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BattleTech: The Succession Wars
🎲 Experience the epic conflicts of The Succession Wars board game, set in the BattleTech universe. Engage in strategic warfare reminiscent of Risk. Conquer, dominate, and seize your path to power! #BattleTech #MechWarrior #Gaming #SciFi #Mechs
Ah, The Succession Wars tabletop board game, a captivating embodiment of the tumultuous era that has shaped the very fabric of our noble houses of the Inner Sphere. As a House noble, I find myself drawn to the intricate tapestry of political intrigue and military strategy that unfolds upon the interstellar battlefield. It allows me to indulge in the art of grand manipulation, deftly navigating…
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#battletech a game of armored combat#battletech lore#battletech succession wars#battletech succession wars board game#battletech tabletop#capellan confederation#classic battletech#draconis combine#federated commonwealth#federated suns#house davion#house kurita#house liao#house marik#house steiner#inner sphere#lyran commonwealth#star league#star league defense force#succession wars#succession wars board game#Tabletop Games#terran hegemony
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With the confirmation of The Acolyte not getting a second season, I can't say I'm surprised, the numbers for that show were really bad given what its budgets was, like I kept an eye on The Acolyte's numbers and they were really, really down across the board (Ahsoka's numbers aren't super great either but that's getting its second season because it's Filoni's pet show, I suspect), like set aside all the other complicated stuff, whether it was good or bad, how much of the fandom's reaction was pretty heinous and racist, it just was not getting the numbers it needed and it's making me wonder about how all of these shows are not doing well. Mando is doing all right, OWK did all right, Andor's doing okay, but none of these shows are setting anything on fire anymore (ratings-wise, that is), what would it take to create something that takes off again?
I strongly suspect that The Mandalorian only took off because of Favreau, who really does know how to make something really good and fun in the beginning. Filoni gets a lot of credit for that show, but I'd be willing to put ten dollars on the table that Favreau was driving the vast majority of the success of that series. And that makes me wonder about the future of these shows, because I don't think Filoni is strong enough to really carry a show on his own, most of his best work is when he has a strong partner actively working with him or when he was working under Lucas.
And the creators they bring in to create these shows aren't setting anything on fire, either. Yeah, the sequels made a billion dollars for each movie, but I think it's pretty telling that we're not getting comics or books or games about those characters anymore, the way we did for the prequels characters for more than a decade after they came out. Yeah, Tony Gilroy and Deborah Chow had shows that did solidly well, but they're not anything that Star Wars can build future content off of, they're already backstories for other movies themselves. And I don't think Skeleton Crew is going to light anything on fire, either.
Lucasfilm just doesn't seem to know what to do with Star Wars TV and movies. They had some really good early success with their projects, but almost everything ultimately fizzled out after a few years or ended really badly, and it feels like the only thing that's really hitting with audiences are more Clone Wars-era content and The High Republic novels and maybe still The Mandalorian.
Honestly, if I were Lucasfilm, I'd cut out the live action shows and go back to animation and think long and hard about setting up a new movie series. I think, with the right creative team (and not just who they think is a big name to write/direct), they could have a great trilogy with The Old Republic era stuff, because they have got to expand beyond the PT/OT and the Skywalkers, especially since the sequels put a bad taste in a lot of people's mouths about how Luke, Leia, and Han's stories ended.
(I mean, in my ideal world, we'd get an animated series set in between TPM and AOTC or set like 30 years pre-TPM and getting to see the backstories for characters like Mace and Plo and Shaak and Luminara and Yarael, but I'm not holding my breath on that one.)
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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
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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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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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☆┊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
© temiizpalace — do not copy, steal, or put my work into ai. thank you!
#disney twst#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland fluff#twisted wonderland x reader#twst fluff#twst x reader#riddle rosehearts x reader#ace trappola x reader#deuce spade x reader#cater diamond x reader#trey clover x reader#leona kingscholar x reader#ruggie bucchi x reader#jack howl x reader#azul ashengrotto x reader#jade leech x reader#floyd leech x reader#kalim al asim x reader#jamil viper x reader#vil schoenheit x reader#epel felmier x reader#rook hunt x reader#idia shroud x reader#ortho shroud#malleus draconia x reader#lilia vanrouge x reader#silver vanrouge x reader#sebek zigvolt x reader#twst grim#monopoly
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Cannibals [Chapter 5: Sapphires and Cinnamon]
Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?
Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to war-related violence, Targ chaos terrorizes poor innocent House Corbray, Red and Jace have a lovers' quarrel, interesting news arrives from the Riverlands, bats!!!
Word count: 7.4k
💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️
Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰
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Like game pieces on a board, he moves the coins he’s using as tokens around the ink-and-parchment Westeros that is rolled open across the table. He’s been underwater for weeks, but now he can breathe again. Aegon is starting to heal, through the worst of the danger and unlikely to die, and he has been tucked away someplace no enemy will find him: an unassuming farm in the countryside surrounding Rook’s Rest, under the protection of the knights of his Kingsguard and tended to by requisitioned maesters. Criston’s infantrymen and cavalry have rested and healed and reorganized to fill the gaps in their ranks following the battles to subdue the turncoat houses of the Crownlands. Yesterday, Aemond rode Vhagar to the stone gates of Claw Isle and accepted a tremulous, tearful surrender from Bartimos Celtigar’s lady wife, in whose care the castle was left. Rhaenyra will receive no further gold from the region, and she will find the treasury of King’s Landing empty, the wealth once stored there split and hidden at Tyland Lannister’s suggestion in Braavos, Casterly Rock, and Oldtown. She will try to tax the smallfolk to fund her war effort, and they will rise up and murder her. That, at least, is Aemond’s hope.
Criston walks into the room. He’s just come from the rookery, where ravens arrive carrying news from Green spies and allies throughout the Seven Kingdoms: the Triarchy will send ships to combat the Sea Snake’s fleet; the Hightower army in the Reach has won battles at the Honeywine, Tumbleton, and Bitterbridge; the Lannister army in the Riverlands triumphed at the Red Fork and Acorn Hall; Cregan Stark is marching south from Winterfell with ten thousand men to fight for Rhaenyra, and they will need to be dealt with.
This will all be over soon, and I can go home. Home to my family, home to her.
“Daemon is restless,” Aemond says, repositioning his coins. “He will tire of enduring Rhaenyra’s orders in the capital, and he will fly elsewhere on Caraxes. He yearns for battle, I know him. A hero’s glory, perhaps even a hero’s death. When he leaves King’s Landing, I will go there on Vhagar and kill Syrax, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer. I will retake the capital and then leave Daeron as its protector in my stead while I hunt Daemon. Daeron has proven himself in the Reach. He’s growing up.”
Faintly, fondly, Aemond smiles. But Criston appears stricken.
“Bad news,” Aemond says for him. “From where?”
“The Red Keep.”
“Mother?” He fears that Rhaenyra will have her executed like Grandsire, though this would be a grievous mistake. The people love the queen dowager, who has lived among them nearly all her life and selflessly nursed King Viserys while Rhaenyra seduced her uncle, plotted Laenor Velaryon’s death, and secluded herself and her vile nest of bastards and villains on Dragonstone.
Criston is hesitant to begin. Perhaps he isn’t sure if Aemond should know this. “No, your mother and Helaena are still held in the dungeon, captive but in relative safety. Jaehaera and Maelor are wards of Rhaenyra. I would assume she’s trying to win their affection and then arrange politically advantageous betrothals.”
There has been a name left out. Aemond stares up from his map, waiting.
“She’s been taken out of the city,” Criston says.
An impossibility, an irrationality. “What?”
“I don’t know where to, or for what purpose. But she’s not in King’s Landing.”
Aemond says nothing for long, cold, grey minutes. The sky outside beckons in the coming winter like a nefarious houseguest, one who shares your dinner table and then slits your throat while you’re asleep. When he finally speaks, his voice is low but fierce. “She’s no threat to them.”
“She isn’t.”
“She can’t travel by dragon.”
“No,” Criston agrees. “So they must have transported her by land or sea.”
Aemond shakes his head. “Why would Rhaenyra do that?”
Criston’s dark eyes are afraid. “I don’t know.”
“Where might they have sent her? Where could she be?”
