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astro-rainbow777 · 8 months ago

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♈︎ 𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢𝔰 ♈︎

✶ Aries in 1st: Being ruled by the planet Mars, these natives give a bold and invigorating first impression. What you see is what you get with Aries in the first- they have a raw and honest personality- which can be off putting for some people because it can be taken as rude depending on the person/situation- but I have to say you must admire them for being so tenacious and authentic in nature. I can hands down say the best quality about Aries in the first is what you see is what you get! They have a strong ego here, are not ashamed of their behaviors, body or personality - regardless of what others say to or about them. ✶ Aries in 2nd: Bold spenders, can be quick to have, give away and lose money. Fleeting self worth and values- can feel and act confident one hour and then shy and shameful the next. Values honesty, integrity and sense of self- this may be because they don’t have the greatest sense of self. Believes that kids and the younger generations have the most value in the world. Having children of their own could be of the greatest importance- OR (and this is a big or) they could never want kids and value connecting to their inner child and independence greatly. It’s one or the other. Can feel at war with their finances and self worth.

✶ Aries in 3rd: Athletic and popular in middle school/high school. Known for their leadership skills and qualities amongst their peers, classmates, cousins and siblings. Can be the youngest of their siblings or babied by others. Intellectually motivated, driven and competitive. Impulsive and passionate in their speech. May say things for shock value or improv their actual knowledge. Finds stimulation in an intellectual debate and arguing. It’s hard to win an argument with these people because they speak so quickly- their arguing style is just backing people into a corner mentally, they don’t give up easily. However, they can regret things that they say when they are angry or upset.

✶ Aries in 4th: Huge indicator of raising yourself as a kid. Family required you to be very active, you could be the most successful in your family as an adult because of this. Family is a point of weakness for you, mainly because they possess a lot of “childish” qualities. You may feel like your parents/guardians were big babies and never grew up. You could put a lot of energy towards your family, but could have a shorter fuse with them over all people. You may be the youngest out of your entire family. Your family could be competitive with you our vise versa. Your family could be the start of your “Villan Arc” 💀- your family may have childish values, argue a lot or they may be a “board game family”. TW - Worst case scenario- violence in the home.

✶ Aries in 5th: Play fights when flirting, aggressive flirters, acts like they hate their crush. I have this placement lmaooo and I LOVE to play fight with my man- like btch?! You wanna go!?!?!? It’s so much fun to me and usually leads to s*xies ayyye. But that’s definitely a me thing, I love to talk smack to my significant other- that’s how it’s always been. Being competitive, NO BORING DATES EVER! Known to have secs on the first date. Passionate- goooood lovers. Either wants to have kids right away or doesn’t want kids at all- this I huge independence thing that keeps them from not wanting to have kids. You can’t be the baby, if you have a baby! Commitment issues.

✶ Aries in 6th: Enjoys active routines and work place. Known to work in establishments with competitive pay and many enemies in work place. Can be scene as bossy by their coworkers. Needs to be weary of being hypocritical of their coworkers. Temper at work. Benefits from a workout routine. Needs to take out stress and anger from work & daily responsibilities. Can be very active or have hyper pets, may need a big back yard to run their dogs or other animals in. Competitive in health and motivated to be the best version’s of themselves. Picky with their diet and what they decide to put in their bodies. Can have an all or nothing attitude- because theirs definitely a reason why they are so picky. Usually this stems from poor self care habits and bad physical health. ✶ Aries in 7th: Passionate and assertive lovers, the fire they feel for their committed partners are unmatched. They may loose interest beyond physical lust- especially if they don’t take they time to figure out whether or not they ACTUALLY like someone. These individuals could truly find good in anyone so it’s important that they don’t project their desire for commitment onto someone else. They can date or be friends with some bold and persistent personalities- even bossy. It’s important that these natives find someone who will give them some wiggle room to find themselves. These people find out who they are through trial and error in their relationships - it’s typical for these natives to have “failed relationships” that lead them to find out what they definitely don’t like- which leads them to their ultimate truth.

✶ Aries in 8th: This gives the native a hyper-vigilant quality to the native with Aries in 8th. In the past the native may have been made to feel like they didn’t belong, maybe they were bullied, or judged for something they couldn’t control. This may lead them to be on edge, secretive and even defensive about who they are authentically. They are very protective about who they actually are because they have been hurt before- many of these people are Virgo Risings, so it’s interesting to see that this may be one of the reasons why they are so hard on themselves and receive a judgmental sort of reputation. ✶ Aries in 9th: I love this placement so much honestly, because a lot of these natives have the philosophy that they can go after anything that they want. They have a particularly strong sense of self and actually may have a hard time understanding why other people don’t go after what they want or believe in themselves and their dreams. This is a super hard working placement IMO - it gives very much that “I want it, I got it!” vibe! It’s very possible at a time in their life that no one believed in these individuals so they just had to prove themselves to the world, and that’s so beautiful.

✶ Aries in 10th: Go getters in their career- they do best when they are their own boss- they definitely don’t do well with being told what to do because of their sensitive nature. However, they have a lot of creativity and art to give to the world. They need a career that is authentic to who they- a simple 9-5 WILL NOT cut it for these people. So if you’re an Aries 10th and you’re still trying to make your boring, loveless day job work- this is why. It is not in your genetic code to be running someone else’s business 😂 you are the business starter- not finisher! Quit diminishing your own light because I know y’all are hard on yourselves regardless. Pick your hard and go after it!

✶ Aries in 11th: Leaders of the pack, these natives love bringing their friends together and being absolutely crazy with their friends. They are naturally socialites and feel their best when they are interacting in their community and collaborating with like minds. These people live for their down time, special niche hobbies and interests. They work hard to play hard. They may also have some pretty strong humanitarian values they stick by, these natives have no problem with telling people their opinion on any given situation and they really don’t care what you have to say about it 😆

✶ Aries in 12th: With Aries in the house of isolation, hidden endings, mental health, dreams and subconscious awareness- this can make a native who suppresses their anger deeply and keeps a lot of their authentic reactions to themselves. They may feel more comfortable expressing this rage internally or when they know nobody else is around. They may be completely out of touch with their anger and impulses. They could have to isolate before taking action towards their authentic desires or dreams. Dreams can be violent and they may have intense nightmares. These natives can work out their best alone- although they usually like to workout with someone, this keeps them from pushing themselves for fear of being ugly or vulnerable. They don’t like to show their struggle to others, complain or their authentic side.

Happy Aries Season Everyone! I hope you are all safe and navigating eclipse season /mercury retrograde with ease. I am making a series out of the signs in the houses. I hope y’all are enjoying my content! Love you and thank you so much for reading my content and giving me feedback. This is such a sacred study to me. It is my life.

~Kya

#astro community #astrology #astrology signs #zodiac #spirituality #aries season #aries #Aries houses

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fans4wga · 1 year ago

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26 July update from WGA's Chris Keyser

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From the WGA: With SAG-AFTRA now on strike and new levels of solidarity across all Hollywood unions, we are witnessing the spectacular failure of the AMPTP’s negotiating strategy. In this video, WGA Negotiating Committee Co-Chair Chris Keyser lays out what this moment means and how we move forward. To learn more about the WGA strike, visit https://www.wgastrike.org.

FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Fellow members of the WGA East and West. It's been a while since our last video and quite a bit has happened in the meantime. So on behalf of the negotiating committee and leadership, I wanted to give you an update on where we are and what the near future at least is likely to bring.

We've been walking side by side on picket lines in New York and Los Angeles for a little over 12 weeks now. Only now we're joined by thousands upon thousands of members of SAG-AFTRA who, like us, have finally had enough.

This is the endpoint and the fruit of the AMPTP’s game plan. For 11 weeks, they negotiated with everyone but us. They claimed it was just practicality, that they could only do one thing at a time, which is not normally a point of pride. But events have made clear what we knew from the start: that not only was it a strategy, it was their only strategy. Negotiate a deal with a single guild and impose that deal on every other guild and union in Hollywood, whether it addresses the needs of those unions or not, all with the implicit threat: if you want more, strike for it.

Wow. It’s their 2007-8 playbook applied to 2023 as if nothing has changed, as if the accumulation of economic insults and injuries inflicted on us over the past decade would be borne in perpetual silence, as if the giant of labor had not awakened. But it has. And you only need to look as far as the front gates of every studio in LA and New York to see the evidence.

Two unions on strike willing to exercise their power, despite the pain, to ensure their members get the contract they deserve. For us, that means addressing the relentless mistreatment of screenwriters, which has only been exacerbated by the move to streaming; the continued denial of full MBA protection to comedy variety and other appendix A writers when they work in streaming; and the self-destructive unsustainable dismantling of the process by which episodic television is made and episodic television writers are paid.

It means addressing the existential threat of AI and the insufficiency of streaming residual formulas, including the need for transparency and a success-based component. All of these will need to be addressed for there to be a deal because in this strike it is our power and not their pattern that matters, not their strategy. Their strategy has failed them. Now they're in the midst of a streaming war with each other, an admittedly difficult transition. And as they face the future, their interests and business models could not be more different from Disney to Sony to Netflix to Amazon.

We root for their success, all of them. They root for each other's failure. We are the creative ammunition through which they will succeed. They are each other's apex predators. And yet, in a singular shared dedication to denying labor, they have shackled themselves together in what increasingly seems like a mutual suicide pact, as the 2023-24 broadcast season and the 2024-25 movie schedule and its streaming shows disappear, melt away week by week.

So what does this mean? What does it mean going forward? How do you play chess against an opponent who insists on screaming checkmate at every move regardless of how the board looks and the game is going?

You stay firm, you stay resolved, because our cause is no less existential than when we started and our leverage is increasing every day. Alone we withheld our labor with the support of our union siblings and the Teamsters and IATSE and the Crafts, we were able to delay the vast majority of production. Now with SAG-AFTRA on strike, those few studio projects that remained have also shut down. And it's not just the obvious delays. If this strike drags on, it's the actors with conflicting obligations and the directors and the double-booked studio facilities and release date chaos that the companies must now also contend with. Some of their most valuable product could well be delayed for years.

Add to that, no promotion of movies or television shows and famous faces on the picket lines and social media speaking directly to their customers. For the tech companies and the mega corporations, that should be their nightmare scenario: WGA and SAG-AFTRA side by side. Our bargaining agenda may not be identical, but our cause is the same. Our army of labor, defending labor has increased 17-fold in the past two weeks alone.

