#queen of beautiful tragedy

[writing-on-the-wahl]

“King to king, warrior to warrior, brother to brother”

“Peter didn’t need Edmunds thoughts or feelings, he needed Edmunds ears”

Ahhhh I have so many quotes I want to emphasize BUT THEY ARE SPOILERS!!!! Ahh so I guess you have to go read it so we can all be heartbroken together 😭🥺

Meg stop breaking my heart it is FRAGILE

…You Can Too ~ Peter Pevensie

This was originally the epilogue for Bruises, but I realized it could stand on it’s own, so I edited it to make sure you can read it without reading Bruises!

Warnings: angst

Word count: 2.9k

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The ice coating the columns slowly melted, the droplets of water hitting the stone floor. The puddle of water spread towards the bodies of the wolf and the hag laying haphazardly to the side. They were dead, the men knew that for a fact, but the strange flickering shadows from the torches gave the impression that they were moving. 

The two brothers sat on the edge of the stone table. 

Edmund stared unblinkingly at the carving of Aslan, but Peter’s eyes were fixed on the witch’s scepter in the center of the rapidly melting ice.

The Just king broke the silence first. “Caspian should be back soon with Doctor Cornelius. He’ll tell us what to do with the scepter.”

Peter didn’t reply, and Edmund swiveled to look at him, taking note of his dull expression and faraway eyes.”

“You hesitated,” Edmund said. “When the witch asked for your blood, you didn’t say no or run her through. You just…stood there.”

There was no answer. 

Edmund shifted so he was facing his brother. “You were thinking of Y/N, weren’t you?” Peter buried his face in his hands, letting out ragged breaths. Edmund let out a heavy sigh, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I know you miss her.”

A bitter laugh sounded as Peter shrugged out of Edmund’s grasp, getting to his feet. “You don’t understand.” Edmund opened his mouth to say something. “You don’t get it,” Peter repeated flatly.

“What don’t I get?” Edmund asked softly. Peter returned his gaze to the scepter, and Edmund couldn’t help but notice the way his brother’s fingers twitched. “If you don’t talk about it,” Edmund began, making sure to keep his voice soft, “if you bottle it up…it’ll only grow worse.”

Peter pressed the pads of his fingers into his eyes, clearly fighting something, a feeling Edmund knew too well. But Edmund also knew what happened if pain was left to fester. 

“It’s just me, Pete.”

King to king, warrior to warrior, brother to brother. 

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[stardustedknuckles]

Listening to the Matron talk about the previous god of death cements for me the idea that Vax was always meant to have more time before she made good on their deal. She didn't mean for him to know the same eternal separation and grief she had taken upon herself - that she had chosen with eyes wide open. He was supposed to have time and happiness with Keyleth. Maybe even time beyond a natural lifespan, though that's probably pushing it a little. To the max of said lifespan at the very least. She didn't want for him - or for keyleth - what she had been through, but her hand was forced, and the only way to give him back in any capacity was to take away what should have been. His fate was to become her champion, yes, but there was time to live first. That fate was changed as a gift. It was all she could allow as the keeper of her domain and arguably, her mortality is what led her to give it at all.

Yes. She hears the sounds of grief and loss unending, unceasing. Death is less than nothing to her and the sum of who she is. She is synonymous to death in many ways, though she refers to herself as its steward and rightfully so.

But I think what sets her apart is that she never grows numb to it. That mask is to hide the fact that all of it still affects her. It's to hide all of it - her loneliness, yes, but also that she feels every death. She hears every cry, every curse, every regret. She stands before every soul individually and does what she must, and she wears the mask so that she can do so without giving anything of her mortal feelings away. The dead do not need to know that she cares, that she understands. Death is not about her. It is about who is standing in front of her waiting to be ushered into the beyond. She is the great reuniter, forever separated from the one she loves.

So yes. I believe that Vax was always meant to have more time, right up until time was the only thing left to barter. His fate was to die after a long and happy life, to go peacefully and take up the mantle at her side when he was done on Exandria.

But that had to change to save the fate of the world, and nobody in this realm or any other knows better the loss and the grief that came about from cutting that time short. Vax wasn't meant to understand it either. She wanted better for him and, by extension, keyleth.

[persephryne]

Parading Meleys’ head through King’s Landing streets was indeed stupid, because while it was thought by Cole as a way to showcase the Blacks’ weaknesses, it made the smallfolk think that dragons « are just meat��» which in the end will turn against the Greens as well. After all, their dragons are just meat too.

BUT that’s why I think Jacaerys and Rhaenyra decision to look for Dragonriders who are not « pureblood » Targaryens is a terrible idea (if they succeed) in terms of reaffirming their strength. The fact that the Targaryens are the only ones able to tame and ride such creatures is why they are both feared and admired. As Targaryens they are « closer to gods than men » mostly thanks to their dragons. Sure, having more Dragonriders will make them look stronger, but only for a while.

Daemon himself said « If the King isn’t feared, he is powerless. If you are to be a strong queen, you must cultivate love and respect, yes, but your subjects must fear you. ». Perhaps he wasn’t wrong.

The realm will come to the realization that 1. Dragons can be defeated and 2. Dragons can be ridden by other houses as long as they have a drop of Targaryen blood in them.

That would make both the Blacks and the Greens appear weaker. Entitled. Cruel even because the smallfolk and the others houses suffer from this intestine nonsensical war. But should they really fear them, if their dragons are just meat and others can ride them ? Meleys’ parade and the dragonriders search might even eventually lead to the storming of the Dragonpit.

In the end, the Blacks and the Greens come from the same (family) tree. They’re two sides of the same coin. Whatever they do to tarnish and undermine the other side will ultimately fire back. No side can prevail, either they all win, which is impossible or they all lose, which is inevitable.

