#sensible footwear

[libraryleopard]

Adult graphic memoir/social history

Weaves together the author's personal history of coming-of-age as a lesbian and finding her community with a broader overview of British LGBTQ+ history from the 1950s to the present day

Funny, informative, and dense with information on British LGBTQ+ history and activism

[semper-legens]

41. Sensible Footwear: A Girl’s Guide, by Kate Charlesworth

Owned: No, library Page count: 320 My summary: Kate Charlesworth’s history of mid/late 20th century queer life in Britain, both her own personal history and the more general history of the queer scene. My rating: 4/5 My commentary:

This is a great book. I've actually read it before, a long time ago, when a friend lent it to me, but when we got a new copy at work I couldn't resist. It's basically a history of British queer history, interspersed with the life of the author - as she grows up and becomes more aware of the world around her and her place in it, she blossoms onto the LGBT+ scene and begins to make waves, in her own way. It's an irreverent look at a particular slice of British history, especially because it's presented with a tongue-in-cheek air and a sense of fun. Not to say that it's All Jokes All The Time, the book and author clearly know when to be serious and when to joke around, which is much appreciated.

Charlesworth's story is a fairly typical one for her era - discovering that she is a lesbian, coming out onto the wider queer scene, finding her niche. She seems to have been involved in a lot of the major queer events and queer activism of her day. All of this is paralleled with the more major countrywide events going on in the world, from famous queer celebrities to court cases and scandals. One thing that struck me about Charlesworth's more personal story is just how domestic it is, how ordinary. Her life is just that - a life, lived against a backdrop of changing attitudes and struggling for rights and recognition. It's an interesting perspective, and I'm very glad I've read it.

Next up, another graphic novel. So it goes.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

three people who were going to three different concerts run into each others in an alley

[1esbrarian]

[age-of-moonknight]

Variant cover for Phases of the Moon Knight (Vol. 1/2024), #4 by Moisés Hidalgo.

[littlescaryinternetguy]

A tiny, gently cradled in the palm of a giant wearing sensible, comfortable shoes. The tiny too is wearing appropriate footwear, with a steel toe to prevent industrial accidents. They love each other very much.

[fromthestonymountains]

Cassandra has found her destiny.

[melissaschemmentisglasses]

Does she even own a pair of non-heeled shoes? 😭

Lisa Ann Walter via cyberskip on Instagram

[thedreadvampy]

why are graphic novels such a perfect medium for memoir?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sense and Sensibility 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Peter Parker (reader is Kitty from Death Wish)

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: Things in your life are changing and a new face is just one of many startling new realities.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The mail keeps coming. It’s the one consistency left in your life. You go out as you do every day and lift the flap to fish out the contents. That day, however, it’s more than just the flyers and the flimsy bills. You have to shove your hand fully inside to grasp the bulky weight. 

You pause and peer out at the street. You expect the black car to pull up at any moment. At least, you sense something waiting... Or you’re just paranoid. 

You bring it inside. You hear your sisters in the kitchen. Adrienne is cleaning the dishes as Stony sits at the table. Her fingertips anxiously draw circles on the wood. 

You approach and put down the usual envelopes and a few filmy pamphlets. You keep hold of the thick brown envelope. It has your sister’s name on it. You put it in front of her and say her name. She flinches. 

“Is he on his way?” You ask. 

She nods. Odd. That means someone else delivered that. 

“Mail,” you point as her gaze remains on the wall. She sighs and looks down. 

“Take it,” she pushes it across the table. 

You grimace, “it’s for you-” 

“It’s for groceries. Or whatever else we need.” She says dully.  “Take Adrienne to the bakery. Have something sweet.” She stands and gives a sullen look to the picture of your mother on the wall. “I’ll go wait outside.” 

She pushes the chair into the table and turns away. 

“We love you,” you call after her. 

She stops in the doorway, “love you too.” 

She disappears into the hallway and you frown. You grab the envelope and open it, checking the contents. A hunk of bills pad the paper. A lot. 

“Wow,” Adrienne lifts her chin to peek inside. 

“Yeah, wow,” you echo. “Well, how about it? Scones and tea?” 

