#munificent

[unscramblerer]

Todays Word Of The Day is: Munificent

Munificent originates from Latin munificus(generous). Combines munus(gift) and facere(to make). English use of the word began in the 16th century.

[gallimaufry-dictionary]

Munificent

adjective moo-nif-uh-suhnt

extremely generous, something characterized by liberal generosity

Merriam-Webster Dictionary.com

[writers-weekly-words]

Munificent

//adjective//

1. (of a gift or sum of money) larger or more generous than is usual or necessary.

2. (of a person) very generous.

[adriansvetozaroff]

Munificent Sacrifice, graphic novel (2024, W.I.P.)

Pages 3-6

3. We don't know anything about non-verbal Pak Pak at this point, so I had to make it up. Any similarities with real sign languages ​​are coincidental. And there is no decryption here yet intentionally.

4. ARC-170 starfighters have jammers in the nose part. I guess they can be quite effective when there are a lot of them. Mar Tuuk tried to destroy most of them using mass-drivers.

6. The writing on the wall on the first panel says "I'm not dead, I just look like this" (the way I decided it should sound in Pak Pak).

______

3. На данный момент мы ничего не знаем про невербальный пак-пак, так что мне пришлось его придумать. Любые сходства с реальными жестовыми языками случайны. И здесь пока намеренно нет расшифровки.

4. Истребители ARC-170 имеют постановщики помех в носовой части. Думаю, они могут быть весьма эффективны, когда их много. Мар Туук пытался уничтожить большинство из них, используя масс-драйверы.

6. На первой панели на стене написано: «Я не умер, я просто так выгляжу» (так, как, на мой взгляд, это должно звучать на пак-паке).

[gabri-el]

can someone tell me what i want for christmas (that can be bought) because have no idea when asked

[violet-moonstone]

Writing a meeting in the Gathering of the Chieftains that takes place in The Wings of War. Mik (from the Serpent's Heir -- aged up 15 years in this) isn't in the story very much, but when he is, he's super fun to write:

King Mik swirled his drink around in its goblet. “Yes, Mala you are right, as always,” he drawled with a little grin. “But what would this plan of action entail?” 

As Mala opened her mouth to respond, she was cut off by grumbles and sneers from some of the other attendees—Alvin, Snorre, and their attendants. And while the other warriors present knew better than to insult Mik in the presence of their own leaders, a few of them weren’t too keen on the level of deference they were expected to show this soft, perfumed king.

  Alvin went so far as to speak his dissent loud enough for others to make out. “Last I knew, these sorts of meetings were for warriors, not—” he waved a hand vaguely, which doubled as an imitation of one of Mik’s flourishing gestures. This got some muffled laughs.

Uh-oh, Hiccup thought. With what felt like an already tentative grasp on authority, he was not eager to mediate a spat between rulers. 

Mik raised his brows and leaned forward. “Not—?” He asked curiously. If he was offended, he showed no sign of it.

Alvin’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean. We need seasoned fighters making decisions here—people of blood, iron and steel, not silks, silver and gold.”

“Ahh, I see,” Mik said gently. “Well that all makes perfect sense. And if worse comes to worst and there’s a horrible, bloody war—dragging into Winter perhaps—I’m sure all you warriors will do just fine without the ample food Nepenthe supplies the League.” That certainly stopped the chuckles cold. “Say, Alvin—how plentiful was this year’s harvest on that rocky, gray crag you call home?” Mik waved his fingers in a much more graceful movement than Alvin had managed, and his rings twinkled in the firelight. He rested his cheek on his hand, finishing with a pleasant smile.

[aeide-thea]

oh before i forget: look at the fancy sox @elucubrare made me!!! they're SO nice, guys, i'm just, like, wriggling my toes delightedly :D

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words for characterization (pt. 2)

Attributes of behavior: [A-D] abstemious, accident-prone, acid, acrimonious, adamant, affable, affectionate, agreeable, aimless, aloof, amuck, animated, anxious, arbitrary, ardent, arrogant, ascetic, attentive, austere, avid, backhanded, bad, barbarian, barbarous, beaming, belligerent, big, blindly, boisterous, bossy, brassy, brazen, brusque, cagey, calm, capricious, casual, cavalier, cheeky, chill, chummy, clumsy, cocky/cocksure, combative, comic/comical, compassionate, complaisant, compulsive, conciliatory, considerate, contemptuous, contrary, convivial, cordial, corrupt, courageous, courtly, cowardly, crabby/crabbed, cranky, craven, crotchety, cruel, cunning, daring, dauntless, debonair, decent, decided, defensive, defiant, deliberately, delightful, delirious, demure, detached, diffident, disagreeable, disarming, discreet, disgruntled, disinterested, disobedient, disorderly, disputatious, disruptive, dissolute, distraught, divisive, doctrinaire, dolorous, doting, double-dealing, draconian

[E-J] eager, easy, edgy, effervescent, emotionless, envious, equable, evasive, even-tempered, excitable, exuberant, faithful, fake, false, fanatical, favorably, fearful, feigned, ferocious, fervent/fervid, fickle, fiery, finicky, flamboyant, flighty, flirtatious, foolhardy, foolishly, forceful, forward, fractious, freely, fretful, frivolous, fussy, gamely, genteel, glacial, gluttonous, goody-goody, graceless, grandiose, gritty, gruff, gung ho, halfhearted, hardhearted, haram-scarum, headstrong, hearty, helpless, high and mighty, high-handed, high-strung, holier-than-thou, hot, huffy, humble, hypocritical, idle, ill-mannered, ill-natured, ill-tempered, impatient, impertinent, impolite, importunate, impudent, inactive, inconsiderate, ingratiating, inhuman/inhumane, innocuous, insidious, insubordinate, intractable/intransigent, introverted, invidious, irreconcilable, irreverent, jaded, jaunty, jazzed-up, jovial, jumpy

[K-R] keen, kittenish, lax, lecherous, lethargic, liberal, lifeless, light-headed, litigious, lofty, loquacious, loud, loving, Machiavellian, maladroit, malicious, mannered, martial, mean, meat-eating, menacing, merciful, mercurial, militant, mischievous, miserly, mousy, munificent, naive, nasty, naughty, neglectful, neighborly, nervy, nomadic, noncompliant, nonconformist, nosy, obedient, obliging, obsequious, obtrusive, offhand, on edge, on purpose, orderly, ostentatious, overbearing, overwrought, parsimonious, passionate, peevish, pent-up, peppy, peripatetic, permissive, pert, petulant, philosophical/philosophic, phobic, pitiless, plaintive, playful, plucky, politic, pompous, pragmatic, precipitous/precipitate, predatory, presumptuous, prickly, prissy, profane, prompt, propitious, provident, prudish, puerile, pumped, puritanical, quarrelsome, quick-tempered, racy, raffish, rash, ready, rebellious, reckless, regardful, relentless, remiss, remorseless, renegade, repugnant, resigned, responsible, restful, restrained, retiring, revolutionary, rocky, rollicking, rootin’-tootin’, rousing, rude, runaway, ruthless