Even so, even with all this wind at our backs this negotiation won't happen overnight. It's not because the negotiations themselves are so complex. Once the companies fully engage, it could go very quickly, but because their strategy of many decades has just fallen apart and they didn't see it coming, and it's going to take them a minute to regroup, 'cause the companies have things to work out internally, and saying no to labor in unison is a lot easier than saying yes. So either together or separately, as their divergent interests might suggest, they will come back to us, despite their understandable concern about how they've navigated this transition to streaming, which is on their heads and not ours; and their worries about costs and their worries about Wall Street; despite this being a season of doom and gloom, none of them are walking away from the riches of this business, and certainly not over the equitable minimum compensation to writers.

They didn't get the deal they wanted; that's fine, it happens all the time. They're not taking their ball and going home over it. And since we know they come from union families themselves, and since they've denied that “even-in-Hollywood-you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me” ugliness of threatening to starve us out and leave us homeless (which we assume they understand also means making our children homeless,) they will come back to us. Although I will say they took a long time to deny that statement, longer than I would have had it been ascribed to me.

But what does it matter? You can starve a labor force slowly or quickly. The effect is the same. It's not like day rates for comedy variety writers and endless free drafts for screenwriters in exchange for a single paid one in four-week mini-rooms isn't cruelty. It's just cruelty written in contract language instead of a press quote.

So what can we expect from the companies as all of this plays itself out? They will try to convince Wall Street that taking a strike, prolonging it unnecessarily, losing their content stream in the process—that all of that is just smart business and no reason for investor concern. We will be talking to Wall Street too, and reminding them that for all these companies, all of 'em including Netflix, the bill, the price for making nothing, will eventually come due. And Wall Street is listening already. Here's Michael Pachter, managing director of equity research at Wedbush on Yahoo Finance the other day: “I think the studios are completely wrong on this one. Content is their lifeblood. They're feeling really foolish about this."

Wall Street isn't the only one listening. We've been talking to union pension funds too about the risks the companies are taking. We talked to CalPERS, the largest public pension plan in the country, talked about the loss of programming and the cost to the industry, and we heard strong support from its board for our struggle and the promise that the companies will be hearing from them, from CalPERS, and demanding answers on behalf of its 2 million members.

To us, of course, they will continue to plead temporary poverty, but we know the drill. These companies support billions into the streaming wars and taken short-term losses these past three years, because they know that to the winner will go the spoils. We're patient, will they share that with us when the time comes? What are the chances?

Since 2017, the last time the studios negotiated with us outside of COVID, the big six companies alone have made $150 billion in profits off our work, while they slashed our pay and degraded our working conditions. Maybe if they had shared a tiny piece of that then, made $1 billion or so less, this year wouldn't seem so costly. As it is, there is no iron law that these companies are entitled to record profits every year, and it isn't some great travesty if their shareholders or their CEOs get a slightly smaller slice of the massive profits we helped create if some balance is restored.

Look, no one denies that corporations exist to make a profit and no one wants our employers to be profitable more than we do, but the singular pursuit of corporate profits to the exclusion of their social and human cost is a real problem in this country—it’s a real problem. A corporation's bottom line is not the same as the world’s, and there is nothing in our studio's bottom lines today that accounts for the quality of our lives or for our dignity, for the comfort of our retirement or the security of our families. Their numbers have no conscience, but the people who report them as victories ought to.

In their refusal to recognize that, these companies have also extracted an awful price, which is laid at their feet and for which they are responsible. Losses to the economies of New York and Los Angeles and everywhere that film and television are made, terrible losses that mount every day, thousands of people out of work; not just us, all the crews, the crafts, the janitors, the drivers, the businesses that thrive when Hollywood thrives, the restaurants, the stores—for what? For nothing. So they could avoid coming to the table to negotiate the deal they will one day give us. Measured today that is the painfully mixed legacy of our employers, weighed against every beautiful piece of work we have made with them.

And if history is a guide, they have only temporary stewardship over a kind of national trust, which is Hollywood. Our story, our sometimes conscience, our public conversation, our diversion of the worst and best of times, our greatest export, the repository of our imagination. They have some obligation to more than just their shareholders to behave accordingly.

Unfortunately, it seems big tech, mega corporations, and some of the people who run them, as the saying goes know the price of everything and the value of nothing. So they have built a business model that no longer works for human beings who cannot be paid minimum for 10 to 20 weeks a year and make a career out of that, be paid for one draft of a screenplay that demands a year of labor, be paid a few episodic fees for a show about which to take years to decide be paid a daily rate.

And now we have a first glimpse of what they offered our actor colleagues. We are not 170,000 Willy Lomans to be used and then discarded. We know what the companies believe they have the power to do. We know what they think machines can do and do without any of us. Oh yeah, we've seen the writing on the wall and it's plagiarized.

The thing is this: the difference between what you CAN do and what you SHOULD do is the greatest single difference in the world. Knowing that is the only real protection we have against a dystopian future. And if the companies sometimes forget that, writers will do it for them.

I can't know exactly how long it will take this revolutionary moment, and you've heard again and again what is happening today has not happened in 63 years, but I know that's not always how it feels, revolutionary and defining, even though we celebrate that on picket lines together, which is the right thing to do. That's not always how it feels when you go home at night. I know how tough this is: to strike, to hold the line. I know it gets tougher every day even with SAG-AFTRA marching beside us, how hard it is to face the uncertainty of when it will end, when we'll get back to work, how we'll pay the bills. I know it's hardest for those who've just gotten started, for those for whom the world opens doors more reluctantly, battled their whole life just to get here; but hard too for those struggling to maintain their long careers, who find work tougher and tougher to come by, or those with families with children or parents to take care of.

These companies understand the cruelty of what they're doing. It's their plan to starve us just a little, to exact as much pain as they can so that we wish more for the pain to end than for the better life we dreamed up. That we're more afraid of the uncertainty of the present than the certain devastation of the future. It's societally acceptable economic torture inflicted by management on labor every day, then blamed on labor for daring to fight back, for refusing to be complicit in its own mistreatment.

Here's how I know that's not going to work. Not with us, not with the writers, because we haven't come all this way, fought to have these careers in the first place, all the adversity, and marched together for all these months, only to let it slip away on our watch—because there is no point in rushing back to jobs that may not be there in a year or two anyway. Because the business, as the companies have twisted it, is now untenable, unsurvivable for so many of us, because even success is not enough to keep going, because this guild is younger than it's ever been and more diverse. And this young diverse membership knows from hard personal experience the system is broken and that it will not be fixed unless they fix it. And those of us who came before them will not let them down, because we and the writer's guild are the beneficiaries of all those who came before us who gave up everything for us.

Like the writers of 1960, the year I was born, who struck for 22 weeks and who gave away all the TV residuals for all the movies they had ever written so that we could have a health insurance and pension plan and residuals from that date forward. $15 billion flowed to writers and their benefit plans because of that sacrifice. Because writers are brave, because now it's our turn.

So what's our job? Even as we welcome SAG-AFTRA to our side, we are still responsible for our own deal, and so we must remain focused and diligent. We must continue to march, picket signs in hand. But we should also remember this and with pride, that before there was SAG-AFTRA, before even the Teamsters and IATSE and the laborers and the electrical workers and the musicians and the plasterers came to our side, there was the writers. Alone then, we looked at the blank page and began to imagine the future. With no net but each other we typed the words, what if?

And then we took a step into the darkness and found that it was light. And then we were joined by the crews and the drivers and the actors. The actors got a bit more fanfare when they showed up, but that's okay, we wrote the script. The WGA, still small, not alone anymore after all these decades. Hollywood labor has finally linked arms and found its voice, and that voice says enough. There is no road to longterm prosperity that burns a path through your own workforce. We are not your enemies. We are not merely a cost to be borne. We are your partners and your greatest asset. And we are, as you acknowledge yourselves, irreplaceable, but by accident or design and it doesn't really matter anymore, the business you are running no longer works for those who work for you.

What is the point in continuing to deny that? Why deny it when everyone else in the business to a person tells you it's true? Do you think it's a coincidence that two unions are on strike against you for the first time since Eisenhower was president? You can't exactly accuse us of being quick on the trigger. The effect has a cause, it has a cause. And there is no profit in insisting on the answers to the past for the questions of the future.

But if you want instead to invest in something that will reap you fortunes, I have a tip. And if you are visionaries, envision a solution, not a stalemate. Because this isn't a war we're in, it's a negotiation, it's just a negotiation. There is no face-saving here for either side, because there is no winner or loser. It's just a deal. And when you come to remember that again we will be here as we have been here all along.

And at this point with 170,000 writers and actors aligned against your intransigence, that is as generous as I can be, as close to an olive branch as I can offer. But if you insist instead on the same threatening rhetoric, on saying you would rather starve us than pay us, I would remind you of this: You are fighting for a dollar, we are fighting for survival. We are fighting for our home: writing is where we live, and we will defend that home with a bravery and stamina and ferocity that you will come to understand someday, which is why you cannot break us. You cannot outlast us, you cannot.

And not just because we have the will, because we have power. Nothing in this business happens until we start to write. And we will not start to write until we are paid.

Union now. Union forever.

#sag-aftra strike #sag strike #actors strike #union solidarity #i stand with the wga #wga strong #wga solidarity #fans4wga #Youtube #wga strike #writers strike

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propheticbride · 3 months ago

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Doing It All For Love

𐙚 Reeling after her meeting with Rhaenyra in the sept, she takes advantage of the one thing that reminds her most of her true love; you. Even if you are Aegon’s wife, Rhaenyra’s only daughter and technically, her step-granddaughter.

𐙚 Alicent x Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader (tw: step-incest, age gap; alicent is reader's step-grandmother and 38/reader is 20, manipulation, slight dub-con)

AN: i am still writing lamb to slaughter i am just rlly turned on by alicent being manipulative and being in power <3 reader is of age, no i am not doing the math

Alicent can't breathe. The power, her very control on matters is slipping. Aegon is lost, Aemond a violent monster. Helaena lost to her grief. Matters possibly be any worse. Of course they could. They always can.

She had told Rhaenyra to her face that war was due, that it was inevitable. Alicent knew the succession had not been changed, that Viserys did not change his mind.

But was Alicent to blame for wanting power of her own? To have developed a taste for it since it was first forced down her throat? Was it so bad of her? Her father had drilled in her so hard Aegon’s claim that had to be what she truly wanted. Why else would she forcibly usurp the only person that has ever loved her.

