#my heart goes out to all those oppressed by those with power

[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who is wrongly accused and falsely imprisoned. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who is mocked, and beat, and killed. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who is murdered and raped by the millions. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who is oppressed as a stranger in a strange land. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who's blood cries out from the ground. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who cries out from the concentration camps. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who dies with the word "forsaken" on your lips. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who is murdered for the color of your skin. Blessed are you of Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who is sold as a sex slave. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who dies thirsty while the nations get drunk on your blood.

Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who causes the nations to drink from the cup of your passion. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who throws the mighty down from their thrones. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who will cause ever haughty knee to bow. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who brings the haughty from the heavens to the grave. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who vindicates the suffering of the righteous. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who vindicates the blood of the martyrs. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who causes Babylon the Great to fall. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who holds the lonely in your arms. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who elevates the lowly. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who causes justice to flow like a river and right relationships like a never ending stream.

Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who creates humanity in your image. Blessed are you oh Yahweh our God, King of the Universe, who identifies with the oppressed and stands against the oppressor. May the Day of Yahweh come in your timing. Amen.

[szkunas]

WANNA BET? ౨ৎㅤ suguru geto.

synopsis / premise ♱ㅤ when a lustful spirit comes across suguru geto’s path, the curse user must sacrifice his pride and dignity for a chance to obtain its power. but you won’t make it easy for him, will you?

featuring ♱ㅤ cursed spirit!FEM!reader X suguru geto (2017 / jjk 0 ver.)

warnings ♱ㅤ NSFW ♡︎ ㅤ spectrophilia ! monsterfucking (?) ! DEATH (not on any of them) + BLOOD ! EATING HUMAN FLESH (not cannibalism!) ! dub-con (both consent, but it involves a dangerous bet, so just to stay safe) ! sub and dom dynamics constantly changing (both switchers) but reader is usually domming ! unprotected sex + unrealistic portraits of sex ! creampie ! power dynamics ! rough sex / “hate” sex ! degradation + praise ! WORD COUNT: 4990.

author’s note ♱ㅤthank you for everyone who's enjoying and supporting my work! i love you all and i hope you like this piece as well. this is inspired by the poll i made a long while ago. the people asked, and they shall have it! despite it not being yandere character, be sure the next fics will fix that! <3

p.s — i write smut very rarely. i feel it's a little bland and ill probably avoid writing it for a little while lol. despite that, i hope you enjoy it nonetheless

BETTING WITH CURSES is always a dangerous ── not to say stupid ── idea. their conceptions are more violent and sadistic than those of humans, and they have little (or no) notion of mortality. they revel in the gushing blood, the failure, and the deadly despair that initially gave rise to them. therefore, it is uncommon for even the most experienced curse users to engage in this type of activity. but geto doesn’t know the meaning of fear. it became unfamiliar to him, like he always wished. curses are just the accumulated filth of non-sorcerers. and a god fears neither the insects beneath him nor the remains they produce.

the cult provides a good amount of spirits, with that rotten taste that is impossible to disguise. no matter how much spice or food is eaten afterward, it is always terrible, but today it goes down his throat much more easily. as much as it’s a good facade, gathering followers and getting a good reserve of curses to form the night parade of a hundred demons, it’s not enough.

all the spirits he consumes recently are mediocre grade 4s. sometimes a grade 3, or if he is extremely lucky, a grade 2. but it has become a rare occasion, and the spirits of non-sorcerers are as weak as their mediocre progenitors.

he doesn’t have enough, and if things go this way, he will have more of an amalgamation of weak and useless spirits than spirits strong enough to distract the sorcerers and help him fight his true goal. therefore, his free days, when not spent with his daughters and his fixation on crêpes, are used to hunt cursed spirits. usually, his followers help with this. the loyal sorcerers see each other as family, and are willing to work for the new world as much as he does. it doesn’t matter how much blood or sweat it takes, it doesn’t matter if he’s not alive to see it all, after all. no more being oppressed by insects. the true species must rise, and the time is coming.

patience, he tells himself. but haste is a curse of its own that affects every man at some point in his existence, making him lose himself in his tasks and concentrations. as he reclines on himself in what could be called the throne room, suguru watches as some of his fellow sorcerer help one of their own. he quickly approaches the confusion.

a woman with a flushed face and heavy breathing, one hand on her chest as if she was about to have a heart attack. sweat pours off her in a rush, as if her body is burning from the inside out. it’s rare that they don’t come back with even one spirit (as mediocre as it is, a curse is a curse, and he can’t afford to be selective at this point). then, suguru frowns. part of him genuinely cares, in a way he never could, if this woman didn’t have a technique.

“what’s the matter? i thought you were going after the spirit near shinjuku.”

“we were.” one of them answers. “but that thing is a beast. you can’t get close without feeling completely lost and attracted. it’s like a fog that enters your nose and mouth and consumes you from the inside. we nearly died. we can’t handle that, master geto. we apologize.”

he sighs, looking over at the poor woman. there’s something visibly wrong with her right now. her heart seems shaken by a powerful force, and this makes geto think that he shouldn’t underestimate this curse in question.

she looks around and practically latches onto any man she can see — even kissing a guy’s neck while he blushes and gently pulls her away. is it some kind of spirit that manipulates attraction? this is particularly dangerous for him. even though he is, well, him, suguru is still a man. the flesh is weak, and perhaps this curse will become a huge headache to deal with.

however, it could become one of his best weapons.

if a spirit like this keeps causing problems in kyoto, he will have more time to do what needs to be done in tokyo. he can already think about it — whatever form this spirit has, having sorcerers under their thumb. crushing their heads and buying him precious seconds to take care of his business. he can only imagine how the poor sorcerers will react, attracted to a beast.

“don’t worry about that anymore.” he assures the cult members, which turn their heads to him. their leader, their god. the one who’s going to make them rise to a new world. his voice is filled with the grace and confidence he usually has on his tone. but also something else.

determination. raw and pure.

“i will deal with the cursed spirit in shinjuku myself. please watch over mimiko and nanako while i’m gone. i will need just a few hours.”

while humans are extremely annoying, they have their uses. somehow. spirits like you, of thunderous strength, also have thunderous desires. technically, curses don’t need to eat, sleep, or reproduce like humans do. your existence and body made of pure cursed energy coursing through your veins transcends the need for these chores. but like everything that is unnecessary, it is not necessarily impossible. that’s why, as a curse, you know how to use what you have to attract victims. legends about women who attract men with their beauty and turn on them like vipers are very common. the idea of comfort turning to horror ── resting in the arms of a beautiful goddess only to discover that she is a beast shaped like a beauty ── is something that has generated many curses. just like you.

your long tongue curls around your fingertips, trying to absorb the blood that rests there. the body of the last unlucky person who came to try to get you rests at the foot of the motel room bed. it’s not difficult to blend in with humans, and sorcerers come to you like bees looking for honey. while sucking the blood from your fingers, your eyes look up to the dim lamp in the room. the moths accumulate, beating against the light and surrounding it desperately. your body stands up and walks out of the room while arranging your kimono sloppily over your shoulders. if you turn off a light, the moths are lost, without hope. their lives are all about chasing dangerous things. they are attracted to the light of a flame, following this wonderful source of illumination without knowing that it will lead to their death. just as mortal men (and women) allow you to do.

the body stays behind, not that it’s important. the others can’t see you, which means all they know is that a man walked into a room alone, and died inside. eviscerated and devoured as if destroyed by a modern movie zombie. your steps guide you away from cheap construction, and that’s a relief. the reception smells like mold, and the employee is more focused on playing solitaire than looking at whoever enters. the cold night air hitting you would be a problem if your stomach wasn’t full and well refreshed with warm blood. and, at the entrance to the parking lot, a man approaches. so he can see you. it wouldn’t be the first time a young guy approached you, hungry for some. you try to hide the blood in your hands.

you devour the hearts of humans, just as they would like to devour you (in other senses). however, he looks… different from the usual men you see around. high energy levels, as well as clearly being a sorcerer. he doesn’t look very old, maybe in his late twenties. this means that he doesn’t have as much experience as older men, but he is no amateur at sorcery. just as you fill yourself with meat, he also consumes something. you can’t tell just by looking, and it’s as disturbing as it is interesting.

okay, you’re full. but there’s always room for another one. especially a looker like this.

“mm, hey, handsome.” you purr, smiling cutely as you rest your hand on your waist.

“spare me. i know what you are capable of and what you really want. i’m not going to be your next meal, curse.” he smirks, circling around you.

well, that’s a fascinating twist. it reminds you of how many sorcerers have said the exact same thing, and in the end it ended up just becoming your dinner. however, this man seems less— consumable than the rest, but no less attractive.

the idea of eating him saddens you, because then you would lose him forever. not being able to see that pretty face after you eat it out of spite… it would be tragic. but maybe there’s a way of having fun, while still getting something out of him.

you lick your lips at the thought.

okay, this could be the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. a tall, handsome man with a large amount of cursed energy? he’s the kind of guy you don’t let get away. after so many snacks, a careful look always captures a good and complete meal. but perhaps you can do much more than devour him. it’s the kind of chance every girl dreams of ── in your own twisted and sadistic way, of course.

“can i get your name, handsome? or do i have to keep on the petname basis?” you tease, smirking softly.

he walks around you like a shark circles tasty prey. this cat and mouse game would scare away any other curse, this sorcerer doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to play with, which makes the interest you have in him doubled. your eyes follow his every movement.

“and while we’re questioning each other, what do you want? a fight?”

“i’m suguru geto. and what i want is very simple.” he steps closer, but you don’t budge, instead raising your chin despite the attitude. that makes his eyes widen softly and suguru scoffs. was he expecting you to be intimidated? “you.”

okay, that answer itself is not unusual for you ── many others have said the same thing to answer the very same question ──, but the new dynamic and opportunity this man presents is. an idea blooms in your mind like a poisonous flower: beautiful, but lethal if touched. it doesn’t look dangerous, it looks attractive and vibrant, but it is. and you are about to apply this in the most intense way you can imagine. a new thing, a new idea.

and like every creature beyond mortality, routine is boring and boring is despising for you. new things are exciting, captivating. he’s interesting.

“why don’t we make a small bet, hm? geto.”

he raises one eyebrow, interested. “i’m listening. and, please. call me suguru.”

the motel isn’t a very suitable destination — apparently, it’s not proper to go to a place where a corpse is —, but an empty apartment that a cult sponsor bought for him will do. suguru and you walk around while pulling up casual conversation and flirtation. everything seems surprisingly chill. maybe in another life, you two could be friends. maybe even with benefits? or— perhaps something else.

he doesn’t think your personality is bad, per see, but again. you seduce and eat mortals easily. maybe you’re just tricking him into lowering his guard. maybe in another life, you’re a pretty little thing who hugs his arm and allows him to take you home with genuine, good intentions. maybe in another life, you could like him genuinely. and he could like you back.

but you two don’t live another life — only this one. so, he’ll settle.

you’re barely past the door and he feels your lips on his. he smirks, grabbing you by the hair to pull you closer. it’s supposed to be an easy tatic — seducing you. he can absorb curses of grades that are at least two lower than his, or… any curse that surrenders.

as your tongue swirls around his, suguru feels a shiver run down his spine. you taste so— unbelievably sweet. nothing like any other one he’s every tasted. the sound of kissing takes over the apartment as you stumble over your feet to the bed.

this might be harder than he initially thought.

the bet is simple, somewhat. you will compete in something, your choice. whoever wins has complete control of the loser. which means — he wins, you’ll become one of his curses. you win? he’s yours. forever. whatever that means, you made that clear. you both explained your expectations and what you wanted from the other, deciding for a biding vow.

the competition you chose was sex. basically, whoever cums first loses.

and for some reason, suguru feels like he shouldn’t lose. he’s not sure what you’ll do with him once “he’s yours”, but he feels like it wouldn’t be a very opportune time for him.

you move to kiss his cheek, jawline, and neck. suguru sighs while throwing his head back. “you’re— eager.” he murmurs with a soft hiss. “i’ve never been with something like you, so, forgive me if i’m shy.”

he can feel the way you smirk against his skin, before you start sucking down and biting. he grabs you by the hair to pull you away, relishing in your flushed expression and how your voice sounds when you yelp.

“no hickeys, no bites. i’m not yours to mark, curse.” his fingers wrap themselves around your hair tightly to get the message across. your tongue slips out, long and eagerly licking your lips as you watch him. like a lion watching a zebra, about to feast.

“yet.”

your answer just sets him off. and the way you smirk, that damned, arrogant smile that he intends to rip off your face as soon as you get into bed — adamant on being a goddamn brat. oh, you’re going to be a handful.

in a way, he likes it (although suguru prefers to bite down his tongue, rip it off and swallowing it before admitting anything to you). there are those who say that victory without effort is just a poorly deserved achievement.

dragging you by the hair, geto’s eyes are following your every movement as you stumble on your feet. you’re having fun with this, he can tell. something twitches on his chest, and — he can’t decide on anger or attraction as he gets rid of his clothes. why is his body so hot? you haven’t even done anything yet.

“keep your word if you lose, curse.” suguru mumurs, looking down at you while pushing you to bed and moving to be on top of you.

“could say the same, suguru. and don’t call me that.” you spread your legs slowly, smirking as he helps you undress. “i have a name, you know.”

the fun thing about men for you is how predictable they are. they keep denying it over and over — i don’t love you, i’m not a bad guy for cheating on my girlfriend, you’re nothing special — while they’re devouring you with their eyes. someone once said the eyes are the window to the soul. you believe that to be true — after all, no one has interest in a meal they cannot see first.

his desire is palpable in the way suguru’s hands rush, pushing away layers of fabric that’s keeping him from actually seeing you. it looks like he wants to rip the clothes off your body and see what’s underneath, because his heart needs to he. he needs it, he needs you.

the words rushing through his mind make him stop for a moment. what is this thought? he needs you… ? he breathes heavily as you grab his wrist and guide it to your chest. suguru can feel it under his fingers and palm.

the soft feeling of your skin is truly inhuman. it sparks something inside of him — he can’t remember a day where he wanted someone this much.

“you’re staring, suguru.” you tease.

“shut up.” he grits his teeth, moving down to cup your breasts, his thumbs caressing your nipples.

“you like this, don’t you? dirty whore.” geto murmurs, his hands snaking down and grabbing your hips harshly while leaning down, latching his lips to your nipple. his other hand massages your breast and pinches it, and the vibrations of his soft moans make your skin shiver.

he shouldn’t like this so much, he knows that. but the way you taste — it’s not fair. he’s rock-hard after some kissing, pinching, teasing. mere foreplay is making his cock twitch on his pants. the way you moan is divine, and your hand comes down to play with his hair as he sucks on your chest.

your legs wrap themselves around his waist, and he presses you down against the bed, hovering above you eagerly. the stupid buddhist robes he uses as a disguise are falling off his body, and all he wants to do is rip the fabric off and set it on fire because it prevents skin-to-skin contact. he bites down your nipple, and you moan, moving your hands to tug off his clothing.

“do you have condoms on you?” he asks, and you snort.

“no. i can’t be affected by mortal diseases. i don’t need those.”

suguru murmurs something against your skin, feeling himself grow addicted already. a small piece of his brain is already wishing you were his, but not to send you to battle — to get you sat on his lap all day, as he kisses and sucks on your chest. you tug at his hair, watching the black strands falling down his back gracefully as he moves to kiss down your underbust, then stomach. lower belly. his purple eyes look up at your face as his lips part. the cult leader’s hands caress your body as if yearning to memorize the flesh with each touch. here or there, he gently squeezes or pinches to see you squirm. they pass through his arms, shoulders, down his sides and finally meet under his thighs, guiding them to rest on his shoulders.

the first contact of his mouth with your pussy is messy. a bit lewd. generally, younger men like this like to act slow, a bit torturing, to be certain of what they’re doing (and mostly, they’re not). but suguru dives in as if your cunt is the last meal he’ll ever put his mouth on. his attention is mostly driven to your clit, and you gasp, playing with his hair and squeezing his head between your thighs with a smile.

he’s good. you’ve experienced sex mostly using it as a weapon — men in particular are more susceptible because they’re not expecting it, but women also don’t expect to be eviscerated while they’re pleasuring you. but sometimes, when you do enjoy sex for fun, you gained experience enough to tell this man between your legs knows what he’s doing. his hands move to grab your waist and keep you from running away as he kisses your clit. suguru’s tongue draw out and he moves is head up and down slowly, teasingly.

you enjoy the sensations, shiver trailing up your spine and the pleasure already pooling on your lower belly. your body relaxes slowly against the pillows, and you chuckle.