[S-Z] safe, sanctimonious, sassy, savage, scintillating, secluded, self-conscious, self-righteous, sentimental, serpentine, severe, shameful, sheepish, shifty, short-sighted, shy, simple, sincere, skittish, slippery, sluggish, small, smooth, snappy, snide, snooty, sober, soft, solid, sophomoric, spineless, spontaneous, sporting/sportive, sprightly, square, staid, starchy, staunch, stealthy, stiff, stingy, stoic/stoical, stony, strained, strait-laced, strenuous, stringent, stuck-up, suave, submissive, subversive, supercilious, supine, surly, sympathetic, tactful, tame, tearful, tempestuous, tender, tense, thankful, theatrical, thieving/thievish, thoughtless, tight, tipsy, touchy, traitorous, treasonous, truculent, true-blue, turbulent, two-faced, unaffected, unasked, unattached, unbridled, uncivilized, uncontrollable, uncouth, undependable, underhand, unemotional, unfriendly, unguarded, unintentional/unintended, unkind, unmerciful, unprejudiced, unreasonable, unrelenting, unruly, unseemly, unsettled, unsophisticated, unsympathetic, untoward, unwary, unwise, unworldly, uppity, urbane, vainglorious, valorous, vengeful, vibrant, vicious, vigilant, violent, virile, vital, volatile, wacky, wanton, warm, wary, watchful, wayward, well-bred, wicked, willful, wily, winning/winsome, witless, yellow, zany, zealous

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ Part 1

[rawrampmag]

MIKE ROSS Third Eye Open #AlbumReview #RawRamp

MIKE ROSS Third Eye Open #AlbumReview #RawRamp

On April 28, 2023, MIKE ROSS will release his rock-influenced, 12-track album, Third Eye Open. The Preacher, th first song taken from the album as a single, is really weighty but completely enjoyable. Darren Lee’s drumming and Derek Randall’s bass notes add dark intensity to a song that is already as hefty as a cruiser, while guest vocalist Jack J Hutchinson’s supporting tones make the mood…

[aenramsden]

The following is not my idea; it was the original brainchild of a friend of mine named Omicron, with help from various others including EarthScorpion, TenfoldShields, @havocfett and ShintheNinja:

So, you know what I want to do one day? Run (or play in) a D&D campaign in which the Big Bad Super Dragon that is fuckoff ancient and unfathomably powerful and whose actions have shaped history and bent the course of nations and had repercussions on the whole culture and society in the region where it's set; the Bonus Special Boss for some endgame optional quest after you defeat the direct BBEG and win the campaign...

... is a white dragon.

To explain this for people not deep into 5e monster lore; D&D dragons are sapient beings, and known for their instincts and tendencies, and whenever you meet an big evil dragon that's really old it's usually this ancient creature of terrible intellect Smaug-ing it up all over the place.

Except white dragons are fucking stupid. Like, they're still capable of speech and thought! They're just… feral, hungry morons. And you almost never see them portrayed as ancient wyrms for that reason; they lack majesty. Critical Role did it, yes, but even then, Vorugal is explicitly the most bestial member of the Chroma Conclave, and the others are the more intelligent planners and long-term threats. An ancient white as a nation-defining endboss, though; not a thug for a smarter master but as the strongest and biggest threat around is just not the sort of thing you tend to see.

Adventurers: "Oh wise Therunax the Munificent, gold dragon of Law and Good, what can you tell us adventurers of the evil dragons which rule this land?" Therunax the Munificent, 500-year old Gold Dragon: "Good adventurers, know this: this land is torn apart by the evil of Tiamat's spawn. The eastern marches are the dwelling of Furinar the Plague-Bringer, black dragoness whose hoard is a thousand sicknesses contained in the body of her tributes. The southern volcanic mountains are the roosting of Angrar the Wrathful, the fiery red dragon, who brings magmatic fury on all who do not worship him. And the northern peaks are home to Face-Biter Mike, the oldest and most powerful of all, of whom I dread to speak." Adventurers: "F-Face-Biter Mike???" Therunax: "Oh yes, verily indeed; two thousand years has Mike lived, and his eyes have seen the rise and fall of five empires, and a hundred and score champions have sought to slay him; and each and every one he bit their fucking face off."

Like... I want to see a campaign where Face-Biter Mike is genuinely the most powerful dragon in the region, if not the entire world. Where sometimes he descends on a city to grab himself some meatsicles and causes a localised ice age by the beat of his vast wings and the frigid wastes of his mighty breath and by the chill his mere presence brings to everything for miles around him, and everyone just has to deal with that for the next decade. An entire era of civilization comes to an end, an empire falls, tens of thousands starve in the winter, all because Mike wanted a snack. Where his hoard is an unfathomably vast mass of jewels and artefacts and precious stones frozen in an unmelting glacier, except he is a nouveau riche idiot with fuckall appraising skill, so half of his hoard is coloured glass or worthless knicknacks, and he doesn't give a shit.

"Your Draconic Majesty, this crown is… It's pyrite." "Yeah, well, it's brighter than this dusty old thing made out of real gold, it's my new best treasure. Throw the other one away." "…throw the Burnished Tiara of Bahamut, forged in the First Age of Man, your majesty???" "See? I can't even remember its fucking name." "But my lord-" "DO YOU WANT TO BE A MEATSICLE" "…I will fetch a trash bag, your majesty."

But at the same time, he's not stupid, he's just simple, and in some ways that makes him more dangerous than the usual kinds of scheming Big Bad you see in these things, while simultaneously justifying why Orcus remains on his throne (because he's lazy). Face-Biter Mike doesn't make convoluted plans or run labyrinthine schemes; he just has a talent for violence and a pragmatic, straightforward approach to turning any kind of problem he struggles with into a problem that can be resolved with violence. Face-Biter Mike has one talent and it's horrifying physical power, so his approach to any complicated problem is "how do I turn this into a situation where I can fly down and bite this dude's face off?" with absolutely no regard for the collateral damage or consequences of doing so, because those are also things he can turn into face-bitable problems.

