching you. 

She had let her displeasure be known, loudly, during the whole week leading up to your nameday, and when the music started playing during your feast, both Aegon and Aemond had remained firmly seated by their mother’s side. 

No one else dared to ask you to dance. Not when you were sat at the right of the King, crowned by a circlet more proper for his heir than the second born of the Princess. You were too high ranked for a simple lord to come ask you for a dance, and the only men who were close to you remained either willfully sitting or blissfully oblivious. 

You remained seated, feeling the minutes drag by, and so did everyone else in the hall. No one could take to the dance floor if the hostess herself did not open the dance. You betted that your mother had not had this sort of trouble in her youth. You didn’t even want to look at her, worried she might order your brother or her husband to take you for a spin. How embarrassing would that be! 

Your face began to heat up, but you forced yourself to relax the tense line of your shoulders. The song was coming to an end. Jace looked at you, from across the table, and you resigned yourself to the embarrassment of dancing with your brother, for it would surely be worse to remain seated. 

Yet, as he was starting to stand up, someone intervened. A boy appeared by your side, offering you a hand. 

“A dance, my princess?” He was very tall, and surprisingly good-looking. His eyes were a deep, dark gray that looked almost black, and his jaw square. Despite being around your age, he had already shed all the awkwardness of adolescence, shoulders broad, and the barest hint of scruff in his cheeks, though he kept himself cleanly shaved. 

He was dressed in less elaborate clothes than the rest of the guests, though no less expensive. A direwolf was embroidered on his doublet. Stark. A future Lord Paramount was nothing to scoff at, and by the superior look your mother was giving Alicent, she knew it. 

“Of course.” You beamed at him, taking his hand. His was warm against yours, and slightly rough. Calloused. 

“You look very beautiful tonight.” He offered, politely, as he led you around the room.  “I like the color of your dress.” 

“Velaryon blue.” Though that was being generous. The color was more of a faded light blue, closer to gray, that matched much more the Arryn’s coat of arms. 

“We match.” And when he spins you, he lifts his arm, showing you his sleeve, in Stark gray. 

“So it seems, my lord.” Then, more quietly, as he lifts you, making something flutter in your stomach, you whisper. “Thank you.” 

“There is nothing to thank me for.” The boy smiles, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It makes an embarrassed flush come to your cheeks. 

“You know there is. For the compliment and…” You lower your head, not wanting anyone to read your lips from a distance. But before you can voice anything more intimidating, the boy cups your jaw in his hand and softly tilts your face up, so you meet his eyes. 

“There is no need to thank me for taking the chance to dance with a beautiful maid.” He says, no hint of dishonesty in his voice. “If any, I am thankful.” 

“You are? Why?” You say, confused. 

“That all these southrons are too cowardly to approach you.” You laugh, and he joins you, loud and clear. This is the memory you hold on to, when you begin your ride north, heart in your throat, and terrified of what Aemond might do next. 

WHAT CREGAN REMEMBERS about you is not how good of a dancer you are, or how beautiful you had looked in your pale blue gown. 

He remembers, instead, the day before, when his father and him had arrived to the capital. They had ridden hard and fast, racing each other with reckless abandon. They had left Winterfell with plenty of time to spare, but both of them loved horses and could never resist the thrill of a good hunt, or in this case, race. 

Too much wolf’s blood, his mother had said when she still lived. Too much to keep still, too much for settling down. 

Cregan doesn’t know it yet, but this is the last time he will get to have this sort of fun with his father. But currently, he is young, and wild, and still free of the burdens of lordship. So they race, and he runs, and they make it to the capital with two full days to spare. 

On the second day, Cregan decides to go exploring. He has always been curious about dragons, having grown on the stories about Good Queen Alysanne, and her visit to the Wall. Of her beautiful dragon, Silverwing, and how she had refused to fly over it, fearful of what laid beyond it. 

Being a Stark, and knowing the secret he knows, Cregan is convinced the dragons have to have some sort of superior intelligence. Or a way to sense magic. As a boy, he believed them to be able to sense evilness, but at the more mature age of four and ten, he now realizes they can stand evilness, otherwise Maegor would have never ridden Balerion. 

So, he decides he must visit the dragonpit. It isn’t as straightforward as just walking up to it. The dragonkeepers won’t allow him to stay or visit the dragons if not authorized by some Targaryen. 

“Ah, young Lord Stark.” The King says, when Cregan finally catches him, near the small council. He seems rather harried, what with overseeing the preparations for the feast, ruling, and his sickness. Cregan would feel bad about asking him, but he has seen neither hair nor hide from any other member of House Targaryen. The Queen and the Princess seem to be having a terrible row, and their respective households have wisely made themselves scarce. “I hear you wish to ask something of your King.” 

“Your Grace,” Cregan bows, as straight as he can. His father has always said that poor posture makes one look like a sycophant instead of a man properly paying his respects. “If I may be so bold, yes. I wanted to see the dragonpit.”

“Most lords never wish to be near a dragon. Why, my own lady wife is terrified of them!” The King isn’t paying much attention, more preoccupied with deciding between two sets of cutlery that look nearly identical to Cregan. He gestures for a servant, and hands him one. “This one.” 

“I… I have always enjoyed hearing stories about Good Queen Alyssane and my ancestor, Lord Alaric Stark.” And his words seem to be the right ones because King Viserys finally turns to look at him, 

“Yes, stories about your ancestors. A noble pursuit for a young man. It will make you into a fine lord.” The King smiles at him. “You may visit Silverwing, if you so wish, from a distance. I wouldn’t have my granddaughter's nameday sullied by your death.”   

“Of course, Your Grace.” Cregan bows, and hurriedly exits the room, uncaring if his bow is a bit sloppy. He is meeting dragons today. 

Cregan rides to the dragonpit. In there, the dragonkeepers eye them with suspicion, despite the guard that King Viserys had sent along with him to grant his permission. He is led to Silverwing’s enclosure, and the dragon is magnificent, honoring her name with wings made of a shimmering gray. He has heard she had once resided in the isle of Dragonstone, but it is no longer the case. 

It unsettles him a bit, seeing her chained. It doesn’t seem right that a creature as regal as she is chained. Not when she blinks at him with what are clearly intelligent eyes. 

Before he can have a stare-down with her, the dragonkeepers pull him back. Silverwing grows agitated, struggling with her chains. Has Cregan upset her?

“Worry not, Lord Stark. This happens every time….” One of the dragonkeepers yells, as they retreat into another cave and emerge in the center of the dragonpit once more. 

“Every time? I read she was sweet-tempered.” At the look of disbelief in the dragonkeeper’s face, he quickly amends it. “For a dragon.” 

“She is. But she worries when her mate parts from her.” 

“Her mate?” The only response he gets is the dragonkeeper pointing towards a bronze dragon, as big as Silverwing, getting ready to take flight. Verminthor. The Bronze Fury. 

Some other dragonkeepers are removing the chains from him, and he barely notices, enraptured by a small figure at his side. Cregan looks in their direction, curious. From this distance, he cannot tell if they are a her or a him. They wear riding leathers that render them almost shapeless. It is only when they get on the saddle, in an agile little jump, and their long braid sways, Cregan notices they are a woman. 

A girl, more likely. Around his age, considering her lack of curves. She has to be strong, to be able to jump like that as if it were nothing. She looks impossibly tiny on her dragon’s back. 

Cregan approaches slightly, as far as he dares. There is a barrier between him and the dragon, but he can still see clearly. When Verminthor takes flight, he expects to see a frightened expression on her face. He would be frightened if he were she. 

Instead, her face only shows a fierce joy, teeth bared, braid whipping with the wind. Fearless, despite being only a tiny speck in the dragon’s back. Alight as she is, she is the most beautiful woman Cregan has ever seen. 

Cregan will not think of you for many years, but when he does, Aemond’s obsession will seem reasonable. The girl atop the dragon, brave and fierce, is the sort to grow into a woman you start a war for. 

THERE IS SOMETHING scary about a man’s obsession. Something scarier than deranged love letters, something that inches more into the realm of your husband’s lover murdered at your wedding. Something that begins with you liking the attention at first, and ends in nights spent looking at the ceiling, wondering if you had prompted him to do this terrible thing. 

Your hands still shake when you think of it. You remember sitting with Daemon and your mother, through a tense meal after they quarreled during the council meeting, when the Maester had come rushing, face pale. 

“A raven, for the Princess.” And you and your mother had attempted to rise, much to Daemon’s amusement. Then, your mother had remembered she was the Queen and sat back down. You had fought a smile then, unknowing of what was to come. “It’s… It’s a serious matter. I think all of you should read it.” 

The three of you had sobered, and you had reached for the letter, confused when the Maester had passed you a small bag. 