But it was far too late. All of it set in place. The board was set. Time to play the game before them. But she couldn't deny her feelings. Noy truly. She was angry. Angry at her father, angry at her king, at Aegon.

“Your grace?” you call softly.

Alicent half smiles, but it isn't sincere. She isn't the queen anymore, you are. She foolishly thought if she rushed and married you to a newly crowned Aegon that Rhaenyra would bend. She didn't know Daemon would simply declare war for his better half as you were now considered a 'hostage’ in the capital.

“You are the queen. You can call me Alicent, or mother…” Alicent walks towards you, and allows her hand to reach your face. “...or grandmother.”

“You're so young to be a grandmother.” you assure her.

“You think I look young?” Alicent feeds off your validation, so eager to please. You don't know if it's sincere or a survival tactic but she doesn't care, it turns her on all the same. “You’re such a dove, aren't you? Flaunting about the keep as you please. So insistent on making me and your betters happy.”

“I just want to please you all so you don't take my head.” you admit rashly.

“Take your head?” she cocks hers. “Why would we?”

“Because my mother is…my mother is a traitor and so is my father. I have traitor’s blood.” you say softly.

“You have the blood of the dragon and you share Aegon’s blood. Not all is treacherous.” Alicent tries to calm you, even though the words affirm what you fear people say about you is true. You are the blood of a whore, a traitor. And the worst is you are no bastard, but the daughter of an even worse fate, Daemon Targaryen.

“I wish to be a good queen to you, to Aegon and them.” Alicent reaches to hold your hand and pulls you closer. You gaze up at her.

“You are a good queen. Probably more loved than I.” Alicent’s voice is calming, but not to be sweet or kind or caring. No. She wants you in a false state of comfort.

The more Alicent looks at you, studies your face. The more you look like Rhaenyra. She could see why the court confused you two at times. You didn't have a shred of Daemon in your face, she thanks the gods for that. But you have her former friend’s face. The friend she so desperately clung to as a child. The one who turned her back on her. And now her daughter was clinging to her.

Alicent leans in and kisses you, it’s gentle and she can physically feel you react to it.

You immediately pull back, “Your grace-”

“I am not the queen, you stupid girl.” she grabs your hands firmer, her nails digging into you. “You took that position, usurped it from me.”

“As you have usurped my mother.” you speak back, matching her cold tone. As soon as the words leave you, you regret it.

“I am so sorry, have I hurt you?” she asks as she brings your hands to her face to inspect. Her tone changes to soft again, as she watches blood pool around the moons her nails left in your skin.

“I want to go home!” you admit, tears streaming your face. “I want my mother.”

“I wanted your mother too once. She was my…friend. But she has turned her back on me, on you.” Alicent kisses your hands gently.

“You lie.”

“Do I sweetling? Where is your mother? If I had heard my daughter had married my enemy I’d swarm the palace with my dragon and burn it to ash. But she has not yet even made a move and it has been weeks.” she shakes her head at you, almost mocking you for being so naive.

Alicent holds your head, and leans in to kiss you again, this time more roughly. You don't react, you let it happen. Alicent controls it, every movement she has the power and orchestrates it. And you're so stupid, naive and powerless, you let her.

“What would Aegon say?” you break away, mostly to catch your breath.

“He's with painted whores as we speak.” She licks her lips. You taste like fruit, something she knew you were fond of. She watches your face fall. “Does that upset you?”

“No.” you shake your head. “I do not think so. I don't love him.”

“I know.” Alicent goes to kiss you again, and this time you kiss back.

Your hands go to her waist and you whimper into her mouth. Her hands begin peeling you of your gown, a soft white and gold, and you work to untie the strings on the back of hers.

It’s all happening so fast you can't control anything, she's in charge. You can't help it, you miss your mother. Your gown is slipped off onto the floor and Alicent reaches to pull you closer, gently turns you and then throws you lightly on her bed.

“Have you two lied together?” she asks, finishing stripping her gown down, the dark green material pooling at her feet.

You can't help but stare at her body, despite four pregnancies her body still was slender, and a soft warm color painted her skin. You watched Alicent remove her seven pointed star necklace, kiss it and set it down.

“Have you ever been with a woman?” she asks, beginning to sit beside you on the bed.

You shake your head and watch her take pieces of your silver hair in her hands. God you looked so much like Rhaenyra, she needed to have you.

“Can you kiss me again?” you ask, snapping her out of her trance.

She smiles, mostly because she knows she has you, and she does. She kisses you again, and places herself above you.

You wonder what Rhaenyra would say, what she would think. They had been childhood friends, and now you were kissing her old friend and newest enemy, about to sleep with her. It was all entrancing. Would Daemon have your head when they eventually stormed Kings Landing?

Alicent dips her fingers in her mouth, coating them with spit before settling inside your cunt. You groan, and arch your back at her touch. Pure pleasure shoots through you as she continues to pump her digits in and out of you. She watches you with hungry eyes, picturing your mother in your spot.

You're a gentle little girl, always so keen on pleasing others, Alicent smiled slightly at you finally being pleased. She knew Aegon did not take your pleasure into account, her nasty excuse of a son could not please anyone. Not even the maids he took his pleasure from.

“Feel good sweet dove?” Alicent coos, voice full of sex.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” you cry out, pressure building as you become closer to orgasm. “Please don't stop.”

“I won't, I won't.” she says softly, mostly to herself.

You looked good like this, sweat stuck to your forehead, writhing in pleasure, pleasure given by her. Alicent pulls her fingers out, which causes you to omit soft pleading for her to go back to what she was doing.

She settles between your legs, and gives small kisses on your thighs.

“Don't tease me, please your grace.” you beg.

“I’ll do what I want, won't I?” Alicent doesn't wait for your answer until she's latching her mouth on your now wet cunt, sucking and licking away, the sounds of your moans growing louder and filling the chamber.

She didn't care if maids heard, or passed by and saw. All she cared about was that you were close to cumming on her tongue. She traced your cunt up and down with the wet muscle, ensuring your clit got the most attention.

Your orgasm hits hard, causing you to wrap your legs around her head, “Gods gods gods gods!”

As you ride your wave of pleasure, Alicent licks up the mess and gives your cunt one last kiss before pulling up and looking at you. Her mouth was wet, no soaked with your cum. You blush at the sight.

“Sweet girl.” Alicent wipes her mouth on the duvet, and lays beside you.

“Do you want me to…please you, your grace?” you ask.

She shakes her head, “Dowager queen.”

As you cuddle into her side, still breathing heavily, the one thing that crosses Alicent’s mind is your mother.

#house of the dragon #alicent hightower #alicent hightower x reader #aegon ii targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd smut #ahhhhh #hey :3

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temiizpalace · 3 months ago

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☆┊MONOPOLY? MONOPOLY.

SUMMARY: monopoly. the game infamous for destroying friendships and relationships. it wouldn’t hurt to play a game or two, right? how do your acquaintances suffer during the game?

CHARACTERS: all dorms (+grim)

GENRE: fluff, crackfic

WARNINGS: cursing

PLATONIC or ROMANTIC, PLATONIC ORTHO + GRIM

NOTES: my sister punched me in the stomach cause i bought her property

reader gender is not specified, reader is yuu

SPENT THE ENTIRETY OF THE GAME IN JAIL

no matter what they did, no matter how many times they wished to try, they always landed in jail. even when he’s finally free after seven knows many turns, he’ll pick up a card, and it says go to jail. jeez, what did he do?! this game sucks, i don’t see the appeal. is he so much of a bad guy the game wants to keep him locked up forever? its hurting his feelings. why do you want to keep playing?? can he just quit? he doesn’t wanna play anymore. fine. he’ll keep playing. just make sure you win or else you’ll get an earful..

spoiler alert: you lose and now he’s disappointed

riddle, deuce, jack, malleus, silver

LAUGHS LIKE AN EVIL VILLAIN WHEN SOMEONE LANDS ON THEIR PROPERTY

oh dear, how poor and unfortunate are you? such a shame really. oh well! fork over the cash, prefect! it’s nothing personal, just a simple game of monopoly. you can spare a couple hundreds, couldn’t you? surely you weren’t planning on winning, right? all is fair in love and war they say! he’ll make it up to you later, but it’s just better to pay— what’s that? no money? BANKRUPT? how sad. you snooze ya lose. better luck next time, you were no match to begin with. he’ll take what’s left, thanks! much appreciated 🫶🫶

he’s just competitive he’s sorry please don’t hit him with the board please— NONO WAIT—

ace, ruggie, azul, jade, jamil, epel, idia, lilia, grim

IS HOARDING ALL THE LITTLE HOUSES

they’re so cute! not very detailed, but he can make a nice village out of them! oh. you need them for the game? can’t you use.. something else? please let him keep them. if you want them back you’ll have to pry them from his cold dead hands. here, use these thumbtacks! they basically look like houses! why’s he so attached to the tiny plastic primary colored houses from this game? unsure, but he likes em. hands off <3

if you play on the floor watch your step

deuce, cater, floyd, kalim, rook, sebek, grim

USING THEIR WAD OF MONOPOLY MONEY AS A FAN

at first, this game seemed.. childish. however, who is he to say no to victory? just look at all the currency he holds in the palm of his hand, practically basking in wealth. tsk, tsk, wipe that pouty face off of your face prefect. he’s just playing the game after all. not his fault you can’t save your money. my, my, it’s getting hot! excuse him as he fans himself off with his hundred dollar bills. he would share if he can, but it looks like his hands are full. needless to say, he is suffering from success over here.

ace, cater, leona, ruggie, azul, jade, floyd, jamil, vil, epel, idia, ortho, lilia, grim (they all on my list. better watch themself)

BRINGS UP PERSONAL SHIT DURING AN ARGUMENT OVER PROPERTY

will bring up moments from each others past mid-argument cause they’re just petty like that. don’t look at him like that! not his fault you decided to ramble about your middle school days— HEY. DONT YOU DARE BRING UP HIS BABY PHOTOS. NO. NOT THE PHOTO. NONONONONONONONONO AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

pieces are in fact flung to the ground

ace, leona, azul, epel, sebek, grim

ABOUT TO FLIP THE BOARD

barely holding it together. he is this close to just grabbing the board and throwing it to the ground. he wants to tear up the currency and toss it down the paper shredder while screaming his lungs out. this game is absolutely SHIT. don’t ever bring it in his sights again, he will lose it.

riddle, jamil (depends), epel, sebek, grim

TRYING TO PLAY NORMALLY

it’s just a game guys, relax. sure, it’s not ideal, but let’s not try stabbing each other over a simple game of dice and money? seriously, it’s not that deep. as long as you’re playing together, he’s having a fun time. that’s all that really matters to him in the end! you’re having fun, he’s having fun, it’s a win-win. while chaos ensues, he’s pretty good at being levelheaded and the voice of reason so hopefully it doesn’t blow up in his face.

trey, jack, silver

A/N: monopoly almost got my cousin divorced fun game 10/10 would play again. so many fics in the draft hopefully they come out soon 🧌🧌🧌

date published: 8/20/24

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iridescentdove · 1 year ago

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What about a Platonic! BSD x Child! Reader is very smart, like almost Ranpo-level smart, but they don’t use their smarts and intellect for anything at all except for online video games, board games, etc., and they’re lazy and don’t go outside at all. Plus, the first time Reader and Dazai had a game of chess, Dazai literally lost two moves in, and Dazai was rethinking his entire life choices in that moment because how the fu-

(How Dazai and Reader’s game of chess went *REAL* link)

WHY DO I HEAR BOSS MUSIC?

platonic!bsd x child!smart!reader

A/N: I for an odd reason, love it when characters are humbled and seen inferior 😭 I love this request too! Here it is~

Everyone loves you.