"My lord, the dread necromancer Nikodemion is using his undead dragons to attempt a conquest of the eastern kingdom; his agents are everywhere, his plans are centuries in the making, what can we do against such a mastermind?" "I'm gonna fly over the capital and eat the eastern king." "M-my lord???" "The kingdom will collapse without leadership, Nikodemion will win his war, he'll take the capital and crown himself king." "And that helps us… how?" "Once he does I'll fly over to the capital and eat him." "…" "This is why you advisors all suck. You're all about convoluted plans when the only thing I need to win is know where my enemy is so I can fly down there and eat him. Stop overthinking things."

And, like, yeah, it's a simplistic plan, but when you're several hundred tons of nigh invincible magical death, you don't need brilliant strategy; the smartest way to win a war is, in this case, the simplest. He's not even all that clever at figuring out the consequences of face-biting, he's just memorised the common consequences of doing so.

(If you want to go all in on Mike being the major mover and shaker in the region; Nikodemion only even has a pet zombie dragon because Mike killed the last dragon to show up and contest his turf but wasn't going to eat a whole dragon by himself. Nikodemion got to stick around and amass that much power because Mike ate the Hero of the Realm while he was adventuring because he figured the Hero would come and try to slay him at some point. Nikodemion got started because Mike ate half the leadership of the Academy of High Magic who typically keep evil wizards and necromancers in check. And then eventually this product of Mike's casual, careless actions becomes a big enough problem to bother Mike personally, at which point Mike eats him too.)

He doesn't even really fail upwards, either! He is regularly reduced to nothing but the glacier he stores his hoard in, but he's Face-Biter Mike so nobody wants to commit to actually ending him forever lest they get their faces bitten the fuck off. And his hoard's in a huge-ass magical glacier so nobody can get to it without running into the Invading Russia problem; it's hard to wage war when everything is frozen over and you're both starving and freezing to death. Once he's been beaten back to his central lair and has lost all his holdings… I mean, he's still a problem, but he's a far away problem. So he loses his assets and spends a decade in a cave brooding it up while no one dares risk trying to actually kill him, and then a generation or two later he flies down to a kobold colony and gets himself some minions, or a dragon-worshipping mage comes to offer his service against a pittance from his hoard, or a particularly stupid cult starts thinking they can get in good with him and leech off his power, and then he's (hah) snowballing again.

He's also got a very… well, the kind of weird Charisma that Grineer bosses do. Like Sargas Ruk, who's a malformed idiot, but oddly charismatic. As he's a dragon, that makes him a natural sorcerer and thus Charisma is all he needs. He's pretty relaxed when he isn't in a face-biting mood, and he's kind of infectiously optimistic, because his life has taught him that he will succeed as long as he perseveres. So he just believes it.

And sometimes that's really refreshing to work for, as an evil minion of darkness! It's like, you're coming to your Evil Dragon Lord with terrible news; you've worked for evil overlords before, you know how it goes. You fall to your knees weeping and tell him that you've failed to seize the incredibly powerful magical artifact, you think your life is forfeit. And he's just like "Eh, it's okay, these things are all over the place. Better luck next time. You remember the guy who took it, right?" and you go "Y-yes, oh great lord!" and he's like "Sweet tell me his name later and I'll grab it" and then eats a frozen adventurer he kept around as a snack.

His followers tend to quickly realise that if they fail him, bringing some temple's silver or a sack of brightly coloured beads or a couple of dead cows means he's super forgiving because at least he's got something out of the day. "Oh boy, cows? It's been forever since I had those, ever since the Orc Steppe Nomads took over it's all about goats and onions. Today is a good day." He's a master of delegation by dragon standards, in that he just tells you "Just go get it done, I don't care how" rather than micromanaging you and constantly appearing as an image in smoke or taking over your campfire.

The key part of Face-Biter Mike as a threat to players (because he exists in the context of a D&D campaign) works well in that you can rely on several known quantities:

He will not pull sneaky shit that you don't see coming

He will not make convoluted plans that you must work to unravel

He will consistently attempt to come down and wreck you personally if he finds the opportunity and you are a threat to him

You cannot fight him head-on (at least not until the last leg of the campaign, and ideally as an optional boss rather than mandatory)

So as long as you are good at staying under the radar, thwarting his minions (whom he gives broad orders to with almost zero oversight) and not putting yourself in face-biting range, you can deal with him. If you succeed, it won't be the first time Mike has lost his assets and had to go brood in his glacier for a decade or two before rebuilding. It happens; he can deal with it. And that's a win for you within the context of a single campaign, so take the win.

And if you're not going to use him as an enemy, he works pretty well as a quest-giver, too! The costs for failure are obvious and straightforward, and "do whatever, just get me mine" means that players have a lot of freedom in accomplishing their goals. As far as evil overlords go he is actually one of the least dangerous to work for; his pride is relatively subdued by draconic standards, his goals are simple and typically achievable, and he is easily pleased.

(There's also a good chance he is the forefather of any draconic sorcerer in your party, because Face Biter Mike is a deadbeat dad.)

[jennastokesart]

🔥 Eris Vanserra - The Autumn Court Heir 🔥

🖤The shadows have spoken true 🖤

Behold, the magnanimous, the munificent. The merciful. Eris Vanserra 🍁

Okay I love him but it hurts to lie like that. I like Eris, to me he is more of what Rhysand tries to be. Truly morally grey. Would I trust him with my life? Hell no.

I really hope SJM develops his character more. When I read “Eris is a dreamer. But there are no stars in his world”. I’ll be honest, I cried a little. I hope SJM gives him his stars in future books. I also am praying overall that the Vanserra brothers do not just become a footnote in the story.

And for those staring at the absolute sex icon in the second image: I was streaming my screen to my friends on a call. What started from a simple “does his eye look right?” led to them art directing the entire thing with the repeated chant “we’re cookin”. This is what happens when non artsy men take over your drawing. I feel like Feyre, trying to draw with Azriel and Cassian peering over my shoulder with "suggestions"

I honestly suggest messing around like this because it fixed my art dysmorphia from staring at Eris too long. (Idk what led them to make him a pirate, though they did tell me to just put an eye patch to fix the whole eye dilemma). When I told them the eyepatch isn’t accurate to Eris, they really said “it should be, that’s why his brother looks cooler”.