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day: ill-fated Polish starlet Bella Darvi (née Bajla Węgier, 23 October 1928 - 11 September 1971), one of the many protégées (more accurately, mistresses) that 20th Century Fox magnate Darryl Zanuck unsuccessfully groomed for stardom in the fifties. (As Kenneth Anger leers in Hollywood Babylon II (1984), “Of all Hollywood’s “piggy” moguls, Zanuck was the biggest casting couch hog”). After discovering Darvi in Paris in June 1951 and importing her to Hollywood, Zanuck launched the publicity build-up: “A newly arrived French doll by the name of Bella Darvi, who has the voice of Marlene Dietrich, the eyes of Simone Simon and the allure of Corinne Calvet, is hitting Hollywood with the impact of TNT. She’s got zip, zoom and zowie and in parlez-vous she is ravissante, chi-chi and très élégante.” Unfortunately, movie audiences were underwhelmed by Darvi’s performances in Hell and High Water (1954) and Biblical epic The Egyptian (1954, pictured) and she ignominiously returned to Paris. Her messy later years were blighted by gambling addiction (according to Wikipedia “In 1956, she reportedly lost $1,000 in two minutes at the casino then $65,000 in two days … Zanuck was still paying off her debts as late as 1970. She would win and lose up to £30,000 a night”) and Darvi died of suicide aged 42 in Monte Carlo in 1971.

[lumiereandcogsworth]

i was just thinking about adam’s mother standing in her rose garden when she was pregnant with him. she’s clipping and watering and tending to her roses.

she has so little control in her life. courtiers and advisors and elders are always telling her what to do, how to behave, how to sit how to stand how to walk. and now especially, carrying the heir to the throne in her belly, she has lost herself. she is no longer a person (how much was she a person before this?) but a vessel. she is fulfilling the only duty her cruel husband ever needed from her. she feels numb. she feels trapped. she feels the child kick and wiggle against her stretched skin and she cries for him. this poor little child. how desperately she wished she could raise him with her family back home. this is not home, this is a cage.

so, she does what she can. she controls the one thing in this godforsaken world that she is able to, and she tends to her lovely roses.

[lykorises]

tags /

[writingsofwesteros]

OK but after Rhaegar blows up at her, she feels unable to be vulnerable around him for a while. Princess and Robert take time to rebuild trust, but it does happen. Stev apologizes and makes amends with Princess, Robert is stubborn but just bear hugs Stev and says "I know why. I don't like it, never did. But I know why".

Everything is starting to improve, but she just can't relax around Rhaegar. His screaming at her sort of peeled away her own security in their marriage even further. How he can turn his rage on her, stalk off, and just not talk to her. Not respond to her apologies or attempts to explain herself. Stev knows she was in the wrong, she wants to move on and fix things. Rhaegar is still too angry, choosing to use his duties as Prince to avoid her. She starts to spend time with Tywin, as a person she trusts and sees as being wise. Little does she know, she's tempting a Lion with the most delectable of meals. A sweet Doe who's Dragon is too prideful to check on his bride.

Robert is stubborn but just bear hugs Stev and says "I know why. I don't like it, never did. But I know why".

I mean ..to be fair..she was just speaking with him as a brother...he had his own insecurities it seems.

ooh...love the thought with Tywin....the drama continues ...poor thing just needed a shoulder to cry on

[psychewritesbs]

Ok but can we talk about how beautifully written Westworld is? the whole story on the nature of consciousness against human nature (ego) is just... yes.

Yes.

[neo-shitty]

🦷.

[ravensmadreads]

TAYLOR -

WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

i breathe you in (and it changes me)

rating: teen pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader word count: 2K summary: you've been here with him before - rock bottom. But this time, he gives you reason to hope for something new. warnings: alcohol use, mentions of drug use, physical fighting, blood, wounds, bruises, mentions of past toxic behavior a/n: your original ask @bitchwitch1981 got swallowed up by tumblr, so i had to create a new post :( but I wanted to say thank you so much for requesting this - it was more therapeutic to write than i initially thought!

1K ask:

Sweet Taylor, Congratulations on the amazing milestone! 💜 I have decided to go for astrology for The Midnight Seance. I have chosen the prompt “Hold my hand please?” “When you ask so nicely.” and my own darling Dieter Bravo.

🤍Masterlist 🤍 Dieter Bravo Masterlist

The damp heat of the night is made worse by the thick knot of chittering spectators by the back alley of the club. You can hear the fleshy blows, hear the flesh rip and tear the veins, the delighted groan of the crowd after a particularly sickening crunch. White lights of camera flashes flicker, the smell of blood acidic on your tongue, the metallic taste getting stronger the closer you get to the front of the crowd. You see the blur of an arm just as you shove aside a man recording the whole scene with his phone; how much will TMZ pay for even seven seconds of that video?

Across from you, a thick shadow with bloody knuckles paces like a caged tiger, snorting with rage, the spectators jeering and howling their approval. The man, twice as thick as you are, waits at the edge of the fight, his vision locked forward, massive hands itching to rip apart something alive. 

Whatever is left alive of the heap of clothes in front of you.

It shudders, arms and legs curling beneath it, and rolls backwards. The crowd lets out a disgusted groan at the sight of the bloody face. Your heart sinks to the sticky concrete.

Oh, Dieter.

Asphalt digs into your knees as you kneel down next to him, the sounds of the crowd fading as panic swells within you. He doesn’t even register that you’re there until you touch his cheek. One eye completely swollen shut, blood running down from his nose over his upper lip, he meets your gaze and flinches. 

“Sorry,” he slurs – either from his split lip or being drunk out of his mind, you can’t tell, “you look like my ex.” 

“Dieter, it’s me.” 

His collar is torn, blood speckles cover the front of his shirt, and his jeans are filthy. Judging by his own shredded knuckles, he might have actually gotten a few good hits in. Gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning. You put a hand on his shoulder, looking for any other open wounds, for more blood – and he shoves you off.

“Go away. I’m kicking this guy’s ass.” 

Groaning, Dieter staggers to his feet, the blood freely flowing from his nose now. He gets upright and immediately stumbles, hands going to his knees, much to the deformed glee of the crowd. They whoop and laugh and hold their phones higher. 