Then, you opened it, your mother reading over your shoulder, and both of you had stared at it in horror. 

“What is it?” Daemon had said, impatiently opening the bag. Your mother fell to her knees. You howled. 

On the floor, the pieces of one of Luke’s jerkins laid, bloodied. 

“… I offer you the chance to finish this senseless quarrel. Come back to King’s Landing. Honor our betrothal. Swear fealty to the true King and make your mother… Bah!” Daemon had yelled, grabbing the letter and angrily throwing it to the hearth.

But instead of agreeing, your mother’s expression remained pensive. Daemon and you exchanged a glance. 

“Nothing has changed.” You said, voice firm. Despite it, you could feel your nerves threatening to choke you. What if your mother was thinking of doing as Aemond said? You knew she would never allow him to live, not after Luke, but you also knew that now that she was Queen, and she was looking to preserve the decades of peace she had inherited from your grandfather. She had to think of more than just what would please her. Even if revenge would please her much more. “We knew this was a possibility, that Aemond would insist on honoring the betrothal. Was it not the very reason I did not ride out as my brothers did?” 

It had been. Your mother and you had argued fiercely over it, but at last, she had convinced you of the dangers of capture and the need to keep Verminthor, the biggest dragon the Blacks had, close by. 

“Nothing has changed.” Daemon agreed, his face showing how troubled he was at your mother’s blank expression. If he, who had known her since she was a little girl, couldn’t decipher her thoughts, there were reasons to worry. “Except for the fact that you might have to ride North sooner than expected.” 

“Sooner?” Your mother echoes, hands turned into fists. You can tell she is burning with anger. You wonder if her tears have frozen, as yours seem to have. Your horror is too great. You do not dare look at the scraps of fabric laying on the floor. 

Had Luke told Aemond the betrothal no longer stood? Used that fact to taunt him? 

Had it been your fault? 

“I do not wish to face Vhagar here. Nor brave the attempts to kidnap her. We need to move her out of his sphere of influence. Right now, as she is, she is useless. A liability. As long as she is here, they will keep trying to get in. We cannot risk it.”

At that, your mother begins to cry in earnest.  

You would never know the answer to your questions. They had died with Luke, and you didn’t intend to be around to ask them to Aemond. 

“It’s decided, then. I ride North in the morrow.” 

“I’ll toast to that.” Daemon agrees, lifting a goblet. “May you win us a full army, with that face of yours. Whatever enchantment you put on that Targtower, let us hope it works on wolves too.”

Your mother laughs. It echoes, a hollow sound in the dining room. 

THE EVENING THE princess is supposed to arrive, Cregan is miserable. He has spent the last two days placating his lords, and is in no mood to placate you. Yet, he knows someone has to tell you, and no one is better suited for the job than your betrothed. 

You make your entrance in the back of Verminthor, the myth of your beauty leaving Cregan wholly unprepared for the woman who rides him. You are not a Valyrian Empress come to life, nor are you closer to a goddess than a woman. Instead, on his gardens stands a normal woman, dressed in beautiful finery, and riding a dragon, but normal nonetheless. 

It isn’t what he had pictured at all, and it throws him a bit off balance. It is probably why he dares approach Verminthor, slowly, and help you dismount. 

Cregan feels a vague amount of fear, like one does when faced with staring down a cliff’s edge, or at seeing knights joust. He is too numb and underwhelmed to feel anything more. His mind is slow, still stuck on the fact that you are not some otherworldly beauty that leads men into madness, and hence, perceives you as a normal lady needing help to dismount. 

“There has been a decree.” He starts, without even introducing himself. Cregan might still be shocked by how normal you look, but he is not dumb enough to startle the dragon, so he reaches slowly for your waist. It is good that he rids himself from this fear, he rationalizes. If he is about to live with a dragon, he cannot eat him, “From Prince Aegon.” 

You smile at him, not out of genuine happiness, but politely enough. One of your hands goes to his shoulder, steadying yourself. Cregan can smell the subtlest hint of the perfume you have applied to your wrists, and it makes him wish he could bury his nose against your pulse point. By the Gods, you smell divine. Good enough to eat. 

“What does it say?” You ask, and there is something in your manner, something so unique, so bewitching, Cregan understands why this mythos has grown around you, making you into a figure larger than life. 

“That you are betrothed to Prince Aemond, his heir.” Cregan cannot help himself, his lips begin to form a smirk against his will. There is no humor in it, only bared teeth and wolf. He hates when someone dares stake a claim on something that is his. He hates even more being made to look the fool. 

One only has to look at what happened to Bennard Stark to know it. 

Your face, kind and sweet, takes a sharp dive towards confusion. There is some rage against Aemond in your expression, but you mostly look puzzled, brows furrowed together, mouth half open. 

“His heir?"

And telling you would be distasteful, yet again, so it is marrying another man’s betrothed. Cregan isn’t about to let it stop him. 

“Apparently, your mother or stepfather ordered the murder of a child.” Cregan lifts you slightly, aiding you make your way down to the floor. Standing on the snow, you look surprisingly small. 

“Ah.” You tilt your head to the side. You pat your dragon’s back, as if telling him to settle, and the great beast takes off. Your expression remains carefully blank. 

“And there is more. The High Septon has said that any man who doesn’t marry under the light of the Seven will be excomulgated, the marriage null.” Cregan adds. That had been the truly enraging news for his lords, who despised any southern trying to tell them what to do. 

At that, though, your demeanor changes. Your shoulders lower, as if protecting yourself, and you pull back. You remind him oddly of an animal caught in a hunter’s trap, ready to bite off its own leg to free himself. 

“Alicent.” You mutter, rattled. “They knew where I was headed. A spy?”

“Or common sense. I am close to your age and far enough that they would never get you. I suppose we will be very happy being heathens together.” Cregan offers you his arm, and you take it, laughing a little. You still seem fearful, but it is a start. 

“Daemon will love it.” You smile, as the both of you advance towards Winterfell.  “He married my mother in the Valyrian tradition.” 

“My lords are in an uproar. They intend to see the wedding through if only to spite those… cunts.” Cregan isn’t one to speak so crassly out loud, not to a lady he has just met, but he has an inkling that it might make you feel more at ease. 

He is right. You tilt your head back and let out a loud laugh, attracting the eyes of all of those in the courtyard. When happy, you light up, going from ordinary girl to extraordinary. Suddenly, Cregan sees it. You are as beautiful as a woman as you were as a young maiden. And it was this beauty, this presence that would rally the northerns behind you, not the beauty of your physical vessel. 

Men had loved King Viserys, because they had seen themselves in him. They, too, suffered from ailments, they too, had wives who never smiled and daughters that were the light of their lives. They felt his guilt, his fear, his hopes. They loved his beautiful daughter, the Realm’s Delight, and they loved his first granddaughter, the Winter Princess. 

“Then we marry soon.” You decide, and Cregan smiles. He knows he can make this work. Your myth would launch a thousand ships, and your charisma would keep the northerns strong in their oaths. 

“As my Princess commands.” 

YOU HAD A complicated relationship with desire. As a young girl, free from the confines of your reputation as the most beautiful woman in the realm, you had thought it to be something not quite real. Something that the writers of the novels you were not supposed to read because they were not age appropriate, made up to add spice to them. 

Desire, you thought to yourself, was something out of romance stories, and not something that happened in real life. Your early years had been spent looking at two people who loved each other, yet you never saw your mother and Ser Laenor exchange charged glances or anything more than friendly touches. 

Then, Lady Laena and Ser Harwin had died. And you had discovered that desire was a destructive force, that consumed everything it touched. Not in a good way. In the most terrible one. Taking away fathers and mothers who dared want things. Then, Ser Laenor had died, and Daemon was wed to your mother, confirming you that desire was an evil, terrible force. 

When you had flowered, you had forced yourself to avert your eyes from all the boys around you. You never dared look at any pages, nor to your uncles or any young lord, less that terrible feeling poisoned you from the inside out and led you into disgrace. 

Disgrace, Alicent said, was the circumstance of your birth. You did well by not imitating the promiscuous ways of your mother, and not bringing dishonor to your name. Perhaps your obsession with never, ever, having a lustful or dishonorable thought had been what had caught her attention and made her argue so vehemently in favor of betrothing you to Aemond. 

And yet, for all your avoidance, you could not beat nature forever. It was known that bastards were supposed to be treacherous, lustful creatures, and you weren’t foolish enough to believe your dark hair came from your non-existent Baratheon heritage.

The first time you had ever desired a man had been the day after your nameday feast. Most of the guests were too deep in their cups, or busy nursing the aftereffects of a night of revelry and indulgence, so you had decided it was the perfect time to go for a ride without anyone gawking at you. 