Anyways~ I hope you guys enjoy 😉

[mclacedes]

A Fading Echo (LH44)

CHAPTER I: Taste Karma.

hello beautiful babes! here's a little something i've been wanting to write for a while now and just flew out of me randomly!! hope you enjoy this and hope this makes any sense at all :)

warnings: breakup, abu dhabi ‘24, lewis leaving mercedes, lewis in ferrari, lack of XNDA songs, partner moving on.

“it isn't only how he died, but that he died believing. and so i try to be kind to everything i see. and in everything i see, i see him.”

— Hanya Yanagihara, “A Little Life”

this is slightly inspired by Hanya Yanagihara's book "A Little Life", but THIS IS NOT A RECOMMENDATION from me and THIS DOES NOT mean I like that book at all !!!

also, there's a part II for it, so lmk if you like it :)

End of season. Last race. Last race with Mercedes.

This was the end of an era, but the start of an age. A new chapter in this long book, filled with broken records and (un)fulfilled dreams.

There was only last thing he wanted though. A thing he’d never done.

To release an album.

+44, his first album, would come out in a few hours and nobody even knew it.

Lewis had poured countless hours into it, refining each lyric, melody, and harmony until every note fitted just right.

Every detail was thoroughly planned, every step thoughtfully envisioned. The photoshoot was booked, the interview responses rehearsed, the songs were ready. But one day, he realized the only thing that should be put together — his very self — was melting, breaking apart into millions of pieces of longing, sorrow, wrath and regret.

This should be a moment of fun, a moment of celebration, but the only thing he’d think about is how this album only exists because, at one point, he had you — the best thing that ever happened to him, his confidant, his partner in crime.

But, as of now, there's no you in his life and, apparently, no space for him in yours.

Now you’re a fading echo, a ghost haunting every inch of his life, lurking in the back of his mind so he can get a glimpse of your broken-hearted gaze in your salted-water-drowned eyes when he closes his.

Your laugh still echoes through the paddocks around the world; he still knows every word of the prayer you’d mutter every time he climbed into the cockpit. You are in his houses, cars, clothes, and everything he is now—a wreckage.

There's a simple routine he follows, absentmindedly, now that you're gone: he smiles when he sees you in a small detail of his life; then his heart tightens painfully, suffocating him. When the stars fall at night, he lies awake in the darkness of his room and his own mind, clutching the pillow you once slept on, desperately trying to grasp some semblance of solace and familiarity. Lewis lingers there, until your vanilla scent fades away completely as he drifts into the restless awareness of his subconscious—his dreams, in which you've never left and still loved him. In his perfect, tailor-made utopia, you can bring yourself to look into his eyes and say you forgive him.

But reality has other plans. Like always.

He just wanted to get through today.

Yes, the Universe is vast and gracious, munificent and indulgent, and Lewis knows this. But, today, his last race with Mercedes in a track that holds so much memory, the Universe had made its mind: the winds of fate would play a trick on him.

This morning, after waking from a dream of you in your favorite park in France, laughing about babies and tracing shapes in the clouds, he never imagined he’d want to leave the paddock as soon as he entered it.

On the drive to Yas Marina, it hadn’t crossed his mind that he might see you, hand in hand with that one actor—Jensen Ackles—who you used to gush over.

As he signed caps, mini helmets, and photos for his fans, not for a single moment did he expect to catch sight of you in the paddock, wearing rosso corsa, cheering on Ferrari—Ferrari, of all teams. The same red team you used to roll your eyes at. The same red team that the man beside you had so often boasted about supporting. The same team that he had signed a contract with.

None of it had been his choice, and yet his entire body betrayed him the moment his eyes landed on you; as though someone had fastened his feet to the ground, he was unable to walk. He not only couldn’t move, but he felt like air didn't get to his lungs so he couldn't breathe, and there was nothing more interesting than the scene in from of him so he couldn’t look away.

For a second there, he wished you were ugly. He wished your eyes didn’t glisten when you honestly found something funny, that your dress didn't perfectly frame your body, and your teeth were broken. He wished there were flaws he could cling to, reasons to justify hating you; he wished he could have the strength within himself to fall out of love. But you were too unattainable for him to let go.

And, God, you were glowing. Your smile beamed, your hair fell perfectly just the way he likes it, and then—what. is. that?

Your hand laid slightly over your belly.

Your left hand rested on your belly, right where your womb would be.

Your left hand, with its delicate fingers, bore a ring—a massive diamond that caught the sunlight in a cruel, mocking glint.

And then there was him. Jensen Ackles, the so-called antichrist, standing behind you with his arms wrapped around you like you belonged to him. His hold was possessive, unyielding, as though he’d fight tooth and nail to keep you. But he did seem like he was happy. And the worst part about it is that you seemed too.

Lewis’s heart rate spiked, pounding in his chest, his thoughts racing faster than the W15 ever could.

“Is she pregnant? They're engaged? Are they married already? When is the baby due?”

And then, just before he turned away, one final thought slipped through the chaos in his mind: taste karma.

[adriansvetozaroff]

I started working on a Star Wars fan comics. The action takes place during the final hours of the Battle of Cato Neimoidia. This is the story of a tactical team on a final, fateful mission in a situation where it is impossible to calculate the likely future. I apologize in advance to those who may be interested in this story, for the fact that work on it will proceed slowly. This work is difficult for me, just like any creativity lately. And yet I want to do it.

[morelikeravenbore]

Can I Make It Any More Obvious? Part two.

He Was A Punk, She Did Ballet...

I do not know why I've included so many bloody Shakespearean references into this crackfic about a sk8er boi wizard, but since I'm writing this by the seat of my pants with absolutely no plan or outline, I'ma let my subconscious cook. Also, I'm hesitant to call this a "crack fic” any more. Let's call it tender crack. A crack fic with feelings.

Content: MEET CUTE MODERN AU. 🛹 Mentions of “magical drug use” (the recreational smoking of mallowsweet*), mentions of alcoholism, swearing.

*not my original idea. I've read this idea in a few fics before and think it's genius so credit to whoever wrote it before me!

Word count: 3.2k~

👉 PART ONE HERE.

[read on wattpad]

Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop, previously known as Steeply & Sons, was a garish, pastel-pink nightmare that took prominence in the village square like an overdone sponge cake at a corporate buffet.

The preferred meeting place for first dates, romantic rendezvous and anyone looking to indulge in tiny, outrageously overpriced cakes, Sebastian had been inside only once in his life and didn't wish to repeat the ordeal again: lace doilies, frosted cupcakes and sickeningly sweet tea was not his idea of a good time.

‘In a village brimming with interesting places,’ he grumbled, keeping in step with the little redhead beside him, ‘he invites you to Puddifoot's?’