“mm, enjoying yourself down there?”

he doesn’t respond, instead humming against your cunt. the feeling causes your body to tingle, and your fingers curl around his strands (which tells suguru he’s doing something right). he’s finding out how heaven tastes.

you’re more determined than ever that he’s yours, and he can see it in your eyes. the fire in your eyes rivals the fire in both of your bodies.

the flavor is indescribable. geto is no amateur at sex, although he feels like one now. exposed, naked and excited, he feels about to lose the bet that will define his destiny. a lot of people have passed by his bed, and he’s already received a lot of compliments about what he can do with his mouth, but the feeling of all those people feels like a weak breeze compared to what he feels with your taste on his tongue. it is divine.

he’s never experienced anything like it, and the idea that sex could be this good makes him feel like he could do it for hours, every day, all day. it’s almost invigorating, energizing, when he experiences you. his hips move here and there, thrusting softly every now and then. the flushed tip of his cock oozes with pre, and he believes he never got so turned on before.

it’s like he’s a college kid, a desperate virgin trying out pussy for the first time. his arms move, hooking them around your thighs, trying to spread your legs as he sucks on your clit.

you tug at his hair again, hissing.

“not fair, jerk. we need to compete in a way both of us can lose. quit it.”

he would deny it, but denying it would make it obvious geto could cum untouched just from eating you out. he complies, leaning back, your juices making his lips and chin glisten under the room’s lights. “alright, curse.” you tug at his hair again, and he groans. “stop that.”

“you need to get used to it. i’ll do it all the time once you’re mine. i'm going to make you eat me out everyday, like the good boy i know you are.”

he moves up, kissing your stomach and between your breasts while looking up. “don’t claim victory before it’s time.” his voice murmurs, pressing his lips against yours and hugging your waist. “lay back.”

you smirk. “no.”

you grab his shoulders, using your unnatural strength to surprise suguru. changing the positions, you get him to be under you, throwing each of your legs to the sides of his body. his hands move to grab your waist, and his eyes narrow as he frowns.

such a handsome, tall man — even when he frowns. once he’s yours, you promise yourself, you have a lot of fun.

“what are you doing?” he hisses, moving to sit up. your palm lays against his chest, pushing him down again as you raise your hips to rub your wet cunt against him. “fuck, fuck— you slut, what are you doing?”

both of you moan softly at the contact, and you lift your body with spread legs and a smirk that tells him: you’re going all in to win this bet. this is worrying.

once you sink, slowly and surely, he throws his head back with his eyes narrowing. a groan escapes his lips, and his muscles clench. geto’s fingers curl around your waist, sinking his nails to your skin desperately, leaving small, red half-moon marks that heal immediately.

if heaven exists, this is what it feels like — his mind is sure of that. your pussy clenching around him, the pure warmth and tightness from your hole, it drives him insane, speechless. his eyes almost fill with water, and the urge to explode is immediate.

he gasps, holding you down and trying to breathe properly. the sew attempt proves futile, deadly and failed. it’s like the air can’t reach his lungs properly, and for a second he thinks he’s going to die in this pure bliss and smiles to himself. but the charm disappears when he remembers the bet. it was a very, very close call that he didn’t came as soon as he felt you around him.

the want awaken in his body is primal. dirty and impure, there’s no other word for it besides carnal. he wants to grab you and pin you down, thrust into you and cum inside until he dies from exhaustion. this power is — dangerous. it scares him and pleases him in equal measure, being under such a powerful spirit. suguru’s concentration is split, divided, and growing weaker as you speak again.

“what’s wrong, suguru? i can feel you twitch.” you giggle softly, leaning in over him.

your next move throws him off guard. the sadism and fire in your gaze makes him raise an eyebrow, and before he can react, his hips move. down and then up, just to slam back down. it knocks the air off his lungs, and he moans loudly.

“oh, god.”

“no, baby, it’s just me.” you chuckle, staring to set a pace as you lean back. “mmm, sugu. you feel really good, you know? so hard and nice to ride. and so good for me.”

instead of resting against his chest, your hands grab his knees. your stunning, divine body that makes his insides curl and melt is leaned back, exposed in all your glory, and he forgets you’re a curse for a moment. convinced you’re an angel, he grabs your hips to help you ride, thrusting up against your movements.

suguru smiles softly to himself as he hears your soft moans. the sounds is delicious, drowning every worry out of him. he only remembers you’re a curse two minutes seconds later, when your tongue slips out your mouth to lick your lips, as if you’re enjoying a meal.

he feels like an animal, capable of thinking about only one thing: copulating. having sex and reproduce and if he fails in the latter, have sex again until every drop of semen is squeezed out of his body.

he tenses up, groaning. god be kind, he has no idea how he managed to hold on for so long.

“what’s your deal?” another moan quickly scratches his throat, and the heat is almost becoming unbearable. pooling in his lower belly, making his abs and muscles clench as he grinds against you, desperate.

“what are you talking about?” you chuckle, leaning in again and moving your hands up to play with your nipples. slowly — both to tease him and to avoid you cum too early and lose. softly.

“stop— smirking like that. it pisses me off.”

you lean in, playing with a strand of his hair and tugging on it gently. suguru tries to sit up, but you throw him back down, not willing to guv up your advantage. he’s close. you can feel it, see it, you can enjoy the way the head of his cock hits your g-spot sweetly.

the only surprise you feel is when a hand that’s not your creeps and settles between your legs. his thumb moves in small, fast circles against your clit, earning a moan out of you and making your chest inflate as you breathe in heavily.

there was a chance you might lose. if you weren’t you, you might’ve lost.

you pick up your pace, and his heavy breathing mix to yours. it’s fun, you think, you only breathe as heavily as mortals when you’re engaging on sex. it’s cute, it makes them think you’re like them. human. weak-willed, like the man twitching inside of you, urging for release.

but you can’t blame him. his touch drives you insane, you light up like a keg of gunpowder being ignited by flames. he needs to explode. he needs to. you’re settled by that.

suguru starts grunting, his thrusts into your warm, inviting cunt growing more eager and erratic. he thumbs at your clit, looking up at your expression. you smile, moaning his name lewdly.

“suguru.”

and— he feels it. rising so quickly his body has no reaction against it. his orgasm is hard, harder than he ever had it with any warm body or his desperate hand, alone on a corner. he sighs, pausing in between breaths to groan and moan. his eyes close, and his browns furrow up as he stares at the ceiling, gasping softly. his abs clench, he grunts

perhaps this is the true feeling of nirvana, of ascending. suguru believed he and the other sorcerers were true gods walking among earth. that sorcery was the only and true path to the ascension of humanity as a species and as individuals. but this? the feeling of thrusting his cum into your warm, wet velvety walls is the closest he ever felt to a god.

he breathes heavily, scratching your hips as reaction to pain — the overstimulation is hitting him as hard as a truck when you don’t stop moving your hips, eager for your own orgasm as you notice your victory. he grunts again, watching you fall apart on his cock as your turn finally arrives.

riding off your high, you enjoy yourself using him as a toy and personal dildo, you stop slowly to get off him. some of his cum spills out your cunt, fat drops falling to his abdomen.

suguru’s breathing calms down slowly, but his eyes widen in realization. he uses his elbows to prop himself and sit up, murmuring — his voice weakened and a bit desperate. a hint of fear creeps into his tone.

“wait. no, wait.”

you grab him by the neck, and he hesitates, looking up at you. his skin burns and a sinister chill runs through his body while his arms seem to be on fire, next to his neck. stunned by the intensity of his orgasm and what it means, he doesn’t even act while you help him rest his head against your chest. suguru stares at himself, shaking as he notices new marks on his forearms.

black, strong and serpentine, these marks against the skin form quickly, marking him now and forever. like tattoos he can never remove. he looks up, and you twirl a strand of his black hair around your index finger.

“you lost, suguru.” your voice coos sweetly, as if you pity him. but you don’t. you don’t have that mercy on you. “and you know what that means?”

you giggle, and he shivers again as he feels your lips gluing to his ear. you murmur lovingly, as if you’re not deciding his fate.

“you’re mine.”

thank you for reading <3

[ohstarkovalina]

Some Cait x Vi thoughts on the back of Act II that no one asked for:

This will probably be a hot take, but I am actually really uncomfortable with the direction their "relationship" is going.

We don't really know how much time has passed since Act I, but it looks like a few weeks (a month or so, at best), and in that very short period of time, Vi loses weight, drinks herself to sleep every night, is completely broken and a shell of herself and Cait goes on her merry little dictator way and starts a relationship with Maddie.

There's such a dissonance in their reactions to their breakup that it's actually staggering.

When they finally "reunite," Cait once again hits Vi left, right, and centre. And then!! Vi actually loses? Strong, boxer Vi is no match for Cait, all of a sudden?

That scene really bothered me because I read it as both symbolically, Cait holding all the power over Vi, but also as Vi having really lost herself after their separation (while Cait got stronger and seems overall unaffected by what went on between them).

There's a glimmer of something there for Cait when Vi calls her cupcake, as if she's deep under and that little pet name brought her back, but at the end of the day that didn't mean a hell of a whole lot.

Then, Cait seems to look at Vi with disgust all the time. This started in Act I, and I wrote it off for a while as grief, but it keeps happening. And Vi still looks at Cait with those big, loving eyes, right? But it's one-sided now.

Still on this, the whole "your hair, you look like an angry oil slick" comment rubbed me off the wrong way: Cait doesn't even understand what's going on with Vi, she acts both surprised and disgusted to find her looking like that.

And it's like, how did the sight of Vi not rip her heart out?

There's this constant power imbalance between the two of them that has all the makings of an abusive relationship (and which is severely exacerbated by Cait being a privileged woman who has decided her grief is justification enough to become a fascist dictator and further oppress an entire group of people, of which Vi belongs to).

I shipped them so hard all throughout s1, and I think the writers will probably try to remedy this somehow in Act III, but I genuinely think there's no salvaging their relationship anymore, at least not in my eyes.

[nightcolorz]

you just dont get the reality that louis HAD to exploit poor black women. how else was he going to keep hold of the wealth, huge mansion and the elevated social status he got from his ancestors being free people of colour who owned their own slave plantation 😭. he's not even involved in anything icky, he's basically just a landlord for some powerful independent self-employed women. louis even told us that he was super progressive and all those other white brothel owners were out to get him anyway, so he's basically a slave and an oppressed woman and a sex worker himself in the eyes of SOCIETY, which makes him the Ultimate Victim for all time and justifies every bad thing he's ever done (please remember you do not get to say other characters have been affected by victimization just because they were a vulnerable impoverished person who was abducted, enslaved, and sex trafficked for real instead of it just happening to them metaphorically through their mom saying mean things to them)

Omg lmfaoo the way I almost thought u were being genuine for like half of this goes to show that this is real ass argument that people make with their full chests 😭😭😭 I’m cryinnggg.

so true anon thank u for putting me in my place and reminding me that I can not point out that Louis was a pimp who made money off of exploiting victimized black women’s bodies because he is in fact a victimized black woman himself 🥺🙏 (he is gay). I will try to open my heart and mind to the experiences of extremely wealthy 1920s pimps in the future

[limbus-limousine]

Keep saying this but I loooove how relationships are talked about and portrayed in Demian (1919). Like. To an insane degree that I can barely put into words. It bothers me how overlooked it is sometimes? People always have a tendency to shove fictional relationships into very cramped, defined little boxes and then fight over the plastic label.

The way relationships are seen in Demian is one of the main reasons why I hold this book so close to my heart, because it was the first time I saw my thoughts put into words that I could analyze and study. That and the whole premise of how growing up in a religiously oppressive environment disguised with love and purity will inevitably affect how you process your feelings toward others... Makes me relate to Sinclair a lot. And it feels like a gross oversimplification to restrict his feelings as platonic or romantic.

I've talked about how I see Demian and Eva as extremely related entities before, how they are essentially the same. But I think their distinction as physical characters is very useful for the storytelling and symbolism. As I see it, Demian (the book) is all about love. It's not just about finding love in someone else but also finding love in yourself, in what you do and where you are in your life. This might be more of a personal interpretation, but to me, Eva represents a very, very specific feeling, in a way it's a culmination, a point where you finally stop to think and say to yourself "maybe I am okay. This is what okay feels like to me". Freudian influence aside... The motherly themes hit me really hard for this very reason:

When I read how Sinclair slowly fell out with his family, it spoke of a very specific experience. A very specific realization. "This deal isn't that of a bad friendship or acquaintance. I won't have a second chance. Simply because of how I was born, where I was born, there are human experiences that I'll never be able to know, and I am powerless to change that", you cannot choose your family, your mother, right? It's what you get, and you see around you what could've been but never was, and it makes you feel weak.

That's why Frau Eva is such an important figure. Because that is when Sinclair finds his family again, in a way. Why should blood matter so much? Sure, there's a biological connection, it's also been studied that romantic relationships reach their "high" during their earlier days due to hormones and neurotransmitters, right, "love at first sight", but those will eventually cease production as all does. It is your choice to nurture that relationship and to cherish it, to keep and to care for it. Blood does not matter, home is a person and it's right next to me, right now. I think that is what Frau Eva is, as a whole. And allowing that feeling to coexist with the platonic and the romantic is very important as I see it. One of the main problems of this motherly dynamic is the power difference, what makes Sinclair struggle in his childhood is the constant sensation of being watched, of being subjected to severe judgement. Frau Eva is supposed to remove that factor, she listens and she welcomes any thought or idea, there isn't fear of rejection or punishment, that's what makes it feel "like home". That was, kind of, the last step to reach the fulfillment Sinclair needed. I see Eva as the "destination" of this whole thing.

And Demian, he is the journey. One of the biggest mistakes one can make is to dismiss the process and work that goes into an achievement, because it is important. There is no Eva without Demian, they are intrinsic by nature. And journey is something that never leaves you. Even when Sinclair reaches his destination, he never stops caring about Demian. He visits Eva and he visits Demian, even if he has to walk through horrible weather, he speaks of his dreams to them, and he sits at the table and eats with them. Because during your journey you gain so many things you never expected, and at the end of the road, they become part of your fulfillment and needs as much as the main achievement is.

What Sinclair obtains from Demian and Eva, and everything in between them, is a unique relationship, deeply fulfilling, trusting, reassuring, a place where you know you can come to, even when you're at your lowest. Eva capitalizes on the genuine care, nurturing qualities, but Demian, too is a mentor, although I find falconer to be a better comparison. He helps the sparrowhawk grow its clipped wings, but in turn, he shall not stop it from flying, only the bird itself can choose to return the falconer's affections. But at the end of the day, all the falconer wishes for is to see him take flight. Sinclair obtains everything: friendship, camaraderie, acceptance, relief of a deep rooted guilt, no judgement for his human desires, the care and trust he lost from his mother, and something to look forward to after waking up in the mornings.

At the end of the book, Sinclair is separated from both of them, as I've said, they are intrinsic. But of course, they don't fully leave. As I see it, the kiss being from Eva means that your achievement is and will always be a sweet thought. Something you hold dear, that you can think of to comfort yourself. But Demian is there to deliver it and to fix Sinclair's wounds because journey is experience. It is what strengthens you and gives you the tools to face future endeavors. And it feels safe... You are finally safe within yourself.

But what about the scary factor, though? Because that is present too in both Demian and Eva (which I happen to really enjoy, as well). As always, I think it's a balance. It's good to know fear, it's a human emotion like any other. But the fear that radiates from them is more... Animal-like. The fear Sinclair once felt was a deep rooted terror that was born from something divine. You're being watched. You're being judged. You're wrong. You're a sinner. That's scary. Because it's telling you that the danger comes from yourself. When you see a beast staring into you, you don't feel self conscious, you don't feel repulsed, you feel the most natural shape that fear has. Beautiful things are scary. A snake can be scary. The stars can be scary. But it's not their fault, and it's not your fault either, it's just how it's meant to be. Because all feelings —love, anger, fear, sadness— and more, they are all important, they are all natural. But natural feelings can be beautiful. Artificial feelings make you fear something you've never witnessed, they make your stomach churn at the thought of yourself and they make you cry for something you haven't done. And most people around you live holding onto relationships that are, fundamentally, held by artificial feelings.

That is... Most of what I interpret from this book. And, god. It feels more like the book read me and not the other way around. I think I've truly found a bigger respite in art thanks to this novel. I have wanted to see the same beauty in the naturally grotesque... Learn about myself until rotting, flesh, maggots become just as beautiful and full of meaning as spring rivers and flowering plains, and for anger and fear to turn into something I can love and cherish like I do my inner child. Although they, too, have surely grown up.

