#one on merit and one on bloodline

[yingandzhan]

Sects and Clans in MDZS.

I think I wrote something on this a while ago, but just to put it out there again - there are barely any mentions or much of an existence of SECTS in the actual novel. This is a huge mistranslation that is in both the ExR and 7Seas versions of the story.

This is actually an important story point because of the difference between sects and clans.

SECTS are based on personal merit and performance. The strongest lead and are given the important roles in managing the sect. This system is more like a school, where it doesn't matter what background you came from.

CLANS on the other hand, are based on bloodline and lineage. The offspring of the current mainline clan member who leads will take over when the time comes. It does not matter if they are weak or incompetent, whoever is next in line will become clan leader. This system is more like a royal family, where privilege and state are prevalent.

All of the so-called "sects" in MDZS are actually clans and are called as such in the Chinese text. It's the Lan Clan, the Wen Clan and so on. It's a really important part of MXTXs story because it shows us right from the start what WWX was up against. The world he is a part of is extremely classist, they look down upon those who don't have a certain name, status or bloodline.

It also shows us just how hard WWX actually worked to be ranked 3rd in the young masters of his generation! To have been awarded such a place, it meant people actually overlooked his status to award him on his looks and skills alone. It shows us just how hypocritical the cultivation world can be. When everyone bought into the rumours JFM treated WWX like his own (which he didn't, but we see others assumed as such) everyone treated him as a young master or as close to that as they would allow him to be. The minute JFM is dead and they see the way JC treats him, they all begin to disrespect him and turn against him.

The only mention of a sect throughout the whole entire novel is the one XXC and SL planned to form. I guess you could also classify what BSSR has on her secluded mountaintop as a sect, since there is no bloodline dictating a hierarchy. But overall, it is a huge fandom misconception that it is the Lan sect and Jiang sect - they are clans and it's incredibly important to the entire plot.

[navree]

i can't even call my idea that the targaryens came from peasant origins in valyria a theory because it is based on absolutely nothing other than the fact that the targaryens weren't a prominent dragonlord family and what i started thinking about when i mentioned that there was a way to make a pre-doom of valyria tv show where this would be a major part of it. it's just A Thought that's floated around in my head along with other plots.

[mikkeneko]

#love it i have so many thoughts about post war ymj#not a noble extended family anymore but back to the roots. rogues and commoners and travellers and adventurers#a ragged bunch of do or die people risen from a litteral war and led by a sect leader that was called “xiao-zongzhu” by his peers#no numbers no money no reputation left no elders to guide and represent just them and their dedication#and their loyalty to a leader that is not their blood but inspired such devotion from his disciples they might well be chosen family#i adore the post war jiang. i always hear about how lwj and the children are proof society is changing#but what about the entire One Great Sect that is no longer following Wen Mao's clan rule and blood lineage in sect organisations? - excellent points made by @black-n-white-wings

You know, that bit about "If you offend someone, make sure it's not Yunmeng Jiang and not their Leader specifically!" is just so fascinating to me.

Because - what happened?

What the hell happened to solidify the Jiang as the "find out" of Jianghu??

Like, sure, Sandu Sengshou "killed Yiling Laozu" so you probably don't want to mess with the guy - but a whole sect?? "Don't mess with them or they'll clap back" is a bit of a different fame than "he's torturing demonic cultivators!" - that former is an experience-based life advice.

So, what happened? Did JC punch someone square in the face during a sect conference? Called Sect Leader Yao for a duel and kicked his ass? Fucked up a bunch of trade representatives when they tried to take advantage of the fledgeling Jiang sect??? Took Jin Guangyao's hat and held it out of his reach????

And exactly how trigger-happy are the Jiang disciples to be known as the people you don't fuck with???

I need to know what the hell happened!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The true, tactical significance of Project 2025

TODAY (July 14), I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! NEXT SATURDAY (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

Like you, I have heard a lot about Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation's roadmap for the actions that Trump should take if he wins the presidency. Given the Heritage Foundation's centrality to the American authoritarian project, it's about as awful and frightening as you might expect:

https://www.project2025.org/

But (nearly) all the reporting and commentary on Project 2025 badly misses the point. I've only read a single writer who immediately grasped the true significance of Project 2025: The American Prospect's Rick Perlstein, which is unsurprising, given Perlstein's stature as one of the left's most important historians of right wing movements:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-07-10-project-2025-republican-presidencies-tradition/

As Perlstein points out, Project 2025 isn't new. The Heritage Foundation and its allies have prepared documents like this, with many identical policy prescriptions, in the run-up to many presidential elections. Perlstein argues that Warren G Harding's 1921 inaugural address captures much of its spirit, as did the Nixon campaign's 1973 vow to "move the country so far to the right 'you won’t even recognize it.'"

The threats to democracy and its institutions aren't new. The right has been bent on their destruction for more than a century. As Perlstein says, the point of taking note of this isn't to minimize the danger, rather, it's to contextualize it. The American right has, since the founding of the Republic, been bent on creating a system of hereditary aristocrats, who govern without "interference" from democratic institutions, so that their power to extract wealth from First Nations, working people, and the land itself is checked only by rivalries with other aristocrats. The project of the right is grounded in a belief in Providence: that God's favor shines on His best creations and elevates them to wealth and power. Elite status is proof of merit, and merit is "that which leads to elite status."

When a wealthy person founds an intergenerational dynasty of wealth and power, this is merely a hereditary meritocracy: a bloodline infused with God's favor. Sometimes, this belief is dressed up in caliper-wielding pseudoscience, with the "good bloodline" reflecting superior genetics and not the favor of the Almighty. Of course, a true American aristocrat gussies up his "race realism" with mystical nonsense: "God favored me with superior genes." The corollary, of course, is that you are poor because God doesn't favor you, or because your genes are bad, or because God punished you with bad genes.

So we should be alarmed by the right's agenda. We should be alarmed at how much ground it has gained, and how the right has stolen elections and Supreme Court seats to enshrine antimajoritarianism as a seemingly permanent fact of life, giving extremist minorities the power to impose their will on the rest of us, dooming us to a roasting planet, forced births, racist immiseration, and most expensive, worst-performing health industry in the world.

But for all that the right has bombed so many of the roads to a prosperous, humane future, it's a huge mistake to think of the right as a stable, unified force, marching to victory after inevitable victory. The American right is a brittle coalition led by a handful of plutocrats who have convinced a large number of turkeys to vote for Christmas.

The right wing coalition needs to pander to forced-birth extremists, racist extremist, Christian Dominionist extremists (of several types), frothing anti-Communist cranks, vicious homophobes and transphobes, etc, etc. Pandering to all these groups isn't easy: for one thing, they often want opposite things – the post-Roe forced birth policies that followed the Dobbs decision are wildly unpopular among conservatives, with the exception of a clutch of totally unhinged maniacs that the party relies on as part of a much larger coalition. Even more unpopular are policies banning birth control, like the ones laid out in Project 2025. Less popular still: the proposed ban on no-fault divorce. Each of these policies have different constituencies to whom they are very popular, but when you put them together, you get Dan Savage's "Husbands you can't leave, pregnancies you can't prevent or terminate, politicians you can't vote out of office":

https://twitter.com/fakedansavage/status/1805680183065854083

The constituency for "husbands you can't leave, pregnancies you can't prevent or terminate, politicians you can't vote out of office" is very small. Almost no one in the GOP coalition is voting for all of this, they're voting for one or two of these things and holding their noses when it comes to the rest.

Take the "libertarian" wing of the GOP: its members do favor personal liberty…it's just that they favor low taxes for them more than personal liberty for you. The kind of lunatic who'd vote for a dead gopher if it would knock a quarter off his tax bill will happily allow his coalition partners to rape pregnant women with unnecessary transvaginal ultrasounds and force them to carry unwanted fetuses to term if that's the price he has to pay to save a nickel in taxes:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/29/jubilance/#tolerable-racism

And, of course, the religious maniacs who profess a total commitment to Biblical virtue but worship Trump, Gaetz, Limbaugh, Gingrich, Reagan, and the whole panoply of cheating, lying, kid-fiddling, dope-addled refugees from a Jack Chick tract know that these men never gave a shit about Jesus, the Apostles or the Ten Commandments – but they'll vote for 'em because it will get them school prayer, total abortion bans, and unregulated "home schooling" so they can brainwash a generation of Biblical literalists who think the Earth is 5,000 years old and that Jesus was white and super into rich people.

Time and again, the leaders of the conservative movement prove themselves capable of acts of breathtaking cruelty, and undoubtedly many of them are depraved sadists who genuinely enjoy the suffering of their enemies (think of Trump lickspittle Steven Miller's undisguised glee at the thought of parents who would never be reunited with children after being separated at the border). But it's a mistake to think that "the cruelty is the point." The point of the cruelty is to assemble and maintain the coalition. Cruelty is the tactic. Power is the point:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/09/turkeys-voting-for-christmas/#culture-wars

The right has assembled a lot of power. They did so by maintaining unity among people who have irreconcilable ethics and goals. Think of the pro-genocide coalition that includes far-right Jewish ethno-nationalists, antisemitic apocalyptic Christians who believe they are hastening the end-times, and Islamophobes of every description, from War On Terror relics to Hindu nationalists.

This is quite an improbable coalition, and while I deplore its goals, I can't help but be impressed by its cohesion. Can you imagine the kind of behind-the-scenes work it takes to get antisemites who think Jews secretly control the world to lobby with Zionists? Or to get Zionists to work alongside of Holocaust-denying pencilneck Hitler wannabes whose biggest regret is not bringing their armbands to Charlottesville?

Which brings me back to Project 2025 and its true significance. As Perlstein writes, Project 2025 is a mess. Clocking in an 900 pages, large sections of Project 2025 flatly contradict each other, while other sections contain subtle contradictions that you wouldn't notice unless you were schooled in the specialized argot of the far right's jargon and history.

For example, Project 2025 calls for defunding government agencies and repurposing the same agencies to carry out various spectacular atrocities. Both actions are deplorable, but they're also mutually exclusive. Project 2025 demands four different, completely irreconcilable versions of US trade policy. But at least that's better than Project 2025's chapter on monetary policy, which simply lays out every right wing theory of money and then throws up its hands and recommends none of them.

Perlstein says that these conflicts, blank spots and contradictions are the most important parts of Project 2025. They are the fracture lines in the coalition: the conflicting ideas that have enough support that neither side can triumph over the other. These are the conflicts that are so central to the priorities of blocs that are so important to the coalition that they must be included, even though that inclusion constitutes a blinking "LOOK AT ME" sign telling us where the right is ready to split apart.

The right is really good at this. Perlstein points to Nixon's expansion of affirmative action, undertaken to sow division between Black and white workers. We need to get better at it.

