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[rosheendubh]

S7S8 Draft Rewrite GoT...

—YouTube Game of Thrones film edit/rewrite challenge: —It’s Long, the formatting is terrible, and it’s really more a thread of ideas than a proper outline. But I’m throwing the challenge out there—can some talented YouTube montage editor reel back and mash up GOT Seasons 7 and 8 to match what I’ve drabbled down below?Which is essentially 1 of 1000 other (mostly wonderful) rewrite ideas to help where D&D got a little lost. Honestly, just add some 2 Steps From Hell Soundtrack background, varied clips from the previous S7 and S8 in the order I’ve described below—and ‘voila’!!—our more satisfying conclusion to the last 9 years of fangrrl obsessions... Thanks, I’ll love you forever (and would happily clean this up to be more reader-friendly) if you could do this!!

...or rather, how it should have been written...

There were about a thousand alternative plot lines the GoT authors could have chosen to develop S7 and S8. Basically, they ignored every one of them which would have been better than the drivel they chopped out and spewed Willie-Nillie to hurry up and deliver the blandest tripe to neutralize drama more effectively than a junior-high level theatrical recreation of Shakespeare... —This Post is long, and is also an indulgence of therapy, involving shameless GoTs fangrrling and GeekGrrling... For starters, they was an entirely plausible method to Daenerys’s destruction of King’s Landing, but it would have involved reeling back S7 to only address the Battle for King’s Landing, as the threat of the Night King decended on the North in the background. Keep Jon Snow at Dragon’s Keep/Island Targaryan, mining Dragon Glass, whilst Dany views the motives of the North suspiciously, and rather than battling stupid minor campaigns across Westeros, just concentrates her full force armies+ 3 Dragons on King’sLanding (taking the advice of Olenna earlier than she ought—still as a conqueror, and ruthless, but not psycho...), shattering the Red Keep. Tyrion, somehow, can still wheedle into the city, offering Jamie the chance to get Cersei out despite her refusal to leave...until it’s apparent the RedKeep is about to collapse. Team Cersei (the Mountain, Qyburn) manage to escape through the crypts to that random boat, heading off to CasterlyRock, laying low wisely, beaten and bereft of an army, but not their loyal houses who are leery of the returned Targaryen, trying to regroup allies. Cue—NOW Euron enters with his fleet, to Casterly Rock, offering his undying love to Cersei, and his ships... Meanwhile, collateral damage expected with the RedKeep’s destruction, with some innocent lives, the city overall remains preserved for occupation by Dany’s forces. It’s ambivalence with which the people greet her rather than the gratefulness and joy she anticipated, and she realizes the first truth of governance: a conqueror does not a ruler make...but has little time to ponder this conundrum with Varis and Tyrion as her main advisors, before word is received simultaneously of Cersei and Jamie’s escape—engineered by the only person who could possibly have known out to get them out of the Keep. Her Hand. Cue: Tyrion is arrested. Jon, stranded on Dragon’s Keep, with a skeleton guard only, receives word from the Wall of the Army of the Dead at the Wall. Supposedly, they can’t pass b/c ‘the dead and spells protecting the integrity of the Wall’—but there they stand, just at the boundary of the World of the Living. Jon enacts a daring escape with Team Stark/Snow—killing the men Dany left to hold them in custody, and gets back to his ship, sailing back to Stark holdings in a haste to prepare an unprepared North. Dany, pulled on 2 fronts—between Lannisters and Starks—and holding a city barely in her grip, is forced into a quandary. Jon appeals to her once more (via flying pigeons of course) to come to the aid of the North, in exchange for which he will bend the knee, and promise the submission of the North as well—upping the ante on tension between his loyalty to save the North vs his devotion to serve the North, possibly compromising his own position with his nobles and his family. Bran, by this point, delivered back to Winterfell/Home Stark, learns of Jon’s true heritage, and perhaps informs him then. Or not... Meanwhile, Dany’s dual nature between compassionate queen versus ruthless conqueror asserts itself, and she knows what the right thing, the true thing is to do. You know, like she had shown through the previous 6 seasons of the show. She commits a significant portion of her armies, and her Dragons north, haunted by the carvings Jon had her shown under Dragon Stone (still preserving that scene from S7) the first time in their brief meeting where sparked admiration and attraction between the two—something both were resisting and ignoring at that time. Since D&D evidently left her enough of an army of horsemen and Unsullied in the actual show after the battle of WinterFell, to occupy the cinders of KingsLanding, I’m guessing in my rewrite, Dany has enough of an army to leave behind and maintain her control of King’s Landing, whilst driving her forces North... Concurrently, we have Team Lannister, courtesy of EuronGreyJoy Water Ubers, sailing to Bravos, aquiring  that massive loan from the IronBank, and that absolutely useless GoldenCompany. In this rewrite, they’re more effective, AND BS on elephants. If Hannibal could herd them through the Alps, over the seas from Africa, Drogon’s Balls that they couldn’t also show up in Westeros...Cersei, my villainess supreme vixen, you get your elephants in my version! Scene—Rejuvenated Lannister mercenary army heading back to KingsLanding...S7 concludes... —S8: the battle of the Wall hangs by a thread, but somehow, sans a Dragon this time, the NightKing manages to kill one of the Watchers on the Wall, and wight-over Castle Black, and every other fort along the Wall, with only a few stragglers escaping down to WinterFell, barely ahead of the Zombie Apocolypse. Of course, Thormund is with them—my ginger lover of Brienne the Magnificent. —Jon rallies what meager mortal defenses he might, all collected at WinterFell, fortified as fortified might be thanks to Sansa’s adept hand at administration. We’re still plagued by LittleFinger in this canon, and at some point, Arya arrives back as well, having heard of the victory of the Dragon Queen at KingsLanding, and the advance of Dany’s forces North. Enter: Brothers W/o Banners, with RedPriestess, knowing their destiny is finally upon them. WinterFell is razed, but Dany’s forces arrive at the last minute—we relive that scene where she comes like a flying avenger, rescuing Jon and a small group of determined fighters from imminent death. Or, maybe his comrades die, or scatter in the confusion. Heroic Rhagel, lowers his head and offers his wing to Jon in an oddly sequestered moment, cut off from the dying and destruction abounding. It doesn’t take Jon much prompting from Dany, amid battle chaos, to tell him what to do. And Jon—grown into a less doormat version of himself than what D&D seem to have conceived (ie, awakening his alpha male, to match Dany’s alpha female, rather than the psycho femme-fatal into which mutated her)—mounts Rhagel just at the moment a White Walker is about to skewer Jon. DireWolf style, awesome Ghost makes DireWolf kibble if WhiteWalker, but not before WhiteWalker stabs Ghost fatally. Jon’s anguish is tangible on his perpetually constipated facade, but the symbolism is clear. Kill the Wolf; awaken the Targaryan Dragon... —Night King faces Dany. Drogon roasts Night King unsuccessfully. Night King targets Viserys and launches Ice Javelin at the moment Drogon is trying to roast Night King. *WeepyTearsSerial HeartAttacks* as dying dragon crashes out the sky to ground... All battle pauses for a horrified moment, even the dead. And the Night King, to the shock of the Northern forces, and Dany’s host, even past a Dsny paralyzed for a fateful moment by the frigid gaze of the Night King upon her, resurrects Vicerys. Thus, we avoid the awkward *where in the world did all those chains come from to haul dead dragon out of water at the end of S7*. Dany, reeling from the sudden loss of Vicerys, and rendered lost momentarily, processing the fact her dragons do have vulnerabilities, and seeing the horror around her, the inevitable defeat, draws courage from Jon in that moment, whatever words he speaks, maybe in reprimand for her momentary weakness/no time to grieve/living need us to provide retreat...and off they go, defending the remaining survivors of WinterFell, sacrificing the North, in order to fight another day. The remaining forces of Dany, and Jon, the Starks having escaped, and the rag-tag few of others, including Brienne, the Stark Sisters (Bran?? Ugh, fine...but we’re bringing Meera, thank you very much...), the Hound, Thormund/some Wildings-Black Watch, etc... They arrive at whatever sea-port is closer, Yara’s fleet awaiting their arrival, disheartened and horrified by the remnant few survivors...and 1 less dragon. —Now, of course the Dead are forcing them to the shore’s very edge, but they manage overall, to make-off safe. Back to King’s Landing or Dragon Stone/Drsgons Keep (can’t keep up with the fortress names...)?? Who knows...DragonStone would actually make more sense, allowing for regroup/recoop time, but not time they can really afford to lose. but it does allow for sending communication to KingsLanding, and for Jon to expresshis reservations about Dany’s wish to incinerate the city, CUE: speech about “just becoming one more shit-thing ‘the people’ have always known...”S7. —Somehow, maybe via Jorah and Samuel Tarly re-entering the tale at this juncture, having been to KingsLanding, and discovering it’s under siege by Team Lannister, w/their varied mercenary and allied houses, cutting Dany’s forces off inside, w/Cersei and Co outside, finally breaching the Walls through subterfuge, and retaking the City in a vicious street-to-street encounter between Dany’s occupying garrison, and Cersei’s army, with Euron’s navy blockading the harbor...whatever is Tyrion to do, whilst Messandi, who had been left to administer in Dany’s authority, is taken hostage by Team Cersei...but spared the Mountain. Whatever is Tyrion to do??  Tries to find a cord of sympathy and doubt in Jamie, as Tyrion warns their victory is temporary. Cross the Dragon Queen once, and she may still have an element of mercy. Cross her twice, and ‘show no mercy’ becomes the law... Of course, spliced amid the battles are the quiet moments of character interaction, and dialogue—especially for the interval on the ship. A desperate gambit has been made to Cersei, warning of the Army of the Dead, approaching King’sLanding...by Pigeon Courier again, I suppose?? —At DragonStone-recuperating—Touching and tender character crossings ensue—Jorah with Dany. The Hound with Arya and Sansa. The Hound, finding that unexpected something with this new, tough-as-nails-Sansa (pu’leeze—had they not hinted at this in the books, I wouldn’t go here, but more than Dany and Jon, I was always rooting for a feasible blossoming, hestant, bittersweet romance between these two... but one that endures as the human side of love, promising hope the future, as opposed to Jon and Dany’s epic, Star-crossed doom...). —And, revelations—Dany. Jon. Targaryen. Stark. Dany’s purpose for conquering Westeros seems insignificant, trivial now, compared to the existential threat of the Night King. Consequently, she’s lost and confused, in what her destiny had been, or she thought it had been, and what her new purpose appears to manifest as/seems to imply. There’s still the stage of the Iron Throne; there’s still Cersei, and the Lannister threat, but it’s larger now, than a mere struggle to “take back what is mine”. And Jon, there’s Jon. To whom Rhagel bowed, and allowed Jon to ride. And she knows, even without Bran’s stoner-revelation, what this means. But Bran’s words at least shine clarity over the conflict of her emotions with Jon, and given him a name. Aegon. The realization has left Jon as unmoored as she. —Jon swears his siblings/now cousins to silence despite Sansa’s protest, “I ask as your brother/kinsman, but I command it as your king. You’ll say nothing of this to anyone—vow upon the Wolf of the North/Jon’s Sword—until I’ve spoken to Daenerys Targaryen alone. Nothing,” he repeats, emphasis. —Arya, wary but loving Jon as always, bows her loyalty. Bran remains stoic, and Sansa erupts in vehemence in their duty to the North. Jon, temper breaking in his grief and confusion, rallies/counters in a heated voice, “What North, Sansa? What North? You saw what the Night King did, can do. There’s nothing left of the North, except for those of we who’ve survived.” —Sansa, “who are now at her mercy. How convenient for her grab at power. It ought to be you, Jon. Aegon. You are the—“ His gaze grows cold, silencing her, though her eyes still challenge him. “Don’t say it,” dangerous and low. For love of him, not fear, does Sansa hold her tongue. —Jon asks Bran if he can see the future, lend some direction, but Bran, in that hollow voice, helplessly admits, “It’s only darkness across the kingdoms. The skies of ice and land of snow and night. He marches on KingsLanding. You need to tell her, he’s raised Vicerys. Balefire devours the land from the north to Vales of Europe, on the edge of Passes of ___. Even water will no longer stop him.” — Later, alone in her meeting room, Jon and Danny speak. He tells her the truth, the veracity confirmed by Sam’s own discovery in the Chronicles kept by the WhiteTower. And Danyboiints our the obvious, as he’s the last male heir of House Targaryen, and heir to the Iron Throne. -Jon rejects the words. “I don’t care. I don’t want it. I made a vow to you, a promise as the King of the North, and it is as that King I still speak. You came to us, in our hour of need, when you might have done otherwise. You came, and fought, your men died at our sides. For the North.” -Dany, bitterly interjects, “For what little good it did.” Jon, gratitude and tenderness at once, “There would be none of us left here if you hadn’t. I am sworn to you, and so is the North. As Jon or as...as Aegon,” he stumbles. “As a Stark, and a Targaryen. You’re not the last of your house, Dany.” —(Borrowing from the scene after the feast at Winterfell, where they’re in Jon’s chambers, conversing, about to get it on, *true chemistry there and too bad they didn’t capitalize on that, nor let the characters/actors express that more going from S7*—until she becomes MeanGirl drama, and he gets DoorMat Mopey...which does not happen here in my canon—so out of character for both by this point)... -Dany, staring into the flames, searching, asks seeking, “What do we do now?” “It doesn’t