That's it. I wanna play toysssss

[hylialeia]

thoughts on the Daevabad Trilogy, short version: holy shit that was good

longer version:

holy shit that was good.

I adored the writing style, the imagery, the worldbuilding, the characters, the character dynamics, and the pacing all the way through. I first picked up this series because of how Global Medievalism talked about it as a stepping stone away from Eurocentric medieval fantasy and it definitely delivered. this is tied with Spinning Silver for my favorite recent reads--which is even more impressive since SS was a standalone, meanwhile this series kept up a consistently high quality across three separate books.

after Fourth Wing masquerading as a rich, complex adult fantasy and then being What It Actually Was, this was an immensely satisfying series to pick up. it skirts the fantasy staple of the Inherently Evil Race/Species that so many works fall into (even asoiaf with the Others) and instead opts to explore in-depth religious and racial prejudices, revolutions, bigotry, power, and privilege in ways that can be frightening for a lot of authors (and readers). I can see why this series would frustrated a large swath of fantasy fans and not just because it steps completely away from the Europe-but-slightly-to-the-left settings that they're so familiar with; people looking for escapism and a palatable black-and-white conflict definitely wouldn't find it here.

that said, I also think the narrative did a fantastic job of showcasing the brutality of oppression, as well as cycles of revenge and violence, without turning into a sermon about how anyone who fights back is Just As Bad as the oppressor. you can sympathize with any faction within the trilogy while still seeing that there's a clear hierarchy. this is a series that asks the reader to be open minded and to sympathize with a variety of people's suffering while still condemning heinous actions, crimes, and ways of thinking. portrayals of violence, swearing, and sex aside, this is where I believe the adult label is earned. the Daevabad Trilogy outshines Fourth Wing in its entirety, actually following through on promises of depth, complexity, and exploration.

I don't think the series reaches into absolutely flawless territory; on reflection, there are a lot of scenes I wish we'd seen happening in the moment rather than summarized or briefly flashed back to. this goes especially for the end of the last book, Empire of Gold, which would have enhanced the pacing quite a bit. there's a bit of rushing through the final battle, and though it's still quite fantastic and follows through on a deal of foreshadowing and character build-up, it definitely feels over too soon. there are also a few loose ends and potential conflicts when it comes to the characters themselves that the series felt too tired to actually flesh out by the end. I can forgive that chiefly because of just how well-rounded and consistent the characters themselves are, even despite those instances.

and holy shit did I adore these characters. I've only seen the barest tip of the iceberg of discourse this series caused (which I'm sure was insane when it first came out), but thankfully the 10 million+ Way More Problematic Characters (that I also love) in asoiaf has made me immune to whatever the hell was going on over there. I also couldn't get involved in a ship war if you paid me.

I think the first book made a good call only having Nahri and Ali's POVs not just from a technical standpoint (Dara's POV wouldn't have added much, and may have even spoiled some meaningful twists) but also in priming the reader for what is the heart of the entire trilogy: their dynamic. Nahri and Ali carry the series whether they're young, platonic best friends who should be enemies, awkward ex-friends who still get a long way too well, or best friends who are deeply in love which each other but too traumatized to admit it. they both stand incredibly well as individuals (evidenced by the fact that they don't even meet until over the halfway mark in the first book), with Ali being a particular favorite of mine from the very beginning. their opposite upbringings yet similar interests made them a fantastic duo, one where it made sense the impact each one would have on the other's journey. there's something so incredibly endearing about their inability to legitimately dislike each other despite their circumstances, one that makes sense based on their already established personalities; they propel the series' most meaningful moments.

for the elephant in the room: as frustrating as Dara's POV could be I found it a worthy and fascinating addition in the later books, one that I think a lot of people missed the weight of if they were too busy excusing him/hating him. his perspective, biased and misguided as it often was, provided so much rich exploration of the trilogy's overall themes: militarism, religious fanaticism, prejudice, free will, just war, revolution, cycles of violence, conditioning and abuse, etc. that so much of this seemed to fall to the wayside in a strive to decide if he was excusable or not (and thus a viable love interest or not) is a huge shame. his ending was, to me, profoundly satisfying; not redeemed but finally allowed to act of his own free will, no longer bound by outside magic or internalized religious obligation. I never violently disliked Dara and Nahri's romantic entanglement so much as I knew it was doomed from the moment Ali had a POV chapter.

the secondary characters were no less engaging for me, especially as their prominence grew throughout the books, antagonists or otherwise. it was refreshing to see Muntadhir and Jamshid's individual characters (and thus their relationship) become a more prominent aspect of the story--again, especially after the tokenism in Fourth Wing. side characters always seemed to have deeper personalities and roles to play, with even early character deaths like Anas having lasting impacts for our main POVs. their presence was as vital to the immersion and depth of the world as much as the setting and imagery--which are also aspects that completely blew me away. from character, technical, to thematic standpoints, the Daevabad Trilogy absolutely amazed me.

final thoughts and rating: if you give me a book where two married characters are in love with the other's brother and expect me not to give it a high rating you're insane. 8/10. maybe even 9/10. go read these books.

[stromuprisahat]

Why don't I buy Malyen's sudden change of heart in R&R, pt. 2

Malyen doesn't like for Alina to be around other attractive men. He forbids her to steal the Darkling's colour. Sure, her position at the Court makes it impossible to control her comings and goings, but he lets her know he hates the place she chose to reside in, or the fact she dares to focus on other things than him.

An abusive man often considers it his right to control where his partner goes, with whom she associates, what she wears, and when she needs to be back home. He therefore feels that she should be grateful for any freedoms that he does choose to grant her, and will say something in a counseling session like, “She’s all bent out of shape because there’s one sleazy girl I don’t let her hang out with, when all the rest of the time I allow her to be friends with anyone she wants.” He expects his partner to give him a medal for his generosity, not to criticize him for his oppressiveness.

Chapter 3: The Abusive Mentality

Isn't this metaphor an irony?! As if the show writers read the book and thought: "Yeah, but what if we make this ~romantic~?""

When I have new clients, I go to the board and draw a compass with the needle pointing straight up to a big N. “You want your partner to be this compass,” I say to them, “and you want to be North. No matter where the compass goes, it always points in the same direction. And no matter where she goes, or what she’s doing, or what’s on her mind, you expect her to always be focused on you.” My clients sometimes protest to me, “But that’s what being in a relationship is about. We’re supposed to focus on each other.” But I notice that when he focuses on her, most of what he thinks about is what she can do for him, not the other way around. And when he doesn’t feel like focusing on her at all, he doesn’t bother.

Chapter 3: The Abusive Mentality

"Come to target practice with me tomorrow... I wanted you to ask me to stay."

The abusive man’s high entitlement leads him to have unfair and unreasonable expectations, so that the relationship revolves around his demands. His attitude is: “You owe me.” For each ounce he gives, he wants a pound in return. He wants his partner to devote herself fully to catering to him, even if it means that her own needs—or her children’s—get neglected. You can pour all your energy into keeping your partner content, but if he has this mind-set, he’ll never be satisfied for long. And he will keep feeling that you are controlling him, because he doesn’t believe that you should set any limits on his conduct or insist that he meet his responsibilities.

Chapter 3: The Abusive Mentality

Aren't those Malyen's two main traits in Seige and Storm? Or even earlier. Remember when he slut-shamed Alina during Winter Fete? How he got angry she's not crying her eyes in a tower, waiting for his heroic appearance?

HE ISN’T ABUSIVE BECAUSE HE IS ANGRY; HE’S ANGRY BECAUSE HE’S ABUSIVE.

Chapter 3: The Abusive Mentality

The only time I remember Alina becoming angry WITH Mal, he walks out. Unfortunately for her, Baghra's there to pick up the work and once on the run, Alina falls right into Malyen's arms.

... on some level he senses—though not necessarily consciously—that there is power in your anger. If you have space to feel and express your rage, you will be better able to hold on to your identity and to resist his suffocation of you. He tries to take your anger away in order to snuff out your capacity to resist his will.

Chapter 3: The Abusive Mentality

The books are written in rather puritan "asexual" way- as many pointed out, sexual desire is strongly connected to the Darkling and his "corruption"-, but should we count kissing, Malyen reacted negatively to being denied ~that~, which would make it lovely three out of four.

So is he lying when he says he loves you? No, usually not. Most of my clients do feel a powerful sensation inside that they call love. For many of them it is the only kind of feeling toward a female partner that they have ever had, so they have no way of knowing that it isn’t love. When an abusive man feels the powerful stirring inside that other people call love, he is probably largely feeling: · The desire to have you devote your life to keeping him happy with no outside interference · The desire to have sexual access · The desire to impress others by having you be his partner · The desire to possess and control you These desires are important aspects of what romantic love means to him. He may well be capable of feeling genuine love for you, but first he will have to dramatically reorient his outlook in order to separate abusive and possessive desires from true caring, and become able to really see you.

Chapter 3: The Abusive Mentality

It's beyond hysterical, that Aleksander was closer to genuine love, than Malyen. He is the one, who wanted strong, capable Alina. He wanted her to enjoy and love herself, embrace who she is instead of making herself less.

Sure, it doesn't kill the General in him, he won't cancel his people-saving efforts for her. It doesn't erase his weariness of losing people or any of his issues lifetimes of futility created, but he wants a partner, not a servant.

Genuine love means respecting the humanity of the other person, wanting what is best for him or her, and supporting the other person’s self-esteem and independence. This kind of love is incompatible with abuse and coercion.

Chapter 3: The Abusive Mentality

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 76

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 76: A Golden Crown of Sorrow II

AO3 - Masterlist

(13K words)

The vast expanse of Westeros unfolded beneath her gaze, illuminated by the dim, haunting light of candles that cast their quivering shadows across the carved map on the ancient table. This piece of history, dating back to the Age of Conquest, bore the marks of past battles and decisions that had shaped the realm. Opponents were signified by the bronze figures, while her supporters were denoted by exquisitely carved wooden pawns. Despite the apparent support, a tight knot of unease coiled in her stomach.

The room itself bore the weight of history, its stone walls and high vaulted ceilings echoing with over a century of decisions, power struggles, and conquest. Shadows danced ominously across the walls, adding to the tension that permeated the chamber. The flickering candlelight cast elongated figures that seemed to reach out, as if grasping for control over the continent laid bare on the table. 

This charged atmosphere enveloped Rhaenyra, a prelude to a storm of decisions yet to come, weighing heavily upon her. Her fingertips lingered on the map at the name ‘King’s Landing’–where her daughter remained imprisoned, and her rightful throne had been unjustly seized. Gwayne Hightower’s arrival had brought not peace offerings, but demands cloaked as terms, dictated by his sister and his father. 

“It is no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer,” Daemon asserted, his voice carrying the weight of authority and the conviction of a seasoned warrior. “But dragons can kill dragons. And they have. The simple truth is this; we have more dragon’s than Aegon.”

Rhaenyra interrupted, raising her eyes from the map. “Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war… everything burned. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.”

Lord Bartimos, unable to hide his apprehension, inquired,“Are you considering the Hightowers’ terms, Your Grace?” 

The palpable tension that filled the air seemed to thicken with shared apprehension as all eyes settled upon her, awaiting a response from the Queen. The collective gazes upon her felt as prickling as needles, an attempt to dissect her every thought and intention–to lay her heart bare for their scrutiny. Yet, amidst this invasive assessment, she preserved her poise, shouldering their gazes with unwavering steadiness. 

With a voice edged with a commanding clarity, she addressed the room. “As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos?”

Weariness clung to her body, an oppressive shroud of exhaustion that seemed to transform her bones into lead, her every movement met with silent protest from her weary muscles. The constant, dull ache that pervaded her being served as a relentless keepsake of the agony she had withstood, coupled with the painful reminder that her crown had already cost her one daughter. 

Within the council chamber, the air was thick with the clamor for war, each lord more eager than the last to see the skies alight with dragonfire against their foes. Yet, amidst this clamor for war, Rhaenyra found herself adrift in the sea of weariness. Her heart was fraught with apprehension, not for the crown she might lose, but for the daughter who still remained within the grasp of her adversaries–and for the lives of those around her. 

Her voice carried a steely resolve as she posed her question, “Is it to ensure the peace and unity of the realm? Or that I sit the Iron throne at any cost?”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Daemon uttered something that was close to a sneer, “That is your father talking.”

With his patience visibly fraying, Daemon let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. His voice, tinged with a dismissive sneer, carried his frustration as he spat, “That is your father talking.”

If Daemon had meant to rile her, he had succeeded. Her eyes sharpened into a focused glare, following him as he moved around the painted table, and she snapped back at him, “My father is dead.”

Daemon paced around the council table to its far end, the sound of his boots scraping against the stone floor marking his path. A wave of irritation washed over her, yet she maintained her composure, her eyes locked onto him with unwavering intensity. She sharpened her own words, knowing how they would land. “And he chose me as his successor, to defend the realm, not plunge it headlong into war.”

Seemingly unable to contain his vexation, Daemon let his voice climb in provocation. “Well, the enemy has declared war! What are you going to do about it?”

Rhaenyra understood his fury as intimately as she understood her own, yet a sense of unease still clung to her. Daemon thisted for war, a fact she couldn’t simply disregard. Given the chance, he would have them march on King’s Landing immediately, regardless of the consequences. While his desire for conflict was unmistakable, she did not share this eagerness for it. She knew all too well how men would rush into war, blinded by pride or vengeance, without fully weighing the consequences of such actions. She stood firm in her resolve not to let the realm bleed unnecessarily for her ascent to power. The thought of blood being shed so freely under her command was a burden she refused to bear lightly. 

Rhaenyra sensed the weight of every gaze in the room settle on her, feeling them like a tangible pressure against her skin. The sting of her husband’s public challenge lingered sharply in the air, each word resonating with an intensity that tugged at her resolve. Her posture remained composed, yet beneath her calm exterior, a storm of emotions brewed, fueled by Daemon’s confrontational words. 

“Clear the room,” she commanded, her eyes never leaving her husband. 

As the chamber gradually emptied of lords and advisors, Rhaenyra felt her own frustration colliding with Daemon’s simmering rage. He moved with a restless energy, finally stopping in front of the heart. There, the firelight bathed his face in a warm orange hue, momentarily softening his features before deeping the shadows in his eyes–his eyes seemed to burn darkly. 

“Does the promise of war excite you?” Rhaenyra inquired sharply, an indictment in her tone. Her voice cut through the silence of the room–almost heavy with emptiness, only the two of them remaining. Her inquiry hung in the air, accompanied only by the sporadic crackles from the hearth and the somber howl of the wind outside. The elements themselves seemed to echo the tension and the foreboding sense of conflict. 

Daemon’s response was charged with exasperation, yet controlled, “You cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers–they stole your birthright.” 

His intense gaze fixed on her, searing and unyielding, igniting a sensation that felt akin to an itch beneath her skin that she couldn’t quite reach–it only served to further add to her frustration. 

“If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” Rhaenyra countered, her steps measured as she closed the distance between them. She was acutely aware of his deep-seated resentment towards Otto Hightower, yet she harbored no desire to ignite war over a personal grudge. The warmth from the hearth caressed her chilled fingers, offering a semblance of comfort while simultaneously serving as a reminder of the danger of getting too close. Daemon was much the same as the fire in the hearth, his fiery passion a potential for destruction–his essence bore the latent capacity to either illuminate the darkest corners of existence or, in a turn as swift as a spark in dry wind, lay waste to all within his reach. He was dragonfire made flesh, and that in itself was dangerous. 

“Are you not angry?”  His question was laced with an implicit challenge, designed to pierce her defenses and stir the embers of her own anger. 

“I should declare war because I’m angry?” Rhaenyra retorted, her voice laced with incredulity. 

Daemon’s response was immediate, his patience faying as he bridged the gap between them. Illuminated by the hearth’s fiery glow, he appeared almost at one with the element, a living embodiment of the flames that danced behind him. 

“No,” he asserted sharply. “Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.”

The intensity of his gaze remained unyielding–unforgiving, a blaze that refused to be tamed. 

“We can extinguish this treachery swiftly, before the moon’s turn, if we act now,” Daemon pressed on, each word infused with a palpable sense of urgency and conviction–his hunger for war remained steadfast, and it seemed nothing would satiate it save for bloodshed. “With our dragonriders and the support of our allies, we can secure the throne with minimal loss of life–but only if we do not delay any further. We’ve already allowed them ample time to prepare and rally their own allies. We must act now.”