Even in heels, you’re several inches shorter than him and you intentionally didn’t wear that much clothing – you were going to club with your friends to forget – but you try to shield him from the camera lenses anyway. 

From the back of his throat, Dieter spits out a wad of blood. “Fuck, my head hurts.” The drool that slips from his mouth is pink and frothy.

“Dieter, c’mon, we’re going.” 

You drag his arm over your shoulder, shifting as much of his weight onto you as you can. His entire back and underneath his arm is drenched in what you pray is sweat. Behind you, you know the other man is yelling, shouting, something about teaching that fat mouth a lesson, but you do what you’ve alway done when it comes to Dieter: you put yourself between him and an oncoming car crash. 

Hoping a grown man won’t take a full swing with a woman in kitten heels and a slinky dress nearby, you half-push, half-carry Dieter back towards the way you came in, but you make it two more steps before he pushes you away again, his fingertips drifting down your shoulder. His face is twisted up in agony.

“Fuckin’ stop. I don’t need your help.”

You grab him by the bicep, twisting him to you again, and he stumbles, muttering a gruff sorry. Blood from his nose drips down onto your bare chest. He watches it, transfixed, his emotions crackling from one high to the next low. 

You cup his bruised, swollen jaw and his wet eyes meet yours and for an instant, no one else exists. His bottom lip trembles. 

“Dieter” you murmur, low enough for just him to hear, just enough for him to lean forward, to let himself be captured by you – briefly – just as he always had been. “We’re going home, okay?”

He nods, eyes shut, swaying, and lets himself be dragged away. 

Beyond the black partition, you hear music. Too soft to be distinct, too faint. Yet it sits between your teeth all the same, hums in the back of your jaw. Static noise. 

In your lap, lays Dieter’s head. Your skirt feels damp from where the blood from his nose gathers. It stopped dripping minutes ago but the spot still feels cold, still thick with it. Your hand curls in his hair, loose but weighted. Grounding. He always said this was his favorite spot in the entire world. 

You didn’t tell the driver to go east, towards Sherman Oaks, but the opposite direction, towards the rental property you kept by the beach. Before that, home had always been Sherman Oaks, but . . . in the after, you couldn’t even bear to see the name on the sign. 

Partially it’s practical. Given the swarmed mob, there most likely was another one waiting for him at the gates to his mansion. He doesn’t have his phone, you know, which is most likely a curse and a blessing. When it comes to moments like these, you’ve learned to deal with the problem right in front of you, one at a time. Or rather, the one in your lap. 

You swore you’d never be here again, you swore that you’d learn to unremember what here even feels like, and yet you ran to him all the same. This is not the first time you wonder if leaving him bleeding and drooling into the concrete would have been the right thing to do. 

The car drives you both towards the rental because you want him there. You want him to fill up that empty space in your bed, smear the too messy sink in the bathroom with uncharged electric toothbrushes and toothpaste that tastes like cotton candy, and bring a sense of wonder back into your increasingly dark days. But with all that, comes this. The black partition ahead of you blurs, your eyes grow hot and tight, submissive to the beaks of birds, and the back of your fingers not caught in his hair press harshly to the back of your mouth. You fight a shudder because you know he can’t bear to see you cry. 

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

His apologies always start like this, a little broken, a little roundabout way of getting to the heart of things. You sniff, your hand slipping to his shoulder and grasping it tight. “We don’t have to talk about it right now, okay, baby?”

“I didn’t want you to see me take pills.”

Your head bumps the back of the seat, as you swallow a sob and a laugh all at once. You squeeze him – no, no, of course not, you never mean it, you never mean any of it — 

“My therapist said they would help. And then they did. But I couldn’t get you back.”

He mutters something, rubbing his face slowly in your lap, like a blind kitten, his big hand over your knees, but you’re too stunned to parse out his babbling. 

“You went to therapy?” 

“Still in it.” He wheezes through a bruised rib. “She’s gonna be so pissed about this.” 

“You’re not high?” 

He shake-rubs his head again, the curls at his forehead catching against the sequins of your top. “Just drunk. I fucking hate being drunk.” 

He babbles some more, the words looped on tangled string, but you sit up, and gently turn his face towards you. The bleeding has stopped, but the swelling has set in. His right eye is black and blue, the skin puffy and tender. There’s a cut across his left cheek and his lip is split down the middle. Fuck, if these don’t heal right, that could be the end of his career. 

Goddamn it – and why would you care about that? It’s not your job to care anymore. 

You reverently trace a finger over his black eye, his cheek, his lips, to the blood on his temple. Tragedy always looked so good on him. 

His hand catches yours. You think his good eye might be filled with tears.

“I tried to get better . . . for you. For us. I took all the right pills, instead of the wrong ones this time, and I thought I was better.” Dieter shifts, so his back is against the seat and he’s looking straight up at you. He holds your hand to his chest, his other rising up to cup your cheek. That single touch cracks your resolve, your rule against letting him affect you, and you cry. He watches the silent tears roll down your cheeks, over his thumb. You think he looks remorseful. “I tried to get better and you moved on without me.”

It only just now occurs to you that he had most likely been inside the club when you had, had probably seen you and never said anything. He watched you dance and drink and try to forget him with other sweaty bodies and he never said a thing.

Bruised anger, the kind that melts off your ribs, flares bright within you and you jerk your face away from his touch.

“You don’t get to blame me for your shit anymore, Dieter.” 

His fingers curl and he swallows, the dried blood around his mouth cracking. “No, baby, I’m not. I’m not. I’m sorry I ever did. I didn’t mean it, I never mean it – never meant to hurt you. But I do, don’t I? I hurt you all the time.” 

Your anger throbs. “Then why? Why, Dieter, would you wait to get help until after I was gone? Didn’t you want to try . . . to salvage something, anything between us?”

His hand drops to his chest. 

“I didn’t want you to see me take pills.”