“Anywhere, Aemond,” Criston says helplessly. “Anywhere.”
And it rises in him like magma through the earth: a scorching venom that pools in the capillary beds of his lungs, a fatal heat that burns away flesh and bones and reason.
~~~~~~~~~~
Rain falls from the sky, sea spray erupts from the waves, stinging eyes and the abrasions on your skin from falling on the rocks over and over again. You are a child, and you are tracking Vermithor on Dragonstone. The mist is so thick that Criston and the guards have lost sight of you, and you can hear them shouting for you to wait for them, but you can’t, you can’t, you’ve wanted this for years and now it’s about to happen. You can feel the volcanic stones, black and serrated, quaking as the Bronze Fury stomps in his hovel. The cave is shrouded in fog, but you know he’s in there. He is growling, a sound like thunder. You can see the glinting gold of his eyes.
“Vermithor!”you command him in High Valyrian, holding out your hands, your maroon gown billowing around you in the vicious wind. Strands of long silver hair are torn from your braid. Blood runs in thin rivulets from your ravaged palms down your wrists and forearms. Saltwater burns like fire in the gashes on your feet; you’ve lost your shoes while scrambling over the rocks. “All my life I’ve dreamed of you, and now we will fly together at last. We will be bonded to one another until death. We will preserve the realm and burn our enemies. Serve me, Vermithor! Serve me!”
He emerges from his cave: a colossal skull covered in scales and spines, steam rising from his nostrils, jagged fangs bared, eyes that are at once reptilian and mindless and wrathful and sage. He is a century old and unfathomably mighty; he is an inheritor of the sacred magic of Old Valyria. He judges you with eyes like kindling flames.
“Red, step back!” Aemond yells from where he watches, his black cloak like a banner in the wind, closed at the neck with a silver chain and with a constellation of silver buttons in the shape of Vhagar’s wings across his shoulders. He is the only person who has kept pace with you. “Give him room! Let him approach you!”
But Vermithor is yours, there is no other possibility, in your heart he has always been yours, he has been the beast you claimed in your soul when you first heard his legends as Aemond read them aloud to you, Aegon, Helaena, Daeron under the heart tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, and now you will climb onto his back and fly with him and meet Aemond and Vhagar in the mist-grey sky. From deep in his throat, the Bronze Fury snarls.
“Vermithor, be calm! Don’t you recognize me? We are meant for each other. We belong to each other. The dragon egg I was given in the cradle didn’t hatch so I could come here and find you instead. I am not afraid of you. I will not flee from you. Serve me! Serve me!”
“It’s not working,” Aemond tells you with dawning horror. “Get away from him! Red, get away!”
“Serve me, Vermithor!” you scream, and now you’re terrified, because his jaws are opening and dragonfire is boiling up into his mouth, crimson and glowing. “No, no!”
You try to run but the heat is already everywhere, and the air is suddenly too hot to breathe, and when you touch your face with your bloody hands you can feel your cheeks blistering. And then something collides with you like a lance striking a jousting knight, and you are thrown to the ground. It’s Aemond, and he is shoving you down into a crevice between two slabs of black basalt, and when instinctively you try to push him away—you’re always fighting him, something wild to be tamed—Aemond pins your wrists to your chest and shields your body with his, shrinking from the lethal heat of the world outside and burying his face in the velvet of your gown.
Then Criston and the guards and the Dragonkeepers are here, and with their ancient spells the Dragonkeepers convince Vermithor to retreat into his cave. When Aemond helps you out of the crevice, you see that the buttons on the back of his cloak have melted, and if the attack had lasted even a moment longer he’d be dead.
~~~~~~~~~~
When you wake in your bedchamber at the top of a tower of Heart’s Home, Jace is already gone. You peer through the window and see him strolling in the castle courtyard with Lord Leowyn Corbray, both of them bundled up in heavy furs; there is a layer of powdery snow on the ground, just as high as the ankles. The pine trees of the surrounding forest sway in the cold mountain wind. Servants lead horses in and out of the stable. And you wonder randomly: Do they have bats in the Vale?
Maids hear you walking around and file into the room to show you the clothes your closet has been stocked with through House Corbray’s generosity and help you dress. They try to distract you, but you notice anyway: one of them strips the bed and takes the sheets away, blotted with a watery, pale pink stain of blood. You’re sore, but not terribly so, just enough pain to remind you—when you move in certain ways—that you are wed to Jace, and that he took you last night as any husband would, and that now you could be carrying his dark-haired heir. The thought stuns you; you’ve never been more than ambivalent to the prospect of bearing children. Your dreams were of Vermithor, and marrying Aemond, and being possessed by him in every sense possible. Motherhood would come later, and you had always assumed you would one day begin to dream of that too.
Do I dream of it now?
No, you feel in your bones. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The colors of the Vale are chilly and weak like the sky. The maids show you velvet gowns of dusky rose, icy blue, moss green, dove grey. After some consideration, you choose the blue. Then you wander the castle, your drafty stone prison, your new home. There are no tapestries of the Hightower or wrathful dragons or lovers ensnared like knotted threads, no familiar faces. Heart’s Home is austere, its primary embellishments being candlelit chandeliers and rugs made from dead animals, and the loudest sound you hear is the whistling of wind through cracks in the walls, frigid air that howls in from the Mountains of the Moon.
After much exploration you find the rookery, where ravens squawk in their cages and bed down in mounds of straw, and through the window is a view of snowcapped mountains that stretch on endlessly like a sea. There is no table to write on, and you see no parchment or ink or quills, and you don’t know which raven (if any of them) is trained to fly to Rook’s Rest. It doesn’t matter; you can’t write to Aemond without endangering your family held hostage in King’s Landing. And even if you could, what would you say to him?
Aemond, I’ve married Jace and I did it to save you. But don’t fear for my safety. I am protected here, I am content enough. I have no dragon, but I can help fight the war in my own way. Jace seems to like me. I might even be beginning to like him too.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” someone says, and you whirl to see Lord Corbray’s wife filling up the doorway.
You do not bow or curtsey. As a princess, you outrank her. “Lady Caroline.” No. Not quite. “Lady Carolyn. Lady Carolina.” Then you remember. “I am so sorry, Lady Carolei. Forgive me.”
She laughs boisterously. “Carolei is a common name in the Vale, but not elsewhere, I’ve been told. My closest friends here call me Lady Caro, you can feel welcome to do the same.”
“Lady Caro. Please allow me to apologize again.”
“Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure you had a late night.” Her eyes—large and round, almost bulging, and a very pale blue—sweep from your feet to your face. “But you didn’t have too bad of a time with it, I think.”
“The maids took the sheets,” you say like an accusation.
She smiles, perhaps a little guiltily. “As High As Honor,” she replies. “They are the words of House Arryn, but all the great families of the Vale aspire to be above reproach.”
“And you are a great family.” It’s more of a question.
“We are not grand or wealthy, that’s true,” Lady Caro concedes. “And I can imagine our little castle cannot compare to King’s Landing or the Hightower of your Mother’s house. But we are dependable and honest. What Queen Rhaenyra has entrusted us with is a tremendous privilege. We will abide by her instructions, and endeavor to satisfy her every request.”
“So she wanted to know that I bled.”
Lady Caro shrugs—I can’t tell you that—and then signals for you to follow her. “Join me in the Great Hall. We’ll have some cinnamon tea.”
The Great Hall of Heart’s Home is about the same size as your bedchamber in the Red Keep, with two rows of wooden tables and a crackling fire in the hearth. When you look into the glowing embers, you are reminded of Vermithor’s flames. Cool overcast light falls like snow in through the windows. Lady Caro gestures for you to sit with her at the table closest to the fire, and maids bring you fried eggs and bacon, fresh bread, butter, blackberry jam, and cinnamon tea, milky and aromatic and very sweet.
“It must be difficult for you,” Lady Caro says thoughtfully as she slurps her tea, steam wafting into the air. “Being so very far from your family. Even if they are traitors.”
She seems to be testing you for a reaction. You gaze into your tea and try not to let tears well up in your eyes as you think of them: Mother and Helaena in a dungeon, Jaehaera and Maelor with strangers, Jaehaerys and Grandsire dead, Daeron at war, Aegon burned, Aemond hating me once he learns of my betrayal. None of us are in the same place. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. “But you must be far from home too. Women get married off and sent across the world, it’s nothing new.”