As he stepped closer, the space between them diminished to mere inches, their breaths intertwining. “I understand your hesitance to engage in bloodshed, especially as we nurse our own losses…”

Rhaenyra’s head tilted slightly, her jaw clenched in a silent warning. She would not allow their daughter’s death to be weaponized in an attempt to force her hand–especially not force her into a war that she wasn’t sure would be worth it.

Daemon’s hand came to rest gently against her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin with a firmness that spoke of his intent. “I am committed to defend your claim. I will protect our family, and the legacy of House Targaryen, with steel and blood.” Each word was spoken as though cleaved from stone, firm and biting. “Our house, our lineage, and your sovereignty are under threat, and I stand resolute in their defense.” The warmth of his touch seeped into her, burned against her skin. “Grand me your command, and I will see to the rest.”

The sincerity and desperation in his words clashed into a resonant urgency–almost a plea. 

“Should we act against King’s Landing, there’s a risk they may harm my daughter, Daemon. My only daughter,” Rhaenyra asserted, clutching his wrist tightly, her thumb caressing against the beat of his heart. “The thought of losing her too is something I cannot endure–do not ask it of me.”

Daemon pulled away slightly, eyes remaining locked with hers, as though attempting to read her thoughts. “Otto Hightower is cunning, not reckless. He’s well aware of her significance to us. He knows it’s in his best interest to keep her alive and well.”

The weight of their situation seemed to curl around them like the flicker of the flames, the heat radiating onto both of them. Rhaenyra’s gaze remained intense, burning. “And yet, we are both aware that in the face of defeat, they would not hesitate to sacrifice her out of spite just to wound us further.”

Rhaenyra could see it lurking in Daemon’s eyes, the unsaid belief that Daenera would understand her sacrifice, just as she had been prepared to make it herself. Yet, these thoughts remained unspoken, cloaked in the silent communication between them–lingering in the shadows of their minds.

Daemon shifted his stance, a determined glint in his eyes as he laid out his strategy, “If we act swiftly, encircle King’s landing, and lay siege, showing our undeniable strength, they will have to reconsider. They won’t dare harm her if she becomes their last bargaining chip–the only thing keeping their heads on their shoulders.”

He paused, taking a deep breath, as if weighing his own words, contemplating the risks and stakes involved. “Give me the order, and I will ensure that we get Daenera back. Alive and well.”

Rhaenyra fixed her gaze on Daemon, her heart pounding furiously. “There’s no certainty in that strategy. If we march on King’s Landing, the risk is too great…”

Her voice trembled slightly with the weight of the decision, the fear of unintended consequences lurking in her words. 

“Maybe we should consider a different strategy–let us negotiate with a currency they understand. A life for a life,” Daemon suggested, already considering the tactical implications. “I could detain Gwayne Hightower before his return to King’s Landing. They wouldn’t have gotten far.” 

Rhaenyra’s expression darkened with concern, and she instinctively took a step back, distancing herself from Daemon. Her fingers restlessly fiddled with a ring, the gesture betraying her inner turmoil–a sliver of annoyance burning within her chest as he once again spoke of breaking convention. “I cannot in good conscience defy convention, Daemon. We cannot detain an envoy. Such an act would be a declaration of war.”

Daemon’s impatience was evident as he scoffed, his exasperation clear. “We are already at war! It is your duty to respond to the treachery of usurpation with fire and blood!”

Rhaenyra softened her tone, seeking to remind him of their higher responsibilities. “You know my oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions. If the path of saving my daughter and preventing the realm from being consumed by war is to kneel, then I must consider it–the realm mustn’t be divided when the war against the darkness comes upon us.”

At her words, Daemon’s frame shifted, his gaze sharp with disbelief and irritation. “What?”

“A Song of Ice and Fire,” Rhaenyra drawled, her voice low, a confused frown settling upon her own features–almost a mirror to the one on her husband’s face. “The Conqueror’s Dream…”

His head tilted, the disbelief starting to burn brighter in his eyes as he stared at her incredulously. 

“The war against the darkness descending from the North…” She elaborated, trying to convey the gravity of the prophecy–to spark some sort of recognition with Daemon, but there was none to be found, and the realization slowly dawned on her. 

Daemon’s glare was unyielding, his visage as if carved from the same ancient stones of the castle itself. Every line and contour of his face was marked with disbelief, and within his eyes, something dark and dangerous seemed to bare its teeth at her. “You speak of dreams now?”

“The Conqueror’s Dream,” Rhaenyra reiterated, her voice tinged with slight frustration. “Viserys confided in me about the prophecy the night I was named his heir… It foretells of a great threat coming from the North.”

“The Starks have always stuck to their oaths.”

“No, not the Starks,” she clarified, her voice laced with a growing urgency. “This threat comes from beyond the Wall. Should we stand divided, the ensuing darkness will spell doom for all, heralding a winter so severe, so devoid of light, that no living thing would endure…”

The realization dawned fully on her then–the realization that Daemon knew nothing of what she was speaking of. And this only seemed to intensify his disbelief and exasperation. 

“He never told you, did he?” Her voice was softer then, and she felt her heart feel both a sliver of relief and a stab of pity. 

“Tell me what, to heed fanciful old wive’s tales?” Daemon’s response was laden with a thick layer of incredulous sarcasm, his face twisting into a grimace of disdain as if the mere suggestion was a betrayal. Yet, it wasn’t the proposition itself that felt like a stab of betrayal, she knew–it was the realization that his brother, Viserys, had withheld such crucial information from him, even if he wouldn’t believe it. This revelation seemed to stir a deep, bitter resentment within him, a sense of betrayal that went beyond the words spoken, cutting into the very core of his bond with his brother. 

“My brother,” Daemon sneered with a certain amount of resentment in his tone, “was a slave to his omens and portents. He would clutch at anything that lend any semblance of meaning to his weak rule.”

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra extended a hand, a gesture of conciliation, but he retreated further, frustration tensing his shoulders. She wondered whether Viserys had withheld the prophecy because he anticipated Daemon’s skepticism or if it was because he never truly regarded him as his successor. 

On the very night Viserys had made her his heir, he had confided in her, entrusting her with the knowledge of Aegon the Conqueror's dream. He had told her. He had never told Daemon, not even during the years as he was considered the heir apparent. But he had told her. She was his chosen heir, the sole recipient of this prophecy, a distinction that held a profound significance for her, perhaps more than it rightfully should.

Standing at the precipice of war that could fracture the realm, Rhaenyra felt the weight of the crown more oppressively than ever. Her father’s words echoed within her, branding the crown not as a symbol of power, but as a heavy burden–and it was. 

Daemon had withdrawn towards the hearth, where he leaned heavily against the mantle with his head bowed, staring into the flames. His hand was clenched tight, and she saw the rage in his posture–the hurt. He turned his face towards her again as she approached, an unpredictable storm in his fiery eyes, reflecting the orange tongues of the fire. 

“Surrendering your rightful claim over mere stories is fucking insanity,” Daemon bit out and Rhaenyra felt the sharp sting of his bite. 

“If surrendering is what is best for the realm–” Rhaenyra began but was swiftly cut off by a derisive scoff. 

“Do you truly believe that that drunken usurper cunt and his council of Hightowers would be more capable of uniting and safeguarding the realm from this… this threat from the North?” Daemon argued sharply. “When my brother imparted this prophecy, did he specify when the threat would descend upon us? Will it be within our lifetime?” He faced her directly, his presence imposing as he loomed over her. Yet, his voice softened, if only a little as he murmured. “Or was it as vague as all dreams and prophecies tend to be.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra cautioned lowly. 

“I’m merely seeking clarity,” he persisted, his skepticism remaining. "Because it seems you’re willing to wager your legacy, your claim to the throne, and the future of your sons on the premise that this threat from the North is both real and immediate.” 

Rhaenyra found herself wrestling with the gravity of her father’s prophecy and her husband’s pointed disbelief, each word a testament to the chasm between belief and skepticism, between duty and destiny. 

The silence between them stretched as she found herself bereft of words that could possibly bridge the chasm of disbelief between them. She had nothing tangible to offer but the words given, and those words would not stand unchallenged in his eyes. Doubt crept into her thoughts, a seed of uncertainty threatening to take root and grow unchecked unless she managed to dispel it swiftly. Her hesitation didn’t stem from a lack of faith in her father’s words or the prophecy of the Conqueror; rather, it was the inherent ambiguity of the prophecy that cast a pall over her convictions.

The prophecy resonated within her, a truth she still keenly felt. It had manifested as an icy shiver trailing down her spine, a cold that penetrated deep into her marrow. And in that moment, as she gazed into the cavernous eye sockets of Balerion The Black Dread’s skull, she could have sworn she heard the distinct cracking of ice. This eerie sensation had solidified her belief in the prophecy. 

But Daemon’s disbelief remained, underscored by a deeper, more personal wound. His words were laden with a blend of entreaty and reprimand, as he closed the distance between them, his hands gently framing her face. “To wager everything on the premise of a dream is folly, and an even greater folly to let the realm languish under the Hightowers.” His thumb caressed her cheek, calloused and hardened. “My brother named you as his heir. He imparted this prophecy to you.” A note of bitterness made it into his voice, even as she saw his attempt to quell it. “He believed in your ability to protect the realm. He didn’t pass the burden onto his sons; he didn’t share this vision with them. Surrender now, and all that we’ve endeavored to achieve will crumble to naught.”

Tears gathered in Rhaenyra’s eyes, lending a glassy sheen to her gaze as she said, “You have no faith in the prophecy, but it is for that and the stability of the realm that I must consider surrendering.”

Daemon let out a weary, disappointed sigh, a gesture of resignation rather than agreement, and gently shook his head. His frustration was obvious, even as he closed the distance between them, pressing his forehead to hers, a moment of intimacy amidst the storm of contention. 

“Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did,” he murmured, then withdrew, leaving the room with a finality that felt like a cold gust, scattering the remnants of Rhaenyra’s determination like ashes in his departure. 

Rhaenyra closed her eyes momentarily, turning her face towards the crackling fire. She let the weariness of the day wash over her, soaking in the comforting warmth that radiated from the hearth. The heat seeped into her bones, providing a brief respite and fortifying her resolve. Gathering her strength, she stood a little straighter, taking a deep, steadying breath before turning to leave the room. 

She left The Hall of the Painted Table and waved off the assembly gathered outside, her voice firm yet fatigued. “We will continue in the morning, once we have all rested and I have reached a decision.”

As she traversed the halls of Dragonstone, the weight of her physical and emotional exertion was palpable. Her joints creaked with each step, her muscles tense and sore. A persistent ache throbbed between her legs, a constant reminder of the difficult birth she had endured, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Despite the discomfort, she pressed forward, her path illuminated by the flickering orange light of torches and braziers that cast eerie shadows against the ancient stone walls–these walls, hewn from the same rock that formed the formidable Dragonmont, seemed to echo the labyrinthine caves beneath, adding a sense of deep, primordial continuity to her surroundings. 

Rhaenyra tiptoed quietly into her youngest son’s bedchamber, gently pushing the door open and closed. Inside, the fire crackled softly, its warm glow battling the chill from the howling wind outside. Lady Sheran, seated in a rocking chair, was knitting quietly, keeping a watch over the two young princes as they slept. Her eyes lifted as Rhaenyra entered the room. She started to rise, but Rhaenyra gestured for her to remain seated. 

“How are they?” Rhaenyra whispered, her gaze tenderly settling on the two boys in the bed.

“They are well, Your Grace,” Lady Sheran replied softly, her eyes affectionately observing the boys. “They sense that something is amiss, though they can’t grasp the full extent of what's happening–only that things are different. 

Nodding understandingly, Rhaenyra sat down on the edge of the bed. Aegon was sprawled on his stomach, one arm thrown over his brother as if to shield him, his blond curls tousled around his head. And Viserys lay on his back, his head turned towards Aegon, clutching tightly to the blanket their sister had crafted for him. Aegon’s own blanket, that his sister made him, was tugged beside him, crumpled under his head as a pillow, a dark pool of drool slowly growing on the blue fabric. 

As Rhaenyra gently brushed her hand through the soft curls of her youngest sons, a welling of tears blurred her vision. She leaned down to kiss each of them tenderly, feeling the steady rhythm of their hearts before pulling back. Watching them sleep peacefully, she couldn’t help but wonder about their sister Visenya. Would she have shared the same wild curls, or would her hair have been straighter? Would her eyes mirror the same pale blue? And her cheeks, would they have been as round and rosy? 

Rhaenyra wondered if Visenya would have been as inseparable from her brothers as Aegon and Viserys were now. The boys had been so eager to embrace the role of older brother’s, just as Jace, Luke, and Joffrey had for them. Would they understand that Visenya was gone–never to be?

At their tender age, the concept of death remained elusive and abstract–hardly distinguishable from a prolonged absence. Rhaenyra harbored a deep-seated fear that as Daenera remained away, the memories of her might start to fade from the young princes’ minds. Yet, hope flickered as their elder brothers kept Daenera alive in their minds. Jace, Luke, and Joffrrey consistently reminded the younger boys of their sister, recounting stories and weaving her presence into their daily lives, ensuring she remained, even as she wasn’t here. 

They would remember Daenera, unlike Visenya–who had never really graced their lives in the first place. Visenya’s absence marked a silent void, her quiet passing at birth slipping into the shadows of oblivion rather than leaving behind the palpable scar of loss on their young minds, the ache of missing someone dearly loved. 

Only Rhaenyra and Daemon would truly carry Visenya within them as a deep, enduring scar–a poignant reminder of what could have been. 

And perhaps, to a lesser but still significant degree, Jace, Luke, and Daenera too would beare some traces of this loss. The older siblings, more aware of the world’s harsh truths, might not feel the sting of her absence as acutely as their parents, but they too understood the weight of the sister they never got to meet. 

Rhaenyra longed for Daenera’s presence as she leaned down to kiss her sons once more, savoring the sweet, innocent scent of their slumber. Rising from the bed, she sighed softly, “One day they’ll understand all of this, but for now, it’s best we shield them from our worries.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lady Sheran replied, her voice a soft echo in the quiet room.”

With a heavy heart, Rhaenyra left the room and made her way down the hall to Joffre’s chambers, seeking to check on her other children. As she entered, she found Luke awake, sitting up in bed with his dark hair around him. He glanced up at her, his expression somber. Beside him, young Joffrey lay deep in sleep, clutching a wooden dragon toy that hung precariously over the edge of the bed, as if ready to take flight in his dreams. 

Rhaenyra stepped forward, gently retrieving the wooden dragon from Joffrey’s loose grip and placing it on the bedside table. Her gaze then met Luke’s with a silent question.

“He couldn’t fall asleep,” Luke whispered, intuiting her thoughts. “He asked for a story…”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a tender smile, and she leaned down to kiss Joffrey’s forehead. “He’s found his rest now, and you should too.”

With a gentle gesture, she signaled for Luke to follow her out. He quietly slid from the bed, his movements almost ghostlike as they exited into the hallway together. They proceeded to his room, where Rhaenyra assisted him with his doublet, stepping back as he changed into his nightclothes. The soft tap of his bare feet against the floor followed as he slipped under his covers. 

Rhaenyra settled beside him on the bed, mirroring the close moment they had shared just days before when the world was different. She pushed his hair back from his forehead, her smile soft but tinged with concern as she noticed his furrowed brow. “What is on your mind, sweet boy?”

“Are we going to war?” He asked in a hushed tone, his eyes searching hers for answers. “Jace says we’re going to war.”

Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, the weight of her role as both a mother and a queen pressing upon her. “If it’s within my power, I hope that we may avoid it.”

“What will happen to Daenera if we go to war?” He pressed, his voice laced with worry.

The question pierced her heart, twisting with her own fears. She found herself grappling with the right words to reassure her son while confronting the stark realities they faced. 

“I don’t know,” Rhaenyra admitted with heartfelt honesty as she reached for the blanket Daenera had crafted–the same one Luke had brought to her for comfort during her struggle with giving birth. The very same blanket she had tenderly wrapped around Visenya, cradling her in her arms. With  a gentle touch, she carefully draped it over him, placing a hand on his chest, caressing the fabric and the boy beneath. “But I assure you, I will do everything in my power to bring her home.”

Luke nodded, his voice raspy as he spoke. “I miss her.”

“I miss her too, my sweet boy,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice thick with emotion. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, as she had with her other sons. “We’ll bring her back, I promise. Now, try to rest. We have challenging days ahead.”

Luke nodded again, his young face resolute as he snuggled deeper into his bedding. 

Rhaenyra rose from the bed and made her way towards the doors, but Luke’s voice halted her. 

“You can rely on us, you know…” He said, his tone sincere. “Jace, Joff, and I. We’ll protect and fight for you…”

She paused, turning back to face him, a tender smile breaking through her worries. “I know… Sleep, sweet boy.”