You suddenly recognize the weight of his head on your lap, the density of his shoulders against your lap, and you, in a cycle of regret and love, want to scream at him. Want to shake him. Instead you brush his sticky curls off his forehead and a single tear escapes the corner of his eye, down his temple. 

“You silly, silly boy.” You sniff, tears freely flowing, and curl a strand of his beautiful hair in your fingers. “I would have been there for you. I’m glad you got help, and I hate that this was a relapse, but I would never have judged you for trying to get better, even if you failed. You were the one who didn't want me to see that side of you, Dieter. I never stopped loving you.”

For a moment, he goes still, the darkness of the night street obscuring his face, blurring him into one dark shadow that wheezed and sighed. You’re about to seek out his hand in the dark, if not his face, not his wounds, when he lets out the most broken noise you’d ever heard come from anyone. 

It’s a noise that will haunt you in nightmares for years to come.

“Oh,” he says. 

The car rolls to a stop, the faint music barely heard over the rush and crash of the waves on the other side of your rental. The radio goes silent and the partition rolls down. 

“We’re here, miss.” 

You wipe your eyes, mascara streaks turning your finger tips black, and cough to clear the knot in your throat that beats in time with your heart. Hands curling under his shoulders, you move to lift him up off your lap.

“C’mon, Dieter, we’ve gotta get you cleaned up–,”

“Wait.” He visibly swallows, nothing else on his face so clear in the dark. You feel a faint drop on your skirt. “I mean, I’ll go but . . . hold my hand – please?” 

Despite yourself, despite him, despite your tear-drenched lips, you lean down and kiss his forehead. Your shared shaky breaths are trapped between your chest and his.  “Only when you ask so nicely.”

+

[miserably-happy-go-lucky]

When I’m with others, my friends, family, or colleagues, I’m that bubbly type, the happy-go-lucky girl, who’s always smiling, laughing, and joking around. I love having a great time, and everyone around me acknowledges, and even compliments me for my joyous and carefree nature.

When I’m alone I tend to torture myself. I reminisce on days that have passed me by, without hesitation I regret my entire life, and I realize everything that I have loved, or ever will love, has been, or soon will be, taken away from me.

I miss all of those who I have loved throughout my life, who have unfortunately died, they’re never coming back, and it breaks me.

I’m not in control of anything that happens. I never have been, and I never will be..

For a long time I’ve stayed alive as to not hurt anyone else. But I am miserable.

I just have to sit here as the speculator, trying to find purpose somewhere.

Because although I am happy-go-lucky, I am more than depressed, and these feelings will not go away… No matter how much I “heal”…

I fear one day, living for someone else, will no longer work, and I will leave this earth too.

I have been putting on a pretty good show, sometimes I even forget that I’m depressed.

I’ll believe that I’m happy, if that makes you happy too.

[luckthebard]

I think a huge problem I’m seeing in some attempts at meta with C3 is that there is a subset of viewers who do not understand the place, value, and meaning of real world religion. It breeds takes like “well throw the gods out! Who needs them! They caused characters and the world pain! Free Vax from the Raven Queen!”

I throw that last one in there because it is the most ridiculous yet frequent and is really the crux of the issue. Vax’s story is very much about faith and the importance of faith and devotion. If you place no value on that you’ll end up grossly misunderstanding the character and the nature of his tragedy.

I’m going to out myself as an atheist, but I think the issue with a lot of these takes are that they come from internet atheists who are either resentful of and hostile toward religion because of personal experiences or do not know any devout people in their lives who they respect and can empathize with. And while I am not trying to downplay the very real phenomenon of religious trauma, when healing from it it is crucial to realize that all spiritual traditions are not synonymous with the one that harmed you. I would really implore more people to explore why many good people find spiritual traditions and religion to be a source of solace, community, and meaning before writing off the idea wholesale as something only functioning as a means of power and control that people can be educated out of believing. I encourage you to branch out and here are some examples of things I’ve done to challenge my own judgement over the last ten years: read the writings of gay Catholics exploring the queerness of Jesus. Read some beautiful poetry written by a trans man who specializes in Anglican theology. Explore religious observances different from the ones you experienced and attend a Seder. Go if a coworker invites you to a celebration of Ganesh. Learn the significance of solstice celebrations because your coworker is officiating one for a Wiccan event. Break fast at sundown during Ramadan with in solidarity with your roommate.

Deciding that all fictional religion must be an allegory for a specific kind of toxic nationalistic prosperity gospel Christian cult found in America will only limit how you engage with both fiction and the real world. It took me a long time to get to this place about it and I hope I’ve put the spark of curiosity and not judgment into at least one person reading this.

[writing-on-the-wahl]

Ahhhhh THE LAST LINE!!

It’s been such a delight to beta read this series and watch it all come together! @im-a-wonderling you had me worried there as the Queen of Beautiful Tragedy but I could not ask for a more perfect ending. Utterly incredible.

Bruises, Part 18 ~ Peter Pevensie

I hope everyone is having a restful holiday season, and if you aren’t, I hope this helps ❤️

Warnings: none?

Word count: 8.2k

Bruises Masterlist

Peter didn’t even have time to raise his arms before the dryad body-slammed him. He reeled backwards, colliding with me and bringing us both down to the ground. 

The weight of Peter’s body on mine disappeared the moment after it appeared as Peter leapt to his feet. “Let’s talk about this!” he sternly told the dryad, but she just swiped at him, sending him careening off in the direction of the fire. He barely managed to twist to avoid the flames. I didn’t have time to be relieved, for the dryad fixed her glassy gaze on me. 

Pushing myself to my feet, I held out my hands, trying to show I was unarmed. The silver bracelet around my wrist caught the light, reminding me of just how unarmed I really was. 

The dryad lifted her arms, and I leapt back, trying to stay out of her reach. 

As disoriented as the dryad was, she had no right being as fast as she was.

Quick as lightning, she lashed out, and the sheer force of her attack launched me backwards, straight into the boulder Peter’d been leaning against. 