I'm so jealous rn /j

Well as a kid it would be expected to be like that! Although, it was a little different as you were ... considered unique to other children around you. How so?

ULTRA DEDUCTION BABY.

No but for real. FUKUZAWA merely took you into the agency since you seemed to have had no parents by your side to take care of you. As such, he took on the responsibility himself. The agency takes care of you now! <3

Anyways, let's say you were basically rivalling RANPO in terms of deduction and overall smartness capabilities, as he now thinks you are a worthy opponent.

But even he himself lost to someone like DAZAI.

Yes. Of course it was true, the suicidal detective just seemed to be way too good. The so-called 'world's best detective' had lost to a man, in which who, flirts with women 24/7 and asks for double suicide everywhere he went.

But to say the day came when brunette's demise lurked around the corner ... because of a chess game.

The agency had nothing important going on in particular as the peace of Yokohama was maintained in the meantime. Simply put, you guys were on vacation. So what else to do other than some old family bonding?

There were lots of activities planned that day, and everyone had enjoyed it to the fullest. You did also find it fun, but ... of course, for someone your age – you were mature as fuck.

And so, you did what everyone wouldn't have the balls to do.

Challenge DAZAI OSAMU himself to a chess match.

So obviously, everyone got a bit nervous. Pretty sure you had no idea how smart the suicidal maniac was, nor did they ever believe you would last a good 'ol round even once. By some experience of a certain detective – there is absolutely no one better than DAZAI himself.

The chess game went on. You looked so cute and innocent! Maybe he should go easy on you?? After all, you're just a kid.

And yet ... he was downright horrified.

In a matter of four turns in, the death-craving young man was absolutely OBLITERATED by you. Upon the match ending, a pin drop silence was heard. Eyes widened in shock, whom even RANPO himself never imagined such. Everyone never spoke, not even coughed for a solid 5 minutes.

But it was true. You DID defeat him. FUKUZAWA had the face of a very proud parent – he really didn't think you'd emerge victory in this small innocent match.

The president promised to treat you out next time a successful mission was in tow. Of course, DAZAI couldn't believe he had lost to you! A little child!

It would definitely take a lot of time for him to wrap his head around that – but once he does, oh boy.

I think you a little crazy there uncle ahaha

He almost literally brags about your existence everyday to anyone. You can't tell me he hasn't literally shoved in and mocked in front of people's faces with that shit eating grin of his oh my fucking God 😭

Then again, no one is safe. An even better gifted than the two greatest treasures of the Armed Detective Agency.

FYODOR better be shaking in his fugly ass boots.

You're coming for him alright. (and so am I)

Honestly, the ADA cannot be anymore proud to have an ally like you by their side. Missions and war would cease to exist from how well you managed to help them. And even moreso, combined with RANPO himself.

World destruction who?? I only know (Y/N) (L/N) 😍

Your existence is known, everyone knows about what you've done and how respected you are despite your young age.

Who tf let the Port Mafia fuck ya'll up?? Oh nevermind they were destroyed because of ur amazing little ass. The Hunting Dogs tryna tear apart the ADA which was mistaken as terrorists? Umh chill anyways so you already had a plan– RANPO doesn't know what to do for once? You're already there to help. Decay of the Angels? Lives up to their name, they're decaying under your superior brain and intellect.

You're just found to be the lifeline of the agency. In return, everyone treats you very well (spoils you even), making sure you lived your days as a child to the best extreme possible.

And to be frank – no one dare underestimate you anymore.

#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #platonic bsd #armed detective agency #ada x reader #bsd #decay of angels #port mafia #ranpo edogawa #dazai osamu

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zvaigzdelasas · 9 months ago

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[TIME is Private US Media]

[By Anatol Lieven]

The long-awaited counteroffensive last year failed. Russia has recaptured Avdiivka, its biggest war gain in nine months. President Volodymyr Zelensky has been forced to quietly acknowledge the new military reality. The Biden Administration’s strategy is now to sustain Ukrainian defense until after the U.S. presidential elections, in the hope of wearing down Russian forces in a long war of attrition.

This strategy seems sensible enough, but contains one crucially important implication and one potentially disastrous flaw, which are not yet being seriously addressed in public debates in the West or Ukraine. The implication of Ukraine standing indefinitely on the defensive—even if it does so successfully—is that the territories currently occupied by Russia are lost. Russia will never agree at the negotiating table to surrender land that it has managed to hold on the battlefield.

This does not mean that Ukraine should be asked to formally surrender these lands, for that would be impossible for any Ukrainian government. But it does mean that—as Zelensky proposed early in the war with regard to Crimea and the eastern Donbas—the territorial issue will have to be shelved for future talks.

As we know from Cyprus, which has been divided between the internationally recognized Greek Republic of Cyprus and the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus since 1974, such negotiations can continue for decades without a solution or renewed conflict. A situation in which Ukraine retains its independence, its freedom to develop as a Western democracy, and 82% of its legal territory (including all its core historic lands) would have been regarded by previous generations of Ukrainians as a real victory, though not a complete one.

As I found in Ukraine last year, many Ukrainians in private were prepared to accept the loss of some territories as the price of peace if Ukraine failed to win them back on the battlefield and if the alternative was years of bloody war with little prospect of success. The Biden Administration needs to get America on board too.[...]

Ukrainians have scored some notable successes against the Russian Black Sea Fleet, but to take back Crimea they would need to be able to launch a massive amphibious landing, an exceptionally difficult operation far beyond their capabilities in terms of ships and men. Attacks on Russian infrastructure are pinpricks given Russia’s size and resources.

More realistic is the suggestion that by standing on the defensive this year, Ukrainians can inflict such losses on the Russians that—if supplied with more Western weaponry—they can counterattack successfully in 2025. However, this depends on the Russians playing the game the way Kyiv and Washington want to play it.

The Russian strategy at present appears to be different. They have drawn Ukrainians into prolonged battles for small amounts of territory like Avdiivka, where they have relied on Russian superiority in artillery and munitions to wear them down through constant bombardment. They are firing three shells to every one Ukrainian; and thanks in part to help from Iran, Russia has now been able to deploy very large numbers of drones.

For Ukrainians to stand a chance, military history suggests that they would need a 3-to-2 advantage in manpower and considerably more firepower. Ukraine enjoyed these advantages in the first year of the war, but they now lie with Russia, and it is very difficult to see how Ukraine can recover them.[...]

A successful peace process would undoubtedly involve some painful concessions by Ukraine and the West. Yet the pain would be more emotional than practical, and a peace settlement would have to involve Putin giving up the plan with which he began the war, to turn the whole of Ukraine into a Russian vassal state, and recognizing the territorial integrity of Ukraine within its de facto present borders.

For the lost Ukrainian territories are lost, and NATO membership is pointless if the alliance is not prepared to send its own troops to fight for Ukraine against Russia. Above all, however painful a peace agreement would be today, it will be infinitely more so if the war continues and Ukraine is defeated.

24 Feb 24

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labuenosairesfrancaise · 3 months ago

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OTTERSHAW PARK

The mansion

Hi guys!!

I'm sharing Ottershaw Park. This is the 18th building for my English Collection.

I decorated most of the house ground floor, for reference.

The interiors:

History of the house: In 1784 Thomas Sewell died and ownership of Ottershaw Park passed to his son, Thomas Bailey Heath Sewell, Lieutenant Colonel in the Surrey Fencible Cavalry. He sold it in 1796 to Edmund Boehm who improved the interior of the house and enlarged the estate by buying tracts of wasteland and allotments.

In about 1805 Boehm built, to the design of the eminent architect James Wyatt, two Grecian-style lodges at the new entrance to the estate from where a coach road ran to the mansion. The same architect may also have designed for Boehm the Gothic Chapel which originally served as a kitchen, bake house, dairy and pantry but was demolished in 1962.

Ottershaw Park was bought in 1819 by Major General Sir George Wood, a Lieutenant General in the Bengal Army. At this time the estate was largely self-supporting with stables, smithy, brew house, bake house, laundry, dairy, slaughter houses, ice house and two farms.

Sir George died in 1824 and the estate passed to his son, also named George, who in 1841 sold the property to Richard Crawshay who built a new bailiff’s house, farm buildings and brew house.

On Crawshay’s death in 1859 the estate was bought by Sir Thomas Edward Colebrooke MP, who made a number of alterations to the mansion. He also gave the money and land for the building of Christchurch and the first village school.

The estate was later sold to Lawrence James Baker, a stockbroker and MP who sold it in 1910 to the millionaire, Friedrich Gustav Jonathan Eckstein. Eckstein demolished the old mansion and replaced it with the present building designed by Niven & Wigglesworth which is more magnificent and much larger.

During World War I Eckstein made the building available to the British Red Cross as an Auxiliary Home Hospital but soon after the war sold it to Miss Susan Dora Cecilia Schintz, the daughter of a Swiss nitrates millionaire. Miss Schintz lost most of her sizeable inheritance through gifts to charity and bad investments and finally had to sell the estate. Much of it was acquired by the Ottershaw Park Investment Company (OPIC) which planned to develop the rim of the estate for housing. In 1932 the mansion and central part of the park became Ottershaw College, a boarding school for boys which for a short time was very successful, but eventually became insolvent and finally closed at the outbreak of World War II.