Rhaenyra softly shut the door behind her, lingering in the silent corridor as a sharp pang of sorrow blossomed in her chest, her heart caught in a bittersweet tangle of grief and determination. She inhaled deeply, a breath meant to steel herself, and moved towards Jace’s room, drawn by the subdued voices dissecting the day’s events. 

As she neared the door, the familiar voices of Jace, Baela, and Rhaena filled the air, their conversation intense and animated. They were deep in a passionate exchange, evidently holding a council of their own, strategizing and reflecting in the same manner as the real council had. A hint of a smile touched her lips, amusement flickering within her. She decided to let them continue uninterrupted. 

Turning away, she made her way back to her own chambers, her steps slow and measured. Upon entering, she found the maester waiting, as anticipated, with a cup of dreamwine prepared. This small comfort was a necessary solace to ease the edges of her day’s burdens and help her find rest in a night that promised little peace.

Often as she slept, Rhaenys found herself chasing the echo of her children. She roamed the corridors of Driftmark, pursuing their elusive shadows, guided by the merry peals of their giggles that seemed to bounce off the ancient walls. The chase was a game for them, their voice whispers and echoes, warning one another of her approach. She would chase after them, seeking to grasp them, as she once did in days filled with joy, yearning to envelop them in her embrace, to incite laughter with gentle tickles that made them plead for respite. 

But in the realm of dreams, her efforts were in vain; the moment her fingers nearly brushed against them, they dissipated into mere wisps of smoke and ash. Such dreams were a cruel torment, yet Rhaenys harbored a hope that, someday, she would finally catch them, hold them close, and vow never to release them. 

Even as time blurred their features and the years stretched on, she clung to this hope, her only defense against the creeping shadow that loomed over her children, a shadow as boundless and malevolent as the darkest night, threatening to consume them and leave her with nothing. 

As frequently as her dreams offered a haunting glimpse of her children, Rhaenys found herself awakening to a world in which they remained just as elusive–mere ghosts and echoes. 

The timber of a voice shattered the remnants of her dream, causing her to startle awake. She had been so close to capturing that fleeting sense of connection with her children–so agonizingly close. Her eyes, heavy with sleep and sorrow, adjusted to focus on the figure of her husband. His dark complexion was glossed with a sheen of sweat, evidence of the fever he’d been battling for days now. The maesters had harbored doubts about his chances of survival, and now, observing him, breathing and alert, Rhaenys couldn’t help but feel a surge of relief and frustration. 

“I’ve had men whipped for falling asleep on their watch,” he had remarked, and then continued, “You are no man.”

A wry smile played on his lips, followed by a chuckle that suggested he found humor in the situation. 

The irony of his jest did little to lighten her mood, serving instead as a reminder of her sex–how could she ever forget? 

Rhaenys’s amusement was absent; instead, a deep-seated anger smoldered within her, scorching any relief she might have felt at his survival into bitter resentment. 

“You abandoned me,” she murmured, the whisper sharp and laden with the profound bitterness of desertion. Her words carried the weight of years spent watching his ship’s sails shrink on the horizon until they vanished entirely–an accusation steeped in the sense of abandonment she had harbored silently since he took to the horizon. 

Her statement was not just a declaration but an indictment, punctuated by the pain and resentment that had festered within her as the years stretched on. Even their brief encounter during Daenera’s wedding had not provided an opportunity to voice her anguish.

“You abandoned me when I most needed you,” she stated, her voice icy with accusation. “Both our children stolen from us. I needed you. Baela and Rhaena needed you, and you abandoned us for more adventures at sea…”

Her words hung heavily in the air, a cold echo of the pain and betrayal that had accumulated over the lonely years. 

Rhaenys’s anger was not the blazing sort; it had cooled over time into something more glacial and piercing. Gone were the days when her fury might erupt like a wild inferno or a raging sea. What remained now was a cold, deliberate wrath–a slow, creeping frost that threatened a quiet death. 

Corlys had left her to endure her grief alone, left her to wander the silent, echoing halls of Driftmark. He had always chased the horizon, his spirit as restless and uncontainable as the sea. She had known this about him when they wed, had even loved him for his insatiable thirst for adventure and his ambition. She had accepted his nature, even as it led him to wars and quests in distant lands. 

Yet, she had never envisioned that he would leave her so utterly abandoned.

“...As has always been your way,” she said, her voice carrying a cool edge as she leaned forward to dip a cloth into the basin next to her bed, wringing it out meticulously.

“I had no other place to turn,” Corlys replied, his voice a low, scratchy echo of its usual resonant timber. He seemed taken aback by her coldness, and his response was feeble, almost desperate. “I lost everything.”

Her eyes narrowed, a sharp intensity flashing through them as she felt a fissure in her usually composed demeanor. With a voice laced with icy reproach, she corrected him sharply, “We lost, Corlys. We.”

Her words seemed to strike him with the weight of solemn truth, settling on his shoulders like an irrefutable indictment. They had both suffered immense losses–not just him alone. The pain registered clearly on his face, a visible manifestation of his inner turmoil, and he averted his gaze as she approached in an attempt to mask the emotions brimming in his eyes. 

Rhaenys sat beside him on the bed, her movements gentle and deliberate–despite her cold fury. She took his hand in hers, soothingly running a damp cloth over his skin, washing away the grime and sweat of illness. The room was enveloped in a heavy silence, dense with the weight of unspoken words–echoes of past arguments mindled with threads of relief and memories that lingered in the air like ghosts. 

His eyes wandered around the room, a subtle shift in his demeanor, a slight easing of tension. “Dragonstone?”

“They brought you in last night,” she replied, carefully dabbing the cloth on his wrist, where his pulse beat a steady rhythm under her fingers, still noticeably warm. 

Corlys responded with a wry chuckle, a faint smile touching his lips as he spoke, “Clinging to life like a half-drowned sailor to a piece of driftwood, no doubt.”

In that moment, with his attempt at humor, there was a brief respite from the gravity of their situation, a shared understanding that, despite everything, they remained tethered to each other. 

“The maesters were doubtful of your survival,” Rhaenys murmured, gently turning his hand to cleanse the underside of his palm. As she tended to him, the profound silence continued to envelop the room, thick and heavy. She allowed it to linger.

Corlys’s gaze followed her movements, his expression reflective. Seemingly seeking to divert the topic, he ventured, “I understand we have a new king.”

Rhaenys paused, her hands methodically cleaning between his fingers, although the skin was already clean. It was a deliberate action, a distraction from the raw edges of her emotions. 

“The Stranger cast a long shadow over this family,” she responded, her voice low and steady. She moved the cloth up to his brow, gently wiping away any vestiges of discomfort. Corlys’s eyes softened, searching her face as if he were a desperate wanderer seeking a sign of live in a landscape of desolation. Yet, life was not what she could offer him now.

“Your brother is also dead,” she said quietly, locking eyes with him as she broke the heavy news.

The impact of her words were immediate. Confusion and pain knitted her husband’s brows together, his face a canvas of shock and anguish. He made an effort to sit up, a groan escaping him as pain seemed to shoot through his body. He managed only a slight elevation before the effort proved too much, and he sank back onto the pillows, a hand clutching at his chest. His breathing became labored, his eyes wide and searching hers for answers. How?

As she provided context for the staggering loss he was grappling with, Rhaenys’s voice carried a solemnity that resonated in the quiet room. “In his haste to bury you and claim your seat, he stood before the King and denounced Laenor’s sons as illegitimate.”

Corlys exhaled a weary sigh, his head skating in disbelief as the range of emotions played across his features–disbelief, anger, betrayal, sadness, and loss.

“Daemon took his head for it,” Rhaenys stated, her voice carrying a detached flatness as she relayed the grim outcome. 

Corlys’s reaction was a humorless scoff. “Heedless ambition has always been a Velaryon weakness.”

“That heedless ambition won us all that we now possess,” Rhaenys countered softly, her hand gently pressing against his chest to encourage him to lie back comfortably. She returned to dabbing at the seat on his brow, her touch tender yet fraught with apprehension.

His brows knitted together, the furrows deepening as he reflected on her words. “Heedless ambition has cost us everything that we love.”

The admission wrapped around Rhaenys’s aching heart like a cold shroud, settling heavily among the fragments of her shattered spirit. Her eyes fluttered shut momentarily as she absorbed the sign and strange solace of his words–an acknowledgement of their shared burden of loss due to their ambition.

“You were right, Rhaenys,” Corlys finally admitted, his voice tinged with a bitterness that betrayed his inner turmoil. “I reached too far. And for nothing.”

Rhaenys had waited years to hear these words, yet their arrival brought no comfort, only slicing deeper into her wounds. They had once had everything, yet it had never been enough.

“Why did you leave me?” The question escaped her lips, laden with hurt and weariness that she couldn’t disguise. 

Corlys’s gaze met hers, fraught with pain as he clasped her hand. His confession was raw, his voice barely above a whisper, revealing his wounds to her. “After Laenor was slain… I couldn’t bear to face you.” His eyes held hers, reflecting a torment born of grief and self-reproach. “I fled to the Stepstones, seeking my own death.”

The honesty in his admission laid bare the depth of his despair, offering Rhaenys a glimpse into the dark abyss he had been grappling with–a man haunted by loss, driven to the brink of self-destruction. Her fingers tightened around his, clasping them firmly.  It was something she understood well, a mirror to her own abyss, though she never afforded herself to seek it–without their children, what indeed remained for them? Yet, she had glimpses of hope, echoes of their lineage in their granddaughters–Baela, Rhaena, and even Daenera. Death might seem a merciful release for themselves, but it would abandon those who still lived and remembered them. Her grip intensified, as if to convey her resolve through their intertwined hands. 

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek, marking the first she had shed in years. 

“I am relieved that you failed,” she whispered, her voice soft and laden with deep emotions. Unspoken words hung between them, a plea for him not to leave her in solitude–she could not, would not be able to bear that.

The slight upturn of his lips, fragile yet genuine, eased the sharp edges of her bitterness. His smile, though faint, was a balm to her aching heart. He exhaled slowly, his resignation palpable in the quiet of the room. 

“Our pursuit of the Iron Throne…is at an end,” Corlys declared, squeezing her hand as if to solidify their mutual decision. The warmth of his touch seemed to seep into her skin, mingling with her own. “We shall declare for no one. We will retire to High Tide to be content… with our grandchildren and whatever else remains to us.”

Rhaenys stared at her husband, her eyes searching his for an understanding she felt slipping away. While she might have once yeared to hear him speak of withdrawing from the political fray, the words seemed to only jolt her now. Corlys, who had sailed restless and untamable as the sea, now spoke of retreating inward, and it left her unsettled. 

“It is the thought of those children that now rob me of sleep,” Rhaenys confessed, her voice tinged with fatigue. “Jace, Luke and Joff are all claimants to the throne. Those boys will not be safe so long as Aegon is king. And they hold Daenera as a hostage in King’s Landing…”

“Rhaenyra was complicit in our son’s death,” Corlys stated flatly, voice carrying a bitter edge. His expression hardened with resentment. “That girl destroys everything she touches–”

“That ‘girl,’” Rhaenys interjected sharply, “is holding the realm together at present.”

Corlys paused, seemingly taken aback by the conviction in her voice. The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of their years and losses between them, mingling with the cool draft that flickered the nearby candle. Rhaenys’s gaze did not waver, holding onto the thread of duty that had defined so much of their lives. 

Rhaenys had once harbored the same harsh feelings as Corlys, her soul steeped in bitterness from the loss of their son and the resentment that Rhaenyra would have a hand in his murder–and part of her had resented Rhaenyra that it was she, not her, that would ascend to the throne–the very throne that had been denied her all those years ago Yet, living with such bitterness proved to be a cold companion, sapping her spirit day by day. She couldn’t cling to that hatred any longer; while the resentment lingered and forgiveness was beyond her, the burden of hatred was too heavy to bear any further. Baela had wisely pointed out that if they didnøt stand by and fight for the loved ones they still had, all that remained was a hollow emptiness.  

“Every man standing around the Painted Table urges her to plunge the realm into war,” Rhaenys said, her voice steady despite the weight of the topic. “Rhaenyra is the one who’s demonstrated restraint.”

Corlys observed her intently, taking in her words. 

“We’ve lost our children,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “Our resentment will bring us nothing but empty halls. Retreat might spare us, but it will not spare those we leave behind.”

He shifted, the rustle of his beeding a soft sound in the quiet of the chamber. His eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, now reflected a weariness that matched her own. 

“Rhaenyra shows restraint because she understands the cost of war,” Rhaenys pressed on, her hands clasped tightly around his hands. “She is willing to consider ceding the throne for the sake of the realm and her children–and for that same reason, she must fight for them. We both know what war does and what it can take from us. We’ve buried our children, Corlys. I can’t–and I won’t–stand by while our grandchildren risk their lives for their legacy.”

The Sea Snake studied his wife, his face etched with marks of a thousand sea voyages and just as many regrets. Slowly, he rested his free hand on top of hers, his touch tentative yet seeking. He gave her a small, contemplative nod. 

Rhaenyra stirred from her bed with the dawn, despite the maester’s dreamwine, which was supposed to grant her a respite from her relentless thoughts. Yet, the sleep had been anything but restorative. She rose feeling as if a shroud of weariness still clung to her, a dense fog that muddled her senses as though she hadn’t slept at all–or perhaps had slept for centuries, waking to a realm unfamiliar and altered. 

But nothing had been altered from the day before, not yet. 

As her handmaids attended her, dressing her in garments befitting a queen, each movement felt laborious, each fabric heavier than it should. Her hair was brushed until it was silky smooth, then carefully braided. The crown remained on the dressing table, its presence enough to feel its weight on her brow. 

Rhaenyra had taken a deep breath, attempting to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and the vestiges of wine that clouded her thoughts. She needed clarity, now more than ever, as she prepared to make her decision. Today, like every day, demanded her to be fully present, to wield her authority with the same efficiency as those who came before her–calm, calculated, and above all, clear-headed.

She lingered at the edge of the landing, her eyes drawn by the vigorous training session unfolding below. Daemon’s form was a blur of motion, each movement executed with the savage grace of a seasoned warrior. His expression was one of raw, unbridled intensity, a permanent sneer twisting his features as he dominated each opponent with the relentless determination of a storm sweeping across the sea. The sound of his boot connecting with Clarrik Plunder echoed sharply through the courtyard, the guard’s body hitting the ground with a heavy thud that resonated against the ancient stones of the castle walls. 

Shifting her focus away from the brutal display, Rhaenyra turned her attention to the letter in her hand. With a steady inhale, she steeled herself for the words she was about to read. The red wax, embossed with the Hand of the King’s sigil, gave away beneath her fingers, fragments falling softly to the ground, even as the seal had already been opened–presumably by Daemon at some point during her sleep.

The warmth of the nearby brazier caressed her face, its flames licking lively, casting a glow that played across her features, lighting up her determined eyes. The soft crackles and pops of the wood burning punctuated the moment, filling the space around her with the sounds of the fire’s restless dance–restless as the man growling in the courtyard for his opponent to come at him. 

As she unfolded the letter, the words began to reveal themselves, her pulse quickened with a sharp sense of trepidation. She scanned the words rapidly, each sentence amplifying the beat of her heart as a storm of emotions welled up inside her. Apprehension mingled with a steeling determination as she disgusted the contents of the message, the gravity of each word weighing heavily upon her. The missive’s implications for her rule and the realm reverberated through her, setting the course for decisions that would shape their fates. Her fingers tightened around the parchment, the crisp rustle of paper echoing softly in the mostly quiet of the morning.

Mother, It is with a heavy heart and a sense of duty that I write to you to urge you to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, as the legitimate sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaenyra paused, granting herself a moment of respite amidst the turmoil. She closed her eyes and placed a hand over the slight curve of her abdomen, where a dull ache lingered, a cruel reminder of the life that had once thrived within her–a life cruelly snatched away. The sensation of her unborn child’s movements, once a delight filled with promise and hope, now only underscored the profound emptiness that gnawed at her core. 

The gods were truly cruel in their mockery. 

Despite her expectations, the contents of the letter sliced through her anew, stirring a fresh wave of despair. A naive part of her had still clung to the sliver of hope for a different message, a different outcome. But the harsh reality offered no such solace.

Taking a deep breath, Rhaenyra steadied herself, opening her eyes to the unyielding light of morning. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat, her resolve hardening. 

Upon his deathbed, Viserys amended his wishes for the succession, naming Aegon as his heir. I understand that this revelation may be difficult for you to accept, but it is the truth, and one we should accept. 