I dropped to the ground, gasping, trying to breathe, but the hit left me stunned. Dazed, I pulled my head up to see the dryad looming over me, reaching out to grab me. I tried to scoot away, but there was nowhere for me to go. Pressing my back against the rock, I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the blow. 

“Leave her alone!”

My eyes flew open in time to see the dryad swivel towards Peter, who was standing his ground, a fallen tree branch in his hand. 

She advanced on Peter. He swung the tree branch. Clearly, the dryad’s mind wasn’t sound, because she didn’t even try to block the blow before it hit her torso.

The dryad stumbled, but quickly regained her footing. 

I jumped to my feet, looking around for a weapon of some kind but there was nothing that would make a dent. Then my eyes fell upon the bracelet around my wrist. 

My magic was the only weapon I had, and I’d shackled it earlier with no way of getting the bracelet off without Tolna’s help. 

I looked up to see Peter try to hit the dryad again, but she easily grabbed the branch, gripping it so tightly that it snapped. Peter’s eyes went wide just before the dryad shoved him. He slammed into the grass, twisting to look up at her. 

All I could do was scream as she brought her foot down on Peter’s sword arm.

Keep reading

[raven-dor]

Hi loves!!

I love your gwayne Hightower fics!

Can I have a request of gwayne x Targaryen reader (reader is rhaenyra’s young sis) where they are married for a while now then blood and cheese happened instead of jaeherys, one of their twins got killed 😔 and they’re both devastated

but still reader loves her sister (of course) and knows it’s not her fault

Thank you !! Sorry for any wrong grammars😅

are you satisfied?

In which gwayne hightower and his wife, rhaenyra targaryen’s sister, experience a great tragedy

PAIRING: gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader

WARNINGS: death, fighting, typical HOTD violence, like three swear words, 'betrayal'

WORD COUNT: 3.5k

AN: gwayne and the reader's children's names are Visenya and Velarion, and the reader is the rider of Silverwing

Gwayne always loved the fact that his wife’s violet eyes and bright white hair had transferred to their children. He thought his wife was far more comely than he, and he thanked the gods his children hadn’t received his looks. 

(Y/N made him swear to stop saying such things, that he was extremely handsome.) 

He smiled as his wife played hide and seek with their twins, pretending not to see their obvious hiding spots. She was an amazing mother, he told her as often as he could. His own mother had been cold, choosing court life over raising her children on more than one occasion. He had still loved her dearly, but it seemed, as he grew older, that that love was not returned. 

Over time, Gwayne had come to realize that his distaste for King’s Landing stemmed from his mother’s choices. When he had returned for the tourney celebrating the new heir, Prince Baelon, he found a reason to enjoy its high walls. Princess Y/N was a year younger than her sister, but it seemed as if she was much wiser and more deliberate in her decisions.

Because Y/N had loved King’s Landing, he had pretended to enjoy the place. He couldn’t stand to see the look of disappointment stretch across her beautiful face. 

So when Alicent sent a letter to Gwayne asking him to bring his family to King’s Landing, he couldn’t refuse. But he so wanted to. Y/N sensed his distaste immediately. She knew him too well, he would say.

His wife hadn’t wanted to return to King’s Landing either, her childhood home turned into that of a prison. Bringing their children, she argued, would put their whole family in danger. Gwayne had agreed, but how could he refuse the Dowager Queen? 

Y/N hadn’t supported Ageon’s claim, being very forthcoming with her husband when the topic arose. Gwayne remained stoic, never letting anyone know of his true opinion, not even his dear lady wife. If he had backed Rhaenyra, he reasoned with himself, his family would have been killed, and it wouldn’t have mattered that he was the Queen’s brother. If he told Y/N he supported his nephew, she would surely shun him. Which was almost as horrible as any punishment he could have received. 

Gwayne laughed as his son, Valerion, dashed across the room, hiding behind his father’s legs. The young boy looked up at his father, putting a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell her, Father.” 

Gwayne nodded, looking back to his wife, who was smirking. “Oh where, I wonder, is my little boy?” She looked over at the curtains, ripping it open. “He is such a clever boy, I am sure I will never find him.”

Valerion giggled, and Y/N whipped around, laughing. “What was that?” She looked to her husband. “Did you hear that, my love?” 

Gwayne shook his head, forcing himself to remain stoic. “I believe you are imagining things, my dear.” 

Valerion giggled again. “She’ll never find me.” 

Y/N practically bit her hand. “I keep hearing his voice…” She tiptoed over, jumping behind Gwayne and tickling their son. “I got you!” 

Visenya peeked her head out from under the bed. “Does that mean I win?” 

Gwayne let loose a loud laugh, gripping his stomach. “You are the champion, my dear.” He walked over, grabbing her from her hiding spot and spinning her around. “Bravo.” 

Y/N sighed, hugging Valerion tightly. Their son squirmed, pushing away from his mother. “Mummy please. I’m grown-” Y/N gasped, looking at her son with fake hurt in her eyes. 

“You are too old for embracing your mother now?” She sat him on the floor, pretending to cry. “You are six years old now, I should have known.” 

Valerion glared playfully at his mother. “Don’t cry, Mummy.” 

“I can’t help it.” She giggled. “Soon you’ll be gone and I will never see you again.” 

His eyes widened. “But I don’t want to leave!”

Y/N stopped ‘crying’ and looked down at their son with surprise. “Well, that is good news.” She picked him up, hugging him tightly once more. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I tucked you in then?” 

He shook his head. “Can you tell us a story?” 

Visenya nodded eagerly. “Please Mother.” 

Y/N sighed, like she was contemplating if she was going to tell them a story or not. “Well, if you insist…” 

Gwayne smiled, setting Visenya down. “Be good for your mother, you two.” He walked over, kissing Y/N on the cheek. “Don’t stay up too late, darling.” 

The twins looked repulsed, scrunching their noses. Valerion groaned.“Father…” 

He looked down, smiling warmly. “One day, your children will make the same noises of disgust at you and your wife, Valerion, and I will remind you of this day.” 