During the war The Vacuum Oil Company leased the mansion as offices and laboratories. From 1940 much of the surrounding land was either ploughed for crops or grazed as part of the war effort and the woodland areas were used by the 19 Vehicle Reserve Depot (VRD) for storing vehicles.

The Vacuum Oil Company moved back to London at the end of 1947 and Surrey County Council established Ottershaw School which was opened in 1948. The school prospered until 1980 when it closed due to financial constraints.

In 1982 the developers DeltaHome converted the mansion and other buildings into the present residential estate.

Link: https://www.exploringsurreyspast.org.uk/themes/places/surrey/runnymede/ottershaw/ottershaw_park_estate/

The garden:

More info: https://www.exploringsurreyspast.org.uk/themes/places/surrey/runnymede/ottershaw/ottershaw_park_estate/

The floorplan:

This house fits a 64x64 lot, but I think you can make it a 50x40 if you lose part of the garden and the conservatories on each side.

Piano nobile furnished, the rest is up to your liking.

Hope you like it.

You will need the usual CC I use:

all Felixandre cc

all The Jim

SYB

Anachrosims

Regal Sims

King Falcon railing

The Golden Sanctuary

Cliffou

Dndr recolors

Harrie cc

Tuds

Lili's palace cc

Please enjoy, comment if you like the house and share pictures of your game!

Follow me on IG: https://www.instagram.com/sims4palaces/

@sims4palaces

DOWNLOAD (only members-free to download)

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skyloftian-nutcase · 6 months ago

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Ok Wild Angsters, you wanted a continuation, so here you go :)

Four already knew what he would be walking into. His phone had been blowing up for hours. He’d come in to work early. Whether he was assigned to take care of Wild or not was another matter - Vaati loved to try and take all the admissions, convinced he was the best nurse on the unit. If Four could just keep Vaati out of Wild’s room, he’d consider it a success.

When the charge nurse told him he would be admitting the trauma alert, he knew who he was getting.

Pre-admission jitters always made Four anxious, but this was an entirely other level of fear. He almost wanted to request a different assignment, but it was too late now. What if he couldn’t take caer of him because he was his friend? What if that impair his decision making? What if he just wasn’t skilled enough to handle it? He knew Ezlo wouldn’t give him an assignment he couldn’t handle, wouldn’t be there to support him, but still…

Four went over the supplies in his room once more. Safety checks were fine—they had suction, they had a bag valve mask, the code card was nearby—and he had all the supplies he needed. It was just a waiting game.

Four paced the unit at least three times before he looked at the OR status board again. Wild was still in surgery. He poked in his chart, glancing at injuries, looking at vital signs and anesthesia notes. The last update he saw was that Wild had gotten another unit of blood. Estimated blood loss so far was around 2200mL.

2200mL. That… wasn’t too terrible, Four supposed. He’d… seen worse.

Please don’t get worse.

Four knew for certain that Wild had been mass transfused in the ED. Warriors, his primary nurse when he was there, had told him as much. Between that and the multiple blood products he’d gotten in surgery, as well all the crystalloids he was likely getting as well…

Four took a breath. Then another. He grabbed his phone, texting Warriors. You doing ok?

Wars didn’t reply.

Four wasn’t entirely sure where everyone was at this point. Hyrule had stayed at the hospital, lingering in the emergency department and then the operating room waiting area, but Four hadn’t seen him since he’d clocked in. Warriors and Legend should be getting off shift now, but whether they were going to stay up was another matter. Time was obviously in the OR (Wild’s wreck had been around 10pm, he’d arrived in the ED around 10:45, and he’d been stabilized for surgery and gone to the OR by around midnight - it was 7am now… he wasn’t sure how long this was going to take, but it couldn’t be much longer). Malon should be getting on shift now as well - she had come in last night when everything had gone down, alongside Twilight. Wind had been cautiously left out of the loop until Wild had gone to surgery, simply because nobody had really had much information at the time, so no one wanted to worry the kid until they could figure things out. Everyone had their hands full as it was. But by now, Four knew Wind was either in the OR waiting room, harassing every respiratory therapist he knew, or in the hospital library pacing anxiously. As for Sky, the last Four heard he was bouncing between different people, checking in on everyone.

He clicked through more anesthesia notes, looked at flow sheets for blood products. There wasn’t much to go on, as charting was sparse. What Four did know was that Wild had been obtunded, got mass transfused, had gotten a chest tube, had been intubated, blood was evident in his abdomen, and he had an open femur fracture. He’s been taken to Time’s OR for a ex-lap. Head CT had shown a bleed, and they were monitoring it. That was all the information Legend had told the group when he’d had a moment to spare.

Four’s vocera activated, telling him he had a call from the charge nurse. When he answered, he was told Malon had called and said they’d be finishing up in about thirty minutes and were likely to come up open.

Why was he coming up with his abdomen open? When had they gone from exploratory laparotomy to a full on open abdomen?

Ten minutes later, Malon called back to give report. When Four answered, the first thing he asked was, “How’s he doing? Is he okay? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Malon said, even though she sounded exhausted. “And he’s… hanging in there. I’ve seen worse, I’ll say that. I’ll give you the full rundown, okay?”

Four listened as Malon gave report, feeling his heart settled into his stomach, which was tying itself in knots. Multiple spots of bleeding, possible compartment syndrome in his abdomen, a likely kidney injury due to compression from the bleeding on some major vessels, a small hematoma in his brain… they’d had to call neurosurgery to do an emergency craniotomy out of overt concern of swelling, given that Wild had apparently had previous head trauma, based on what they saw in the OR.

Open abdomen, craniotomy, ICP monitoring, bleeding, one chest tube… this was a disaster. Four swallowed as he wrote, feeling his hand shake a little as his heart raced. He was not qualified enough to be admitting this. He was not.

But the turnaround on his unit was pretty insane, and he was the most experienced nurse on the unit today. At least Ezlo was charge; he knew he’d be well supported.

This was a nightmare. But Four had dealt with nightmares, and he would deal with this. He wasn’t going to screw up taking care of any patient, but especially his friend.

Sighing, he hung up the phone after thanking Malon, pushing worries for her and Time aside, trying to focus on what he would need, who he should grab to help him, and how he should prep his room.

It was time to get to work.

When everyone arrived from the OR, Four made brief eye contact with Time. He couldn’t read much from the man, who was stone faced, aside from the exhaustion evident in the dark circles under his eyes. Four got to work quickly, assessing Wild from head to toe as he looked to see what IV medications he was on. A coworker wrote the note while Ezlo helped detangle his lines (the OR always brought up a mess, after all). Time gave an overview of the surgery, and Four listened along as he checked pupils, as he zeroed the arterial line and the ICP monitor, as he listened to lung and heart sounds, as he checked the chest tube and stripped it with his fingers to ensure patency, as he checked peripheral pulses, as he looked at the abdominal dressing to get a baseline in case there was swelling from bleeding later. One of the techs connected the chest tube to wall suction, and Four looked over his drips. Only having levophed at 2 wasn’t terrible, and he was getting a unit of red blood cells, which was in a transfusion set that was y’d to some lactated ringers fluid. He was on propofol for sedation. Another nurse grabbed a blood gas from his arterial line and sent off labs. His foley he had was temp sensing, and Four quickly ascertained that Wild was cold, so he set up the blanket warmer and covered his friend up.

His friend. His friend.

Four shook his head. He had to focus.

As Time left the room, he put a hand on Four’s shoulder, making him freeze. The surgeon didn’t speak, just locking eyes with him. Four wasn’t entirely sure if it was for his own benefit or not. But he had no more time to let his emotions make any decisions for him. He nodded to the doctor, who nodded in return, and then the two went their separate ways.

This was going to be a long day.

#Apologies if this sounds too similar to Level One because I haven’t read that fic in over a year and never finished it #So I don’t remember what happened to Wild in it aside from he was also in an MVC and was in rough shape LOL #Writing #lu in healthcare #lu wild #lu four #lu time #lu malon #dang how long is this storyline gonna be lol #I get too caught up in the medical side of it HA #He’ll be fiiiiine #I got all excited talking about admission from the OR stuff lol #It’s so chaotic y’all #There are like eight thousand people in the room and the lines are a hot mess and I HATE when teh lines are a hot mess #But this was also weird because I admit heart patients… and Wild—being a trauma patient—has… so few drips?? Compared to heart patients???#Like… trauma patients aren’t usually on pressors because what they need is blood #Whereas cardiac surgery patients might need blood… or they’re just vasoplegic… or their heart sucks…#Lots of different options lol #Anyway I’m rambling in the tags whoops #Skye time travels through the queue

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fanficapologist · 4 months ago

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Two

Another moon passed, and the newly formed Green Council set to work. The war dragged on with little progress, victories and losses balancing each other out in a frustrating stalemate that infuriated the one-eyed king. Aemond’s impatience grew as he stared at the painted table, the board littered with pieces representing the forces in play. More green pieces than black dotted the map, but much of the realm remained torn, loyalty frayed and uncertain.

The Dragonseeds, Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer, had successfully settled in Tumbleton, effectively turning the entirety of the Reach green, aiding Prince Daeron in his efforts. Their presence should have been a triumph, but Aemond’s satisfaction was tempered by disdain; he hated relying on bastards to do his work. Their success felt like a slight, a reminder that those of tainted blood could somehow become dragonlords, flit about the Realm and claim power for themselves.

As pieces moved across the painted table, representing shifts in allegiances and battle outcomes, Aemond’s frustration mounted. Despite the victories, the stalemate gnawed at him, his desire for decisive action clashing with the reality of war. The council, composed of seasoned men who understood the delicate balance of power, remained level-headed. They knew when to stoke Aemond’s lust for violence, guiding him towards calculated strikes, and when to dampen it, cautioning him against rash decisions that could jeopardize their position.

Grand Maester Vaegon settled into the council seamlessly, his presence a reminder of the tangled web of familial ties and political necessity. Though whispers circulated about his relation to Maera, no one dared to address it openly, their shared blood acknowledged only in hushed tones behind closed doors. The council meetings carried on, his insights woven into the fabric of their strategies.