“This is true,” Lady Caro muses. “I am originally of House Coldwater, and if you think Heart’s Home is plain and remote, I hope you never see Coldwater Burn. You’ve probably never even heard of it.”
“It’s up near the Fingers,” you say softly, remembering Aemond showing you dots littering the Vale on one of his maps, warm firelight, teasing hands, his lips murmuring against the shell of your ear. “The colors of its banner are blue, red, and white.”
She gasps and presses a palm to her chest, delighted. Her already ruddy cheeks flush pinker. “Mother have mercy, they teach that in the capital?”
“I have an interest in geography.” No, you don’t; but Aemond does.
“Do you embroider or sing?”
“Neither. Not well, anyway. Helaena works miracles with a needle and thread.” Absently, you touch your gown where beneath the pale blue velvet a scar runs from your left collarbone down to the top of your breast. So does Aemond.
Lady Caro observes this curiously, peering at you over the rim of her mug. “How did you occupy yourself before you came here? I do want to make you feel as comfortable as possible.”
Because you are kind? Because Rhaenyra told you to? Or because I might be the queen myself someday? “I spent a lot of time with my brothers and sister,” you answer honestly, dolefully. And I kept bats. You decide to omit this. “We all had our crafts. I made mosaics out of seashells.”
Lady Caro titters. “Seashells? Well, they aren’t exactly abundant, but there are some out near where the river meets the Narrow Sea. I’ll see if I can have a bucketful brought to you.”
“I can collect them.”
“The water is very cold, and the current powerful.”
“I like to choose my own shells. You can send knights to watch over me, I’m not hoping to drown myself or anything.”
Now Lady Caro laughs loudly. “Drown yourself! The things you say, princess…”
You decide to try to make conversation to encourage her affection, as Mother would want you to. “Do you have children, Lady Caro?”
“Oh yes, five of them. Four died though. Awful luck, isn’t it?” She goes somber, staring blankly out the nearest window for a long while, leaving you unsure of what to do or say. Eventually, she returns to the Great Hall and is cheerful again. “My daughter Jessamyn was married into House Mallister of Seagard. I get to see her and the children once every few years. And she’s nothing like you.”
You smirk cautiously. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s very sweet and agreeable and naïve.” And then Lady Caro winks at you, and you realize you might be becoming friends. “Not like a Targaryen.”
You drink your cinnamon tea and think of last night, feeling a strange brew of fondness and shame and relief and loss. “Sounds a bit like Jace though.”
“Yes, well,” Lady Caro says, then wisely leaves the rest unspoken. He’s more of a Strong, isn’t he?
One of the Great Hall’s heavy wooden doors creaks open and Jace strides inside, wearing black accented with red and a bear fur coat overtop, speckled with snowflakes. More flurries are melting in his hair. You stand to meet him and he takes both of your hands. You smile uneasily, not knowing what to expect; then Jace playfully kisses the knuckles of your right hand, and after that your left, and he beams at you.
Instead of a greeting, he says: “We have a few more days together, then I have to go away.”
It’s the second time a man has told you this. “Go where?”
Jace shrugs evasively. No one is allowed to tell you anything. “Do you like horses?”
“Sure.” Aemond used to take you to visit his war horses, all towering and temperamental: Rusty, Apple, Fox, Ladybug, Pomegranate. Then he would watch as you stroked their forelocks and their downy muzzles, his remaining eye fixed on you, imagining sins that never felt like damnation but rather searing, tumultuous waves like an ocean of blood.
“Good. I’ll show you the stable.” Jace kisses you, a quick peck for modesty’s sake since you aren’t alone. He grins and licks his lips. “Mm. You taste like cinnamon.” Something warm, something red. He turns to Lady Caro. “Thank you for making us feel so welcome. The queen will be pleased to hear of your devoted service to the crown. We know that this is an imposition, and we appreciate your generous sacrifice.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Caro replies, and she seems to mean it. “It’s no imposition. It’s an honor.” Then she rises to her feet. “Let me find some boots and a fur coat for the princess.”
Once you are properly guarded against the cold—wrapped in a thick coat of fox pelts—Jace links his arm through yours and leads you outside, and you tread together through the shallow snowfall toward the stable.
“You’ve probably never even seen snow before,” Jace says, and you agree even though this isn’t true. You saw snow here in the Vale when you were very young—you don’t even remember which castle Mother and Father had been visiting on their royal progress—and that was the trip when Aemond pushed you into a frozen river and you caught a chill that almost killed you.
“Jace?” you ask, cutting him off mid-sentence. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him; your mind had been wandering.
He looks at you with some trepidation, as if he’s worried you might have a complaint. “Yes?”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
He blinks at you, then exhales in a relieved chuckle. “You’re asking why I’m nice?”
“You never liked me before. And you had no reason to.” In your eyes, I was a traitor. If you could tell what I’m feeling, you’d know I still am.
He ponders how to answer as you walk. Now his expression is serious. “I always knew that when I married—to whoever it was, although for most of my life I believed it would be someone else—that would be it for me, and I would never be estranged from her or take another lover. There are so many families with…” He pauses, and you watch him closely. “There are so many children who suffer from the indiscretions of their parents.” There is a bloom of ashamed, gory pink in his cheeks, and you know he is speaking of himself, and of all the bastards anywhere in the world who have ever been made to feel lied to, less than, disgraced, disavowed. “I swore to myself that I would be a good husband and father, and that my own household would be…wholly uncomplicated.”
“So you would act this way with anyone. With whoever you were wed to.”
“Well…” He smiles softly. “As it turns out, there are things I like about you.”
“Really?” you tease, grinning, and when you reach the stable you shove the door open and step inside onto a straw-strewn floor. There’s no biting mountain breeze here in the shadows, and the body heat radiating off the horses makes the air more hospitable. Jace seems surprised you didn’t wait for him to open the door for you. “What things?”
“Several things,” Jace says, then—now that you are alone aside from the horses nickering and chomping on hay in their stalls—wraps his arms around your waist and holds you from behind, kissing the side of your neck. You have to resist the reflex to fight him off so he can overpower you, pin you to the floor, fuck you as you hiss and claw at him and tell him to stop. Jace wouldn’t understand it. Jace would be horrified by it. “Here,” Jace whispers, skimming a hand over your gown where he made you bleed last night. Then his palms travel up to your breasts. “And here.” Then he nuzzles your silver hair as he gently unfastens your braid and inhales deeply. “And I like this too. Although I’d be interested to see you wear it in a style that is a little…softer.”
“Softer?” you echo doubtfully.
“You’re not a warrior,” Jace says as if he thinks you will want to hear this, as if it will comfort you. It doesn’t. “And that’s alright. You can be soft. You can be ladylike.”
You don’t feel very much like a lady. You feel like a kettle full of boiling water, like lava bursting up through the cracks in the earth, like dragonfire hemorrhaging from a beast’s gaping throat. Now you and Jace are on the wooden floor of the stable, displacing straw as you kiss hungrily and pull off each other’s coats. Jace climbs on top of you, and you think: I can’t do this again, not like last night. I want to be fed too.
Jace stops to marvel at your face, his thumb skating over the curve of your cheekbone. “I want to make it as good for you as it is for me,” he says solemnly. “Last night it was over so quickly, and…I didn’t…I feel like I could have done more, but I don’t know…I’m not sure if…”
You grab his right hand and lace your fingers through his. “Can I show you how I touch myself?”
Jace’s eyebrows go up. “You touch yourself?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, yes,” he admits bashfully, blushing. He does this a lot, you are learning. “But I’m a man.”
You smile. “Women experience longing too, Jace.”
“Yes,” he says, and now he’s breathing quickly and it sounds less like he’s merely intrigued and more like he’s begging for it. “Show me. Please show me.”
You take his hand and guide it beneath your gown, up the length of your legs, stopping where you are slick and needful, an ache so deep it hurts like the cramps when your blood arrives each month. You place two of Jace’s fingers on the right spot—he keeps inadvertently moving his hand just off the mark, and each time you put it back where it belongs—and lead him into a rhythm, a tight swift circling and pressure that makes your thighs open wider for him and your spine arch.