matter anymore. Ice and fire, is what we are, Dany.” His presence is a warmth, solid and strong, as he comes behind her, his hands upon her shoulders, gentle and commanding/impelling, turning her toward him, tipping her chin up so she meets his eyes, she trembles in their strength as she holds herself proud, stiff in her pride, fearful and hoping at once, knowing and not wanting to know how much he wants of her-spirit and Fire, courage and compassion, the sacrifice and losses litters upon their paths, in a journey they’ve traversed from opposite sides of these tortured lands, to build something of hope, from the wreckage others have tried to make of their lives and visions, adversaries unknowingly making them stronger, but that strength, every victory, every triumph come at great cost to ideal and faith. Until, at this crossroads where each find themselves, there’s one certainty as clear as dawn upon a crystal sky, that what they’ve found in each other is home. Refuge and sanctuary, fated and as inevitable as breath to the living, and water to the thirsty. And despite hopeless causes, for Westeros or against the Night King, who closes further south at a dread pace, collecting minions as he festers thorough the territories to KingsLanding, his wight Dragon a thing of terror and near invulnerable destruction, despite family secrets and secret shame—they no longer resist the fate of Ice and Fire. *BombChickaBombBomb* — The same night, Sansa in her hurt at her brother’s...cousin’s...stance, so foreign he seems with this new persona, the half brother, the bastard brother she’s always known, her savior at a time when they didn’t know if any of their family still lived, the victor of WinterFell, the King of the North, Jon Snow—Aegon...a Targaryen. Hardly seemed possible, but there it was, by Bran and in writing. She wanted to weep and rage, claw out his eyes, and beg him in tears, that they would still love him, always love him, and not trust this Dragon Queen. Who, to be fair, she’s exchanged less than two lines of formal greeting since they’d arrived as exiles from the ravaged north, here in the mother isles of the Targaryens. So what if it was Lyanna rather than Ned. He was still a Stark. She wanders aimless, and annoyed, avoiding Baillesh b/c she hasn’t the capacity for quicknrejoinders and subtle ploys to elude his ever stagnant coveting of her body, and her status—the Lady of WinterFell. A WinterFell that’s no more, decimated by an army of wights and corpses brought to motion. Through varied corridors, the rooms lent to the women, the main hall and even the bloody kitchens, out along the palisade, the quest for solitude seems, like everything else that dreary day, to thumb Sansa like a demon shadow spiting the one thing she truly wants right now. To be alone. Finally, she wanders into a thankfully ruined, deserted anteroom that must have been an old armory once, shuttered and closed off by poorly fitted wooden slabs rotting off their nails. She ducks under the barrier of a half hinged door that groans in age and rust, coughing at the dust motes stirred by her skirts. On a pile of shambled furnishings she collapse finally, leaning back to close her eyes, rest against the stones behind her, in the darkness—a peak of setting sun slanting between tattered curtains, the ocean breeze seeepingvaway mold and must, painting shadows across the neglected room. At last, precious, precious silence. “You too, eh, little bird?” Sansa startles upright, eyes casting about fretful, jar to her nerves turning immediately to anger. She bites out in rapid annoyance how impossible it is to find a coffin’s width of space to be alone, asking in the same breath what the Hound is doing in a dank chamber, away from his new found brethren. “I came here to sleep. The Dothraki dontvlike to be where they can see no sky, and those castrates from Essos believe these lower corridors are haunted. Ghosts or rats, anything out of the dark will still be quieter than the shits above who want to drink and mourn all night for their woes at the eve of our doom.” The wryness in her voice seems a trait that’s emerged more fully in the years she’s matured into her true power, trusting her own instincts, and realizing she too, has a penchant for authority and presence. The Lady of Winterfell. “Seeking the impossible.” He lights a lamp, the kind men carry on encampments and the March. “What’s that? A cock and some sweet words in the night?” She would have blushed and choked at such coarse words long ago. But she’s known much worse since the days when she was his little bird. The look she shoots him is ironic, as is her tone. “Silence. It seems at premium right now.” The Hound laughs, “The last thing most men want on the vantage of their deaths. There’s an eternity of silence, after, little bird. It’s why there’s always so much drinking, song, and whoring before battles.” Sansa, “Shouldnt they save that till after the battle is won?” His face darkens. “We won’t win this one, little bird. Even with this Dragon Queen. Even with your brother.” The word, brother, makes her wince. He sees that, peering at her curiously. He passes her the flagon he’d been nursing. “Ah, that’s it, eh? He’s fallen under her spell, and you don’t trust that.” She sips, readying herself for some sort of home brew, that burning liquor said to peel the insides of men with one swig, and shit fire the next day. One swallow and it’s a sweet pungency of grapes and sun, autumn spice on the next. “____wine? This was from our cellars.” Her brow raised, his cheeky look, an almost grin ghosts over his face. “It seemed a shame to sacrifice all of it. Berick salvaged what he could, getting it into one of the wagons in our retreat. Drink up, little bird. It the swansong of your home.” He had that penchant for barbs that can wound and comfort both. She remembers that, but thecway he delivers them now is gentler, spoken in the tone of melancholy. A man who’s known grief, and survived. Who’s dealt death, and now admits his struggles with his own ghosts. That part is new. Something happened to him in the years they’ve been apart. Sansa not sure how to reconcile this as weakeness or a strength for him. “Wine was never our chosen beverage. Ale and beer were marks of Northmen. And women.” He takes the flagon back. “Like your brother, no doubt, little bird. A man of the North. And all those tough as steel fuckers who will follow him to the very edge of the world and beyond.” “My brother is not my brother,” the words spilling past her conflicted mind before she can stop them. “He’s...”, Anger curls her fingers, pinching her spine straight, her eyes furious upon him. Which makes Sander suddenly throw his head back, true deep laughter surging into the darkness, until he’s holding his gut, trying to catch his breath. Her indignation riles him more. “Why is that so funny to you?” “Ah, little bird,” he quiets into a solemnity she almost finds harder to bear than his unpredicated amusement. “Of course he’s not a Stark. He’s a Targaryen.” Her gasp, the struggle to regain her poise before she completely betrays her oath to Jon...Aegon. Jon. He’ll always be Jon, prompts Sandor to handing her the flask again. Something, a sip, the motion to salavage her shattered nerves. “How-“ she coughs on the rich vintage. “How did you know?” “He rode a dragon, Sansa,” he says, laconic as always. “I usually punched or skewered most of my tutors, but even I listened to the old tales sometimes, as a boy. Fire. Fire will never harm him.” His eyes clouded by the memory of his own sadistic brother, his large hand moving up, caught and curled back against his lap, the puckered scars ravage his scalp, half his brow. Out of reconciliation, she returns the flask so he can escape from his own past in that easing warmth of wine. “He’s still a Stark,” she says definable. Possessively. “He was Lyanna’s son, by Rhaeger. It was a love match. They were married in secret to keep him safe from the Baratheons.” His short laugh holds only bitterness. “And everything that’s come from that day to this, every life lost, every mother left weeping, houses ruined, and villages burned, has been based on a lie. Because some fat cunt of a lord couldn’t understand how a Stark girl would find him repulsive compared to the perfection of a silver haired Targaryen. Even when they’re mad as rabid dogs.” She can appreciate his glum, but feels compelled to amend his sour appraisal, perhaps out of mercy for her brother, who she knows was struggling with this revelation in his own confusion. She clears her throat, signaling with a glance at his flask to hand the wine back to her. “They say Robert was actually handsome back then. And Rhaeger wasn’t mad.” “Yet. He didnt have a chance to be. But he was impulsive, and self-serving. He left his lawful wife the moment your aunt crossed his sight, and never considered once, the consequences his act would bring. Only cared to serve the golden dragon between loins, and thought your aunt was the answer to his destiny—Elia, Dorne, and the Kingdom be damned. What is it, about you Stark women, little bird? Makes men think with their cocks, and dream impossible feats.” His eyes shine with wine glaze and ruefulness, and but his words remain unslurred. She recalls the tankards he could drown, and still be sitting upright with a steady strike of his sword, where other men had long before sleptvin the puddles of their own vomit. Her own mind buzzed with just the edge of dizziness and daring, enough to loosen her tongue in the same way it’s made him nostalgic. She has a suspicion when he’s not angered in his wine haze, he euther hets mopey or morose, neither mood does she seek right now in her own tormented heart, shadowed byvwhat the coming days hold. “I’m not your little bird, anymore, Sandor Clegan.” The sadness in his voice almost takes her from this edge of ire to grief. “I know that, lit-Sansa,” hecsays softly. Her name though, how he shapes it. She’s only heard him speak like this once before. That night. That night she should have trusted him, and left KingsLanding. “I knew that when you told me you knew no more songs, and the little bird lost her voice. It took all your courage to look me in the face when you said that. Now...now you don’t even flinch to meet my eyes. Have I grown so less threatening?” Sansa aches for something lost, something of this feeling, a final sorrow or a hope that died with Jon’s true heritage. “My father was a killer. My brothers are killers. The world was made by killers.” His eyes hold hers steady, firm before her judgement, something cold and brittle and hurtful finally surfacing in all the years she’s kept it down. Never soothed, even with Ramsay’s death, never gloried nor indulged b/c she refused to become like the beasts who had made her journey to womanhood a living hell. But she knows what’s been lost, and knows can never be recovered of innocence. Delusions, she knows now, fantasies that her father and brothers doated upon her, thinking they could protect her, did her a favor by sheltering her from the realities of men and the world. None of them, not even her mother, tried to teach her how to be strong. That, she learned on her own. And the price wasn’t her violated body or the trauma of Ramsay’s perversions. Memories that still creep into her nightmares. The cost was the betrayal of her father, her brothers, and her family, for thinking women needed to be sheltered and protected, and never allowed to mature into their independence—to fail or thrive by their own intellect or grace. That seed of resentment fills her words now, and flashes in her eyes, hardening everything about her to steel and ice, b/c Sandor too, felt the same way once. His uncommon chivalry toward her, she sees now, was his own fumbling attempt to shelter her. Little Sansa. Little Bird. “I learned where true monsters lurked, hidden behind the faces of men. And I survived them. But you would have have done me a favor, Sandor, to have finished what those assailants started that day you saved me from the rioters who meant to kill Geoffrey. It would have spared me my continued delusions. Stupid little Sansa, and her stupid little fantasies. You would have shown me much more efficiently what I learned anyway, what the real world was truly rife in, of monsters and traitors and liars.” The words twist out of him in a whisper. “Alas, the she wolf has arrived.” That hasn’t changed, at least, his mockery of her, though it’s more a gentle ribbing. He short rejoinder dies, when he adds, “We aren’t all that way, Sansa. Not all men, even the killers amongst us.” She dares for his touch, reaching toward him, a test worthy of Baillesh, querying in how he might react. Almost laughs, but swallows it down when she sees the terror and surprise pale his face, the half not ruined by fire, she notices now, truly studying him, handsome in its bold lines, the shape of contemplation in deepest eyes and the long jaw. A poet’s mouth, her light touch traces the gouged flesh of old burns. “I know that,” she says. “But I too, have learned to kill. I still don’t think it’s killers who make the world though.” He hand wanders back to her lap. “I would never have hurt you. I protected your sister, as well as I knew how, anyway. I would protect you.” She’s sighs, feeling a smile pass, glinting eyes upon him, her turn to mock, cruel smirk. “I don’t need a champion. I already have one,” the pointed remark stinging his ego enough to break his disconcerting sadness, as he shifts with the uncomfortable reminder of his defeat at the hands of Brienne of Tarth. “And Arya is practically an army to herself.” A condsering look passed between them, of understanding and admiration of her younger sister, whose skills were still something of a puzzlement. Part of her sister’s book of sorrows and secrets, she sees now, and knows Arya may never share those empty years with her. And Sansa has made her peace with that. As she has with Bran and the uneasy aura of power and old magic that hangs about him, despite the illusion of flawless youth molding his fine features. “Still, I would never have harmed you, Sansa. And whatever you think, of men who mistook ignorance to preserve innocence, I never shared that belief. You were the only thing in that rotten court that was sweet and good, pure. And brave. Brace enough to stand up and defend your belief in the world’s goodness, and the honor of men, even in the face of your fear. You don’t know how scared Ivwas of that, how you saw right through me, straight to that cowering, quivering little pissant deep inside. You were gentle tough, even with him. I wanted...that. Wanted you.” “Stop,” she pleads roughly. “I know. I know all of that.” How can one feel so alone and share such proximity with another human, intimacy it’s own bridge and wall. “I dreamt of you, after