Aegon now justly assumes the crown and occupies the Iron Throne, fulfilling the last wishes of his father. The kingdom has acknowledged his rightful ascendancy, and it is incumbent upon us, following the late King’s desires, to do likewise. Hence, I implore you to consider the proposed terms of your surrender with openness. 

Rhaenyra’s heart sank as a strangled, pained noise escaped her lips, a futile effort to stifle the sop that lodged in her throat, threatening to burst forth. She cast her eyes skyward, desperately trying to hold back the tears that prickled at the back of her eyes, as the words on the parchment cut into her like a finely honed dagger. 

She stared at the letter, her gaze intense and unwavering, as if sheer willpower might somehow rewrite the devastating information it delivered. Disbelief and a profound sense of betrayal surged through her, clashing violently with everything she knew about the man who had supported her claim until the very end.

As she grappled with the contents of the letter, questions swirled through her mind, each echoing with increasing intensity. Did her father genuinely have a change of heart? Could it be that he altered the succession with his final breath, as the letter suggested? Had he revealed the prophecy to Aegon as he had done her? 

With each unanswered question, doubt seeped into her thoughts, and then, a fiery anger began to kindle within her chest. 

Her father had always been resolute that she was his heir, coming out of the seclusion of his illness specifically to reaffirm her and her children’s rights. The notion that he would change his mind and designate Aegon as his successor was unimaginable. What sense was there in affirming her as his chosen successor, defending her right to rule, only to revoke it in a cruel twist? 

She dismissed the possibility outright. She couldn’t accept that her father, if truly intent on changing the succession, would have waited until his female moments to do so. He would have taken action years earlier, she reasoned. He would have yielded to the Hightower’s efforts instead of standing firm as he always had. It was inconceivable that he would use his dying breath to sow discord and chaos within the realm. 

Rhaenyra clenched the letter tighter, her knuckles whitening as the fire of her resolve grew stronger. She would not accept these claims. 

I understand that my safety and well-being may be a source of worry for you. Please be reassured, I am well cared for. The King extends his kindness towards me, and it is with a sense of joy that I inform you of my betrothal to the King’s brother, Aemond Targaryen. I hope this news brings you some measure of solace, knowing that my decision was made freely. Our forthcoming marriage aims to strengthen the bonds within our House, ensuring the stability of the realm. 

In light of these developments, I extend an earnest invitation for you and our family to attend our wedding. My deepest desire is for your presence there, demonstrating to the realm the united front of House Targaryen. 

I fully comprehend the immense burden of the choices before you, along with the sacrifices and concessions they necessitate. Nevertheless, I implore you to consider what a war would mean for the realm and our house should you refuse to accept Aegon Targaryen as the legitimate and undisputed King of the Seven Kingdoms.

For the prosperity and stability of the realm, and for the safety of our family, I beseech you, publicly acknowledge Aegon Targaryen as your sovereign and submit to his rule. 

Sincerely, 

Your Daughter,

Daenera Velaryon.

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, her hand instinctively soothing the persistent ache in her abdomen, the throb made worse by the emotional turmoil stirred by the letter. It offered no comfort, only another sharp tool for the Hightowers to wield, a means to stir doubt and remind her that they hold the life and well-being of her daughter within their grasp. The desire to embrace her daughter, to feel her safe and close, gnawed at her restlessly. Yet, the letter brought her no closer to her daughter; it was just a cold expanse of ink on parchment.

As the implications of her potential decisions hung heavily in the air, a dark shadow seemed to stretch across her spirit, suffusing her thoughts with uncertainty. Was her rightful claim to the throne worth risking the stability and prosperity of the realm? Could she justify the risk to her children’s lives and happiness? What would remain for her, for them, if she capitulated to the Hightowers’ demands?

Each thought circled in her mind, restless and unyielding, like a tide crashing against the castle’s foundations–each wave a reminder of the heavy weight of the responsibility of the crown. 

Below her, Daemon’s commanding voice cut through the metallic clatter of steel, his taunts sharp as the edge of his blade. He gripped a guard by the doublet and shoved him back with a forceful gesture–a clear challenge to come at him again. 

Two knights advanced on Daemon simultaneously, attempting a coordinated assault. With a masterful parry, Daemon redirected one knight’s blade, skillfully cursing him to stumble into the path of his comrade. This disruption broke their attack’s rhythm and allowed Daemon to focus on a third knight. Their swords clashed in a harsh symphony of steel, he grabbed the doublet of the knight, twisting and pushing him back into his fellow knights, causing them both to collapse in a heap of clattering steel and intertwined limbs. 

He barked out a challenge, frustration lacing his tone, “Get up! Fight me!”

Rhaenyra watched Daemon from above, his gaze catching hers with a fierce intensity that made her pulse quicken. Once again, she grasped the full depths of his desires–a deep, insatiable thirst for war and glory. It was evident in every aspect of his demeanor, from his aggressive stance to the relentless determination in his actions. For Daemon, war was not merely a possibility; it was an inevitability. He craved it, and from the fiery determination in his eyes, Rhaenyra knew he would drive them towards it by any means necessary. 

As the skirmish unfolded below, Rhaenyra’s fingers absently traced the edges of the letter she held. Each movement of Daemon, each clash of steel, stirred a tumult of thoughts within her–his words echoing in her mind, urging her to take action, to declare war, to spill blood. His fervor stirred a knot of apprehension in her chest as she contemplated the potential aftermath of the war he so fervently longed for. The possibility of devastation loomed large, casting shadows over the future of her family and the realm. 

Daemon’s desire for war was a path fraught with uncertainty, one that could lead to ruin as much as victory. It was a path as fickle as flames, threatening to devour everything in its path and leave nothing but ashes behind. 

Beside her, Jace’s voice broke through her reverie.

“Daemon wants to fight for us,” Jace observed, coming to stand next to her. Together they watched the chaotic training below, a physical manifestation of his frustration and readiness for war. 

Rhaenyra responded to her son’s observation with a cautious murmur, her voice tinged with weariness. “I will always fight for our family, but this is not as simple as one or the other.”

Jace’s posture shifted as he countered, “It could not be simpler. If you concede to Aegon’s terms, you will forfeit my life. And Luke’s and Joff’s.”

At her son’s assertion, a sense of resignation swept through Rhaenyra. She briefly closed her eyes, gathering her strength against the force of his argument. Upon opening them, she turned her eyes upon her son, watching him closely. “Are these truly your words, or are they echoed from another?”

“These are my words, Mother. And I stand by them,” Jace answered, facing her intense scrutiny with firm resolve, his expression marked by an unshakable determination. “If you relinquish your claim to the throne, we will be taken hostage, or sent to the wall, or put to the sword. I do not know which fate will await us, but I do know that they will call us ‘bastards’ first.”

Rhaenyra spoke, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of the letter as though the paper itself could offer comfort in the storm of her thoughts. “Alicent has promised that you would be treated kindly.”

“The word of a usurper means little and less,” Jace countered sharply, his words carrying a wisdom beyond his years. His dismissal of Alicent’s promise resonated deeply within Rhaenyra, echoing the doubts that haunted her heart. If it had been only Alicent they dealt with, then perhaps they would have found common ground, but it was not solely Alicent they were to contend with. 

“They have Daenera,” she said gravely, getting to the heart of the matter. “Should we choose the path of war, her fate becomes uncertain.”

Handing over the letter to him, Rhaenyra watched her sons’ expression transition from a worried determination to utter disbelief, his eyes flickered over the writing, widening slightly, and the frown that had settled upon his face turned into a scowl of incredulity.

“This is her hand, but these words… they’re not hers,” he asserted, his voice tinged with anger. “You mustn’t lend any weight to the lies of usurpers–they’ll say anything to justify putting Aegon on the throne.”

“It’s not the deceit and fabrications that concern me,” Rhaenyra said with a note of solemnity. The unspoken concern as to whether her father had truly changed the succession hovered in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable. “It’s the threat to Daenera–what they might do to her if I refuse to surrender the throne.”

Jace’s eyes met hers, brimming with a blend of determination and understanding. “And if you surrender, you risk losing all of us.”

Rhaenyra watched her son, her gaze studying him intently. When had the shift occurred? When had he become a man? He was no longer a boy intent on living up his title as her heir, but a man that understood what it was he was saying–understood the implications and consequences. He knew what he stood for and he was willing to fight for it. And for a moment, she saw his father in him; strong and honorable, committed to defend what he believed was right.

“I love Daenera as deeply as you,” Jace pressed on, his voice earnest, his presence commanding attention. “And I am certain she would say the same as I do. She would never want you to abandon your claim. She’d urge you to fight, to stand firm.”

As Jace clenched the parchment, the letter crumbled in his tight grasp, his voice infused with conviction. “Surrendering to their demands won’t bring Daenera back to us. She’ll remain a hostage, trapped by her marriage to Aemond. The only way to secure her freedom is by action–by asserting your right to the throne and taking her back in the process.”

He waved the crumpled letter. “Don’t let the Hightowers’ lies waver your resolve–you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the protector of the realm and they are usurpers. It is your responsibility to defend it against people like them. Burn the letter, summon the council and show the Hightowers that you stand firm as the rightful Queen, that you will not bend the knee.”

Rhaenyra listened, the strength and certainty in Jace’s words infusing a new resolve within her. Her son, her once little boy, now stood before her as a man, his counsel not just comforting but wise. His words were not just spoken; they were declared, a fervent call to arms. 

Below her, Daemon dominated the training grounds, his movements predatory as he paced back and forth like a shadowcat protecting its den. His commands boomed across the courtyard, challenging and taunting as he urged a knight sprawled on the ground to stand and engage him once more. His stance was that of an unyielding warrior, every movement sharp and decisive–his blood seemed to run hot this morning as he kicked at the knight struggling to get up, jeering at him. 

Engrossed in her contemplations, Rhaenyra remained silent, absorbing her son’s words. It was only after Jace’s footsteps began to echo away, leaving a resonant silence behind, that she found her voice. 

“Convene the council,” she commanded, her voice carrying a newfound determination. “And have the master prepare a raven. King’s Landing will have my decision.”

Jace did not answer, but she felt his agreement nonetheless. 

The command to gather the council quickly spread through the courtyard, delivered by a knight whose voice cut through the clanging of swords, stealing away the members of her Queensguard, leaving Daemon only with a handful of knights. 

For a brief moment, Rhaenyra’s eyes met Daemon’s. His gaze burned with a fierce longing for battle–for war. It sparked a flame of apprehension within her. Turning from the landing, she retreated into the castle.

As the council meeting descended into chaos, the lords clashed vehemently, their voices rising in dissonance. No consensus was reached, and the lack of unity among her advisors left Rhaenyra weary. She sank back into her chair, her gaze drifting over the assembled lords who continued to bicker, their arguments blending into a background hum of contention. 

Daemon’s absence was palpable; without his strategic insights, the council lacked a decisive voice on matters of war, leaving the discussions to lords who were inexperienced with anything beyond petty skirmishes. Had he been present, she knew he would have opposed her inclination towards diplomacy over direct conflict. His presence would have brought a palpable tension as he pushed for more decisive actions. 

Instead, there were only the lords and their petty arguing. 

Lord Staunton stood slightly bent at the shoulders as he argued, “We must consider the long-term stability of the realm. An outright war could devastate the lands we strive to protect.”

“Stability?” Lord Bartimos barked, his jaw bristling with contempt. “There’s no stability when usurpers sit upon the throne! We must act, and act swiftly, to show that treachery against the rightful queen will not be tolerated.”

“If we rush into battle, we are like to fill the graveyards!” Lord Staunton frowned, the lines on his face deepening.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts wandered as she considered the gravity of declaring war. The weight of such a decision hung heavily upon her, filling her with trepidation. She had only just sent a letter to King’s Landing, refusing the offer of surrender and instead bringing them the terms of theirs. The room echoed with the sounds of disagreement, but beneath that noise, the silent burden of leadership pressed down on her. With no clear path laid before her, and the council proving more divisive than supportive, the queen felt the isolation of her position acutely. Her mind churned with potential consequences, the lives that hung in the balance, and the stability of the realm that teetered on the edge of her decision. 

“The purpose of war is to fill graveyards, my dear Lord Staunton,” Lord Batimos said, his tone dripping with condescension. “The trick is to put more of their men in the ground than our own.”

Rhaenyra’s heart sank a little more with each word. She wouldn’t want to put any men in the ground if she could avoid it, she thought somberly, keeping her gaze fixed on the dust swirling in the beams of sunlight that cut through the room. 

Lord Staunton bristled at Bartimos’ remark. “Easy words for a lord who commands from the safety of his castle.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Bartimos waved dismissively, unaffected by the jab. 

Before the argument could spiral further, Ser Erryk Cargyll’s voice cut through the discussion. “Lord of the Tides!”

All heads turned to the arrivals.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon,” Ser Erryk continued, “And his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

Rhaenyra rose swiftly from her seat, despite the lingering weariness in her muscles and the dull ache that resonated from the recent childbirth. Her hands clasped before her, restlessly twisting one of the rings on her fingers as her gaze fixed on the approaching figures of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen.

As Lord Corlys descended the steps into the council chamber, he leaned heavily on his cane. Each tap echoed crisply in the hushed room, his silver-white hair swaying around his shoulders with each deliberate step. The only other sound was the distant whir of the wind outside.

The seasoned lord moved with deliberate care towards the Painted Table, his keen eyes scanning the room before finally resting on Rhaenyra. His presence, as always, commanded attention, bringing with it a gravitas that was both reassuring and daunting. 

Rhaenyra offered a slight nod, her gaze briefly touching on Lord Corlys as she addressed him. “Lord Corlys. It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

“I am very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man,” Corlys said, his voice rich with sincerity. The use of her former title momentarily unsettled Rhaenyra, but she masked any emotional stir quickly, her fingers tightening briefly around the ring on her hand. Her eyes drifted to where her step-daughters, Baela and Rhaena, joined their respective betrotheds, their presence reinforcing the ties that bound the family together–and her sons, seeing their betrotheds, seemed unable to keep the smile from their lips.

Corlys gaze swept the room once more before settling back on her. “Where is Daemon?”

“There were other concerns which demanded the Prince’s attention,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice even, choosing her words carefully to avoid delving into the personal strife that lingered between them. Daemon could be anywhere–training his frustration out in the courtyard, patrolling the battlements to ensure the guards remained vigilant, or even delving into the depths of the Dragonmont in search of unclaimed dragons to bolster their ranks. Whatever task he had set himself, it was enough to keep him from her side, advising her in these uncertain times. 

Corlys responded with a reproachful hum, clearly disagreeing with Daemon’s decision to remain away. He moved closer to the Painted Table, his cane clicking against the stone floor with each step. His eyes carefully studied the map of Westeros spread out before them, taking in the wooden and brass pieces that represented their forces and alliances.

“Your declared allies?” Corlys asked, gesturing towards the pieces on the map.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra confirmed, her voice steady as she followed his gaze. 

“Too few to win a war for the throne.” Corlys’s observation was a blunt instrument, striking at the core of Rhaenyra’s political position. The ripple of his words through the chamber underscored the gravity of their situation, reflecting the doubt and concern lurking beneath the surface of their precarious alliances.

Rhaenyra, feeling a deepening pit in her stomach, continued to fidget with the ring on her finger, a nervous tick that betrayed her growing anxiety. “Well… we would also hope for the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope,” Corlys repeated, his voice a low and resonant timber that commanded respect, “is a fool’s ally.”

This remark stung, as it was intended to. Rhaenyra straightened, her eyes locking with those of Corlys. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house–but all of them swore oaths to me.”

“As did House Hightower… if my memory serves,” Corlys remarked, his tone laced with a deliberate provocation seemingly aimed to unsettle her. The tension in the council chamber thickened as his words lingered in the air.

Unmoved, though slightly rattled by the challenge, Rhaenyra fixed her hardened gaze upon him. “As did you, Lord Corlys.”

It was both a challenge and a reminder of the alliance he swore all those years ago, along with the other lords of the realm, and it carried a certain undercurrent of a threat that he would not take kindly to him usurping his vows.

Lord Corlys met her stare, the lines of his weathered face deepening as the silence stretched on. The room was heavy with the silence, the earlier tapping of his cane now replaced by a subtle rustle of his garments as he adjusted his posture. His dark eyes briefly shifted to his wife, Princess Rhaenys, standing just behind Rhaenyra, seemingly exchanging a silent, significant glance before turning his gaze upon his grandchildren. The silence stretched, laded with anticipation, none daring to break it. 