So far, we've lavished attention on the clearest and most emphatic proposals in Project 2025 – for understandable reasons. These are the things they say they want to do. It would be reckless to ignore them. But they've been saying things like this for a century. These demands constitute a compelling argument for fighting them as a matter of urgency, with the intention of winning. And to win, we need to split apart their coalition.

Perlstein calls on us to dissect Project 2025, to cleave it at its joints. To do so, he says we need to understand its antecedents, like Nixon's "Malek Manual," a roadmap for destroying the lives of civil servants who failed to show sufficient loyalty to Nixon. For example, the Malek Manual lays out a "Traveling Salesman Technique" whereby a government employee would be given duties "criss-crossing him across the country to towns (hopefully with the worst accommodations possible) of a population of 20,000 or under. Until his wife threatens him with divorce unless he quits, you have him out of town and out of the way":

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Final_Report_on_Violations_and_Abuses_of/0dRLO9vzQF0C?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=%22organization+of+a+political+personnel+office+and+program%22&pg=PA161&printsec=frontcover

It's no coincidence that leftist historians of the right are getting a lot of attention. Trumpism didn't come out of nowhere – Trump is way too stupid and undisciplined to be a cause – he's an effect. In his excellent, bestselling new history of the right in the early 1990s, When the Clock Broke, Josh Ganz shows us the swamp that bred Trump, with such main characters as the fascist eugenicist Sam Francis:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374605445/whentheclockbroke

Ganz joins the likes of the Know Your Enemy podcast, an indispensable history of reactionary movements that does excellent work in tracing the fracture lines in the right coalition:

https://www.patreon.com/posts/when-clock-broke-106803105

Progressives are also an uneasy coalition that is easily splintered. As Naomi Klein argues in her essential Doppelganger, the liberal-left coalition is inherently unstable and contains the seeds of its own destruction:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

Liberals have been the senior partner in that coalition, and their commitment to preserving institutions for their own sake (rather than because of what they can do to advance human thriving) has produced generations of weak and ineffectual responses to the crises of terminal-stage capitalism, like the idea that student-debt cancellation should be means-tested:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/03/utopia-of-rules/#in-triplicate

The last bid for an American aristocracy was repelled by rejecting institutions, not preserving them. When the Supreme Court thwarted the New Deal, FDR announced his intention to pack the court, and then began the process of doing so (which included no-holds-barred attacks on foot-draggers in his own party). Not for nothing, this is more-or-less what Lincoln did when SCOTUS blocked Reconstruction:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/20/judicial-equilibria/#pack-the-court

But the liberals who lead the progressive movement dismiss packing the court as unserious and impractical – notwithstanding the fact that they have no plan for rescuing America from the bribe-taking extremists, the credibly accused rapist, and the three who stole their robes. Ultimately, liberals defend SCOTUS because it is the Supreme Court. I defended SCOTUS, too – while it was still a vestigial organ of the rights revolution, which improved the lives of millions of Americans. Human rights are worth defending, SCOTUS isn't. If SCOTUS gets in the way of human rights, then screw SCOTUS. Sideline it. Pack it. Make it a joke.

Fuck it.

This isn't to argue for left seccession from the progressive coalition. As we just saw in France, splitting at this moment is an invitation to literal fascist takeover:

https://jacobin.com/2024/07/melenchon-macron-france-left-winner

But if there's one thing that the rise of Trumpism has proven, it's that parties are not immune to being wrestled away from their establishment leaderships by radical groups:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/16/that-boy-aint-right/#dinos-rinos-and-dunnos

What's more, there's a much stronger natural coalition that the left can mobilize: workers. Being a worker – that is, paying your bills from wages, instead of profits – isn't an ideology you can change, it's a fact. A Christian nationalist can change their beliefs and then they will no longer be a Christian nationalist. But no matter what a worker believes, they are still a worker – they still have a irreconcilable conflict with people whose money comes from profits, speculation, or rents. There is no objectively fair way to divide the profits a worker's labor generates – your boss will always pay you as little of that surplus as he can. The more wages you take home, the less profit there is for your boss, the fewer dividends there are for his shareholders, and the less there is to pay to rentiers:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

Reviving the role of workers in their unions, and of unions in the Democratic party, is the key to building the in-party power we need to drag the party to real solutions – strong antimonopoly action, urgent climate action, protections for gender, racial and sexual minorities, and decent housing, education and health care.

The alternative to a worker-led Democratic Party is a Democratic Party run by its elites, whose dictates and policies are inescapably illegitimate. As Hamilton Nolan writes, the completely reasonable (and extremely urgent) discussion about Biden's capacity to defeat Trump has been derailed by the Democrats' undemocratic structure. Ultimately, the decision to have an open convention or to double down on a candidate whose campaign has been marred by significant deficits is down to a clutch of party officials who operate without any formal limits or authority:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/the-hole-at-the-heart-of-the-democratic

Jettisoning Biden because George Clooney (or Nancy Pelosi) told us to is never going to feel legitimate to his supporters in the party. But if the movement for an open convention came from grassroots-dominated unions who themselves dominated the party – as was the case, until the Reagan revolution – then there'd be a sense that the party had constituents, and it was acting on its behalf.

Reviving the labor movement after 40 years of Reaganomic war on workers may sound like a tall order, but we are living through a labor renaissance, and the long-banked embers of labor radicalism are reigniting. What's more, repelling fascism is what workers' movements do. The business community will always sell you out to the Nazis in exchange for low taxes, cheap labor and loose regulation.

But workers, organized around their class interests, stand strong. Last week, we lost one of labor's brightest flames. Jane McAlevey, a virtuoso labor organizer and trainer of labor organizers, died of cancer at 57:

https://jacobin.com/2024/07/jane-mcalevey-strategy-organizing-obituary

McAlevey fought to win. She was skeptical of platitudes like "speaking truth to power," always demanding an explanation for how the speech would become action. In her classic book A Collective Bargain, she describes how she built worker power:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

McAlevey helped organize a string of successful strikes, including the 2019 LA teachers' strike. Her method was straightforward: all you have to do to win a strike or a union drive is figure out how to convince every single worker in the shop to back the union. That's all.

Of course, it's harder than it sounds. All the problems that plague every coalition – especially the progressive liberal/left coalition – are present on the shop floor. Some workers don't like each other. Some don't see their interests aligned with others. Some are ornery. Some are convinced that victory is impossible.

McAlevey laid out a program for organizing that involved figuring out how to reach every single worker, to converse with them, listen to them, understand them, and win them over. I've never read or heard anyone speak more clearly, practically and inspirationally about coalition building.

Biden was never my candidate. I supported three other candidates ahead of him in 2020. When he got into office and started doing a small number of things I really liked, it didn't make me like him. I knew who he was: the Senator from MBNA, whose long political career was full of bills, votes and speeches that proved that while we might have some common goals, we didn't want the same America or the same world.

My interest in Biden over the past four years has had two areas of focus: how can I get him to do more of the things that will make us all better off, and do less of the things that make the world worse. When I think about the next four years, I'm thinking about the same things. A Trump presidency will contain far more bad things and far fewer good ones.

Many people I like and trust have pointed out that they don't like Biden and think he will be a bad president, but they think Trump will be much worse. To limit Biden's harms, leftists have to take over the Democratic Party and the progressive movement, so that he's hemmed in by his power base. To limit Trump's harms, leftists have to identify the fracture lines in the right coalition and drive deep wedges into them, shattering his power base.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/14/fracture-lines/#disassembly-manual

[suzukiblu]

D9, A4, Jason & writer's choice. Thanks for the game again this week!

“I hate you,” Damian darkly informs the presumptuous servant who has kidnapped him to the sitting room. Annoyingly, the presumptuous servant ignores him, and keeps him held bound and trapped in his lap by the arms he has wrapped around and resting in Damian’s lap. Damian debates biting him. Biting is beneath the heir to the Demon’s Head, however, as Mother has informed him. He is four years old now, and therefore expected to behave as a credit to the League and their bloodline. 

This servant is being very difficult about refusing to let him go, however. 

“Let me go,” Damian insists in a hiss, keeping his voice low. He doesn’t want anyone to hear him shout and find him in such an undignified position–especially not Mother or Grandfather. Especially not because of a servant. 

The servant keeps him held in his lap, ignoring his orders entirely and staring blankly over his head. Damian reconsiders the merits of biting him, but the way the other stares into nothing vaguely reminds him of a particularly stupid kitten, and given that fact, he can’t quite bring himself to do it. 

Though he should. And he could. 

Or he could just stab him. Mother couldn’t call that unbecoming of the heir to the Demon’s Head, Damian is certain. 

The servant squeezes his arms around his waist tighter. Damian considers reaching for his knife. It’s a viable option, certainly. But the servant is still staring blankly into nothingness like a particularly stupid kitten, and Damian supposes he’s resigned himself to–not pitying him, of course, because Damian certainly has no cause to pity anyone and would not pity anyone even if he did, much less a servant this annoying and presumptuous. 

Certainly not. 

The servant rests his chin on Damian’s head, curling in around him, and Damian folds his arms and glowers at the wall. This is an affront to his dignity, and he will not stand for it. 

The servant hums something very quiet and disjointed, and keeps staring into nothing. Damian does not recognize the song, but . . . frowns, a little. It seems like a very strange song, compared to the ones he knows. 

It sounds a bit like birdsong, but–not quite, though. Like a call, perhaps, or some sort of signal. 

He doesn’t know it yet, but one day he’ll hear it again. 

One day he might even sing it himself.

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (6)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: If you wish to read all the parts of this story, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

-Rating: Explicit 18+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 5

- Next part: 7

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

The flickering light from the torches casts ominous shadows across the walls of the Red Keep’s council chamber. The air is filled with dread and the metallic scent of incense mingles with the faint aroma of wine. The small council is seated around the long oak table, faces stern and expectant, as they await the king’s arrival. Whispers of conversations linger, drowned by the soft rustle of parchment and the distant clatter of steel as Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan stand vigil at the door.

The heavy doors swing open, and King Aerys enters, a brooding figure wrapped in the darkness of his own madness. His unkempt silver hair spills over his shoulders like a tarnished crown, and his violet eyes, once regal, now gleam with a feverish edge. He sweeps into his seat with a manic energy, the meeting commencing with a tension that hums in the room like a taut bowstring.

Tywin Lannister, seated with that practiced air of authority, eyes the king with the precision of a predator measuring its prey. His voice, cold and clipped, is the first to break the silence. “Your Grace, marriage proposals for Prince Rhaegar continue to flood in. There are those who still favor the union with House Lannister—”

Before Tywin can finish, Symond Staunton, a wisp of a man with thin, graying hair and a face like old parchment, interjects. “It is true, Lord Tywin, but there is greater wisdom in forging a bond with Dorne. Lady Elia Martell has strong connections in the south, and the Prince would be well-matched with her. The Dornish are fiercely loyal, and—”

“Loyalty from those who would do nothing but sully the prince’s blood with their lesser lineages,” Tywin cuts in, a sneer curling his lips. “The Martells are beneath what House Targaryen deserves.”