that night the Blackwater was almost lost. Dreamt you kissed me, and wrapped me your cloak before you took me with you. And I felt so safe. So loved. That dream was where I would go, in the worst moments with...Ramsay. I almost,” she says with a wistful smile, “convinced myself it was real at some point.” “I make him suffer a thousand fold—“ “Shh,” her finger over his lips, Her solemn look quiets him. “His death was mine alone to render, and he died as deserved. By the jaws of the creatures who he thought loved him most.” The grim satisfaction she still feels, hearing his screams as they gradually turned to groans wet with with a gargling of blood, and the snorts and snarls of feeding dogs who feast before their victim is truly dead, terrifies her, the euphoria of power and absolution. Sansa has enough inner counsel to realize the temptation of that road, how easy to become the thing one wishes to destroy. Her burning hatred died with him, but nothing, the nothingness has never rebounded, never found anything to restore whatcwas lost in the months of her torture. He’s patient and tender with this awareness, somehow knowing as he had with her brother. “It’s still too soon, isn’t it. After Bolton’s stench, for you to want another man.” A statement, so blunt it might have been callous, but so very Hound-like. How comfortable, relieving it is, to keep nothing hidden, and not have to explain herself. How perturbing that she can discuss something so vile and recent to her past, and shroud it in a casual shrug, the twitch of revulsion the only betrayal of how close her disgust still hovers. “That. And evading Baillesh’s advances while preserving diplomacy. He would make a nanny goat in heat go cold.” “That little weasel,” he growled. “His own shadow doesn’t trust him.” She glances at him sidelong. “B/c his own shadow knows better,” she says dryly. “Fortunately, he’s still too terrified from WinterFell to remember how to be subtle/crafty and scheming. You can’t buy off a Wight, and you can’t blackmail the Night King. He actually tried to persuade me to spend the night with him by claiming these could be our last ones before we die.” Perhaps it was the lamplight, but Sandor looked like he’d eaten bad oysters, an expression between rage or nausea, like he was fighting down bile stained the muscles of his jaw. “Drink, Clegan. Before you get sick. He claims to love me, and won’t touch me. He’s still too guilty for having been called out selling me off to the Bolton’s. I told him desperation wasn’t becoming in tempting a woman to bed. Besides, I heard him scream when he was about to be overrun by those Zombies. He sounded like a terrified rabbit. Nothing douses passion more than that. I can’t look at him without laughing. I scorn him, and I pity him both. Is that possible?” His eyes brightened, uncanny, lifting her out of her morose. “Pity him, rather. I think the Dornish women found him. The cries coming out of that room...” The suggestion trailing with all manner of fates, but the dread and envy on his face told all. Men spoke warily and yearningly of one night with a Dornish woman. One Dornish woman. A group, all sisters, and a man was left wondering if he’d ever be able to service a woman ever again, let alone piss while standing, or ride a horse. “Good,” she says firmly. “They might even make a man if him, if there’s a man left after they’re done.” A snort under his breath, amusement in his voice. “If there was ever a man to begin with. They like women too. He should serve both roles well, for their tastes.” Silence holds them in the moments following their brief humor/levity, Sansa taking the wine flask, and Sandor reaching for a fresh flagon from his knap-sack. “Another?” She blurts, emptying the remnants of first. “I didn’t think I would go through the first so quickly. I wasn’t expecting company. You’re planning on staying, then—“watching without comment, a little taken aback really, as she frees the flagon from his hands with a giggle, unsteady, and opens the the cork, gulping down the silken drink—“Here, with me, tonight?” She doesnt want to leave, his presence—the bulk of his body, a solid assurance which lent her more calm in these last hours, than she’s had in...years. A settling in her soul that’s been like a restless butterfly flitting with no where to rest, fraught worse since Jon had taken the field against the Boltons, and successively tied the fate of their homeland to the throne Sansa had been trying to free them from. She turns to him slowly, disappointment perhaps, marring the comfort of their camaraderie/familiarity. That he had to take advantage of this blessing he’d begun to uncover with her, only to push a boundary she thought he’d respect, and leave her to reject him gently, b/c it always needed to be done gently. Men were such fragile creatures. For all the tenderness of his eyes upon her, she had thought he understood her reluctance, revulsion in fact, in the act of coupling. She might one day, find a place to let someone touch her thecway she knew people could who desired each other. They way she knew Jon and the Targaryen woman were in these past hours. The thought left her cringing and disturbed. They were both Targaryens. But he was still a Stark. Maybe it was jealousy, a little envy, toward her after all. Jon accused her of that, but said it the Jon always did. Comparing Sansa’s strength and courage and stubbornness, and her beauty, to Daenerys’s own. *She’s your match. Only you can reconcile that, Sansa.* That had stung more than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t jealousy for his affection, at least not in the way of desiring him as a lover. He was her brother, cousin, family. Sansa realized, the very thing Sandor had pointed out in her, that goodness and faith in others��� goodness, she sensed in Jon. He still had that child’s devotion that others would act as honorably as him, even after the wreckage of how he’d been betrayed by his own Watch. He was so like their father. No, his uncle. She wondered if Lyanna had shared that quality. Sandor, off balance, wine coursing in his veins and affecting his motions, rises, arranging his mantle out on the ground. She’s trying to find the right words, shape them coherently through a mind thickened with wine and drear, to tell him she hadn’t meant to lead him on. He grips for his sword, still in its scabbard, a thing of _____steel, as long as the span of his arms, Holt of ivory cast in silver etching, holding it aloft with a crooked grin. She lowers the flask, wiping at the wine dribbling down her chin. “What are you doing?” Her puzzlement breaking the hazeforca moment. He bows, catching himself before falling on his face, burping before he explains his actions. “A gentleman, Lady Stark. S’pposedly I’m a knight. Note the blade between us. My pledge I won’t touch you, nor dishonor you, as much as I wish you’d ask me to.” The relief washing over her, gratitude that brings infuriating tears she blinks back impatiently, makes her knees almost collapse freed of a strain she hadn’t realized till then. A small, choking breath, as she steadies her voice, “I’d thought you...you were going to ask me to sleep with you.” “I have. But not fu—no, with you it wouldn’t be that. Allow me my dignity. I dont need to invite my own rejection, in the way you don’t need to spare the feelings of an ass. The tenderness and sorrow in his eyes leaves her silent, the tears winning out, flowing unimpeded down her cheeks as she tries to keep her breathing calm, thinking she’s about to blubber in a humiliating display of anger and hysteria. “Oh little wolf, hush now. No need for this,” he says gently, wiping at the rivulets. “Too much wine, and too much death in these days of darkness. It makes us fools and philosophers.” “Aren’t they one and the same?” She forces out past a sob, sniffling. His laugh is soft, where he brings her head against his chest. He wears no armor, not even the leather jerkin, and the heat of him, the play of rippled muscle of his chest, where his heart beats, a living surge, and the embrace housing her in a fortress of power and grace. They are exactly as she had dreamt that one haunted night so many years ago. They kneel together, as he slowly, reluctantly frees her. He gave her his mantle, leaving nothing for himself on the cold stone floor. “One day, little wolfling, you’ll conquer this too. One day, you might even learn to want a man, or a woman, again. But trust comes first.” “How do you know that?” She demands, her brief episode/spell making her angry, such silly weakness an indulgence no one has time for. She’s glad he’s the only one who saw it. “How do you have a right to be so gentle, when all those years ago, you tried so hard to be such a brute?” The patience of his humor warms her, and rankles. She’s not so fragile, and he doesn’t need to be so careful. “Because most humans are shits. At least the ones I’ve known. But animals, the gods’ beasts are different. Broken animals, horses, dogs, the like. It’s their trust that needs to be regained, and that’s done through patience. And love,” he adds, voice stalling/stuttering out the word. Shivering b/c of the chill, the despondency in his voice, she gazes hard into the dark ceiling above. On her back, lying on his cloak, his long-sword between them, she feels cast off, alone all over again. “So, you see me like a beaten animal?” she throws thecwords at him, stony gaze above. “Something to be coddled and cozened, until I eat from your hand again, and eventually mount me without being bitten or kicked off?” A whisper of garments, she feels him shift, turning to prop himself on an elbow. She swallows her surprise in a little croak when The shadow of his face draws over hers, a mere finger span abort her mouth. The heat of his breath, sweat, and the wine filling her nostrils, brushing her skin, he’s so close, she reads the clouded storm there—his temptation and his own self-mockery. “Allow a man his fancies, Sansa. I won’t lie and say I’ve not thought of you like that either.” So like her dream, his lips moist and so close. Her pulse leaps, an exhale catching in a shallow gasp, a shaft of longing awakening something delicious deep inside, heat flooding her cheeks. She’s frozen half in terror by this first flavor of desire. Need. Half his face distorted, the other beautiful and bold, the harmony like the halves of his soul, shine from his burning gaze. He never makes a move to close the small gap between them, remaining captured above her like that forca precious breath more, before his groan of frustration and sorrow breaks the spell, and he turns back, collapsing to his side of the blade. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. And any man who tries to break that deserves to die.” Arya said that too. The wine maybe, or the trials of past years, fortifies what’s becoming more frequent, daring she’s more apt to command. And this heady pleasure lighting over her, tingling her mind and flesh. She wants more of this. “How would you think of me, Sandor? Tell me, what was the most stirring thing you envisioned? Did you think of me when you visited one of Baillesh’s whores? On top, or wrapped around you from beneath, moaning your name? It’s hard to read the kind of urges that fire a man like you.” The words are edged, taunting herself as much as cruelty prods her to toy with him, eyes ground into the darkness above, hands crossed over her belly like a corpse prepared for its byre. He draws a rough sigh, his gruff laughter without humor. “Singing. I dreamt of you singing. All those other ways men want to fuck a woman too, but mostly—“ “Singing.” She finishes for him, the word resounding flat into the quiet. Passion, her first awareness of desire lapses into befuddlement. She turns to seek his profile in the dark, her voice soaked in doubt. “All those years you wanted me *in every way a man wants to fuck a woman* and it’s singing?” Across the short distance between them, his gaze falls into hers, locked and full of longing, piercing her heart, and resurrecting a feeling she had buried in these years of pain. “You told me once, when my little bird had first been wounded, she didn’t know any more songs. I dreamt of her singing ever since. She was the sweetness of spring, and the joy of sunlight to a man chilled by rain.” Those stupid tears again, coming out of nowhere, salt upon her tongue, as she tries to moisten her lips for speech. She rolls onto her stomach, thrusting the scabbard down to their feet. Crawling onto her elbows, she leans above him, peering into a face no longer menacing or scowling, only patience and acceptance offered in a sea of doubt. He doesn’t believe she could return such affection. He doesn’t think he’s deserving of such tender grace. Her lips are upon his, tentative at first. Light likecan infant’s touch, and as his open to meet her questing mouth, growing bolder, claiming each other with kisses leechingvthem of breath, deep and leaving them reeling. Her hands clasp his cheeks, grain of his beard wiry, fingers sweeping the strands of his hair back from the thickened scars over his brow, her lips brushing there too, sacrament of sorrow and blessing. Both of them reaching for air, a disbelieving joy escapes her throat in a little laugh, her cheek pressed to his ear. His hands hover like lost swallows, — Euron’s fleet attacks out of the Dark. The dragons even the odds, and the battle is a much more effective modality than the gibberish splashed across the screen in S7, leaving Yara captured, and Theo a drowned kitten. Instead, the Dornish women hold their own this time, but still fall (Olenna Tyrell, who was left behind at a KingsLanding—exceeding Genius at governance that she was, and staying where she would be most useful to her queen, needless to say, met her same fate as she did in S7. See, I’m not reformatting this for happy endings. Just more cohesive, and sophisticated plot lines...). —Ultimately, Euron’s fleet is BBQ, with both Rhagel and Drogon flambeying the enemy GreyJoys, and no defense against the dragons, even with Qyburn’s largely useless ‘ballista/scorpion’ things. The battle is at night afterall, and morning dawns upon ship hulls blown cinders, and corpses ravaged by fire. —The harbor is open to Dany’s fleet and forces, but the Lannister defenses are ready—right, remember those convenient stocks of Witch Fire/Greek Fire. Now, in rewrite, more sensibly deployed as artillary against an invading fleet. Onion Knight remembers this, and with the loss of a few vessels they pull back out of range. Of course, Night King arrives at the walls of a KingsLanding at that time, and everyone’s worst nightmare ensues, with the decimation of the city by the Dead, in full tilt, requiring use of WitchFire against the Wights instead, and allowing a Now very eagerly accepting group of Team Lannister’s to hasten Dany’s and Jon’s forces ashore, as dragons clash and flash in the skies above—the human toll extradinaory with the loss of innocent life, amid the destruction Zombie Vicerys wrecks upon KingsLanding, while Dany and Jon battle a stand-off with Dragon Destructo Immortalis and his Icy Eyed Spiky Crowned Zombie Dragon Rider, which ultimately culminates at the already blasted out Red Keep Throne Room. Dragons are wounded, dragons out of the picture, the dead crawl over every brick, stone, toppled pillar, and yawning crack in the flagstones, held back only by flames of living fire, unable to reach Dany or Jon (who, as a Targaryan, proves as flame resistant as Dany...), protected in a ring of flame surrounding the Iron Throne. Here, resurrect the Dany who picks up a sword for the first time in her life, ready to die by her man’s side, whilst WhiteWalkers gather.  