If there was something you despised, it was to be gawked at. And lately, it happened way too often. You no longer were a child, who was by that very fact protected from the poisonous whispers at court. Now, you were a Lady, and hence, fair game for all the snakes residing in the Red Keep. 

As you had been walking on the courtyard, you had seen him. Lord Stark. The kind boy who had danced with you when no one else would, and had turned what could have been a miserable night into one that had made you feel truly special. 

His back was turned to you. He held a heavy practice sword, much bigger than the one Jace used when training. He was clearly proficient with it, his form much more precise than your brother’s. His tunic clung to his upper body thanks to the sweat, and highlighted his muscles. 

Mesmerized, you stopped in your tracks, simply watching him run his drills. There was a strange feeling in your stomach, something warm and sirupy, that nestled there and set you alight, yet left you confused with how unfamiliar it was.

Then, he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, exposing his defined stomach and the trail of dark hair that led down to his breeches, and you could finally put a name to it. Your cheeks began to heat up, your eyes widened. And you stood there, as if struck by lighting, as the terrible, evil feeling bloomed in your chest. Desire. 

You had not forgotten that memory. Not years after, when Aemond’s desire threatened your very life, and not right now, when you feel the eyes of Cregan’s lords on you, and hear them mutter about how they are about to find out soon enough why they called you the most beautiful woman in the realm. 

THE DAMN SONG begins playing after the main course is served, and Cregan can feel you freeze next to him. You have eaten little to nothing since your arrival, face set into a grim determination that reminds him too much of himself after learning of his uncle’s betrayal. But when The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown begins playing, your spoon freezes on its way to your mouth. 

His men are impatient. They had been told tales of your beauty ever since hearing of your betrothal to Cregan, the myth around you building and building with each desperate attempt made by the Kinslayer and his family to stop this very wedding. No man would go to such lengths for a woman unless he loved her madly. And why would a man love a woman such, if not for her otherworldly beauty?

When faced with the fact that you were comely enough, but common, they had decided there had to be something under all those clothes that had driven Prince Aemond to insanity. And they decided, apparently, to see for themselves. 

Had you not been so frightened, Cregan would have allowed it to go on. When he had married Arra, she had gleefully partaken in the bedding, even joining the group of women tearing at his clothes. Arra… The thought of his first night as a wedded couple made Cregan’s heart ache. He shook his head, attempting to clear it. 

There would be no such a thing happening tonight. For starters, the conditions of that night had been much different. Arra had been a northern woman, and had known most of those inside the hall her whole life. None would have dared disrespect her, and their interest had been vague, knowing she was to be the woman of their lord. 

You were a stranger, and the guests were a mob waiting to pounce on you, far too interested in divesting you of your clothes. Arra would have punched anyone who dared touch her inappropriately. Because she could. Her station was different from yours. A Princess wasn’t afforded the liberties a woman from the mountain clans was. 

As a foreigner, you didn’t have the respect from his lords that Arra had enjoyed. It didn't matter that your dowry was bigger than the one any other maiden could boast about, including a giant dragon sleeping just outside. Northerns distrusted outsiders, and you would have to earn their respect not by your prowess as a dragonrider, but as Lady of Winterfell. 

Cregan knew if he allowed them to grope you now, they would never respect you. And you would never forgive him, frightened out of your mind as you were. You needed to feel safe, after spending the last moon feeling everything but. 

He gets up from his seat, and raises a hand to silence the hall. His lords obey immediately, even the drunker ones. The minstrels take a bit longer, but they, too, fall into line. 

“The Princess is in mourning.” Cregan says, voice firm. “There will be no bedding tonight. My wife and I will retire to our shared chambers, and that will be all.” 

“But, my lord, the tradition…” 

“Such tradition was born in the South. And we are not southrons.” Cregan glares at the man that dared speak. “We did not wed under their Faith, nor do their laws hold any sway here. I will not let them dictate what I do between the sheets either.” 

And at that, there is some laughter and cheers. Cregan smiles to himself. Trust the northern pride to get him out of difficult situations. 

He sits back down, and gestures for the music to resume, and for everyone to go back to eating. The musicians start again, with a much more appropriate rendition of The Winter Maid. 

You look at him, dark eyes wide. 

“Thank you.” You whisper to him, voice pitched low. 

“There is no need to thank me. We do not frighten women here in the North.” A flash of pain crosses your face, perhaps thinking of the pain you have endured thanks to this blasted war. Carefully, giving you ample time to move away, he places his hand on top of yours. “No one will hurt you under my roof. No one. Much less me.” 

You bow your head, half shy, half coy. When your gaze lifts to meet his, Cregan is struck once more by how beautiful you look when you smile. 

When the time comes for both of you to retire, Cregan tucks you firmly by his side, an arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders. He keeps his steps hurried, avoiding the lords who have had too much to drink and glaring at the ones who are sober. He manages to reach his chambers without anyone attempting to grope you, though the cheers and vulgar remarks cannot be avoided. 

Once inside, you let out a loud sigh, shoulders loosening, before you take one look at the bed and freeze again.  

“I won’t take what isn’t freely given.” Cregan tells you, sitting down on it to take his boots off. “I have no need of it. I have my heir.” 

“I… I want to.” You whisper, softly. Your face grows a deep, dark red. “But I can’t. Not tonight.” 

And Cregan smiles at you.

“Not tonight.” He agrees, easily. Only fools live of hope, he thinks, but most men turn into fools when in your presence. He can forgive himself for it. “But someday.” 

You blow the candle on your bedside, and Cregan does the same in his. In the absolute darkness of his chambers, he can hear the soft rustle of clothes as you undress, taking off the cloak he had wrapped you in and the wedding gown. As he works on taking off his tunic, he imagines how lovely you must look, flushed and shy as you remove your clothing, baring your soft skin to the night’s air. 

The thought of getting into bed with you, half naked, makes his groin throb. He has to think of many unpleasant things to calm himself, as he lies down on the bed. The mattress dips, suddenly, and Cregan can hear your letting out a nervous sigh. 

You begin struggling to find a comfortable position to lay on the bed, trying to touch him as little as you can. Occasionally, Cregan can feel the brush of a foot or an elbow. The bed is not so big, after all. 

Yet, he remains laying still and silent for what feels like an eternity. Only when you settle, miles away from him, the sounds of merriment still coming from outside the chamber, does Cregan reach out. 

“Wife.” He whispers, as one might whisper a prayer. 

And your reply by reaching out a hand to touch his, a bit slick from your nerves, but soft and smooth in his calloused ones. 

“Husband.” There is such want in your tone, that Cregan wonders who taught you to make yourself small, so others could feel big. Who taught you to hide who you were, what you yearned for. He wishes he could go meet them and punch them right on the mouth. 

No one would ever dare utter an unkind word to you here. Cregan would make sure of it. 

“It isn’t wrong to want.” He tells you, as he gathers you in his arms. You tense at first, but come morning, you are cuddling him back. 

“A LETTER HAS arrived.” The Maester announces, his face grave. Your stomach twists. For a second, you are back in Dragonstone, dining with your mother and Daemon. Opening the letter that will tell you of Luke’s death in the worst possible manner. 

It makes you sick. Sick enough that nausea blooms and you are forced to rush out of the hall and end up throwing up on an empty flowerpot. As you retch, you can hear footsteps after you. The Maester and Cregan, no doubt, have followed you outside after your hurried exit. 

You feel a vague embarrassment over being seen in such a way, but it is quickly tempered by the relief of feeling a cold hand bracing your forehead and another holding your hair back. Cregan. You would weep with relief, were it not the fact you are too busy emptying your stomach. 

When you finally cease your retching, Cregan hands you a handkerchief to wipe your mouth, polite as always. 

“Are you alright?” He asks you, and when you nod, shakily, he takes your arm and turns towards the Maester.. “Come, join us. You can tell us of the letter while we take a walk through the gardens.”

You allow Cregan to steer you towards the exit. Perhaps he is right, and the cold air might do you good. Soothe your nerves. Besides, staying in the hall was only reminding you of that terrible night. A different setting might make it easier to bear. 

The Maester looks startled. Spooked. It only confirms the acid brewing in your stomach that these are bad news. The bile threatens to overwhelm you and makes you gag again. You cover your mouth with your hand. 

“If the Princess is pregnant, it would be best if she didn’t…” The Maester starts, yet he is sharply interrupted by Cregan. 

“She isn’t. Now read the letter.” Both of you turn to stare at him, at the fury in his expression, so out of character for your husband. He has never been one for such displays of temper, his anger much colder and harder to provoke than with simple words. 

You know you are not pregnant. Here is a secret: To this date, Cregan and you have yet to consummate your marriage. Not for a lack of desire on his part, or even in yours, but thanks to how fearful you are of your own wants. Cregan has been endlessly patient with you, never once pressuring you, and slowly, you had been conquering your fears. 