“It sounds nice. It’s nice to have nice things,” she giggles at her repetition. “I wish...” 

“I wish she could be here too,” you agree. “But ma is better off.” 

She nods with a glum expression. She’s still the baby. Still the one with hope. And you still can’t bear to bring her down. You know this won’t end well. Nothing does. Just look at your father; dead at the hands of another. And your sister; promised to a man even more dangerous than your patriarch. 

“We should bring something back for Stony too. For when she gets back,” Adrienne suggests. 

“That’s sweet of you. I’m going to grab a sweater. You should too. It’s supposed to get chilly.” You gird. 

You go upstairs as your mind wanders outside those walls. You doubt Stony will be back that day to enjoy the treat. Not if it’s up to Barnes and everything in her life and your life is now in his hands. You’re not stupid. You might put a smile and keep the peace, but it doesn’t mean you’re stupid. 

You take out your favourite brown sweater; the one your mother embroidered for you when you were in high school. It pairs well with your thrifted dress. Not that anything you wear is especially flashy. 

You go back to the first floor and step into your brown scuffed mary-janes. Adrienne appears in her trademark striped pullover. You grab your purse and count a few bills out, shoving the rest behind the mantle. As you go back to the front door, she ties her sneakers. She no longer has to hide as your father can’t rant at her for the unladylike footwear. 

You follow her out with keys in hand. Your eyes skim the street. Stony is gone but that shadow isn’t. You turn to lock the door, your mind clinging to the speck near the bushes diagonal from Erlich’s rusty old truck. 

“We should make something special tonight,” Adrienne says. 

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” you smile. You always loved cooking. You would help your mother in the kitchen often and when you made your father one of her recipes, he was a little kinder. As kind as a man like him ever was. 

You rub your cheek instinctively. Sometimes, a lot of times, he was less than kind. He was vicious. Venomous. You’re happy he’s gone but in the same, you’re sad about it. Not because he was good, no, he was never that, only because he was a constant. Losing that sort of permanence is earth-shaking. 

Adrienne takes your hand, “he wouldn’t like this, but ma would.” 

You smile at her, a bittersweet twinge in your eyes, “she would. I think I’m going to try one of their tea lattes. I always was eyeing that strawberry parfait one on the specials sign.” 

“Oh, that sounds delicious.” She swings your arm. You feel like a child again even as those years feel so far behind you. “I need coffee. Double espresso at least.” 

You laugh. She’s still young enough to have bad habits. Yours are just starting to really bug you. 

As you come up to the cafe, another customer approaches from the other side of the pavement. The man opens the door and grins as he waves you in with a hand. You look him in the face, something you don’t often do but the prickle on the nape of your neck draws your eyes up. 

He seems familiar but you can’t place him. Reddish brown hair, parted neatly and combed, a darker shade in his eyes, and a square jaw that frames an otherwise boyish face. He wears a burgundy suit and his lips slant in a grin. 

“Ladies first,” he insists. 

“Thank you,” you say and squeeze Adrienne’s hand. 

You nod and pull her inside. Your hackles are up but your doubt is just as needling. It could be genuine intuition or it could be the effect of a lifetime of fear. No, you know better. At first glance, you know he’s one of those men. Like your father, like Barnes, he is dangerous. 

He steps up behind you to join the line. Amid the crowded cafe, it is only him that you are aware of. There’s just that voice telling you to pay attention. The same one that screamed at you when your sister came home the night before you found out about your father. There’s something amiss here, and again, you can’t figure it out. 