Having naturally charmed Mr Brown into giving her a special discount on every book in the shop ("...a munificent diminution for the fair danseuse!”), a request to return any time day or night (“Antemeridiem, noonstead, or crepusculum!”), and an invitation to join the village book club (“...whereupon we postulate and divagate into scintillating literary excursuses!”), they'd left Tomes and Scrolls only after Sebastian, growing irritated by not having her full attention, had ushered her out the door and into the bustling street beyond.

Was he jealous of his middle-aged, married landlord simply for speaking to her?

… Yes.

‘What's wrong with Puddifoot's?’ she asked, sparing him no glance as she weaved through the main street.

Across the village square, the tea shop's frosted icing-sugar windows winked merrily at them under the midday sun.

Sebastian pulled a face.

‘Their cakes are small!’

‘Their cakes are small?’

‘Offensively so! And as far as first dates go, it's the most predictable, uninspired place he could have chosen! Puddifoot's, really?’ he scoffed. ‘Ominis might as well have admitted he hated you and been done with it.’

She stifled a laugh behind her hand. ‘Those are some wild aspersions,’ she said delicately. ‘Where do you prefer to take your dates in Hogsmeade, then, if you're such an expert?’

He bit his tongue before he could blurt out the words ‘Shrieking Shack’ — not that he ever took dates there; mostly he went there to smoke mallowsweet by himself and wallow in self-pity. Even so, it'd still be a better choice than squeezing into a lumpy, overstuffed loveseat while fairies dumped confetti over his head and people he wished never to see snogging snogged with unbridled relish and vigour.

‘I would take you somewhere fun,’ he scowled. ‘Like —’

‘Like a wedding altar?’

Sebastian flushed. ‘No —!’

‘Oh, oh! L'hôpital?’ She turned to him with a surprisingly impish grin for someone so renownedly elegant.

Something funny wiggled in Sebastian's chest.

‘Trust me, you don't want to date Ominis — he's a pompous rich boy with a stick up his arse!’

‘I thought he was your best friend?’

‘He is! That's how I know he's a pompous rich boy with a stick up his arse! Look —’

Running a hand through his tangled hair, he pulled her aside to a shady spot beneath an old, gnarled oak and tried not to loom over her: at almost twenty-one years old, Sebastian had started growing early in life and hadn't yet stopped.

Fuck, why was he so bloody gigantic.

‘You won't like him,’ he said, hunching awkwardly. ‘He won't make you laugh, or take you anywhere fun, or —’

‘Propose marriage while bleeding from the head?’

A nearby merchant — a humpbacked witch with one eye and somehow too many teeth — let out an amused cackle, but Sebastian was too distracted by the strange little wiggle in his chest to tell her to sod the fuck off.

Brilliant. As if a head wound wasn't bad enough, now he was having heart palpitations as well? Had he overdone it with the Shakespearean theatrics and inadvertently brought upon his own tragic, untimely death? Was he to die at her feet as Romeo for Juliet — only via self-inflicted concussion over a quick-acting poison?

Fuck it — if today was the day that he died, he'd at least try for a first (or last?) date. As a wise man once sang: Do you like my stupid hair? Would you guess that I didn't know what to wear?

‘Don't go on a date with Ominis,’ he said, swooping his stupid hair out of his face. ‘Go on a date with me.'

She blinked at him. ‘What, now?’

Let's go, don't wait, this night's almost over.

‘Why not?’

‘Mmm… Because I already have a date?’ She shrugged past him, but he only lumbered after her like the big, brainless troll he was.

‘Wait —!’ He held up his palms. ‘Look, I know you get some blood-soaked guy coming up to you on the street, you don't know me — but I know me, and I promise I'm —’

‘A dirty, rotten, sneaky little rat!’

Sebastian whipped around.

‘Ominis!’ he squeaked.

In all his years of dragging his best friend into detentions, secret underground lairs, and Muggle mosh pits against his will, the sight of Ominis’ sightless eyes boring into his with all the fury of his Slytherin lineage never failed to strike fear into Sebastian's heart.

It also, simultaneously, never failed to amuse him.

He didn't hesitate. With an absurdly high-pitched giggle and not a single logical thought in his addled brain, he grabbed Aurélie by the hand and took off running.

Board in one hand, girl in the other, he pelted through the village, twisting and turning through back alleys and narrow openings, scaring children and the elderly alike as he barrelled past them, cackling hysterically.

Suddenly, he was fifteen again, facing off with Peeves after being caught on another midnight jaunt through the Restricted Section; challenging an unsuspecting victim to an unsanctioned duel simply because he was bored; running from the prefects when he was inevitably caught nosegrinding down the Grand Staircase at two in the morning.

He hadn't felt this alive in years!

Beside him, the ballerina kept pace easily, pivoting round corners and leaping over obstacles with all the grace and finesse befitting her profession. As they dashed across someone's backyard, whipping through rows of freshly hung laundry, Sebastian caught the edge of a smile on her face before a pair of granny knickers slapped him across the cheek.

The wiggly thing in his chest giggled and kicked its feet aaaaall the way to the outskirts of the village, where a low stone wall at the end of an alleyway ended their daring escape. Beyond it, rugged and heather-brushed, lay freedom.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

‘Over?’ he suggested with a hopeful waggle of his brows.

‘Well, I can hardly go back now,’ she returned with a wry shrug.

Grinning, Sebastian piffed his board over the wall and then turned to offer his little companion a helping hand. But to his surprise, she was already up, balancing atop the precariously narrow wall in a position he vaguely recognised as something ballet-shaped.

He gawked for a moment, unashamedly admiring the entire length of her legs, from ankles to knees, from knees to thighs, from thighs to butt.

‘Careful,’ he warned, scrambling up after her. A steep decline on the other side of the wall made him nervous. His hands hovered close, ready to catch her should she lose her balance, but she only peeked at him sideways with a smug expression, footsure and composed.

Cute.

‘This is the fifth position,’ she explained, framing her arms above her head. ‘It is the pinnacle of ballet's basic stances.’

‘The fifth position, huh?’ he said with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. ‘Skipping ahead a few bases, I see.’

She ignored him.

‘It may look simple,’ she sniffed, turning her face to the sun, ‘but it takes years of training to reach complete security.’

‘Okay, show off,’ he snorted, climbing gracelessly down the other side of the wall. ‘Nothing about twisting your feet backwards like that looks simple to me.’

Safe now from the wrath of angry best friends and verbose shopkeepers, they picked their way carefully down to the banks of a shallow stream. A copse of willows drew them into a clearing, a dappled green reprieve from the midday sun. Sebastian couldn't remember ever coming across a spot as beautiful as this — but perhaps the company made it so.