Rhaenyra’s eyes instinctively drifted towards her sons and their betrotheds, each embodying a distinct reaction to the unfolding scene. Baela’s expression held a resolute determination, her jaw set as if bracing for the storm of politics. Jace met his grandfather’s gaze with an equally steadfast look, his posture rigid, a silent vow to uphold his family’s honor no matter the challenger. Rhaena watched the proceedings with expectant eyes, her anticipation palpable. 

Meanwhile, Luke bore a subtle smile, his eyes sparkling with relief and a touch of joy at seeing his grandsire robust and commanding, defying the fears that had shadowed his recent thoughts–relieved that he would not be made the Lord of the Tides on this morn.

Each sibling, in their way, recognized the gravity of the discussion, understood the fragile thread that had been pulled taut. 

Corlys’s gaze eventually shifted from his grandchildren back to the council at large. He lowered his head slightly, a gesture indicating deep contemplation. When his eyes lifted to meet Rhaenyra’s once more, they were sharp and determined.

“Your father’s realm,” Corlys finally continued, his deep voice carried through the chamber, every word resonating with authority, drawing the rapt attention of all present, “was one of justice and honor…”

Hope swelled within Rhaenyra, a delicate bud unfurling in her chest with each breath. The allegiance of House Velaryon and their fleet was crucial should the winds of war stir. 

“Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand,” Corlys declared. The underlying message was clear: their alliance was pivotal, and any betrayal against it was unacceptable. The air was charged with the weight of his words. “You have the full support of our fleet and house.”

The Sea Snake bent his head to his Queen. “Your Grace.”

“You honor me, Lord Corlys,” Rhaenyra responded, her voice carrying a tremble of emotion stirred by the gravity of his pledge–and what it meant for her cause. She then nodded towards Princess Rhaenys with a respectful acknowledgement before turning back to the Painted Table. Her gaze swept over the intricate landscape, each ally marked by wooden pawns and each pivotal place marked by brass towers. 

“But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united,” Rhaenyra declared. “If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.”

Corlys’s eyebrows arched, his face etched with a mix of surprise and caution. “You do not mean to act?”

The question lingered in the hushed council chamber, a reminder of the delicate balance between aggression and diplomacy. Rhaenyra stood resolute, her stance a clear reflection of her intentions. She was determined not to be the instigator of war if it could be avoided. Her resolve was not only born out of fear but of wisdom; she understood the heavy ghosts associated with such conflicts, not just in therms of lives lost, but in the lasting scars they would leave on the realm. She had promised her father to protect the realm and its unity–to be prepared for the threat from the North. 

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” Rhaenyra clarified, her tone firm yet contemplative. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”

As Corlys approached the Painted Table, the measured tap of his cane resonated through the council chamber, each step a deliberate echo in the tense atmosphere. He paused, eyes narrowing over the map at the depiction of the Gullet and its strategic surroundings. Drawing a deep breath, his voice carried a trace of wryness as he shared his own news. “The consequences of my… near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them.

Rhaenyra’s expression flickered with surprise, her gaze darting briefly to her councilors before returning to Corlys, her interest piqued by the implications of his revelation. 

“I took care to fully garrison the territory this time,” Corlys asserted, his voice resolute, bearing the seasoned confidence of a commander who had twice claimed victory there. “A total blockade of shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triarchy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours.”

Extending his hand to hover above the section of the map depicting the Gullet, Corlys proposed a strategic play. “If we further seal the Gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

At this juncture, Princess Rhaenys decided to finally add her voice, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze met Rhaenys’s with a palpable connection; in her eyes, she found neither resentment nor hatred, only support. A hopeful feeling blossomed within her, vibrant and fortifying. 

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, unable to contain his fervor, leaned eagerly over the map. “When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King’s Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.”

Rhaenyra, placing her palms firmly on the table and leaning forward, scanned the map thoughtfully. She didn’t want them to get ahead of themselves. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm's End.”

Her eyes traced the locations of each house on the map, considering the strategic implications. By isolating King’s Landing and halting its trade, they could force a siege. The Greens, stripped of options and resources, would face a stark choice: surrender or endure starvation. They would have no choice but to negotiate if they wished to survive, Rhaenyra mused. She knew well the leverage they held with Daenera–she would be used to bargain their surrender and survival. More importantly, this tactic would seizure the safe return of her daughter. Rhaenyra was determined to use every advantage at her disposal not just to win, but to bring her daughter back unharmed, keeping the bloodshed to a minimum and maintaining the dignity of the crown.

If they were able to lay siege to King’s Landing, it might not come to war. 

Maester Gerardys, seeming to sense the gravity of the moment and need for swift communication, said, “I’ll prepare the ravens.”

“We should bear those messages,” Jace suggested, his tone low and imbued with a confident resolve. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they’re more convincing.”

Standing before her, Rhaenyra saw her eldest son not just as a boy, but as a man. He mirrored the suggestion she had once made to her own father. She had been just a girl then, no older than Lucerys was now, imploring her father to let her serve as a messenger. The memory of the council’s chuckle and their condescending dismissal resurfaced in her mind–how they advised her to stay silent, to not overstep her bounds as a young princess, as a girl, that those were the matters of men. 

“Send us,” Jace pressed, his words resonating deeply within Rhaenyra, intertwining with her own youthful voice from the past. Send us. See us. Trust us.

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept over her sons. She could see the understanding of the danger in Jace’s eyes, a maturity that belied his age. Luke, by his side, looked slightly unsure, his face tinged with anxiety as he tried to emulate his brother’s confidence, to stand equally resolute. On Jace’s other side, Baela’s expression was one of pride as she looked at her betrothed, her future husband and king, her smile reflecting admiration of his bravery. 

“The Prince is right, Your Grace,” Corlys voiced his support, pulling the focus back to Rhaenyra. 

Luke nodded, supporting his brother’s idea.

“Very well,” Rhaenyra consented, feeling her heart throb with a mix of anxiety and pride. “Prince Jacaerys will fly North–first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North.”

Jace nodded, embodying the stature and dignity expected of a prince and the heir apparent, his demeanor firm and purposeful. He had always embodied the quintessential heir–determined, steadfast in his duties, and relentless in his efforts to live up to the expectations set before him. And proud she was as she observed him now, ready to undertake this mission.

Rhaenyra then turned her attention to her younger son, who appeared less assured but no less determined. “Prince Lucerys will fly to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon.”

As the strategy unfurled, a wave of shared anticipation and determination swept through the council chambers. Sensing the momentum, Rhaenyra allowed a slight smile to grace her features. “We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And… the cost of breaking them.”

I didn't enjoy the choking scene--and I don't think it made much sense for the characters, so I changed it. They're still arguing, but it's more of a lovers quarrel and seeing things differently than outright abuse. I also really liked the scene between Rhaenys and Corlys, so I wanted to provide some more emotions to it, as well as what Rhaenys could say to sway Corlys. And then I think the scene with Jace/Rhaenyra should not have been deleted, it encapsulated his character so well and offered a very good insight into the family dynamic. This is (somewhat 🤫😊) the final chapter of DS, or at least until we get S2 as I likely will add some of the scenes from the show into the story when we get them. But, yeah, on Friday we return to KL and another ✨ lovers quarrel ✨ We'll hear more about what she's been up to while we were away on DS, and she struggles with how to talk to Aemond; As a lover or as an enemy. There are pointed words, but there's also a moment of playfulness, before the world seems to crash in around them again.

[germiyahu]

Like the situation is not black and white. I saw people gang up on a self-avowed non Zionist pro Palestinian Jew for having boundaries when it comes to supporting Palestine. They ganged up on them for saying antisemitism should still be called out and is not necessary to support Palestine.

But when I saw with my own two eyes Palestinians on twitter begging Westerners to retweet and spread shit straight from the Protocols of the Elders of Zion and Mein Kampf, as if that would help free Palestine... I mean no Linda, this is not an example of "not speaking over oppressed people," not when those oppressed people know that certain tropes and canards can be used to target Jews around the world and they know that Westerners are receptive to them.

They are trying to use you and your naivete to collectively punish all Jews in the world. They know they're not powerful enough to kill the Jews of Israel so they want you, their loyal allies, to be radicalized into trying to hurt Jews in the Diaspora. That's the only way a lot of people in the Arab/Muslim world can think of to punish Jews. They do not see a difference between Israeli and Diaspora Jews. This is not spreading awareness, this is not #freeingPalestine, this is not "they're just trying to do whatever they can think of to get the bombs to stop falling on their children," this is just petty spiteful sadism, and they know you'll go along with it, because both of you are antisemitic at heart.

So you do have to be skeptical. You can't uncritically spread things. That goes both ways of course. But since you already interrogate every claim of antisemitism, and preemptively dismiss it as crocodile tears, Hasbara, or thinly veiled calls for Islamophobic violence... that side of the aisle is not an issue for you, clearly. But if you can't even go to the other side of the aisle and clean up house even a little bit, you're not a serious activist.

[raayllum]

Regarding working on the video about arc 2, do you think people are upset with how ''slow'' the show is, some other plots being boring( their words, not mine) or that humans are the oppressed and that the Aaravos is the good guy somehow?

Most under a read more cause this got a lil long

I do think some of the arc 2 backlash is the perception that things are slower, and I would agree that for some characters S4 and S5 are paced slower (Claudia in S5 for example) than they have been since S1, I just disagree that it's a problem because character expansion is worthwhile and there are always new sides we're seeing or understanding to everyone throughout arc 2. I also think sometimes people conflate character development with "this character is doing things I want to see". For example, Soren at the beginning of S6 is more or less the same person he is at the end of S6, but his arc in S6 is widely praised. Because even though it isn't about change, there is a lot of emotional intensity, and that's fun to see. TDP has never been a show where emotional intensity is true for everyone all the time, though, and it's not as though Soren doesn't get those moments in previous seasons (S4 in particular has some pretty rough patches for him, emotionally)

so... Idk. S4 rips my heart out multiple every time I watch it, so the idea of it being less emotionally intense (even if S5 and S6 are undeniably more) in a bad way doesn't hold water for me, personally, but that's also just my own experience (which is, of course, all I can really draw on).

The main plot arc labelled as boring in Arc 2 is the Sunfire elf plotline. I like politics and worldbuilding and Janai as a character. I don't need it to be constantly connected to the main plot line because Viren's entire plotline as a character from 1x06 onwards (and even the bulk of 1x04 and 1x05) has no bearing on any of the entire main cast again until 3x03 (for Soren and Claudia)... so, two whole seasons? But that's Okay and Not Boring, presumably, because audiences were willing to accept a white man being a semi-protagonist / bc it was established early on, and when things shift to include other main characters - especially a Black, queer led plotline - that gets people's internal hackles raised, I suppose. There's very little criticism of the Sunfire elf plotline in S4 that doesn't feel like it's coming from a racist or queerphobic place, whether from disregarding Janaya's allegory and navigating religious differences (which you don't really have to do when you're Christian/raised atheist in a culturally Christian/agnostic culture), or even just hating Karim (who is a lot more like Viren) because he's an emotional Black man experiencing cultural grief (which the majority of a white Western audience cannot relate to, but Viren's entirely individual desire for power - esp taking power away from a Black family, is seen as far more sympathetic, for some reason).

As for "the humans are oppressed and Aaravos is the good guy" that's been a complaint throughout the show and isn't exclusive to arc 2, and it's one I've always thought was silly. By virtue of showing elves and humans working together as a good thing (all of season 1 onwards) the show implicitly condemns the expulsion of the humans and division of the continent until they finally do so in words from Ezran as a mouthpiece (6x07). It's not even so much debate over whether humans are oppressed (the system was unfair, but largely we see Xadia leaving them entirely alone after the expulsion, which again, was never justified in text in the first place) as it is a statement where even if you are oppressed or scared (and this goes for the elves too, and that half of them had to mutually leave their homes, which has been Completely unaddressed by the narrative outside of inklings at the Moon Nexus) that doesn't mean your ends justify your means. Given the state of global affairs, I don't think I have to explain why a traditionally oppressed people seeking to reclaim their perceived 'homeland' after centuries away by any means necessary, even if that means destroying the lives of everyone who's currently living there, makes "we're oppressed so it's okay" the ironclad argument people seem to think it is, and why challenging that view is routinely a worthwhile thing to do (it's also why conservative far right people love to have a persecution complex, too).

That said: none of this is stuff I plan to focus on the "in defense of arc 2" video. The goal of that video isn't going to be "you shouldn't have a problem with arc 2," because people are entitled to their feelings and trying to change them rarely works. The goal of the video is to talk about why I think choices were made, how the seasons fit with each other and arc 1, and why I think the choices the show made were the most effective for the Story the creators want to tell with respect to time constraints, etc. That's it and that's all.

[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

Blessed be The Name, the God Most High, King of the Universe. We pray for all humanity: that you help them, that your intercession, alongside those of the saints militant and the saints triumphant, and we thank you, for them, that we all are blessed with life. We pray this even and especially for political leaders, and representatives, and all those in authority, for we wish that all may live whole lives, peaceful and tranquil, in all godliness and holy awe. But also we pray for those in authority because it is pleasing in your sight, O God our Savior, for we know that you desire all humanity to be saved and to the knowledge of the truth. For we know there is one God and one Mediator who can reconcile God and Humanity - you the True Human, the Anointed One, Jesus, the Salvation of Yahweh, who gave yourself as a ransom-payment for all. We worship you, God Most High, King of Righteousness, forever and ever, amen.

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

I just watched this video by Pop Culture Detective about how the heroes we see in Marvel (and a lot of media let’s be real) are all about defending the status quo without trying to proactively change society into a better, fairer place. And the message behind this is often that the status quo is better than whatever alternatives that await, so despite all the problems with it, it must be defended. The video also notes that often, the only ones who seem interested in changing the status quo are the villains or antagonists. 

I’m not going to go over the entire thing, but suffice to say that it did end up reminding me why Dany is so close to my heart and such a unique character not just in fantasy, but honestly in fiction, period. She is a protagonist in and one of the central heroes of the story, but she is proactive, and she does aim to change the status quo, to tear down the injustices that the world she lives in is rife with. She does not look at the problem of slavery in front of her and go, “well, this is bad but if I try to fix it, worse things will happen so I’ll just stick to this.” She actually goes about trying to rectify the issue because she has experienced what slavery is, and she knows down to her bones how horrible and wrong it is. And she does run into complicated dilemmas, she does face the problems that come with tearing down a current oppressive power structure to create something better, because a process like that will never go smoothly when that oppression is the backbone of its society. The economy and way of life in Slaver’s Bay is built on slavery; removing it means removing the fundamental base that holds up everything else. And because it’s so ingrained, getting rid of slavery can’t be accomplished by just beating up a few people at the top who are the sole cause of every bit of injustice. It gets messy, it gets convoluted, it requires treading new grounds, and we see Dany having to deal with those consequences: the issue of carving out a place for the freedmen, the issue of preventing the slavers from taking back power, the issue of establishing a new economy. And yet, despite all of those struggles, slavery is something that simply shouldn’t exist, and Dany knows that. She is not wrong for striving to eradicate it completely from Slaver’s Bay, and it will never be a bad thing that she does so. And I just adore her and her arc for portraying that.

[soul-eater-novel]

P206 「『兵は半ば渡して討て』という言葉があります」クレオが言った。 “There’s a saying that goes, ‘attack when the army is in the middle of a crossing’,” said Cleo.

「川や湖を渡っている部隊はその半分が上陸した時、つまり兵力が少なく、かつ攻撃の成果を最大限に得られる時に討ち取れ、という兵法ですが……」 “In other words, if you attack your opponent while he’s part way through crossing a river or a lake, with only half his forces available, you have the highest chance of victory.”

飛刀を腰に差しながら、クレオが続ける。 Stowing her throwing daggers in her belt, she continued.

「私たちの上陸を待っているところをみると、テオ様は鉄甲騎馬隊に自信がおありなの、でしょう」 “Seeing as how Lord Teo is waiting for us to disembark, he must be very confident in his armored cavalry.”

「そうかもしれない……」 “I guess so.”

楼を握りしめ、ティルは船から飛び降りた。 Grasping his staff with both hands, Tir jumped down from the boat.

火炎槍の威力をティルはまだ知らなかったが、心のなかではこう思っていた。 Tir did not yet know the power of the fire spears, but in his heart he had only one wish.

父さん、逃げてくれーー。 Please, Father, just run away.

ーーー

マッシュが軍を整え部隊を草原に展開した時、テオは五百歩ほど離れた位置で鉄甲騎馬隊を横一線に並べて待ちかまえていた。 Mathiu sent the troops prepared for battle out onto the plains. From his position five hundred paces away, Teo awaited them, his armored cavalry units lined up in a neat row.