Jace murmurs as you pant on the stable floor, shadows on your face and straw in your hair: “Is this okay, am I hurting you at all?”
“You can press down pretty hard,” you assure him. “You won’t break me. I’m not glass.”
He’s trying not to lose his focus. “Okay…okay…”
“Jace,” you gasp as you sling your arms around the back of his neck and cling to him, your hips rocking, and he moans and kisses you—deeply, passionately, gluttonously—and under your dress his hand suddenly strokes you so forcefully it’s almost painful and then it’s on you, that feeling better than anything else on earth, being opened, being dragged under, being ignited, being devoured until you go weak and limp and boneless, aftershocks throbbing and your lips smiling drowsily. “Jace, Jace, Jace,” you breathe dizzily, still holding him.
He is gazing down at you, awestruck. “When can I watch you do that again?”
“Soon,” you purr through Jace’s dark curls. “Now…your turn.”
You are barely aware of it as he pushes the hem of your gown up to your waist and frees himself from his trousers, and you only come back to Jace when he enters you—your flesh still tender from last night, but wet and wanting him—and he is careful as he slowly pushes himself all the way inside, trying not to hurt you again. Then he thrusts and you are stunned by how good it feels, like your climax made everything more sensitive, more ready, more flawlessly tailored to fit with him. Jace doesn’t last much longer than the first night, and yet just before it’s over there is the ghost of something, a vague desire that is building, and you think next time (or the time after that, or the time after that) you will be able to finish again, and you will be drained like a slaughtered animal with its throat cut and its body hung by the feet, every last blood drop purged and collected in a bucket to be used for fertilizer or pig feed.
Lying together exhausted on the stable floor, you twirl one of Jace’s curls around your finger and—purely by instinct, because it’s what you and Aemond used to do—whisper to him in High Valyrian: “I love how you touch me, thank you, I needed this, I needed you.” But you can tell by the way Jace turns to you, startled and a little self-conscious, that he doesn’t understand what you said.
“I know some High Valyrian, of course,” he explains quickly. “But I’m…I’m still learning.”
“Oh.” It doesn’t come easily to him. Because he’s a Strong, and the Strongs have nothing to do with Old Valyria. And then, to temper the blow: “I can help you practice.”
“Who taught it to you?” Jace asks. He is suspicious, then hopeful. “Helaena?”
You should lie to him, but you don’t. At some point you have to start letting raindrops of the truth seep in. You are going to share a household with Jace, your bodies, your futures, your children. You want him to understand who you really are. You can’t pretend forever; already, it is stifling, a constant and trudging effort, a vanishing until you are transluscent like clear water. You are reminded of all the times when you’ve tried to hide pieces of yourself to please Mother, whose Hightower blood was washed away by the grim, intoxicating magic of the Targaryens. “No, Helaena doesn’t speak High Valyrian except when giving commands to Dreamfyre. She can understand it fairly well, though.”
Jace nods, studying you, but he doesn’t say anything else. The phantom of Aemond stands in the far corner of the stable. You think: I am a traitor to both of them, I am a house of no banners. After a moment, you ask Jace for your very first favor.
“I want Helaena freed from the dungeon in the Red Keep,” you say. “I understand Rhaenyra’s distrust of Mother, but Helaena is innocent. She should be confined to her chambers and permitted to see her children. And allowed to walk in the garden sometimes too.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jace says distractedly.
“You know Helaena. She is gentle, she is fragile. She deserves compassionate treatment.”
“So did Luke,” Jace replies; and though he takes your hands and helps you to your feet as horses snort and paw at the straw-covered floors of their stalls, he averts his dark gaze—an inheritance from his bloodline, the indomitable lineage of the First Men—and doesn’t meet your eyes.
Two days later he departs Heart’s Home for a destination that Lord and Lady Corbray know, surely, but you don’t. Jace bids you farewell at the edge of the field beyond the castle walls as Vermax waits impatiently for him across the clearing, not liking the mountain cold, not liking you. Jace wears black and red as he almost always does, the colors of his mother’s house. His curls are ruffled by the breeze, his red cloak flowing down from his shoulders like a trail of blood.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Jace touches your cheek, then your chin. “I’ll miss you and all those things I’ve discovered I like so much.”
You smile back. You have the beginning of a headache—a throbbing above your left eye, a fuzziness in your thoughts—but you’re trying not to show it. “I’ll be here.” Where else could I go?
“I love you,” Jace says, and then looks at you expectantly. It takes you a minute to realize he’s waiting for you to say it too.
You open your mouth, but your pulsing skull is clamoring with prayers you cannot voice. Please protect the family I have left. Please don’t find a way to kill Aemond. At last you manage: “I love you,” but it sounds hollow and unnatural and cold, like stark snowcapped peaks and the gales that shriek through them.
Nonetheless, Jace is satisfied. He tilts up your face to bring his lips to yours and then treks across the field towards Vermax, leaving footprints in the fresh snow. His sword hangs from his belt. He practices with knights in the castle courtyard each day, and he’s not bad, you’ve observed anxiously. Not as good as Aemond, but not bad.
That night you see the shadow of something interrupting the moonlight that floods in through the window of your bedchamber, and when you push open the glass a bat lands clumsily on the sill and then scrabbles inside. You squeal with delight and scoop it into your arms. It’s a male and a different sort of bat than the ones in King’s Landing, larger in size, black and white in color and with long fanlike ears. He sniffs at you and gazes up with small but intelligent inky eyes. Then, as a mark of friendship, he begins to lick at your fingertips.
“And what do you eat, huh?” you coo as you pet him. “Probably not honey or fruit if you live way up here in the mountains. Probably just bugs. Should I try to catch you some spiders tomorrow? This decrepit old castle must be full of them.”
You have to name him. And this is an opportunity to break all your old patterns. You could call him Seahorse for Jace’s false house, or Dragon for his true one. You could call him the High Valyrian word for bat or wings. You could name him after something black, the color that Jace favors. And yet as you hold him, old memories come screaming back to you, Aemond helping you tend to your bats, Aemond protecting them, moments of kindness and understanding that you now fear were illusions.
He never said he loves me. Not once in eighteen years.
You keep waiting for a glimpse into Aemond’s mind, a stabbing pang of loss and longing when he realizes you’ve been taken away, but it never happens. You keep waiting for him to find you and descend upon House Corbray with fire and blood.
Aemond, where are you? Aemond, have you forgotten me?
“Sapphire,” you whisper to your new bat—your only bat—and he looks up at you as if he knows his name.
~~~~~~~~~~
Jace is gone for weeks, and in his absence you try to learn how to be his wife. You ask Lady Caro to teach you how to wear your hair like the ladies of the Vale: soft waves, sedate buns knotted at the nape of the neck, delicate wisps that frame the face and blow in the harsh mountain wind. You attempt to cultivate an affinity for pale impassionate colors. You distract yourself so you don’t think of Aemond. You catch spiders and moths in secret to feed to Sapphire when he visits you each night. You spend days practicing quiet, feminine embroidery—ruining yarn scenes, piercing your fingertips with needles—until you give it up and fling the cursed tangle of threads away and return to your strange fixations that once confounded Mother.
Lady Caro sends knights to accompany you to the mouth of the river, and you wade up to your knees in the icy water plucking rare shells out of the silt and the pebbles. You are not permitted to collect bones from the forest—there are bears and wolves and shadowcats—but you arrange for the hunters to give you what’s left of the carcasses once they’ve been skinned and butchered. The carpenters give you boards of wood and the blacksmiths forge you a small iron mallet. Sometimes Lady Caro stands in the castle kitchen watching you boil animal bones in a caldron or in your bedchamber as you shatter shells and paint the shards with glue, and she shakes her head, surely thinking: What is wrong with these Targaryens?
You don’t dare to make any mosaics of Aemond. It’s too dangerous, and too painful, and too revealing of what you’re truly feeling. So instead you piece together visions of the rest of them: Aegon smirking over a goblet of red wine, butterflies landing on Helaena’s outstretched palm, Daeron riding Tessarion, Mother smiling at Criston, Jaehaera and Maelor playing together in the garden of the Red Keep. You hang them on the walls of your bedchamber and at night you sleep better.