In the middle of the clearing, she turned and caught him gawking.

‘Come here,’ she said. ‘I want to take a look at your head.’

Sebastian gulped. ‘My — my head?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh la la, the bump on your forehead!’

‘Oh.’ He'd almost forgotten. ‘My head’s fine,’ he lied, but she looked at him so sternly that he shut up and bent his stupid head for her inspection.

Please don't look at me with those eyes, please don't hint that you're capable of lies.

Gently, she pressed her fingers to the bump above his eyebrow.

‘Does this hurt?’

‘No,’ he winced, his voice rough. And then, ‘...Maybe a bit.’

‘Thought so.’

Her fingers left his face but returned a moment later holding a little jar of funny-smelling ointment.

Sebastian held still.

‘Hold still,’ she said.

Sebastian held more still.

With a touch that gave him full-body tingles, she pushed his hair back and dabbed a little ointment over the cut.

‘That stinks…’ was the best thing he could think to say.

‘It's Essence of Dittany,’ she explained. ‘I use it on my feet after a long day of dancing.’

He pulled a face. ‘You're putting foot cream on my face?’

‘It's Essence of Dittany!’

‘Yeah, for your feet!’

‘Oh, mon dieu.' She rolled her eyes. 'How old are you?’

Sebastian cracked a grin. ‘I'm surprised I didn't tell you that already.’

‘If you did,’ she began, tucking the jar back into her pocket, ‘I wouldn't forget it the way someone forgot my name two times. — Now…’ Without warning, she reached up and cupped his face between her soft little hands.

Sebastian's knees almost gave out.

‘Look at me,’ she said, and he looked, and looked, and looked, and thought he might not look away ever again.

‘Are you dizzy?’ she enquired, her face so close he could feel her breath.

Yes.

‘No.’

‘Dazed?’

Very.

‘No.’

‘Faint?’

Only when you touch me.

‘I'm fine,’ he murmured, but the tremor in his voice said otherwise, and his racing heart racing said otherwise, and the way his gaze kept dropping to her lips definitely definitely said otherwise.

I dread the thought of our very first kiss, a target that I'm probably gonna miss.

‘Okay,’ she said after a good long frown at his face. ‘But if you feel like you're going to fall…’

Sebastian almost told her he already had.

Thankfully, a sudden rustling in the greenery diverted him from embarrassing himself further, and from out of the treeline came another unexpected redhead (this one considerably less pleasing to look at than the one whose hands had just been on his face.)

‘Weasley?’

Garreth Weasley gave a start. ‘Sallow? What are you doing here?’

A fellow Hogwarts graduate and self-proclaimed “potion prodigy”, Garreth supplemented his apprenticeship wages at Pippin's Potions by selling his own “special blend” of mallowsweet on the side (unbeknownst to Pippin, of course, who, like most of the older generation of Hogsmeadians, vehemently decried the “grave misuse” of an otherwise unremarkable magical herb.)

Sebastian suppressed a groan: his mallowsweet dealer was the last person he wanted to see right now — especially when said dealer had an annoying habit of trying to steal his girlfriends.

Unsurprisingly, Garreth's eyes lit up at the sight of the pretty girl before him.

‘Hey, Aurélie!' said he. 'Nice to see you again.’

‘Again?’ Sebastian's mouth fell open. ‘You know Garreth bloody Weasely as well?’

‘Oui. We met just yesterday at your potion shop… Uhh, Peepins?’

‘Pippin's,’ Garreth corrected, his expression so jovial that Sebastian wanted to punch it right off his stupid freckled face. ‘I helped her pick out the best Valerian sprigs for her —’

‘— For my fudge!’ she cut in. ‘Oui, fudge. I'm making some. Fudge, that is. For — erm... Eating… Because it's, um… Nice? I think.’

Sebastian eyed her suspiciously. Why was she so nervous about fudge?

‘Right,’ he said, turning back to Garreth. ‘Anyway, did you want something, Weasley? Because we're in the middle of a date right now, if you can't tell.’

‘A date?’ spluttered the girl he most definitely was not on a date with.

‘A date?’ echoed Garreth, who looked slightly put out by the news. ‘Why aren't you at Puddifoot's, then?’

‘Oh, for fucks—’ Sebastian threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘There are other places besides Puddifoot's to go on dates, you know!’ he exclaimed. ‘All that mallowsweet's annihilated your imagination!’

Garreth's expression brightened. ‘Oh, speaking of —’ he said, procuring a small brown package from his pocket. ‘Got a new strain I'm looking to test out. Figured you'd be the perfect candidate.’

He tossed the package at Sebastian's chest: all three of them watched as it bounced off and hit the ground. Nobody moved to pick it up.

‘I don't know what you're on about,’ Sebastian lied, his eyes flicking nervously over the literal ballerina next to him; the epitome of elegance and refinement, he was certain she'd never smoked a bloody ham let alone indulged in the questionable (mis)use of mallowsweet.

Utterly fucking clueless, Garreth scooped up the package and held it out to him. ‘To be honest, I swore never to sell to you again after last time.’

‘Last —?’

‘Remember? You called me a “soulless fire crotch” and accused me of ripping you off —’

‘I never —!’

‘— but Leander reckons he's “giving it up” again, so now you're the only buyer I've got left who'll test out the experimental stuff.’

Unable to avoid it any longer, Sebastian snatched the package out of Garreth's hands and did his best to look thoroughly mystified. ‘Mallowsweet, you say? For potions, right?’

He sounded ridiculous even to himself.

‘Potions?’ Garreth looked puzzled. ‘No, you're supposed to smo—’

‘Smoulder it over a low flame before brewing, yep, I know, got it! Well, thanks Garreth, always a pleasure seeing you!’

‘But — you —’

‘Goodbye Garreth!’ He gave him a rough shove in the direction from whence he came.

‘Alright, alright, I'm going! Bloody hell. You fall off your wheel board or something?’

‘Skateboard,’ Sebastian said through his teeth. ‘It's a skateboard, Garreth. I know it's got wheels and it's very confusing for you, but —’

‘Oh!’ At this, Garreth turned. ‘Your uncle's up at the village, by the way.’

Brilliant. Uncle Solomon had a way of showing up drunk whenever things were going well for Sebastian; if he was at The Hog's Head already, he was probably halfway drunk by now. By nightfall, he'd be banging on Sebastian's door demanding to know where Anne was.