For Maera, it was an ongoing frustration that she agreed with nearly everything Vaegon suggested. His advice on keeping the smallfolk content, his recommendations on army placements, and his lessons from past experiences all proved invaluable. Despite the lingering bitterness over his abandonment of his blood, she couldn't deny his contributions. While she didn't regret allowing him to stay, Maera made a point to stay far out of his way, refraining from directly addressing him during meetings. It was a silent truce, for the sake of the Realm.

The junior Maesters had declared the Queen fit to return to the marriage bed, a milestone in her recovery. Though Aemond was undoubtedly informed, he did not push the matter, nor did he acknowledge the passionate kiss they had shared weeks prior. Their routine continued unaltered. The family spent time together for a few hours each day, and the couple interacted during council meetings, their relationship a careful balance of duty and unspoken understanding. It was a delicate arrangement, but it worked for all involved.

Being declared healed from childbirth was a significant milestone for Maera, not only signaling her readiness to resume her duty of producing an heir, but also allowing her to become more actively involved in the war effort. Since resuming her daily rides, Maera recognized the critical role Ēbrion could play in securing victory for the Greens. His presence in mainland Westeros was essential.

One day, Maera entered the council chamber with a newfound determination. After the initial points of discussion were addressed, she rose from her seat beside her husband and walked purposefully around the painted table. She picked up a green dragon figure representing Ēbrion, its significance not lost on anyone in the room.

“I am ready to return to the battlefield,” Maera declared, her voice steady and resolute. “Dragons are an essential part of winning this war, and as a rider, my place is on the war front.”

She turned her gaze to Kings Landing on the painted table, noting the countless dragon figures surrounding it. Despite the Blacks having a greater number of dragons, Maera and Aemond possessed the largest and most powerful ones. The strategic advantage their dragons provided was undeniable, and her decision to return to the front was a pivotal step toward securing their victory.

Lord Unwin leaned forward, his finger tapping the painted table for emphasis. “Kings Landing is but a small part of Westeros,” he pointed out, his voice carrying a measured tone. “Although the Blacks hold it now, the rest of the Realm is not firmly behind them.”

The Hand, Lord Criston Cole, nodded in agreement. “We need to ensure the Blacks are surrounded before we launch a full-scale attack,” he added, his gaze moving from Unwin to the rest of the council. “Otherwise, we risk spreading our forces too thin and leaving our own territories vulnerable.”

Maera sighed, her eyes scanning the pieces scattered across the lit table. The intricacies of war strategy weighed heavily on her mind. “Is there still conflict in the Riverlands?” she asked, her voice tinged with frustration as she attempted to place her dragon piece back on the table.

“No.”

Before she could set it down, Aemond quickly jumped to his feet. He moved around the table to stand beside her, his hand reaching out to touch hers, still holding the dragon piece. His fingers brushing against hers sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s too risky,” he stated firmly, his eye locking onto hers. “I will not have you return there.”

Maera clenched her jaw, the urge to argue rising within her, but she quickly realized his concern came from a place of protection. She conceded with a nod, her resolve softening.

Aemond gently moved her hand, guiding it to place the piece in the Stormlands. “The Queen will occupy Wendwater and Felwood, on the edge of the Crownlands,” he explained to the room, his voice authoritative. “This position will allow her to deter any invasions south.”

The council members murmured their assent, the strategy taking shape in their minds. Maera stood beside Aemond, the weight of their decisions pressing upon her. Yet, she felt a renewed sense of purpose, her determination to see their cause through to victory undiminished.

The elder Lord Bryndemere, his hand fiddling with his quill, broke the strategic discussion with a comment that hung heavy in the air. "Perhaps it is time for the Stormlands to get used to a dragon being present," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. The room turned to look at him, and the Master of Ships grinned, elaborating, "After all, when Princess Aemara becomes the wife of my grandson, her dragon will accompany her to Evenfall."

An awkward silence encompassed the room. It was not an offhanded comment; it was a statement with a question as the undercurrent: is the pact we made on your wedding day going to be honored? The tension was palpable, the weight of the unspoken query hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

There was an audible scoff from the table, but Maera was unsure which mouth it came from. The silence stretched, becoming almost unbearable. All council members looked to Aemond, including herself, to await his reply. Her pulse quickened with anticipation; they had not discussed this matter since the night of his coronation.

Aemond’s expression was unreadable as he looked the Lord up and down, a hum of acknowledgment escaping his lips. Another tense moment of silence followed. Maera’s fingers twitched nervously at her side, her eyes darting between the faces around the table.

Finally, Aemond broke the silence. “You should order your stonemasons to begin their work on a dragonpit, my Lord,” he stated, his voice even and measured. Maera arched a brow at him, surprised by his seemingly casual remark. He then added, “Sȳndor could grow to be as large as Vhagar.”

The room collectively exhaled, the tension easing slightly. Maera’s fingers stopped their nervous movements as she processed the implications of Aemond’s words. The council members’ gazes shifted away from Aemond, returning to their discussions, the moment of unease fading into the background.

The royal couple returned to their seats at the head of the table. Maera let out a breath she did not know she had been holding as she settled into her chair. Her heart was still racing from the tension, but a sense of relief washed over her.

He had listened to her, about the impact breaking the oath would have. It wasn't just a matter of political strategy; it was about trust and honor. She felt a deep sense of relief, knowing that her counsel was not only heeded, but valued. The decision reaffirmed her belief in their partnership, not just as King and Queen, but as a husband and wife working together.

While the discussions around them continued, Maera glanced at her husband. He was engaged in conversation with the council members, his expression serious. Then, as if sensing her gaze, Aemond turned and met her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and Maera found herself smiling back at him. In that shared moment, she felt a renewed bond, a silent acknowledgment of their unity and mutual respect.

As the weeks went on, Maera found a sense of fulfillment patrolling on Ēbrion. Flying over the border of the Crownlands and Stormlands, Maera marveled at the diverse terrain and scenery below. Rolling hills dotted with ancient forests gave way to vast plains, and winding rivers cut through the land like silver ribbons. The coastlines were rugged and majestic, with waves crashing against the cliffs, while the air was crisp and filled with the scents of pine and sea salt.

On dragonback, she felt free. Aemara was now going longer between feeds, which allowed Maera a few precious hours each day to just be. She was a mother first and always would be, but she knew she was more than that. The time in the air gave her space to think, to breathe.

So far, there were no issues over the border. Maera had spotted smaller dragons flying over King’s Landing, but none had approached her. Each day, when she returned from her patrols, she reported her findings to Aemond. They would discuss the day’s events briefly before she retired to her chambers, where she could shed the weight of her duties and spend time with her daughter.

Landing back at the Dragonmount, the massive blue and black beast stomped into the cavern, each footfall echoing through the vast space. Maera spotted her brother, Faran, now her sworn sword, waiting at the tunnel entrance.

Faran stood resplendent in his Kingsguard armor and pure white cloak, the embodiment of duty and honor. He looked up at his sister as the beast approached, his eyes unwavering. But when Ēbrion growled, the deep, rumbling sound filling the cavern, Faran stumbled backward slightly, his grip tightening on his sword.

As Ēbrion settled beside the cliff side, he let out a gigantic roar, so loud it reverberated off the walls of the cave, causing small rocks to fall from the edges. Faran covered his ears, wincing at the deafening sound, while Maera chuckled at her brother's reaction.

“Scared, brother?” She called down to him in a mocking tone. With a graceful leap, Maera dismounted from Ēbrion, her feet landing lightly on the cliff edge. She patted the dragon's massive side, feeling the familiar, reassuring warmth beneath her hand.

Faran’s lips twitched into a half-smile as his younger sister approached him. “It’s wise to fear a beast as large as Rain House itself,” he replied, his tone light but respectful.

“Do you want to say hello to him?” Maera offered, glancing back at Ēbrion, who was now the focus of the Dragon Keepers’ efforts. They struggled to command the colossal beast further into the volcano tunnels, and Ēbrion snapped at them slightly, causing one of the keepers to stumble back.

Faran visibly gulped, his eyes wide. “I think I’ll keep my distance, thank you.”

Maera chuckled softly, patting her brother on the back before they turned to walk through the tunnel system. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls as they made their way into the castle corridors, their footsteps echoing in the quiet. The air was filled with the muted sounds of servants hurrying about their duties, the occasional clang of armor, and the whispers of courtiers discussing the latest news from the front.

As they walked, Maera and Faran enjoyed each other’s company, the weight of their respective duties momentarily lifted. “So, how are you finding life as a Kingsguard?”

Faran shrugged nonchalantly, a playful glint in his eyes. “It’s relatively easy. All I do is follow my little sister around like a bad smell.”

Maera nudged him playfully with her elbow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Is that so?”

“Well,” Faran continued, a hint of seriousness creeping into his voice, “you could no doubt defend yourself anyway. But I haven’t seen you train with a sword since I arrived.”

The Queen’s smile faltered, and she shifted uncomfortably, her fingers grazing the scars on her arms as if to hide them. He was right. She hadn’t touched a sword since arriving at Dragonstone. The incident with Alys at Harrenhall had left her feeling nauseated at the sight of weapons, a newfound awareness of mortality weighing heavily on her mind. The scars on her arms and legs from the blade were constant reminders of the damage that could be done.

She shook her head, trying to dismiss his concern. “I’ve simply been too busy.”

Faran stopped and turned to her, crossing his arms, raising a brow as his tone shifted to a playful challenge. “Yes of course, my Queen. So busy with your duties of writing diplomatic letters, cooing over your daughter and…painting.” He made a dramatic gesture with his hands, mimicking an artist at work.

Maera rolled her eyes, a reluctant smile breaking through. “I am very good at painting, thank you!”

“I do not dispute that, sister,” Faran teased, though his voice held a note of genuine affection.“But I do miss the feral little creature you were back home.”

She silently agreed, a wistful smile crossing her face. A part of her longed to return to the days when she was the young Lady of Rain House, before she had flowered. She remembered mucking around in the courtyard with her brothers, playing with her younger siblings in the nursery. It was a simpler time, filled with laughter and light-hearted mischief.

Faran jested once more, dramatically declaring, “I don’t know. Maybe you have finally become ladylike as our dearly departed father wished.”

Maera stopped and smirked at her older brother. “Even though I haven’t picked up a sword in some time, I could still beat you.”

Faran laughed hard, the sound echoing through the corridor. “Do you wish to bet on that statement?”

For a moment, Maera became nervous. Her brother was no easy foe and had never gone easy on her in the courtyard, even when they were children. She folded her arms and asked, “Would you not be forsaking your vows if you harmed me?”