When Jace and Vermax return to Heart’s Home, you and Lady Caro are in the inaptly named Great Hall sipping cinnamon tea and nibbling blackberry oatcakes, and Lady Caro is telling you about her flock of grandchildren who reside at Seagard on the shore of the Sunset Sea. “Jasper is clever but terribly loud, and then Joy won’t talk to humans at all but loves her cats…” She trails off as your husband rushes into the room, his steps buoyant, his red cloak flying behind him.
“Welcome back, Prince Jacaerys,” Lady Caro says as she stands to greet him. “I hope your travels were comfortable and all your ventures went well.”
“Very well,” he says, grinning, alight with victories that are yet unspoken. Lady Caro dismisses herself to give the two of you privacy, promising to bring cinnamon tea for Jace. As soon as she is gone, Jace bolts to the table.
“What happened?” you ask he sits opposite of you. The hearth throws off rage-colored heat.
Please let this be peace and not violence. Please don’t have harmed anyone I love.
He is beaming as he takes a messy bite of a blackberry oatcake, crumbs falling down onto the table. And he must have decided that he can begin telling you his secrets now. Perhaps he trusts you; perhaps he knows there’s nothing you can do to sabotage him anyway, no ravens to send, nobody to inform. “I found someone to ride Vermithor.”
The realization sinks inside you, dark and heavy, an anchor, a sickness. You murmur, knowing it is pointless: “He was supposed to be mine.”
“Well…he didn’t agree.”
This hurts you; Jace doesn’t seem to notice. You think of the tiny wooden Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you, and you wonder if it’s still on your dresser in Maegor’s Holdfast or if Rhaenyra has burned or broken it, or mistaken it for something of no value.
“Corlys’ bastard Addam has claimed Seasmoke,” Jace continues, as if this could not possibly be anything to you but good news. “Vermithor and Seasmoke are now helping Mother to safeguard the capital. Daemon and Nettles…” Jace gestures awkwardly. There was a falling out with Rhaenyra. “They’ve taken Harrenhal as a base in the Riverlands. So we needed more help in King’s Landing, and we found it.”
We have two battleworthy dragons. Now they have six. No wonder Jace is so pleased.
“And there are still other unclaimed dragons,” you say dully, nauseous with dread.
“Yes,” Jace agrees. “But unfortunately, Aemond realized what we were doing. So he took possession of Dragonstone, and he and Vhagar are always back and forth from there, and no one can approach the island and risk him happening upon them.” Another bite of his blackberry oatcake, more crumbs, more casual chewing. “Which brings me to my question for you.”
“For me?”
Jace nods. “I need you to tell me what he’s going to do next.”
You stare at your husband inanely. “What?”
“Aemond is the problem,” Jace says, more agitated now. He devours the last of his blackberry oatcake. “Even with all the dragons we have, it’s going to be difficult to destroy Vhagar. Our new dragonriders are inexperienced, and Daemon, he’s…” Jace waves a hand. “Unreliable. Self-serving. But you were there at the Red Keep with Aemond when he and Criston were drawing up their plans, and therefore you can help us.”
You lie immediately. “I don’t know anything.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Another lie. “Really. He didn’t discuss it with me.”
“Then tell me about him,” Jace says impatiently. “I know he’s good with a sword, but he must have weaknesses. Does he have lasting pain from his maiming, does he have vices that distract him?”
I’m not convinced I knew Aemond at all. “I’m not going to help you kill him.”
Jace glares at you incredulously. “How do you think this ends?”
“Rhaenyra promised Mother that Aemond would be spared, and you were a part of that bargain—”
“We said we would let him live if he’s still alive when the war is over, but we can’t win the war if he and Vhagar are seizing castles and territory and burning our men and supplies and nobody can stop him!”
“Does he know that…” You swallow, your throat burning. “Did Rhaenyra send him a raven to tell him about our marriage?” About my treason, about my ruining?
“No. Why would we provoke him like that? Why would we put a target on my back? The realm will be told when the battles are past and the surviving Green loyalists must be convinced to bend the knee.”
You close your eyes and you can’t picture Aemond as a warrior; you can only see him as a child with stitches and agony, as a man who gave you forbidden, bewitching pleasure. “I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”
“I did as you asked,” Jace snaps. “I persuaded Mother to give Helaena more freedom, I ensured that Alicent is healthy and that Jaehaera and Maelor are well cared for and never lonely. I can probably even save Daeron. But Aemond must be stopped.”
“He’s my family too—”
“I am your family now!” Jace roars, jolting to his feet and pounding on his own heart. “Me and my siblings, and my parents, and my children, not them!”
One of the doors of the Great Hall swings open and Lady Caro is there with a tray of cinnamon tea and fresh blackberry oatcakes. She gapes at you and Jace, too shocked to remember to be polite. It’s too late for her to pretend she hasn’t heard. She stalls, trying to think of something to say.
“I believe we’re having venison for dinner,” she announces with feigned cheerfulness.
Jace looks at you one last time—with disappointment, with fury—and storms out of the room.
~~~~~~~~~~
He doesn’t come to bed all night, and you leave the window wide open so Sapphire can glide in and visit you: hanging from your bedposts, scrambling over your blankets, and then vanishing shortly before daylight. You have a headache that worsens until you are half-blind and sick to your stomach, and the maids hear you retching and bring you toasted bread and ginger tea and a bucket and wet cloths to cool your face.
Lady Caro wanders in and sits down beside you, her weight shifting the feather mattress, and pats your shoulder sympathetically. “I think you should tell the prince that his efforts have been successful.” To produce an heir, she means, and you’re convinced she’s wrong.
“That’s not what it is,” you moan, burrowing under the blankets. “I’m sick all the time.”
“You haven’t had your monthly blood since you’ve been here,” Lady Caro says gently, and of course she knows this because of her maids, her spies. You stare up at her vacuously, unable to comprehend it.
Pregnant with Jace’s child?
And this feels like a final severing of any possibility that Aemond will ever want you back. No other man was allowed to lie with you. Now Jace has wed you, bedded you, bred with you, turned your coat.
You force yourself out of bed and let the maids dress you and comb your hair, nursing the ginger tea—unappetizing, but good for nausea—as you gather your courage. You aren’t sure how to tell Jace. You aren’t sure that you want to see him at all.
Your skull still throbbing and your bare feet unsteady, you stumble through the cold stony corridors of the castle until you hear men arguing spiritedly in the Great Hall, their voices rumbling like thunder. Inside you find Lord Corbray, a number of lords and knights, and the maester of the castle. Jace is bent over one of the tables and reading, then rereading, a letter that the maester must have brought from the rookery.
Lord Corbray is saying: “They write that he has already razed Darry, Blackbuckle, Claypool, Swynford, and Spiderwood. The noble houses are constructing scorpions, but even with them, how many bolts would be needed to kill Vhagar? She’s massive, she’s monstrous. The Northmen are marching south, but now they’re saying they won’t go beyond the Twins without Caraxes and Sheepstealer as escorts, and can we count on Daemon for anything…?”
Jace looks up and sees you standing in the threshold. His dark curls hang over his bloodless face; his eyes are staggered and fearful. And twistedly, horribly, there is a flash of light that burns radiantly through the murky gloom of your skull and your ribcage, a forbidden vindication, a rapture you can never reveal.
Aemond remembers me? Aemond longs for me?
Jace says: “He thinks you’re in the Riverlands.”
#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond x you#aemond x y/n#aemond x reader#jace x you#jace velaryon x reader#jace x reader#jacaerys x you#jacaerys x reader#jacaerys velaryon#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen x y/n#jace velaryon
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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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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/
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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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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 🖤
#aemond targaryen#aemond fanfiction#aemond x oc#house targaryen#maera wylde#hotd aemond#hotd fanfic#hotd helaena#house wylde#chapters#aemond fanfic#aemond x original female character#aemond x original character#aemond targaryen fanfiction#house of the dragon#hotd#aemond fic#house of the dragon season 2#hotd s2
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On the 12th day of @hprecfest this fandom gave to me...
Day 12: a fic by your favourite author
Title: Heal Thyself by @astolat
Pairing: Draco x Harry
Teen | 46.9k words
Summary:
"Are you going for the course?" Lovegood asked. "You have the NEWTs.”
“What course?” Draco said, then, “No, don’t be ridiculous,” when he realized she meant the notice pinned up on the board he’d been staring at: Applicants To The Introductory Mediwizard Course For The Coming Term Shall Present Themselves In The Chief Mediwizard’s Office By August 24th.
"Oh, I thought you might,” she said. “Well, goodbye.” And off she wandered again in her addled way.
Why I recommend it:
Choosing a "favourite" author from this fandom is an impossible task. Astolat won this spot despite a whole host of other contenders because I cannot simply pick one, but many of my other favourite authors are featuring in other prompts and I've read just about every single scrap of HP fanfiction she's written.
This fic is an absolutely stunning exploration of Draco's journey to redemption after the war. It is very apparent that he only begins the course to become a healer out of pride and spite, but after a few years, he starts to realize that he also wants this for himself. He struggles and fights his way through a wand that is reluctant to cooperate with him and the reactions of the public and his peers to his presence in the course.
Through gritted teeth, Draco works hard to make ammends for his past. He lives, breathes and sleeps his studies and work. This guy stops going out unless his very beneficent senior tells him he must. Even after he graduates and goes on to become a special consultant for only the most difficult of cases, he has to be kicked out of the hospital by the Chief Mediwizard. Not for good, of course, just out of the permanent residences and told to get a real flat and work no more than 5 days a week.
Draco has found something that he is not only good at, but is also benefitting both his patients and himself. His patients recieve care from literally the best Magister in England, and Draco finds that he is able to heal the bits of his soul that have been eroded by dark magic and corruption.
Listen, House, MD is one of my all time facourite shows. Draco doesn't give Dr. House per-se, but he is portrayed as a grumpy, tortured prodigy who is more often than not, the only one capable of saving his patients. The story is full of such beautifully crafted magical theory and magical medical lore, its truly brilliant. I crave this. I eat that shit right up. I will never stop rereading this fic.
As for the drarry of it all, Harry comes into the story when Draco has reached the top of his game, essentially. He's rebuilt his life in as successful a fashion as he knows how, and he's found a certain fulfillment and even peace with himself. Harry is deeply mistrusting of him and holds an unfairly harsh opinion, even after Draco saves his life. Having coincidentally discovered that fragments of all 3 killing curses Voldemort hit Harry with had not exactly vacated his body, Draco begins operating at once. It is a long, exhausting and harrowing procedure, but he does it. After the fact, Harry decides he's lying about something, hiding something and reverts to his basic programming; he begins stalking investigating Draco Malfoy.
When he discovers absolutely nothing, not a single hair out of place, he is baffled. He realizes that somehow Draco has literally managed to cleanse himself of all darkness. Despite all odds, he has crawled out of the corruption that was bred into him and come out a changed man - but also very much the same Draco he has always been. Honestly, after Harry has his come to Jesus moment and realizes he has feelings for Draco, its all very quick and easy between them.
Watching Harry fall into old habits and expect absolutely nothing but the worst from Draco, it's so stunningly relieving when he finally clues into it all. After realizing that Draco is a changed man, Harry mostly just finds it incredibly amusing to hang around and annoy him. It takes some time before he realizes that he has feelings for Draco, but when he does, these two quickly fall into such an easy rhythm with each other.
I need to end this outrageously long rec, thanks for reading for this long. Just do yourself a favour and go read this phenomenal fic. Also go leave kudos and comments!
Honourable mentions also go to Erosmancy, House Proud, The Compact, Reparatio and Slithering, which are some of my other favourites by Astolat.
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What do you think of the squishy wizard trope? Shouldn’t people that travel around and go “adventuring” have some baseline of athleticism?
So, we're back to a game design discussion, again.
The short version is, if it doesn't make sense to you, don't use it.
Squishy wizards are almost more of a gameplay consideration. If you have a game, and you're balancing ranged damage against melee damage, if your ranged damage units do enough damage, you can create a situation where melee damage straight up doesn't work. It's not viable. The 40k meme about the Tau comes to mind: “Sure, they suck in melee; too bad you'll never get there.”
If you tone down ranged unit's damage, that can easily create a situation where they become the ones who are irrelevant. Such was the experience of every level 1 Wizard in AD&D. Once in awhile, you can get into the perfect situation to end an encounter, but most of the time you're just biding your time until you get to level 5 and can learn to accidentally fireball your party's front line, but that is a long time from now.
If ranged units can do a lot of damage, they need to be fragile enough that you can remove them from the board. And the Tau comparison comes back to mind once again.
All of this combines to create a board environment, where melee fighters need to be tanky enough to get into combat and stay there. Ranged units need to be fragile enough that they can remove each other, deal enough damage to harass the melee units, without doing so much damage as to render them completely irrelevant to the board.
And, while you can build a story around that structure, you don't need to.
Gandalf isn't a fragile wizard. He's not some “book nerd,” who spent high school getting shoved into lockers. When the time comes, he goes toe to toe with a Balrog (or, the Balrog, whichever), and doesn't immediately die. He clearly manages to hold his own, in melee combat, with a massive monster. (In fairness, he's also not human. I mean, none of Tolkien's, “the race of men,” are conventionally human, but Middle Earth's Wizards are an entirely different race of beings.)
In a lot of games, solution is to give the frontline fighters a ridiculous amount of health. Now, I'm going to trash on D&D for a second, but consider that a 10th level Fighter should have somewhere around 94 - 114hp. Remember that critical hits represent some kind of significant injury. These are not just blows that connect with your armor and will leave a bruise, this is someone ran you through. Someone could crit on your fighter, with a long sword, and stab them in vital places at least 4, and probably 5 times, before it actually kills them. That's a comical amount of damage someone to suffer. (Now, granted, a 10th level character in D&D is basically a superhero. If you're thinking of Boromir's death in Jackson's Fellowship of the Rings, that is what it takes to put down a relatively high level fighter in D&D. Which is to say, hilarious amounts of abuse.)
If you signed up for that, cool. I'm not going to stop you. I'm not even going to tell you it's wrong. If you want to tear down a super-humanly powerful character through prolonged combat sequences, or due to attrition of multiple fights in quick succession, that works. I mean, hell, that's how DC killed Batman in the 90s.
If your wizard power fantasy is that a wispy intellectual gains cosmic power through hard academic study, cool. Again, that's entirely valid, and as I mentioned, it even fits into a power fantasy. If you were bullied as a teenager for your atypical interests, and habit of reading, here's a character that studies strange and esoteric subjects, and has real power as a result.
At the same time, it's entirely reasonable to have an averagely healthy mage, whether they study magic academically, or have some ingrained talent that they've honed, plop them down next to a veteran swordmaster who's fought in wars on nine continents with the scars to prove it, and while they may look a bit anemic in comparison to their buddy, is still in better shape than the average villager they interact with on a daily basis.
That's where I tend to land in all of this.
When you're creating characters for your writing, it can be helpful to assign them attributes. Now, I don't mean this in the literal RPG stat blocks. (I've tried that a few times, it doesn't really work for me.) But, just a few text descriptors (which, does sound like Fudge, come to think of it.) You might describe your mage as Smart, or Intellectual, Wise (or Absent Minded), Willful. You know, “wizard stuff.” If you describe your warrior as, Strong, Tough, Tenacious, and Cunning, you're not making the wizard squishy, you're making another character less squishy. A lot of the time, we set the base line by what other people are doing. It's reasonable to say your mage is less durable than your soldier. (Unless your mage has a reason to be that tough. Maybe they're from some frozen wasteland, and are just absolutely jacked from surviving in a hostile environment.) But, that comparison doesn't mean that your mage is deficient.
Now, on the other hand, frail characters can be interesting. You're taking out their ability to fight conventionally, so when they do start decisively ending situations, whether that's through their own creativity and guile, or sheer magical power, it can be very gratifying. And, to be clear, I am very fond of flawed characters, especially when they have to work within the framework of their flaws to find solutions, rather than just overcoming them through the power of love, friendship and mescaline.
When handled well, flaws are about creating limitations for how your characters can solve problems. These can also make your story more interesting. If you say, my character can't fight, (and you don't back down from that and just let them cheat so they can fight, because they're so goddamn special), they're going to need to find other solutions. That can result in a better, more interesting, and less predictable story.
-Starke
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Great A'Tuin finally reached the outpost! Dayn had organized an unmanned shuttle for them, waiting for them in the orbit. And the Boys are getting ready to set foot on their first alien planet! (In fact, Sai and Little Goat had already set foot on Otherworld's Sixam when they'd stepped through the portal to meet Tyalindo, their horse.) (TMI: The pic above shows Hoth in my Star Wars - The Old Republic game. I love this game so much and you can play it for free! I play for over ten years now and when I quested on Tatooine yesterday, I was standing there again, looking around in awe ^^')
Sai called for them to get ready. Jack was just about to finish knitting a pullover for Lenny. Dayn had told them that the outpost lies on an ice planet, so Jack had started knitting right away after Dayn had left :3 Jack: "You will like it!" Kiyoshi: "Hm?" Jack: "Ah never mind. I was talking to the cat ^^' " Skully, busy having an eye on Jack's knitting attempts: "No, two left first - then two right!" Jack: "Oh..." Knitting is so, so hard when your brain is so busy all the time! ö.ö
Jack finished Lenny's pullover just in time and helped him putting it on. Jack: "Look how cute you are! You love food just as much as I do, do you? Yes, you do!"
The Boys all gathered in the cargo bay to board the shuttle waiting for them. And since it's freezing down there, Jack thought they all should wear their winter sweaters (with their uniforms below - to go conform with the starfleet protocol :3 ) Vlad and Kiyoshi are as 'festive' as they can get ^^' And Sai just agreed to wear his because it's matching Jeb's (after Jack made Jeb wear his hahaha) (TMI: Vlad and Kiyoshi already refused to wear colourful sweaters on last year's winterfest...)
Ji Ho was just gulping down the most promising of the potions they'd tested. Skully: "Until the last drop - that's my Boy!"
Then it was time for the 'precautionary embrace'. Let's hope all this will prevent Ji Ho from getting travel sick again! Ji Ho didn't sense much nervousness from Vlad over the Bond, which made him nervous ö.ö What had happened at the sickbay when Vlad had been alone with Jeb and Kiyoshi? Did they make him swallow - potions - too?
Sai kicked Ji Ho out of his worrying thoughts by telling Vlad: "Do it thoroughly!" Poor Vlad, Sai has no idea how awkward and embarrassing this is!
And he did. The Little Goats sighed in awe: 'Aouwwww!'
Vlad tried everything to hide his feelings to not taint the 'preventive healing embrace'. So Ji Ho could just concentrate on getting down on the planet's surface in that shuttle without getting travel sick. Which wasn't an easy task. Holding Ji Ho's body close to his felt so good. It was hard to let go of him again...
Eventually, the Boys, Lenny and the Little Goats boarded the shuttle, and it took them down to the planet's surface!
It was an older shuttle and the ride was a bit wonky, but Ji Ho took it very well! Vlad was so relieved that their - inconveniences - had been of success! Though, it still means they need to have physical contact for 'the greater good' - and oh how he hates that! He wants to touch Ji Ho - and Ji Ho to touch him - because he wanted to and not because he has to -.- Not anytime soon - anyway - but still...
They stepped around the shuttle to take the outpost in. Wow!
Even Sai was amazed: "Now Jack and Vlad - this is just your style, huh?" But Vlad, Jack and Kiyoshi are taken aback. Worriedly Vlad looked at his friend: "Jack..."
This is exactly the place where Jack's mind had wandered to when he fell in his coma. (TMI: Jack has severe mental issues, but back then it was far, far worse. He believed Kiyoshi had been at the Lab to torture Saiwa and him (which he even was in the first place...) and Jack was just about to kill the wire-pullers when he collapsed and fell into a coma from all the turmoil inside of him. Kiyoshi and Vlad know this place too. They'd entered Jack's coma and came 'here' to bring him back.)
Jack: "How is this possible?" Saiwa: "Maybe you saw this place in a movie or documentary and your mind just chose it? Like in a dream, you know?" But there is also the old Twi'lek Jack had met in his coma - and he greeted him! Old Twi'lek: "Jack! Now that's a surprise, huh? How are you doing?"
Jack wasn't prepared for this - at all: "Eh..." Old Twi'lek: "Now, don't you worry, hm? We are going to repair that old turtle in no time and you can leave again soon to rescue B.D - won't we?" Jack: "Eh - sure."
(TMI: B.D, his kids and Albaleyh had been here when they searched for Lenny's vacuum bot.)
And from somewhere they heard Skully hum the X Files theme o.o
to be continued... ö.Ö'
Outtakes
The potion Ji Ho swallowed was the healing potion from the Get to Work pack. Afterwards, he immediately fell asleep ö.ö The Little ones too ^^'
From the Beginning 🔱 Underwater Love 🔱 Latest
Current Chapter: starts ▶️ here Last Chapter: 'Here comes the Sun' from the beginning ▶️ here
📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 23-29
#underwater love#Piglets in Space#jack callahan#vlad tepesz#kiyoshi ito#giga byte#jack pizza#skully#goats#Lenny Andromedan#vladimir tepesz#saiwa#jeb harris#woo ji ho#Great A'Tuin II#simlit#sims 4 story#sims story#the sims 4#simblr#sims 4#ts4 story#ts4#Spotify#kesuke miyagi
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Now that requests are open, time to drop a request I’ve been waiting on for a while:
Games where you play as bugs. Whether it be the route of Bug Fables, Hollow Knight, A Bugs Life, whatever. Rules light is preferred but I’m open! I just wanna play a game where I can play a Trapjaw Ant interacting with a whole bug bureaucracy that’s as big as a backyard.
THEME: Bug Games
Alright friend, so I think right away you want to look at Cuticorium, which I have talked about in my Insect Games recommendations. It’s about bugs that have gained sentience and also a moral compass, figuring out how to live with each-other in the shade of a magical tree. I’ve also got a few more for you to look at!
Agramabug Hex, by Volpe80.
Have you spent your whole life dreaming about what it would be like to be an insect? To crawl across the floor for a handful of breadcrumbs and a few shabby spells? To clash with the dictates of your religion that is incompatible with the very survival of your species? To trade every amenity you’ve collected in sweat and blood for precious human poo? Well, if that’s what you dream of, I may have something for you!
This is a supplement for Troika that includes a number of buggy backgrounds to choose from, as well as a bug-themed adventure. You’ll need the Troika rulebook in order to play, which is a really kooky ruleset primed for easy character creation and generative adventures.
Depending on the pace of your group, Agramabug Hex may last for a short campaign, with a small hex map for your little bugs to travel all over, and a random village generator to help you populate the map as you go a-traveling. I don’t know how much bug bureaucracy exists in this little world, but the hardscrabble fight of the various bugs for the scraps of human garbage certainly sounds like a conflict that you can throw all of your legs and mandibles into.
Hive & Hill: A Tale of Two Queens, by thebigtabletop.
Long have the insects warred amongst each-other. Hive and hill rarely see eye to eye. Both sides have suffered innumerable losses when war breaks out and prefer to keep their domains separate. Hives rule the skies and hills rule the earth. A singular threat to their way of life binds them together…
Humans have spread across the world forcing the insects into smaller and smaller pockets of the world. Their size and chemicals make them a great threat. While insects are small, they greatly outnumber the humans. In rare moments, the insects are willing to band together to fight the threat.
Upon a checked ground of red and white gingham, the humans have laid a bounty of food. A veritable feast that they seek to consume. While insects on both sides spend a majority of their time seeking out food, even a small sample of the meal that the human’s call a “picnic” would help feed a hive or hill for the long winter. At this moment, both hive and hill have agreed to work together to get the bounty and drive off the humans.
This is a game all about alliances in times of attrition, but placed on a battlefield distanced from human conflict. You use pools of dice to determine how successful each queen is in her manoeuvres, and role-play through blunders and connections between two sides of the field.
Overall I think this game is a bit closer to a board-game or dice game than a typical ttrpg, although the premise might be something that you can take and run with. If you want a collaborative, team-based game, you might want to take a look at Hive & Hill.
Bug Dish: Amuse Bouche, by The One True Ryan Khan.
Bugfolk from every reach come to Tower Lake at least once. You might be here to see the port city of Tower Point, or the golden hives of Honeyflow. Perhaps you’ve come to wander the paths of woven roots in Banyan Cradle, or to circle the lake on the Gossamer Rail.
But you are certainly here to taste the foods of Tower Lake’s Mobile Kitchens. Restaurant crews who travel around the lake creating culinary experiences. Fusing flavours, textures, and aromas with vision to create delectables no bugfolk has tasted before. Whether it’s a traditional dish perfectly executed, or a meal that changes how you think about food, these chefs are masters of their craft.
Bug Dish is a tabletop roleplaying game about bug chefs who travel the world and compete in culinary competitions. Using a bespoke push-your-luck mechanic, spend time to learn about the local cuisine, find out what your rivals are up to, and create meals to wow the judges.
This is a charming little game that casts your bugs as top chefs, tasked with learning the tastes of cantankerous judgy NPCS in preparation for a big cooking competition. I don’t own this game, but judging by the little teasers on the storefront page, your adventures will include various locations to visit and interesting ingredients to harvest in the pursuit of creating the perfect dish. If you prefer to solve your problems with a saucepan rather than a sword, this might be the game for you.
Beetle Knight, by Brooklet Games.
Beetle Knight is a bug-sized role-playing game for your tabletops. It features "contest rolls" where two creatures, or a creature and the arbiter roll dice against one another to determine uncertain outcomes.
The quickstart for this game starts with a short list of intriguing mysteries that your little characters might find themselves engaging with; from disappearing flies to a water skater trade embargo, to a sudden reticence amongst the court of the Orb Weaver queen. The problems that plague the insect kingdom call for a coterie of buggy knights, called to go where most dare not go!
This game feels heavily inspired by Hollow Knight, and asks the players and GM to engage with contests with e/o every time the Beetle Knights face up against an obstacle. Depending on the foe, this could make play very challenging. Your characters also have a magical resource called Resolve, which can be gained when you roll ties and spend when you want to use the magical items that your knight carries.
The game underwent some fundraising on Kickstarter a while back; there’s no official release of the game yet, but you can still download the Quickstart version of the game if you like. If you want a game with all the fantastical fixings, I recommend Beetle Knight.
Queenless, by Croaker RPGs.
Our Queen is dead! Such sorrow and despair! Without our Queen, our hive, our home, will slowly perish. Our only hope, our only slim hope, is to find, beg, borrow and steal enough Royal Jelly from our neighbours. If we have enough Royal Jelly, maybe, just maybe, we can raise another Queen.
In Queenless you’ll explore the valley, meeting other insects along the way. Your aim is to recover six jars of royal jelly, which your hive will use to raise another Queen. Some insects are friends, such as the Ants who share much in common with the Bees. But some are deadly foes, like the Praying Mantis, who would like nothing more than to eat you up little Bee.
Queenless is built as a solo game from the start with tables, exploration, and other mechanics that will keep you interested and challenge your little bee as it explores the valley on its quest. The core mechanic is based on Firelights, where you use a deck of standard playing cards and dice to determine success, partial success, or failure. You flip two cards and compare them to a dice roll+stats. Easy to figure out and resolve.
If you want a solo game about exploration and survival, but also bargaining with a number of other insects as you search for the things you need in order to raise another queen. Using the Firelights system, you’ll need a deck of playing cards to draw from, using the values of the cards against the results of your dice rolls to determine whether or now you succeed, and whether it will cost you anything to do so. If you want a game that can be be played at the comfort of your own pace, without the constraints of a group, I recommend Queenless.
You might also be interested in…
My Bee Games recommendation post.
This quick Bug Knights recommendation list.
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Hi Chai,
Since I know you are not a transmisogynist, what are some of your favorite transfem characters or characters you hc as transfem?
Btw this is the Malva anon again, I've been sending asks more than once but I realized I may be a regular asker now lol
GL with Bluesky
*Rubs hands eagerly*. Gladly! Let's talk about some ladies!
Rachel Bighead from Rocko's Modern Life
My friend and I were watching this in VC the other night and Rachel's probably my favorite example of how to "trans" a character, especially one that's been around for a long time, right. Nothing about it feels shoehorned or asspulled or like it was done to appease a board somewhere. Ralph's defining characteristic throughout Rocko's original run was being absolutely miserable all the time, no matter how much success in life he achieved, and so when we learn that he went off soul searching and discovered Rachel was the answer? It made perfect, beautiful sense.
Rachel's just...amazing. She's dry as ever, but unflappably confident. She's Ralph at perfect peace, and the journey we see the Bighead family go on? Bev's immediate acceptance, Ed's tearful epiphany that that little tadpole who damaged his retina is still right in front of him, and the three of them hugging? God, this part of the special was so good. Rachel's so good.
Also, I ship her with Rocko like whoa.
2. Grell Sutcliffe from Black Butler
I freaking love Grell. She's absolutely nuts, has an awesome design and a kickass weapon, and was surprisingly poignant and not-meanspirited considering the time period the show came out in. I love how the English dub has her give a kind of orgasmic bird squawk every time something goes right for her. 10/10, would support every last one of her woman's wrongs.
(Incidentally, Grell's one of the reasons it annoys me when people call me transmysogynist based off my opinions on Arcee, because let me tell you, I did my tour of duty back during the Grell Wars.)
3. Jerry/Daphne from Some Like it Hot
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First of all, this movie's amazing and if you haven't watched it and don't know the very famous ending, go remedy that right now. And then chase it with this fic. I'll wait.
I'm firmly in the camp that believes Jerry/Daphne is genderfluid, and holy cow, is this a lovely little story of self-discovery and falling in love. It's just so special to me. It makes me smile like a damn fool every single time.
4. Fem!Shep from Mass Effect
Okay, this one's kind of cheating because Shepards are customizable and can be anything you want, but I loved the idea from the get-go. That's in part because fem!Shep's model still moves like male!Shep, and it's especially noticeable when she sits, but it also just kind of feels fitting with a lot of the dialogue options. In conclusion, my Shepard was great and I need to replay that game with Legendary Edition because I miss her deeply.
5. Maevaris Tilani from Dragon Age
Mae's wonderful on so many levels and she's a character I'm very excited to meet face-to-face in Veilguard. She's stunning, an absolute powerhouse, she's good friends with my my beloved Dorian, and her relationship with her late chubs hubby was beautiful. I'm pretty sure she's not going to be romanceable, but if she was, I think my Rook would be doomed.
6. Hana from Tokyo Godfathers
This movie's a treasure and so is Hana. I like that she's old, she's stubbly, she doesn't pass flawlessly, but by god, if anyone deserves to be a mom, it's her.
7. Angel from Rent
Another genderfluid character! At least, that's my best guess. I've always loved that we have no fucking clue exactly what flavor of genderqueer Angel is, that not even the cast seems unanimous on it.
I loved Rent when I was younger, thought it was so deep and profound, and it's kinda not but Angel was easily my favorite character. Still is.
8. The Laughing Cow and the Lactaid Cow
They're cows that don't have udders and they're gay and in love, I don't make the rules.
9. Anode and Lug
Transfem lesbian bots from RiD's (the comic run IDW Arcee is from) much more competently written sister series, they're a demonstration of how to do it right. I like that one transitioned medically and the other didn't. Anode features very prominently in my Arcee fix-it fic and I grew very attached to her while writing it.
10. Marco from Star vs. the Forces of Evil
I'm gonna level with you, I never actually watched this show. But I was very invested in this one back in the day and disappointed when it never came true.
Honorable mention: Art the Clown from Terrifier
While I don't exactly headcanon Art as transfem, there's a fic on ao3 that explored the idea and I kind of dug it. I could see Art much younger, with many possible futures laid out, and that being one of them. I think if something fundamental hadn't broken in his soul/brain, he would have been either trans or a fruity old drag queen, happy as a clam.
Mind you, this is all fanon talk. My jaw would hit the floor with horror if this became canon and Art would go straight on the pile of characters I get yelled at for "misgendering" because if I refuse to swallow rotten food.
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