Jon, of course, faces off with said NightKing, sort of like DarthVader vs Luke Skywalker style, keeping Dany from the fray, butvat some point, down for the count, about to be impaled by Night King, when Dany gets her strike in, while not lethal, serves to distract the Night King, who recovers quickly enough, and sends her sprawling. The moment allows Jon the lethal thrust he needs, sword piercing the Night King in the heart (sorry, Arya—your Assassin’s Creed acrobatics were awesome, well-executed, but poorly utilized in the grand scheme of ‘bore’ that followed...).  *added as alternative b/c I adored what Arya did*: ALTERNATIVELY, ARYA REACHES THE RED KEEP, PERFORMS MYSTICAL ASSASSIN’s CREED ACROBATICS, AND SLAYS NIGHT KING EXACTLY AS SHE DOES IN SHOW, BUT WITH JON BATTLING NIGHT KING AS WELL, AND NIGHT KING STILL REMOVING DRAGON GLASS DAGGER FROM HIS OWN CHEST AND BURYING IT IN JON’S HEART...SO JON STILL DIES* / The Night King removes the Dragon Stone dagger from his chest, simultaneously burying it beneath Jon’s heart as they sink down together, both in death. The Night King dissolves into *sparkles* (lol—Ice grains...), blown away by the wind, while the WhiteWalkers explode as they did into ice shards, and the dead—wights and new recruits alike—fall into dust. Poor Viceryon😢 Arya stricken by dying Jon, and Dany crawls to Jon’s side amid the flames and ash, the scorched throne room, cradling him as she sees him turning, fully understanding the remorse in his eyes, his love, and the plea, unspoken, of what she needs to do. What she doesn’t want to do, yanking the dagger out of Jon’s/Aegon’s chest, watching his blood well up, as he gasps last words, last breath, and she cradles him, weeping as he dies, bleeding upon the Iron Throne. You know, like what she did with Jorah, but more sensibly in this alternate canon. Had they not cast Jon as a messianic figure for the last 7 seasons, and Dany as the Savior, I wouldn’t lean so much this way, BUT...as I said, it’s my view, and a more poetic one than what they contrived in that scene in the actual Ep6... Assuming some soldiers/warriors of Dany and Jon’s forces made it up to the Keep, deployed against the White Walkers till they all dissolved into elemental memory (Jorah lives in this mode; Jon dies...), they gather, staggering, around Dany and Jon, where he lays in her arms, all of them exhausted, broken and bloodied. But they live “heroes just for one day...”😜 —Meanwhile, there were those underground caverns/crypts where the rest of the Witch Fire stores had been stocked, and ready to light beneath King’s Landing. Team Lannister, by this point only consisting of a fleeing Jamie and Cersei, have retreated down to those stores, knowing fire will keep them from the fare of the dead, and absolutely willing to ‘light it up, baby’ beneath the city. At the crucial juncture where they’re about to be over-run by the Dead, Cersei about to drop the torch into the fuel, the dead fall to dust. A few seconds to breath, realizing what must have happened w/o knowing how, but relief makes Jamie embrace his sister, the (incestuous, admittedly) love of his life. She still holds the torch over the pool of liquid, phosphorescent WitchFire though, always quicker than Jamie, knowing exactly who has won this victory ultimately. Something along the lines of, “I refuse to let her own this throne...”, or some such line refusing to surrender to Dany (harkening, nay, recalling Cercei’s vehement tirade of, “I would burn this city to the ground before I would see our...”yadayadaYoda—“house fall”, or something like that). Well, that’s EXACTLY what she means to do, and Jamie experiences some awful moments working through his pretty skull, the last monarch he served who meant to do the same thing. He tries, earnestly, to persuade her it’s not necessary, etc etc. Cersei is not having it, and as she’s about to release the torch into Pyrotechnic mode, he does kill her...but, too late. *BIGBIGBIGBIGBIG BOOM*💥💥💥💥 Green smoke clouds erupt through the city streets, already decimated, but beginning to animate with a few survivors, including the inhabitants, but also soldiers of both forces... -Across the winding streets, up at Red Keep Hotel, Dany registers the sounds of explosions, with the remaining crew of her soldiers. We have 2 routes here, Choose Your Own Adventure/GoTs style: Dany flips at that point, of course familiar with her family heritage and the *Burn Them ALL* king who was her father. Not bent on tyranny, not thinking at all, except that she’s as exhausted and beyond endurance as any of the survivors of Team Dany/Team Jon, and grieving Jon’s death, the cost of tragedy and the price of power, she’s convinced it’s Cersei still hiding out in some hidden refuge of the city. So, the Dragon Queen mounts Drogon, and off she goes, decimating what’s left of King’s Landing—*pan out diorama to Yara’s fleet, where they witness the last chapter of destruction*—And know they’ve won. What they’ve won, who knows, as LittleFinger observes, but...if LittleFinger is still living. At some point, even Drogon tires, and Dany’s rage subsides, landing on the summit of the earlier bombed out heap of the Temple of the 7, or whatever Cersei had mushroom clouded back in S6. Reality hits as she observes the destruction left in her wake, and the battle which has just ensued, draining her momentary manic Hell-bender, and restoring her to herself. And the awareness of the power and pathos with which she’s endowed leaves fills her with dread for the first time, and doubt on her journey to reclaim a throne she had always believed was hers by right. Horrified at her own act, she flies off away from King’s Landing, Rhagel, gathering Jon’s body in his claws (since that’s what dragons do, I guess, with their dead riders??), follows, leaving only an echo of mournful dragon cries... -Cue: FINAL episode in the retelling. Okay, maybe penultimate? Dany, somewhere in FarFarAway, in some deserted landscape, a mountain vale maybe, where men can’t reach, stands pale, mourning, silent tears falling down her cheeks as she lights the funeral bier beneath Jon’s body. She holds the dagger of the Night King in her hands, unsure if she should hurl it away, but decides ultimately to keep it, fastening it to her belt. Her dragons crowd around her, communal puppy-dragon love for their mama. She spends the night watching his bier burn, only smoldering bones left by dawn. And knows, with the morning, she has a city, and land calling her back. —Dany returns, with her Dragons—arriving to the heights of the RedKeep, the relief across the faces of her men reassuring in their trust, even as they eye her with a new fear and wariness. How fragile might be her sanity, after all? Who knows how Tyrion gets there, but he’s the master of survival, and there he is—there to greet her as she climbs off Drogon. Some such line does she manage, still lost to her own grief and emptiness, still reeling from the horror of her potential for destruction. There, standing regal despite her haggard appearance as any of her men, amid the wind-swept ashes of The Red Keeps innards, she says something about, “I came once, claiming I would not be Queen of the Ashes. Now, there are only ashes left to rule. I finished what the Night King began. Now it is done. And still, I will not be Queen of the Ashes.” Yadayada, she’s unworthy to rule, afraid of her excesses of anger that can border on insanity, afraid of the power that feeds her ambitions, and tempts destruction over mercy. The men about her are left in confusion, some speechless, some protesting, and some in agreement. When silence finally falls, Dany mentions Jon’s heritage, which, till then hadn’t been revealed (as it so stupidly was in yet another wasted plot device)—the truth that he was “the true heir to the Iron Throne. It’s not mine,” she speaks the words, hearing them to her own amazement, and knowing they are completely true. “It’s not mine. It was never mine, and now, I don’t want it.” It’s Jorah who provides his gentle wisdom amid the astonishment of the other men, who reminds her “the wheel is shattered. And the world is broken, Khaleesi.” It’s that title that reminds her of her earliest days, theclong journey played out to this moment. Loss, love, sacrifice, and dreams. “We need a leader, this land needs a leader. Your people, now of Westeros, need a leader. And it’s now, more than any other moment in your life, when you can decide what kind of ruler you would become. You are more than the blood running your veins. I’ve always believed, or I would not have suffered for you to this hour.” Moment of pondering, the struggle of doubt and a restoring confidence alive in Dany’s eyes, when she looks to the throne, charred but standing despite all the destruction around them. Jon’s blood, dried now, soaked into the cracks between the splinters comprising the seat. NOW, we can have Drogon fry the thing to a melted mass of ore and bone, at her order. And NOW, we can have her, in the best Danearys tone of command as only she can utter, “Now, we shall begin,” her eyes compelling each of the men to beat weapon to stone, announcing her victory, their allegience, as dawn breaks across the harbor to the fleet in the distance. —Cue: some kind of season passage scene, winter, snows falling, the members of various houses returning to their holdings, most time spent on the Starks, taking in the ravaging left by the Army of the Dead. Burying those who died, followed by Gradual returning of people too, into villages, repopulating deserted farms, ships from East to West, as Dany still holds Esteros too, provisionally, gradually filling dockside storehouses, commerce once more bringing life and goods along with repairs mending the capital, and the lands spanning all directions. And Dany, concluding a council, replete with Sansa as the representative of the North, along with the nobles of the other houses, and kingdoms besides, serving the privy council—or, maybe it’s Bran serving on Dany’s council, he’d be a better advisor anyway,  leaving Sansa to actually rule the North, as she deserves (the ladies having found some balance betwen each other, of respect and mutual admiration; though, they’ll never be friends. Sansa still blames Dany for Jon’s death, knowing the blame is without substance...the Hound serves her, devoted to his Little Bird for the rest of his live-long day’s...knowing she’s no longer a little bird, but a grown woman, sharp and fierce as hawk, and fair in her ruling besides...). The Ladies rule the Iron Islands, as well as Dorn (one of the Sandsnakes survives??); thus, the symbolism of the Ladies healing the land, whilst there are still many of the other houses, in other territories retaining the traditional male authorities of the noble classes. But the world is changing, and there too many gone to be fussy on the appropriateness of a woman or man succeeding to a place of authority, in business, in government, or in profession—the Maesters accepting woman amongst their ranks for the first time... And like the great void of population that followed the Plague of the 1300s, an event that had a far greater prescience in heralding the early modern world, and social/economic transitions that reverberated across Europe and Asia in the following centuries of the Renaissance, we see Westeros establishing fertile seeds of cultural change...just hints, nothing that can be explored too fully b/c...last episode. But it’s poignant, and hopeful, and elegiac all at once. Who knows, maybe a couple of years are suggested inthose scenes, up to Dany rising from the council table, concluding the meeting with her advisors of office. Exiting, a servant finds her out in a courtyard, and hands a child off to her, a blonde haired little boy, round about 2 or 3, with dark, somber eyes, bringing a smile, a soft endearment to Dany’s lips, as she kisses her son.  Call him Aegon; call him Jon. Call him whatever you want...I know, it’s a bow to sentimentality, but honestly, it fits better than pyscho-bitch Dany-turn tyrant Dany-turn *look-another woman dies by Jon Snow’s circumstantial inaction*...(bye, Egrit, it was nice knowin’ ya...). They walk up to the Red Keep; Doh, who am I kidding, they fly over, mounted on Drogon. The palace, and that chamber were never restored, but left as a monument to the Old World, and commemoration of great sacrifice for those who died in the battle for Westeros. The melted core of the Iron Throne stands as witness to future, and memorial to the past. Dany pauses with her son, winter still locked about the land, but signs of spring peeking through, a dazzle of ice and falling snow and sun. Green things unfurling hesitantly from cracks in the pavement of stairs and fallen masonry. And upon the melted heap of that once powerful symbol, a blue frost rose buds from the charred rock...Dany’s hand hovering over it, tending it, and Jenny’s Song crooning in the background with the closing scene... There, I feel better now. THIS is how, or something how, justice might have been served to blot our the memory of sophomoric scripting and elementary storytelling, for a series that held our hearts and minds for 8 seasons going. It’s flawed, I know, and undoubtedly *Archive of Our Own* will be thriving with amateur authors who will prove themselves far more de opted to fleshing our pacing, plots, and subplots for far more satisfying conclusions than what last night treated us to... My GeekGrrl/FsnGrrl is done wrung our now, and must return to her regularly scheduled programming of Late 2nd Century Sarmatisns, Artorius Castus, as well as Post-Roman Britain and a Uthyr and Guinevra who become something of social reformers building the way for the AngloSaxon kingdoms ultimately shaping the fragments of Celtic Britain into the powerful kingdoms of Northumbria (the Star of the North as they called it in its heyday through the 7th into the 8th Century), and later Mercia and Wessex...