Before another word is spoken, Lord Lucerys Velaryon’s voice rings out, measured and full of conviction. “The Dornish alliance has its merits, Lord Tywin. But you are blind if you dismiss them so easily. Elia Martell’s bloodline may not match the legacy of House Velaryon or House Targaryen, but they are allies who know when to stand with strength. We cannot ignore the balance of power the marriage would bring.”

The discussion spirals into back-and-forth bickering, each lord trying to sway the king’s attention. All the while, Prince Rhaegar sits silently, his eyes cast downward, hands clasped in front of him as though praying for the gods to deliver him from this madness. The only flicker of emotion in his gaze is when your name drifts into the conversation, slipping in like a viper’s hiss.

It is Varys who speaks your name, his voice a smooth whisper that glides through the chamber. “Your Grace, might I suggest a proposal that has already been placed before the council in times past, one that Prince Rhaegar himself once hinted at? A union within the royal family, as it has been tradition, might ensure not only the purity of the bloodline but also strengthen the ties between your daughter, Princess Y/N, and the Crown.”

The effect is immediate. Aerys’ eyes snap toward the eunuch, a crazed, gleaming interest dancing in his gaze. He leans forward, almost conspiratorial. “Y/N… Yes, yes. My own daughter, kept close. Bound to the throne, where she belongs. No lesser lord is worthy of her.”

Rhaegar stiffens ever so slightly, a subtle tightening of his grip on his hands as he dares to glance at his father. But he says nothing, his face a practiced mask of calm, though those who know him well would recognize the torment simmering beneath. His mind is likely already racing—thoughts of the promises he made to you and Arthur, the private words exchanged in moonlit gardens where the walls had ears and love was a fragile, dangerous thing.

Tywin scoffs, loud and derisive, shattering the king’s moment of reflection. “You would have your son wed his sister when alliances with the wealthiest and most powerful lords are at your feet, Your Grace? It is madness.”

The room falls deadly silent at Tywin’s audacity. Even Ser Jaime’s eyes flicker with uncertainty, though his face remains impassive. Aerys’ expression darkens, fingers drumming against the wood as he glares at the Hand of the King. “Madness, you say?” he hisses, voice laced with venom. “It is you who would see my bloodline sullied with your golden-haired brood, Tywin. I will not allow it. My daughter—my jewel—will not be squandered.”

Varys, ever the shadow, interjects softly. “It is not madness, my lord. It is strength. The realm respects power, and what greater power than a dragon bound to another dragon? Y/N would not need to leave the Keep. She could remain under your protection, Your Grace, where no one would dare conspire against you through her.”

Pycelle, a toad-like presence at the table, nods sagely. “The history of the Targaryens is built upon such unions. The legacy of Old Valyria… it endures through such bonds.”

Rhaegar finally raises his eyes, and when he speaks, his voice is calm but edged with steel. “Father, I have always held that Y/N is deserving of more than to be used as a mere tool in the games of men. If it is your wish to keep her close, then let it be done, but let her also choose her path with dignity.”

Aerys’ gaze narrows, his thoughts a chaotic storm, but he is clearly intrigued by the idea. “You speak as if you would protect her, Rhaegar. Is this what you desire? To marry your sister as it was done in ages past? To have her by your side?”

Rhaegar’s pause is deliberate, calculated. He meets his father’s gaze, voice steady. “If it means she is kept from harm, then yes, Father, it is what I desire.”

The king’s laughter is a cruel, crackling sound, his mood volatile and unpredictable. “Then it may yet be. I will decide what is best for my daughter.” His voice lowers to a near whisper, eyes glittering with dark intent. “She is mine to give, as I see fit.”

As the meeting draws to a close, the lords exchange wary glances, knowing the king’s whims are as fickle as the flames he so loves to watch consume his enemies. But in this chamber, you are the invisible thread that pulls at the edges of ambition, loyalty, and madness. Rhaegar remains seated, eyes fixed on the table, a man who walks a razor’s edge between duty and brother’s love that drives him to protect you—at any cost.

And somewhere within the Red Keep, in the silence of a hidden alcove or the shadows of a quiet garden, you wait, unaware of the storm your name has stirred among the powerful and the damned alike.

The echo of boots striking stone reverberates through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep as Rhaegar moves with determined purpose. His mind is a tempest of conflicting emotions—anger, anxiety, and a deep-seated fear that gnaws at him like a starving wolf. Ser Barristan Selmy walks a respectful step behind him, silent and vigilant as always. The knight’s sharp eyes flicker between the darkened alcoves and shadowed corners, but it is not an assassin they fear in this moment—it is a whisper, a rumor, the delicate thread of secrets that could unravel everything.

Rhaegar’s silver hair shimmers under the torchlight as he rounds a corner, his steps quickening. He knows where to find Varys; the spymaster is as predictable as he is cunning, often retreating to the hidden chambers beneath the Keep after council meetings. Rhaegar’s fists clench at his sides as he spots the familiar figure slipping down a narrow stairwell.

“Varys,” Rhaegar’s voice rings out, clear and commanding, echoing off the cold stone walls. The spymaster pauses, then turns with that same eerie calm that always unsettles those who face him. His expression is one of mild curiosity, as if he has been expecting this conversation.

“Your Grace,” Varys says smoothly, inclining his head with a hint of mock deference. “What an unexpected honor to be sought out by the Prince himself.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrow, every word he speaks measured and deliberate. “You mentioned my sister’s name during the council meeting. Why? What is your true intent in drawing attention to her in such a dangerous way?”

Varys’s expression remains inscrutable, his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his robes as he offers a serene smile. “I have no intent but the safety and wellbeing of the Princess, Your Grace. You care for her deeply, as do I. Surely we both seek to protect her from the treacherous currents that swirl through this court.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens as he steps closer, his voice lowering to a cold whisper. “Do not play coy with me, Varys. You know exactly what you’re doing. My sister’s safety should not be bartered as a piece in this game. What do you stand to gain by placing her at the center of these discussions?”

Varys’s eyes glitter, and though his tone remains light, there is an edge of something darker beneath. “I gain nothing, my prince. But it is not I who endangers her. The whispers in court, the hungry eyes of those who would use her for their own advantage—they are the threat. By suggesting a union between you and the Princess, I merely shield her from more nefarious designs.”

Rhaegar scoffs, frustration seeping into his tone. “Shield her? You bring more attention to her, and you know how volatile our father is. He already watches her too closely. What do you hope to achieve by binding her fate to mine?”

Varys tilts his head, as if weighing his words carefully before responding. “Forgive me if I overstep, but I believe you already know the answer to that question, Your Grace. The king’s mind is... unpredictable, but his possessiveness over his daughter is unwavering. Keeping her close in a manner that both secures her honor and the Crown’s interests is, perhaps, the only way to prevent any... unfortunate rumors from spreading.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, a storm brewing in his violet eyes. “Rumors? Speak plainly, Varys.”

The spymaster’s smile widens, but there’s a knowing look beneath his carefully cultivated mask of servility. “You care for your sister. So does Ser Arthur Dayne, does he not?”

The name lingers in the air like a drawn blade. Rhaegar’s heart pounds, his hand flexing unconsciously as if reaching for a sword he doesn’t carry. The implication is clear, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between them.

“You’re suggesting that my sister’s honor is in jeopardy,” Rhaegar says, his voice barely above a whisper, yet each word drips with a cold warning.

Varys’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, though his tone remains innocent, almost regretful. “I would never be so bold as to make such an accusation, Your Grace. But this court has eyes in every shadow and ears in every corner. Your sister is precious to many, and the attention she garners... can be misconstrued. Ensuring that she is wedded to a man who values her, who understands the importance of her standing, would silence those whispers before they take root. And who better to protect her than you, the brother who has always shielded her?”

Rhaegar’s mind reels, the weight of Varys’s words crashing down on him. He thinks of you—his only sister, and the nights when you had confided your fears to him in whispers. And then there is Arthur, the man Rhaegar respects more than any other, who has been by his side through every battle and who, Rhaegar knows, loves you with a passion that is both fierce and dangerous.

The prince’s voice is rough as he responds. “You’re using her to manipulate me. Do not think I don’t see it. But know this—if you push too far, if any harm comes to her because of your machinations, no one will be able to protect you. Not even the shadows you hide in.”

Varys’s smile never falters, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes—a glimpse of fear or perhaps admiration. “I live to serve the realm, Your Grace. And if keeping your sister safe also ensures your own security, then I will consider it a worthy endeavor. But heed this: Ser Arthur may be loyal, but the world is not kind to those whose love defies what is expected. A marriage to you would silence any talk of impropriety. It is a solution that benefits all, would you not agree?”

Rhaegar turns away, fists clenched as he struggles with the turmoil inside him. He knows Varys is right in a way that makes his blood boil. Marrying you would be the only way to keep your honor intact, to shield you from the ravenous wolves of the court. But it is a solution that comes at a cost—one that would bind you both to a life neither of you chose.

Without another word, Rhaegar strides down the corridor, Ser Barristan close behind. He needs time to think, to plan. But one thing is clear: he will not allow Varys, or anyone else, to dictate your fate. You are his sister, his responsibility, and he will protect you—no matter the cost. Even if it means sacrificing the love you share with another, a love that burns bright in the shadows where only the most dangerous of secrets dare to tread.

The gardens of the Red Keep are alive with the soft hum of bees flitting between blossoms and the gentle rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. Sunlight spills through the high branches, dappling the ground with patches of gold. You walk along the gravel paths with your handmaidens trailing behind, their laughter a light melody that mingles with the song of the distant fountains. It should be a serene moment, a reprieve from the suffocating intrigues of the court, but your thoughts are restless. 

You stoop by a patch of flowers—delicate blue petals fringed with silver—and pluck one carefully. You roll it between your fingers, its softness reminding you of something more precious, more fleeting than even these quiet moments. From the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of polished steel reflecting the sun. Arthur stands near the edge of the garden, half-hidden in the shadows beneath a tree, his attention supposedly focused on his duty. But you know him better than that.

The handmaidens’ chatter grows more animated, distracted by some trivial gossip, and you seize the opportunity. With practiced grace, you drift closer to Arthur, your movements casual and unhurried. He watches you from beneath the rim of his helmet, his expression impassive to anyone else who might be watching. But there’s a flicker of warmth in his gray-lilac eyes—eyes that mirror your own violet ones, save for the quiet fire that only you can coax into a blaze.