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I personally have very conflicted feelings about wether or not I like Leona as well but for entirely stupid reasons

He appeals to me as a character and I quite enjoy him within the story, but I have an irrational amount of anger and disgust towards bare feet

This has been the case since childhood though I have since gotten a fair bit chiller

Once again I really like his character, he's probably my second to first favourite, but I cannot bear to look at him sometimes

When I see full body Leona art sometimes I stop scrolling right before the bottom and then go past it really fast to avoid seeing feet, one time I had to stop reading an analysis for a hot minute because reading about his overblot made me think of that fucking foot design and in that moment that was just unbearable

It's the reason I can't really get into most of the fairy gala designs either, it's literally so stupid

He's really fucking testing me

NO, YOU’RE RIGHT AND I STAND WITH YOU… Never been a fan of his footwear or bare feet/skin of the feet in general (which is also why I dislike Floyd’s Relax in Room Groovy or Jade’s Dorm Groovy) 😭 The is particularly horrific for Labwear Leona, because you’re not supposed to have open-toed shoes in a lab environment. AHHHHHHHHHH, it makes me wanna bash him over the head with a pair of sensible shoes 💢

I think a lot of my disgust toward bare feet stems from a traumatic foot-related childhood memory :DD It happened to a relative and not to me, but it was still pretty horrific watching them go through it (I won’t go into detail; just know that it was very gross).

Thankfully we don’t really see the shoes or full body models in the game so most of the time I can live in blissful ignorance 🙂‍↕️ Shoes are the one design element of Twst that I consistently find disappointing… SORRY, FLOYD…

I really like the Fairy Gala designs overall though! I didn’t mention this in my personal L*ona lore post, but his Fairy Gala Couture outfit was what first sold me on the whole “he’s canonically handsome” thing OTL The dainty, flowery aesthetic is more of my preferred style to his usual “bad boy” look, and I think the cream clothes + shimmery makeup on him helps call attention at his face.

[rafeyscurtainbangs]

Drew Starkey in sensible footwear, a plaid button-down shirt, a leather bomber jacket, talking about vintage vw bugs, bitching abt how he can't find his phone… 😂 fuck I love this old man

[lordgrimwing]

Ages

(as in: you're how old?!)

Another gala made infinitely better by Elrond’s presence. Gil-galad relaxed in the carriage, legs extended across the slightly bouncing box (he’d never claim it was a great carriage. Whoever made it clearly had more whimsy than sense, which matched his air at parties. It was perfectly serviceable) to the plush bench across from him. 

Elrond (his savior from all things dull and boring and political) looked at his soft, embroidered slippers and shook his head. Clearly, he still thought the footwear choice for the evening was ridiculous despite how Gil-galad displayed himself to his best ability on the dance floor. He, of course, wore practical wood bottomed shoes that wouldn’t have a hole in the heel after a night of stifling reserved and polite revelry—how very Elrond of him. 

Endearing really. At least he’d worn the pair Gil-galad commissioned special for him last year and not the pair he wore to work in the healing halls (very practical, amazingly comfortable, very not suited for someone under his patronage). 

As usual, the evening started with Elrond nearly clinging to his arm as he introduced him as the ‘bright, up and coming physician’s apprentice’ he’d snatched up. They made the rounds, said all the proper ‘how do you does’ to all the right people, avoided the people he really did not want to talk to (they would have wanted to talk politics with him and strategy and career opportunities, which he just wasn’t in to) (was it too much to ask to remain where he was, fair outside of the High Family’s notice?), and ate some truly divine petit fours. Gil-galad had to defend Elrond’s place on his elbow or risk losing the witty commentary on the events to some lord or lady wanting to snatch him off for a dance or three. Made him feel very noble, defending his friends honor from the horrors of the petty nobility who definitely just wanted to know him for his connection to the crown (or to the dispossessed wandering sons of Fëanor who some thought had the greatest claim to the throne and whom Elrond just so happened to be raised by).

Overall, a blinding success yet again.

There was one thing that weighed on his mind. 

Elrond was so charming and graceful despite that wild upbringing with the nomads, it was easy to forget he hadn’t always been connected to Lindon’s lower court. Sometimes things came up that everyone knew about because they were either in the vicinity when it happened or because it came up every few years on polite gossip and reminiscence—everyone, that was, but Elrond. 

This time, it was a joke. Well, not so much a joke and half of story about a certain blond prince and his penchant for unsavory wildlife, but everyone knew the best parts that went without saying (because as it turns out one should generally keep the more lurid details of a minor and hilarious scandal out of everyday chatter when a High Prince was involved, just in case) and found the story perfectly timed and execute and laugh worthy. Gil-galad himself halved until he had tears in his eyes and Elrond had to rescue his drink so he didn’t spill it on the floor, or worse, on his brocade robe (a pain to have cleaned. More reason to keep Elrond all to himself and never lose his sensible head). After that, Elrond turned to him in all seriousness with far more questions that he could answer in a full room.

Because, of course, Elrond hadn’t been here. He hadn’t been in Lindon. He hadn’t been born. Surely his parents (well, the mortal one at least. The elf father (because it was always the elf who sired in these cases. Peculiar and perhaps worthy of later exploration) most likely was traipsing around somewhere) had still been many generations from being born. He didn’t know. 

He was young. All half-elves were, not that Gil-galad had met many others but one did hear about these kinds of things. They were only half elf, after all, and the other half was mortal (humans, almost exclusively, though he heard rumor of a dwarf once), and being half mortal they had a habit of dying like mortals. Unfortunate. He liked not thinking about that.

So, how old was he? 

Gil-galad squinted across the carriage at him, thinking. 

“What?” Elrond asked, staring back at him. “Is there icing in my hair again?”

(The icing incident happened six months ago, and they’d all had a good laugh about it. He wouldn’t be opposed to picking pink icing out of that curly brown hair again).

“How old are you?”

He couldn’t be more than four-hundred years old, maybe as young as three-hundred. His face had some lines but nothing like the older mortal races or even the truly elderly elves (like Círdan, the old gaffer, still insisting he could take his little sailboat out alone like he wasn’t the oldest elf this side of Cuiviénen—wherever that was). A reasonable age. Just a bit younger than him. A good age for dealing with minor nobles. 

“About one-hundred and seventy. Why?”

And living in the middle of nowhere would explain why he missed out on all the good gossip and—wait. 

“What?”

Elrond shrugged his narrow shoulders (but not too narrow. He’d seen how they’d started filling out over the last few years). “Well, I don’t know exactly. Birthdates didn’t seem all that important in the middle of a plague village.” 

“You’re a baby!” The first thing he thought of popped out of his mouth, as sometimes happened when he was relaxed.

“I’m well past elven majority, thank you.” Elrond sounded incensed. “And I’ve seen humans grow up and die, so I’m far from an infant.”

“A hundred and seventy,” Gil-galad repeated, pulling his diverging thoughts back to some semblance of focus. “You’re not even two-hundred and I’ve introduced you to the vices of drink and leaf!”

Elrond snorted. “Dwarven pipeleaf is a superior cultivar, and Maglor gave us rags soaked in aloe liquor to suck whenever we were teething. The only thing you’ve introduced me to is decidedly tame dancing.”

“And the best peaches you’ve ever tried,” Gil-galad insisted, still off balance (he could have done without the reminder that Elrond grew in his teeth all wrong as a child and new ones just kept popping up every few months. At some point he got a whole new set of teeth as a child. Might his body just up and decide that he needed a third set at some point, like some kind of shark? He did not need that kind of body horror in his mind right now).

“And the best peaches,” Elrond agreed. 

Yes, yes, fruit was a topic he could manage.

“Tomorrow,” he announced, stretching his arms and folding them behind his head, “I am going to bring you dewmelon and mulberry in cream and you will never forgive me for not introducing you to it sooner.”

Elrond laughed. “Don’t you have council meetings and work all day tomorrow? That’s all you complained about yesterday.”

Gil-galad sat up, pulled his feet off the seat, and leaned forward. He put a finger to his friend’s lips, hushing him. “Elrond,” he said, “please don’t spoil my imagination with reality.”

He felt Elrond smile under his hand. 

“Okay, but only for tonight.”

[mermarve]

Extremely gay seating choices

My Cyberpunk Red character, Valency. Encountering violence at every turn is no reason to stoop to *gasp* sensible footwear

[narcoticwriter]

I Have A Mouth And I Will Scream With It. (The Second Installment)

The first one.

You know, you would think that me complaining about something would have something done about it, but as the sole torch in the darkness, I alone am alight and it is not nearly enough. So I can only declare into the void of character design and lack of common sense once again:

It still makes no fucking sense how the tall Genshin women have heels.

After Fontaine and now Natlan, I can only crumple to my knees and weep. Lament, even. Why, Hoyoverse? Why are you averse to sensible footwear? Surely you're all competent enough to put boots on the characters where boots are warranted if not required? Amber exists, for crying out loud! You can make it work!

Every single character here is qualified for a full display of clownery and no exceptions can be made.

Insanity -

Navia: Demoiselle, forget the ten-meter hat that you wanted to commission, you cannot be serious about your footwear. And no, you cannot just make your employees carry you. I know that Silver and Melus would do it without hesitation, but they're not here to do that anymore and you have to stand on your own two, heeled feet. And be honest folks, do you really think that Navia's not the type to twist and sprain her ankle in a moment of hasty stepping? If anything, commission Chiori for stylish footwear that makes sense, she could probably do it for you for a discount, too.

Clorinde: You're expecting me to believe that this woman actually goes hunting in those damn things? Seriously? I know that she's capable of a lot of physical feats, but this being one of them is a stretch to even my imagination, skirt aside. Not only would this require a profound sense of balance and spatial awareness, but it would also see Clorinde as a genuine class unto herself and while she is already, I'm not inclined to see that extend to her feet. But hey, that work-life balance isn't for nothing! She can actually rest her feet if she gets a moment to herself at least!

Xianyun: I don't care how old you are, how often you're not in that form, or how specialized your entire hobby is, those heels are unnecessary. It would genuinely look better if you had flats on. Yes, yes, I know that she's a crane and all and that heels would make sense, but you think her legs aren't long enough already?

Arlecchino: She killed a man with those shoes and I had to fight to not projectile vomit when I saw it happen. She's full of nuance, complications, and contradicting beliefs, a decent character overall story-wise, but for this, she sickens me. If I say anything more, I may lose my mind.

Xilonen: I want to cry. Genuinely. Stilettos? "But Narky, she skates-" I'm not talking about her skates, I'm talking about her phlogiston-adhesive stilettos and I hate them. Hoyoverse, she's a laid-back jaguar gal who won't move if she can help it and would rather lounge around on her free time, put her in some fucking sandals if not the pair of fluffy slippers that she deserves.

Chasca: I know that some people have a bone to pick with her design-wise, but I don't care about that right now. I care about what's on her feet and what are on her feet are abhorrent. The only peace she's keeping isn't mine but everyone who has been on the receiving end of her fists. Hell, she's probably used her heels to keep the peace at some point.

Mavuika: Unironically, her entire fit would look better if she just had regular shoes on. Like, you can keep the basic look of the heels, but if they were more akin to boots with some defined soles, it could have gone hard. But alas, Hoyoverse has a quota to meet and genuinely good designs for footwear be damned. And please note that I have not gone into how an Archon of war has heels. Be for real, devs. Be for fucking real.

Bonus:

Skirk: If I had heels for feet, I would have chopped them off. That is all.

Conclusion: I have the opposite of a foot kink and I don't know what that means nor do I want to find out.

[starogeorgina]

Broken bonds

Paring: Ser Harwin Strong/reader

Warnings: None

2.06

Jolting upright, your hand immediately goes to your bump as your eyes adjust to the dimly lit room. The candles have long since burned out, making it hard to see. You had arrived at Harrenhal during the hour of the owl, so you had gone straight to bed, only to have a horrible nightmare. You reach out for Harwin but realize the space beside you in the bed is empty. “Harwin?” When he doesn’t answer, you start to panic. You call his name again, “Harwin!”

You move fast and grab your dressing gown while getting out of bed, fully prepared to search the castle until you find him. You don’t want to waste time finding sensible footwear because the coldness of the stone floor nips at your feet. You swing the door open and crash right into a large figure.

“And where are you going in such a rush, princess?” Your husband says, with a hint of humor in his voice.

“Thank the gods,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist and hugging him as much as your bump allowed. Your ear presses against his chest, and you’re able to hear his rapid heartbeat. “I thought you were gone.”

“I’d gone to check if the boys were still settled."

“Are they safe?!”

“Yes, they are both safe and in deep sleep." All humor is gone from Harwin’s voice as soon as he realizes you’re upset. “My love, what’s happened?”

Tears roll down your cheeks as you cling to him like a child. It felt so real. The smell of smoke still lingered in your nose, along with the feeling of heat from the flames. The last time you had a dream so vivid, it came true. “It felt so real. I thought—I thought I’d lost you.”

“Vaella,” Harwin cups your face so you’re looking up at him, and he wipes your tears away. “What’s going on?”

“I had a dream. When I woke up, I thought you were dead.”

Unsure of what to say, Harwin takes your hand and leads you back to the bed. He sits down first; you follow his actions and sit down beside him. He brushes your hair that is soaked with sweat out of your eyes and asks, “I’m not gone; I’m right here.”

Harwin brings your fingers to his mouth and kisses the tips of them gently before linking them with his own. You could sense he was holding back on telling you to calm down. As much as he tried to understand, it was impossible to explain how much dragon dreams affected you to someone who had never experienced being haunted by something that was yet to happen.

“I saw Harrenal burn to the ground. You and your father were both here when it happened. I could see it happening, but I was powerless to stop it." You hiccup a little. “You looked different; your hair was curlier with the tiniest bits of gray in it, and your muscles were bigger.”

He chuckles softly at the last part, then presses his lips to your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m alive.”

“Maybe it was just a bad dream,” you say, trying to convince yourself more than him.

“If your dream has shaken you, we can leave Harrenal; I don’t want you upset and stressed.”

“We came here so you could see your family; I will not take you away from that. Not over my mind playing tricks on me.”

Even in the darkness, you can feel him trying to study your emotions. “Did anything else happen in the dream?”

“No,” you say.

It’s hard to tell if he’s convinced or not, but Harwin doesn’t push the matter further. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to tell him what else you saw, but you worried how fearful he would become if you told him.

—

You sit beside Lady Strong, Harwin’s stepmother, and her daughters while breaking fast. Usually you find sitting and having tea with ladies who do nothing other than gossip rather dull; however, you were very entertained when Lady Strong decided to cut a lady from a less known house to shreds with her sharp words. The lady in question made a remark about how neither of your sons had inherited the golden hair of a Lannister.

When Varos flew over the part of the castle you were in, screeching loudly, the lady quickly excused herself and left. You weren’t a fool, and you knew people would compare your sons, who were declared part Targaryen and part Lannister by the king himself, to Harwin’s appearance. Many seemed to forget it was treason to question their paternity and suffered the consequences for it.

“Has my brother given up his post in the city watch yet?” Cassandra, Harwin’s youngest sister, asks.

“No, he still works during the night.”

She says, “If I were married to a princess, I’d never work again.”

Lady Strong rolls her eyes at her daughter's comment. Your father didn’t feel it was in anyone’s best interest for Harwin to remain your official sworn protector; however, after a discussion that lasted late into the night, your father agreed that Harwin was a fine knight and could return to his previous post in the city watch, but he would be unable to climb up the ranks.

The soft pitter-patter of footsteps entered the room, followed by a whine, “Muña!”

Right away, you kneel down on the ground to be level with your son, which raises a few brows. “Aerion, my little dragon, what’s wrong?”

He pulls at his trousers to show you his skint knee. You outstretch your arms for him to run, to which he sobs. “Ñuha mijegindita rūs,” you say, kissing Aerion's puffy cheek. “What happened?”

“The boys got a little too rough while playing,” Harwin says, entering the room. He smiles at you before turning to address the others in the room, “ladies.”

Vaegon clutches Harwin’s hand tighter; both his elbows were skinned and bleeding as well, but unlike his brother, it didn’t seem like he had cried. “Thank you for a lovely tea lady, Strong. I have enjoyed your company this morning, but I must excuse myself to go clean my sons up.”

—

For the last few weeks, you've mainly enjoyed your time staying at Harrenhal. It was nice to be away from the whispers of the keep and get to spend time with Harwin’s family; it meant a great deal to him that your sons were familiar with the castle he grew up in. During the day, you were happy, but at night, you were plagued with images of your dream. It was most likely festering into something worse because you hadn’t spoken about it.

You smiled politely as the people who lived in Lord Harroway's Town bowed to you. The town wasn’t far from Harrenhal, and although you were advised numerous times to not travel without guards escorting you, you weren’t in the slightest bit afraid, not when you had Harwin by your side and Varos was flying overhead.

You were convinced that Varos was deliberately flying in fancy loops in the sky to show off.

“I dread to think how much my sisters have spoiled the boys,” Harwin chuckles.

“Being here agrees with them, as it does you.”

He smiles sadly. If it wasn’t for how badly Alicent treated your sister, you would have gladly never moved away. “Has Princess Rhaenyra written?”

“No, and I’m worried for her.”

You loved Rhaenyra dearly, but she was infuriating at times. All you wanted was to know she was okay, and it was pointless asking your father, as he was blind to the greens behavior.

“The same dragon's blood is running through her veins as it is yours, and you are the strongest person I know. So from that alone, I know she will be fine.”

You kiss Harwin on the cheek, he always knew what to say. “I was thinking it would be nice if we invited your sisters and stepmother to Dragonstone since Rhaenyra, Jace, and Luke are coming.”

Given how terrible Alicent treated you after the birth of your sons and how cruel she was being to Rhaenyra, Harwin suggested you give birth outside the red keep so you wouldn’t need to stress about anything other than the baby, and after talking about it, you decided that Dragonstone would be the best option because it was the place you felt the safest.

A smile pulls on his lips. “My sisters will be honored—”

He cuts himself off when the sudden sound of wings flapping catches his attention. You stare at Varos, who is now flying back to Harrenhal, and ask the question of what other dragon is nearby until you hear the recognisable sound of Caraxes screeching.

“Daemon…” While others gasped and looked fearful as Caraxes flew close enough to the town to cause a large gush of wind, you smiled brightly and asked, “What is he doing here?”

“I invited him.”

Nothing else needs to be said for you to understand that Harwin must have been very concerned to ask Daemon to come. Your lips start to tremble as you realize how much you love the man standing in front of you. You lean into him, kissing him multiple times on the lips, “we should go and greet him.”

—

“Well, that was amusing.”

“Indeed, it was not,” you pout. Varos and Caraxes were actually getting along until they started fighting over the carcass of a dead animal. Daemon assured you his dragon wouldn’t really harm yours, but it still made you unnerved to see a much larger and battle-hardened dragon snapping at Varos. You were actually thankful for the bloody Wyrm winning in the end.

A comfortable silence passes as you walk back into the castle. Once inside, you begin to give Daemon a tour, which was just delaying the inevitable conversation you’d eventually need to have. He tells you how his wife and daughters are.

“Harwin tells me you are insisting he takes you to the taverns in town.”

Daemon smirks, “Do not fret; I will not allow a repeat of last time.”

You’d only seen Harwin ridiculously drunk, to the point he couldn’t walk straight on several occasions, and Daemon was present at each of them. “Laena has forbidden me from corrupting your good husband.”

“Hmm,” you quickly change the conversation. “I’m glad you came, uncle; it’s been far too long.”

“That is, parenthood often delays us from doing the things we wish.”

“Have you met Lucerys yet? He’s so tiny, much smaller than Jacaerys was.”

“Regrettably not,” he says, licking his lips. “Harwin says you haven’t been sleeping well, not since you saw something in a dream. What happened in it?”

You explain the dream to him in great detail, and the look on his face seems to confirm your fear that something bad is lurking on the horizon. The first time you had dreams alluding to the battle of the stones was years before it happened. “That’s not all; there was something I kept from Harwin. When Harrenhal was burning, I saw the Valyrian steel dagger you gave me in the flames; it had writing on it.”

“What does it say?”

“It said my son would be se bringer hen ānogar se perzyssy. The bringer of blood and flames.”

Ñuha mijegindita rūs - My poor baby

Muña - Mother

Se bringer hen ānogar se perzyssy - The bringer of blood and flames

Shoutout to @topazy for this imagine of Vaella and Harwin!!! Also below is one’s I made of what Vaella saw in her dream