[the-glow-of-the-cities]

A Five Letter Problem- Chapter One: White Teeth Teens

Summary: Two years have passed since you left Boston. Now you’ve established a new life, a new family, and new friends. What could possibly go wrong?

A/N: Ok, chapter one, real-time now. Enjoy!

Warnings: Bad friends?

Words: 2.7k

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“Oh my God!” you yell as the dinner table explodes with laughter, “You’re not serious!”

“Dead serious,” Natasha smirks back, her usual stoic demeanor letting a chuckle slip out.

“DAD! That’s horrible!” you jokingly shout at him.

“Ok, so maybe it wasn’t the best choice I ever made, but hey, I can’t change it now,” Tony replies, slightly defensive, but laughing with everyone else.

“You- you sent-” Sam doubles over in another fit of laughter, before trying to compose himself enough to make a comprehensible sentence, “You sent Nat, to spy on your daughter before you even met her or even knew if she was actually your daughter.”

Your father stares at the table, mildly ashamed.

“Christ, Tony,” Pepper chimes in, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“And where were you two during this?” Sam nudges Steve who was sitting next to him and nods at Banner across the table.

“I tried to talk him out of it!” Banner replies, shaking his head.

“Oh boy, you are never going to hear the last of this, dad,” you grin mischievously, “I think this gives me at least six months of leverage, if not a whole year.”

He groans.

As the conversation moves away from your father’s screw up you look around at where you are now compared to two years ago when that incident had happened. It had only taken a few months for you to settle in at the tower and fall in love with the city, as well as your new family. Your father had started you at Midtown High as soon as possible, and while it wasn’t what you were used to, you made some friends (none as good as your old ones, but you would take what you could get), and were honestly doing well. 

Of course, the big question when you first arrived was ‘what the hell are we supposed to tell the public.’ In the end, the general consensus was that you didn’t need all of the attention from the world you would get as a Stark, so they kept you secret. The school administration obviously knew, but since your last name was Y/L/N and not Stark your classmates finding out wasn’t an issue.

There had been no word directly from your mother, but your friends would always tell you when they bumped into her in the supermarket and stuff like that. Based on your limited information, she hadn’t improved. 

So you lived in the tower, you went to school, you lived a normal life, and everything was good. You were the secret daughter of Tony Stark.

“So Tony,” Clint says, and your attention snaps back to the conversation at hand, “What about that Spiderman you’ve been working with?” 

“What about him?” your father responds, looking curious.

“When are we going to meet the guy, I know he comes and works in the labs a ton, but you’ve never actually introduced us.”

“Eh, I don’t know if he’s ready to meet everyone after all you guys are pretty mean.”

A chorus of offended sounds escapes the table, as all of your inner drama queens showed through.

“I mean if you guys promise to be nice maybe I’ll bring the kid by tomorrow…”

“The kid?” you pipe up, eyebrows raised.

“Uhhhh,” your father races to come up with an explanation, but, unable to find one, simply replies, “I’ve said too much.”

“Congrats, Stark. The kid hasn’t even met us yet and you’ve given away part of his identity,” Nat quips.

And with that, you’re lost in thought again. Of course, you knew of Spiderman, you knew that he stopped by to work on stuff in the labs pretty often, but you had never actually met him and you had to admit you were curious. 

Your friends at school giggled behind their hands when watching videos of him doing his hero thing, obviously crushing on him. You rolled your eyes, but in your head, you wanted to get to know him too, just not for the same reasons. 

For two years now you had lived with superheroes, and in doing so discovered that they were some of the most fascinating people. You wanted to know the hero’s story, you wanted to get all of the details and write them down. You wanted to hear all of the stories, you wanted to get to know who was behind the mask, just as you had with all of the Avengers.

Pretty soon everyone began pushing in chairs and putting plates by the sink. It was your turn to do the dishes, so once everyone had left the room you slipped on your headphones, pressed play, and “Breaking Down” by Florence + The Machine echoes through the speakers and fills your brain. You roll up your sleeves, pull back your hair, which was still a shining shade of Y/F/C, and begin to clean.