You stop just within reach, turning slightly so the handmaidens don’t notice your proximity to him. As though admiring the flowers around you, you reach up with the small bloom still in your fingers and tuck it into a gap in his armor, just above his heart. His lips twitch into a faint smile, amusement dancing in his gaze. “A gift, my lady?” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath.

You glance at him, your own smile hidden behind the practiced serenity you wear like a veil. “It suits you, Ser Arthur. Perhaps it will remind you of the softness behind the steel,” you reply, equally soft, the words layered with more than their surface meaning.

His smile lingers, a rare thing for him in a place like this. “I have never needed reminding, Y/N,” he says, the sincerity of his words settling between you like a secret oath.

Before you can respond, your handmaidens call out, dragging your attention away with giggles and questions about the flowers and the latest court gossip. You cast a quick, regretful glance back at Arthur, and he offers you a small, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment of the connection that binds you, even in these brief moments stolen from the world.

The garden soon returns to its usual rhythm, the clatter of distant hooves and the laughter of courtiers echoing from the nearby corridors. You try to immerse yourself in the conversation, nodding and responding as required, but your thoughts remain with Arthur and the unspoken words that passed between you.

It’s then that you hear the measured footsteps of someone else entering the garden, the swish of rich fabric announcing their presence before they even speak. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Cersei Lannister’s arrival is always accompanied by that distinct air of arrogance, thinly veiled beneath a pleasant smile. You force your own expression into one of polite welcome as you turn to greet her.

“Princess Y/N,” Cersei says with an almost saccharine sweetness, inclining her head in greeting. “I hope I’m not intruding. I thought I might join you for a walk, if you would have me.”

You smile, though it barely reaches your eyes. “Lady Cersei, you are always welcome,” you say, the words smooth but hollow. You’ve long since learned to play this game.

Cersei steps closer, her gown trailing elegantly behind her as she links her arm with yours. She makes a show of admiring the flowers, but you can feel the calculation behind every move she makes. She’s here for one reason, and you both know it.

“I hear the gardens are Rhaegar’s favorite place for reflection,” she says, her tone light but laced with an unmistakable intent. “It must be lovely to have such serene surroundings for your family. Perhaps I might see him here one day.”

You keep your expression composed, but inside, your irritation simmers. You know exactly what Cersei is doing—every word, every feigned smile is a step toward getting closer to your brother. She’s as ambitious as her father, and her desire to secure Rhaegar as her husband is no secret since she arrived during the festival. And now she’s using you to further that goal.

“Rhaegar finds peace wherever he can,” you reply diplomatically. “The burdens of the crown weigh heavily on him. I doubt he has time to simply stroll through gardens.” Your words are a subtle warning, one you know she’ll choose to ignore.

Cersei’s smile tightens ever so slightly. “A pity. I imagine the right company might lift his spirits.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your mind racing as you consider how best to deflect her without giving away too much. “He finds solace in music and books more than idle conversation, I’m afraid. But should I see him, I’ll be sure to mention your interest in sharing his company.”

Her green eyes flash, catching the subtle barbs beneath your words, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she laughs lightly, a sound that feels rehearsed. “You’re too kind, Princess. I’m sure you understand what it’s like to carry the hopes of your family on your shoulders.”

Before you can respond, your handmaidens, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension, pull you away to show you something among the flowers. You excuse yourself from Cersei with a practiced curtsy and a gracious smile, but inside you’re relieved to have a moment away from her scheming presence.

As you walk away, you can feel her eyes on you, sharp and calculating. Cersei Lannister may wear the mask of a courteous lady, but you see the ambition beneath—the hunger to be queen, to wield power, and to use any means necessary to get what she wants. You know she sees you as a mere stepping stone to her goal, and while you might be willing to play along for now, you will not be used in her game.

Your thoughts drift back to Arthur, to the fleeting moment of warmth in the midst of all this cold calculation.

The sun begins its descent, casting shadows across the stone walls as you make your way back into the Keep. Your handmaidens chat animatedly behind you, oblivious to the tension that knots in your stomach. Ser Arthur walks beside you, his presence, as always, a silent anchor in the growing unease you feel with every step closer to the heart of the castle. The closer you get, the more the familiar scent of smoke and something acrid begins to fill the air—a smell that turns your blood cold.

Your footsteps slow as you near the throne room’s vast, looming doors, the heavy sound of voices carrying from within. The torchlight flickers, casting eerie siluethes as you hear the distinct crackle of fire and the low murmurs of the crowd inside. The doors are open just wide enough for you to glimpse the grand chamber filled with courtiers, their eyes fixed on the spectacle unfolding near the Iron Throne.

You recognize the scene at once, and dread pools in your gut like ice water. King Aerys stands before the Iron Throne, flanked by pyromancers dressed in their dark robes, their hands outstretched toward a brazier where several dragon eggs, turned to stone over the ages, rest on beds of smoldering coals. The flames dance wildly, manipulated by the green-tinted powders the pyromancers cast into the fire. The court is packed, hundreds of nobles watching with bated breath, some in eager fascination, others in thinly veiled horror.

Ser Arthur moves slightly in front of you, as if to block your path, his voice low and urgent. “We should find another way, my lady. This is not something you need to witness.”

But it’s too late. Aerys’s head snaps up, and those fever-bright violet eyes find you across the room. His face twists into something that might be a smile—or a grimace. “There she is, my precious jewel! Come, daughter. Witness history in the making.”

The words hang in the air, and every eye in the throne room turns toward you. You feel the weight of their stares—curious, expectant, and some even pitying. The courtiers part like the sea as you step forward, masking your hesitation with a graceful bow of your head. Inside, every muscle tenses as you try to gauge what mood your father is in. You’ve seen this spectacle before—each attempt more desperate than the last, each failure driving him deeper into his madness.

“Father,” you greet him softly, your voice steady, though your heart races. You approach the throne, your steps light and deliberate. Each pace forward is a dance on the edge of a precipice. You feel Arthur’s presence just behind you, his every move like a shadow to your own, though you know he must hold his position near the Kingsguard—Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold Hightower already standing sentinel near the throne.

“Closer, closer!” Aerys beckons, his voice a sharp bark as he extends an arm toward you. “See how the fires burn brighter in your presence, child. Perhaps you will be the key, the one to awaken the dragons of old!”

You force a tight smile, hoping it appears genuine, as you step to his side. The heat from the brazier is intense, waves of it rolling over you, making your skin prickle with discomfort. The pyromancers chant softly, adding more powders to the flames, causing the fire to flare with green and yellow sparks. The dragon eggs, blackened and cracked from countless attempts, remain cold and lifeless.

“The blood of the dragon flows strong in you,” Aerys continues, his voice lilting into that dangerous sing-song tone he adopts when he’s teetering on the edge. “Perhaps the fire in your veins will be enough to wake them. Yes, yes, place your hand near the flames, my daughter. Do you not feel the call of our ancestors?”

You swallow, pushing down the rising dread. Every eye in the room remains fixed on you, the silence suffocating. You can sense the unease in the courtiers, even those who hide their discomfort behind practiced smiles. But you know better than to refuse your father in this state. Slowly, you extend your hand, holding it near the brazier, feeling the scorching heat lick at your skin but never touching it. The air wavers with the intensity of the fire, but the eggs remain still, unyielding as stone.

Aerys’s eyes gleam with a wild hope, a manic anticipation that threatens to snap at any moment. You know this pattern well. You’ve seen how quickly that hope can twist into rage, how the king’s mood can darken like a gathering storm when reality does not bend to his delusions.

“Nothing… nothing…” he mutters under his breath as the flames sputter and die down to embers. His gaze shifts from the brazier to you, his expression tightening. “Why do they not stir? Why?” His voice grows sharp, accusatory.

You steel yourself, forcing calm into your voice. “Perhaps the dragons sleep still, Father. The fire may not be enough this time.”

His eyes narrow, suspicion flickering in their depths, but before his paranoia can take root, one of the pyromancers steps forward with trembling hands. “Your Grace, it may take more time, more heat… We must be patient.”

Aerys rounds on the man, fury twisting his features. “Patience? I have given them years! Centuries, it seems!” He raises a hand as if to strike the pyromancer, but then his gaze snaps back to you, and the gesture halts. The rage fades as quickly as it came, replaced with a grotesque affection. He reaches out to cup your cheek with a hand that feels cold and brittle despite the warmth of the room. “You are the key, my jewel. You will see the dragons rise again. You will see our family reborn in fire and blood.”

You nod, not daring to speak, not trusting your voice to remain steady. You can feel the tension in the room, the shared relief that the king’s anger has not turned fully on you, at least not yet. But that could change in a heartbeat. You bow your head slightly, signaling your submission, and he finally releases you, his attention turning back to the eggs as if willing them to crack open by sheer force of will.

Arthur steps forward, positioning himself near Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold. The three of them exchange brief, tense glances, ready to act should Aerys’s mood shift dangerously once again. You can sense Arthur’s worry even without looking at him, the way he watches you out of the corner of his eye, prepared to intervene if needed. But all he can do now is stand silent and vigilant, a loyal knight bound by duty even as his heart wars with it.

The tension in the room lingers, thick as smoke, as Aerys waves a dismissive hand. “Enough!” he snaps. “Take them away. They will hatch when they are ready—when the time is right!” His voice trembles on the edge of a delusion, but the court obeys swiftly. The pyromancers bow and retreat, gathering the eggs and disappearing through the back entrance.

The courtiers begin to murmur, the moment passed, but you remain where you are, your heart still pounding. Aerys leans back in his throne, muttering to himself about fire, dragons, and forgotten magic. You take a step back, ready to return to your chambers and escape this madness.

But before you can, Aerys calls out once more, softer this time, almost tender. “My daughter, stay close. We have much to discuss. The future of our house lies with you.”

The room feels even colder despite the lingering heat of the flames. You nod, your throat dry. “Of course, Father,” you manage, offering him a faint smile as you move to stand beside him once more.

In your mind, you send a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen that the king’s mood remains stable, that this day does not end in violence or terror. Arthur’s eyes never leave you, a silent reassurance that he is near, even as you step deeper into the shadow of your father’s ever-growing madness.

The Iron Throne looms above you like a monstrous beast, jagged swords twisted into a towering mass of cruelty and conquest. Its shadow swallows the chamber, deepening the gloom that clings to every corner of the room. You swallow hard, keeping your face carefully composed, masking the fear that prickles at your skin as your father’s voice rings out once more, sharper this time, insistent.

“Come closer, daughter. Do not be afraid,” Aerys commands, his tone a poisonous mixture of affection and madness. The courtiers fall silent, the air thick with anticipation, as all eyes turn to you once again.