Now, the two of you could kiss for hours, with clumsy devotion full of promises that couldn’t yet be fulfilled. No longer did you tremble out of inherited superstitions that told you that loving each other would be courting misfortune. Instead, you shook from desire and pleasure, from each of his attempts to approach you, hands searching and retreating like waves. Slowly, each of your anxieties was being replaced with unashamed wantonness, and each of your fears with soft caresses only Cregan could give you. 

He often told you there was no hurry, that the two of you could love each other at the pace you needed. With one heir already, Cregan had the luxury of waiting. And he was such an honest man, each time he reassured you that he wasn’t mad at you and wished to only make you happy, you believed him. 

Hence, he couldn’t be angry at what he perceived to be a dig at his manhood or his inability to bed you. What bothered him was something else.

“I am not pregnant, Maester.” You say, squeezing Cregan’s arm to comfort him. “Just, the last time I heard those words…” 

“It is something similar, I am afraid.” The Maester offers the letter to you, and you grasp it. The first thing you notice is that it is addressed to you and not Cregan. The second is that you know this handwriting. 

My dearest Princess, 

It is with great concern I read of your union to that savage. But fear not. If you come South, and your mother surrenders, I shall forgive your transgression. To avoid sullying your reputation any further, I encourage you to not dare consummate it. Your marriage is not a marriage in truth, you have been deceived. The Faith of the Seven doesn’t recognize such a thing. I shall free you and restore your honor, wedding you under the true light of the gods. 

If the brute that is holding you doesn’t let you go, I, Prince Aemond Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, rider to Vhagar….

“What a cunt.” Cregan says, reading over your shoulder the numerous threats made to his person. “I dare him to try.” 

It startles a laugh out of you, even if a few tears run down your cheeks. 

“Promise me to not go South?” 

“My men shall march, but not I. Not without you.” Cregan whispers, brushing your tears away with his thumb. “I am not foolish enough to believe myself able to face Vhagar without a dragon by my side.” 

“Good.” You smile at him. Suddenly, everything doesn’t seem as bad. You trust his ability to keep you safe, to keep his oaths. And it makes something delicate and warm fill your chest. 

It doesn’t make you forget about his fit of temper, though. You ruminate on it all day, as you go through your tasks. When night comes and Cregan kisses you with more desperation than usual, you have your answer. 

“I do not want to lose you.” He whispers, holding you tight against him as if you were about to turn into melted snow and slip between his fingers at any time. “I want you to stay here. Forever.” 

You hug him back, tightly. It hadn’t been about masculinity, or a perceived slight. His first wife, Arra, had died in childbirth. 

“I am not going anywhere.” You tell him. “Aemond will not get me, nor will childbirth. My mother has given birth seven times, six of them without any danger.” 

“We don’t need more children.” Cregan grumbles, sounding like a whining child. You look up at him, splayed over his chest as you are, and smile. 

“No, we don’t.” You agree. Once, you had thought you needed to have his child to secure a place at his side, but no longer do. Perhaps it would be good to have one in case Cregan dies, to ensure you do not get sent back south, yet you do not intend that to happen. You will protect him until your death. 

Any man trying to kill him will find himself face to face with Verminthor. He has grown lazy here, the exercise might even do him good. 

“You needn’t worry, husband.” You say, as you begin to kiss a path down his neck. “There is always moontea.” 

And Cregan laughs, and it is the loveliest sound you have ever heard. 

“TODAY’S LESSON…” The Septa braces herself, trying not to cry out at the sudden turn of the wheelhouse. Northern roads are like that, she will soon learn. Unfortunately, Arya thinks, she has yet to give up on educating them. 

Arya hopes it happens soon. She is much more interested in playing with Needle, rather than listening to her prattle about proper behavior and ancient history. 

“I know that story!” Sansa interrupts the Septa, excitedly. It makes Arya pay attention again because Sansa never interrupts their Septa. “It’s so romantic! The dance of the dragon started because they were fighting over her. The Winter Princess. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, betrothed to Prince Aemond by her evil relatives when everyone knew her true love was Lord Cregan!” 

“That’s not how…” The Septa starts, and for what has to be the first time in her life, Arya agrees with her. 

“Father!” Arya shrieks. “Tell her that is not how it happened.” 

Her father doesn’t answer. It is a rare day in which he chooses to ride in the wheelhouse, and by the look on his face, he seems to be regretting it. 

“All the songs say so!” 

“That it started because of her?” Arya says, in an acid tone. She blows a raspberry in Sansa’s direction, loud and disrespectful. “You are a fool. I think her mother was more worried about the fact Aemond had murdered her son. And that the Greens were usurping her.” 

“If she had married Prince Aemond, there would have been no Dance of the Dragons.” Sansa corrects, smugly. “They say Aunt Lyanna was her very image.” 

“Nonsense! My aunt was a Stark, the Winter Princess a Targaryen.” Arya contradicts. “Besides, if I had a dragon, I wouldn’t want to marry some boorish prince either.” 

“But Aunt Lyanna must have been the most beautiful woman in Westeros too.” Sansa protests, looking very upset by Arya’s words.

Her father flinches. 

“Enough. I do not want to hear another word about the Winter Princess or dragons, or Cregan Stark.” 

“But father, Lord Cregan and her were the most influential….” 

“I said enough, Sansa!” 

The wheelhouse falls silent after that. Even the Septa shuts up. Arya looks at the scenery pass her by and thinks it’s lovely to be right. She sends a few superior glances to Sansa, less she forgets it. 

[incomingalbatross]

I like the "sweetheart" backstory. It DOES change it, from being (what looks like) a sarcastic, scornful epithet developing into a genuine endearment, to being a genuine endearment more-or-less tainted by bitterness throughout the trilogy. BUT. I don't mind that change.

Haymitch's use of it in SotR is so tender and affectionate and sounds so absolutely natural in his mouth that it's a shocking contrast between what he was as a teen and what he is by the time of the 74th Games.

Teen Haymitch is soft around kids and loved ones without any effort. Adult Haymitch's sentiments come out sharp-edged and broken and angry 90% of the time, even toward those he loves most.

It is also ENTIRELY IN KEEPING with the first use of it in THG and just adds another layer of typical cross-purposes between Haymitch and Katniss. Because the first use of it comes after Katniss shoots the apple out of the roast pig's mouth, then comes back and locks herself in her room and cries for an hour because she's Ruined Everything.

At dinner a few hours later, we get this:

The adults begin some chitchat about the weather forecast, and I let my eyes meet Peeta’s. He raises his eyebrows. A question. What happened? I just give my head a small shake. Then, as they’re serving the main course, I hear Haymitch say, “Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?” Peeta jumps in. “I don’t know that it mattered. By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go.” That makes me feel a bit better. It’s not like Peeta attacked the Gamemakers, but at least he was provoked, too. “And you, sweetheart?” says Haymitch. Somehow Haymitch calling me sweetheart ticks me off enough that I’m at least able to speak. “I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.”

Katniss clearly takes it as condescending and insincere, and so do we - but the SotR intrepretation WORKS here. And makes it much funnier.

Haymitch, looking at Katniss's tear-blotched face and trying to figure out what went wrong: "And you, sweetheart?" WAIT why did I call her that no I'm not supposed to CARE about them abort abort abort Katniss "surely Peeta is trying to sabotage me when he's being nice and says he loves me" Everdeen, reacting characteristically: How DARE he patronize me like that

And the other thing I like is that it adds a layer to the Haymitch-Katniss relationship. We all know the parallels, we all know they both see themselves in each other and hate it... BUT this means that he also saw Louella in her. He doesn't just see her as a younger mirror of him, he sees a smart, spunky little girl he tried to protect and couldn't. A girl who deserved to be safe from the Games. And I just... it makes me happy that Haymitch was seeing her from the start as a child he wanted to protect, along with a kindred spirit.

ALSO, finally, I think if/when Katniss learned this was an inherited endearment she'd have very messy feelings about that. Which is fun.

[pomefioredove]

Hello! Could I have a chocolate, #1, with sprinkles and whipped cream please? <3

mwahmwah rollo

order #1, chocolate with whipped cream, sprinkles

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ when it's over

summary: with a reader whose been traumatized by magic tropes: royalty au, hurt/comfort characters: rollo additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is not yuu

The royal party had been nothing but problems, problems, problems. Poor Rollo, the diligent Student Council President, the very soul without whom this entire event would cease to exist, had run himself ragged.

Of course, nothing went right.

First, the royal procession was late. Not by a few minutes, not even by an hour, but by the time that lunch had gone cold and the crowds with it. Rollo had simply never seen such disrespectful tardiness, and he had to suspend his personal welcoming of the Night Raven College students to attend to the royal party.