Sebastian didn't bloody know where his sister was. Nobody did.

‘How long's he been there?’

Garreth shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he was still upright last I saw…’

It was times like these that Sebastian was glad his twin sister had disappeared. Years of trying to hold together a splintered family had taken its toll on her; after all, looking after a drunken uncle and a brother obsessed with the Dark Arts wasn't exactly conducive to healing.

The hastily scribbled note she'd left had read: I can't die in Feldcroft. Please look after our uncle.

By the time Sebastian had found it, she was long gone.

He hadn't heard from her since.

No sooner had Garreth's flaming red hair disappeared into the brush than the baggie of experimental mallowsweet was yoinked unceremoniously out of Sebastian's hands.

‘Oi!’

‘Ooooh, you have a mallowsweet dealer?’ Aurélie danced out of his reach, giggling. ‘Can I try some?’

‘Wh — no, he's not a dealer!’ he spluttered, tailing her across the clearing. ‘And no, you can not “try some”!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s for potion-making!’

Grinning mischievously, she took a little whiff of the package then pulled a face and immediately thrust it back at him.

‘Eurgh, what are you brewing? Dungbombs?’

‘No — Wiggenwald.’

‘You're a terrible liar.’

‘Actually,’ he said, tucking the bundle into his hoodie pocket, ‘I'm a Slytherin. And if you must know, mallowsweet helps me sleep.’

‘So you do smoke it!’

‘Yes, mother, I smoke it.'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Can't you just use potions for that?’

‘Oh, you mean like a Sleeping Draught?’ He quirked a brow. ‘Or is it the Draught of Peace you’re brewing up with your precious “Garreth Weasley approved” Valerian roots?’

‘I told you, it's for fudge!’ she snapped.

‘You're a terrible liar,’ he smirked. ‘You don’t use the sprigs of the Valerian plant in fudge unless you intend to knock yourself unconscious for several days. — Or are you hoping to use it on someone else?’ he added, thinking of Ominis.

‘Oh, and you're an expert on fudge now, are you?’

‘I passed N.E.W.T level potions,’ he said smugly. ‘So unless you’re brewing a Fire-Breathing Potion — which, as an aside, I don’t think you need — then you're lying about the fudge.’

‘I don't see why it's any of your business!’ With a dramatic huff, she stomped across the clearing and threw herself a fallen log by the creek's edge.

‘It's not,’ he chuckled, sitting beside her. ‘It's just not very fair for you to accuse me of lying when you're telling little fibs of your own, is it?’

Secretly amused, Sebastian waited out the stubborn silence that followed and tried to act like he wasn't acutely aware of her arm pressing against his. There was a strange sense of familiarity about her presence, as if in some other lifetime they'd sat together just like this, side by side beneath the trees.

Eventually, she spoke again.

'If you must know,’ she began, her voice tight, ‘I've been under some... stress lately. And now I can't sleep without, well…'

'Without knocking yourself out with a Sleeping Draught?' he offered helpfully. ‘I know what that's like.’

'Strictly speaking, I'm not allowed to use “substances". Not that my Muggle instructors would ever recognise the effects of a Sleeping Draught, but still…' She heaved a heavy sigh. 'It's just… I've been dancing almost my entire life. My goals, my plans, my future — everything about me revolves around ballet.’

‘And now?’ he prompted.

‘Something happened…’ she said slowly. ‘Something that made me realise that I don't know who I am outside of the thing I've been trained for my whole life. — That's why I'm here, actually.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘To find yourself?’

‘Oh — no, because I accidentally blew up the dance studio with my magic.’

Sebastian choked.

'I'm the only ballerina with magic, you see,’ she explained, patting him gingerly on the back. ‘The Ministry had to obliterate everyone who witnessed my, erm… mishap, and I was ordered to take the summer off for "stress relief" lest I violate the Statute of Secrecy by exploding on stage or something. So…’ She waved her hand flippantly. ‘Here I am.'

Sebastian began to laugh.

‘You blew up your dance studio?’

‘I didn't mean to!’ she wailed. ‘It was awful! I broke all the mirrors! — It's not funnyyy, stop laughing!’

But he couldn't. Too far gone for composure, he hid his face in his hands and laughed til his cheeks hurt.

‘You know…’ he said, nudging her with his elbow. ‘I could teach you a far more effective way of relieving stress.’

Her scandalised look almost set him off laughing again.

‘I'm talking about skateboarding,’ he snickered. ‘Why? What were you thinking of?’

[thelustybraavosimaid]

There is an unfortunately pervasive aspect of this fandom in that people conflate and replace what is established in canon with what is "true" in fanonland. Or they let their biases run wild and come up with a wide array of baseless ideas.

I tire of this.

Was is when a 22 year old adult started showing interest in a pubescent 14 year old?

This is not out of place in a universe where the author turned Daenerys and Drogo into some love story, twisted as it was, or when he had admitted he was playing around with Sandor and Sansa in the books and that "there was something there," or when he has commissioned Sansan fanart hanging on his wall.

The man does not give two flying fucks about age gaps, even problematic ones by our modern standards.

Was it when he trapped her in Dorne with knights outside ready to kill anyone who tried to help her?

Why would they kill anyone who tried to help her? Lyanna was found in a bed of blood and was ill, so she possibly had puerperal fever after giving birth. There was no way she didn't have a wetnurse to accompany her. Was this wetnurse supposed to have been slain by the Kingsguard for daring to assist Lyanna?

Was it when he joined the war to kill her remaining family and Northerners?

He didn't join the war to specifically kill her family. I find it hard to believe that anyone could forget Rhaegar had stakes of his own, and family of his own. Like, if it wasn't for Rhaegar dying, Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon wouldn't have been killed by the Mountain and Amory Lorch.

He didn't deliberately join the war to kill Lyanna's family, he did it so he could win it, return to King's Landing, and depose Aerys. This has been his goal as far back as the tourney at Harrenhal:

His lordship lacked the funds to pay such munificent prizes, they argued; someone else must surely have stood behind him, someone who did not lack for gold but preferred to remain in the shadows whilst allowing the Lord of Harrenhal to claim the glory for hosting this magnificent event. We have no shred of evidence that such a "shadow host" ever existed, but the notion was widely believed at the time and remains so today.

But if indeed there was a shadow, who was he, and why did he choose to keep his role a secret? A dozen names have been put forward over the years, but only one seems truly compelling: Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.