You keep your steps measured and deliberate, focusing on each footfall as you ascend the steps toward the throne. The steel swords of fallen enemies, twisted and rusted, cut through the air like spectral hands reaching out to snatch at you. The closer you get, the more you notice the crimson stains on the edges, not from the wars of old, but fresh—your father’s blood. The sharp blades have left small gashes across his arms, his hands, even his face. His silver hair is matted against his temples, streaked with dried blood. But it’s his eyes that unnerve you most—the wild, feverish gleam of a man caught between dreams and nightmares.

You stop when you’re near enough that you can feel the chill of the iron radiating off the throne, every instinct telling you not to go closer. But Aerys leans forward, waving you in with a spindly hand that trembles with urgency. “Closer, my daughter, closer,” he croons, his fingers twitching as though he wants to reach out and seize you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, steeling yourself as you step closer, stopping just within arm’s reach of him. “Father, I’m here,” you say softly, your voice controlled, though your heart hammers in your chest. “What is it you wish to speak of?”

His eyes narrow, studying you as though searching for something in your face—something only he can see. “You are the brightest jewel in our crown,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly tender. “The blood of the dragon runs pure in your veins, and you will be the one to continue our line. You, not the usurpers who circle like vultures waiting for my fall.” He reaches out and grips your arm, his nails digging into your flesh, the force of it surprising you. “You will do as I command, won’t you? You will obey your king?”

You force yourself to nod, hiding the discomfort as his grip tightens. “Of course, Father. Always.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch the subtle shift of movement among the Kingsguard. Ser Jaime Lannister’s lips twitch into a smirk as he watches the exchange with barely contained amusement, as though the whole thing is nothing more than a farce for his entertainment. But his eyes flick briefly toward Arthur, who stands tense and stone-faced, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. The sight of you so close to Aerys, within reach of those jagged swords and his unpredictable temper, clearly unnerves him.

Jaime’s whisper carries to Ser Gerold Hightower, the words laced with amusement. “It seems Ser Arthur doesn’t enjoy watching our little princess in the dragon’s den. He looks ready to leap forward at the slightest twitch from our good king.”

Gerold’s eyes remain forward, but there’s an unmistakable edge to his voice as he murmurs back, “Quiet, Jaime. Mind your tongue. This is no jest, and you would do well to remember that.”

Jaime’s smirk fades only slightly, but he falls silent, though his gaze remains fixed on Arthur, as if savoring the tension. The Dance of Dragons may have ended long ago, but Jaime seems keen to witness a different kind of dance—the one playing out between Arthur’s duty and his hidden emotions.

Aerys, oblivious to the whispers of his guards, pulls you even closer, his breath hot and acrid as he leans in, his eyes boring into yours. “They think they can take everything from me, but they cannot take you,” he hisses, his voice a low, venomous whisper. “You belong to me, just as the throne does. I’ll not let them tear us apart.” His grip slackens slightly, as though his mind drifts somewhere distant, before he snaps back to focus, eyes narrowing once again. “You will marry as I command. You will strengthen our house. You are the key to it all.”

Your stomach churns, the cold weight of dread settling deeper within you. His words, his tone, they carry the dangerous edge of a plan forming in his fractured mind—a plan that might involve you as a pawn, a sacrificial piece in the twisted game of power he plays. You’ve seen this look in his eyes before, the glint of obsession and control. The words he says are a riddle, but you know better than to question him now, not here, not with so many watching.

“Of course, Father,” you reply, keeping your voice soothing, placating. “I will always do what is best for our house.”

Aerys releases you suddenly, as though satisfied, and slumps back into his throne, muttering to himself once more about fire and blood, about dragons that refuse to wake. You take a careful step back, then another, relieved to put distance between you and the jagged blades that surround him.

Arthur moves discreetly closer as you descend the steps, his gaze locked on you with concern barely masked beneath the rigid stoicism of a knight. “Are you well, my lady?” he asks quietly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You manage a nod, though your hands are trembling slightly. “I am,” you lie, offering him a faint, strained smile. But you can see in his eyes that he knows the truth. He always does.

Ser Jaime’s voice cuts through the murmurs in the hall, his tone laced with dry humor. “It’s a wonder the throne doesn’t consume him whole one day, with how he insists on bleeding over it like some offering to the gods.”

Arthur shoots Jaime a sharp look, his usual control slipping for just a moment. “Show respect, Lannister. You serve the king, as do we all.”

Jaime raises a brow, clearly enjoying the tension, but Ser Gerold steps in with a quiet command. “Enough. We have a duty, and it’s not to indulge in petty remarks.”

You draw in a steadying breath, regaining your composure as the court begins to disperse, the spectacle over for now. But even as the noise of the crowd grows, you can’t shake the unease that clings to you, the feeling that this encounter was merely a prelude to something far more dangerous. You can still feel the phantom grip of your father’s hand on your arm, the desperation in his eyes.

Arthur remains at your side as you leave the throne room, his presence a comfort in the midst of this madness. But even his silent support can’t chase away the dark thoughts that cloud your mind. Your father’s words echo within you—words that hold a promise and a threat all at once.

You only hope that whatever he plans, you’ll have the strength and the allies to survive it. And in the depths of your mind, you fear that the price of his plans might be higher than anyone is willing to pay.

Rhaegar’s footsteps echo ominously through the cold, winding halls of the Red Keep as he strides toward his father’s chambers. His usually calm demeanor is barely held in check, fury simmering beneath his pale skin like the fire that never truly sleeps within the blood of the dragon. He has lived his life balancing between duty and his own desires, but today, hearing of the spectacle in the throne room, something within him snaps.

When he reaches the chamber doors, they are flanked by two nervous guards who stiffen as he approaches. They share a glance, as if silently debating whether to announce him, but the intensity in Rhaegar’s violet eyes leaves no room for hesitation. They step aside immediately, pushing open the doors to allow him entry.

Inside, the room is shrouded in shadows despite the flickering candles and the low-burning hearth. King Aerys is seated near the far side of the chamber, hunched over as he murmurs to himself, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the armrest of his chair like he always does. His figure is draped in black robes, the rich fabric stained with old wine and flecks of blood—his own, no doubt from where the Iron Throne bit into him yet again. Aerys doesn’t look up as Rhaegar enters; his attention is consumed by whatever mad thoughts are swirling in his fevered mind.

But Rhaegar’s presence cannot be ignored for long. “Father,” he says, his voice steely with restrained anger. “We need to speak.”

Aerys’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as they focus on his son. There is a flash of recognition, followed by suspicion. “Ah, Rhaegar,” he hisses, the name dripping with equal parts derision and warped affection. “Come to lecture me, have you? To question your king? Or perhaps you’re here to bow at the feet of greatness, knowing what I shall accomplish.”

Rhaegar takes a steadying breath, holding back the words that surge to his lips. He knows confronting his father is a delicate game, one where a single misstep could provoke a wrath as unpredictable as wildfire. But this is about you, and Rhaegar won’t be silent.

“What I’ve come to do, Father, is remind you that my sister—your daughter—is not a toy to be used in your mad attempts to hatch dead dragon eggs,” Rhaegar says, his tone measured but fierce. “What happened in the throne room was nothing short of cruelty.”

Aerys’s eyes blaze with sudden fury, and he rises from his chair with an unsteady lurch. “Cruelty? Cruelty is what they did to our ancestors when they tore dragons from the skies and butchered them! I am trying to restore what was lost, to awaken the power that rightfully belongs to us!” His voice cracks as it rises in pitch, his hands shaking with rage. “You call it madness, but it is you who are blind, Rhaegar! You cower behind your songs and your books while I reach for greatness!”

Rhaegar steps closer, refusing to back down. “You’re delusional, Father. These dragon eggs are nothing but stone, and no amount of pyromancers or desperate prayers will change that. But dragging Y/N into your obsessions—putting her at risk—cannot be allowed to continue.”

Aerys’s face twists into something grotesque, his lips peeling back into a mockery of a smile. “You think you can dictate terms to me? I am the king! I will decide who is sacrificed for the good of our house! And Y/N—she is mine to command, mine to wield as I see fit.”

“You speak of her as if she’s an object,” Rhaegar spits, his own temper slipping free, the cold rage in his eyes matching the heat in his voice. “She is your daughter, not some pawn to be used in your schemes. And I won’t stand by and let you ruin her with your madness.”

Aerys’s expression flickers, the fury giving way to something more insidious—calculating and dangerous. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You forget your place, Rhaegar. You think you can save her? You think you can protect her from what I choose for her? Perhaps I should have taken her for myself, as was the way of our ancestors. Perhaps then you would understand what it means to preserve the bloodline.” His eyes glint with something unholy, a twisted hunger, and Rhaegar’s blood runs cold.

The air crackles with tension, and for a moment, Rhaegar considers the sword at his hip. But he knows that drawing steel here would only lead to bloodshed—bloodshed that would change nothing, except to plunge the realm into chaos.

Instead, Rhaegar speaks through gritted teeth, his voice laced with quiet defiance. “You will not have her. I won’t let you destroy what little humanity you have left by dragging her into your madness. She is more than just your daughter—she’s the only reason the court hasn’t torn itself apart.”

Aerys laughs, a shrill, grating sound that echoes off the stone walls. “She is mine, as are you. You think you can defy me? You think the lords will follow you if you move against me? They all cower and scrape before the throne, and so will you.”

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze, unflinching. “I don’t need their approval, nor yours. I’ll protect Y/N, even if it means going against you, Father.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, and his voice drops to a hiss. “You’ll protect her by doing exactly as I command. You’ll marry her if that is what I decide. And you’ll do so with a smile, just as you’ve smiled through every indignity this crown has laid upon you.”

Rhaegar’s breath catches in his throat. He expected this, but hearing it aloud sends a jolt of cold reality through him. His father’s madness is now bound to entangle you both, drawing you into a fate neither of you wanted but one that might be the only way to keep you safe. The bitter irony of it twists in his gut.

Before he can respond, Aerys leans back, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “You think you’re clever, boy, but you’re as much a slave to this crown as the rest of us. You will do what’s required, or I’ll see to it that Y/N pays the price.”

Rhaegar’s fists tighten until his knuckles turn white. There is nothing left to say. He knows he cannot reason with a man so far gone, but he also knows he won’t let his father’s threats go unanswered. Without another word, he turns and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding echo.

As he strides down the corridor, his mind races. He has to find a way to protect you, to shield you from the king’s madness, even if it means embracing a path he swore he would never take. But deep down, he knows that the storm gathering within the Red Keep is only just beginning—and you are at the heart of it.

In the hidden recesses of the Red Keep, deep within a forgotten corridor, a secluded chamber lies veiled by shadow and silence. The stones are cold beneath your bare feet, but the heat between you and Arthur makes the air crackle with a warmth that banishes the chill. You’ve slipped away from the prying eyes of court, finding a rare moment where neither of you is expected, your absence unnoticed for a fleeting hour. The heavy wooden door to the chamber creaks shut, closing off the world and leaving only the two of you in this sanctuary of stolen time.