Then, the play that had been arranged in honor of the visiting sovereigns was interrupted, and then the festival was pushed up by an hour, and then it was almost evening and Rollo's headache had not gone.

He sniffled into his handkerchief. He wasn't crying, nor was he sick, but his nose was wrinkled so tightly it made his voice nasally and noxious. He, not an aide in his dutiful place, should have welcomed the Night Raven students. He had wanted to see what he was up against tonight.

Rollo stuffs the handkerchief into his pocket. No matter. There's still time.

The royal party, that of a distant place he had no interest in outside of the lecture hall and the library, would be kept entertained by the festivities. There was still much drinking to be done. Rollo could slip away for ten minutes to attend to the Night Raven students, and no one would notice.

He hadn't taken one step.

"Excuse me? Monsieur Flamme, was it?"

He stops at the meek epithet. Too polite to be a Night Raven College student.

"Yes, that's right. May I-" he hesitates as you come into the light. The youngest of the visiting family. "...Ah... It's you."

Adorned in the finest cloth of your countrymen, eyes sparkling. You had addressed him in the language of Fleur City, which tells Rollo that you're educated. Enough, at least.

"You should be enjoying the fireworks with your friends. Is something amiss?"

You hesitate. He really does not have time for this. The evening bell is set to ring in an hour.

"...I was hoping you might find me somewhere to sit. I feel unwell,"

Wonderful. Rollo smothers a sigh in his handkerchief, and then leads you into the school.

The soft gray light of early evening, cast through the arched windows and past the strenuous pillars, is naught but a reminder of how little daylight Rollo has to spare.

"...Unwell, you say," he repeats, prodding into the soft silence. Rollo knows that you must have had plenty a place to sit, and if you were truly "unwell", as you had put it, that one of your many aides or servants would attend to you. But you went to him. Why?

"...I am moderately versed in medicine. What are your symptoms?"

He lets you into the student council room. The heavy oaken door thuds shut.

"Oh..." you say. And nothing more. Rollo raises an eyebrow at your silence. Caught in your own lie?

He gives you his arm, as a good man ought to (if only he were a good man), and helps you into a seat.

"...Just a bit lightheaded,"

"Hm," Rollo hums. "Too much to drink?"

"Oh, no, never. Not with my... you know," you say. "It was only... a lot of noise. And light."

Rollo sympathizes with that. It was those Night Raven villains who had set off those fireworks, wasn't it?

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you'd like. I apologize for the... er, commotion," he mumbles. "...It was not planned."

"Wasn't it?"

"No," he says, sternly. "I would never... ahem. The students of Noble Bell conduct themselves with more restraint.

...Especially around a dangerous thing like magic."

You almost smile. "You don't play with matches, then?"

"We don't stick our fingers in fire,"

He stands against the wall beside you, studying your posture and pose. Not so tense anymore, he notes.

"...I see," you say. "Well, that's a relief."

Is it, he wonders. "You didn't enjoy that disgus... that... display? Everyone else seemed to."

"I'm not really a fan of magic,"

It's not easy to surprise Rollo Flamme. He's a man of diligence, of devotion. He plans his days, weeks, months, years to perfection, never leaves an end loose, a thread dangling.

This surprises him.

His eyes widen.

"...I see. Is your family not..."

"Mages?" you finish. "I'm surrounded by them. But I'm... not, no."

He is suddenly not so worried about the Night Raven College students.

"...And you don't care for it? Magic?"

Your posture, your pointed toes and proud shoulders, shudders, like a candle flame in wind. Rollo hasn't seen that before, but he's felt it.

"...Not really. I've had some..." you begin.

"Experiences," he finishes, folding his hands. "I understand."

It's getting darker. The Bell, his Bell, will need him soon. But he can't leave you. His heart won't allow it.

His mind will.

"Stay in here, for the rest of the evening. I'll come for you when it's over," he does not specify what "it" means.

You nod, eyes wide, warm (or is that just the effect of the fire?) the color of flame dancing against your skin. Rollo hesitates. He sets a hand on your shoulder and presses his fingers into the soft flesh, as if to confirm that you're real, that you'll stay.

"I'll come for you," he repeats.

And with more determination than he had even that morning, Rollo heads for the bell tower.

[seasaltdevotion]

King Poseidon appreciation post!

I feel He is often very under appreciated, misunderstood (thanks myth literalism 😒) and just… not talked about enough. So it’s my job, legally, to yap about Him.

Epithets

Poseidon Asphalios - Secures Safe Voyage

Poseidon Basileus - King/Lord

Poseidon Domatites - Of the House

Poseidon Epoptes - Overseer/Watcher

Poseidon Gaieochos - Holder of the Earth | Poseidon Ennosigaios - Shaker of the Earth

Poseidon Genesios - The Father | Poseidon Genethlios - Of Kin/Kindered

Poseidon Hippios - Of the Horses | Poseidon Hippokourios - Horse Tender

Poseidon Laoites- Of the People

Poseidon Patrus - Ancestral Father

Poseidon Pelagaios - Of the Sea/Marine

Poseidon Phytalmios - Plant Nurturer

Poseidon Prosclystius - Who Dashes Against

General Information

Most people know Poseidon as the god of the ocean, but of course when looking at his epithets, he is the god of fathers/fatherhood, of the house, horses, earthquakes, and even the nurturing of plants.

His Family

He is married to Amphitrite, Queen of the Oceans. They have a son together Triton.

He is also known to be the father of Aeolus, of the winds, Despoena goddess of specific Arkadian Mysteries, and Proteus, an elderly god seal herder.

Some other offspring of note include: Charybdis the giantess whirlpool who is mothered by Gaia, Polyphemus the cyclops born of Sea Nymph Thoosa, and Thesus an Athenian hero born of Aithra.

His Symbols/Attributes

Obviously, the trident is His main symbol.

His sacred animals consisted of bulls, horses, and dolphins. Being the god of the ocean other sea creatures were also used in reference to Him.

Plants related to Him are pine trees and wild celery!

Homeric Hymn to Poseidon - Hymn 22

“I begin to sing about Poseidon, the great good, mover of the earth and fruitless sea, god of the deep who is also lord of Helkion, and wide Aegae. O Shaker of the Earth, to be a tamer of horses and savior of ships! Hail Poseidon Holder of the Earth, dark-haired lord! O blessed one, be kindly in heart and help those who voyage in ships!”

Orphic Hymn to Poseidon - Hymn 17

"Hear, Poseidon, ruler of the sea profound, whose liquid grasp begirds the solid ground; who, at the bottom of the stormy main, dark and deep-bosomed holdest they watery reign. Thy awful hand the brazen trident bears, and sea's utmost bound thy will reveres. Thee I invoke, whose steeds the foam divide, from whose dark locks the briny waters glide; shoe voice, loud sounding through the roaring deep, drives all its billows in a raging heap; when fiercely riding through the boiling sea, thy hoarse command the trembling waves obey. Earth-shaking, dark-haired God, the liquid plains, the third division, fate to thee ordains. 'Tis thine, cerulean daimon, to survey, well-pleased, the monsters of the ocean play. Confirm earth's basis, and with prosperous gales waft ships along, and swell the spacious sails; add gentle peace, and fair-haired health beside, and pour abundance in a blameless tide."

Poseidon & Myths

I’m someone who is big on how terrible Myth Literalism is. Poseidon is not his myths. No god is their myths.

Myths are stories that teach lessons, nothing more. He is not some terrible god or mean man. So imma get into my experience with Him!

Poseidon to Me

Poseidon has a very fatherly energy to Him, and I attribute that to His fatherly epithets as well as His many children.

At times His presence is very soft and gentle. Like a tender pat on the back for a job well done. A warm laugh of an enthused fatherly figure. Other times it can almost be suffocating. A tight chest pressure and weight on your shoulders, the gaze of a disappointed father.

However, He always means well.

Why pray to Poseidon?

Poseidon came to me while I was researching epithets, actually looking to see if there were any fatherly epithets. I was in the middle of combing through King Zeus’s epithets before I my brain focused on Poseidon. Writing Zeus’s list, all I could think about was checking Poseidon’s even though I wasn’t finished with my previous one. So I checked. Surprise surprise.

Since then I have consistently prayed to Him for things you’d ask a father for. Advice, comfort, just… His presence. All of which He provides. I live inland so I don’t see the ocean, but I spend plenty of time playing in rivers or lakes occasionally. I thank Him and King Zeus for the rain. I love horses, so I research them and learn about them. I thank Him purely for their beauty and existence.

Even if their domain doesn’t fully involve you, you can still worship a god. And it’s still so gratifying.

Ty for coming to my Poseidon Ted-talk. I just adore Him a lot and decided He needed a post on my page solely dedicated to teaching people about Him.

[jelloapocalypse]

If I'm not mistaken (and I fully could be so please let me know if I am) but didn't you used to be much closer to 2 million subscribers? I swear I remember seeing you at like 1.98 or something.

Either way, is there a good way to support you on Youtube? Or is that something I shouldn't worry about too much? Do you know if there's a good way to promote your videos to the algorithm that will have a good effect?

I've been hovering in the 1.8-1.9M range for like ~3 years or so now. The internet as it is now only boosts consistent uploads that are 15+ minutes long or TikTok-style vertical videos that are <2 minutes long with captions.

I don't do either of those and I have no interest in pivoting my stuff in that direction, so I think it's likely I'll probably never hit 2 million. It is what it is.

Subscribers have mattered less and less over the years. I remember them feeling really valuable in like... maybe pre-2015 when your subscriptions were at the top of your homepage and they prioritized showing you the stuff you said you were actually interested in, but now the sub page is super buried and unless you sign up for individual notifications from a channel you probably won't even know they uploaded anymore.

The internet is a slave to algorithms now. Stuff gets popular pretty much entirely independent of subscription count.

Jenny Nicholson and Hbomb are two of my favorite YouTubers who make absolutely incredible marathon-length videos once or twice a year (which is the exact type of thing you'd want subscriptions for), and even though both of them have been putting out mega-viral documentary-length videos every year for the last three years or so, their sub counts haven't exploded. People write articles on the things they make, in real publications too. New York Times and HuffPost shit. Yet both of them have less subs than me. Jenny has 1.3M and Hbomb has 1.8M which is insane. They should both be at like 3M+ easily for the stuff they make, and if they had the popularity they do now back in 2012, they probably would have the equivalent to that.

By the same token, I have a streaming channel that I do fully-voiced readthroughs of games on and there are people who try to watch almost every stream that often show up late and complain about how YouTube never notifies them. They had to hear about it via a friend on Discord even though they're subscribers AND they have notifications on. Being subscribed quite literally does not do anything these days.

It's worth noting that YT subs aren't really reflective of a channel's overall "health", if you want to call it that. My streaming channel has been doing really well the last two months. We played Danganronpa for charity and had the best viewership we ever got with 1100-1600 viewers for any given episode, which is really high. That's like Top 0.1% of Twitch numbers. We also get a ton of donations and artwork from our fans and watch time is up 40% from the last month right now. Forty percent. That's crazy!

But our sub count keeps dropping. We lose about 100 subscribers a month, for whatever reason. But isn't that weird? That literally every other metric on your channel can be skyrocketing while subscribers go down? It seems like they really don't matter.

We've had over 100k subscribers for a year and a half now, but YouTube still hasn't mailed us that plaque. I doubt they ever will. I'd be surprised if anyone on their staff even checks that anymore. Today's internet is focused on keeping viewers moving to new content and showing them as many ads as possible while they do it. There isn't as much of a benefit to keeping someone watching one particular person anymore.

I appreciate you trying to support us! I think just watching our stuff when you feel like it and maybe showing your favorite videos to friends every once in awhile if you think they'll like it is the best thing you can do. If even one person ends up watching and binging all my Epithet stuff that's like 6 hours of watchtime right there.

[astrogre]

Aphrodite(1388) Beauty Indicators

What counts as Aphrodite(1388) beauty indicators:

Aphrodite in 1st house (YOU are appealing, this asteroid is simply who you are as this house represents you as a whole, physically and personal identity)

Aphrodite in 10th house (this is how you publicly appear to others at large, so if you have an asteroid here it kind of shows those themes come to mind in general when people think of you and what your reputation is associated with, imagine yourself as a concept, you perceived as a brand)

Aphrodite Conjunct Venus (your beauty and the way you style express yourself, you express your love and sense of beauty in similar ways, Venus also shows where we are most beautiful therefore the things that make you most beautiful are like Aphrodites)

VERY Strong indicators:

Aphrodite Conjunct ASC (it further amplifies because you become the physical embodiment of Aphrodite, no longer just a hint but may even be mistaken for her your form of expression and how you come across to all and most importantly yourself is just like Aphrodite)

Aphrodite Conjunct MC (same as 10H however it’s even more prominent, your Aphrodite characteristics may manifest or be needed for the job you do as well)

Aphrodite conjunct is at 0-2 orbs. Closer the orb more exactly like your appearance. 0 orb means Aphrodite is YOU to a T. Your physical appearance/public image/expression of oneself, if described with an adjective would be the asteroid itself.

2 or more of any of the previous Aphrodite indicators this asteroid is far too prominent in your chart to be an adjective to describe your beauty, it’s more like an epithet.

What kind of beauty you have:

- You embody the ideal beauty standards

- You shapeshift to appeal to the senses and pleasures of individuals who look at you

- People may struggle to define you by your appearance because you come across so differently to each person

- The allure (the buzz and positive talk of you) stands out more than what you put out to reality especially for Aphrodite asteroid in 10H/conjunct to MC

- You’re beauty is so rare that it’s unbelievable, people that hear of you described by others who know you may think you’re a myth or not real like a catfish or someone pretending to be real. Eg someone looking at your instagram may think you’re not real or if a guy is explaining you to his friends you sound too good to be true especially from the male gaze. That is until they meet you and realise you live up to their expectations and then the rumours of you further amplify as even MORE talk of you. If you start dating around jumping from man to man, people will gush over you

- You may pretend to be modest, demure and coincidentally sexually attractive yet your sexual attractiveness is purposefully intentional

this is based on aphrodites Greek and Latin scholars who wrote about the famous statue at Knidos on which it is based, says that Aphrodite’s facial expression and gesture show ‘false modesty’. She purposefully displays false modesty to look like her nudity and sexual allure is unintentional and just happens to be on her

- You show your beauty through your clothing perfumes and hair accessories. Aphrodite wore perfumed and silken garments, a crown of gold or flowers in her hair, and had expensive jewellery covering her body

- As time goes on you are more sexualised, no joke if you guys made a sex tape in your elder years you’d be like a trending milf dilf, especially with Capricorn, Saturn and 10H Aphrodite

Aphrodites depictions were always fully clothed until as centuries progressed the men that idolised her wanted to make her wear less and less, become sexier and sexier, they project their lustful thoughts on her and Aphrodite viewed it as compliments

- No matter what people may say about you, they cannot shake or change the fact that you are beautiful, they may also bring that up when talking about you behind your back if in 12H conjunct ascendant

- You have feminine curves which are shown best through draped clothing, you look best in clothes that drape to your skin and hug your curves

- No matter what you wear people will always see you nude or want to, they may sexualise you and you may subconsciously enjoy it because you feel desired and it feels good to know you’re making others feel pleasure just from looking at you

- You look best naked, your breast and hips may be most prominent and something men recognise you for and what garners admiration from women too. Women may look up to you as the standard and what they wished the looked like

Source: the idealization of womanhood in all her femininity; the Aphrodite sculpture, Praxiteles was mainly responsible for establishing the type-sensuous in its soft curves and voluptuousness.” (Morford 180). As told by Morford, the exaggeration of body parts, breasts mostly, became Aphrodite’s spotting mark in art

- You could have long hair, or your hair can be styled in a different way to other women, very distinct, it can be different from what others expect, your hair may be “immodest” like it looks like it’s uncovered, not domestic, you may put a lot accessories on it or do something specifically that makes it stand out and look better, it’s kind of “unintentionally” erotic.

- You look best in bodies of water, playing with your hair in water, when you’re showering, wringing your hair dry, you may get a lot of stares when you go to the beach just relaxing, or if you’re swimming. It’s something people could watch for a long time

- You love to accessorise excessively

- Men change the way they see you physically from your body to your face and hair, all just to fit their imagined ideal beauty standards. For an example: say a man may prefer brunettes, if you’re blonde, that man will imagine you with brown dark hair and romanticise it, from that point onward he can no longer see you as blonde no matter how blonde you are because the fantasy of an idolised you is so overwhelming

- Men fantasise about you a lot, women too. You invoke fear/admiration into women because of your appearance

- You represent the most ideal physical traits, you can be compared as the standard for others and people may put you on a pedestal so high that makes others want to be where you are but knowing they simply cannot as it’s not in their nature. Because competing against you would destroy them and they do not compare

- You may make people feel ashamed of themselves because you’re so uplifted and idealised by many

- You can adapt to the taste of the target/person you’re trying to seduce

- Your clothes and the way you style yourself enhance your features and make you look like someone who is wealthy and important of high status/nobility

- You are one of the most physically desired people to others

- Your physical appearance isn’t the only thing that makes you so beautiful, it’s the fact that everyone finds you desireable no matter who is looking.

Honestly when I think of Aphrodite I think of someone who is overly sexualised by men. Like they collectively came together and said THIS is what we like. She is the image of sex and desire because they put her there. And she likes it, which is probably why she is labelled as the god of sex, pleasure, love and beauty, it’s because she accepts all kinds of admiration from anyone. No matter how degrading or intensely it manifests. Do you too also accept love no matter how sexually degrading or intense it is? Do you have a tendency to expect to be glorified?

Source:

Link to the historical study of Aphrodites physical appearance

Homer, for example, said that the goddess could be recognized by her shining eyes and “desirable breasts.” Other writers gave her the epithet “Smile-Loving,” indicating that she often had a happy expression. More often, writers described Aphrodite’s beauty through her clothing. She wore perfumed and silken garments, a crown of gold or flowers in her hair, and had expensive jewelry covering her body. most of what we know about Aphrodite’s looks must be drawn from the art of the period.

gain, the representations leave much room for interpretation. The one aspect they have in common is that, fittingly, Aphrodite was shown as beautiful.

This usually meant that she had feminine curves, which were often accentuated by closely-draped clothing. When she was dressed it was often only partially, but the goddess was just as often shown in the nude.

She usually had long hair that was left at least partially down, in contrast to the more demure, covered hair of matronly and domestic goddesses. A favorite subject of classical artists was the emergence of Aphrodite from the sea, in which she was sometimes shown wringing the water out of her long hair.

Sculptors had more freedom than painters to imagine the goddess in different poses and situations. Often these poses emphasized her feminine shape and attractiveness to the male gaze. As the goddess of beauty, she represented the most desirable female form possible.

She often changed her appearances to suit her purposes.

This shape-shifting also allowed artists to portray her in a way that reflected the physical idea of their own time and place. Aphrodite could have dark hair in one place and be blonde in another.

Thus, our modern interpretation of Aphrodite has been filtered through the ideals of female beauty from not only Greece and Rome, but long after as well. Medieval artists gave her a high forehead and Renaissance painters showed her with flowing blonde hair because those were the ideals of their times. The written descriptions of Aphrodite were open-ended enough to allow artists to show her in a way they thought was beautiful for centuries. While later artists were influenced by the paintings and sculptures of Rome and Greece, they had the license to show the goddess of beauty in a way that made sense within their own cultures.

Most often, Aphrodite’s clothing and jewelry were described in greater detail than her body or facial features. The richness of her garments and adornments both enhanced her features and signalled her nobility.

The lack of written detail meant that artists were able to portray Aphrodite in a way they felt was beautiful. While these typically followed certain conventions, these conventions could vary between regions and time periods. Aphrodite/Venus was therefore shown with certain marks of beauty that had persisted from the ancient world, but also with the features and clothing considered ideal in the artists’ own times. She could be recognized not by a specific feature, but by her desirabilithy.

[bbrainr0t]

For when you flower IV

Masterlist

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla x Greek!woman/reader x Emperor Geta

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, hints of PTSD/bad mental health, imbalance in the relationship (sexism, oppression, etc.), toxic, violence, mentions of blood, death, and slavery CHOKING!!! MURDER ATTEMPT !

Tags: Enemies to lovers (?), slow burn (?), triangle drama/love (but no incest!!), unhealthy/toxic dynamics, slave x masters, no use of y/n, 1st person narrative

Summary: In the shadows the Hellen slave learns of the rest of those, who arrived with her, but it is only a short while as she gets pulled back from out of the shadows by the sparrow, Geta.

Word count: 2.2K

A/N: I have to admit that I am starting to halt with writing this. Not because I don't want to, but because my personal load right now is quite heavy. So the publishment of the chapters might take a little while longer... maybe a few days extra. But I promise to deliver! I am invested in this as much as you are, trust me.

Thank you all so much. I hope all is well for every reader of this story!

Dictionary for this chapter:

Hellen/Hellenes = the ancient greek name for the ancient greek, singular/plural

Hellas = the ancient greek name for ancient greece.

Alexandra = In Hellas Alexandra is an epithet given to the goddess Hera and can be translated into “the protector of man.”

I told her everything.

I told her about the horror, about how I had fallen straight into the arms of the evil, about the child and the cruel, the two emperors, and warned her of their looks and how they deceive. I told her about the true nature of the madmen, I had been stuck with for far too long though it only lasted a few hours. I told her about my restless night, and how I prayed… and prayed… and prayed.

My words spilled out as if I didn’t have any breaths to spare, which might be true. That I talked about too, about my encounter, and how I had ended up here with her. By the end of my story, she took my hand and put her forehead too it. It was such a beautiful act that I hadn’t seen before, but it was like she transferred her serenity to me.

Everything in that moment revolved around her. It all felt so natural and warm. A drastic change from the cold outside in the halls.

Soon I found out that many other Greek slaves were put here because they didn’t know yet where to put them, that they had bought too many slaves and were yet to have decided their destiny. The old woman talked of the stories of each woman in this room, we find ourselves locked inside together with. This cell. They are mothers and daughters of both the poor and the rich. All not meant to be bestowed to other than their husbands by their fathers, greeting their brothers farewell. One was mourning her son, who they picked out to be hung for mere entertainment. He was but 10 years old. They claimed him of adultery, but the poor son had not even learnt to properly dress himself yet. She cried - but not of sadness, of somewhat joy. At least he was safe down under. No horror can reach him now.

Once I had calmed down, the women had opened their arms to claim me as their own. We do not know when one or another are to be taken away, so, as they told me, they sat and kept every moment sacred to remain in a calm, they know, they will not meet outside these walls. We do not speak loudly, hoping we would go unnoticed.

The missing light prolonged each second to an hour.

As I sat on the ground with my back against the wall, I looked at the old woman once more and realized that I had not yet learnt her name. Something I longed for others to ask me about. “What am I to call you?”

She tasted her teeth and sunk. “Alexandra.”

For the first time in a long while, I smiled. She said it with such ease. “Of course.”

“And you, my paidion?”

I told her my name, and Alexandra looked at me with even softer eyes than before. Her face changed. “Of course you are.”

If I hadn’t been so tired as I were, I would’ve asked her about this sudden change, but it was as if I was enchanted by her looks. The overwhelming feeling of comfort lulled me to sleep, letting my guard down just this one time.

I just felt at peace. My head didn’t dare to budge. Hope blossomed in the quiet and in the shadows.

I don’t know for how long I have slept. As I open my eyes once more, it is not to the looks of other women, but to guards of purple, standing in the opening of the cell. Quickly I rustle to correct my back and throw the chiton, so that it covers me. But who was I to kid? No other woman in here is dressed as I am.

I hear Alexandra whisper calm words, but my panic is soon to drown it out. She grabs my hand and places something in it, moments before the guards seize me and two others. I scream on top of my lungs. Once again, I am being torn away from home. The energy I just had obtained poured into the tears that once again spill from my eyes. I cry and reach out for Alexandra. The men dragging me by my armpits towards the outside. The last I see of her is her reassuring smile. I press my eyes together and hope that destiny once again will put her in my path. I feel the strain of my throat like a blade to my lungs. I can’t take responsibility for my actions.

The surroundings clash into my mind like the waves onto the shore, ripping apart all the small grains of what I consist of. Small fragments gone. I clench onto the item given to me. My sight too blurry to see but I know that what I hold is her word, her heart.

The heart washing away into the sea, no longer pumping blood. His face glowing in the sunset but not with life. In the sand I see a finger, his hand clenching onto my necklace. He held it when he died. He prayed before his soul passed on. I prayed when opening his mouth or what remained. I placed the coin and prayed that he will have mercy on him, many meters underground.

By the time the guards let go of me, I am weary once more. I barely stand, struggling to breathe. Should I finally pray for mercy on my soul for once I’m gone? For I hope it is soon.

The heart is in my hand. Between my panic I look at it. It’s a knucklebone.

“You look more a mess than him.” His voice is so bare when he speaks my tongue.

Quickly, I hide away the bone behind my back and look up at him. The sparrow stands before me once again. Geta. Before me stands a man clothed in riches, but beneath it all is nothing but a boy. However, he is far from his brother. This one mean no well by choice like how some kids will pull a beetles legs apart from its body. The burdened and the sparrow. Unfortunately, before me is only the sparrow, gritting its beak. He still wears Apollo’s crown.

The guards must’ve taken the other girls another place, for I am alone with him now with only a few guards behind. They do not see me as threat. I feel my knees shake.

“I should’ve discarded you the moment, I saw him lay eyes on you. My brother will find no good in your service. I can just tell.” His use of my tongue pains me even further. Of course, the emperor is educated. He knows of the crimes that his empire has committed. So how would he not know the language from which he steals it sound?

I do not wish to satisfy him by answering to him. I can barely control my breath.

“Do not think of yourself as powerful because of his foolish interest in you. You have no power.” Geta stares without blinking. It’s like he sees right through me. He sees my every thought on my face. Maybe he can tell by the way my tears fall or the way my breath hitches. “You will serve him, so he says, and it seems he will not forget that you will.” The sparrow suddenly seems puzzled. It inhales and puffs his chest wide, stepping closer. “So, you will serve him.” He does not want me to.

“No, I will-“

Geta grabs ahold of my throat and bangs me into the nearest wall. “YOU DO NOT SPEAK UNLESS YOU’RE SPOKEN TO.” The spit splatters across my face, etching my skin. He speaks of filth once more, Latin.

I can’t breathe.

I watch him with fearful eyes, afraid to touch him. He is up in my face. Eyes wide. Nose flared. Jaw clenched. Veins popped. He stands like this for a little, watching my life flutter before him. I am fighting every urge to close my eyes. I curl my toes to feel control.

He draws a breath as he trails his eyes across my face. “You’re Hellen, you should know your place as a woman.” It’s like he mimics my breathlessness as he speaks. “You’re nothing.” A whisper, not in Latin.

I feel every color drain from my face.

“Say that you agree.” He watches my lips. Colorless and dry. “SAY IT.”

“I agree.”

He lets go of my throat and steps back. His hand grabs his own jaw and at his throat, pinching his skin, while watching mine – probably turning blue. “You did this. If my brother were to ask you, you say nothing of this.” He corrects his crown and his bracelets. “You will not speak a word to him or else I will have your tongue cut off. And that would be a shame.” He grabs my cheeks to force my mouth open. Squinting, he looks at my tongue. I hold my breathe. He stares a long time before letting go, almost unwillingly. He shies away. Taken aback, it seems, he sniffs.

I feel so dirty.

“Guards. Take her to Caracalla.” He waves me away.

Too busy catching my breath, I do not pay the halls any attention as the guards pushes me along. My body so weak. He could’ve killed me on the spot. He could’ve taken my entire being and done what he wanted, but he didn’t. He wanted to… I swear, he did.

“Meus flos!” The burdened lightens up as he sees me and hurries to grab ahold of my jaw like the night before. I flinch but he doesn’t seem to notice. Mania in his eyes. It’s like he sees me but not like shapes. I mirror abstractly in the pale blue orbs of his head. “Oh, you came back to me.” He smiles, foolishly.

I feel tears crowd my eyes again. I can’t seem to stop. I can’t seem to escape this destiny. This cruel, cruel presence. I think, I must play along. I must. Maybe they’ll kill me, if I just give them enough.

I try pulling a smile, pushing my tears so that it blurs my vision, but I can see straight enough to see how this pleases him. I shakingly reach for his cheek, and he leans into my touch. Sighing, relieved. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t see the tear falling from my eye. He does not even feel it. I smell the grape on his breath. The mystery liquid. I look at his lips shortly, seeing the red cracks that the fermented fruit has left. The corners of his mouth bloodshot. He doesn’t even feel my hand shake.

“I’ve missed you so much.” He hugs me. My body weak against his. On him I smell the alcohol, the sweat of the sun. So many senses all at once.

Instead, I imagine Alexandra is hugging me or that I am hugging my brother, jolting just the tiniest of life into me. I clench the knucklebone to my heart. I hope, they will let me see her soon, if not him. It’s my only wish. Will they grant me just one if I comply? One more likely than the other, I am sure.

I look over at the big, marble statue by Caracalla’s bed, and greet him with greater fright than before. But still, I do not dare to speak of his name. I am not ready yet. Soon, I will follow the emperors to their bed and there I will strike. With hellenes fresh in my mind, I will strike with revenge and bestow them a holy war. I will flower and win over this maddening power.

Caracalla lets go of me and he greets one behind me. “Look, brother, I found her! I found flos!”

Geta laughs so lightly. It’s so frightening. “Are you sure that’s her name?” He’s amused, maybe even satisfied.

Caracalla grabs my shoulders and holds me out in front of him, looking me intensely in the eyes. “What is your name?”

I can feel Geta’s presence burn my whole back. I can still feel his hand around my throat, choking me as if it gave him pleasure to see me plead for life. To see me beneath him, obeying his touch and his might. He wanted to destroy every atom of my body and drink it whole like wine. He wanted to get drunk on me. Maybe he still does.

Chills run down my spine and I just look at Caracalla blank. I must not speak.

“Oh. Right. You’re mute.” He laughs.

“Maybe she can write It down?”

A gasp leaves Caracalla’s mouth. Without hesitation Caracalla runs to his desk, wobbling. For just a second I look back at Geta, and he stares right back. His eyes threatening to burn me, to bleed me, to strip me of my rights.

Caracalla comes back and hands me a pen. In the red wax of a wax table I etch my name as clear as I can. I want them to know the name of the woman, who will be their end. The woman who they will regret having brought into their house. Caracalla says my name with such delight. Geta does not.

Keep your friends closer, but your enemies closer. That’s the last sensible thought left in my head. I will fight through this, and I will flower. I must.

Next chapter

Taglist: @syraxnyra, @omg-hellgirl, @t6gse370, @duckyhowls, @littlemissholy, @naysha140, @lover-rep-fanfic

[utilitycaster]

I think the fallacy that Downfall/Divergence lays bare is that again, Brennan is not simply a Capitalism And Power Bad guy (and indeed, it's fundamentally impossible to play D&D as Power Inherently Bad - it simply does not support that thesis and indeed actively works against it as a game system, regardless of how you feel about the nature of power in real life. It is also pretty much impossible to play as Violence and Murder Inherently Bad, and I think many analyses of actual play fail when people try to act like it could be played as such). The consistent message is that exploitation and failure to care for those less powerful, and a refusal to change, is the problem. And I think that Aeor and Marlath ultimately serve a similar purpose within these narratives.

The truth of the matter is that Aeor and Marlath are negatively affected by the greater powers within the context of the Calamity. While Aeor has consistently been described and portrayed as an isolationist, authoritarian, and warmongering city-state during the Age of Arcanum and early Calamity, presumably circumstances were more preferable to them during a time of terrestrial abundance, even if they were not themselves farming. Whether or not Aeor's response to the Calamity was justified is a matter of debate; but it is undeniable that they were genuinely scared of the gods. Similarly, Marlath was an opportunistic bureaucrat even before he sold others out (and was not rewarded), but he was still living under the tyranny of the Strife Emperor himself, serving as a cog in the machine because it was preferable to the alternative. Fear was the motivation for him as well, as it is for many who become part of an authoritarian regime.

The mageocracy of Aeor and Marlath's actions caused others concern; but both had opportunity to change for the better. Both failed. They may have again been acting from fear and trauma; but in doing so showed them as entities who would sell out the weakest in their community for their own benefit. Aeor focused not on medicine nor helping their fellow Exandrians, but on weaponry and persecution. Marlath's skills in inventory could have been a boon to a resource-limited community, but he chose exploitation. Selena could have kept her knowledge to herself and at least, in her last moments, tried to save her city if not her creation. She did not.

Within the context of the narrative, the destruction of Aeor and the cutting out of Marlath's tongue are not, in my opinion, joyful triumphs. I may cheer the latter - it is in many ways a victory, unlike Aeor which can only be framed as tragic, and also, crucially, it's pretend - but this is someone who was given multiple chances! Hell, maybe Fiedra didn't make the right choice - not that Marlath didn't need to be stopped (as much was said on Cooldown) but maybe there was, in this case, a nonviolent option. However, it's hard to condemn Fiedra either; she nearly died in the woods and was saved by this camp, and to see someone she stuck her neck out for and suffer with for over a week not just plan this exploitation, but assume she'd be in it on it, is a hard pill to swallow.

And so too in that way do Aeor and Marlath serve as turning points for the people who doomed them. The Prime Deities immediately decide to remove themselves from Exandria as soon as they can seal away the Betrayers again, taking no joy in what they've done. Fiedra tells Nez that she and her gang will be protectors, at risk to themselves, after a lifetime of being survivors at times at the expense of others. They change where others couldn't.

I think a lot of people like to assign D&D villains concepts and epithets, like Capitalism or Imperialism or Landlord or Religion, because it feels very good to destroy these things, and very bad to realize that to destroy them is to cut out the tongue of someone who may have escaped the same horrors as you and crossed the same wilderness. Most people do wish this change will come without "danger, fear, or risk on their part" and are dismayed to find there is not a bloodless option. The BBEG isn't just an avatar of capitalism: they are a person who keeps choosing it and won't listen to signs and speeches to change their ways. Similarly, the hero is not just the person who stops them; they are the person who realizes that they themselves are not without their own ways to change.