If this tale be believed, 'twas Prince Rhaegar who urged Lord Walter to hold the tourney, using his lordship's brother Ser Oswell as a gobetween. Rhaegar provided Whent with gold sufficient for splendid prizes in order to bring as many lords and knights to Harrenhal as possible. The prince, it is said, had no interest in the tourney as a tourney; his intent was to gather the great lords of the realm together in what amounted to an informal Great Council, in order to discuss ways and means of dealing with the madness of his father, King Aerys II, possibly by means of a regency or a forced abdication. (The Fall of the Dragons: The Year of the False Spring, The World of Ice and Fire)

—

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but...well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return." (Jaime I, AFfC)

The major wrench thrown in Rhaegar's plans was Aerys attending said tourney.

Was it when he left her to die in a pool of her own blood?

Rhaegar was dead before then, and even as he was dying he whispered Lyanna's name, as was semi-confirmed in the World of Ice and Fire app.

Leading a large host to the Trident, Rhaegar met Robert in battle duelling on horseback in the fording of the river Rhaegar was killed after giving Robert a serious wound. He would die with Lyanna's name on his lips. (Rhaegar Targaryen, AWoIaF app)

She was in his thoughts even while dying.

Was it when she screamed for her brother to save her?

She didn't. And she would never call Ned "Lord Eddard."

As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. "Eddard!" she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death.

"Lord Eddard," Lyanna called again.

"I promise," he whispered. "Lya, I promise..."

"Lord Eddard," a man echoed from the dark. (Eddard X, AGoT)

This is based on a fever dream, of which George already said that not all dreams are literal. Rose petals certainly were not blowing across a blood-streaked sky, after all, and by Ned's account, the petals in Lyanna's hold were not blue, but crushed and blackened.

Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. (Eddard I, AGoT)

Moreover:

I might mention, though, that Ned's account, which you refer to, was in the context of a dream...and a fever dream at that. Our dreams are not always literal.

[Source]

So we're still, deliberately, in the dark about the events surrounding the tower of joy.

You'll need to wait for future books to find out more about the Tower of Joy and what happened there, I fear.

————

Was it when she begged to be buried with her family in Winterfell?

About this.

It was already a given that Lyanna's body was going to be returned home, as all Starks are traditionally interred in the crypts.

Ned stopped at last and lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed; black holes waiting for their dead, waiting for him and his children. Ned did not like to think on that. (Eddard I, AGoT)

The only exception to this rule has been Brandon the Shipwright, since he was lost at sea. Rickard and Brandon died in King's Landing yet they were returned to Winterfell, so I doubt she'd truly have to beg Ned for that:

They were almost at the end now, and Bran felt a sadness creeping over him. "And there's my grandfather, Lord Rickard, who was beheaded by Mad King Aerys. His daughter Lyanna and his son Brandon are in the tombs beside him. Not me, another Brandon, my father's brother. They're not supposed to have statues, that's only for the lords and the kings, but my father loved them so much he had them done." (Bran VII, AGoT)

The problem is how frequently this allusion to a promise has been in Ned's chapters. I doubt he would be thinking of it nearly as much if it was solely about Lyanna's bones returning home, so her pleading must narratively carry a deeper meaning. We are talking about a man who has said before that he had lived with lies for fourteen years and how it often troubled him at night.

Jon was fourteen at the start of the series.

Please direct me to the "love story"

Regarding the possible nature of Rhaegar and Lyanna's relationship, I believe this quote of George's implies it was indeed a romance, in his own preferred telling of one:

It’s interesting, to get back to this issue of romance that you raised earlier. When I was in Spain a few years ago, I had dinner with a woman — a Spanish academic — and a big fan of both science fiction and romance, and she had read a lot of my stuff because people said I was a very romantic writer. And she sort of launched at me and said, “What are you talking about?! You are not a romantic writer, you know. Nobody ever lives happily ever after in your books!” I was defending it, saying, “Well, but that’s a different tradition of romance. I don’t — I’m a romantic writer in the tradition of The Great Gatsby and Romeo and Juliet, and, you know, the Beauty and the Beast. These things don’t necessarily have happy endings, but aren’t the most powerful romances the unfulfilled romances — the romances where people go their separate ways, but they’ll always have Paris, like in Casablanca, one of the films I showed here. You know, they go separate at the end, but they’ll always have Paris.” And she basically said, “No, you’re wrong. They have to be happily ever after together for it to be romance, otherwise it’s just sad.”

[Source: 03:19]

Rhaegar and Lyanna's story is analogous to the tale of Bael the Bard and the Stark maiden; there was a reason why this tale of the blue winter rose was told to Jon specifically. Like the Stark maiden in the story, Lyanna loved Rhaegar so much that she bore him a son.

Bael and the Stark maiden's tale was not a happily ever after, either; both lovers died in the end. But their union did produce a child.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: The Count of Monte Cristo

A List of Beautiful Words used by Alexandre Dumas in "The Count of Monte Cristo"

Abbé - a member of the French secular clergy in major or minor orders—used as a title

Adroit - having or showing skill, cleverness, or resourcefulness in handling situations

Ascendancy - governing or controlling influence; domination

Beneficent - performing acts of kindness and charity

Benignant - serenely mild and kindly

Clematis - any of a genus (Clematis) of vines or herbs of the buttercup family often having three leaflets on each leaf and usually white, red, pink, or purple flowers

Complacency - self-satisfaction especially when accompanied by unawareness of actual dangers or deficiencies

Denunciation - a public condemnation

Encumbrance - something that encumbers; impediment, burden

Eulogistic - pertaining to a commendatory oration or writing especially in honor of one deceased

Fraught - full of or accompanied by something specified—used with "with"

Furrows - deep wrinkles

Inconstancy - the quality or state of being inconstant (i.e., likely to change frequently without apparent or cogent reason)

Inscrutable - not readily investigated, interpreted, or understood; mysterious

Munificence - the quality or action of great liberality or generosity

Nasturtiums - any of a genus (Tropaeolum) of herbs of Central and South America with showy spurred flowers and pungent edible seeds and leaves

Nothingness - the quality or state of being nothing: such as nonexistence, utter insignificance, or death

Poetical - poetic; being beyond or above the truth of history or nature; idealized

Recompense - to give something to by way of compensation

Repose - a state of resting after exertion or strain; heavenly rest

Speculators - someone who speculates (i.e., to review something idly or casually and often inconclusively)

Surmount - to prevail over; overcome

Tidings - a piece of news

Unpromising - appearing unlikely to prove worthwhile or result favorably

Vellum - a fine-grained unsplit lambskin, kidskin, or calfskin prepared especially for writing on or for binding books; a strong cream-colored paper

More: Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs