#solemn lines of lions

[starr666]

Steamy Springs in the Savanna

Hehehe guess who got the Sunset Savannah event in English and can’t stop thinking of Leona’s slutty ass waist??

Leona Kingscholar x gn!reader

minors dni

by scrolling below this line, you are consenting to reading nsfw content

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It was hours after the Bead Brawl. Leona called for another feast to be had to bring in their victory…despite how it had been achieved. Everyone was absolutely exhausted after everything leading up to and during the brawl and went to bed quite early. All except for the lion himself. He sat in the common area of the hotel after having been fussed out by Neji for the stunt he pulled and you hid behind the wall, listening in. After Neji had left the area and gave you a solemn nod, you stood there…conflicted on whether or not to go back to your room or talk to the obviously irritated beastman. Before you get the chance to make the decision for yourself…

“I smell you, herbivore. C’mere.”

Startled but obedient, you walk over to the couch where the lion was sprawled out on. You stood at the armrest where his feet lay and he leans his head down to get a look at you

“If ya can’t sleep, I’m goin’ to the springs again. Wanna be able to enjoy it without the rowdy children before we go back.”

You simply nod, thinking he was just informing you of where he would be and he rolls his eyes at your simple response

“That was an invitation, herbie. S’long as you’re quiet, I won’t mind the company. Better make a quick decision before one of those idiots wake up or I retract the invitation.”

“O-oh…” You quickly change into attire more suitable for the springs and hop in his truck. The ride was silent and you caught him occasionally looking over the area of the kingdom , a reminiscent look in his eye that you took note of but kept quiet about.

He leads you through a secret entrance to be used by royalty and their guests when the rest of Ivory Springs is closed for the night. You find yourself in awe of the glimmering fairy like lights that light the bath of the springs. By the time you finish silently admiring the area, Leona is already in the water, his head leaning back and eyes closed…”Did he fall asleep already?”you begin to wonder before his eyes shoot open.

“You comin’ in or what? Promise I won’t bite, little mouse~.” His usual bored expression is replaced with a sly smirk as he calls you by the nickname.

You cannot deny the feeling of blood rushing to your cheeks at the nickname and the knowledge that the very muscular and good looking beast man was in that spring with nothing on but a short pair of swim trunks. You turn around so your back is facing him to relieve the pressure of taking off your cover up off in front of him. But as soon as the coverup drops to the ground, you can feel his intense gaze looking your body up and down. You ignore it and get in the spring with him…well across from him, not wanting to intrude on his space or give him a reason to regret him offering the opportunity to you. He rests his head on the ground behind him once again, staring at the night stars as he did the night before the tournament

“Y-you did a good job out there. Didn’t expect my name to be said at all but…if that’s what people think of when they hear my name, I guess I don’t mind.”You slouch a bit in the water, not being sure if you should’ve broke the silence

“Heh,s’that so or were you just excited to hear your name leaving my lips with confidence?” he grins as he smells the shift in your hormones from the comment made. He stands from his spot in the water and walks towards you and you find yourself distracted by the water cascading down his chest and eventually his abs and back into the water again. Soon you feel his tail around your waist and your body flush against his

You feel his fingers dancing on your skin comfortably, occasionally using his nail to provide a little stimulation until his hands reach down to your ass, a cocky smirk appearing when he hears the slight moan and gasp that followed after.

“Thought so, now, y’want me to make you scream mine in exchange?”

“H-huh? What do you mea-“ before you can say anything else to talk yourself out of what you oh so desperately desired, you are pulled into a sloppy kiss with him. His tongue skillfully traveling your mouth and in the heat of it, you find yourself wrapping your legs around his slutty but strong torso. Causing him to chuckle into the kiss and briefly pause

“There ya go, so needy for me already. Can’t say I’m surprised with the way you were staring me down in my rightful throne.” He whispers into your ear before giving your lobe a suck and nibble and continuing down to your sensitive jaw, relishing in the sound of your moans blending beautifully with the sound of the waterfall. His trained hands easily rid you of your bottoms, savoring the smell and he aligns himself with your entrance and to say that the tip itself was overwhelming would be an understatement. He uses the heated water to his advantage and begins stretching you beautifully while continuing to mark up your neck and chest

“L-Leona~”

“That’s a little too quiet for me, Let me fix that~” Before you can process what was said, you feel a stinging stretch that makes you feel full. A deep growl escapes his lips as the veins and spines of his dick acquaint itself with your warmth. He lets it sit there for a moment as you get adjusted before he begins moving into you, starting with slow and hard thrusts, which allow a string of curses to escape your lips, which isn’t exactly what he was looking for…so he picks up the pace and also starts slamming you onto himself with his own hands.

The sound of his hips slapping against your ass fill the air with a slight echoing off the walls of the spring and the water continues to ripple in sync. His growls get deeper and louder as you begin clenching around him, your scent getting stronger as you’re about to release and the incoherent babbling of uncontrollable sounds as he ravages you only serve as more fuel.

“I know you’re close, I better hear my name loud and clear when you finish, if not, I’m edging you till the sun comes up, got it little mouse~?” his tone was commanding, raspy and sexy.You nod at him, still barely able to form coherent words, an occasional “daddy” and “my king” falling from your lips between moans until you finally unravel and your legs begin to shake around his waist.

“LEONAAAAAA~ fuck fuck fuuuuck”

“What a slutty little pet you are, at least y’know how to listen.” he pounds up into you after hearing his name be screamed with such pleasure rather than the usual fussing that follows afterwards. He lets out a roar of his own while he finishes inside of you, watching with pride as the liquids drip into the hot spring and dissipate.

After a few more rounds, Leona finds himself aiding a stumbling you back to the truck and you fall asleep on the way back to the hotel. Everyone is still asleep when you arrive and he makes sure to feed you before letting you rest in your room for the night…with one of his luxury blankets.

[novaursa]

Legacy (union of fire and gold)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Just a reminder how events of this story differ from the canon.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: homecoming

- Next part: by his design

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The day dawned overcast, with a pale, muted light casting a gray hue over the city as the bells of the Sept of Baelor tolled, echoing throughout King’s Landing. The streets were lined with onlookers, commoners and courtiers alike, whispering in anticipation of the union about to take place. News had spread quickly, tales of the Targaryen princess returned to the capital and soon to be bound to the most powerful lord in Westeros. The marriage of a lion and a dragon—an alliance many had once thought impossible.

The Sept itself was adorned for the occasion, candles flickering in every alcove, their soft glow illuminating the vast marble hall. The high arches soared above, casting an almost ethereal light across the space as the silent sisters moved through the aisles, their white robes sweeping the floors in solemn reverence.

You stood in the antechamber, waiting for the ceremony to begin, your heart steady but your mind a storm of thoughts. The gown you wore had been chosen carefully, a testament to your heritage as well as a nod to the new life you were stepping into. The fabric was deep crimson, almost black in certain lights, shot through with threads of silver that shimmered faintly as you moved—a tribute to the colors of House Targaryen as well as House Lannister. The gown’s neckline was modest but elegant, dipping just enough to reveal a thin, intricate necklace of Valyrian steel, a rare piece that had been salvaged from the relics of your family. It rested cool against your skin, a silent reminder of the bloodline you carried.

The sleeves were long, fitted tightly down your arms before flaring at the wrists, each cuff embroidered with delicate silver dragons coiling around golden lions. The waist was cinched with a slender belt of red and gold, inlaid with small rubies that glinted like fire in the dim light. Your hair had been swept up, held in place by delicate silver pins shaped like dragon wings, with a few tendrils left to frame your face. You’d refused a veil; this was no ordinary marriage, and you would meet the eyes of every witness with your own head held high.

As the silent sisters moved to open the door for you, a figure approached—Ser Barristan Selmy, his white cloak a stark contrast to the richness of the ceremony’s decor. He regarded you with a warmth that softened the lines of his face, a faint smile touching his lips.

“Your family would have been proud to see you today,” he murmured quietly, his voice steady. “I know they would have been.”

You nodded, offering him a grateful smile, but said nothing. The memories of your family weighed heavily on you, but this day was one of duty, of survival. You took a steadying breath as the doors to the Sept opened, revealing the crowd of nobility that filled the pews. Each head turned, and whispers began to ripple through the hall as you entered.

Ahead, Tywin stood waiting at the altar, his posture as commanding as ever, dressed in rich red and gold that seemed to amplify the severe lines of his face. His expression was impassive, though his eyes met yours with a piercing intensity that was both reassuring and possessive. The High Septon stood beside him, adorned in robes of white and gold, his hands folded before him as he waited to perform the rites.

You moved forward with steady steps, feeling the weight of every gaze upon you, each step a deliberate, measured acceptance of the path you had chosen—or had been chosen for you. As you neared the altar, you caught a glimpse of Cersei in the front row, her expression a tightly controlled mask of resentment and bitterness. Beside her, Joffrey watched with a cruel smirk, his eyes glittering with an amusement that made your skin crawl. Sansa was seated a few places away, her eyes wide, filled with something close to awe and hope as she watched you.

The High Septon began the ceremony, his voice solemn and resonant, echoing through the hall as he recited the ancient vows. His words seemed to fade into the background as you faced Tywin, your eyes locked on his, each of you a picture of calm control amidst the ceremony’s grandeur.

“Do you, Lord Tywin Lannister, take Lady Y/N of House Targaryen as your lawful wife, to have and to hold, to honor and protect, from this day until the end of your days?” the High Septon intoned, his voice formal.

Tywin inclined his head, his voice strong and unyielding. “I do.”

The High Septon turned to you, his gaze solemn. “And do you, Lady Y/N of House Targaryen, take Lord Tywin Lannister as your lawful husband, to have and to hold, to honor and protect, from this day until the end of your days?”

You swallowed, the weight of the vow settling over you as you answered, your voice steady. “I do.”

The High Septon lifted his hands in blessing, and the audience fell silent as he spoke the final rites, joining your hands together in a ceremonial binding. The feel of Tywin’s hand over yours was firm, unyielding, his grip a silent promise that left no room for uncertainty.

“With this union,” the High Septon proclaimed, “House Targaryen and House Lannister stand as one. May the Seven bless this bond, now and forever.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the ceremony concluded, and Tywin leaned in, placing a chaste but possessive kiss on your forehead—a public gesture of claim, a declaration to all present that you now belonged to him.

The bells of the Sept tolled once more as you and Tywin exited the altar, arm in arm, each step echoing through the hall as you faced the court together. The nobility stood, bowing as you passed, each of them aware of the significance of this marriage, the union of two great houses brought together by fire and ambition.

When you reached the doors, they opened to reveal the courtyard filled with onlookers, each one craning to catch sight of the newly wed couple. Tywin’s gaze was fixed forward, his grip on your arm as steady and unrelenting as his own sense of purpose. This was his victory, his triumph—and now, it was yours as well, even if it had come at the cost of your past.

The crowd cheered as you descended the steps, and the sound grew louder as you made your way toward the Great Hall, where a grand feast awaited. The tables were laden with the finest dishes King’s Landing could offer—roasted boar, honey-glazed fruits, thick stews and freshly baked bread, each dish arranged with meticulous care.

You took a seat at the high table beside Tywin, your gaze sweeping over the hall as you settled into your new place. The nobility began to fill the room, each one eager to partake in the feast, to toast to the union of fire and gold. The sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses filled the hall, the air thick with the scent of wine and spices as the night began.

You kept your gaze steady, a quiet resolve in your expression as you prepared to face what lay ahead. This was your new reality, your new path. And as the feast began, you knew that whatever challenges awaited, you would meet them head-on, just as you had met the vows you’d taken that day.

The hall was alight with celebration, filled with the sound of laughter, clinking goblets, and lively music. Nobles from across the realm raised their glasses to toast your union with Tywin, each vying for favor, some more genuine than others.

At the high table, you sat beside Tywin, who remained as composed and impenetrable as ever. His gaze swept over the crowd, his mere presence commanding respect, if not fear, from those who dared approach.

Not long into the feast, you noticed a figure making his way over to the high table, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips: King Joffrey. His golden hair gleamed in the torchlight, and his green eyes held a glint of malice barely concealed behind a play of princely decorum. He stopped in front of you, giving an exaggerated bow that was more mockery than respect.

“Lady Y/N,” he drawled, his tone dripping with insincerity. “Or should I say, Lady Lannister? My, my… congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

You inclined your head, meeting his gaze with a calm, steady expression, refusing to rise to his bait. “Thank you, Your Grace,” you replied, your voice polite but cool. “It is kind of you to offer your well wishes.”

Joffrey’s smirk widened, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. ���Yes, I imagine it must feel… different, being back in King’s Landing after so long. Such a shame, really, that you had to spend all those years in the North. But then, not everyone can be so… fortunate as to live here in the capital.”

You held his gaze, letting a faint, knowing smile play at the corners of your lips. “Indeed, Your Grace,” you replied smoothly. “But I’ve found that those who endure hardship often come out stronger for it. And King’s Landing, as I recall, isn’t without its own… challenges.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Joffrey’s face, and you saw his hand twitch as though he longed to wipe that smile from your lips. Before he could retort, Tywin’s voice cut through the tension, cold and commanding.

“Enough, Joffrey,” Tywin said, his tone laced with steel. “This is neither the time nor the place for your petty provocations. Show respect or be silent.”

Joffrey’s smirk faded, and he flushed with anger, but he dared not defy his grandsire. He cast a sharp look at Cersei, who was watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, a mixture of irritation and helplessness on her face.

“Mother,” Joffrey snapped, turning on his heel. “It seems I am unwanted here.”

Cersei stood, a warning in her gaze as she took her son’s arm, steering him away. “Come, Joffrey,” she murmured, her tone firm but placating. “You have guests to attend to.”

As they left, Tywin’s gaze remained fixed ahead, a faint look of satisfaction in his eyes. “That boy would do well to remember his place,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Moments later, you noticed another familiar face approaching, and this time, your heart lifted with genuine joy. Sansa, dressed in a soft gown of light blue that brought out the gentle hue of her eyes, approached tentatively, her expression filled with a mixture of awe and warmth.

Rising from your seat, you extended a hand, and she took it gratefully, allowing you to pull her into a gentle hug. Tywin said nothing, merely casting a brief glance in her direction before returning his attention to the festivities.

“Sansa,” you murmured, your voice soft, filled with the affection of long-lost family. “It’s so good to see you.”

She pulled back, her gaze brimming with warmth. “And you, Lady Y/N… or should I say, Lady Lannister?” she teased lightly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You offered a gentle smile. “I think for you, Sansa, ‘Y/N’ will do just fine.”

Guiding her a little farther down the hall, away from the prying ears and eyes, you found a quieter corner where you could speak more freely. Once you were sure no one would overhear, you turned to her, an apology already forming in your eyes.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner,” you said softly, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “I had hoped to speak with you before all of this began.”

She shook her head, her gaze filled with understanding. “I know… I understand. Everything has been so chaotic.”

A shadow crossed your face as you recalled the recent tragedies. “I heard about your father, Sansa,” you whispered, your voice laced with sympathy. “I am… so deeply sorry. Lord Stark was an honorable man.”

Sansa’s eyes welled up, and she quickly looked down, her voice barely a murmur. “Thank you. It’s… it’s been difficult.” She glanced up at you, a flicker of hope in her gaze. “But having you here… it’s like having a part of Winterfell again.”

You smiled gently, squeezing her hand. “Then perhaps I can be that, in some small way.” Leaning closer, your voice dropped to a near-whisper. “And Sansa… I saw Arya.”

Her eyes widened, her breath catching as she gripped your arm. “Arya? She’s… she’s alive?”

“Yes,” you replied softly, your gaze warm and reassuring. “I saw her, briefly. She was dressed as a boy, keeping herself hidden. But she’s alive, and she’s strong, just as you’d expect her to be.”

Tears gathered in Sansa’s eyes, and she stifled a small, choked laugh. “That sounds like Arya,” she murmured, her voice filled with a mixture of relief and longing. “Thank you… for telling me.”

You brushed a hand over her arm, giving her a look of quiet assurance. “She’s out there, Sansa. And she’s doing everything she can to survive. Just as you are.”

Sansa nodded, composing herself as best she could, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. “Thank you, Lady Y/N. You don’t know how much this means.”

You shook your head. “You don’t need to thank me, Sansa. Just remember, I’m here for you.”

She gave a final, grateful nod, her gaze filled with gratitude as she glanced back toward the high table. The weight of everything unsaid lingered between you, but the connection you shared was unbreakable, stronger than any marriage or alliance. And as you both returned to your places, the sounds of the feast washing over you, you felt the quiet strength of family—a bond that would survive the walls of the Red Keep and beyond.

Returning to the high table, you slid back into your seat beside Tywin, feeling the weight of the hall settle back over you. The brief conversation with Sansa had brought a sense of warmth and familiarity—a small reminder of the bonds that had shaped you. But now, as you glanced at Tywin, that warmth turned to steel, a reminder of the duty you now carried.

Tywin watched you with that piercing gaze, a subtle gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He gave a slight nod, as if approving of your composure. For a moment, he was silent, his attention seeming to linger on you a moment longer than usual.

“You handled yourself well,” he said, his tone low, barely carrying over the noise of the hall. “The nobility are already whispering of you. They’ll see you not as some relic of the past but as an ally to House Lannister.”

You met his gaze, reading between his words. His approval was visible, but there was something else—a faint softness beneath the iron, something almost akin to pride. His voice, though guarded, held a trace of something warmer, something almost close to affection.

"Thank you, Lord Tywin,” you replied, letting your own tone carry a subtle warmth. “I’m merely living up to the role I’ve been given. And, I must say, I find myself… intrigued by it.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, almost imperceptible but enough for you to notice. “Good,” he said, his gaze softening, just for a moment. “The strength to endure is as important as any alliance. I expected nothing less of you.”

The hint of pride in his voice surprised you, leaving you momentarily speechless. Before you could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, loud and already tinged with the effects of a fair amount of wine.

“Ah, Father!” Tyrion’s voice carried a note of barely restrained amusement as he approached, goblet in hand. His eyes were sharp with mirth as he took in the sight of you and Tywin seated side by side. “I trust everything is precisely as you envisioned? After all, I took such great pains to ensure every detail met your exacting standards.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to Tyrion, a faint flicker of irritation flashing across his face, though he maintained his composure. “It will suffice, Tyrion. I see you managed not to make a mockery of the occasion.”

Tyrion raised his goblet in a mock toast, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “High praise from you, Father. I shall cherish it.” He turned his attention to you, his smile widening. “And as for you, Lady Y/N, I do hope my arrangements have been satisfactory. It was quite the ordeal to bring King’s Landing up to par for a Targaryen-Lannister wedding. One can hardly imagine the stress.”

You matched his grin, letting a glint of amusement show in your eyes. “I daresay you succeeded, Lord Tyrion. The feast is exquisite, and I confess I’ve never seen a hall so thoroughly adorned with lions. Though I imagine it’s less about my comfort and more about making a statement.”

Tyrion laughed, clearly pleased with your wit. “Ah, perceptive as well. My, my, Father, it seems you’ve made an excellent match. A woman who sees the truth behind all the finery.” He raised an eyebrow, giving you an appreciative nod. “Quite a feat, Lady Y/N. I can only hope my efforts haven’t gone entirely unappreciated.”

You inclined your head, playing along with his jest. “On the contrary, Lord Tyrion. I’ve found your touch to be both charming and… pointed. King’s Landing certainly knows who reigns here.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted between the two of you, a glimmer of something like amusement, though he hid it well. “Perhaps, Tyrion, you’d fare better showing less charm in your wine and more restraint in your presence,” he said, his tone clipped but lacking its usual severity.

Tyrion merely chuckled, entirely undeterred. “Ah, but Father, what is a wedding without a bit of wine and wit?” He leaned in closer to you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “After all, Lady Y/N, you’ll soon find that in this court, a sharp tongue can be a most valuable ally.”

You smiled, meeting his eyes. “A lesson I learned long ago, Lord Tyrion. Though I’ll admit, it’s refreshing to see it wielded so… skillfully.”

Tyrion laughed, clearly enjoying your exchange. “And here I thought I might have to work to keep you on your toes. It seems, Father, that Lady Y/N has a mind of her own.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though you could sense his approval as he studied you. “A mind put to use in furthering our family, I trust.”

Tyrion raised his glass once more, a gleam of amusement in his eyes as he looked between you and Tywin. “Indeed. A toast, then, to our union and to the surprises yet to come.” He grinned, bowing his head in your direction. “And to you, Lady Y/N. May you continue to be every bit as sharp as you’ve shown yourself to be tonight.”

With that, he gave a small, mocking bow and moved off, blending back into the crowd, his laughter carrying over the music as he raised his glass for another drink.

As you watched him go, Tywin’s gaze lingered on you, the hint of approval in his eyes once more. “You handle him well,” he remarked, his voice low. “Perhaps even better than I expected.”

You smiled, letting your gaze flicker toward him. “I’ve found that wit is a language, Lord Tywin. And I’ve learned to speak it well.” You paused, choosing your next words carefully. “I believe I’ll find my place here, as I have wherever fate has taken me.”

Tywin regarded you in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable, though his eyes held a trace of something warmer, perhaps even respect. “Excellent,” he said, his tone softer, almost approving. “Then perhaps this is where you’re meant to be.”

You held his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you as the noise of the feast rose around you.

Tyrion moved through the bustling hall, goblet in hand and a lightness in his step that came only after a certain amount of wine. He spotted Jaime leaning against one of the pillars near the edge of the festivities, his face thoughtful as he observed the high table where you sat beside Tywin. Tyrion approached, raising his goblet in a silent greeting.

“Enjoying the spectacle, dear brother?” Tyrion asked, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he joined Jaime.

Jaime’s gaze didn’t waver from the table, his expression thoughtful, almost nostalgic. “I was just thinking,” he murmured, “about how strange it is to see her there. Lady Y/N… sitting beside Father, wearing Lannister colors.” He shook his head slightly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “I remember when she was a girl, wandering these halls. Back then, she moved through the Red Keep like she was born to it, like it was her domain.”

Tyrion took a long sip of his wine, studying his brother’s expression. “And now?”

Jaime chuckled softly, though there was a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Now… she’s a guest in her own home. She’s not the same as she was, but she still carries herself with that Targaryen pride.” His gaze flicked to Tywin, then back to you. “It’s strange, seeing her beside him. Like fire and stone.”

Tyrion nodded, his gaze shifting thoughtfully as he watched the high table. “A strange match, to be sure,” he mused. “Though it seems they understand one another in a way that few could. A meeting of wills, perhaps.”

As they spoke, Ser Barristan Selmy approached, his white cloak trailing softly behind him. He inclined his head to both brothers, his gaze lingering on the high table with a look of quiet pride.

“Ser Barristan,” Jaime greeted, a glint of interest in his eyes. “Admiring the new Lady Lannister?”

Barristan nodded, a faint, almost wistful smile touching his lips. “I am,” he admitted, his voice carrying a rare warmth. “It’s a relief to see her alive and well. She was… always a light in these halls. Her family’s pride and spirit lived through her, and it’s heartening to see she survived.”

Tyrion tilted his head, intrigued. “You almost sound proud, Ser Barristan,” he remarked, his tone playful but curious.

Barristan’s gaze softened as he watched you, his expression almost paternal. “I am proud,” he replied quietly. “To see her here, despite everything. Princess Y/N survived when so many of her kin did not. But I can’t help but feel sadness too.” He sighed, a shadow passing over his face. “She’s separated from her family, from the brother she loved and the sister she never met. A Targaryen alone in a city that once belonged to her blood.”

Jaime’s gaze hardened slightly, his expression sharpening. “She’s no longer a princess, Ser Barristan,” he pointed out. “Lady Y/N is a Lannister now, by marriage.”

Barristan’s expression didn’t change, his voice steady as he replied. “Titles are given and taken by men, Ser Jaime. Blood, however, is eternal. She was born a princess, a Targaryen. No marriage can change that.” His gaze shifted to Jaime, a subtle challenge in his eyes. “Even now, sitting beside your father, she holds more claim to the Iron Throne than any in this hall combined.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange with interest. “A bold statement, Ser Barristan,” he murmured, swirling the wine in his goblet. “One that I suspect would be poorly received by certain parties in this room.”

Barristan’s eyes held firm, unwavering. “The truth doesn’t change to suit the comfort of others,” he replied, his tone measured but resolute. “She is the last of her line, the daughter of a king. That is not something even Lord Tywin can strip from her.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking back to you as you sat beside Tywin, poised and composed, your Targaryen heritage evident even in your Lannister colors. “Perhaps not,” he conceded quietly, though his voice held an edge. “But claiming the throne and ruling are two different things. And she seems… content with her place.”

Barristan’s gaze softened as he looked at you. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she’s merely playing the game, biding her time. That’s what a true Targaryen would do. Endure and rise, against all odds.”

Tyrion chuckled, taking a long sip of his wine. “Well, I can certainly drink to that,” he said, raising his goblet in a small salute. “To fire, and to survival. Qualities, it seems, our new step-mother possesses in spades.”

Barristan inclined his head, his gaze lingering on you, admiration and loyalty etched into his expression. “She’s her family’s legacy, as much as she is her own,” he murmured. “And I, for one, am grateful that legacy endures, even in these halls.”

The lively atmosphere of the feast was beginning to settle as goblets emptied and platters were slowly cleared. Laughter and music filled the hall, though an underlying unease lingered in the air, an anticipation that rippled among the guests. As the night wore on, Joffrey rose from his seat, a sly, mischievous grin spreading across his face. He raised his goblet, calling for attention.

"Well, now that we've all had our fill of wine and merriment," he drawled, his voice carrying across the hall, "it's only fitting we send the bride and groom to bed, don't you think?" His smirk widened, and he gestured theatrically toward you and Tywin. "After all, what would a wedding be without a bedding ceremony?”

The hall fell into a hushed silence, a murmur rippling through the guests as they turned to look at you and Tywin. The flicker of amusement on some faces hinted at their eagerness to indulge in Joffrey’s suggestion, but Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, his gaze fixed coldly on his grandson.

The young king leaned forward, his grin growing sharper, relishing the moment. "Come now, Grandsire. Surely you don’t mind allowing the court a bit of sport? I’m sure Lady Y/N would love to be escorted to her marital bed in true royal fashion.”

You felt a flush rise in your cheeks, your stomach tightening as the weight of every gaze settled on you. But before you could respond, Tywin’s hand gripped yours firmly, grounding you, his touch unyielding.

With a single, cold glance, Tywin silenced the murmur in the room. "There will be no bedding ceremony tonight," he stated, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable authority that cut through the hall like a blade. “This is a matter of dignity, not sport. And I expect the court to respect that.”

Joffrey’s face twisted in irritation, his eyes narrowing. His pride had already been bruised earlier, and he was clearly in no mood to back down. “But it’s tradition,” he argued, a petulant edge creeping into his voice. “The people expect a show, a proper send-off. Surely, Grandsire, you wouldn’t deny them that?”

Tywin’s gaze turned icy, his grip on your hand never loosening as he rose from his seat, standing to his full height as he regarded Joffrey with a look of utter disdain. “Tradition,” he repeated, his tone laced with contempt. “Is not an excuse for vulgarity, Your Grace.”

Joffrey flushed, anger sparking in his eyes as he clenched his goblet tightly. “I am the king,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “And I think I’ll decide what is or isn’t vulgar.”

Before he could continue, Cersei rose quickly, placing a calming hand on Joffrey’s shoulder, her voice soft and soothing. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her tone placating, though there was an underlying edge of desperation. “Let us not ruin such a joyous occasion. Your grandsire only wishes to maintain the dignity of the court.”

Joffrey shook her hand off, his gaze fixed stubbornly on Tywin, his face red with frustration. “I am not a child to be chastised in my own hall,” he spat, glaring at Tywin. “You do not command here, Grandsire. I do.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, his gaze steady, cold, and unyielding. “Then act like a king, Joffrey,” he said, his voice low but filled with steel. “A true king commands respect, not indulgence.”

The hall fell into tense silence, every eye fixed on the standoff between Tywin and Joffrey. For a moment, it seemed as though Joffrey would argue further, his chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. But under Tywin’s relentless gaze, his confidence faltered, his resolve wavering. He looked away, muttering under his breath as he took his seat again, his face twisted in humiliation.

Cersei exhaled quietly, her expression a mix of relief and simmering anger as she settled back into her seat beside her son, casting a sidelong glance at Tywin that spoke volumes.

Tywin’s attention returned to you, his hand still firmly gripping yours as he turned, addressing the guests in a final, dismissive tone. “The feast is over. The court may enjoy the remainder of the night as they see fit. Lady Y/N and I will retire.”

Without waiting for a response, he drew you to your feet, guiding you away from the high table. His grip was steady, possessive, a silent reminder that he had claimed you, that tonight, you would not be subjected to the mockery and spectacle Joffrey had intended.

As you left the hall, the noise of the feast faded behind you, replaced by the quiet footsteps echoing through the stone corridors of the Red Keep. Tywin’s silence was as unyielding as ever, his gaze forward as he led you through the winding passages, his presence a wall of unbreakable resolve.

Finally, as you neared your chambers, he spoke, his voice calm, his tone laced with something you could almost mistake for gentleness. “This is your night, Lady Y/N,” he said, glancing down at you. “And no one—not even a king—will take that dignity from you.”

You met his gaze, a flicker of gratitude and perhaps even warmth in your expression as you nodded. “Thank you, Lord Tywin,” you replied softly, feeling the weight of his protection as much as his authority.

He didn’t respond, merely nodding as he continued forward, guiding you into the privacy of your chambers, where the rest of the night awaited you—without the eyes of the court, without the mockery of a bedding ceremony, and with only the silent understanding between you and the man who now, irrevocably, held your future in his hands.

As the heavy doors of your chambers closed behind you, the sounds of the feast, of laughter and music, faded away, leaving only silence in their place. The faint light of candles cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the rich tapestries and the faint gleam of polished silver in the dimness. You could hear the soft clicking of your jewelry as you began to remove the more intricate pieces, each one a reminder of the ceremony, of the role you had stepped into today.

Tywin moved to unfasten his cloak, his motions slow and deliberate. The silence between you grew, thick with unspoken words and expectations. He caught your gaze in the reflection of a nearby mirror, his expression impassive, though his eyes held a glint of steel.

“Do you know what is expected of you, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low but firm, carrying an authority that left no room for hesitation.

You met his gaze steadily, nodding as you removed a bracelet, feeling its weight slide from your wrist. “I do,” you replied, your voice calm, though there was a trace of quiet defiance there. “I am well aware of my duty, Tywin.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of approval mixed with his usual severity. “Good,” he replied. There was a beat of silence, and then, his tone became almost matter-of-fact, his words carefully chosen. “You understand, then, that I have no clear male heir for Casterly Rock. Jaime’s oath binds him to the Kingsguard, and I would sooner see Casterly Rock crumble than pass it to Tyrion.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “Yes,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet his. “That particular… predicament has been common knowledge since my first time at court. The succession, or lack of it, has always been a concern, hasn’t it?”

A flicker of something crossed Tywin’s face, a momentary shift in his expression. He looked away, his hands pausing briefly on the golden clasp of his ceremonial cloak before continuing. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone taut, controlled. “It has.”

As you removed the last of your jewelry, a thought crossed your mind, one that lingered at the edge of this silent conversation. “Then why wait so long to address it?” you asked, your voice soft but curious. “Why didn’t you… find a solution sooner?”

For a moment, Tywin was silent, his back turned as he removed his cloak, laying it across a nearby chair with precise care. The question hung in the air, unanswered, but his silence spoke volumes. There was a slight stiffness in his stance, a subtle shift that hinted at something unspoken, something deeply personal, though he would not allow it to surface.

He turned back to face you, his gaze colder, more focused, as though he’d shut down any hint of whatever sentiment had momentarily slipped through. “This is not the time for speculation, Y/N,” he replied, his voice as unyielding as iron. “You have agreed to this union, and you know your role in it.”

With that, he moved to unfasten the buttons of his doublet, his movements precise, measured. His gaze lingered on you, a silent command as he spoke. “Undress yourself,” he said, his voice low, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of his authority but also recognizing the power you still held. You began to undo the fastenings of your gown, your movements as calm and deliberate as his own, feeling the layers of fine fabric slide from your shoulders and pool at your feet. The air felt cooler against your skin, a reminder of the vulnerability and duty that now lay between you.

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his eyes as he continued to remove his own attire, his gaze unwavering as he observed you. There was a quiet intensity in his stance, as he guided you to the bed.

The cool night air of the room barely reaches you, as Tywin’s weight starts pressing you down into the silken sheets. His gaze is steady, his hands firm yet surprisingly gentle as he guides you beneath him. There’s a glint in his eyes—something raw, something primal. You’re all too aware of the closeness between you, of his warm breath as he hovers just above, taking in every detail of your face.

Tywin’s hand moves between you both, adjusting as he positions himself. You feel the pressure as he presses forward, the unfamiliar stretch drawing a sharp, stifled yelp from your throat. His expression doesn’t soften—no, Tywin Lannister isn’t the sort of man to show tenderness in moments like this. But his eyes close briefly, and a low, rumbling exhale escapes him, something between pleasure and satisfaction.

When he begins to move, his pace is deliberate, calculated. His breaths, warm and shallow, mingle with yours as his mouth hovers just near enough to feel the brush of his lips on yours without fully meeting. Each motion is purposeful, and he watches you, every flicker of discomfort and pleasure written across your face. His hand comes up, fingers threading through your hair, holding you close as his body presses deeper, filling you in a way that sends ripples of sensation down your spine.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel, both commanding and restrained. You meet his gaze, feeling yourself yielding under the weight of it. His thumb strokes along your cheek in a rare gesture of softness as his movements grow a fraction more urgent, his rhythm deepening.

The ache in your body slowly melts away, replaced by a growing, unfamiliar pleasure. Small sounds escape your lips, and you sense the change in him as he takes them in, each soft moan seemingly driving him further. His mouth hovers near your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs, almost as if to himself, “You’re mine now, truly.”

Your hand rises instinctively, finding purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts to the rhythm he’s set. “You didn’t need to send me North for that, Tywin,” you manage between breaths, the faintest hint of defiance lacing your words.

A smirk tugs at his lips, a rare crack in his composed facade. “It was necessary,” he says, his voice steady even as his own breathing grows heavier. “Winterfell kept you safe… untouched, unspoiled, exactly as you should be.” His words settle over you, a possessive edge to them that sends a thrill down your spine. It sounded almost like a confession.

As the pace quickens, any response dissolves into breathless gasps, the friction of his movements drawing forth pleasure in waves. You arch against him, feeling the tightness between you, the way his hands press into your sides, urging you closer with each thrust. His hand slips down to your waist, securing you firmly as he drives forward, every part of him focused on drawing out every sound, every sigh.

The sensation builds, your body yielding to his with every motion, every glance, the sound of his breath mingling with your own until there’s nothing else—only this connection, this raw and unspoken understanding between you.

As he finally stills, the silence in the room settles around you both. His eyes are still on you, a lingering intensity in his gaze as he brushes a stray pale strand of hair from your face, his thumb resting briefly against your cheek.

“You’re mine now,” he repeats, quieter this time, as if sealing a promise with each word.

Tywin remains within you, his presence filling every space, grounding you beneath him. His weight and warmth press down, possessive, as he settles himself closer, his hands still resting on either side of you. His gaze sharpens, fixing on you with a commanding steadiness, yet there’s something more—a shadow of restrained intent.

“You understand, of course, that you’ll be expected here often,” he begins, his voice low, each word crisp and certain. “Until you are with child, my needs in the bedchamber will be met… regularly.”

You don’t flinch, don’t look away; instead, you meet his gaze with equal resolve. “I’ve told you already how I know my duty, Tywin,” you reply, a calm edge to your voice. His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something in his eyes—just the faintest flicker of acknowledgment, of approval. You continue, your voice soft but unwavering, “But I am more than that.”

A rare silence follows your words, and you watch as his jaw tenses, a flicker of something that almost resembles surprise crossing his features. His fingers brush down your arm, lingering, and for a moment, Tywin seems almost… caught, suspended in a gaze that feels somehow intimate, yet distant. His eyes search yours, calculating, introspective, as though weighing every word, every glance. There’s something in his expression—something unspoken, raw, and real—that betrays a hint of what he might not dare to say aloud. Perhaps he’d imagined this moment more times than he would admit, even to himself.

You feel his hand tighten gently at your hip, and his voice comes, low and rough, the barest hint of a softened edge. “More than that… perhaps.” He leans down, his mouth lingering just above yours, close enough to feel his breath. “But I am not a man who permits sentiment to cloud his purpose. You are here because you serve that purpose. You are mine, in name and blood.”

There is a pause, one weighted with the tension between you, the undeniable pull beneath the surface of his words. “But understand,” he continues, his tone dipping as his eyes trace your features, “you are not some idle decoration or a tool. If you wish to be ‘more,’ then prove it. Show me what more means to you, and perhaps… I’ll allow it.”

His words hang between you like a challenge, his gaze penetrating, unwavering. And as his fingers brush your cheek, there is a finality to his touch, a promise that neither of you will speak aloud but feel all the same.

“You know well enough,” you murmur, your voice steady and unyielding, “that I am more than that. And if I am yours, then let it be known that you are mine as well. I will not be merely the mother of your heirs.”

A rare, subtle smirk pulls at his lips, and he lets out a breath, something between resignation and faint amusement. “Bold words,” he replies, his voice softening ever so slightly. His gaze intensifies, locking onto yours with a fierceness that borders on admiration. “Perhaps that boldness is what drew me to this arrangement after all.”

His lips find yours, a kiss as demanding as the man himself—hungry and consuming, yet just gentle enough to hint at a restraint he rarely affords anyone. When he finally pulls back, you feel his thumb brushing over your cheek in the barest hint of tenderness before his gaze hardens again, as though the moment of softness never existed.

“You will come to know your place here,” he says quietly, but there is an understanding in his words, a promise that, while unspoken, settles deeply between you both.

In this silence, his hand lingers on your skin, a shared recognition passing between you—one that speaks of purpose and strength, of duty and the rare, guarded understanding that neither of you may ever speak aloud.

[mydearviserra]

Stones

Warning: Death, grief, affair

A whole year it took to finish his outfit

It was his favorite of all his clothing, he loved how much details and effort you took. One whole year of trying to finish this damn thing, he would often distract me from the beading pulling you away to crush his lips against yours then ultimately bed ending up on the bed. One found moment was when you were just almost done, he pulled you away again just for you to reluctantly pull away begging him your almost finished yet that night we broke the bed. Days we laughed at that day how embarrassing it was to call for a bed replacement.

You stood rigidly beside Tywin's bier, your face a mask of grief-stricken composure even as tears carved silent paths through the fine lines around your eyes and down your cheeks. The red gown you wore seemed to shimmer with each suppressed shudder, the Lannister lion crest emblazoned upon your bodice appearing almost mocking in its joviality. Your hands, clad in delicate silk gloves, gripped the side of the dress tightly as you gazed down at her deceased husband's still form, his eyes closed eternally beneath the stone likeness of his own stern visage.

Though the septa chanted solemn hymns and the nobles murmured their condolences, you barely heard them. Your mind was a tempest of anguish and rage, the betrayal you had discovered mere days ago still raw and festering. After fourteen years of marriage, three sons born from your womb, and Tywin had been rutting with some common whore? The shame of it burned hotter than your sorrow

there was a fragility to your poise, a barely restrained vulnerability that belied the strength and resilience she had long since cultivated. As your gaze flicked to Cersei, standing haughtily across the aisle, you felt a surge of loathing so intense it nearly choked you.

Turning back to Tywin, you whispered a final, fervent prayer, your voice trembling almost imperceptibly. "I loved you," you said softly, the words a benediction and an accusation all at once. "I loved you," you repeated, as if trying to convince yourself he’ll hear you

leaning closer, your gloved hand trembling as you reached out to caress Tywin's cold, lifeless cheek. Your eyes shimmering with unshed tears and barely contained rage, bored into his shuttered ones as if trying to wake him, to force him to account for his heinous betrayal.

"How could you do this to me, Tywin?" You whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. "After all these years, after the children we made together, how could you sully our marriage with some- some harlot?" Your breathing hitched on a sob, your fingers curling into a fist against his cheek.

"I wanted to hate you," you hissed, tears spilling down your face to splatter onto the stone covering Tywin's chest. “I tried to hate you, but I cannot. I cannot, because despite everything, I still... I still loved you, you wretched man." You choked on another sob, your body shaking with the force of your anguish and fury.

"I loved you," you repeated, your voice rising in pitch and volume, echoing through the cavernous sept. "And this is how you repaid my love? By taking some common whore to your bed? By defiling our marriage vows, our family name?" You shook your head "I wanted to scream at you, to rage against your betrayal until my throat was raw. I wanted to shake you, to make you see the pain you've caused me, caused our boys..."

Your voice dissolved into incoherent whispers and anguished cries, your body wracked with silent sobs as you leaned over Tywin's bier. The few mourners present cast furtive glances your way, murmuring their sympathy and unease. Yet you were lost in your own world of grief and fury, trapped in the prison of your own shattered heart.

“How could you forget, Tywin? How could you forget all the joyous moments we shared, all the laughter and love that filled our chambers? Do you remember the nights you worshipped my body, your calloused hands exploring every curve and contour as if mapping out the very essence of my being? I remember the way you would kiss me until I was breathless, until the world fell away and there was nothing but your touch, your passion, your love..."

You trailed off, a choked sob escaping your lips as you recalled happier times. "And the hours I spent, stitching and sewing, my fingers aching from the labor of love I poured into every stitch, every embroidered lion and golden rose. The outfit I made for you, the one you wear now in this final repose - it took me a year, Tywin. A year of my life, of my love, poured into a garment I hoped you would cherish, would honor, as much as I cherished and honored you."

You let out a bitter, mirthless laugh, shaking your head. "But you were too busy defiling our marriage, too busy rutting with some harlot to appreciate the time and love I put into your clothes, your life. You distracted me from my sewing with your kisses, your caresses, your lovemaking. And now, now you lie here in the fine garments I made for you, wearing them only to be buried in. It's a mockery, Tywin. A cruel, twisting mockery of all the love and happiness we once shared."

You leaned closer, your gloved hand fisting in the fine silk of Tywin's funeral shroud. "I wanted to give you everything, Tywin. I wanted to make you happy, to stand by your side as your wife and partner in all things. But now... now I don't know if I can even look at you, let alone mourn you as I once would have. You've taken a piece of my heart and shattered it, and I fear it will never be whole again."

Your voice hardened with bitter accusation as you confronted Tywin's corpse, your eyes flashing with jealous rage. "I want to know about her, Tywin. That harlot, that... that whore. What made her so different, so irresistible that you would betray our marriage vows, our family, for her?" You spat the words

"Was she more beautiful than I? More skilled in the art of lovemaking? Did she whisper sweet lies and empty flatteries in your ear, stroking your ego and your pride until you forgot the woman who had stood faithfully by your side for over a decade?" Your voice rose, echoing through the vaulted chamber as you gave vent to her pain and anger.

"She could not have loved you, Tywin. She could not have appreciated the man you were, the power and influence you wielded. She was a opportunist, a harlot who saw in you a means to elevate her station, to line her pockets and fill her belly." Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, the silk of your gloves creaking under the force of your grip.

"And yet, you looked her way. You touched her flesh, joined your body with hers, when you had a wife who loved you, who cherished you, who gave you sons and built a life with you." You shook your head. "I will never understand it, Tywin. I will never comprehend how you could cast aside the love and loyalty of your wife for a moment's fleeting pleasure with a woman who cared for nothing but herself."

Fresh tears spilled down your face as you loomed over Tywin's bier, her voice breaking on an anguished sob as she lifted her hands again caressing his cheeks "You broke my heart, Tywin. You broke our marriage, our family, with your betrayal. And now, now you lie here, beyond reach of my anger, my sorrow, my desperate need to understand why. Why, Tywin? Why her? Why not me, your wife, your y/n ?

"If only you had loved Tyrion, truly loved him as a father should love his son, none of this would have come to pass. He was your son, your own blood, and yet you cast him aside, treated him with contempt and scorn." Your hands cupped his cheeks, your warm skin mixing with his cold flesh sent a shiver of resentment

"If you had given Tyrion the love, the approval, the support he so desperately craved from you, he would have never felt the need to seek revenge. He would have been content, proud to be your son, your heir. But you denied him that, and in doing so, you sowed the seeds of your own destruction." Your eyes blazed with a mixture of sorrow and accusation as you gazed down at your husband's dead face.

"Tyrion loved you, Tywin, as only a son can love his father. And you repaid that love with cruelty and neglect. You rode him, mocked him, belittled his every achievement. You even went so far as to have him imprisoned, to threaten his life, all for the sake of your precious honor." The tears of bitter disappointment dripping down to his face

"If you had simply shown Tyrion the love and acceptance he needed, he would have never resorted to such desperate measures. He would have been grateful, loyal, true to you and our family. But instead, your intransigence, your stubborn refusal to see the good in him, to love him as he deserved to be loved, drove him to the brink of madness."

Your rose to a anguished scream as you confronted Tywin's lifeless form. "This is your doing, Tywin! Your cruelty, your blindness, your utter failure as a father and a husband. If you had only loved Tyrion, truly loved him, then he would not have had to kill you for you to finally acknowledge him, to finally see him as your son. And now, now you lie here, beyond redemption, beyond forgiveness, and all because you could not, would not love your own son!”

You slumped against the edge of Tywin's bier, your body shaking with the force of your sobs as the weight of your anguish and fury crashed down upon her. You gripped the cold stone with white-knuckled fingers, your head bowed as tears fell onto Tywin's shrouded chest. Your voice was a broken whisper, raw with emotion.

"How could I not have seen it before, Tywin? The seeds of your downfall, the rot that festered in your heart and mind, driving you to cast aside all that you held dear? I thought our love was stronger, our family unbreakable, but I was a fool." You laughed bitterly, the sound muffled against his chest . "I was a fool to believe that a man who could not love his own son, his own flesh and blood, could ever truly love me."

. "I will have to be strong now, Tywin. I will have to be strong for our sons, for they have lost their father and must now navigate a world that will seek to take from them what they have inherited. And I will have to find a way to forgive you, to lay this bitterness and anger down, so that I may be the mother they need." The further you buried your face against his chest it made your stomach turn, the stiffness, the way his clothes didn’t even get to smell like him yet. For a moment, a split moment I was waiting for him to caress my head and call me his sweet dove.

. "I loved you, Tywin. I loved you so deeply, so profoundly, that I gave you everything I had to offer. My youth, my beauty, my fertility, my loyalty, my devotion... I surrendered it all to you, to us, to the future we were meant to build together." You rose him his chest, your hand cupping onto his. His cold empty hands once held a ring he cherished. His wedding ring now sat on my middle finger

You leaned in closer, her forehead nearly touching his. "But you, you threw it all away. You cast aside the love and devotion of your wife, your partner, your soulmate, for the fleeting pleasures of a harlot's flesh. And in doing so, you destroyed everything we had, everything we were."

"I wanted to grow old with you, Tywin. I wanted to sit by the hearth of our castle, our hands entwined, reminiscing about the life we had built together, the love we had shared. I wanted to watch our grandchildren play at our feet, to know that all we had sacrificed, all we had endured, had been for a purpose. But now, now there will be no golden years, no twilight days filled with the warmth of our love."

You pulled back slightly, your eyes searching Tywin's shuttered ones as if trying to find some semblance of the man you had once loved. "I will never forgive you for this, Tywin. I will never forgive you for taking everything I had to give and leaving me with nothing but the hollow shell of a life, a family, a love that once meant everything to me. And now, now I must find a way to fill the void you've left behind, to rebuild the wreckage of a life shattered by your betrayal."

You took a final, shuddering breath, your voice a broken whisper as you leaned in to press a kiss upon Tywin's cold, still lips. "Goodbye, my love. Goodbye, my heart. I will always love you, even as I learn to hate you for the cruelty and pain you've inflicted upon me, upon our sons, upon all those who dared to love you. Farewell, Tywin. May the gods grant you the peace and redemption you denied yourself in life."

Cersei approached the bier where Tywin lay, her emerald gown sweeping behind her as she walked. Her face was a mask of cold, aloof beauty, but her eyes glittered with a cruelty She paused beside you, looking down at Tywin's corpse with a thinly veiled smirk playing at the corners of your ruby lips

Jamie followed close behind, his hand resting gently on the small of Cersei's back. He cut a striking figure in his black armor, the golden lion of Lannister etched into the breastplate. His face was etched with sorrow and grief, but there was a hardness to his eyes, a steely determination that suggested he would not let Tywin's death go unavenged.

As they approached, you looked up, your tear-stained face a picture of anguish and despair. You knew the animosity between you and Cersei, the jealousy and hatred that had festered in the woman's heart for years. She braced herself for the cutting remarks, the barbed words of condolence that you knew Cersei would not be able to resist voicing.

Cersei leaned in close to you , her voice a low, venomous hiss. "My dear y/n," she purred, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "Please accept my deepest condolences on the loss of your beloved husband. I know how much you cherished him, how devoted you were to his every whim and desire." She paused, letting the implication of her words sink in, the unspoken accusation that you had failed to keep Tywin's affections and loyalties.

Jamie stepped forward, his hand tightening on Cersei's arm. "Cersei,” he warned, his voice low and filled with a quiet menace. "This is not the time or the place for your cruelty and spite. y/n has lost her husband, the father of her children. Have some pity, some compassion."

Cersei merely smirked, pulling away from Jamie's grasp. "Oh, but I do have pity, dear brother. I pity Y/n , for she has lost so much more than a husband. She has lost the love and respect of her family, of her people. And all for the sin of not being able to keep her man happy”

"You think you have the right to judge me, Cersei? To cast aspersions on my love, my devotion, my loyalty to Tywin?" Your voice rose, echoing through the vaulted chamber. "You, who have never known the depth of love and commitment that I shared with your father?"

You took a step towards Cersei, your head held high, your chin jutting out in a gesture of defiance. "I gave Tywin everything I had to give, Cersei. Every ounce of my love, my passion, my very soul. I stood by his side through every trial, every tribulation, every triumph. I bore his children, I built his legacy, I loved him with a fierce and unyielding devotion that you could never begin to comprehend."

Your voice cracked with emotion, but you pressed on, undeterred. "And you dare to stand there, to look down at me. Your jealousy- of me isn’t anything compared to the hatred I have for you how you made me miserable yet you know Tywin love me more then he ever did Joanna. Don’t start reflecting your miserable life to make yourself feel better. Seven hells you couldn’t keep Robert happy! You walk around with bastards of your own brother don’t you dare start with me!”

[disasterofastory]

Bedtime story (Brahms Heelshire x Reader)

Bedtime story // Brahms Heelshire Masterlist Brahms Heelshire x Reader Kinktober 2023 - 13/14 Warnings: mommy kink, nursing/breastfeeding kink (I'm not sure which)

Summary: You read (Jane Eyre) while Brahms is busy with something else.

"After a youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel." Your voice is gentle in the quiet room as your eyes scan the long line of words as you read under the dim light of the lamp on the bedside table. The old book is a comforting weight in your hold while your other hand rakes through Brahms's dark hair as he rests on your shoulder. The soft strands curl around your fingers every now and again as you play with them mindlessly. His arm is over your middle, fidgeting with the hem of your pajama shirt. He smells like evergreen and sandalwood. His body is pressed to your side, keeping you warm and comfortable. His breath fans over your collarbone with every exhale. "I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one."

It's dark and cold outside. You can barely see the garden of the manor through the thick fog flowing close to the ground. The pale face of a moon and the stars around it are hidden by the clouds gathering at the top of the sky. The scent of oncoming rain is carried by the wind as the branches of the trees rock back and forth in the darkness.

While you are busy with the book in front of you, Brahms's hand slips under your shirt, caressing your side and moving to your stomach. "It's ticklish," you tell him. Your stomach quivers under his fingertips. "Continue," he hums as an answer, moving his touch up on your torso. His fingers brush over the soft skin under your breasts. Your shirt is almost at your neck now. "Jane!" recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror—for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising—"Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me go another?" Brahms's movements are lazy as he pushes your shirt out of the way entirely. His thumb brushes over your nipple until it becomes a hard pebble under his fingertip. "Give one glance to my horrible life when you are gone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left?" Your voice trembles as you continue reading. The man in your arm tugs on your nipple, soothing the slight pain immediately after. "Continue," Brahms hums against your skin when you stop for a second. His lips slide over the side of your breast as he leans closer to your chest until his mouth closes around your nipple. "What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for a companion and for some hope?" The words roll down your tongue heavily as your voice shakes. Brahms's teeth graze over the sensitive skin around your nipple while his tongue laps on the hard bud. His other hand finds its way to your other tit, kneading and squeezing the soft flesh. "You will not come? You will not be my comforter, my rescuer? My deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?" You feel like a raw nerve as you read. Your breasts ache under his ministrations. Your nipple is soaked by his saliva as he sucks and sucks on your tit. His tongue circles and laps and draws. Your hand is still in his hair, holding onto his curls and pushing his face even closer as your back arches. "I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked back—walked back as determinedly as I had retreated. I knelt down by him; I turned his face from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his hair with my hand." Your fingers tighten around his curls. You gasp and groan. "Fuck! Brahms! Please!" "Read," he murmurs, not even bothering to lift his mouth from your breast even though you can feel his erection pressing to your thigh. For a second, you turn back to the book, lips open to continue reading, when suddenly, you change your mind. A smirk tugs on your lips as you look at the top of Brahms's head as he still suckles on your nipple. "Brahmsy," you coo. Your voice is deep and sultry. You can feel him freezing next to you. "Be a good boy for mommy." His whine trembles through your body from your breast to your pussy. The visible change in the air makes your thighs clench for some friction. "You want to be a good boy, don't you?" You ask him. His hips jerk against your thigh. "I want your words, baby." His mouth leaves your breast with a quiet pop. Your skin shines with his saliva. "Yes," he replies, staring at you with wide eyes. "You should eat my pussy to prove it," you smirk at him, already pushing away the blanket to open your legs wider. "If you will be good enough, I will let you fuck me." His eyes dart down between your legs while his head is still resting on your breast. There is a fight in him. He wants to stay and suck on your tit while you read him, but his hand already reaches between your thighs, palming your sex through your thin panties. You are warm under his possessive hold. "Mommy is waiting," you break the silence again. "Mommy," he groans, sliding down your body to become face-to-face with your center. His voice is high and whiny.

There are times when Brahms calls you mommy without really wanting to say anything. He just likes the way the word rolls down his tongue and grabs your attention.

"Good boy," you hum, lifting your lower body to help him tug down your panties. You are not even sure why you wear them when you go to bed. Brahms loves waking up early in the morning when the sun isn't even showing yet to warm his cock in your tight hole as he falls back asleep.

His eyes are on your wet slit as he throws your panties over his shoulder, not even caring where it lands. He uses his fingers to open you up, gliding a third finger over your folds. Your wetness soaks his digit before he takes it in his mouth to lick off your juices. A satisfied rumble breaks free from his chest.

You spread your legs wider, digging your feet deeper into the mattress to brace yourself. Brahms's fingers grab onto your thighs as he adjusts himself on his stomach, his broad shoulders pushing against your flesh.

Your head falls back on the pillows when you feel his tongue on your pussy. He laps over your slit, wanting more of your taste. Your hands go to your breasts to tease yourself while he is busy between your legs. His tongue rubs on your clit before closing his lips around it to suck you there this time. His eyes are on your breast, watching your nipples peaking out between your fingers. He suckles and slurps, pushing you to the edge with each brush of his tongue over your sensitive bud. Your pussy aches and flutters as you get higher and higher. "Good boy, Brahms," you praise him. "You are such a good boy for mommy." He whines under your words, diving into your pussy even more. His face is slick with your wetness, and his tongue glides down on your slit to poke into your hole. Your hips jerk against his prodding tongue while he tries to keep you in place. Your taste and smell fill his senses. There is nothing else in the world for Brahms but you. Only you. "Your finger, baby." Your words come out weak and quiet. The familiar burn in your lower stomach is distracting. Brahms just hums, latching on your clit once again while pressing his finger into your hole as you asked. One finger, then two. He is eager and overwhelming. Your eyes fall shut, and your lips open with a hoarse cry. Pleasure flares over your body, and your thighs tighten around Brahms's head. At the feel of your sweet hole fluttering around his thick fingers, he laps up your arousal more frantically. He helps you ride out your orgasm and prepares your pussy to take his cock next. His hips grind against the bed, humping the mattress without his noticing.

His face and beard glint with your juices when he breaks away from your pussy to look at your face more clearly. Your chest heaves and your hands are still on your breasts. Your eyes shine with satisfaction and desire when you look at him.

"You are a good boy, Brahms," you tell him, smiling. "You are mommy's good boy, hm?" "Yes," he nods. "Can I-?" You hum, putting your hand on the back of his head to pull him over your body. His weight is warm and comforting on top of you. The tent in his pants nudges your center. "Do you want mommy's pussy?" You grin. "Do you want to fuck me, Brahmsy?" He almost wails. "Please!" His hips prod against you, chasing any friction he can get. "Please."

While you are busy in each other's arms, it starts to rain outside.

[ferditheas]

Every FE3H ending with children

I could ramble a bit here about why I love ending cards in Fire Emblem games - and 3H especially - but this post is going to be long enough already. So, in this post: I comb through every ending in FE3H and see which ones mention the characters having children.

Some endings are a bit ambiguous on if there are kids (like Ferdinand & Mercedes) - for the sake of this post, only explicit mentions are included. Please let me know if I missed any!

Here are some interesting facts:

Mercedes has the most, with five endings (not counting variations) mentioning children - due to the fact she starts orphanages in many of her endings.

Overall, the Black Eagles seem to be the most baby-happy house - but interestingly enough, NONE of them have kids with Byleth. Blue Lions, Golden Deer, and Ashen Wolves each have two students who have kids with Byleth.

Azure Moon seems to lead to a baby bust. Felix & Ingrid + Sylvain & Byleth, who have kids in all of their other endings, don't have any kids in AM.

Dedue is the only retainer to not have any kid endings. I initially thought Dimitri didn't get any kids either, but I was later corrected - he does have a son in his Gilbert ending.

Edelgard & Ferdinand

"Their children, born to those who had torn down the old social hierarchy, were encouraged to choose their own paths."

Hubert & Petra

"Their shared home in the western Fódlan village of Nuvelle was filled with their many children, suggesting a loving union."

Ferdinand & Dorothea

"It is said that their children filled their loving household with beautiful music ever after."

Ferdinand & Manuela

"[...] Ferdinand stayed behind, minding his own lands and looking after their child."

(in Crimson Flower, Manuela travels as the Prime Minister - in other routes, she's doing other political work.)

Ferdinand & Constance

"They had many children, including one who became well-known in her own right for the advancements she brought to her mother's research."

Linhardt & Petra

"It is said that the couple maintained a healthy and affectionate relationship, and that they raised many happy children together."

Linhardt & Flayn

"Over a decade later, well after the Officers Academy had been rebuilt, something strange happened. A sleepy young girl with antiquated clothing and the Major Crest of Cethleann enrolled. Over the next two years, a young boy and girl with that same Crest also enrolled. Though Crest scholars deduced that they must be siblings, the truth of their lineage was never definitely proven."

Caspar & Bernadetta

"Among these Articles was the provision that, when counting their large quantity of children, Caspar was not to accidentally count his wife among them."

Caspar & Hilda

"The couple raised many children, and were said to have a notoriously lively household."

Dorothea & Hanneman

"Hanneman also became a father in more literal sense, by raising many children with his wife, Dorothea."

Dimitri & Gilbert

"Though he bristled slightly at Dimitri's request to look after and tutor the young prince, it is said that Gustave took on that duty with due patience and solemnity for the remainder of his life."

Felix & Ingrid (NOT Azure Moon)

"They skirted the line between life and death countless times in their dangerous work, but once they had a child, they settled down in a small farming village far from their homeland. With all but each other left behind, they began a warm and tranquil life as a family."

Ashe & Hapi

"They were also blessed with many children, and their home was always so busy and full of merriment that there was never an occasion to sigh. It is said that Hapi took such delight in recounting Ashe's stories to their children that it became hard to believe she had ever despised knights."

Sylvain & Byleth (Verdant Wind/Silver Snow)

"Sylvain happily settled down after marriage and became a gentle and devoted husband and father. The two had many children whom they doted on equally, regardless of whether or not they bore a Crest."

Sylvain & Byleth (Crimson Flower)

"In time, the two had a large and loving family. They lived happily and loved their children equally, regardless of whether or not they bore a Crest."

Sylvain & Mercedes

"The couple built a loving home life, surrounded by happy children, and when Sylvain at last passed away, he was succeeded by his oldest child, who bore no Crest."

Sylvain & Ingrid

"The couple had many children, and while not one of them bore a Crest, they were all equally and wholeheartedly loved."

Mercedes (Crimson Flower)

"Mercedes left home and opened a small orphanage in the Faerghus region with her mother. There, she took in and raised children who had lost their families in the war, regardless of their blood or circumstances of birth. It is said that, in the town which grew around this orphanage, the children never failed to smile."

Mercedes & Byleth (Crimson Flower)

"When at last the fight was done, they moved to a small village in the Faerghus region and started an orphanage. There they took in and raised children who had lost their families in the war, regardless of their blood or circumstances of birth. It is said that Mercedes was never happier than when she was surrounded by smiling children, free of all worry."

Mercedes & Annette (Crimson Flower)

"After the war, Annette and Mercedes lived separate lives: the former as a teacher at the school of sorcery in Fhirdiad, the latter as the proprietor of an orphanage in a village in the Faerghus region. Though they lived apart, they exchanged letters so frequently and shared their lives with one another in such detail that it was as though they were side by side. After many decades, Annette decided to resign from her post and move to the village where Mercedes lived to help run the orphanage."

Mercedes & Ignatz (NOT Crimson Flower)

"Mercedes left home for a life as a cleric at Garreg Mach. There, she took in and raised children who had lost their families in the war, regardless of the circumstances of their birth or bloodline."

Mercedes & Ignatz (Crimson Flower)

"Mercedes left home and opened a small orphanage in the Faerghus region with her mother. There, she took in and raised children who had lost their families in the war, regardless of their blood or circumstances of birth."

Ingrid & Claude

"The couple must have loved one another deeply, for they happily raised many children together."

Lorenz & Byleth (Verdant Wind/Silver Snow)

"The queen followed, entrusting the throne to the prince. It is said that he was the spitting image of his father."

Lorenz & Byleth (Azure Moon)

"Lorenz and the archbishop resigned their positions, entrusting rule of House Gloucester to their son. It is said that he was the spitting image of his father."

Lorenz & Byleth (Crimson Flower)

"Byleth followed suit, and they entrusted House Gloucester to their son. It is said that he was the spitting image of his father, right down to his signature red rose."

Lysithea & Byleth (Verdant Wind/Silver Snow)

"When the rebuilding effort was complete, the couple and their children enjoyed long and peaceful lives."

Lysithea & Byleth (Azure Moon)

"Once the rebuilding effort was complete, the couple and their two children enjoyed long and peaceful lives in the lively household they built together."

Yuri & F!Byleth (NOT Crimson Flower)

"Constantly at her side during that time was her husband, Yuri, whose policy proposals led, time and again, to better education and opportunities for the less fortunate—a legacy that was later taken up by the couple's children."

Hapi & Byleth (Crimson Flower)

"Afterward, the couple vanished without a trace—at least until someone claiming to be a descendant produced a chronicle of their lives."

Flayn & Byleth

"When Fódlan was finally restored, the couple left the throne to their children and retired to a royal villa on the Rhodos Coast of western Fódlan."

Manuela & Byleth (NOT Crimson Flower)

"The happiness of the couple and their children was plain to see on the faces that were immortalized in family portraits."

Shamir & Byleth

"As a couple, their daily lives were busy indeed, and both were famously taciturn, but it is said that they cherished their quiet time together—especially once they began to have children."

[ares1234sworld]

Chapter One: The Lion’s Cage

The Red Keep, King’s Landing

The light in her chambers was pale and cold, filtered through the tall, narrow windows that overlooked the Red Keep. Dawn had come too soon, bringing with it the weight of a day she had dreaded since the betrothal was announced. Her handmaidens worked in silence, lacing her into the gown that felt more like armor than finery.

The crimson velvet was heavy, embroidered with golden lions that seemed almost alive. Each movement of the fabric caught the light, roaring their dominance over the gathered court. The gown clung tightly to her form, every seam and lace designed to remind everyone who she was—daughter of House Lannister, a lioness married into dragons.

“Breathe in,” one of the maids said softly as she pulled the laces tighter.

She obeyed without a word, though it felt as if the gown was squeezing the breath from her lungs. She had grown used to the weight of duty over the years, but today it pressed heavier than ever.

Behind her, Lady Lannister stood with her hands folded neatly, her gaze sharp as she scrutinized every detail. “The gown is acceptable,” her mother said finally, her voice cool and clipped. “She looks the part.”

The bride met her own gaze in the polished bronze mirror. The face staring back at her was pale and serene, framed by intricate braids of golden hair. Her lips were painted a deep crimson, and her eyes, though lined in kohl, were blank.

“You will not shame us today,” Lady Lannister added, her voice low but firm.

“Yes, Mother,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, satisfied. There was no softness in her, no warmth. Not today, and not ever. Her mother had always believed that love was a weakness, a luxury for lesser families. For Lannisters, only power mattered.

The door to her chambers opened, and her father entered, his presence commanding as always. Lord Jason Lannister was a man of few words, but his mere presence filled the room. He approached his daughter, his sharp blue eyes appraising her as if she were a valuable artifact.

“It’s time,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion.

She nodded, her throat tight. Her father offered her his arm, and she took it, her gloved hand trembling slightly against his. Together, they walked toward her fate.

The Great Hall

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a spectacle of opulence, adorned with the banners of House Targaryen and House Lannister. Crimson and gold, black and red—colors of power and fire. The lords and ladies of the court filled the hall, their eyes fixed on the long aisle where the bride and her father now walked.

The crowd’s murmurs blended into a low hum, like the distant roar of the sea. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, where the altar stood beneath the towering sigil of House Targaryen.

Aegon Targaryen stood waiting, his posture slouched, a golden goblet dangling from his hand. His silver hair was slightly unkempt, and his expression carried the lazy arrogance of a man who believed himself untouchable.

As she drew closer, she could see the flush on his cheeks, the slight sway in his stance. He was already drunk. The goblet in his hand was nearly empty, and he lifted it lazily, as if in mock salute.

When they reached the altar, her father released her arm without ceremony. She was alone now, standing beside the man who would be her husband.

The High Septon began the ceremony, his voice droning in solemn reverence. The words washed over her like a distant tide, meaningless and hollow. Aegon’s responses were slurred, his tone mocking.

“Do you take this woman…?”

“I do,” Aegon said, grinning, though he barely glanced at her.

Her turn came, and she forced the words from her lips. “I do.”

The High Septon’s hands were raised in blessing, his voice echoing in the vast hall. “May the Seven bless this union…”

The crowd applauded as the ceremony concluded, their cheers echoing against the stone walls. Aegon drained the last of his goblet and tossed it carelessly to the floor. He turned to her with a smirk, his eyes glassy.

“Well, that’s done,” he said, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “Let’s hope you’re as good at breeding as you are at standing still.”

Her stomach twisted, but she kept her expression composed.

The Feast

The feast was a blur of color and sound. Platters of roasted meats and delicate pastries were carried through the hall, the scent mingling with the sharp tang of wine. The lords and ladies of the court filled their goblets and laughed too loudly, their conversations veiled in layers of politics and ambition.

She sat at Aegon’s side, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her appetite long gone. Aegon, by contrast, was fully immersed in the revelry. He drank deeply, his laughter booming as he exchanged jests with his friends.

“To House Lannister!” Aegon declared, raising his goblet high. “And to my new bride, the lioness of Casterly Rock.”

The words were met with cheers and applause, though his tone dripped with sarcasm.

“May she serve House Targaryen well… in all the ways that matter,” he added, his grin widening.

The hall erupted in laughter. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she kept her gaze fixed on her empty plate. Across the table, Alicent Hightower’s expression was one of thinly veiled disapproval. Helaena, seated beside her, seemed lost in her own world, her gaze distant.

Aemond, however, was watching his brother closely, his single eye narrowed. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Her parents were seated further down the table, their expressions as impassive as ever. Lord Jason sipped his wine, engaging in quiet conversation with the Tyrells, while Lady Lannister maintained her composed façade. Neither spared their daughter a glance.

The bride felt the weight of their indifference like a stone in her chest.

Chapter One: The Lion’s Cage (Continued)

The Feast (Continued)

The laughter at Aegon’s crude jest slowly faded, replaced by the clinking of goblets and the hum of conversation. The bride sat motionless, her back straight and her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes focused on the table, the golden rim of her plate shimmering in the candlelight. She barely registered the noise around her, the laughter and cheers blending into a hollow din.

“Another toast!” Aegon’s voice boomed again, and the crowd responded eagerly. He stood, swaying slightly as he raised his goblet.

“To the finest wine in the realm,” he declared, his smirk widening as he drained the cup. “And to the lions who have so graciously offered their daughter to the crown.”

Her father inclined his head, acknowledging the mockery with a cool smile. “We aim to serve the realm,” Lord Jason said smoothly. His voice carried easily over the hall, a practiced blend of humility and pride.

The bride’s stomach clenched as she glanced toward her mother. Lady Lannister’s expression remained unchanged, her eyes fixed firmly on her wine goblet. No acknowledgment, no comfort. Just the silent expectation that her daughter would endure, as all Lannisters must.

Aegon dropped back into his chair, leaning close enough for her to catch the sharp scent of wine on his breath. “You’re quiet,” he murmured, his tone mocking. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “No, my prince,” she said softly.

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Good. You’ll need to find your voice soon enough.”

The implication sent a chill down her spine.

The Announcement

As the feast wore on, the bride found herself counting the minutes, each one stretching endlessly as the inevitability of the bedding ceremony loomed. The air grew heavier with every passing moment, and she felt the weight of countless eyes on her.

Finally, Alicent Hightower rose from her seat, her presence commanding immediate silence. Her green gown shimmered in the candlelight, the queen regent’s stern expression cutting through the revelry.

“Lords and ladies,” Alicent began, her voice clear and composed. “The time has come for tradition to be honored. The bedding ceremony awaits.”

A wave of cheers and laughter erupted from the hall. The bride felt her pulse quicken, her hands tightening into fists beneath the table.

Aegon grinned wickedly, already rising from his chair as several lords clapped him on the back. “Let’s get on with it, then,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise.

The bride remained seated, frozen in place as the hall descended into chaos. Aegon was quickly surrounded by his friends and courtiers, their laughter and jests growing louder as they pulled him toward the chamber doors.

Her reprieve was short-lived. A group of noblewomen—wives and daughters of lords loyal to the Greens—descended upon her. Their hands were rough as they lifted her from her chair, their laughter cutting as they began to strip away the layers of her gown.

“Such fine fabric,” one of them said with a mocking smile, holding up the golden brocade. “The lions certainly know how to dress their daughters.”

The bride kept her eyes downcast, her face burning as her gown was peeled away, leaving her in nothing but her shift. The women tugged at her hairpins, letting her golden braids fall loose around her shoulders.

“Beautiful,” another woman murmured, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “The prince is a lucky man.”

She said nothing, her teeth clenched as they led her toward the chamber doors. The jeers and cheers of the court followed her, each one a dagger to her pride. She forced herself to move, to walk forward despite the weight of her dread.

The bedchamber loomed before her, its massive oak doors carved with dragons and lions intertwined. The women pushed her inside, their laughter fading as the doors closed behind her, leaving her alone in the dimly lit room.

The Bedding

Aegon was already there, sitting on the edge of the grand bed. He had shed his outer garments, his silver hair falling loosely around his face. His eyes were glazed with wine, but his smirk was sharp as he looked her over.

“Well, look at you,” he said, his voice low and mocking. “Quite the lioness.”

She said nothing, her hands trembling as she stood frozen in place.

Aegon’s smirk faded slightly, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Come here,” he said, his tone impatient.

Her legs felt like lead, but she forced herself to move, each step heavy with dread. She stopped a few feet from the bed, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Aegon reached out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her closer. His hands were rough, his grip unyielding as he yanked her onto the bed.

“Don’t make this difficult,” he muttered, his breath hot against her cheek.

She closed her eyes, her body tense as he pushed her down. The act itself was swift and brutal, a mechanical transaction devoid of any tenderness or care. She bit her lip to stifle a cry, her nails digging into the sheets as he took what he wanted without a second thought.

When it was over, Aegon rolled off her with a satisfied grunt, reaching for the wine jug on the bedside table. He drank deeply, not sparing her a glance as he pulled his trousers back on.

“Well,” he said, setting the jug down. “That’s done.”

He stood, his movements unsteady as he stumbled toward the door. “Don’t wait up,” he added with a smirk before leaving her alone in the dark.

The Aftermath

She lay there for what felt like hours, her body aching and her mind numb. The silence of the chamber was oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of the castle’s night sounds.

Eventually, the servants returned, their expressions carefully neutral as they cleaned the room and prepared fresh linens. They helped her into a robe, their hands gentle but impersonal.

Her parents arrived soon after.

Lord Jason entered first, his eyes scanning the room before settling on the rumpled bed. He nodded, satisfied. “It is done, then,” he said.

Lady Lannister followed, her gaze as sharp as ever. She approached her daughter, her voice low and cold. “You will endure this,” she said. “It is your duty, and you will not falter.”

They left her alone once more, their footsteps echoing in the hallway.

She sat by the window, staring out at the darkened city. Her hands rested on her lap, trembling slightly.

In the stillness of the night, she allowed herself a single tear.

Chapter One: The Lion’s Cage (Continued)

The Morning After

The sun rose slowly over King’s Landing, casting its pale light across the city. The Red Keep’s towers loomed high above the rest of the capital, their shadows stretching over the narrow streets below. Inside her chamber, the bride sat by the window, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

The weight of the previous night lingered like a bruise on her skin. Every movement sent a dull ache through her body, a constant reminder of what had been taken from her. Her shift clung to her like a second skin, damp with the sweat of restless sleep and the lingering chill of early morning.

There was a soft knock at the door. Before she could respond, it opened, and one of her handmaidens stepped inside. The girl’s eyes flickered to the bed, then to the bride’s pale, drawn face. She offered a timid curtsy.

“My lady,” she said softly, “the queen requests your presence at breakfast.”

The bride’s stomach twisted. She could already imagine the court’s whispers, the veiled glances and sly smirks. She would have to face them, to pretend that nothing was wrong, to endure.

“Help me dress,” she said quietly, rising from the chair. Her voice was steady, though it felt like she was speaking through a layer of ice.

The handmaiden moved quickly, selecting a simpler gown of deep red with gold trim. As she worked, the bride focused on the familiar weight of fabric and laces, grounding herself in the routine.

By the time the handmaid was finished, her mask of composure was firmly in place. She glanced once more at the mirror, adjusting the tiara on her head. It felt heavier than ever.

Breakfast with the Queen

The small council chamber was quiet when she arrived. Only a handful of key figures were present: Queen Alicent sat at the head of the table, her green gown immaculate as always, her hands folded neatly before her. Beside her sat Helaena, her soft, distracted murmurs barely audible as she spoke to herself.

Aemond stood by the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the city below. His presence was as imposing as ever, his single eye sharp and calculating.

Ser Criston Cole stood behind Alicent, ever the vigilant shadow. His dark gaze flickered briefly to the bride as she entered, then away.

“Good morning,” Alicent said, her tone polite but distant. “I trust you slept well.”

The bride forced a faint smile. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Alicent nodded, gesturing for her to sit. “The prince is… indisposed this morning,” she said delicately. “He has a tendency to overindulge.”

The bride’s hands tightened slightly on the edge of the table. She said nothing.

“Your marriage is a great step forward for the realm,” Alicent continued, her tone smooth. “It is my hope that in time, you and Aegon will find common ground.”

The bride nodded, her throat tight. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Helaena looked up briefly, her pale blue eyes meeting the bride’s for a fleeting moment. There was a softness there, a quiet understanding that made the bride’s chest ache.

“Dreams… don’t always end well,” Helaena murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she returned to her quiet musings, her gaze distant once more.

Aemond turned from the window, his expression unreadable. “If my brother’s behavior causes you distress,” he said quietly, his tone almost formal, “you need only speak to the queen.”

Alicent shot him a warning glance, but he did not look away. The bride met his gaze briefly, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Thank you, Prince Aemond,” she said, her voice steady. “But I can manage.”

Aemond gave a slight nod, his eye lingering on her for a moment longer before he returned his attention to the window.

A Visit to the Gardens

After breakfast, the bride sought solace in the castle gardens. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of flowers and the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. She walked slowly along the gravel paths, her hands clasped tightly before her.

The gardens were nearly empty, save for a few scattered courtiers. Most of the court was still nursing the aftereffects of the previous night’s revelry. For a brief moment, she felt as though she could breathe again, the weight of the castle’s walls lifting slightly.

She found a secluded bench beneath a canopy of ivy and sat down, her gaze drifting to the roses blooming nearby. Their petals were a deep, vibrant red, almost the same shade as her gown. She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over one of the blooms.

“It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her, and she turned quickly to see Helaena standing a few paces away. The princess’s hands were folded neatly before her, her head tilted slightly as she regarded the flowers.

“Yes,” the bride said softly. “It is.”

Helaena smiled faintly, her gaze distant as she moved closer. “I come here often,” she said. “The noise of the court… it can be too much.”

The bride nodded, her heart aching at the quiet sadness in Helaena’s voice.

For a moment, the two women sat in silence, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“Do you love him?” Helaena asked suddenly, her voice soft but direct.

The question caught the bride off guard, and she felt her throat tighten. She looked down at her hands, her mind racing.

“I… I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “But I want to.”

Helaena nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Love can grow,” she said. “But it can also wither.”

Her words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Chapter One: The Lion’s Cage (Continued)

Court Whispers

The gardens offered little respite. By midday, the bride had returned to the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, the weight of her new reality pressing heavily on her shoulders. The court was alive with whispers as she walked, her every step accompanied by the subtle shift of glances and murmurs that followed in her wake.

“The lioness walks,” someone muttered, their voice low but audible enough.

“Do you think she survived the night?” another asked, their tone laced with cruel amusement.

She kept her head high, her steps deliberate. They would not see her falter, not here, not now. Every lesson her mother had drilled into her about composure and dignity echoed in her mind. The halls felt colder today, the stone walls unyielding, the weight of her isolation more profound.

At the far end of the corridor, she saw her uncle—Tywald Lannister, her father’s younger brother and the family’s political tactician. His presence on the small council had been instrumental in securing the marriage alliance.

“Good morning, niece,” he said, his voice smooth and practiced as she approached.

“Uncle Tywald,” she replied, her tone carefully neutral.

He stepped closer, his smile not quite reaching his sharp blue eyes. “You look well. I trust everything is proceeding as planned?”

She felt a flicker of anger at his cold indifference, but she swallowed it down. “Yes, uncle,” she said. “As planned.”

“Good,” he said, his tone brisk. “Your position here is crucial. Remember, this is not just a marriage; it is an investment in the future of our house.”

Before she could respond, Tywald nodded curtly and turned away, leaving her standing alone in the corridor. The message was clear: she was a pawn in their game, nothing more.

Aegon’s Return

The bride had barely returned to her chambers when the door swung open, revealing Aegon. He looked worse for wear, his eyes bloodshot and his hair more disheveled than usual. A stale smell of wine clung to him, mingling with the faint scent of smoke.

“So, the lioness hides in her cage,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe.

She stood, her spine straight as she faced him. “I wasn’t hiding,” she said evenly.

Aegon’s smirk widened as he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. “You’re a quick learner,” he said, his tone mockingly approving. “That’s good. You’ll need to be.”

He crossed the room in a few lazy strides, reaching for the jug of wine that had been left on the table. He poured himself a goblet, draining it in one long swallow before refilling it.

“Did you enjoy your little breakfast with my mother?” he asked, his voice laced with disdain.

“It was… informative,” she said carefully.

Aegon chuckled darkly. “I’m sure it was. She likes to play queen, even though she knows her place is temporary.”

He turned to face her, his expression hardening. “You’ll learn something else soon enough,” he said, his voice low. “In this game, everyone lies. My mother, your parents, even your precious uncle. They all have their own agendas.”

She met his gaze, her heart pounding. “And what is your agenda, my prince?”

Aegon smirked again, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. “Survival,” he said simply. “By any means necessary.”

A Moment of Vulnerability

Later that evening, the bride sat alone in the dimly lit chamber. The day’s events weighed heavily on her, the whispers of the court and the tension with Aegon lingering in her mind. She stared at the fire burning in the hearth, the flickering flames casting long shadows across the room.

The door opened quietly, and she turned to see Helaena standing there, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

“May I come in?” Helaena asked softly.

The bride nodded, her voice catching in her throat. “Of course.”

Helaena entered, closing the door behind her. She moved gracefully, her presence a quiet comfort as she sat beside the bride.

“You are strong,” Helaena said after a long silence. “Stronger than most.”

The bride looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together. “I don’t feel strong,” she admitted.

Helaena reached out, placing a gentle hand over hers. “Strength isn’t always loud,” she said. “Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s simply surviving.”

The words sank deep, resonating in a way the bride hadn’t expected. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt a flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or the faintest spark of resilience.

“You will find your place,” Helaena said quietly. “Even in the darkest times, there is light to be found.”

Aegon’s Darkness

Days passed, and Aegon’s behavior grew increasingly erratic. He often disappeared for hours, only to return in the dead of night, reeking of wine and other, more illicit indulgences. His temper was unpredictable, swinging from indifference to sharp cruelty with little warning.

One night, he stumbled into the chamber, his movements clumsy and his words slurred. The bride had been sitting by the window, her hands folded in her lap. She stood as he entered, her heart sinking at the sight of him.

“You’re still awake,” Aegon muttered, his voice rough. He tossed his cloak onto a nearby chair and staggered toward the bed.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said softly.

Aegon laughed bitterly. “Get used to it,” he said. “There’s no rest in this place. Not for people like us.”

He collapsed onto the bed, his head resting on the edge of the pillow. For a moment, he looked almost peaceful, his usual smirk replaced by something closer to exhaustion.

But the moment didn’t last. He reached for her, his grip rough as he pulled her down beside him. His breath was hot against her skin, and she felt her body tense as his hands roamed over her.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmured. “It’s easier that way.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to remain still. She knew what would happen if she resisted. She had learned that lesson on their wedding night.

When it was over, Aegon rolled away, his breathing heavy. He fell asleep almost immediately, leaving her to lie awake beside him, her body aching and her mind racing.

She stared at the ceiling, the darkness pressing in around her. Her heart ached, not just for herself, but for the broken man lying beside her.

A Mother’s Warning

The days bled into one another, a blur of strained silences and unspoken tensions. The bride had learned to navigate the Red Keep’s treacherous corridors, mastering the art of polite indifference as she passed courtiers who whispered behind their hands.

One afternoon, as she made her way through the shadowed halls, she was summoned to her mother’s private chambers. The message had been brief but clear: Lady Lannister wished to speak with her daughter alone.

When she arrived, she found her mother seated by the window, a goblet of wine in her hand. The light streaming in cast sharp lines across Lady Lannister’s face, highlighting the cold, calculating features that had haunted the bride’s childhood.

“Sit,” Lady Lannister said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The bride obeyed, folding her hands neatly in her lap. The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive.

Finally, Lady Lannister spoke. “You’ve been married for only a short time, yet the court is already buzzing with gossip.”

The bride’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to remain composed. “I am aware,” she said quietly.

Her mother’s gaze sharpened. “Do you know what they say?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “They say I am weak. That I’ve failed to control my husband.”

Lady Lannister leaned forward, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Aegon is a Targaryen, and Targaryens are dangerous creatures. But make no mistake—if you cannot find a way to control him, you will be devoured.”

The bride swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. “He does not care for me, Mother,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “He barely sees me as a person.”

Lady Lannister’s expression hardened. “Love is irrelevant,” she said sharply. “This is not about affection. It is about power. You must learn to wield what little influence you have, or you will become nothing more than a vessel for his heirs.”

Her mother’s words were like ice, cold and unforgiving. The bride nodded slowly, her mind racing with the weight of the warning.

“Remember who you are,” Lady Lannister said, her voice softening slightly. “You are a Lannister. You will endure.”

The First Signs

Weeks passed, and the bride began to notice subtle changes in her body. At first, it was small—waves of nausea in the mornings, a faint dizziness that crept in during the afternoons. She dismissed it at first, chalking it up to the stress of her new life.

But as the days went on, the signs became undeniable. Her appetite shifted, and her once-flat stomach began to show the faintest curve.

It wasn’t long before the maesters confirmed what she had already begun to suspect: she was carrying Aegon’s child.

The news spread quickly through the court, sparking a fresh wave of whispers and speculation. Some saw it as a blessing, a sign that the union between Targaryen and Lannister was bearing fruit. Others whispered darker things, questioning whether a child could ever bring peace to such a fractured marriage.

Aegon’s reaction was as indifferent as ever. When the bride informed him of the pregnancy, he merely shrugged, muttering something about his duty being fulfilled. “Good,” he said, his tone flat. “Now the court will finally shut up.”

He offered no words of comfort, no sign of joy. He simply continued with his usual routines, leaving her to navigate the challenges of pregnancy alone.

A Moment of Hope

Despite Aegon’s indifference, the bride found herself clinging to the faintest spark of hope. The life growing within her offered a sense of purpose, a reason to endure the hardships of her marriage.

She spent hours in the gardens, her hands resting lightly on her stomach as she walked among the flowers. Helaena often joined her, their quiet conversations offering a brief respite from the chaos of court life.

“Do you think he’ll change?” the bride asked one afternoon, her voice barely above a whisper.

Helaena was silent for a moment, her gaze distant. “People don’t change easily,” she said finally. “But sometimes, a child can bring out the best in them.”

The bride nodded, her heart aching with the weight of her hopes and fears. She wanted to believe that Aegon could become the man she needed him to be, that their child might bridge the gap between them.

But deep down, she knew better.

Aegon’s Cruelty

As her pregnancy progressed, Aegon’s behavior grew increasingly erratic. He spent more nights away from their chambers, his whereabouts often unknown. When he did return, it was usually in the early hours of the morning, reeking of wine and other indulgences.

One night, he stumbled into the room, his steps heavy and uneven. The bride was already in bed, her hands resting protectively over her swollen stomach. She sat up as he entered, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and anger.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Aegon laughed bitterly, his eyes bloodshot. “Out,” he said, his tone mocking. “What does it matter to you?”

“It matters,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “You’re going to be a father. You should start acting like one.”

His expression darkened, and he crossed the room in a few swift steps. He grabbed her arm, his grip tight and unforgiving.

“Don’t lecture me,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened. “Aegon, please,” she said, her voice cracking. “You’re hurting me.”

For a moment, his gaze flickered, as if he realized what he was doing. But then he released her abruptly, turning away with a muttered curse. He poured himself a goblet of wine, draining it in one long swallow before collapsing into a chair.

The bride sat in silence, her body trembling. She could feel the life within her stirring, a small but persistent reminder of what was at stake.

“I won’t let you hurt our child,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes.

Aegon didn’t respond. He simply stared into the fire, his expression unreadable.

The Last Goodbye

The morning her parents prepared to leave King’s Landing, the bride felt a strange mixture of relief and dread. They had fulfilled their purpose, overseeing the political spectacle of her wedding, and now they would return to the gilded halls of Casterly Rock, leaving her alone to navigate the treacheries of the Red Keep.

Her father, Lord Jason, stood in the courtyard as their retinue prepared for departure. He was as composed as ever, his sharp blue eyes scanning the surroundings as if already plotting his next move.

“You have done well,” he said when she approached, his tone brisk. “House Lannister’s position is strengthened, and the realm knows where our loyalty lies.”

The bride forced a tight smile. “I am glad to have served.”

Her mother, Lady Lannister, approached next, her expression as cold as ever. She reached out, adjusting the folds of her daughter’s cloak with practiced precision. “Do not forget what I told you,” she said quietly. “Endure. You are a lioness, and you will not break.”

The bride nodded, her throat tight. “Yes, Mother.”

Without another word, her parents turned and mounted their horses, their retinue following closely behind. She watched as they disappeared through the gates, their figures swallowed by the sprawling city beyond.

For the first time, she was truly alone.

Confrontation with Aegon

The days that followed were a blur of quiet suffering. Aegon’s moods grew darker, his cruelty more pronounced. He was rarely sober, and when he was, his temper simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation.

One evening, after a particularly raucous feast, Aegon stumbled into their chambers, his movements heavy with drink. The bride was seated by the fire, her hands folded over her swollen stomach. She had hoped he might bypass her entirely, falling into bed without a word. But tonight was different.

“You think you’re better than me,” he slurred, his voice thick with resentment.

She looked up, startled. “I never said that,” she replied, her voice calm but wary.

Aegon sneered, his steps unsteady as he crossed the room. “You sit there, silent and judging,” he said, his tone growing more venomous. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what they whisper about me?”

“I’m not judging you,” she said carefully, rising to her feet. “I only want you to find peace—for your sake, and for our child’s.”

The mention of the child seemed to ignite something in him. His expression twisted with fury, and before she could react, he lashed out, his hand striking her across the face.

The force of the blow sent her stumbling backward, her hand flying to her cheek. The room spun for a moment, and she felt a sharp pain radiating from where his ring had cut her skin.

For a moment, there was silence, the air thick with tension. Aegon’s chest heaved, his eyes wild with anger and something else—regret, perhaps, though it was fleeting.

“You think you can lecture me?” he spat, his voice trembling. “You’re nothing but a pawn, just like the rest of them.”

The bride straightened slowly, her hand still pressed to her cheek. “And what are you, Aegon?” she asked, her voice quiet but steady. “A king in waiting, or a man running from himself?”

His face darkened, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

She sank back into the chair, her body trembling. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had survived worse, she told herself. She would survive this too.

A Conversation with Ser Criston

The next morning, she found herself in the training yard, seeking a moment of peace. The clatter of swords and the rhythmic thud of arrows hitting their targets offered a strange kind of solace, a reminder of strength and discipline amidst the chaos of court life.

Ser Criston Cole was there, overseeing the young squires as they practiced their drills. His expression was as stern as ever, his dark eyes sharp as they scanned the yard.

When he noticed her, he approached, his armored boots clinking softly against the stone. “My lady,” he said, offering a slight bow.

“Ser Criston,” she replied, inclining her head.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the sounds of the yard filling the space between them. Then, to her surprise, Criston spoke again.

“You are stronger than they know,” he said quietly, his gaze steady.

She looked at him, her brow furrowing. “Do you truly believe that?”

Criston nodded. “I’ve seen strength take many forms,” he said. “Not all battles are fought with swords.”

His words struck a chord, and for the first time in days, she felt a glimmer of hope. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Criston’s expression softened, though only slightly. “If you ever need protection,” he said, his voice low, “you need only ask.”

She nodded, her heart heavy with unspoken gratitude. “I will remember that.”

The Child’s Promise

As her pregnancy advanced, the bride found herself clinging to the hope that the child would bring some measure of change. She spoke to the life within her often, her hands resting protectively over her growing stomach.

“You will be strong,” she whispered one night, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “Stronger than me, stronger than your father.”

In those quiet moments, she allowed herself to dream of a better future—a future where her child might rise above the darkness that surrounded them.

But even as she clung to that hope, the shadows of the Red Keep loomed ever larger. Aegon’s cruelty showed no signs of abating, and the court’s whispers grew more insidious with each passing day.

She knew the road ahead would be fraught with pain and hardship. But she also knew that she would endure. For her child, for herself, and for the faint glimmer of light that still burned within her.

[southernsolarpunk]

Hey check this out

I was making a zine (solarpunk ofc) and decided to use a bunch of old National Geographic magazines to cut up and use in a scrappy diy scrapbook fashion and of course I started reading them. This one in particular:

It caught my eye because it’s from September 1980 & talks about the Middle East. My brain wonders if they mention Palestine and they do! I copied the text for accessibility, but I put pictures at the end of the original pages.

“Jerusalem: reunited or occupied? The question has divided the city's 400,000 Jews and 100,000 Arabs since Israel annexed East Jerusalem in 1967.

BEIRUT, JANUARY 1975. Armed soldiers lead me through labyrinthine back streets, up a dark stairway to a midnight rendez-vous. Only a bare bulb lights the temporary command post; Yasir Arafat, chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organization, seldom dares spend two days in the same place. “Our argument is not with the Jews” He tells me. "We are both Semites. They have lived with us for centuries. Our enemies are the Zionist colonizers and their backers who insist Palestine belongs to them exclusively.

We Arabs claim deep roots there too."

Two decades ago Palestinians were to be found in United Nations Relief Agency camps at places like Gaza and Jericho, in a forlorn and pitiable state. While Palestinian spokesmen pressed their case in world cap-itals, the loudest voice the world heard was that of terrorists, with whom the word Palestinian came to be associated. Jordan fought a war to curb them. The disintegration of Lebanon was due in part to the thousands of refugees within its borders.

Prospects for peace brightened, however, when President Anwar Sadat of Egypt, most powerful of the Arab countries, made his historic trip to Israel in November 1977. A year later Sadat and Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin signed the Camp David accords, a framework for the return of the occupied Sinai Peninsula to Egypt.

The former enemies established diplomatic relations and opened mail, telephone, and airline communications.

The Camp David accords also addressed the all-important Palestinian question but left it vague. Sadat insists that any lasting peace depends on an eventual Palestinian homeland in the Israeli-occupied West Bank and Gaza. Israel agrees to limited autonomy for those regions, but, fearful of a new and hostile Palestinian state suddenly planted on its borders, insists that Israeli troops must maintain security there.

Crowded Rashidiyah refugee camp, set among orange groves south of the ancient Phoenician port of Tyre in Lebanon, lies on the front lines. Frequent pounding by Israeli military jets and warships seeking PLO targets has war-hardened its population, some 13,700 Palestinians.

At the schoolyard I watched a solemn flag raising. Uniformed ashbal, or lion cubs, stood rigid as color guards briskly ran up the green-white-and-black Palestinian flag.

Ranging in age from 8 to 12, they might have been Cub Scouts— except for the loaded rifles they held at present arms. Behind them stood two rows of girls, zaharat, or little flowers. Same age, same weapons.

Over lunch of flat bread, hummus, yo-gurt, and chicken I commented to my hosts, a group of combat-ready fedayeen, that 30 years of bitter war had settled nothing nor gained the Palestinians one inch of their homeland. Was there no peaceful way to press their cause?

"Yes, and we are doing it. Finally, after 30 years, most countries in the United Nations recognize that we too have rights in Palestine. But we feel that until your country stops its unconditional aid to Israel, we have two choices: to fight, or to face an unmarked grave in exile."

AFTER CROSSING the Allenby Bridge from Amman, I drove across the fertile Jordan Valley through Arab Jericho and past some of the controversial new Jewish settlements: Mitzpe Jericho, Tomer, Maale Adumim, Shilat. Then as I climbed through the steep stony hills to Jerusalem, I saw that it too had changed. A ring of high-rise apartments and offices was growing inexorably around the occupied Arab side of the walled town. Within the wall, too, scores of Arab houses had been leveled during extensive reconstruction.

"Already 64 settlements have been built on the West Bank," said a Christian Palestinian agriculturist working for an American church group in Jerusalem. "And another 10 are planned," he said. Unfolding a copy of the master plan prepared in 1978 by the World Zionist Organization, he read: "Real-izing our right to Eretz-Israel... with or without peace, we will have to learn to live with the minorities...

The Israeli Government has reaffirmed the policy. In Prime Minister Menachem Begin's words: "Settlement is an inherent and inalienable right. It is an integral part of our national security."

"Security" is a word deeply etched into the Israeli psyche. The country has lived for 30 years as an armed camp, always on guard against PLO raids and terrorist bombings.

Whenever such incidents occur, the response is quick: even greater retaliation.

In Jerusalem I met with David Eppel, an English-language broadcaster for the Voice of Israel. "We must continue to build this country. Israel is our lawful home, our des-tiny. We have the determination, and an immense pool of talent, to see it through." His cosmopolitan friends a city plan-ner, a psychology professor, an author gathered for coffee and conversation at David's modern apartment on Jerusalem's Leib Yaffe Road.

Amia Lieblich's book, Tin Soldiers on Jerusalem Beach, studies the debilitating effects almost constant war has had on life in the Jewish state, a nation still surrounded by enemies. As she and her husband kindly drove me to my hotel in Arab Jerusalem afterward, some of that national apprehension surfaced in the writer herself.

"We don't often come over to this part of town," she said. "Especially at night."

I DROVE OUT of the Old City in the dark of morning and arrived a few hours later at the nearly finished Israeli frontier post, whence a shuttle bus bounced me through no-man's-land to the Egyptian ter-minal. As a result of the Egyptian-Israeli treaty, it was possible for the first time since 1948 to travel overland from Jerusalem to Cairo. An Egyptian customs man opened my bags on a card table set up in the sand. I took a battered taxi into nearby El Arish, to a sleepy bank that took 45 minutes to convert dollars into Egyptian pounds, Then 1 hired a Mercedes for the

200-mile run across the northern Sinai des-ert, the Suez Canal, and the Nile Delta. By sundown Cairo was mine.

Despite official government optimism, I found many in Cairo worried that President Sadat's bold diplomatic gestures might fail.

The city was noticeably tense as Israel officially opened its new embassy on Mohi el-Din Abu el-Ez Street in Cairo's Dukki quarter. Black-uniformed Egyptian troops guarded the chancery and nearby intersections as the Star of David flew for the first time in an Arab capital. Across town, police with fixed bayonets were posted every ten feet around the American Embassy. Others were posted at the TV station and the larger hotels. Protests were scattered, mostly peaceful. None disturbed the cadence of the city.

Welcoming ever larger delegations of tourists and businessmen from Europe and the U.S., Cairo was busier than ever-and more crowded. Despite a building boom, many Egyptians migrating from the countryside, perhaps 10,000 a month, still find housing only by squatting among tombs at the City of the Dead, the huge old cemetery on the southeast side of the capital.

Even with the new elevated highway and wider bridge across the Nile, half-hour traffic standstills are common. Commuters arrive at Ramses Station riding even the roofs of trains, then cram buses until axles break.

Cairo smog, a corrosive blend of diesel fumes and hot dust from surrounding des-erts, rivals tear gas.

Despite the rampant blessings of prog-ress, Cairo can still charm. In the medieval Khan el-Khalili bazaar near Cairo's thousand-year-old Al-Azhar University, I sought out Ahmad Saadullah's sidewalk café. I found that 30 piasters (45 cents) still brings hot tea, a tall water pipe primed with tobacco and glowing charcoal, and the latest gossip. The turbaned gentleman on the carpeted bench opposite was unusually talk-ative; we dispensed with weather and the high cost of living and got right to politics:

"Of course I am behind President Sadat, but he is taking a great risk. The Israelis have not fully responded. If Sadat fails, no other Arab leader will dare try for peace again for a generation."

Across town at the weekly Akhbar El-Yom newspaper, one of the largest and most widely read in the Middle East, chief editor Abdel-Hamid Abdel-Ghani drove home that same point.

"What worries me most is that President Sadat's agreement with Israel has isolated Egypt from our brother nations," he told me. "When Saudi Arabia broke with us, it was a heavy loss. The Saudis are our close neighbors. Now they have canceled pledges for hundreds of millions in development aid to Egypt. Some 200,000 Egyptians-teach-ers, doctors, engineers live and work in the kingdom.

"And Saudi Arabia, guardian of the holy cities of Mecca and Medina, remains for Muslim Egypt a spiritual homeland."

This magazine was published before my mom was born, and yet the sentiments have basically unchanged. An interesting look at the past, and more proof this didn’t start October 7th. (But imagine my followers already knew that)

[ravellaarryns]

who: @withsilvereyes when and where: casterly rock, within the audience chamber of queen katherine serrett. the falcon queen requests to speak with the queen of the west, and it has caused a rippled effect through the courts. context: secret's out

the chamber was cold despite the roaring fire; or perhaps that was just ravella, feeling how cold her skin was beneath her own touch. shadows flickered along the stone walls, twisting the banners of a grand lion into strange shapes, something her orbs of ice seemed to transfix upon. ravella arryn sat with a straight spine, her gown a cascade of black velvet and silver embroidery, the raven of house arryn perched at her chest like a bird of prey.

her pale hands, adorned with rings of moonstones and obsidian, rested lightly on the table, unmoving, while her expression remained inscrutable. the lions had always roared so loudly; perhaps it is time they learned silence.

katherine serrett sat opposite her, gilded in the golden finery of her house, her presence warm and vibrant in stark contrast to ravella's cold austerity. the silence between them stretched like a taut wire, neither willing to break it first. finally, ravella's voice sliced through the still air, smooth and measured, yet laced with an undercurrent sharp enough to draw blood. and yet, this situation - well, it was all fun for ravella arryn.

as serious and solemn as she appeared, within the manacles of her mind, she were already laughing hysterically into a void of nothing. laughing in the face of what had once been her biggest worry, what kept her up and threatened to drain her of her beauty; ravella arryn had no threat to her place in the line of succession. not from the womb of a lannister, at least.

"it is not often we find ourselves in the same room. a curious thing, given how closely our houses were once entangled." her dark eyes lingered on katherine, unblinking, her gaze as heavy as the stones of the eyrie. she leaned forward slightly, her hands now steepled together. ""there have been revelations that are of concern. my noble court have pulled at threads and severed those that threaten the integrity of our ancestry, and our line. an enlightening pursuit."

why did she pick katherine to tell? perhaps because she wished to inflict as much issue upon as many of the lannisters as possible. because perhaps, she wished to see whether katherine was willing to expose the truth in order to save her own skin.

her voice was soft, but there was nothing gentle about it. her words carried the weight of something venomous, poised to strike. "your good sister and my brother are to go down in history, for another reason other than the tragedy of it all." there was no sense of compassion in her voice, no sense of regret or grief for her hand in how her brother had ultimately been butchered. somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered seeing the figure of axell royce in the thickest of woods, to return to find those wildlings sat at her table.

ravella’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile, a cold imitation of warmth. "the king of the blade was no arryn at all. but a bastard born of shadow, wearing a crown that was never his to claim. and his line, born of an illegitimate union, remain as rotten as his father." she leaned back in her chair, the firelight catching the glint of her rings. "that boy carries no worth or claim to anything but whispers and scandal. a lannister tainted by falsehoods, and a bastard which has been granted wealth for...what exactly?" she asked, her ruby lips spreading into an inhumane smirk.

"it will be made public. all will know the vale of arryn's line of succession remains legitimate. cleansed. restored."

[alaynasansa]

‘ She is beginning to at least try to understand how she can play the Game of Thrones and be not a piece but a player. With her own goals, and moving other pieces around ’

George R. R. Martin

“Father asked if there were any knights in the hall who would do honor to their houses by taking the black, but no one came forward, so he gave this Yoren his pick of the king's dungeons and sent him on his way. And later these two brothers came before him, freeriders from the Dornish Marches, and pledged their swords to the service of the king. Father accepted their oaths...”

Ser Loras is a Tyrell, Sansa reminded herself. That other knight was only a Toyne. His brothers had no armies, no way to avenge him but with swords. Yet the more she thought about it all, the more she wondered. Joff might restrain himself for a few turns, perhaps as long as a year, but soon or late he will show his claws, and when he does... The realm might have a second Kingslayer, and there would be war inside the city, as the men of the lion and the men of the rose made the gutters run red

He saved Alayne, his daughter, a voice within her whispered. But she was Sansa too... and sometimes it seemed to her that the Lord Protector was two people as well. He was Petyr, her protector, warm and funny and gentle... but he was also Littlefinger, the lord she'd known at King's Landing, smiling slyly and stroking his beard as he whispered in Queen Cersei's ear. And Littlefinger was no friend of hers. When Joff had her beaten, the Imp defended her, not Littlefinger. When the mob sought to rape her, the Hound carried her to safety, not Littlefinger. When the Lannisters wed her to Tyrion against her will, Ser Garlan the Gallant gave her comfort, not Littlefinger. Littlefinger never lifted so much as his little finger for her.

Except to get me out. He did that for me. I thought it was Ser Dontos, my poor old drunken Florian, but it was Petyr all the while. Littlefinger was only a mask he had to wear. Only sometimes Sansa found it hard to tell where the man ended and the mask began. Littlefinger and Lord Petyr looked so very much alike. She would have fled them both, perhaps, but there was nowhere for her to go

Though his hair was grey and his face lined, Lord Yohn still looked as though he could break most younger men like twigs in those huge gnarled hands. His seamed and solemn face brought back all of Sansa's memories of his time at Winterfell. She remembered him at table, speaking quietly with her mother. She heard his voice booming off the walls when he rode back from a hunt with a buck behind his saddle. She could see him in the yard, a practice sword in hand, hammering her father to the ground and turning to defeat Ser Rodrik as well. He will know me. How could he not ? She considered throwing herself at his feet to beg for his protection. He never fought for Robb, why should he fight for me ? The war is finished and Winterfell is fallen. “Lord Royce,” she asked timidly, “will you have a cup of wine, to take the chill off ?”

Bronze Yohn had slate-grey eyes, half-hidden beneath the bushiest eyebrows she had ever seen. They crinkled when he looked down at her. “Do I know you, girl ?”

Sansa Month 2023 : day sixteen - politics

[loosesodamarble]

Ice Cream, and when it Melts

Summary: The Crimson Lion Kings are faced with a peculiar problem, which is especially annoying in the summer. General: humor Word count: ~1000 A/N: Oneshot 4/6 for @/thoughtfullyrainynightmare!

..........

Leopold pushed the doors to Fuegoleon’s office open with one hand. He stepped in, partially hunched over and with a glassy look in his eyes. Raising his head just enough to have his brother in his line of sight, Leopold muttered a weak, “Big brother… It’s terrible…”

“These files are old enough to be sent to—” Fuegoleon paused in speaking to Randall when he noticed Leopold in the doorway. “Leopold, what’s—?” He stopped again when he saw what was in his younger brother’s hand. “What on earth?”

An ice cream carton was gripped in Leopold’s hand. The lid was off, giving a view of the contents: a thick, soupy liquid that filled only about half of the tub. In other words, completely melted ice cream.

“Big brother, this is the ninth time this has happened…” Leopold mumbled, his dejected gaze on the melted confection. “I first thought that the freezer was broken but then I realized that the ice box was still full of ice and the frozen meats weren’t thawed…”

“So someone is tampering with only the ice cream,” Fuegoleon concluded. He touched his chin and his brow furrowed. “What a highly specific mischief we’re faced with.”

“I’ll go check out the kitchen and see if anyone saw anything,” Randall said then jogged out.

Leopold raised his open hand and clenched it. His lips pulled back in a solemn grimace. With a shaky breath, Leopold said, “To think, one of our squad members would stoop so low.”

“Indeed. These incidents are far too childish in nature for anyone in our squad. Not even the new recruits are so immature and brazen. Or at least, that’s what I’d like to believe,” Fuegoleon mused aloud. He then patted Leopold’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Leopold. Was this the only one affected?”

“No. All of them were partially eaten and totally melted through.” Leopold hung his head and groaned. “I don’t even know how that would happen! I mean how does a whole tub of ice cream melt while… everything else… doesn…t…”

Fuegoleon noticed Leopold’s downward gaze was on his right arm. He had a feeling that Leopold hadn’t intentionally come to pin the blame on him. His younger brother was brash at heart but he’d grown more thoughtful in recent months. Likely, Leopold’s frustration with the repeated ice cream meltings had come to a head and his feelings were searching for an outlet. And Fuegoleon’s flame limb happened to be there.

“Leopold, think twice before you consider accusing me of anything,” Fuegoleon stated while crossing his arms. “You know as well as I do that these flames don’t truly burn unless I will them to.” He lifted his nose high. “Besides, I prefer sorbet.”

“Hrrm, that’s true.” Leopold groaned. “My bad, big brother.”

“We still mustn’t let whoever is doing this continue getting away with it. Summer is upon us and the squad should be able to treat themselves to a cold confection after working in such heat.”

Fuegoleon and Leopold locked eyes for a moment before nodding.

…..

The next evening, a new batch of ice cream was stocked in the freezer. Fuegoleon and Leopold decided to hide themselves in the squad base’s kitchen. Fuegoleon squeezed himself into a closet where cooking ware was stored on the shelves. Leopold curled himself into a cupboard under the counter. Both made sure the freezer was in their sights.

It was time to watch and wait for whoever was to blame.

They waited. And waited. Waited. Waited. Waited… waited… w…a…i…t…e…d…

How long had it been? Fuegoleon could only guess it had been multiple hours.

Yet no one, nothing, had turned up. It was odd. They’d told everyone about the new stock of ice cream while also keeping their stake out secret.

Fuegoleon fought to keep his eyes open and his mind alert. He couldn’t risk falling asleep, well aware of the fact that he was a heavier sleeper compared to all his relatives.

Fwsshhh!

A sensation like a breeze rushing past Fuegoleon snapped him to attention.

No. There’s more to it than that… Fuegoleon thought to himself. Something was drawn out of me, like air from my lungs. But it’s my magic. I know this feeling.

His stomach began to sink as he nudged the pieces closer together in his mind. Specific items being melted. No one showing up for hours on end. And the sensation of mana being drawn from Fuegoleon himself.

That’s when something glowing a vibrant shade of orange darted across the floor and to the freezer.

Gods’ damnation… Salamander!

The freezer door creaked open. Not a second after, Fuegoleon let the closet door swing open and he heard Leopold leap from his spot. With a larger field of vision, Fuegoleon saw the Great Spirit of Fire—taking on the size of a house cat—perched on a freezer shelf and shock-still. Leopold stood with his jaw dropped at the revelation.

“It was you?!”

Fuegoleon walked over and scooped Salamander in his arms. He stared at his spirit companion with unwavering and stern eyes.

Salamander opened its mouth and let out a sound that was a mix of reptilian trills and the crackling of a fire. Its tail curled up, as if shy.

Its feelings poured into Fuegoleon. Petulance at being caught. Fascination with the dessert called ice cream, something it’d never seen before. Guilt for being unable to control its urges.

For a spirit as ancient as magic itself, there was a child-like innocence to Salamander…

“My friend…” Fuegoleon sighed. “In the future, do ask. And don’t over indulge yourself.”

Salamander huffed out a cloud of embers in reply. Fuegoleon shook his head and stroked a hand down Salamander’s back.

“I didn’t even know Salamander could eat!” Leopold laughed, pacing the room. “And a fire spirit like an icy treat? Who would’ve thought?”

[novaursa]

Legacy (the silence)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be awear of unspecified time jump.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (slight descritpion of blood and gore)

- Previous part: across the dream

- Next part: the great war

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The wind howled through the towering cliffs of Casterly Rock, carrying with it the scent of salt and cold steel. Beneath the shadow of the great castle, the courtyard and the surrounding paths swarmed with men and banners, a sea of red and gold. The banners of the Westerlands stretched as far as the eye could see—familiar sigils of lesser houses loyal to the Lion of Lannister. The old roads, once worn by merchants and travelers, now thundered beneath the hooves of warhorses and the heavy tread of marching feet.

Tywin Lannister stood at the edge of the outer parapet, his gloved hands resting on the stone, his gaze sweeping over the columns of armed men pouring through the open gates. The force that had assembled was vast, perhaps the largest host the Westerlands had called upon in a generation, yet it was not as grand as it could have been in an age untouched by war and winter. Supplies were dwindling, and no matter how well-prepared he had been, no one had foreseen more then three years of endless night.

Kevan stood beside him, his face lined with quiet contemplation. “More arrive by the hour,” he said, his voice barely audible over the clamoring of men below. “Ser Myles Lefford rides at the head of the last host from the Golden Tooth, and the remaining forces from Deep Den and the Crag should be here soon.” He exhaled, his breath fogging in the cold air. “This is the last of them, Tywin. Every sword sworn to us has come.”

Tywin’s expression did not shift, but his grip on the stone tightened slightly.

“These are all who could make it,” he corrected.

Kevan nodded grimly. They both knew there were men still trapped in smaller holdfasts, cut off by the unnatural storms that had ravaged the roads. Others had never made it at all, swallowed by the darkness or the creatures that now roamed freely in the deep woods. The Westerlands had always been a strong, untamed land, but it had never known fear like this.

Below, the banners of House Brax, House Marbrand, House Kenning, and more fluttered in the frozen wind as their lords dismounted and gave orders to their men. A chorus of shouting, the clank of armor, and the snorting of warhorses filled the air, but there was no raucous celebration. No laughter. No boasting. Only the solemn grimness of men who had come to fight their last war.

Ser Addam Marbrand approached on foot, his orange cloak dusted with frost. He dipped his head in a respectful bow to Tywin. “My lord, my men have settled within the lower halls as ordered. The horses are being stabled, and we brought as many provisions as we could carry. We left none behind.” He hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes flickering with something unspoken. “Some of my men say they saw shapes in the woods as we rode. Pale figures in the trees, watching but not attacking. We rode hard to outpace them.”

Kevan shifted uncomfortably. “How many?”

Marbrand shook his head. “Too many to count.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “It was wise not to engage. Whatever numbers they bring, they will break against these walls.” His gaze remained fixed on the sea of arriving soldiers, his mind already turning over every possible strategy.

He had spent his life making war against men—rebels, usurpers, fools who thought they could defy the might of House Lannister. He had crushed them all. But this was no war of banners and crowns. This was something older, something no man had ever conquered.

And yet, he would not bow.

Kevan exhaled. “Winterfell sends no word back with messengers. Neither does the capital.”

“That is not an accident.” Tywin’s voice was cold. “Someone ensures the realm remains deaf to what is happening.”

Marbrand frowned. “Could it be Daenerys?”

Tywin shook his head. “No. She lacks the subtlety.” He turned, his cloak billowing behind him. “Whoever is doing this, it is not to her benefit either.”

Kevan hesitated. “Then who?”

Tywin did not answer. He had spent the last weeks pondering the same question, and yet no answer presented itself that did not lead to a darker conclusion.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the arrival of another rider. Ser Myles Lefford, his golden breastplate dulled with frost, dismounted stiffly and strode toward them.

“My lords,” he said, bowing, “we met no resistance on the road, but there are whispers among the men. They speak of villages where the fires still burned, but not a single soul remained. No bodies, no signs of struggle. Only silence.”

Tywin turned fully to face him. “How many villages?”

Lefford’s throat bobbed. “Too many.”

Kevan muttered a curse, running a hand through his beard. “This is beyond raiding. They are wiping the land clean.”

Marbrand nodded grimly. “If they mean to starve us, they have already begun.”

Tywin stared at the growing mass of soldiers in the courtyard below. This was the last host the West would ever raise, the final force that stood between annihilation and survival. If they failed here, there would be no retreat, no second war.

He turned back to his gathered men.

“We will not cower behind these walls like frightened children,” he said, his voice cutting through the cold. “We have prepared for this. The Rock has stood for thousands of years and will stand long after we are dust. These things may bring the cold, but I will see them burn.”

Marbrand and Lefford bowed. “As you command, my lord.”

Kevan looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

Tywin cast one last glance at the forces still arriving.

Let them come.

He would make sure they paid in blood.

The war room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of wax and parchment, the heavy weight of impending doom pressing against the stone walls like an unseen specter. A great table stretched the length of the chamber, covered in a detailed map of Westeros, marked with carved sigils of their bannermen and the crude placements of their enemies. The Westerlands had gathered for their final stand, and all eyes now turned toward Tywin Lannister, the Lion of Casterly Rock, as he weighed their fates with the cold precision that had won him every war he had ever fought.

But this was no war of men.

The door creaked open, and the lords who sat around the table turned as you entered. You moved with the quiet grace that had been bred into you since birth, but there was something else in you now—something sharpened by years of survival, war, and the burden of knowledge you alone carried. As you stepped into the chamber, the gathered bannermen rose, offering you the respect due to both the Lady of Casterly Rock and a woman who rode a dragon.

Tywin looked up from the map, his expression unreadable as he gestured to the seat beside him. You took it without hesitation, feeling the weight of a dozen gazes settle on you. Kevan Lannister sat across from you, his brows furrowed, his hands folded over one another. Ser Addam Marbrand stood near the hearth, his face cast in flickering firelight, his fingers drumming idly against the pommel of his sword. Lord Lefford, Lord Brax, and the other lords of the West sat in quiet anticipation, waiting for the war council to begin.

It was Kevan who spoke first. “The last of our men have arrived. Every sword sworn to us is now within these walls. If we are to strike before the enemy reaches us, the time is now.”

Tywin gave a small, imperceptible nod. “And have they sent word from the capital? Anything or still nothing?”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“No, my lord,” Lord Brax finally admitted, his voice grim. “No word from the Crownlands, nor from the North.”

You shifted, your fingers pressing against the edge of the table. “Then it is as we feared—someone ensures silence reigns across the realm. We are being cut off from the world.”

Ser Addam Marbrand exhaled through his nose. “We cannot afford to wait any longer, my lord. If the North is lost, the Others will march south unchallenged.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, but he said nothing.

You leaned forward, your voice steady. “Then let me take Viserion and burn them before they reach us.”

The lords stirred at your words, some exchanging glances, others nodding in silent agreement.

Lord Lefford spoke up, his face lined with weariness. “She speaks sense, my lord. We do not know how many of them there are, nor how they fight, but if fire is truly their weakness, then we must use it before it is too late.”

Kevan hesitated. “We know fire can kill the wights. But we do not know if it can kill the Others. If they are truly creatures of ice, then perhaps dragonflame can undo them—but if not…” He trailed off, unwilling to speak the worst of it.

You turned to Tywin, watching as his jaw tightened, as the muscle in his cheek twitched ever so slightly. He was silent, thoughtful, but there was something else in his eyes. Hesitation.

It was rare to see Tywin Lannister unsure.

You softened your voice. “We cannot wait until they are at our gates, Tywin. The Rock may be impenetrable, but it is not invincible. If we allow them to gather, to grow stronger, then even these walls may not hold.”

Tywin exhaled slowly, but he still did not answer.

Kevan shifted in his seat. “She is right, brother. If we wait, we may find ourselves cornered, besieged by an enemy we do not fully understand.”

Ser Addam Marbrand, ever the strategist, leaned forward. “If we send her to test them now, we will know what we face before it is too late. We must learn if dragonfire can truly undo them. If it does not, then at least we will know the limits of our weapons before we make our stand.”

The lords murmured in agreement, their voices a mixture of conviction and unease.

But still, Tywin hesitated.

You reached for his hand beneath the table, pressing your fingers against his palm. It was a rare gesture, one done in the quiet privacy of your chambers, never in the presence of others. But now, with all of Westeros on the brink of destruction, you did not care for propriety.

He glanced at you then, his green eyes locking onto yours, searching.

You did not need to speak the words aloud. You must trust me.

For a long moment, the world around you ceased to exist. The lords, the war, the Rock—it all faded into silence.

Then, finally, Tywin spoke.

“You may go,” he said, his voice low, measured. “But you will not go alone.”

You arched a brow. “Who do you mean to send with me?”

Tywin turned to Kevan. “You will take a small force to accompany her. A dozen riders. No more.”

Kevan’s brows furrowed. “If she is flying, then there is no need for riders.”

Tywin’s gaze did not waver. “There is always a need for an escape plan.”

Your lips parted, but you did not argue. You could see it now—the barely concealed fear in his expression, the tightness in his shoulders. He was not a man who bent to fear. But this? This was different.

This was you.

And for the first time in all your years together, you realized what it meant for the lion to love a dragon.

Tywin turned to the room, his voice cold and commanding once more. “We move before the week is done. If this war is to be fought, we shall be the ones to strike first.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the lords.

You gave Tywin’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it, rising from your seat.

As you turned to leave, you felt his gaze linger on your back, a silent weight that followed you as you exited the war room.

And you knew, without a shadow of doubt, that if you did not return—there would be no force in this world that could stop Tywin Lannister from razing it to the ground.

The air smelled faintly of parchment and herbs, a mixture of the maester’s study and the lingering scent of medicinal balms. You sat on the cushioned bench beside the table, your hands resting on your lap, fingers idly tracing the embroidery on your sleeve. Across from you, Maester Aldren finished his examination, his expression grave yet unreadable as he straightened and exhaled softly.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, with a measured tone, he spoke.

“You are with child.”

The words settled heavily between you, like the final grains of sand slipping through an hourglass.

Your breath caught in your throat. It was not unexpected—not entirely. You had felt the changes within you in the past few weeks: the subtle exhaustion, the way your body had begun to shift in ways you recognized from before. But to hear it spoken aloud, to have it confirmed in this moment—now, on the eve of your departure—was something else entirely.

Maester Aldren continued, unaware of the tempest brewing in your mind. “You are early along. No more than a few moons, but there is no mistake. Your body has already begun adjusting.”

Your gaze flickered down to your hands, to the pale skin of your fingers, as thoughts warred within you. Another child. Tywin’s child.

The timing could not have been worse.

A deep inhale steadied you. When you spoke, your voice was firm. “You will not tell anyone.”

Aldren’s brows furrowed, his weathered face etched with confusion. “My lady, surely the Lord of the Rock should—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice unwavering. “Not yet.”

Aldren hesitated. He was a maester of the Citadel, sworn to duty and knowledge, but he was also a man who had served your household for years. He had tended to Damon and Maelor since their birth, and he had been at your side through battles and winters alike. But now, he looked at you with uncertainty, as if weighing whether to challenge you.

Carefully, he folded his hands before him. “May I ask why?”

You exhaled, standing slowly, smoothing the fabric of your cloak. “Because if I tell him, he will not let me leave.”

Aldren’s expression darkened. “And is that not a good thing?”

Your eyes snapped to him, a silent storm swirling in their depths. “No,” you said quietly. “Because if I do not leave, we may all perish.”

Silence stretched between you.

Aldren sighed, rubbing his temple. “You ride into battle, my lady. With a child inside you.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “I ride to ensure there is a future for my children—all of them.”

Aldren inhaled sharply, then released it in resignation. He knew you well enough to understand that your mind was made up, that no amount of reasoning or pleading would sway you.

“You must take care,” he murmured at last. “You must not overstrain yourself. And if you feel anything—anything—unusual, you will return at once.”

“I will,” you lied.

Aldren studied you, his gaze keen with scrutiny, but in the end, he nodded. He would not betray your trust, not now.

“I will do as you ask, my lady,” he said solemnly. “But this secret cannot be kept for long. You must tell Lord Tywin when you return.”

“When I return,” you echoed softly, as if speaking it into certainty.

But deep in your heart, you knew—if you did not return, it would not matter at all.

The cold air bit against your skin as you stepped into the courtyard of Casterly Rock, the darkened sky stretching endlessly above like an abyss without stars. The torches lining the perimeter of the fortress flickered wildly in the wind, their flames struggling against the unnatural night that had swallowed the world whole. The scent of damp stone, of leather and steel, mixed with the distinct sulfurous tang that always lingered when dragons were near.

Viserion emerged from the depths of the mines, her golden-hued scales gleaming even in the absence of true sunlight. Her wings stretched wide, sending gusts of wind through the courtyard as she let out a guttural rumble, sensing the purpose in the air. Her saddle, already secured, awaited you, the thick leather straps taut and ready for flight.

From the darkness of the mines, another presence loomed—Arraxes.

The young dragon lingered just beyond the threshold, his blood-red eyes cutting through the shadows like embers buried in ash. His serpentine form slithered closer, his nostrils flaring as he released a low, uneasy growl. It was not rebellion, nor was it defiance—it was hesitation. He felt the pull, the bond between himself and Viserion, his mother, his guiding flame. And yet, something deep within him warred against instinct.

Your heart clenched as you watched him, your gaze locking onto his unreadable, primal stare. You felt his longing, his indecision, the silent question lingering in his mind—why could he not follow? Why was he being left behind?

But after a long, agonizing moment, the young dragon released a huff and stepped back, retreating into the shadows of the mines. His glowing eyes were the last thing to vanish into the black.

The decision was made.

A gust of wind from Viserion’s wings snapped you from your thoughts, and you turned your attention back to the present. Your riders—loyal men who had trained tirelessly for this mission—stood at the ready, their steeds shifting restlessly beneath them. Their armor gleamed faintly under the torchlight, their eyes filled with a mix of apprehension and resolve.

And then, there was Tywin.

He stood apart from the others, his piercing green eyes fixed upon you with a gaze that burned deeper than any flame Viserion could conjure. He was clad in his riding leathers, his heavy fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, but there was no mistaking the tension in his stance. He had known this moment was coming, but that did not make it easier.

You approached him slowly, the sound of your boots against the stone drowned out by the howling wind. You could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach for you and keep you here.

"You will return," he said, his voice low, edged with steel. It was not a question. It was a command.

You exhaled softly, allowing a small, knowing smile to grace your lips. "Of course."

Tywin narrowed his eyes, his gaze searching yours, as if trying to find any trace of deception. "You will return," he repeated, this time quieter. "Do not make a liar of yourself, wife."

A flicker of warmth spread through you at the possessiveness in his words, but it was overshadowed by the weight of what lay ahead. You wanted to promise him everything, but promises were fragile things in times like these.

Your hand reached for his, fingers curling around his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin. "I will be back before you know it," you murmured. "And when I return, you will scold me for being reckless, and I will laugh and say you worry too much."

Tywin exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression unreadable. "Yes," he muttered. "I expect I shall."

There was nothing more to say.

You turned, your fingers lingering against his for a moment longer before stepping away. The weight of his gaze followed you as you approached Viserion, each step measured, deliberate. The she-dragon lowered herself slightly, allowing you to climb into the saddle with practiced ease. The moment your hands grasped the reins, she shifted, restless, eager to take to the skies.

Your riders fell into position, their own mounts ready for the long flight ahead.

With one last glance at Tywin, you nodded once.

And then, with a powerful thrust of her wings, Viserion launched into the air, the ground falling away beneath you. The wind roared past your ears as the great she-dragon carried you higher and higher, her wings cutting through the endless night.

Below, the torches of Casterly Rock flickered like distant stars.

And Tywin watched, unmoving, until you were out of sight.

The deep black of the night pressed heavily against the walls of Casterly Rock, the vast stone fortress eerily silent save for the occasional crackling of the torches lining its halls. Outside, the wind howled against the cliffs, a distant, mournful sound that seemed to stretch endlessly into the void of the frozen world.

Maelor stirred in his bed, a small frown creasing his young face as a voice—her voice—whispered to him from the darkness.

"Maelor… Maelor, sweet boy, wake up."

His eyelids fluttered open, the voice wrapping around him like a gentle lullaby. It was familiar, impossibly so. His mother. But that was impossible. She had flown away with Viserion days ago, her absence leaving a hollowness in the castle that even the warmth of the dragonfires beneath the Rock could not chase away.

Yet, the voice persisted.

"Come to me, little lion. I'm waiting."

Compelled by something unseen, Maelor sat up, his small hands clutching at the heavy furs draped over him. The room was dimly lit by the embers still glowing in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. Damon slept soundly beside him, his breathing steady despite the scars that marred his once-unblemished skin.

Maelor hesitated for only a moment before slipping out of bed, his bare feet padding softly against the cold floor. He did not think to wake his brother, nor did he question why his mother was calling for him when he knew she was far away. Some part of him—the part that longed for her warmth, her presence, the safety of her embrace—urged him forward.

The door creaked as he pulled it open, and the dimly lit corridors of the Rock stretched before him like the gaping maw of a beast. The flickering torches barely pushed back the shadows, but the voice guided him, soft and insistent.

"This way, my love… just a little further…"

Maelor wandered deeper into the darkened halls, his small frame swallowed by the vastness of the corridors. The deeper he walked, the colder the air became. The warmth of the Rock, the heat of the dragons below, did not reach these parts. The torches burned lower, their flames barely more than dying embers.

And then, he saw it.

A figure stood at the end of the hall, its form barely visible through the gloom.

At first, Maelor thought it was his mother—but it wasn’t.

It was too tall. Too thin. Its body was an unnatural shade of pale, almost translucent in the dim light. And its eyes—icy blue, glowing like lanterns in the dark bored into him with unnatural hunger.

It smiled, revealing jagged, needle-sharp teeth that glistened as if coated in frost.

Maelor felt his body go stiff, his breath hitching in his throat. A scream clawed at his chest, but his lips would not part. He could not move.

The creature lifted a long, skeletal hand and beckoned him forward.

"Come, little one. Your mother is waiting."

Maelor's feet shuffled forward against his will. He did not want to move, but something was pulling him.

The closer he got, the colder the air became. Frost coated the walls, forming intricate spirals that pulsed as if alive. His vision blurred, the world narrowing to the wraith-like figure before him. The blue light in its eyes expanded, swallowing his thoughts whole.

"Maelor!"

The spell shattered as a roaring explosion of fire illuminated the corridor.

The creature shrieked as a blade, engulfed in white-hot flames, slashed through the darkness.

Beric Dondarrion and his men rushed into the corridor, their weapons drawn, their torches alight. The glow of Beric’s sword cast long shadows along the walls, the flames flickering with unnatural intensity.

"GET BACK!" Beric bellowed as he slashed at the creature again, his blade carving a molten arc through the air.

The wraith recoiled, its shriek sharp and piercing, like ice cracking beneath unbearable weight. The blue light in its eyes flickered violently, its form twisting and shifting as if struggling to maintain its presence.

Maelor collapsed to the ground, his body released from its invisible hold. He gasped, his breath forming white clouds in the freezing air.

Damon skidded into the corridor just as Thoros of Myr lifted his hands, his voice booming with a prayer to the Lord of Light.

"R'hllor, great god of flame, cast out this darkness!"

A pillar of fire erupted from the torches, roaring down the corridor and engulfing the creature in a cascade of golden flames.

The wraith let out a piercing scream, its body contorting in agony as the fire consumed it. The glow in its eyes flickered once—twice—and then was gone.

The creature collapsed into ash.

For a moment, the only sound was Maelor’s ragged breathing as he stared at the spot where the thing had stood. His tiny hands trembled, his eyes wide with lingering terror.

Beric rushed to the boy, kneeling before him. "Are you hurt?"

Maelor shook his head, his lips trembling. Damon, pale-faced and breathless, hurried to his brother’s side, grasping his arm. "What were you thinking?" he demanded. "You—You just left—"

Before Maelor could answer, alarm bells rang out through the Rock.

Beric shot to his feet, his eyes snapping toward the direction of the castle walls.

Thoros wiped sweat from his brow, his expression grim. "That was just one," he murmured. "And it got inside."

Beric turned to the nearest guard. "Ring the bells louder. Get Lord Tywin—now."

The guard did not hesitate. He turned and ran, his armor clanking against the stone as he rushed toward the war room.

Maelor turned, looking up at his older brother. Damon’s scarred face was unreadable, but his grip on Maelor’s arm was tight—almost too tight.

The young boy swallowed.

Outside, the winds howled as if something was coming.

The wind tore through the skies, sharp as Valyrian steel, slicing through the furs that lined your shoulders. Viserion’s wings thundered against the frozen air, her pale scales reflecting the faintest shimmer of what should have been moonlight—but the sky above was a void of black, no stars, no light, only the oppressive weight of endless darkness.

Below, your riders moved in a steady formation, their banners flapping violently as their horses trudged through the snow-covered terrain. You could barely make them out beneath the swirling mist of ice and frost, but they were there—loyal men, brave men, following you into the unknown. The silence of the night was unnatural, the only sound the distant howl of the wind, a mournful wail that curled around the mountains and valleys, whispering of something unseen.

Then, the world shifted.

A wall of ice and snow erupted from the earth without warning, spiraling upward like a specter clawing its way from the abyss. The storm came alive, swallowing the riders below in a matter of heartbeats. One moment, they were there—the next, gone.

Viserion reared back, her wings thrashing against the violent gusts, the force of the winds shoving her sideways. You gritted your teeth, tightening your grip on the saddle, your fingers numb from the freezing air.

"No—no, no, no."

The snow howled, a deafening roar that filled the sky. It wasn’t a natural storm—it couldn’t be. The way it moved, the way it devoured everything in its path—it was something else.

Something unnatural.

"Viserion! Fly higher!" you commanded, but the dragon twisted in the air, her balance faltering. She, too, had lost direction.

You pulled at the reins, attempting to steer her, but there was nothing. No point of reference, no horizon, only the suffocating black.

Then—the screams began.

Muffled, distant, but unmistakable. The wails of dying men and the frantic shrieks of horses as something found them in the dark. The sounds were swallowed almost immediately, as if the very air itself refused to carry the echoes of their deaths.

Viserion bucked wildly beneath you, her body writhing.

"Dracarys!" you roared.

She obeyed, her mighty throat igniting as a torrent of golden-white flame erupted into the void.

It did nothing.

The fire vanished the moment it left her maw, consumed by the very darkness itself. It was as if the night had a hunger of its own, devouring the heat, the light, leaving nothing but the frigid chill of the abyss.

The cold sank into your bones—something was watching.

Then, you saw it.

The darkness broke.

The storm lifted, just enough for you to see what lay ahead.

Your breath seized in your throat, your heart slamming against your ribs.

An army.

An endless army.

Miles upon miles of them, stretching to the very ends of the world. Their armor was frozen over with rime, their flesh long decayed, but their eyes—all of them—burned blue.

They were waiting.

A thousand—ten thousand—a hundred thousand. Their weapons, their rotted banners, their skeletal steeds.

And at their center, it stood.

A figure upon an undead beast, a skeletal dragon with tattered wings of ice. Its rider—tall, gaunt, clad in blackened, frozen armor, its face obscured save for those impossibly bright blue eyes.

The Night King.

His gaze lifted to the sky, and though his expression did not shift, you felt his attention settle on you.

Then—the voice.

A screeching, wretched sound, not spoken but forced into your very skull. It was neither words nor whispers, but pain.

Your vision blurred, agony lancing through your skull like a thousand shards of ice. Your hands trembled against the reins, your breath coming in short, painful gasps.

Viserion screamed.

She twisted midair, writhing in pain as the sound tore through her skull, her mighty wings faltering. You clung to her, barely holding on as she spiraled, her shrieks echoing across the wasteland.

You didn’t know if you were screaming too.

The world spun.

Then—Viserion surged forward.

Her instincts overrode the pain, her body moving. She veered northward, desperate to escape the unseen force trying to drag her from the sky.

The Night King watched.

The wights watched.

The thousands upon thousands of dead watched.

And as you vanished beyond the storm, the voice echoed one last time—a promise.

"Soon."

[youcantmisstheabyss]

sometimes i miss croydon and my old flat

one bedroom between the three of us, my hello kitty bedsheets; lined with a wooden bed frame tarnished with magazine stickers. that sickly green carpet.

pigeons flying up as my scooter rattled through odd bricks like a xylophone stick, being late to school every day, the foggy drive to camhs, radio two, attempting a handstand on prickly grass, my mum lifting me up so i could see the city lights out the kitchen window, the harsh ticking of the clock, the cold floor of the living room.

how the spacebar on my dad's keyboard felt when he wasn't looking and i clicked it, the clean slide of his cabinet drawers. the smell of fajitas on new year's eve, reported sightings of father christmas, my birthday party at kidspace, going on egg hunts, another kid's hand gripping mine too tight, fingers in bunches.

and every year the churchyard grew primroses, and when it was autumn we'd watch the fireworks near the road crossing and i'd come home and eat cereal or pasta. i watched loads of television, i loved cbeebies and the lion king. i remember blowing up balloons with my grandma on halloween, i asked her her favourite colour, she told me it was red.

i remember the smell of her kitchen and the little wooden gingerbread-looking people she had on the wall, and the tassels in the doorway i was told off for swinging on. she ate soup a lot, and sat comfortably with her hot water bottle and a pull out table. i miss her. i remember seeing wind turbines on the way to the hospice and thinking they were angels. i remember my confusion as i held a stuffed toy i was given in the car the same night she'd passed away, she lay still with petals scattered across her bed. she was peaceful, i knew something was different but i wasn't sure what, and i remember it clearer than any other death.

i went to her wake after being picked up by a family friend i'd never met before, she gave me a capri sun and was very nice to me. she had a hat on i think, a little strange to me but in a comfortable way. the food was great, i talked with people but i haven't a clue what it was about.

people were angry for a while after that but i knew it would pass. i told myself it would pass when we moved; my anger, their anger, my teachers' anger at my constant meltdowns. i felt trapped and i knew i needed to move far away from whatever was happening. and with the money my grandma and the others had left behind, we moved house, and to my genuine surprise, i still felt a little bit trapped. even now i feel a little bit trapped, but each day a new door opens and i venture a little further from my old situation, holding my inner child above me as we race into the future together. she is with me always, planting flowers with every step, a solemn little bundle of joy.

happy new year, folks

[nightiingaled]

❤🎶 [RAVID & MIYOKO PLS...]

@gcldfanged

Send ❤🎶 for a mini playlist for our muses [Miyoko & Jae]

There is no knowing, no showing Your fragile side Want to be perfect, untouchable Like the sky It's so misleading, believing That fear inside Don't let the light in, they'll see it Behind your eyes

Dark Room - Foreign Figures

I've been searching for an answer, but I ain't found one I've been known to tear shit up and go off like a gun I've been drinking way too much, but now I think I'm done

Fuck that shit, let's start a riot! Let's start a riot! Tear shit up, fuck peace and quiet! Fuck that shit, let's start a riot!

Riot - Hollywood Undead

There came a point where everything clicked And something snapped and that was that, yeah My life was just beginning Don't have to go on pretending Always knew that I wasn't alone I feel like I'm finally home

Calling me strange gives me confidence 'Cause I take it as a compliment

Maybe I'll change my evil ways Stop taking shots one of these days I'll settle down, I'll rearrange Maybe I'll learn from my mistakes Stop breaking hearts, forgetting names I'll settle down and act my age One of these days, but not today

The Nearly Deads - My Evil Ways

So take these words And make them right So one day you and I Will write our names In the sky We'll confide

And I'll find mine on the right of your side And I'll find mine on the right of your side If I throw away my fear and pride To set things right Then I'll find mine on the right of your side

Take Yours, I'll Take Mine - Matthew Mole

Down and out, and out of luck We're spinning, but the needle 's stuck Let's go have some fun before They go and put us in the ground Lions sit in solemn lines Drinking gin and dropping lines Wasting beats in this heart of mine Until the morning comes around

Yeaaah, I must be good for something Yeaaah, yeaah Oh sinners come down, come gather 'round Oh sinners come down, yeah-eh-eh

Sinners - Barns Courtney

[imogenkol]

— WIP MUSIC MONDAY

rules: post a song(s) that is relevant to your WIP or inspires it!

tagged by @inafieldofdaisies thank you!! 💕

tagging: @socially-awkward-skeleton @adelaidedrubman @marivenah @sstewyhosseini @jinfromyarikawa @corvosattano @voidika @shegetsburned @simonxriley @kyber-infinitygems @detectivelokis @aceghosts @roofgeese @risingsh0t @florbelles @v0idbuggy @theelderhazelnut @chuckhansen @queennymeria @shallow-gravy + anyone else who wants to!

HE COULD NEVER LOVE YOU by HENRY MORRIS

he could never love you // but baby I, baby I can // would you let me hold you // with blood on my, blood on my hands?

and I would know all about ghosts // ‘cause I buried his body // and found my way home // you’re the first to know

did it out of love for ya // nothing ever grows if you never wanna face the truth // hang my head, tears on my boots

SINNERS by BARNS COURTNEY

Yeaaah, I must be good for something // Yeaaah, yeaah, yeah // Oh sinners come down, come gather 'round // Oh sinners come down, yeah-eh-eh //

Dancing on cold feet // Marching on cobble streets // Oh sinners come down, yeah-eh-eh // Yeaaah, I must be good for something // Yeaaah, yeaaah, yeah

Down and out, and out of luck // We're spinning, but the needle 's stuck // Let's go have some fun before // They go and put us in the ground

Lions sit in solemn lines // Drinking gin and dropping lines // Wasting beats in this heart of mine // Until the morning comes around

[stesierra]

Find the Word tag!

@sm-writes-chaos tagged me! My words are: Star, fall, help, great. I'm going to draw from Stitches and Memories!

I'm going to tag @macabremoons, @dyrewrites, @bluberimufim and @aziz-reads and anyone else who wants to play! Your words are sympathy, cruel, kind and rough.

Star

That night, they had to settle for a pasture for their bed. Antea wrapped herself snugly in her blanket and kept her dress on, but plants still poked in, prodding and scratching at the back of her neck. She struggled not to think about ticks and tall grass and lay staring up at the stars that melted across the sky and breathing in the sappy, green smell of broken grass. She asked the night sky, with all its beautiful constellations of the gods, "Jedan? With the bandit..."

"Yes?" His voice was guarded.

"Can you light up like that anytime?"

A long pause followed. "That's a really minor perk of being favored, yes."

"Give me some light. I want to read my book."

Something rustled, then warm golden light washed over her, illuminating every blade of grass and creeping insect that surrounded her. Jedan was sitting up in his own hollow in the grass, holding his glowing hand towards the sky. For a brief moment, every visible inch of his skin glowed as if he had turned into a firefly, and Antea caught her breath. The glow dimmed back down to his hand, and he said, "I'm not going to do this all night."

Antea grinned at him, her heart warm with wonder. "Just a few pages." And she stretched out of her blanket to dig out the book. It was nestled at the bottom of her bag, and despite the cool night, the cover felt warm under her hands. She skipped the first page because she'd already had that flashback, and opened it to the middle.

Another drawing of a dragon stared up at her, crouched ferret-like in the center of the page. It was a disdainful stare, the kind cats inflict on people who offend them. Below the elegant black drawing, someone had scrawled a few messy lines.

"What does it say?" Jedan asked.

She leaned in and read, "Climb the Demon's Tower, and at the top, you will find a dragon. The dragon will ask you questions. Not riddles, for dragons see no truth in riddles, but there will be questions."

"Huh," he said, resting the arm with the light on top of one knee. "I thought all mythological creatures went in for riddles."

"That's only sphinxes, I think. But I don't have a book on sphinxes."

"How did you end up with a book about dragons in the first place?"

She shut the book carefully and cradled it against her chest. "It's strange. But I think it found me."

His brows lifted. "It's an inanimate object."

"Yeah, but it's a weird object. I found it in the room where the librarians keep all the outdated stuff. It was in the magic section, but it wasn't even about magic. When I showed it to the head librarian, he acted like he'd never heard of it and then he gave it to me because he didn't want it!"

"That doesn't mean it picked you as its owner."

She hugged the book tighter until the corners bit into her arms. "I never said it did! Never mind about the light. I'm going to sleep." And she lay back down and wrapped her blanket around herself so tightly that a tick wouldn't even have room to come in.

"Antea," Jedan said. But he didn't say anything else, so she ignored him. She fell asleep with the spine of the book pressing into her chest.

Fall

Jedan stepped closer, his face very solemn. "It seems if you are being unjustly hunted that you would benefit from companions. Why not tell us what has happened and let us make our own decision whether to stay with you?"

Reza stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "You're one of the favored."

He bowed to her, as graceful as if he were from some noble court. "The Lion Goddess."

Her eyes narrowed, and she drummed her fingers against her leg. "Then justice is your thing, and you have the goddess's ear. Look, if I tell you what has happened, will you talk to her? Convince her to do something?"

He spread empty hands. "I can pray."

"Well, none of mine have been answered, so I might as well try yours." Reza huffed and brushed the hair out of her face, then plopped down in the hay next to her stick and gestured for them to join her.

The hay was fresh and soft and dry, with a dusty, grassy scent that poofed up when Antea sank into a deep pile herself. Antea said, once everyone was settled, "So tell us your story."

Reza's hands clenched into fists. She bit out, "I'm a royal bastard."

Well, that would explain the dress.

Jedan's eyebrows flew up, and he sat up in the hay to stare at her. "I didn't know the king had any."

Reza laughed bitterly. "Neither did he. My mother didn't let him know when I was born because she had just gotten engaged to a nobleman who didn't care that she was already pregnant with another man's baby, and she really wanted the match to work. She loved my stepfather. Not the king. Never the king."

"Kings aren't particularly lovable, from what I've heard," Jedan said.

Reza nodded and drew her knees up to her chest. "So we lived seventeen years like that, and then my stepfather died. We ran out of money, and Mother's never worked a day in her life. She decided the king should give her money because of all the years she'd spent raising me, so she left me at home and went to corner him at the castle." Her mouth twisted and her eyes screwed up, and she let her chin fall to her knees.

"What happened?" Jedan asked softly.

"She never came back. The constables busted down the door to our house and tried to kill me."

Help

A man screamed, and Antea risked a look over her shoulder. The stranger was holding a bloody sword, standing over one of the bandits, who had fallen face-first, blood spreading in a puddle from around his neck. The second bandit ran at their unexpected ally and stabbed him in the gut, but the sword glanced off. The stranger, like the bandit, was wearing armor, and his counterattack took the bandit's head clean off.

Antea squeaked and covered her eyes, but she stopped running, and the footsteps of her companions shuffled to a stop. She peeked out between her fingers and found that the stranger was still there, leaning over one of the bodies, the one that still had its head. He wiped his blade clean on the clothes of the corpse and shoved it back in its sheath, and then he rolled the body over and rifled it.

"Thank you!" Antea called, taking a few unsteady steps forward. "The gods bless you, sir!"

The stranger grunted, and then he froze, staring down at the corpse, his broad hands gone tight on the stranger's belt-purse.

Jedan bowed in gratitude, and when he straightened his golden eyes were shining. "We are ill-equipped to deal with bandits, so your rescue is greatly appreciated."

The man rose slowly from the body without taking anything from it, wiping clean hands against his thighs. He said curtly, "They're not bandits. They're constables."

Antea clutched her chest and stumbled back, the breath catching in her throat. That was impossible. These were just bandits, and they weren't in uniform, just like the others, except they had all looked exactly the same.

Reza swayed where she stood, too, but there was nothing soft or unsure in her voice when she snapped, "I told you. I told you they would kill you, too, for being stupid enough to walk beside me."

Antea found her voice and waved her arms. "No, you have to be wrong because none of this makes sense. We were being attacked by these people before we even met you."

Jedan stood like a statue at Antea's side, but he turned his head to meet her eyes. "That's true, but why?"

The stranger stormed towards them, seeming taller and taller with every foot of ground he crossed. "You!"

He was a handsome man in his forties, with an aquiline nose and heavy brows that were deeply furrowed, casting shadows over his piercing eyes. His muscular body was tense as if the wrong move would drive him to hack them all to pieces, and Antea couldn't think of what the right move was. She didn't want to be beheaded for something she didn't even understand.

Antea took a step back as he joined them, barely restraining herself from running all the way back to the soldiers' post alone. "Yes? You saved us. You're currently my favorite person."

The man loomed over them with a reddened face, his nostrils flaring, his hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword. "I was a constable, and now you have forced me to kill my brothers! Which of you is the criminal they are hunting?"

Indignation startled Antea out of her fear, and she swept an arm towards the dead men. "Forced you? You chose to help! None of us even asked you!"

Jedan stepped in front of her. "None of us are criminals, sir. I am favored by the Lion Goddess, and if any of us were an unjust person, I would feel it in my heart."

The man narrowed his eyes and pushed into Jedan's personal space to point a sharp finger in his face. "Perhaps you're the criminal. I'm sure the favored can go bad. Anyone can."

Jedan didn't flinch or back away, and he sounded genuinely curious when he asked, "Have you ever heard of it happening?"

The stranger glowered and let his finger drop, but he stayed too close to Jedan, close enough to reach out and grab him by the throat, and thus too close to Antea. "No, but that doesn't mean anything. I told you, everyone can go bad."

Daring the stranger's wrath, Antea inched up around Jedan's shoulder, her hands squeezing his arm for comfort. "If that's true, then why don't you take a closer look at these constables here? They were going around out of uniform, attacking innocent travelers on the road, travelers who can't even defend themselves. If anyone's gone bad, it's them."

Great

Jedan led them on a winding path through the hills. Antea couldn't resist reaching out to brush her fingertips over the boulders and short cliff faces that they passed. The rock dragged roughly against her skin, and up close it sparkled gaily in the sun, flecked with thousands of specks of mica. Here and there, pines grew on the rocky hillsides, wedged in cracks that seemed unable to support them, their roots trailing down like vines. Sprays of tiny purple and red flowers grew out of smaller crevices in the rock, accompanied by delicate ferns the size of Antea's littlest finger. Their path wound towards the largest, steepest hill at the center of everything, which had a full-sized cliff on one side. And there, carved into the heart of the cliff, were the stairs. The steps were each twelve feet tall at least, their sides perfectly vertical. They marched back into the hillside, and at the top, cut deep into the marrow of the hill, was the gaping black mouth of a cave.

Reza came to an abrupt stop and gaped, letting her skirts drop to the dirt. "This is what you were looking for? A creepy giant stair? Who made that?"

"Someone a long time ago," Jedan said. "I can't sense the makers. They're dead."

Antea stood before the bottom of the stairs and stared upward, trying desperately not to remember anything. She did remember dropping down them -- and nearly dying in the process -- after she'd woken up alone. For once her brain didn't beat her to death with the information.

She turned back towards Jedan. "Do we have to go in? Can't you just read where he went from here?"

"If he had written it in a small cottage, and I stood outside, then yes, but this cave system of yours is too large."

"Well, how are we going to get up them?" Reza asked, her face screwed up in a frown. "Unless one of you can fly."

Vilsel strode the rest of the way to the stair and ran a hand over the rock. "We don't need to fly, Your Highness. The steps are roughed out, not smooth."

"Well, I didn't say an expert craftsman made them," Antea said, following after him reluctantly. Up close, the bottom step towered above her head, far beyond what she could dream of reaching even standing on tip-toe.

Vilsel grinned sharply and tapped the stone riser. "This rock's full of finger and footholds. I can climb this, no problem."

Antea eyed it again, searching for the way up that Vilsel had described and finding nothing. "Really? It looks like a big wall of stone to me."

"See these edges? And the pockets here?"

She stepped away, her stomach lurching at the thought of resting her whole weight on tiny irregularities in the rock. "You do what you do. At least the fall isn't far enough to kill you."

Jedan coughed. "Like the constable who fell off his horse?"

She winced. "Well..."

"I'll be fine," Vilsel said, and he slung his haversack securely across his shoulders and wedged a foot in a crack Antea hadn't even noticed. She watched, jaw open, as he scaled the wall like a spider, clinging to the littlest of ledges. In less than a minute, he was at the top and digging through his haversack.

Jedan tilted his head, his expression more curious than surprised. "You rock-climb, don't you?"

Vilsel smirked down at him as he pulled a long length of rope out of his bag and laid it, coiled like a snake, on the step beside him. "Everyone needs a hobby."

"You mean you come to hills like this just to climb up and down things?" Antea asked. "Why bother?"

"I climb mostly in the mountains near Drazen. Why? Because it's challenging, and it's fun. I don't need any other reason." He pulled an odd metal stake and, of all things, a hammer, out of his haversack.

"What's that for?"

"It's a piton, to secure the rope. Shut up." And he drove the stake into a crack in the stone with great clanging strikes of his hammer. A minute later, he tied a handful of fat knots in the rope and threw it off the ledge, sending it slithering down the side of the step. "Reza, take those rings off. You can't climb with them. Antea, you go first. Just grab on, and climb from knot to knot."

"All right," she said. "I'll try not to have convulsions halfway up."

Tag list for everything

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@palebdot

@macabremoons

@the-dragon-chronicler

@teacupsandstarlight

@vorskra

@wrenofthewords

@amostdelectablescribbler

@savvy-minnow

@mysticstarlightduck

@phantommill

@gracewritesbooks

@aziz-reads

@owlsandwich

@symbioticsimplicity

@squarebracket-trick

@fishythewriter

@koala2all

@rmgrey-author

@atomatowriter

Just chapters and snippets

@da-na-hae

For Stitches and Memories

@space-writes

@acertainmoshke

[kamreadsandrecs]

Title: The Rise and Reign of the Mammals: A New History: From the Shadow of the Dinosaurs to Us Author: Steve Brusatte Genre/s: nonfiction, paleontology Content/Trigger Warning/s: none Summary (from publisher's website): We humans are the inheritors of a dynasty that has reigned over the planet for nearly 66 million years, through fiery cataclysm and ice ages: the mammals. Our lineage includes saber-toothed tigers, woolly mammoths, armadillos the size of a car, cave bears three times the weight of a grizzly, clever scurriers that outlasted Tyrannosaurus rex, and even other types of humans, like Neanderthals. Indeed humankind and many of the beloved fellow mammals we share the planet with today—lions, whales, dogs—represent only the few survivors of a sprawling and astonishing family tree that has been pruned by time and mass extinctions. How did we get here?

In his acclaimed bestseller The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs—hailed as “the ultimate dinosaur biography” by Scientific American—American paleontologist Steve Brusatte enchanted readers with his definitive history of the dinosaurs. Now, picking up the narrative in the ashes of the extinction event that doomed T-rex and its kind, Brusatte explores the remarkable story of the family of animals that inherited the Earth—mammals— and brilliantly reveals that their story is every bit as fascinating and complex as that of the dinosaurs.

Beginning with the earliest days of our lineage some 325 million years ago, Brusatte charts how mammals survived the asteroid that claimed the dinosaurs and made the world their own, becoming the astonishingly diverse range of animals that dominate today’s Earth. Brusatte also brings alive the lost worlds mammals inhabited through time, from ice ages to volcanic catastrophes. Entwined in this story is the detective work he and other scientists have done to piece together our understanding using fossil clues and cutting-edge technology.

A sterling example of scientific storytelling by one of our finest young researchers, The Rise and Reign of the Mammals illustrates how this incredible history laid the foundation for today’s world, for us, and our future.

Buy Here: https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-rise-and-reign-of-the-mammals-a-new-history-from-the-shadow-of-the-dinosaurs-to-us-steve-brusatte/18064544 Spoiler-Free Review: This is a nice parallel to Brusatte's first book, Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs. I like how they followed almost similar narrative arcs, while also having similar tones of voice and writing style. I don’t think I’ve ever picked up nonfiction books by the same author that felt so naturally connected as these two do, and it was kind of pleasant to get to experience that here. The same enthusiasm that Brusatte brought to his first book, along with the same respect for his predecessors, colleagues, and students in the field. Those two aspects are the best part of this book - along, of course, with the scientific rigor that Brusatte brings to the table while simultaneously making everything remarkably readable for the layperson.

I will say though, that despite this feeling like a natural sequel to Rise and Fall, it doesn't have the same tone. Rise and Fall talks about dinosaurs and how they aren’t really dead: they’ve just evolved into birds, and so in a way, dinosaurs are still with us. This is a fantastic and wondrous line of thought, because isn’t it incredible to think that dinosaurs - which most people think of as long-dead animals (and most of them are) - to still be here with us, and moreover, to be creatures we encounter everyday, and even eat?

This book, however, doesn't have that same triumphal feel-- Actually, that's incorrect; it DOES have that feeling, especially during the first three-fourths of it, but as it progresses it becomes less triumphant and more solemn. Mammals were able to overcome the asteroid impact that killed the dinosaurs, and they were able to survive the many climate change disasters that came after - but can they survive the current human-made climate crisis? Can we, for that matter? The title Rise and Reign of the Mammals is definitely apt, because mammals did manage to rise and reign over the Earth - us humans in particular. But every rise comes with a fall: just look at the dinosaurs. This book does a good job of reminding the reader just what’s going to cause that fall, and how it might look like based on previously-explained extinction events. It's not all gloom-and-doom, of course: Brusatte is quick to remind the reader that, unlike previous climate change-caused extinction events, humans are actually in a position to do something about the current one, not least because we're the ones responsible for it. But even if we do manage that change, there is no denying that we've destroyed many species on the way to accomplishing it, and many more will probably die off along the way before this climate change crisis is finally manageable. As I said, a rather somber ending, but an important one. Rating: five platypus eggs