Arthur’s hands are on you the moment the door is locked, his touch both tender and urgent as he draws you into his arms. His breath is warm against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. The tension of the day melts away in the press of his body against yours, the familiar strength of his arms encircling your waist. There’s an unspoken need in the way he holds you, a hunger fueled by the uncertainty that haunts your every waking moment in this treacherous court.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, your name a prayer on his lips as he kisses a path from your jaw to your mouth. His voice is thick with desire, tinged with something deeper—fear, perhaps, or desperation. He knows as well as you do that each time you meet like this could be the last.

You respond without words, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer, your mouth capturing his in a kiss that is fierce and unyielding. There’s no space for hesitation, only the burning need to feel something real in a world that constantly threatens to strip you of everything. His hands move to your back, finding the laces of your gown and pulling them loose with practiced ease. The fabric slides down your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and you shiver, not from the cold, but from the thrill of being laid bare before him.

His eyes darken with hunger as they drink in the sight of you, and he steps back for just a heartbeat, as if to etch the image of you into his memory. “You are more beautiful than I deserve,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion, his fingers grazing your skin as though you might vanish if he isn’t careful.

You shake your head, pulling him closer, your fingers working at the clasps of his armor. “Don’t say that, Arthur. We deserve this, even if the world would deny it to us.” The plates of his armor clatter softly as you remove them piece by piece, the task made more urgent by the racing of your heart. Beneath the steel and leather, you find the man who is yours—yours alone, in this chamber and in these moments where the rest of the world falls away.

When he is free of the armor, his tunic follows, and then there is nothing left between you. You let out a shuddering breath as his hands find your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto a low table, his body pressing flush against yours. The kiss that follows is slow, deep, a mingling of breath and desire that sends heat coursing through your veins. His hands roam over your skin, reverent and possessive all at once, mapping every curve, every scar, as if committing it all to memory.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours, his voice trembling slightly. “Tell me we aren’t just imagining this—a stolen dream before the waking world tears us apart.”

You cup his face in your hands, pressing a soft kiss to his brow. “It’s real, Arthur. This is real. You and I… in this moment, nothing else matters.”

He kisses you again, more fiercely this time, his need for you driving him to claim every part of you with a desperation that matches your own. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips as he pulls you closer, fitting himself between your thighs. When he enters you, it’s with a slow, deliberate thrust, the motion drawing a gasp from your lips as you wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper.

The rhythm of your lovemaking is both gentle and wild—a dance of passion and affection, of longing and love. The world outside this chamber is a cruel place, full of shadows and deceit, but here, in this sanctuary, there is only the two of you and the fire that burns brighter with every touch, every whispered promise.

His movements quicken, each thrust drawing you closer to the edge, but he never loses that tenderness, that quiet reverence for the connection you share. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over, like a vow. “Y/N… my love… my everything.”

Your fingers dig into his back, holding onto him as if he’s the only safe harbor in a storm that threatens to drown you both. “Arthur, don’t stop,” you plead, your voice breaking as pleasure coils tight in your belly, threatening to spill over. “Please… I need this. I need you.”

He lifts his head, meeting your gaze with eyes darkened by desire but softened by love. “You have me,” he breathes, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always had me, and you always will.”

The world narrows to this moment—his breath mingling with yours, the slide of skin against skin, the heat building between you until it’s almost unbearable. And when you finally shatter, it’s together, his name a broken cry on your lips as pleasure crashes over you both like a wave, pulling you under and washing everything else away.

For a few blissful moments, there is only the sound of your mingled breaths, the beating of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. Arthur holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, your lips, as if grounding himself in the reality of your shared intimacy. He remains inside you, unwilling to let go just yet, as if this closeness is the only thing that can stave off the darkness that awaits beyond these walls.

But reality can’t be held at bay forever. Slowly, reluctantly, he withdraws, and you both dress in silence, the weight of what awaits you outside this chamber pressing heavily on your minds. Once fully clothed, he pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, as if to shield you from the world. “I wish we could stay like this, just for a little longer,” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod against him, your heart aching with the same longing. “I know… but we’ll find another moment. We always do.” You pull back slightly, looking up at him, your fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “And until then, I’ll carry this with me. It’s enough to keep me strong.”

Arthur leans in and kisses you one last time, slow and lingering, before finally letting you go. “Remember, no matter what happens… you’re not alone.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice filled with quiet determination. “Neither are you.”

With that, you both slip out of the chamber, returning to the world of shadows and intrigue where you must once again play your parts. But in the depths of your heart, the fire of this moment lingers, burning bright against the darkness that surrounds you.

[heathleaves]

I can’t stop thinking about Verna’s deals and her collateral - with Roderick it is straightforward, his bloodline ends with him which would imply he does love/will love his descendants… but never enough to overshadow his greed, only Lenore’s death at the end truly shakes him.

But Madeline - at first I thought the twins shared their price, their collateral, but Madeline never wanted kids. True, she might never had any because of the deal but she also mentions being against it in general - she wanted to be immortal on her own merit not fulfilling a woman’s role of childbearing and achieving immortality in this more traditional “prolonging the species” kind of way. And while she did everything to protect their family and the Usher legacy - and slayed while doing so! - I don’t know if she actually loved any of her brother’s children as individuals. She protected them, but also didn’t hesitate to threaten death if any of them threatened the collective and/or the company. While Roderick was also ruthless in these moments and encouraged the hunt for perceived traitors, I think there was genuine grief and loss during the last funeral - and this is the scene when I think it clicked for me that Madeline did not love the dead Ushers - the way she was sitting in front of the final coffins. It was a beautiful pose, the actress slayed. Madeline looked bored. And probably planning next moves with the company/the board. She had tried to protect them because they were Ushers, but they were nowhere close important enough for her to be her collateral - for her to feel the loss, personally.

What, then? At first I thought the whole cost was on Roderick’s side and the twins were a package deal, but then Verna’s insistence that they both confirm would sound off. And she stressed the part about them both going out together which, I think, is the whole crux of the matter.

Madeline’s collateral is her ambition and dream of achieving immortality, rather than a person she loved - the only one she truly loved is her brother, and she was prepared to kill him in order to prolong her own life - so that she could achieve her goal.

This is where the price of her deal comes in - she received all the means in order to complete it, all the money (that she chose in her conversation with Verna) and no consequences for her actions - but she is made to die together with her brother before she achieves her digital immortality, as we know her AI failed due to an example with Lenore.

It was rather skillfully arranged in the narrative because I think we had the key to that answer before we fully formed the question - i.e. Verna’s talk with Arthur Pym about the collaterals before the full scene of her deal with the Ushers, and both of those happening at the end of the series, so for the majority of it the viewers can solidify in their minds a pre-existing idea of the deal’s only price are the Usher children dying, only to have the inkling of doubt during Verna’s conversation with Pym and then the final picture happening in the bar.

Which is what makes me wonder about the third Madeline that Verna could see - the past we know, the present we know, but the alternate? Would she have achieved her dream through her own means, even without the money she said she wanted in her solo conversation with Verna in the bar? It does seem to tie-in with the theme of the poem Verna recites to Madeline - The City in the Sea. The poem’s main theme is a ruin brought on by riches, as Death presides over the once opulent city. This obviously refers to the fall of the house of Usher, and the fact that death conquers all.

But I wonder if it doesn’t also mean, more personally for Madeline, that she gave up her dream of achieving immortality, and exchanged it for money - that Verna’s personal message to Madeline is “You would’ve been magnificent, but money and riches are not the way to overcome death.”

Both Usher twins were obsessed with Egyptians, but Madeline understood you couldn’t take your treasures to the afterlife - I don’t know if Roderick understood it as well and only wanted the symbols of status, but Madeline wanted the money as a means to achieve her true ambition.

Perhaps her immortality would’ve been fame, if we go back to the conversation with Verna in the bar when she asked Madeline what was more important to her - money or fame.

[mixelation]

i was idly thinking about what a karin SI would look like, but i think the more fun version might be: karin time travel back to her genin body. consider the merits of karin going completely feral on the plot

completely unknown player to basically everyone of note. no one could predict her. she's not even from a relevant village. however karin actually potentially knows like. 90% of the various conspiracies driving the plot

despite barely doing anything in canon, karin is weirdly OP. instant healing, top-notch sensing, chakra chains. she's also clever, strategic when she needs to be, and mean af.

can name drop "uzumaki" at any moment for a fun and confusing time

if you drop her into her body after her mom dies, karin has 0 ties to anyone and 0 reason to not immediately go and fuck up the timeline

oh, you think you had some big evil plan? you thought you were going to take over the world? WRONG, there's a surprise rogue preteen uzumaki girl with like three bloodline limits and nothing to lose

[collapsedsquid]

OK "Merit" can involve a bit of equivocation. On one hand there's "IQ", "G factor", whether you are part of the Calvinist elect, how much money you have earned, how close to the future god-AI you are, how pure your pure white blood bloodline is. This is one thing that people mean by Merit, you just gotta put Elon Musk in charge and everything will be fine.

On the other hand "Merit" can also be expertise, domain knowledge, accreditation, whether you are a actually doctor or you are selling snake oil out of the back of a truck, whether you should trust that doctor to give you legal or financial advice.

[nunalastor]

Zelda au

Similar to the Zelda's royal bloodline, Alastor in this AU has the blood of the goddess running through their veins. Alastor is female in this au and is the descendant of a mortal who is reincarnated from a goddess. The goddess could be the sibling/daughter of God that created this world. When Lucifer gave Eve the apple in this AU, it caused a chain effect where Roo/Demise was released unto the world. In order to stop the spread of malice and evil, the goddess sacrifice herself to seal the evil away and banished it to the deepest pit of hell.

Like any Zelda game, seals don't last forever and needs to be renew every once in a while. So the goddess chose to be reincarnated as a human, and whenever it seems the seal is about to break, the descendant of the reincarnated human will be able to perform a sacred ritual on earth to re-seal the evil. The bloodline is almost 100% guarantee go to heaven. Especially the one that perform the sacred ritual, they are practically saints.

However, Roo/Demise has gotten smarter over the thousands of years of being seal and re-seal away. They hatched up a plan, they would trap the latest descendant that would be performing the latest sacred ritual in to hell. This would allow them to corrupt the descendant and use their divinity power and bloodline to free them from their prison. Unfortunately for Alastor, she was the one who will be performing the sacred ritual that year. After Alastor performed the ritual, she can feel something is wrong. The seal is renewed, but something is very wrong. She can feel it in her soul.

This is proven correct, when after she died, she ended up in hell. Alastor was very confused at first but since it's Alastor she just rolled with it. Cue her being an Overlord very quickly, with divinity power and all. By the time Hazbin started, everyone has the impression of Alastor of being super evil and probably has very dark magic, ironically.

Meanwhile, Heaven is freaking out because their latest saint is missing and no where to be found and the seal on Roo/Demise is acting very strange. I can also see Lucifer freaking out when he first meet Alastor. Like this woman is reeking divinity but is also very hot?!!? Why is she in hell?? Is heaven planning an attack??? And again, why is she so hot???

Anonymous asked:

Zelda Au

Since Alastor is a descendant of a goddess in this AU, she is willing to give redemption a benefit of a doubt. Make no mistake, she still thinks sinner should be damned for their lives and deserved to be in this pit of cesspool for the rest of their afterlives but she can also see that there are people who just made mistakes and can get better. Whether or not is up to them, after all you can't get better until you choose to want to get better. After seeing Charlie commercial on TV, she figured why not? It's not like she has anything better to do and the princess redemption plan does have merit no matter how disastrous as it is.

When Alastor show up at the Hazbin Hotel, she is met with somewhat hostility. This is due to her divine blood causing the demons/sinner to subconsciously trigger their flight or fight instincts. Everyone seems a little on edge with her with the exception of Vaggie who seems a bit more relaxed due to being an angel. After the partnership is established, Alastor summons Husk and Niffty.

Husk and Niffty is a bit different in this au with Alastor being different and all. For Husk, he is still the same but can tell something is different about Alastor. He can sense that Alastor is not a normal sinner and probably not even a normal human to begin with. Alastor won Husk's soul like in the canon. But in this au, Alastor saw there is Husk can be better. So in a mess up way to help Husk, she leash his soul so that she can keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't lose himself any more further than he's currently is.

As for Niffty, she just saw this crazy sinner and decide "Yeah, this is my daughter now". Lots of cute mother-daughter fluff (Charlie is somewhat jealous. Mommy issues.)

[contentloadingandstuff]

Dark Days - Kujou Sara x Male!Reader

CW: Violence, reader death.

Sara still couldn't believe the change in her life. She always pictured herself (and was viewed as) stoic, unmoving, emotionless - a perfect subject of the Shogun, dedicated and committed to the cause. Rejecting all distractions - both petty and grand. After all, she decided to follow a path of absolute devotion to Eternity, in the face of which all mortal matters are infinitely small. 

But love strikes without warning. It was just a few careful glances at first, but in a matter of a few years love bloomed between you and her into something more permanent, and you placed the ring on her finger on that fateful day. You shook her world, her views and her life to the core. Every night with you by her side, every gentle touch, every gentle kiss left her ascetic ideas dazed and reeling, until her perception of duty changed drastically. Sara understood that loyalty to the Shogunate is not as two-dimensional as she imagined it. 

There is nothing to be gained from limiting herself so radically in the long run. More - love reinforces her resolve, pushing her to work twice as hard towards the safety of Inazuma, the safety of you. When she can drop her guard down and indulge herself with the love you shower her with daily, all doubts and fears are eradicated, letting her focus once again. A pillar to rely on provides her a safe, stable base to build her sense of comfort and security on. 

Sara understood that she can serve in a different way too. She can defend Inazuma with every second of her life, every bit of strength, but hers or your life isn't eternal. The youth needs to take your place when the time comes - someone intelligent, sharp and full of energy. With the brains and talents you have, there is no doubt that your heir will be worthy of serving Inazuma, whichever area they will choose. Except for destroying as a general, Sara thinks that, as a woman, her duty is to build. Build a family that will serve the state and the Shogun beyond her lifespan, a bloodline that will be the pride of the country, and a shining example for others in terms of courage and merit of its members. 

Even if she approaches her life mostly with stoic resolve, this thought never fails to rouse excitement in her. “Kujou” is a name of the past now. Finally she can build something for herself, something just yours and hers. A safe place to withdraw to, and a fire to stoke her resolve. It has been a few months since you started trying for a child, but Sara is patient. Her eagerness, though, is hard to contain. She has dreamed so long of this - to carry her child within herself, and then in her own arms. To see them smile, to make them laugh, to teach and to guide. To be the parent she herself never had. 

But then the war came. 

The Vision Hunt Decree came as a huge surprise for you two. Despite working in the second highest ring of authority, no drafts or warnings of this ever reached you. Still, Sara accepted it. If this is the wish of the Archon, then who is she, a foolish mortal, to disagree? 

Quickly this controversial order turned into a civil war when Watatsumi Island refused to hand out their Visions. Sara understood this decision, yet it was her duty to enforce it. She trusted the Shogun with her life. After rallying the armies of the Tenryu Commission, she led them south through the island chain, and forward onto Watatsumi Island. 

Unfortunately, with you by her side. 

According to the law, every family under the jurisdiction of the Shogunate was to send out one male of fighting age to join the army. With no small effort, Sara was able to delay your draft. But a few weeks into the war proved that Watatsumi was not willing to back down; their resistance was fierce, and losses kept mounting. She could no longer bend her authority to shield you without risk of drawing attention. Doing what she could, Sara got you to fight in her regiment as an officer - the small glimmer of hope was that you were of noble blood, and thus could be granted the privilege of a commanding position and the personal protection that was provided by it. 

Still, it brought no peace of mind to her. She knew what the reality was. 

— 

“Stay in formation!” You shout, looking at the battlefield through the small slit between your helmet and your broad shield. Three hundred paces away stands the enemy, with deadly spears and sturdy shields in hand. 

They look almost identical to your men. Only the colors are different. 

Though cold winds and biting rain falls upon you, you're sweating. You had to march, almost run to face the assault banner the enemy had fielded this morning. Stress builds up in your body as you move forward, your men following in your footsteps. There's one man on your left, one on your right, and one behind you - carrying the unit’s standard. 

You steady your breath. Although the enemy is in clear view, you find comfort in the company of your subordinates. They have both the same fear and the same motivation. None of you want to die. For every one of them there's someone waiting back home, praying to the Sacred Sakura their husbands, fathers, brothers and lovers and friends return safely. But not for you. Your wife is here with you - standing safely behind two rows of infantry, keeping a careful watch over how the fighting will proceed. She will be fine and you know it. She's intelligent and capable in combat. She's strong. 

Although officially you are to fight for the Shogunate, your motivation lies somewhere else. You are here to keep Sara safe by ensuring the line never breaks. At least not your regiment. 

“Advance!” The commander of the unit behind you shouts, passing on Sara’s order. With all your might, you repeat the command. 

“Advance!”

The slow step turns into a jog. The air is filled with the sounds of the many armors’ metallic clicking. Your heart speeds up when you spot a flock of thin, black lines in the sky. 

You scream. “Arrows!” 

Several other warnings resonate thought-out the ranks. You raise your shield in unison with your men, and lean forward to ensure your torso and legs are safe. The missiles fall harmlessly on your shield, but a few slide off of your back. Many land in front of you, impaled into the sands of Nazuchi Beach. 

Just a few more moments and you'll be out of range. You speed up, and your men follow suit. 

Unbeknownst to you, a single, Geo-infused arrow was high in the air, just a few seconds from impact. 

Without warning, it hits the shield right above your forearm. 

Without much trouble, the weighted shot passes through the wood as if it was one of the paper walls back home. 

It punches through your armor and caves in your chest, knocking out all the air from your lungs, just as her kisses always did. 

You stumble and spit blood from your butchered lungs. Your head spins and you fall back onto the sand, your spear falling from your grasp.

Your vision fades - not much is left of your heart, the one she valued so dearly. 

Your body spasms and gargles for a moment, your warm, red blood staining the pale sand below you. 

Two sets of arms grab your body, and drag it back behind the lines. 

— 

Your body, and the information of your passing, were withheld from Sara until the battle was over - by command of her lieutenant. Only when the dust settled and the broken forces of Watatsumi Island retreated was this news handed to her. 

“What?” She says, her voice quite unsure. “Are you certain it's him? The vanguard is still cleaning up the remains of the resistance. This must be some sort of a misunderstanding?”

Her officers shift uneasily, and exchange anxious glances between each other. Sara stiffens, her expression turning stone cold. 

Silence falls in the room. Sara blinks a few times, the thought rolling around in her mind. She nods once. Twice. 

She lifts her hand to her mouth in an attempt to cover her trembling lips. Quickly, warm tears start making their way down her smooth features. She tries to rub them away with her hand, but fails to do so. She stifles a sob.

“Out.” 

This single word is enough to make the men turn and leave as quick as they can. Sara just stands in place, looking around the tent with tears flowing from her golden eyes. Like a lost girl. 

Lost. That's what she is. Lost. 

She can't-

She stumbles to the nearest chair on trembling legs and plops down on it. Sara leans in. Her hands cover her face. 

Words flood her mind. Single thoughts. That's all her mind is capable of. 

Y/N. 

You. 

Husband. 

Family. 

Children. 

Safety. 

Comfort. 

Happiness. 

Love. 

Life. 

Her vision blurs, black spots dancing before her eyes. Her legs feel weak. Her arms feel weak. Her body, her entire being is weak. 

Gone. 

Trampled.

War.

She takes a shaky breath. Her hands, still bearing the golden ring you placed on her finger, climb up to her scalp. Her nails dig into her scalp, fingers grabbing and pulling at her hair in whatever spots they can reach. She's shuddering. Sara screams soundlessly, pulling out her own hair in helplessness. 

Hell. 

Thanks for reading.

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

Finally, one of the main characters, the voice actor for Wakamiya/Nazukihiko, Miyu Irino, has chosen his favourite scene. It is from the fourth episode, “The Imperial Council.”

I think the relationship between Yukiya and Wakamiya is an important element for the Yatagarasu series.

Even during the audition, I acted out the following line:

“You will never betray me. (Why? Because I doubt my enemies can offer you anything you would value more than the trust I place in you.)”

It's an important scene in the future development of the series.

Please remember this exchange!

After Wakamiya has uttered these words, it feels like a salve, an ointment, to Yukiya’s sense of self. He, a 13-year-old boy, who is struggling to be recognised through his ability, his character, his own merit not through his bloodline. Somehow, he was easy to be persuaded, or to be impressed with Wakamiya’s words on this scene. Can’t blame him, he might have a “rotten personality” (per manga*Wakamiya’s words) but he’s still a teenager, younger than the crown prince. Remember when Yukiya felt disappointed and betrayed on Episode 11: “The Loyal Retainer”?

“You made me sound so special.”

That’s also the reason Yukiya behaves that way on episode 14 when meeting Sumimaru. He knows darn well Wakamiya’s schtick all along.

Definitely, a good choice as this has become one of the turning points of their relationship, the so-called next chapter. It shows how adamant Wakamiya is to bring Yukiya to his side.

“Please remember this exchange!” Of course, I will. Will certainly looking forward to the upcoming episodes.

[captainofthetidesbreath]

Frankly, the tragedy of Colin's life is that he cannot be—rather, is not allowed to be—Just Some Guy by his sociopolitical reality and the rules of the games that power plays simply because his grandfather was a tragically less successful Marquis de Lafayette. Importance can be inherited in this setting, and who one's grandfather was can, will, and often does override everything else about one's lived reality. Power is measured in blood, in more ways than one.

Lucas Fontina led Lacramor against "some royals who were putting their boot in the neck of the people." He was possibly noble himself, given he had a coat of arms and his child was a secret; this detail is a mere footnote in history, but perhaps it matters when the system revolves around hereditary power and when Colin is hunted for being a direct descendant. In all cases, the core point is: he was a rebel leader who nearly won his war, on that merit alone he is important and threatening to the throne.

The rest of Colin's other biographical details—he was born to an unacknowledged son, he was never eligible for titles or lands, he grew up on the streets in poverty, he has no political or social power, any other detail emphasizing that he is thoroughly of the commonfolk—don't matter to power because this is a sociopolitical system where importance, relevance, and power can be inherited and thus ancestry matters desperately. The identity of his grandfather has the ability to outweigh everything else about Colin's life, and it does because Fontina was a political threat so powerful that his memory haunts Lacramor decades later. It is a system of hereditary succession, and thus the throne will continue to worry about Fontina's bloodline until they are secure, more threatened by something else, or crumble.

Colin's father is suggested to not even be a recognized member of Fontina's family, being a secret child. It does not matter; despite otherwise being nobody of note, he was still someone important and threatening enough to established power to be worth murdering immediately upon the discovery that he is Fontina's son. The mere identity of his father elevated him into Someone Of Note; it was a status inherited, even as it materially brought nothing but fear and death, a symbolic power passed down a lineage in the way so much power in this setting is.

Colin, like his father, isn't allowed to be someone unimportant simply because Fontina was actually someone important for having crossed the Powers That Be in the way he did. Those powers and this system that places such importance on lineage made sure that Fontina's children and his grandchildren will bear that burden as well, of being someone noteworthy and important to the power struggles of the Islands, no matter how inconsequential they are otherwise. No matter what the details are in the rest of his biography, Colin is someone simply because he is Someone's grandson.

Power is measured in blood, through lineage as much as violence. Unfortunately for Colin, this means that the Powers That Be place an inordinate amount of importance on the identity of his grandfather. In the eyes of the throne and according to the rules of hereditary power, Colin inherits the symbolic power that Fontina wielded in life—so long as the throne continues to fear its authority will be challenged in the way Fontina did. The social system will not allow Colin to be an unremarkable common person. He cannot be Just Some Guy within this political situation and system of power, it isn't something allowed to him, and that's the tragedy and terror of his life.

[goldensunset]

share ur theories abt khml pleaseeeee im dying over here

ok ok i’m thinking. i’m thinking ummmm

so as pointed out in this post it’s odd that master’s defender is on freya’s weird conspiracy board/wall. seems like she’s gathering and analyzing important things to try to figure something out, right? so what’s particularly and immediately relevant about the founder’s keyblade?

i’m feeling like master’s defender is either 1. missing (even stolen), like that post was talking about or 2. they know exactly where it is but there’s something weird going on with it lately. like is it really just a regular keyblade? surely not

basically i can easily see this item as being central to whatever the conflict of this game is about. it is The Missing Link™️. like it’s clearly culturally very important to the people of scala bc their founder wielded it and he’s been immortalized in a statue holding it, and we know its history (having come from brain, who got it from ava, who may or may not have gotten it from MoM bc of the insignia) is a plenty interesting one. so there’s a lot they can do with it here

we also know its future is clearly an interesting and relevant one because eraqus inherits it. we can be absolutely certain without a doubt it was a nepotism thing as opposed to merit bc it’s been pointed out that he’s a blueblood and also there’s no way that doofus earned it by his own right or whatever lol. so like… khml is surely gonna feature the themes of bloodlines and inheritance, right?

but it’s super interesting bc (presumably) eraqus’s ancestor is brain, right? i mean he could possibly have dual lineage and also be related to ephemer at this point but like i feel like what they’ve been going for all along is that it’s brain. but then you consider how if master’s defender is associated with ephemer then surely his (main) bloodline would be the ones inheriting this keyblade right? assuming they don’t like have it in a museum being treated like a relic or whatever. (also assuming the one ephemer’s statue is holding isn’t literally the keyblade itself baked in there but that’s a thought tangent for another time)

my point being. it seems odd that eraqus would end up with it. that his ancestors would have it. and therefore i’m thinking possibly part of the plot of the game is that brain takes it for himself or something. i mean like it was his first and ephemer himself was like ‘ok i’ll take it but in my mind it still belongs to you’. would it really be in character for brain to steal like that? dunno. but there are a multitude of ways it might go down

like maybe it’s a national treasure-esque situation where he steals it to prevent someone else from stealing it. like he’s just holding onto it for safekeeping and ends up keeping it. alternatively he takes it bc there’s something weird happening with it and he wants to solve the mystery. basically this is how ‘brain gets arrested’ becomes real

much to think about

[monstrifex-art]

Malka Bat-Sheva - Original character & short story inspired by the Chainverse series by Maria Ying.

Killing a vampire with your hands is not a simple matter. There are several important steps to the process.

The first step is to understand that you are outmatched. A vampire kills and eats humans. That is its nature, its default state. Every fact of its physiology is bent toward this aim. It is stronger than you, faster than you, and possessing of a hunger that eclipses its fear of death. To match the lowest vampire, a human must train to be strong, to be fast, and to numb themselves to mortal fear. In this sport, hesitation will kill faster than recklessness.

Second, you must craft of yourself an effective weapon. Folklore suggests a dozen dozen anathemas that harm vampires, some of which even work. But there are only two weapons that harm vampires across all bloodlines: sunlight and human hope.

While sunlight can be weaponized by arcane means in hand-to-hand combat, it is a difficult and often fleeting resource to harness. Do so if you are able, but do not rely on it as your only weapon.

Hope is a more dependable asset. Vampires are creatures made of fear. The faith and courage of their prey harms them at a metaphysical level. To this end, religious symbology and artifacts of human belief can be instrumental. I have tattooed myself with the faith of my ancestors, as their religion runs most strongly in my blood. If your ancestry leans toward a particular creed, I suggest you do likewise.

The more eclectic reagents espoused by folklore can be effective against particular vampire bloodlines, often because of the properties granted them by human belief. I take a scattershot approach. I wrap my arms in bandages lined with smoked salt, purified silver wire, various cleansing herbs, and a mix of shredded holy texts. If you know the lineage of your target, you can tailor these ingredients to them. Do your research.

Third, one must force the vampire to remain in corporeal form. There is merit to emotional manipulation in pursuit of this goal– challenging a vampire to physical combat will often amuse them enough to humor your request. But it is an unreliable method best used only when other options are unavailable. In my experience, one is better off relying on magical means of trapping them in their body of meat and bone. Smoked salt disrupts the black mist, drawing them back to physicality. Coat your fists and shins with it. Certain charms and benedictions ward off intangible evils, forcing them to materialize in order to approach you. With these the key is to not only force them to start a fight, but to prevent them from escaping.

Fourth is to unmake them. Know that no human martial art is sufficient to prepare you. Martial arts are designed with defense in mind and honed through the use of sparring. In order to kill a vampire, you will have to perform actions that are impossible to practice without maiming your sparring partner. It is a sad reality that in order to kill vampires with your hands, you must first have killed humans.

Supernaturally augmented though they may be, a vampire still needs eyes to see. Tendons to move. A jaw with which to bite. Your goal is to deny them these resources.

It is not enough to strike your opponent or grapple them into submission. You must ruin them. You must tear muscle fibers, crack joints, snap bones with carefully placed force. Vampires feel pain less intensely than humans, but they will still be stunned if you mangle their flesh. Your attacks must rupture the machinery of their bodies, inflict enough damage that they are unable to tear out your throat and drink your lifeblood. No single martial art can prepare you. Study them all. Use the parts you find effective. Reduce your opponent to a husk of broken meat. Then the killing blow will be trivial.

Fifth, you must eat the vampire’s heart. Mere moments after ruining a vampire’s body, it will begin to repair itself. You must act quickly. Tear the heart from its rib cage and devour it. Take the power it would use to remake itself and channel it into your own flesh. This is the truest defeat of a vampire: to inflict on it what it was born to inflict on you. There is no sweeter triumph for humanity than to dominate the beast at its own game.

Consuming vampires will change you. The magic that strengthens them will fuel your body, but alter your flesh. You will not be human, not in the traditional sense. But you will remain human in the eyes of your prey.

And that is all that matters.

[wwerasliin-sideblog]

Personally I'm choosing not to see Jey's IC Championship reign as a "hand off" ; or "transitional" ; or an obligatory "reward" —

He deserves better than his reign being "labeled".

This is all for the draw back into the Bloodline drama story. From the very beginning, this is what it was. But, also... It was to show that Jey IS capable. He showed he DOES deserve it. Showing he IS a Champion. Showing he CAN do it. He's proved he's got the fans with him. He's backed himself. He's established himself, and he's proven himself. He's always going to stick to and believe - "hard work will always pay off."

Of course Roman and Jimmy weren't going to interfere. Jey would've been absolutely livid if they did. He doesn't want them 'tainting' his reign. He wants it on his own merit. To earn it himself. Even if that means loosing. He sure as heck isn't going to go back to the old ways of the Bloodline retaining their championships; Roman's way of remaining Champ, and retaining.

This could possibly push him over the edge, making him desperate, scratchy, scrappy and scrambling even. He's now got *rage*; a bone to pick with the Bloodline 2.0. How's it going to tie in with the OG Bloodline? Even if they have the same goal now - taking down baby brother Solo? Is it going to be "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" type of situation? Or, like I mentioned in my previous post, "fix/heal what's between us" before we try and fix the outside — then we "fix" the outside together?

Having one over them, with the title was one of the things that gave Jey the confidence to say -Screw you. Right now, I am better than you, I've got the credibility- Now that he doesn't have that (not that he needs it) is he going to be a little more susceptible...

This IS the reaction they (wwe) wanted -

Outrage and desperation seeping into us. The fury, rage and disappointment so palpable. Our hearts beating with heated anger, inflamed with a certain kind of sadness. It has us aching for him, backing him more than ever before. He's made to suffer and all we want to do is pick him up and make sure he's okay, and he's given the best. Hold his hand and walk with him into a bright and better future filled with greater things.

All I can say is that he's got another level of support after this ridiculous travesty, the support has only grown; strengthen, heightened, deepened, intensified, and cemented to an even greater degree.