その後方には、赤いマントを翻したアレンと緑の着衣と銀の鎧に身を包んだグレンシールが率いる、騎馬隊を中心とした本隊がひしめいていた。 Crowding behind those troops were the main cavalry units led by Alen, his red cape fluttering, and Grenseal, clad in green, his silver armor shining.

鉄甲騎馬隊約三千、本隊約一万一千。 The armored cavalry numbered about three thousand, and the main force roughly eleven thousand.

対する解放軍は、火炎槍を準備したビクトール、フリック、ハンフリーの三隊を先頭に、 On the other side was the Liberation Army. Viktor, Flik, and Humphrey led three fire spear units at the front,

p207 左翼にレパント、右翼にバレリア。 flanked by Lepant on the left and Valeria on the right.

中盤にはカイとバルカスの率いる歩兵がつき、後方にはキルキス、ローレライ、ルビィの射手がついていた。 In the middle were the foot soldiers led by Kai and Varkas. At the rear were Kirkis, Lorelai, and Ruby’s archery units.

さらに兵力は少ないものの、ルックも魔術師部隊を率いて参戦していた。 Furthermore, though their military strength was limited, Luc also led a unit of mages.

その兵力約一万二千ーー。 All in all, they numbered about twelve thousand.

テオの軍と解放軍の、まさに総力戦となった。 Teo’s army and the Liberation Army were on the verge of war.

戦意に満ちあふれる兵の間を抜け、ティルがマッシュと共に陣頭に立つ。 The soldiers were ready to fight. Tir and Mathiu stood together at the head of the army, a little ways away from the fighting units.

すると鉄甲騎馬隊の間からも、馬に乗ったテオが姿を現した。 Teo rode out from among the armored cavalry units.

「反逆者よ！よく聞くがよい！！ 」剣を振りかざして、テオが叫んだ。 “Listen well, traitors!” he roared, drawing his sword.

「何度やっても同じことだ！我が鉄甲騎馬隊にかなう者などない！！無駄に血を流すな！！」 “Try as many times as you might, the result will be the same! None can win against my armored cavalry! You are spilling blood pointlessly!”

「帝国の名を借りた盗賊に貸す耳はないぞ！！」部隊の左手から声があがった。叫んだのはレパントだった。 “I have no ear to lend to common thieves who put the name of the Empire to shame!” came a return shout from the unit on the left side. It was Lepant.

「貴様らこそ、我らが軍の巻き起こす烈風に、虐げられた民の悲しみの声を聞くがよい！！ 」 “You are the ones who will be left in the dust of our gale! Listen to the voices of the oppressed and suffering people of this country!”

二人のやりとりにティルの胸は痛んだが、もう悲しむ暇も苦しんでいる余裕もなかった。 Their exchange made Tir’s heart ache, but there was no time or room left for sadness or suffering.

「全軍進め！！」 テオが鉄甲騎馬隊に号令を下した。 Teo gave the order to his armored cavalry. “All units, advance!”

十分に休息を取ったガルホースが大地を蹴り、怒濤のごとく飛び出してきた。 The gulhorses, well rested after their ten minute break, stampeded across the earth, leaping and surging like waves.

「火炎槍の威力を見せよ！！」 “Witness the might of our fire spears!”

マッシュが部下に旗を振らせ、ビクトールら前衛を前に出す。 Mathiu motioned to his subordinate to wave the flag and Viktor’s unit at the front advanced.

三隊は真横に並び、鉄甲騎馬隊を待ち受けた。 Three armored cavalry units lined up side-by-side awaited them.

[ «-first // previous // next // archive // Ramsus-kun Scanslations ]

[scamallach-1]

it is incredibly difficult to get even people in my own circle who I’ve known for years to get it thru their heads and not give me empty stares that settler-colonialism is the ‘primary contradiction’, the root of basically any oppression anyone faces today. I learned this from indigenous and Black decolonial liberationists. Everything we suffer, it seems, goes back to the Western settler-colonialism. This is ringing true.

And I’ve tried putting it into perspective for my fellow settler “Americans”: we aren’t different than the “Israeli” settler in our status here on occupied indigenous lands. Decolonization is the way and it’s just and good to serve and work toward it for and with indigenous peoples.

And yes we do have to do this work and learn this education now! “I’m not my ancestors” is bullshit considering we are actively still destroying the land and it’s rightful stewards to this very day. “Our ancestors” genocidal crimes never stopped and were carried generations into now - so I don’t understand why we can’t accept this fact, follow indigenous peoples lead toward decolonizing “America”.

It’s free Palestine it’s land back to First Nations people it’s colonized countries globally forcing the white supremacist European and “US” powers out. It’s just to be dedicated to helping to do what is right. Go to hell otherwise. Expect hell. I don’t even know what to say anymore to other settlers except this.

Read from Fanon, read Klee Benally, read Gerald Horne, Read Decolonization is Not a Metaphor while y’all are at it.

Learn the histories of federal Indian law (here via DecolonizedBuffalo on ig):

[Img text reads - From DecolonizedBuffalo’s book, in the section on Self-Determination;

“Now that it is established that the primary contradiction is settler colonialism, the reader must acknowledge another fact: Indigenous communities within settler states are sovereign nations. They are internal colonies. Sovereign Indigenous nations within the US have their own governments, court systems, laws, economies, programs, cultures, and languages. Settler Marxists within the United States should learn about the history of federal Indian law, and court cases that pertain to Indigenous sovereignty . To understand Indigenous sovereignty better, it is advised to learn about the Marshall trilogy cases and the history behind them:

-Johnson vs Macintosh, 21 US (8Wheat.) 543 (1823)

-Cherokee Nation vs Georgia, 30 US (5Pet.) 1 (1831)

-Worcester vs Georgia, 31 US (6 Pet.) 151 (1832)”

End img Text]

- - -

So we who are settlers don’t just have these histories on-hand in our minds because we weren’t taught about Indigenous histories from Indigenous truths and lenses, and we must learn - and recognize fully the crimes we still commit! Like for one example, we rally up to continuously ignore Indigenous decolonial activists and scholars and talk about “establishing socialism”, more Eurocentrism, assuming that we working class settlers will continue occupying and holding the means of production - on stolen land. No!

Just don’t speak so sure of *anything* as a settler before you give your time to LISTEN to decolonial liberationists, before you LEARN the principles of decolonization here in the illegal settler-states; and there’s special emphasis on getting ‘Marxist’ settlers to light this fire under their asses too because too many seem to think they know it all, that they are exempt, and that arrogance is real-world damaging to liberation movements.

Y’all we don’t know Jack shit about shit and yeah we do have to prioritize our edu now going forward if we haven’t already. There’s lots to learn, lots of work to learn how to do for liberation. Those criticizing settler-colonialism, aiming to root it out, aiming for land back, for indigenous sovereignty, for forcing out and end on settler occupations, for returning to their lands with full self determination by any means necessary - they deserve our numbers and our full-hearted fealty and nothing less!

[morganaseren]

Hi! I'd love to know more About We'll Lose the Grip in Waters Dark, the Poets must be out for Blood and the bodyguard au for the wip meme 👀

((I deeply apologize for how long this took me to get out. I work nights now at my apprenticeship, which means I'm on the weirdest sleep schedule... 😅))

Pairing: Leliana/Niamh Cousland

Rating: Teen

AU: We'll Lose Their Grip in Waters Dark Note: While this AU does deal with one of Niamh's worst worldstates, everything in regards to her relationship with Leliana will always be consensual. Honestly, Leliana goes out of her way to ensure Niamh's consent in whatever they do--not necessarily just in the bedroom.

In this scene, Leliana is lost in her thoughts while they're having sex. There's nothing especially explicit about the act itself, but I'm putting everything under a Read More due to length. There's also some mention of what Niamh's past was like before Leliana came into her life, but it's nothing graphic--a brief comment or two at best.

---

Leliana had remembered early on in their relationship how a simple hug had stunned Niamh into silence, words collapsing mid-sentence with the gesture. At once, Leliana had pulled back, wondering if she'd perhaps been too forward with her affection.

Upon Niamh's features, the surprise had been evident, of course, but Leliana also hadn't missed miss the flicker of quiet wonder and yearning in that gaze--perhaps from the simple knowledge that another person would ever seek to touch her with more than just lust in their hearts.

Past the depths of those bewitching eyes had been a soul so starved of such simple kindness, but beneath the oppressive environment of Kinloch Hold, Niamh had long conditioned herself never to ask for it, less it be misconstrued for more by the men and women who acted as both guard and executioner.

Her thrusts slowed then, unable to help the guilt that slowly crept into her. As Left Hand of the Divine, could she say she was any different from them? With an intelligence network that spanned nearly every corner of Thedas and the ability to command the death of any whom dared to seek harm against Justinia, Leliana was one of the most powerful women in the world. Did Niamh feel the need to chain herself to her out of fear that she'd be next?

"Leliana!"

And all at once, Leliana's worries faded at the simple call of her name. Her lover's usual soft-spoken voice had become high and tight with her arousal due in no small part to Leliana's ministrations.

Still, Niamh knew it was her there. Not some Templar or some faceless dignitary in the sea of contacts that Knight-Commander Gregoire had used her to curry favor with. Not the Left Hand. Not the terrifying spymaster or bard.

Just... Leliana.

And did Niamh not know her best?

"Leliana, please..." she begged again, voice breaking with the entreaty as blunt nails scrabbled helplessly against the back of her tunic. "I'm so close..."

"Shh... I have you," Leliana reassured, pressing her lips against the damp skin of the other woman's temple in apology for her distraction. "I have you," she repeated. "Just as you never need to hide your pleasure from me, you never need to beg from me either. I will always give you what you desire."

With silken heat still clinging to her fingers between the apex of Niamh's thighs, Leliana swiped her thumb in such a way that it immediately had the woman's body going taut beneath hers with a sharp gasp. Leliana couldn't help her own trembling as she felt velvet walls tightening and shuddering beneath her touch. She wound her arm behind Niamh, providing support as the mage's back arched instinctively with the rush of pleasure coursing through her. Leliana continued to work her fingers through wet folds albeit at a more languid pace, gently coaxing Niamh to the end of her release. It was only when her lover released the tightened grip around her shoulders and ceased shivering did Leliana finally pull out.

"Oh, good girl..." she rasped. She smiled when her words earned a lazy hum of delight at the praise. Leliana then peppered slow, tender kisses across Niamh's face, and the gentle laughter it caused was ever sweet music to her ears. "You did so well. Can you sit up for me? Ah. There we go. Good girl. I'm sure my desk can't make for a very comfortable surface after all that."

Leliana gently maneuvered Niamh's body to the side so that she could get her arms beneath her knees and shoulders more easily. With an effortless flex of muscles, she lifted her lover up and away from her desk. Carefully, she moved to seat them both into the chair behind her, settling Niamh atop her lap with the woman's calves draped over the lacquered arm.

"Are you alright?" she questioned, reaching out to adjust Niamh's robes, where it had settled awkwardly around her waist. Sheepishly, Leliana could admit that she'd been a tad too impatient to deal with the intricacy of the belts and knots there. As such, she had simply tugged and pulled at the fabric until her mouth and hands had unimpeded access to the treasure of soft flesh beneath. She could also see the marks dotting the area around Niamh's neck--all too visible now that enough time had passed--where Leliana had been unable to resist sampling the flawless temptation of skin before her. She was a delight in more ways than one, truly.

"I'm fine."

"You're certain it wasn't too much?" Her continued inquiries only drew a roll of those mist-grey eyes, but there was little missing the smile upon her lover's lips.

"You ask me that as if I didn't provide you ample incentive to take me here. Besides, your own attire didn't escape entirely unscathed either," Niamh remarked, reaching out to touch the vee of her tunic, where it had a more noticeable rip that split further down the middle. The lacing that held it together was now noticeably frayed, barely held in place by the eyelets that were threatening to split at the seams. "Hm. Leave this with me in the morning. Madame de Fer mentioned wanting to introduce me to her seamtress. I can ask if she'd be willing to mend this as well."

"As you wish," was Leliana's own response, unable to deny her, given how so rarely Niamh asked for anything. Granted, Leliana was somewhat distracted with the attention being given to her as Niamh gently adjusted the wide collar of her shirt. She quite enjoyed those small, exploratory touches. "Would you like anything from the kitchens?"

"Later perhaps." Niamh turned her head then to guide her arm back into the sleeve of her robes. "I don't think I can feel my legs ye--"

And then the other woman paused very abruptly, tensing in her lap.

Confused, Leliana's arms tightened instinctively around her, her senses immediately going on alert for anything that could have startled her lover. "Niamh?"

But the mage continued to stare ahead. "I... I think I've ruined your desk," she answered haltingly, disbelief evident in her voice.

Leliana blinked, letting the words settle over her before following Niamh's gaze to the object in question. Her desk had been unceremoniously cleared before she had laid Niamh atop it earlier. Before long, she had her lover's bare back against the wooden surface as they rocked against one another. At one point, however, she could remember feeling the faintest tingle along the nape of her neck during their coupling. It wasn't unlike how she could detect Niamh using her element of her choice out in the battlefield before the mage allowed lightning to strike.

It did in fact strike there as Leliana curiously eyed the fractal burns now etched across the wood grain, perfectly encompassing the shape of her lover's back in jagged asymmetry. She saw beauty in the chaos of its design, but she could also see the dismay settling into Niamh's features, and Leliana couldn't stand to leave her upset. She pressed her lips to the shoulder closest to her, still bare with Niamh's distraction.

"'Ruin?'" she repeated. "How could anything you touch possibly be less than sublime?" Leliana couldn't stop her smug grin. "If anything, I would consider it a compliment to my skills..."

And Leliana supposed such evidence would make working at her desk all the more enjoyable in the future.

Of course, her humor had earned her a grumble of discontent as Niamh hid her face against her neck. Leliana could feel the heat of the woman's blush against her skin, which charmed and amused her in equal measure, but she made no comment about it.

She settled her feet apart more firmly before rising in one fluid motion. Her smirk grew somewhat at the soft noise it elicited from Niamh, who was perhaps still surprised that she could lift her so easily.

"Come along, Mon Ciel Étoilée," she said, carrying her toward the side door of the office that opened into Leliana's personal quarters. "I do believe a warm bath is calling for us."

((I did not forget about your other prompts, friend! I promise! I just decided to separate them into two other parts since they were getting rather long! 😅 I hope you like this first one though!))

[lightup0nlight]

Allah says that Luqman said:

🌺 ❛O my dear son! [Even] if a deed were the weight of a mustard seed, be it [hidden] in a rock or in the heavens or the earth, Allah will bring it forth. Verily, Allah is {Lateef | Subtle}, {Khabeer | Well-Aware}.❜ 【Surah Luqman 31:16】

This mustard seed is actually a parable of a sin that a person goes to great lengths to hide from the sight of people. Imagine a person committing a sin for 10, 20 years, and his own family member, society, and followers would never, ever expect or imagine that from him / her. That’s how well the sin is hidden.

— That secret glance a person took — The stuff people did in their privacy — The things people stole: money, an item, someone else’s writing / content — Even the ugly envy and malice hidden in the depths of a person’s heart.

But Allah is Lateef, Khabeer; Who has the precision to locate that sin, Who knows exactly what a person did, how s/he did it, when s/he did it, as well as the specific reason why s/he committed that sin.

This was what Luqman wanted his son to know — that nothing ever escapes the Knowledge of Allah. And Allah loves this parable so much that He subhanahu wa ta'ala makes it a part of the Qur’an for us to remember and live by.

In His Infinite Wisdom, Allah sometimes exposes someone’s misdeed in this dunya to us. Sometimes, we as the oppressed, were able to find out what the oppressor took from us, but don’t have much power to take action against him / her. Look what Allah says in another surah:

🌺 ❛The [Judgement] Day when all the secrets (i.e. deeds) will be disclosed. Then he will have no power, nor any helper.❜ 【Surah at-Tariq 86:9-10】

After Allah specifically mentions that every single secret action will be examined and disclosed on the Day of Judgment, He says that no one will have any power or helper to save him from being scrutinised and judged. The oppressed may not have helpers in this dunya, but the oppressors will have no allies in the akhirah. No secrets will be left hidden, no stones left unturned — not even the weight of a mustard seed.

So fear Allah in public and in private, even if we think we can hide our misdeeds perfectly in this dunya. We ask Allah to make us of those who fear and feel shy of His Sight upon us more than the sight of people upon us.

Your sister in Deen, Aida Msr ©