------

The next morning.

Your POV:

You open your eyes to a ringing alarm.

Stretching and yawning you slowly sit up, staring towards the wall of windows across from your bed. A beautiful pink, purple, orange, and blue splatters the sky visible beyond buildings, a sight that never fails to leave you awestruck. 

The colors swirl together and stain the clouds, reflecting off the sheer, glass sides of Manhattan buildings. Beige offices and grey cubicles all illuminated in shining color for a few moments each day. Immense beauty that, like all good things, many would never know. 

You wanted to freeze the spinning of the Earth.

Just for a few minutes.

Just so the tired, unenthused workers would be able to see just how incredible their work could be.

But you couldn’t.

You calmly slid out of your bed and walked over to the outfit you had set out the night before. School would begin in a little over an hour, and you needed to get ready. The sun would be there the next morning.

You slipped on your favorite jeans and threw on the soft sweatshirt that would keep you warm in the late winter/early spring chill, before padding to the kitchen.

At the door, you were met with the smell of coffee.

Wanda slips a plate with a bagel and lox on it towards you, your favorite.

“Thank you,” you smile at her.

She winks back at you.

Although she was one of the most recent additions to the tower, you had grown close with the woman. After all, she was much easier to gossip with and get advice from than anyone else around.

You dig into the bagel, a real New York one, as Wanda sits down across from you.

“So,” she says.

“So,” you say, in between bites.

“How are you?”

“I’m good, why?” you furrow your eyebrows at her, wondering where the almost intervention-like tone was coming from.

“Oh, no reason in particular. I just worry about you sometimes,” she tilts her head at you.

“I’m good, Wanda, really.”

“How about your friends?”

“They’re good.”

“Why don’t you invite them over some time, I’d love to meet everyone!”

“You know why I can’t do that…”

“Right, you’re ‘not the Starkling.’ You should go over to one of their houses, then.”

“I would, but I’m always busy.”

That was a lie.

“I’m sure you could find the time. Tasha would gladly give you a day off training to meet up with some friends. Or if you wanted to go for dinner we could survive without you for one night.”

“Good point. Maybe sometime soon.”

That was also a lie.

“Good,” she caringly smiled at you, making you feel guilty, “Now off with you, finish getting ready and then get going before you’re late.”

You eat the last bite of your bagel and take a swig of water before running back to your room.

Studying your reflection in the mirror, you grab your hairbrush and start on your usual hairstyle. When fully satisfied with your reflection, you head to the back elevator, which took you down to the back door out of the tower, from where you would head to the subway and then from there to your high school.

-----

You walk through the doors to your school and find your friends in their normal spot. 

Alice, Caitlin, Meg, Ari, and Taylor-

Wait.

No.

Where did that come from?

Molly, Alicia, Leslie, and Will.

Molly, Alicia, Leslie, and Will. 

Those are your new friends.

Molly, Alicia, Leslie, and Will.

That's right.

“Hey, guys,” you say as you join their cluster.

They all greet you before turning back to their conversation.

“I’m telling you, that’s what she said!”

“No way. There is no way they’re dating.”

The utterly uninteresting conversation fades into even more pointless background noise. Constant, monotonous, unchanging, the perfect backdrop for your wandering thoughts.

You thought back to the conversation you had had with Wanda that morning, how you had lied. Yes, you were busy, but that wasn’t the reason you never saw your friends outside of school. 

You would jump at the chance to grab coffee after school, have a movie night, or even to just sit around in a circle and zone out together; if they ever asked you.

Every Monday you’d hear about all the fun they had over the weekend, but they never asked ‘Hey, Y/N, how’d you like to have all this fun with us over the weekend? It’ll be great!”

Not once.

“Y/N? Hey! Earth to Y/N.”

You jump, noticing for the first time Alicia’s hand swinging back and forth in front of your face.

“Sorry, what’s up?”

“I asked what you thought about that post I sent you about Spiderman’s secret identity,” she pointedly says. 

“Oh, I didn’t see that. What did it say?” you indulge your friend, she was always sending you nonsense theories about Spiderman over Tumblr. Alicia was, at heart, a true fangirl.

“Apparently, he’s a ‘kid.’ They guessed he was like 16 based on his appearance!.”

“Oh, cool,” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but my father’s voice echoed in the back of my mind. I remembered him calling the hero a kid the night before, “What was their source?”

“They said it was super reputable, but they couldn’t reveal it yet.”

“Huh, I wonder who it could be,” you brushed it off, all of the theories Alicia sent you were pretty much nonsense, so you figured this was more of the same. 

You glanced around the hall you were in, your friends back to gossiping, and caught a glimpse of someone nearby staring at your group. Peter Parker, you thought the kid’s name was. Seeing you looking, he quickly glanced away and fumbled with his locker. He seemed like a nice kid, definitely a smart one, he was in a few of your classes and you whenever you ended up working together he was good company, although shy. You had to admit, you wanted to be friends with him. Him and his friends seemed way cooler than yours.

Then first bell dragged you, kicking and screaming, back to reality.

“Alright, I’ll see all of you at lunch,” Molly promised.

“Good luck on your history test,” Leslie addressed Will.

“Thanks,” Will addressed Leslie.

“Look for that post I sent you,” Alicia told you sternly.

“I will.”

You wouldn’t.

And you all turned in different directions, moving through the crowd, into different classrooms, hallways, and stairwells.

-----

‘We ended up going off campus for lunch, sorry dude’

‘It’s ok, maybe just let me know next time so I can come…’

You sighed as you pressed send on the text.

Great.

You looked around the cafeteria, searching for someone you could sit with.

Your eyes fell on tables that had open seats with people you didn’t know and full tables with people you knew.

Just when you believed your search would be fruitless, you spotted a table in the back corner which was pretty much empty, it’s only occupants were a girl you had a few classes with, named Michelle, her friend Ned, and a third person with a head of curls, whose back was to you.

Cautiously approaching, you make eye contact with Michelle and smile awkwardly.

She tilts her head, giving you a look that said ‘what’s up?’ and you opened your mouth to respond.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she says.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” you ask. As you spoke, the figure that you previously couldn’t identify faced you, revealing a curious face that belonged to Peter. “My friends ditched me to go eat off-campus, and I don’t have many other options,”  you explain with an apologetic smile.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, moving her books off the table across from her, opening up the seat next to Peter.

“Thank you,” the gratitude runs deep in your tone as you slip into the seat and set your bag down next to you.

“Your friends ditched you?” Ned inquires. You look up from your food just in time to see the accompanying look he sent to Peter. It was an expression you couldn’t quite read, but you shrugged it off.

“Yeah… At least they gave me a heads up this time, though.”

“This time?” Peter furrows his brow incredulously.

“This time,” you nod at him with a laugh.

“Dude, that sucks,” Michelle states bluntly.

“Thanks, Michelle.”

“No problem, man,” the girl smirks.

Everyone focuses on their food for a minute, before Ned addresses Peter, saying something about a LEGO Death Star.

All throughout lunch you find yourself laughing and smiling with the other three, you couldn’t remember last time you had enjoyed a lunch that much. You bonded over your nerdy interests and senses of humor. Gossiped about things that actually interested you. Hell, even poked fun at some of the popular kids. You were actually sad when the bell rang, cutting you off in the middle of an anecdote about a clumsy accident you had had the week before.

The last two periods of the day dragged by, and you were utterly exhausted by the time the final bell rang through your ears. 

You walk down the halls and turn the familiar corner that you would normally take to meet up with your friends. 

They’re right there.

You can see them.

You freeze.

They’re laughing.

They’re smiling.

They’re having a good time.

Once again, without you.

No.

They weren’t friends.

You turn around.

You walk away.

Out the doors.

Down the street.

Into the subway.

Home.

-----

The familiar voices create a sense of peace around the table. 

Natasha tells about all the mistakes in training that day. While Clint, the subject of her ridicule, laughs next to her.

Sam laughs along.

Wanda smiles at the pair.

Steve shakes his head.

Vision looks mildly confused.

Bruce takes a bite of his food.

“Alright, alright! Everyone!” Tony calls. You look over at him, seeing he’s leaning half in, half out of the door, as if hiding something behind it.

“The king needs silence!” Sam quips, making fun of your father’s attempt to shut up the group.

“Thank you, Sam, I do,” Tony goes along with the other man’s joke.

“You’re welcome,” Sam replies loudly, cutting off Tony as he opened his mouth to say something.

“Ok, really everyone. Quiet please.”

“At your request-”

“Get on with it!” Clint shouts. The group cheers in agreement.

“For god’s sake, Clint, I’m trying.”

“At your request…” he continues at an infuriatingly slow pace, “I have invited a guest to dinner tonight.”

Remarks ranging from “oooh!” to “who” to “can I get back to my burger already” issue from those gathered.

“May I present,” a drumroll breaks out amongst the team “Spiderman!” 

He throws the door open behind him to reveal boy with unruly brown hair and a nervous smile, that slides into confusion when his brown eyes meet your Y/E/C ones.

“Y/N?”

“Peter?”

[childrenofhypnos]

Chapter 3: Insanity Prime

Emery made it to the bottom of the first set of steps outside the administration building before she realized she was still wearing her dreamform armor and her Peacemakers. The armor was the only thing she was able to dreamform reliably, and that was because she’d spent years learning to make it. She thought of something relaxing—this time, the idea of Edgar snuggled four blankets deep in his dorm room, watching Gunsmoke—and her armor melted into its own purple cloud and sunk into the clothing beneath it, a sweat-stained shirt and training pants. She removed her guns from their holsters before the holsters disappeared. The Peacemakers themselves shrank to fit the silver charm bracelet around her left wrist, just below her cuff.

The Peacemakers had taken years to make, too, but all she’d had to do was let them take shape. Dreamforms were made from the fabric of the Dream, crafted by dreamhunters using the same connection that gave them their strength and agility. The Peacemakers could shrink or grow, become heavy or light. They, like some other carefully and painstakingly constructed dreamforms, were permanent. They would never return to the Dream until Emery died.

Her brother, Edgar, wasn’t far enough into his training to make his weapon. He lived in Booling Hall with the other kids in his class, mostly children of dreamhunters. Because the exposure to the Dream necessary to create dreamhunters had to start so young, the best source of new recruits was dreamhunter children. Each Ward had a different method for producing more children, to ensure they never ran out. It was one of the few points of dreamhunting Emery tried not to think about: in a few short years, the Hypnos State would match her with another dreamhunter and expect her to put hunting on hold to manufacture a baby or two. Those kids would be exposed to the Dream and dropped into Booling, too.

The good news was the North American Ward tried to match power with power, the way they’d done with her parents, which meant that at the very least she’d never be paired with Wes.

Emery made her way up to Booling’s fourth floor. Here, most of the rooms were silent, the little ones tucked in for the night and the denmothers patrolling the floors to make sure no one tried to sneak out. She passed Edgar’s denmother, a jolly older man who’d worked for the academy longer than Emery had been alive, and knocked on the door to room 413.

“Who is it?” came a small voice.

“The Boogeyman,” Emery replied.

The door swung open. A thin boy a foot shorter than Emery shot out of the room and barrelled into her stomach, latching onto her. Emery grunted and held the doorframe to keep herself upright.

“I’m all sweaty.”

“Don’t care.”

She barely heard him. Edgar was already quiet when his voice wasn’t muffled by her shirt. Past him, the room blazed with light, and commercials flickered on the small TV between the two loft beds. Another boy peered around the door from his perch on the right bed.

“Aw, man, you shouldn’t have come back until morning!” said the boy. “I was trying to see if worrying about you would keep him awake.”

“Shut up, Morris,” Emery said. “You’re a horrible roommate.”

Morris stuck out his tongue and turned back to the television.

“Gunsmoke?”

“We were watching Bonanza before this.”

Edgar let go of her and stepped back. They shared their mother’s most prominent features: curly black hair, straight noses, steely blue-gray eyes. Emery had also inherited many of the rest. Thin lips, thick eyebrows, shoulders and hips for days, the ability to tan. Edgar was a much more perfect blending of their parents—their father’s lankiness, thick lashes, and pale skin that went up in flames in the summer—he just hadn’t grown into most of it yet.

“Grandpa Al says you’ve been watching my mission logs.”

Edgar flushed. “No—not a lot—”

“Enough to know pretty soon after I left tonight, and to tell him about it.”

“I only told him because you went alone. You’re not supposed to go alone.”

“Well, I was fine.” Emery held up her arms. “See?”

“Why did you go alone?”

“I knew I could handle it.”

Edgar frowned. “It’s because you don’t like Wes.”

“Maybe. So?”

“Wes is really nice. I don’t know why you don’t like being his partner.”

“Being nice doesn’t make him good in a panic situation.” Before Edgar could give her his baleful, guilt-inducing stare, Emery continued. “But Grandpa Al said I have to do missions with him for a month, and if it doesn’t work out, I can switch partners.”

The frown softened. He took another step back into the room, pulling the sleeves of his too-long sweater over his bony hands.

“Did you start your all-nighters?” Emery motioned to the many lights on in the room.

Edgar nodded. “We have to stay awake at least until 4 am.”

“All night hype!” Morris barked.

Edgar did seem gaunt, but more than normal. He’d always been pallid and sunken-eyed, like he was staring at her from far away in his head. Now there was a brightness to his gaze that brought the shadows of his face into sharp relief.

“Okay, well,” Emery said, “don’t let Morris out of the room. He’ll tear up the campus. And we’re watching Tombstone tomorrow night, don’t forget.”

“Tombstone again?” Morris whined.

“You don’t have to join in, Morris!”

Edgar smiled.

“Call me if you have trouble staying awake.” Emery ruffled Edgar’s hair and pushed him back into the room.

As he shut the door, Morris began making shotgun noises.

~

Edgar’s face remained at the top of Emery’s mind on her walk back to her own dorm. She thought of Cora Miller, and nightmares eating childrens’ minds, and Edgar’s expression going blank and braindead.

Unlike Emery, Edgar had been born after their parents passed through their Insanity Primes, the period in their mid-twenties when most dreamhunters succumbed to mental instability. By Hypnos State law, married dreamhunters had to at least try to have children before their Primes to ensure another generation of hunters. If a hunter lived through their Insanity Prime, the altered state of their body usually no longer allowed for pregnancy. Conception of a post-Prime child was so rare, Emery’s parents had moved from Moscow to the Sleeping City so Edgar could be researched and kept healthy. Hypnos State scientists had held Edgar isolated and under surveillance in the Fenhallow labs for years while he grew up, and they still didn’t know how he’d turn out.

It wasn’t his fault he was weird.

Emery was angry again by the time she made it to the front steps of Kirkland Hall, her dorm. On a campus full of small gothic castles, Kirkland was a queen; its white towers speared the night sky, almost taller than the administration building, and its massive black doors were etched with the blooming poppy. Inside, dreamhunter students sprawled across the lobby with textbooks and tablets and basked in the smell of late-night pizza. Draped across the front of the currently unoccupied denmother’s desk was a banner that read FENHALLOWEEN!!! SIGN UP BEFORE THE 20th. COSTUMES MANDATORY!!!!! surrounded by a few lopsided decoration pumpkins and a hissing black cat cut out of construction paper.

The news ran across the lobby flatscreen. Emery knew what was on it before she saw the story of the night. Terribly lit cell phone footage shot from the end of Mercer Street showed a massive purple cloud in the sky over the Miller house, and the shadow of the whale, and then the bright violet lights popping off one after another from a rooftop. The bottom of the screen said Massive nightmare appears in southcentral Harrington.

“Queen Emery again,” said one of the three students watching from the lobby couch.

“What did you expect?” said another. “Her M.O. is upstaging people. And she went without Jager.”

“Seriously?” said the third.

“He’s been here the whole time. I saw him in the library two hours ago.”

“I mean, I’d leave him behind, too,” said the first.

“Yeah, but look at that thing.” The second gestured to the screen, where the whale was diving toward the rooftop. “How do you see that on a term request and think, ‘Oh yeah, I can totally handle that monstrosity by myself’?”

Emery dug her fingers into her thighs to keep from clenching them into fists. She strode past the back of the couch and said very loudly, “It wasn’t on the request.”

The three of them jumped. She kept walking, letting her hair swish behind her, hoping she looked properly aloof and mussed from battle.

Around the corner behind the denmother’s desk was the staircase to the second floor, and beneath that, a wall of mailboxes that winked copper and gold in the dim lighting of the old yellow fixtures. Emery jarred to a halt; Wes stood alone at his mailbox, staring at the address on a piece of junk mail.

“How long have you been waiting for me?” she snapped.

He looked around. A furrow had dug itself between his eyebrows. He said nothing.

“Look, my grandpa wants me to apologize for what I said earlier, so I’m sorry. Or whatever.”

The furrow deepened.

“Thanks,” he said. Wes’s voice was so bassy he would blow out speakers if anyone let him near a microphone. “I could have helped you earlier.”

“I handled it fine on my own,” Emery said.

“I need the mission credit.”

“Sure, sure, so you can piggyback on my success.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“We’re going to have some real issues if you are. I don’t give handouts.”

“I didn’t ask for any—”

“I’m not here to teach you how to do your job.”

“I know how to do my job—”

“And if you—”

Wes snapped. “Stop interrupting me!” His back went ramrod straight, a muscle jumped in his jaw, and his black eyes flashed. “I know you think you’re great at everything and I get in your way. Trust me, I’m not happy about it either.”

Emery smoothed back her hair, rocking onto her heels. “Then why not ask for a different partner?”

“Because when you get paired with the best student in class, you don’t ask for anything else.” Wes’s cheeks flushed. He slammed his mailbox shut and twisted the key out. “It would be way easier to admit you’re the best if you didn’t annoy the hell out of me, but you are, and I’d rather face the Insanity Prime with someone who knows what they’re doing than with someone like—like me.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll get through your Prime without a problem, no matter who your partner is.”

Goosebumps prickled Emery’s arms. She opened her mouth to argue, realized how pinned she was by Wes’s unrelenting stare, shut her mouth again, and pushed away from the mailboxes to start up the stairs.

“Well, whatever,” she said. “We’re still partners for a month. Don’t embarass me in class.”

Emery hurried to her room on the second floor, only pausing once the door was safely closed and locked behind her. She pressed her forehead to the wood and breathed in the quiet darkness.

The Insanity Prime manifested differently in different dreamhunters. It almost always happened in someone’s mid-twenties, and it almost always ended in the complete erosion of the mind by that special connection to the Dream. Some hunters developed violent moodswings, some experienced a disconnect from reality, some completely forgot who and what they were. Some lucky souls dealt with all three. Medication and therapy helped at first, but the erosion was unstoppable, and it always—always—culminated in a vicious dreamform of the hunter’s subconscious itself, physically identical to them in every way, called a doppelgänger.

If a hunter destroyed their doppelgänger, their Insanity Prime was halted, their mind healed, and they were rewarded the rest of their lives as dreamkillers.

If they didn’t—and many did not—they were laid to rest by the Hypnos State.

The Ashworths were dreamkillers. Emery could not think of any of her relatives who had not survived their Insanity Primes. Grandpa Al was famous for his lack of symptoms, and by all accounts both of her parents had brushed their Primes aside like minor annoyances.

She was expected to do the same. It wasn’t even a question among her professors, who looked at the other dreamhunter students with a sad kind of hopefulness, but gave Emery only passing glances. It had never seemed to concern her parents or Grandpa Al, who had only ever worried about her future involvement in the State, and not whether she’d live to see thirty. And she wanted to march back downstairs and punch Wes and tell him that yes, of course she did understand, she knew exactly how frightening it was to think constantly about where and when you’d start to lose your mind.

She didn’t feel unstable now, but she was only eighteen. What if it snuck up on her one day when she wasn’t expecting it? What if, despite her training, she wasn’t strong enough to defeat it? Would her professors ignore her when she called for help? She was an Ashworth, after all. She was bred to handle anything.

Maybe she wouldn’t even be an Ashworth. Part of her couldn’t imagine either of her parents disowning her, but another part thought of her father’s laid-back cheer turning to indifference, and her mother’s thunderous enthusiasm folding into anger. It wasn’t completely out of character for them. She’d seen it happen before, though not to her.

At least they were across the ocean right now, and couldn’t see her like this. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, scoffed in disgust, and began peeling off her sweaty clothes. Her classmates called her Queen for a reason.

She had a reputation to keep.

(Next time on The Children of Hypnos --> Em & Wes Get Their First Mission. It’s Totally Gonna Go Fine.)

[flauntpage]

Your Thursday Morning Roundup

We’re finally here. It’s gameday.

Falcons-Eagles, just like January, but in the season opener. Tonight at 8:20 on NBC. Banner gets raised, Eagles play football. Probably will be warm. Season pump-up video is out. Bud Light unveiled the Philly Special statue. We can stop with people (media) hating on Doug Pederson despite some normal people loving him. It’s time to play the God damn game. Let’s get it, even without Carson Wentz, Alshon Jeffery, and Mack Hollins, amongst others.

Despite celebrating the Super Bowl tonight, Malcolm Jenkins and the rest of the team are focused on this season.

“Looking around at the guys that we have, we definitely have a talented team that can match up with anybody,” Jenkins said. “That’s as far as it goes. Hopefully, we can take our potential and do something with it. I feel comfortable with the guys that we have fitting into the scheme. This is definitely a confident bunch of guys.

“The team last year was the closest I ever played with — on and off the field. All of the adversity forced us to come together and either sink or swim. We have to work on that unity that we had last year. Last year, we brought in character guys that had a winning pedigree and are unselfish. Guys like LeGarrette Blount, Chris Long, and Torrey Smith. We had guys playing roles that no one complained about. No one cared about touches.