Valerion looked disgusted. “I will never marry. I will be free with my dragon, and we will fly across the seven kingdoms.” 

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “If only it were that simple, my sweet boy.” She clapped her hands, ushering the twins out of the room. “Now, time for bed.” 

Visenya yelled. “And a story!” 

Y/N nodded, shutting the door behind her. “And a story.” 

The twins' eyes drooped, but Y/N continued the story, knowing that if she stopped, she would be scolded. “And then Rhaenyra and I boarded our dragons, flew to Dragonstone, and retrieved our brother’s egg from our Uncle.” She smirked. “Your grandfathers were furious.” 

Valerion whispered. “Do you miss your sister, Mother?” 

Y/N nodded, her eyes tearing up at the thought. “Everyday my boy.” She pushed his hair out of his eyes, kissing his forehead gently. “Just as you will miss yours one day.” 

Visenya laughed. “We will never be apart. I will make sure of it.” 

Y/N smiled. “Goodnight children.” She stood up, walking over to her daughter and kissing her forehead. “Sleep well.” 

She took one last look at the pair, almost laughing at the fact that they were already asleep. She blew out their candle, shutting the door gently behind her. She had gotten halfway back to her chambers when a child’s scream echoed through the halls. 

Her blood curdled, and she whipped around racing back towards their chambers. Pulling her dagger out of its sheath, she pushed their doors open, whispering. “Childre-” Her eyes widened, and she glared, gripping her dagger tighter. “Who are you?” 

Two men stood in front of her twin’s beds, rat traps over their shoulders. The taller one turned around and Y/n recognized him immediately as one of the City Watchmen. His eyes widened. “Your Highness.” 

She put on a brave face, but her heart was racing. “What are you doing Sergeant?” 

The man ignored her, hissing at his accomplice. “This is the wrong room. He wouldn’t want her chi-” 

The smaller man interrupted, gesturing back to the Princess. “It’s too late. She’s going to tell.” 

Y/N shook her head, whispering so that her children wouldn’t wake up. “I won’t. Just don’t hurt my children, and I swear I won’t.” 

The small man ignored her, lowering his dagger towards Valerion’s neck. The Sergeant hissed. “That’s not who he wanted.” Reaching his arm out, he pulled the ‘rat catcher’ away from the bed. The ‘rat catcher’ jumped, and his knife fell out of his hand, plunging into her son’s neck.

Y/N gasped, a hand covering her mouth. The room was silent, none of them moving. 

The Sergeant looked panicked. “Your Highness-” 

A tear fell, and she looked up at the pair, whispering. “You are going to pay for that.” 

She walked forward, raising her dagger and plunging it into the murderer’s neck before either of them had the chance to defend themselves. She later would say that it served them right, they carelessly murdered her son, and so she simply returned the favor.  

The Sergeant pushed her away, grabbing his dying accomplice and racing towards the tunnels. She screamed, falling to the floor. Visenya stirred, her eyes opening slowly. “Mummy? What-” 

Y/N wiped away her tears, ripping her daughter out of her bed. She shoved Visenya’s face into her neck, whispering soothingly. As soothingly as she could for just witnessing her son’s murder. ”Go back to sleep my love.” 

Visenya’s eyes fluttered. “What about-” 

“Shh, my dear.” Y/N felt her eyes well up. “Shh.” 

Tucking Visenya in on the couch in their shared chambers, Y/N stalked towards their bedroom, her heart beating against her chest. “Gwayne.” She hissed. He stayed asleep. Anger raced through her veins, how could he sleep through this? She shook him harshly, on the verge of yelling. “Wake up.” 

He grumbled, rolling over. “What is-” His eyes widened, throwing the covers off as he examined his wife. “You are drenched in blood.” 

“Gwayne…” She sobbed, falling to the ground as he watched helplessly. “He’s dead.” 

Gwayne felt worried, and sat beside his wife, rubbing circles into her back. “Who is dead, my love?” 

“Valerion.” She wailed, throwing herself into her arms as more tears streamed down her face. “Valerion!” 

Gwayne’s heart dropped. “What?” 

“They-” 

“Who?” He grabbed his wife’s arms, eyes piercing into hers. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Some rat catcher and a-” She sobbed again. “A City Watchman.” He stood and grabbed her hand, pulling her out of their room and back toward their children’s chambers. Y/N fought against her husband's hold, still violently sobbing. “No, Gwayne please do not make me go back.” 

He stopped, realizing that she had truly seen everything. “My love, we have to. We need-” He choked on a sob he hadn’t known was forming. “We need to be strong for a little longer.”

Without waiting for her response, he pushed the twins’ doors open, their son lying lifelessly in his bed. He let go of Y/N’s hand, racing over to Valerion’s side. He gently pulled the knife from his son’s chest, pushing his bright white hair out of his eyes. “My boy.” 

Y/N wailed once more. “Valerion, this isn’t funny, you’ve upset your mother.” His throat felt as if it was closing up. “Valerion, wake up right now.” He felt his son’s throat, finally accepting his death when he felt no pulse. He fell back, staring at the bed. “We need to notify someone.” 

“Who?” Y/N cried. “Alicent? My drunken half brother of a king?” 

“Anyone in the Keep, Y/N.” He stared at their son. “How did this happen?” 

She simply shrugged, climbing up off the floor. “I must leave.” 

His head whipped over, staring at his wife in shock. “You are leaving?” 

“I will be back, I swear to you.” 

“Where are you-” 

“Leave it!” She snapped, a rage in her eyes that Gwayne had never seen. He nodded, watching as she walked out of their children’s room and down the hall.

Dragonstone was quiet, Y/N noticed. Of course it was, night still covered its dark walls. She landed Silverwing on the hill above the castle, stalking toward the entrance. “I demand to see my sister.” 

The guard laughed. “And you are-” 

“Y/N.” Rhaenyra stepped out from the shadows. “What are you doing here?” 