Faran shoved her playfully, a grin on his face. “Ahh, what’s a bit of treason between family?”

The challenge settled in the air, and although initially hesitant, the old version of herself relished in the thought of sparring with her brother once more. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of excitement and determination. “You’re on.”

With a shared look of anticipation, the pair scampered off to the courtyard, their footsteps quickening with each step. The corridors of Dragonstone faded behind them as they rushed toward the training grounds.

That evening, a large copper tub had brought into the chambers and placed next to the lit hearth, the flickering flames casting a warm, golden glow across the room. The space was dimly lit by an array of candles, their soft light creating a soothing ambiance. Shadows danced on the stone walls, playing off the rich tapestries and delicate sketches that adorned the room.

The bath was filled with steaming water, its surface dotted with fragrant petals of chamomile and rose, the scent wafting around the room and adding to the calming ambiance. As the Queen stepped into the bath, the water’s warmth seeped into her skin, easing the tension in her muscles. She sank deeper, the water rising to her shoulders, and let out a contented sigh.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s sparring session with Faran, a faint smile playing on her lips. He had bested her that day, her nerves no doubt playing a part in his victory. But she noted that after a while, her muscles began to remember their old training. She could dodge and even lodge counterattacks. Although she didn’t beat him, she resolved to do so next time.

Maera reached for a sponge and began to wash away the grime of the day, the water turning cloudy as it cleansed her skin. She noticed the blooms of new bruises coating her arms and legs, the shades of blue and green reminiscent of her days when she sparred as a girl. She brought the soap bar over her skin, washing gently, mindful of the tender spots.

Her gaze drifted down to her left shoulder and then her left thigh beneath the water, the deep scars etched into her skin. Yet today, after sparring with Faran, they did not seem so big, and she was glad for it. The familiar ache from the old wound had been replaced by the more immediate soreness of the day’s exertions, and Maera welcomed the pain.

Relaxing against the edge of the tub, the Queen watched the activity around the room unfold in a soothing, almost hypnotic manner. The attendants moved quietly, their footsteps muffled by the thick rugs underfoot, ensuring that the calming atmosphere remained undisturbed.

Servants efficiently made the bed, smoothing out the rich, dark green covers embroidered with gold thread, a symbol of the house she now belonged to. They laid out her nightclothes, a soft silk gown in the darkest shade of black, and added wood to the hearth, coaxing the flames to burn brighter and warmer. The linens in Aemara’s cradle were changed, the fresh fabric tucked in with care.

In a corner of the room, a nursemaid gently rocked the baby Princess, who was bundled in soft blankets. Aemara gurgled happily, her wide eyes following her small dragon, Syndor, now the size of a small dog, as she made her mischievous way around the room. The little dragon, her black scales gleaming in the candlelight, was attempting to steal some meat from the dining table, her tiny claws clicking on the wooden surface. The sight brought a tender smile to Maera’s lips, the simple, innocent antics of the dragon reminding her of the joys and wonders of new life.

On the other side of the room, Maera observed her new Ladies in Waiting complete their duties. The four women had been in her service for a few weeks, and it was clear everyone was still getting used to each other’s rhythms and routines. Each of the women was respectful, and Maera had picked up on each of their little quirks.

Lady Swyft, the daughter of Lord Swyft and younger sister of the man who once vied for Maera’s hand, had been put in charge of the royal wardrobe. Her passion for needlework made her well-suited for the role of ordering fabrics and employing seamstresses. However, one thing Maera did note about the young girl was that she was incredibly clumsy. Lady Swyft constantly stumbled or knocked things over, always apologizing profusely afterward. Maera did not mind and was glad for the girl’s company, finding her earnestness endearing.

One person who did mind, however, was the older Lady Vance, the wife of the elder Lord Vance, who had been rejected from sitting on the Small Council, despite having served Aemond at Harrenhal. Maera knew that taking this woman on was a political necessity. As stern as Lady Vance was, she became soft as silk when she looked at Aemara. The older woman was an experienced mother and grandmother, and although the nursemaids were in charge of the physical care of the Princess, it was Lady Vance who gave orders to them. Her firm yet gentle touch ensured that Aemara received the best care, and Maera could not help but appreciate the woman’s presence, even if it was for political reasons.

Lady Fossoway, widow to the late Lord Fossoway, was seated at a desk, diligently noting down a list of items needed to celebrate the festival of the Mother. She had organized for Maera to leave the castle to visit the Sept and present offerings to the Mother, as well as gifts for the smallfolk. The thoughtful planning further strengthened the relationship between the people and the crown, which was desperately needed when the Realm was divided. Maera appreciated Lady Fossoway’s piety and dedication, but what she found most endearing was the lady’s rare, boisterous laugh, which was loud and not in the slightest bit ladylike. It was a stark contrast to her usual demeanor, and Maera liked her all the more for it.

Nearby, Lady Tarth, wife to Lord Edwin Tarth and mother of his son—Aemara’s future husband—was engrossed in her duties as the Queen’s secretary. She was adept at methodical thinking when answering queries and had beautiful handwriting. Her love for the arts made her a pleasant companion for Maera, and they often enjoyed partaking in artistic pursuits together. The young women also shared the highs and lows of motherhood, creating a bond over their shared experiences. Maera had even permitted Lady Tarth to bring her son to court, and while the toddler scarcely showed interest in Aemara, Maera believed that if the pair grew up together, it would solidify their bonds and make for a happy future marriage.

The Queen felt a sense of gratitude for their support, knowing that these women, despite their quirks and backgrounds, contributed to the smooth running of her household. The rhythmic sounds of their work and the occasional quiet conversation added to the serene atmosphere, allowing Maera a moment of peace and reflection.

As Maera stepped out of the bath, the warmth of the copper tub still lingering on her skin, she was enveloped by the soft, gentle hands of her maids. They dried her off in front of a tall mirror, and as she caught her reflection, a wave of mixed emotions washed over her. She noticed not just the bruises dotting her arms and legs but also how much her body had changed since giving birth.

She looked softer and rounder, with purple and blue stretch marks etched across her stomach and hips. Her breasts, now fuller and heavier, seemed to change shape hourly due to the milk, a reminder of the life she was nourishing. It was a body she did not entirely recognise, one that spoke of motherhood but also of vulnerability.

The servants slipped her into a black nightgown, the fabric loose-fitting and enveloping her in a comforting embrace against the chill of the room. As they finished dressing her, her hair was combed with care and left loose, falling in a beautiful blend of brown and silver curls that framed her face and cascaded down her back.

The nursemaid approached, cradling baby Aemara in her arms. She passed the infant to Maera, who settled into a comfortable chair to nurse her daughter. The baby latched on eagerly, and Maera watched her with a serene smile, the bond between mother and child palpable.

While Maera nursed, Lady Tarth approached with a pile of correspondence, her expression apologetic. “Your Grace, I thought these ones were best left to you,” she said softly, holding out the letters.

Lady Vance nearly batted the poor girl away, her stern voice cutting through the quiet. “A mother should not be disturbed whilst nursing, especially with her duties. The stress could transfer to the baby.” Lady Tarth rolled her eyes, clearly used to the older woman’s strict views.

From across the room, Lady Fossoway called out in her boisterous manner, “Our Queen is strong and can manage both!” Her laughter echoed warmly, bringing a smile to Maera’s lips.

Young Lady Swyft, ever eager to be helpful, brought Maera a cup of herbal tea. The girl smiled down at baby Aemara, her eyes full of curiosity. Meekly, she asked, “Your Grace, why have you not used a wet nurse?”

Before Maera could answer, Lady Vance scoffed, her tone full of disdain. “What better milk is there for a Princess than that of a Queen?”

As Lady Vance launched into a lengthy rant about her own experiences nursing her children many years ago, recounting tales of how she had insisted on doing it herself to ensure the best for her offspring, Maera found her mind drifting. She quietly thanked Lady Tarth and Lady Swyft for their help that day, appreciating their presence and support amidst the cacophony.

Lady Fossoway, standing nearby, approached Maera with a piece of parchment in her hand, silently showing her the list of items she had noted down for the upcoming festival. Maera nodded in understanding and gratitude, her smile wide as she recognized the effort Lady Fossoway had put into ensuring the event would be a success.

Just as Lady Vance moved onto the part of her impassioned speech about the amount of milk she single-handedly produced, Maera decided it was time to take control of the situation. With a firm but gentle tone, she interrupted the flow of conversation. “Thank you, everyone,” she said, raising her voice slightly to carry over Lady Vance’s words. “But I think it’s best we all get our rest. We have a busy day at the festival tomorrow afternoon.”

The ladies and servants exchanged glances before curtsying deeply, their faces reflecting a mix of respect and relief. They quietly filed out, the sound of rustling skirts fading as they exited the chamber. Maera felt a wave of calm wash over her as the door closed behind them, leaving her alone with her daughter and the small black dragon, who had perched on a nearby windowsill, her head tilted in curiosity as the beast stared out towards the sea and stars.

Cradling Aemara gently in her arms, the Queen rocked her back and forth in a slow, soothing rhythm. The little Princess, full and content after her feeding, began to drift off almost immediately, her tiny eyelids fluttering as sleep overtook her. Maera smiled down at her daughter, feeling the warmth of maternal love fill her heart.

She continued rocking her for a few moments longer, savoring the peace that this quiet time with Aemara brought her. Finally, she rose from her seat and carefully placed the baby in her crib, tucking the soft blanket around her. Aemara let out a small sigh, her breath steady as she settled into a deep, restful sleep.

Returning to her desk, Maera glanced at the stack of parchment waiting for her attention. She sighed softly, knowing the work that lay ahead. Despite the growing fatigue in her bones, she pulled the pile closer and began sifting through the documents, separating them into two distinct groups.

The first pile contained matters of state—tedious but necessary: requests from lords and ladies, petitions from the smallfolk, and missives from allies across Westeros seeking counsel or favor. The second pile was more personal, letters from friends and family, messages she would prefer to linger over but could not prioritize just yet.

Maera set to work on the first pile, dipping her quill into the inkpot and carefully crafting her replies. Her hand moved fluidly across the parchment as she granted patronage, offered advice on court positions for various Ladies, and addressed the concerns of her allies with thoughtful precision. The monotonous task required her full attention, and she found herself lost in the intricacies of diplomacy and duty. One letter after another was completed, sealed with wax, and set aside.

After what felt like an eternity, Maera finally placed her quill down, massaging the stiffness from her fingers. She looked at the remaining pieces of parchment on her desk and was relieved to see that only four letters remained. These, she knew, were of a more personal nature, and she allowed herself a moment of anticipation before picking up the first one, the wax stamped with the outline of linked chains.

To my Queen and dear younger sister,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. It feels as though an eternity has passed since I last saw you, and I offer my sincerest congratulations on the birth of your daughter. I hope the birth was easy.

My training at the citadel has been both challenging and rewarding. The Order requires much of us, both in mind and body, but I find that each day brings new knowledge and a deeper understanding of the world.

Regarding your letter about Maester Vaegon, I can tell you a great deal. He was one of my mentors during my early days in training, and I came to know him well, though not without effort. He is a stern man, one who demands excellence and precision in all things. At first, his silence and strict demeanor made him difficult to approach. Yet, as time passed, I found myself drawn to his unwavering dedication and the wisdom he so effortlessly embodied.

Maester Vaegon, despite his reserve, is a man of great knowledge, and there is no subject within the Citadel's library that he has not studied deeply. It was known amongst the Order that he did not speak much of his upbringing, but from his name alone, it is clear that he hails from the Targaryen lineage. Yet, unlike many who might boast of such a heritage, he carried it with humility, allowing his work and knowledge to be his only testament.

You are indeed fortunate to have such a man in your service, sister. Your Grand Maester will serve you with the same diligence and wisdom that has earned him the respect of the Citadel. His counsel will be invaluable, and I have no doubt that he will be a stalwart advisor in the days to come.

Please convey my regards to him, though I suspect he might not remember me amidst the countless novices he has trained over the years. Nevertheless, I hold him in the highest esteem, as I hold you, dear Maera. Until we meet again, may the gods watch over you and your family.

Your devoted brother,

Cedric

The Queen pondered the words upon the parchment. Cedric had always been the quieter, more introspective of her brothers, but his gentleness belied a sharp mind and a keen sense of character.

Her thoughts drifted back to the time Cedric had warned her about Ser Reginald Penrose. The knight had seemed charming and honorable when he first visited Rain House to ask for her hand. Yet, Cedric had seen something beneath the surface, something dark. He had urged her to be cautious, to trust her instincts over what was presented to her. And he had been right.

She trusted her brother implicitly, and as she placed the letter aside, she made a mental note to heed his advice about Maester Vaegon, whatever the future held.

The second letter caught her attention next. The parchment was rough, torn at the edges, and stamped with a variety of Essosi markings. It bore the signs of a hurried correspondence, likely handled by many hands before it reached her. It was from Dermot, who remained in Essos with young Prince Viserys, Rhaenyra’s youngest son, in his care.

The boy’s silver hair, so distinct and easily recognizable, had drawn too much attention, forcing Dermot to move north with the child. Dermot’s words were filled with concern, and Maera could feel the weight of his responsibility through the letter.

She quickly penned a reply, her words firm and resolute. She urged her brother to continue keeping Viserys safe at all costs and reassured him that when the time was right, she would send for them both. The boy was a valuable asset in this game of thrones, and his safety was paramount. With a sigh, she sealed the letter and set it aside, her mind already turning to the next task.

The third letter bore the seal of Rain House, the sight of which tugged at Maera’s heartstrings. She unfolded it with a mix of anticipation and dread. It was from her brother Gwyn, and it spoke of their sister Wynni’s well-being. The news was not good.

Maera,

I hope this letter finds you in the strength and resolve that have always defined you. As I write, my heart is heavy with the matters of our family, and though I hesitate to burden you, I know that you must be aware of what transpires here. Our sister is not as she once was. Since the tragedy that befell her husband, she has been adrift in a sea of grief and anger.

As her twin, I have always felt a deep connection with her, yet even I struggle now to reach her. I know that you, too, must feel the weight of this rift. You and Wynni were always so close—closer, perhaps, than she and I ever were. It is painful to see how that bond has been strained, perhaps even broken, by the events that have transpired.

I understand, as I hope Wynni one day will, why Lord Alan Tarly met his fate. You were protecting yourself and your child, and there was no other choice to be made. The circumstances were dire, and I do not blame you for what you did. The truth, however, is that Wynni’s mind has been twisted since she married into House Tarly. I am not sure why she did not write to any of us during her marriage, but I suspect her new family had something to with that. House Tarly are not known for their warmth or compassion.

Wynni’s grief is profound, but I sense that much of her anger is misplaced. Perhaps it is easier for her to blame you, her beloved sister, than to face the reality of her marriage and the role her husband’s family played in shaping her despair, or the harm he attempted to cause you.

I believe, with all my heart, that if she were to see you again, if she could look into your eyes and feel the love that has always existed between you, it might begin to mend the wounds that now fester. But I must be honest, Maera—Wynni is not yet ready for such a reunion. She shies away from any mention of you, and her heart is still closed to the possibility of forgiveness.

I do not know how long this darkness will hold her, but I will continue to stay by her side, to reach out to her, even if she does not reach back. I ask that you be patient, though I know it must be hard, and that you trust that time, and perhaps a change of heart, will bring Wynni back to us.

May the gods grant you peace in this difficult time, and may they watch over us all.

Your loving brother,

Gwyn

Her sister’s suffering hitting her with full force. Maera thought of her own Ladies in Waiting, how they had each found purpose and camaraderie in their service. Perhaps Wynni could find the same, surrounded by other noblewomen who might help her heal. The thought of Wynni joining her in Dragonstone, finding a new path, was appealing.

The Queen resolved that whilst she would not force Wynni to come to Dragonstone, she would extend the invitation, with no expectations. Perhaps, just perhaps, it could be the start of Wynni finding herself again. But until then, Maera could only wait, and hope.

Just as Maera was about to set the letter down, her eyes caught a small note scrawled at the bottom in Gwyn’s familiar handwriting.

P.S. I have been thinking about how strange noble families can be. When I marry Lord Edwin’s daughter, not only will little Aemara be my niece, but she’ll also become my sister-in-law. It’s amusing how our bloodlines and alliances twist and turn, binding us in such intricate ways. Only in noble families could such a thing be considered normal.

The absurdity of the thought brought a small smile to Maera’s lips, a brief reprieve from the heaviness of her thoughts. If her younger brother thought that was strange, she could not help but wonder about what he thought of all the incestuous marriages within House Targaryen.

With a lighter heart, Maera picked up her quill and began to write her reply. She thanked Gwyn for his letter, offering gentle encouragement and a hint of her own longing to see Wynni happy again. And as she finished the note, she couldn’t help but add a playful response to Gwyn’s jest, thankful for the small moment of humor that had brightened her evening.

Maera’s gaze fell on the final letter, its seal bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Her first thought was that it must be from Daeron, Aemond’s younger brother. She hadn’t exchanged many words with the young prince, their paths rarely crossing, but the prospect of hearing from him was welcome.

She carefully broke the seal, but as soon as she unfolded the parchment, it became clear that this was no ordinary letter. The page was a chaotic mess, torn in places, with ink splotched carelessly across it. The writing varied wildly in shape and size, with some lines intricately penned, others barely legible, and more still aggressively scribbled out. The text itself was a jumbled mix of normal phrases interspersed with nonsensical ones that defied comprehension. And amidst the confusion, one thing stood out with heartbreaking clarity: the letter was from Helaena.

The page shook in Maera’s trembling hands as she struggled to make sense of the gibberish before her. Her vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling over and tracing paths down her cheeks. Each disjointed word, each frantic stroke of the quill, was a painful testament to the fragile state of Helaena’s mind.

Maera

It has been so long since I have seen you. I hope you are content back at Rain House. I am sorry Aemond upset you. I miss you, it is too loud here

Have you seen the twins and Maelor? No one comes to my chambers anymore. No one tells me anything

THE RATS ARE KEEPING ME AWAKE AT NIGHT. I FEAR THEY WILL CHASE EVERYONE OUT OF THE CASTLE

Rhaenyra sits upon the throne, her blood staining the swords.

The skies are full of dragons. You burned the hatchling, didn’t you? The river was indeed harsh and nearly drowned you.

WHERE ARE MY CHILDREN? MY HUSBAND? MY MOTHER? WHERE ARE YOU?!

I cannot stand this for much longer

One flower to bloom, two buds cut down, one seedling unearthed

Helaena, once a gentle soul with a kind heart, had been driven to madness, her mind fractured beyond repair. The Queen’s thoughts spiraled as she remembered that Helaena and their mother, Alicent, were still captives of the Blacks in King’s Landing. Aemond and Maera had no way of knowing how they were being treated, no certainty about their well-being. All they had was the grim assurance that they were alive. But this letter, this desperate cry for help, was evidence of a fate worse than death.

Maera’s heart ached with an unbearable sadness, the tears falling freely now as she clutched the letter to her chest. The helplessness, the uncertainty, and the pain of it all threatened to overwhelm her. For all the power they wielded, all the dragons they commanded, she was powerless to save Helaena from the horrors that had consumed her mind. And that knowledge, more than anything, filled Maera with a despair.

Even though Helaena’s letter was a tangled mess of words and disjointed thoughts, Maera knew her old friend well. Helaena had always seen the world differently, her mind a labyrinth of visions and dreams that only she could navigate. What seemed like gibberish on the page might hold some hidden meaning, a truth that would only reveal itself in time. Maera couldn’t dismiss the letter outright; there was something in it, a plea or perhaps information about the Blacks, that she had to uncover.

But she knew she couldn’t decipher it alone. Rising from her seat, Maera tiptoed to the chamber doors, her movements careful and silent to avoid waking Aemara, who was still peacefully asleep. She cracked the door open and peeked her head out into the dimly lit corridor. The guard stationed outside snapped to attention, and Maera asked him quietly to summon the nursemaid.

Within moments, the nursemaid arrived, her eyes wide with curiosity and concern at being called so late. Maera gently requested that she stay in the chambers with Aemara until she returned. The nursemaid nodded without hesitation, stepping inside and immediately moving to check on the sleeping princess.

As Maera turned to leave, the maid’s voice stopped her. “Where are you going, Your Grace?”

Pausing in the doorway, Maera glanced back, the crumpled parchment still clutched in her hand. “I’m going to see my husband.”

Notes: ok, lot of plot points, a lot of contact, just general waffle that will be important later on, but I had to get it down 🤣 anyway, next she visits Aemond so, errm, how do we think that will go?

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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