“My son has been murdered.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, another sob breaking out. “He’s dead, Rhaenyra.” 

Rhaenyra ushered her sister inside, out of the watchful eyes of her family and advisors. Rhaenyra closed her chamber doors, and sat her sister down, kneeling in front of her. “What do you mean-” 

“My son has been murdered. That is what I mean.” She glared at the older woman. “Did you-” 

“Seven hells, Y/N. Of course not.” She took Y/N’s hands in hers. “Do you really think that I would order the death of a child, let alone my sweet nephew?” 

“I just-” Y/N sighed. “I had to make sure.” Taking one last look at her dear sister, she stood, nodding. “I will see myself out.” 

Rhaneyra watched as her sister glided across the room. Just as the door opened, she cried out. “I miss you.” 

Y/N smiled. “I miss you too.” She’d almost reached the exit of the castle when she felt eyes following her every step. “Iēdrosa hiding isse se shadows, nyke ūndegon. (Still hiding in the shadows, I see.)” 

He stepped out, his face taking in the sight of his ‘traitorous’ niece. “Iēdrosa married naejot se hightower orvorta, nyke ūndegon. (Still married to the Hightower cunt, I see.)” 

She held her head up high, glaring at her uncle. “I’ll have you know that cunt is a good man. A better man than you will ever be.” Guilt flashed across his face, but she continued. “I don’t appreciate your insinuation that I support the usurper that is my half brother, and if you repeat that mistake again, you will have more than my words attacking you.” She nodded, walking past him. “Goodbye, Daemon.” 

Visenya had been wailing for days. Wailing over the death of her brother, and wailing over the fact that neither of her parents could look at her without tearing up. The couple sat beside each other at dinner, scarcely eating or speaking. Alicent sighed. “It does your daughter no good if you die of hunger.” 

Y/N looked up from her plate, tilting her head, hoping she had just misheard. “What did you just-” 

Gwayne grabbed her hand tightly under the table, signaling to not pick a fight. “Quite right, sister.”

Alicent smiled. “We are very fortunate.” 

Y/N fought against her impulse to pull her dagger out and commit a massacre. “How so?” 

“That they had the children’s rooms confused.” 

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. She must have been hallucinating. “Excuse me?” 

“I only meant it would have been quite catastrophic if the assassins had found Jaehaerys instead of Velarion.”

Y/N smiled, and she could tell it had unnerved Alicent. “Yes, because my son is much less important than the heir to the throne. Thank the gods it was Velarion instead of Jaehaerys.” 

Gwayne stilled, setting his silverware down. Alicent’s cheeks flushed. “I hope I did not upset you.” 

Y/N laughed, so loudly that the whole room stopped talking, staring at the woman drowning in her grief. “Of course not. You began upsetting me twenty years ago.” 

Aegon smiled drunkenly. “Sister-” 

“You are no brother of mine, Aegon. So do not start acting it because of this little spat.” She pushed her chair out, making an announcement. “We will be leaving at first light. This has been, by far, the worst encounter I have ever had with King’s Landing.” 

Gwayne raced after his wife, not even bothering to say goodbye to his family. “Y/N-” 

“I cannot believe you.”

“What?” 

“You just sat there, Gwayne.” She seethed, practically running down the halls. “Our son is dead, and you sat there and let your sister act as if it was a minor loss. An accident.” 

“My love-” 

“Don’t!” She snapped. “I am taking Visenya, and we are going to Dragonstone.” She stopped outside their chambers, whispering so that their guards would not hear. “I do not care where you go, but I do not wish to ever see your face again.” 

He sighed, walking into their room after her. “Y/N-”

“Gwayne, that is the end of our discussion-”

“No it is not!” He yelled. “I am grieving as well. You do not get to pretend I am not.” 

“Then show it!” She yelled back. “You have been silent for days. You do not defend me at dinner, you do not defend me at all. You sit there like you are dead yourself.” She scoffed. “You might as well be.” 

Gwayne was practically glowering. “Do not say things you do not mean, wife.” 

“I will say-” 

“Mummy?” The couple looked down, realizing they had just fought loudly in front of their daughter. Y/N crouched down, opening her arms. 

“Come here, my love.” 

Visenya faltered, and Gwayne watched as Y/N cracked, standing up. She barely spared a glance at Gwayne. “I will be sleeping in my own chambers tonight.” 

He shook his head. “No.”

She scoffed. “I didn’t realize you controlled me, my lord.” 

He widened his eyes, gesturing down to their daughter who was watching with wide watery eyes. “Y/N, do me this one kindness.” 

“Gwayne, I need to be alone.” She stepped back, walking towards her secret exit when his hand wrapped gently around her wrist, pulling her back. His breath hit her neck as he whispered. “Sleep in our bed. I will stand watch, and we will leave at first light for Dragonstone.” She turned around, her eyes wide. He looked determined, and in that moment, Y/N understood that he would do anything to keep them together. Her heart skipped as he bore his soul to hers, his voice heavy.  “I will not have my family thrown into chaos and ruin.” 

Her eyes were teary as she whispered. “Thank you.” 

He nodded. “Go to bed.” He turned back to their daughter, carrying her over to her makeshift bed. Visenya’s sweet voice could be heard whispering to her father. “Did I upset Mummy?” 

“No my dear.” He kissed her head gently. “Your mother is hurting, as am I. Never forget that we love you dearly.” He tucked her back into bed. “Sleep tight, little one.” 

It had been surprisingly easy to escape the Red Keep. Y/N gathered it was because they did not think anyone would want to leave, which made her laugh. Who would want to be held captive in such a place?

Gwayne never understood how Targaryen’s flew dragons like it was as simple as riding a horse. Being this high up horrified him, but his wife and daughter enjoyed it immensely. Visenya giggled as she reached out, grabbing a cloud with her bare hands. “Father, open your eyes!” 

Y/N laughed. “Your father is frightened, dear.” 

Gwayne scoffed. “I am not. I’m simply-” 

“Scared!” Visenya laughed. “I thought knights were supposed to be brave, Father.” 

Gwayne gasped, clutching his heart as he forced his eyes open. “Are you calling me a coward, young lady?” 

Y/N smiled, forgetting for a moment that their family had been torn apart only four days ago. “Hang on.” 

“Hang on?” Gwayne questioned. “Why-” 

Silverwing dove, and Gwayne felt the air leave his lungs, clutching onto his wife’s waist. “Seven Hells!” 

Y/N laughed, her hair flying in the wind. “Enjoy it, my love!” The great dragon landed roughly on the same hill she had visited days before. Helping down Visenya, she smirked as her husband clambered off of her dragon’s back. “Careful, Gwayne.” 

“I am-” His leg caught on the saddle, and he fell backwards, causing his two silver haired beauties to burst into tears. “Do not laugh.” 

“It is quite difficult.” Y/N’s violet eyes glittered in the sun. “Come down, we have much to do.” 

Y/N held Visenya close to her as they approached her sister and her family. Gwayne trailed behind the two, looking around the room skeptically. Rhaenyra sat tall on her throne. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, sister?” 

Y/N bowed deeply. “Your Grace, we come to swear allegiance to you, and ask that you allow us to stay with you on Dragonstone.” 

Daemon laughed. “And why would we-” 

With one look, Rhaneyra shut Daemon. “That is not necessary, Y/N.” She stood up, embracing her sister tightly. The elder sister looked down, waving at the young girl. “Hello, little one.” 

Visenya smiled shyly, clinging to her mother’s form. Y/N laughed, whispering. “Visenya, this is your Aunt Rhaenyra. Say hello.” 

Rhaenyra laughed. “Hello, Visenya. You are the spitting image of your mother.” 

The young girl blushed, smiling. “Thank you.” 

“Mother, what is the meaning of-” A tall, dark-haired young man sauntered in. “Y/N!” He rushed over, hugging her tightly. “How-” 

“I was most tired of the 'hospitality' of King’s Landing.” She smirked. “If one could call it that." She stepped back, taking in her grown nephew. "My, you have grown. Last I saw you, you were half your height.” 

He scoffed, glaring playfully. “Yes, well…” 

Rhaenyra clapped her hands. “Let us show you to your rooms.” She put her arm through her sisters. “You must be exhausted.” 

“One moment.” Daemon’s voice rang through the throne room. “What about her traitorous husband?” 

“Daemon-” 

Y/N glared. “What did I tell you would happen if you said that again?” 

Daemon laughed. “I would like to see you-” 

Gwayne's auburn hair blocked her view of her uncle, standing in between the two. Y/N smiled. Standing in between two angry Targaryens was a recipe for death, and yet there her husband stood, stoic as ever.

“Please.” He turned to the King Consort. “I know that my family has done nothing but hurt yours…” He spared a look to his wife. “But you must understand that my love for your niece has overcome any loyalty I once had to my family.” 

“How can we be sure you will not betray-” 

Gwayne hissed. “They are the reason my son is dead. I will never forgive them.” 

Daemon nodded. “Very well.” 

Gwayne nodded back, turning to his wife. “Let us go rest my love.” He kissed her temple, following after the queen. “I believe we have earned it.”

taglist: @beebeechaos

[budgieflitter]

WELCOME TO STRANGEVIEW

oh hey its budgieflitter and her swap aus obsession again descriptions are under the cut 🔽

CALIENTE + LOTHARIO = BEAKER When Don got a date with the Caliente sisters, he thought he won a jackpot. What he did not expect, though, was to wake up next morning on an operation table in their basement. Will this test subject last or the sisters will have to look for a replacement soon?

GOTH = SPECTER Turns out not only relatives are buried in local oligarch's graveyard. Ever since Mortimer's wife Bella mysteriously disappeared, he became more reclusive than he already was. She was not the only victim - all of his daughter Cassandra's fiancés seemed to disappear one by one. Will Alexander get used to living with ghosts? Can Cassandra ever find love again?

BROKE + DREAMER = GRUNT Brandi and Darren found comfort in each other after a terrible tragedy struck their families, however it seems this comfort is about to crumble. Darren is determined to reach the stars someday, and Brandi would rather stay close to the ground. Will Dustin and Dirk ever get along? Will little Beau follow his stepfather's footsteps?

PLEASANT = SMITH

Daniel has been fascinated with space ever since his father's Mars expedition hit the news. Good thing he found a woman whose eyes reflect the beauty of the universe itself. Will Mary-Sue get her long-awaited promotion, and can Angela and Lilith make the right choices when it comes to love?

BURB = CURIOUS Jennifer is interested in the vastness of universe, but for a different reason her brother is. Where is she from? What really happened on her father's Mars expedition? Was it anything like the experience her husband went through during his abduction? Maybe the answer is much closer than she thinks.

OLDIE

Oldies have been a long-time residents of Strangeview. Unable to fulfill her role as a Birth Queen, Coral escaped with her beloved with a tiny alien aboard. Will Herb realize that the result of his last mission as a Pollination Technician is somewhere nearby? okayyyy i had so much fun making this. the idea hit me literally yesteday and i was on the rideee hope u enjoy ^_^

[writingsofwesteros]

Rhaegar can't stop the feeling of guilt. He knew, everyone knew stev had a hard time being vulnerable. Then she was

Now everyone dearest to her is defending each other and turning against her when they are just as much to blame. They are screaming at her, giving her cold shoulder, she went through the loss of a child alone. Now for the first time he feels guilty for his reactions.

When stev finally calms from her panic attack, she wipes her eyes and comes back to the room.

"I had to check a letter that I wrote had been sent", she lies, not looking at him. "please let me order you tea or some food it's so late and you are here. Oh of course, you can order it yourself, my prince but do not spend your night in hunger, please"

"Stev"

CRYING OVER HERE!!!

She's spends most of her time in the orphanage now..with the children there as well