“We had young players like Derek Barnett, like Corey Clement, like Nelson Agholor buy into what the leaders on the team were doing. Then there were guys that kept making plays, like Agholor, Carson [Wentz], Nick [Foles] and Zach Ertz all year. We had everybody contribute, when Jake Elliott hit a 61-yard field goal, Kamu [Grugier-Hill] filling in as a kicker in a game, Trey Burton playing long snapper. No one ever doubted. Everyone expected everyone else to execute. I knew as a teammate that everyone cared enough to prepare. So when something happened, we were able to keep going.”

Dallas Goedert will also be making his Eagles debut. It’ll certainly be a different environment from his days at South Dakota State.

We’re still double-digit hours away from playing the damn game as of posting, and waiting for this one absolutely sucks. If I’m a fan, I’d be tailgating as close to Lot K as possible right now, then move the tailgate there when all lots open and get wild.

And there’s still a way to get in to tonight’s game! It might cost you a good amount but there’s only one Super Bowl LII celebration season-opening game.

Finally, Brian Dawkins will be given his Hall of Fame ring later this season when the Birds take on the Panthers.

The Roundup:

Start your day off with a new episode of the Crossing Broadcast.

Ah yes we still have the Phillies to deal with. At least not tonight, thank God.

Despite Atlanta choking to the Red Sox yesterday afternoon, the Phillies could not cut their deficit to two games and lost to the God damn Marlins 2-1. Their lone run came off a single by Asdrubal Cabrera in the top of the eighth that scored Jose Bautista.

The Phils only got six hits, despite loading up the top of the order with Carlos Santana, Justin Bour, Cabrera, Rhys Hoskins, and Nick Williams. Half of their hits came from Jorge Alfaro, who was in the seven hole.

Nick Pivetta only lasted four innings and gave up two runs off three hits with four strikeouts. Tommy Hunter and Seranthony Dominguez pitched the other four innings and gave up only one hit to go along with four strikeouts.

They’re off today thank god, but have a weekend series in Queens against the Mets. Aaron Nola, who’s schedule got adjusted again to start in two games against the Braves later this month, will start.

Take a listen to the latest edition of Crossed Up as well, if you want to hear more depressing Phillies talk.

In other sports news, Le’Veon Bell still hasn’t reported to Steelers camp.

Trevor Story launched three home runs last night, including one measuring at 505 FEET.

Nike released their commercial featuring Colin Kaepernick that will air during tonight’s Birds game.

The Players Coalition is tired of the same damn questions.

Meek Mill and Sixers owner Michael Rubin showed up on The Tonight Show.

In the news, a search warrant is out at the house of the New Jersey couple that defrauded a homeless man of $400,000. They’ll also have to appear in court.

The New York Times posted an anonymous editorial from someone inside the Trump Administration.

The post Your Thursday Morning Roundup appeared first on Crossing Broad.

Your Thursday Morning Roundup published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[ifadingstudentduck]

AI Tivi | Prince Williams Royal Coat of Arms Examined Sub Me Now : https://goo.gl/ipdBhF Royal Coat of Arms of the United Kingdom Examined The royal coat of arms of the United Kingdom, or the Royal Arms for short, is the official coat of arms of the British monarch, currently Queen Elizabeth II. These arms are used by the Queen in her official capacity as monarch of the United Kingdom. Variants of the Royal Arms are used by other members of the British royal family; and by the British government in connection with the administration and government of the country. In Scotland, there exists a separate version of the Royal Arms, a variant of which is used by the Scotland Office. The arms in banner form serve as basis for the monarch's official flag, known as the Royal Standard. In the standard variant used outside of Scotland, the shield is quartered, depicting in the first and fourth quarters the three passant guardant lions of England; in the second, the rampant lion and double tressure flory-counterflory of Scotland; and in the third, a harp for Ireland. The crest is a statant guardant lion wearing the St Edward's Crown, himself on another representation of that crown. The dexter supporter is a likewise crowned English lion; the sinister, a Scottish unicorn. According to legend a free unicorn was considered a very dangerous beast; therefore the heraldic unicorn is chained, as were both supporting unicorns in the royal coat of arms of Scotland. In the greenery below, a thistle, Tudor rose and shamrock are depicted, representing Scotland, England and Ireland respectively. This armorial achievement comprises the motto, in French, of English monarchs, Dieu et mon Droit (God and my Right), which has descended to the present royal family as well as the Garter circlet which surrounds the shield, inscribed with the Order's motto, Honi soit qui mal y pense (Shame on he who thinks evil). Read more: Where does the queen own land? Queen Elizabeth II, head of state of the United Kingdom and of 31 other states and territories, is the legal owner of about 6,600 million acres of land, one sixth of the earth's non ocean surface. She is the only person on earth who owns whole countries, and who owns countries that are not her own domestic territory. As of 2017, there are 16 Commonwealth realms: Antigua and Barbuda, Australia, Barbados, Belize, Canada, Grenada, Jamaica, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Solomon Islands, The Bahamas, Tuvalu and the United Kingdom. All Denver Airport Mural Images: Analysis of the Occult Symbols Found on the Bank of America Murals The content in this video has not been confirmed 100% factual by Shaking My Head Productions. Please do your own research and use discernment to form your own opinion on this topic. Thought it was interesting enough to share and discuss. God bless. New videos are posted daily. Subscribe to our channel: /////// Subscribe & More Videos: https://goo.gl/t7yYwx Thank for watching, Please Like Share And SUBSCRIBE!!! #

[wionews]

Pride Celebrations across North America

Pride was celebrated differently across North America, with the East coast taking on a more political tone and the West making it more of a party, Reuters reports. No doubt each city contained mixes of each, but perhaps the strains were detectable. 

The political backlash concerned Trump, who promised during the election to protect gay people. But his move in February to revoke the Obama administration's guidance letting transgender students choose which gender bathroom they use, and his executive order last month to promote religious liberty have been seen by some as discriminatory.

Chelsea Manning, the transgender US Army soldier who served seven years in prison for leaking classified data before former President Barack Obama granted her clemency, attended Pride in New York.

Manning, was released from a military prison in May.

honored to represent the @aclu at this years @NYCPrideMarch 🌈👭👫👬 lost my voice from screaming so much ❤️ thank you 😍https://t.co/qZIBuyrNRq http://pic.twitter.com/3C6xVZQquV

— Chelsea E. Manning (@xychelsea) June 25, 2017

×

A group of marchers heading down New York's Fifth Avenue carried photographs of US President Donald Trump and his press secretary, Sean Spicer, as others waved banners bearing the word "RESIST" and the rainbow flag of the Pride movement.

Brad Hoylman, a Democratic lawmaker in the New York State Senate, told Reuters that lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people were "under assault" by the Trump administration. "He already rolled back rights for transgender students, for example, and the list is on and on," he said. "So we have a lot more work to do, that's why we are here today."

NYC march's grand marshals this year include the American Civil Liberties Union, which was chosen for its history of litigation defending gay rights; Brooke Guinan, a transgender woman who works as a firefighter in the city; and Geng Le, a gay rights activist in China.

"Pride this year is showing that we are here, we are queer, and we are not going to sit down for anything less than full rights, full equality," said Austin Anderson, a 28-year-old advertising worker who attended  the New York march.

The march route ends on Christopher Street in Manhattan's West Village to commemorate the riots that broke out there in 1969 after police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar, in an event seen as a turning point in the gay rights movement. New York's first Pride march started near by the following year.

  San Fran

San Francisco had a few anti-Trump signs too, but the theme of the day was letting loose. "It's too good a day to be upset about Trump," said Richard Babb, 66, of San Francisco to Reuters.

Revelers had to pass through one of dozens of metal security detectors to get into the main plaza. "Happy Pride everyone!" a security monitor yelled to the crowd, as people cheered and saluted. "Have fun today."

Two gay cousins attended the parade dressed in tutus and unicorn headbands. "We see this as a party, not a political protest," Qiaira McPeters, 18, said. Despite that, McPeters said that she feels things for gay people have been getting worse. "Gay people are getting beat up all the time," she said.

  Toronto, Canada

The city known as "TO" had thousands of revellers take to the streets. Toronto Pride has recently become a more political affair, with Black Lives Matter (BLM) insisting in 2016 that uniformed police officers no longer have their customary float or booths in future Pride parades. BLM shut down last year's parade until the demands were agreed to, which they eventually were.

Black queer lives matter #Pride2017 #prideto #BlackPride http://pic.twitter.com/qY6LsWGV0t

— BlackLivesMatter TO (@BLM_TO) June 25, 2017

×

It's been a hot point of contention. Members of BLM Toronto argued that allowing uniformed officers at the parade could discourage marginalised communities from attending, according to The Toronto Star. Toronto's BLM has inspired NYC's chapter of BLM, who made the same demand yesterday, CBC reports.

But political inclusion was on display too, as the event was attended by the city's mayor, the province's premier, and the Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. 

Love is love. #PrideTO http://pic.twitter.com/z2No7rdchZ

— Justin Trudeau (@JustinTrudeau) June 25, 2017

×

Many at Toronto Pride simply let loose and partied.

"The March seemed very safe, fun, lots of dancing in the streets and drag queens and crowds," Toronto photographer Becca Lemire told WION.  

March participants carry a massive Pride flag through the streets of downtown Toronto. Photo source: Becca Lemire photography. (Others)

×

  Seattle

Seattle Mayor Ed Murray, the first openly gay person to hold that job, joined the parade with his husband, Michael Shiosaki. "Today we celebrate our unity," he said in a video posted on Twitter.

Mayor Ed Murray and husband Michael Shiosaki marching, shaking hands with parade attendees #PrideParade2017 http://pic.twitter.com/6VeWgZtvfi

— Paige Gross (@By_paigegross) June 25, 2017

×

Hundreds of people marched in downtown Seattle in unusually hot weather, many in skimpy outfits and carrying pink balloons. A rainbow flag was hoisted to the top of the city's iconic Space Needle.

The Seattle Police Department, which put rainbow-colored decals on their patrol cars, said a group of people blocked the parade route for about 30 minutes to hold a sit-in in honor of Charleena Lyles, the black mother slain by city police a week ago. There were no arrests, police said.

(With inputs from agencies)

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[flauntpage]

Your Thursday Morning Roundup

We’re finally here. It’s gameday.

Falcons-Eagles, just like January, but in the season opener. Tonight at 8:20 on NBC. Banner gets raised, Eagles play football. Probably will be warm. Season pump-up video is out. Bud Light unveiled the Philly Special statue. We can stop with people (media) hating on Doug Pederson despite some normal people loving him. It’s time to play the God damn game. Let’s get it, even without Carson Wentz, Alshon Jeffery, and Mack Hollins, amongst others.

Despite celebrating the Super Bowl tonight, Malcolm Jenkins and the rest of the team are focused on this season.

“Looking around at the guys that we have, we definitely have a talented team that can match up with anybody,” Jenkins said. “That’s as far as it goes. Hopefully, we can take our potential and do something with it. I feel comfortable with the guys that we have fitting into the scheme. This is definitely a confident bunch of guys.

“The team last year was the closest I ever played with — on and off the field. All of the adversity forced us to come together and either sink or swim. We have to work on that unity that we had last year. Last year, we brought in character guys that had a winning pedigree and are unselfish. Guys like LeGarrette Blount, Chris Long, and Torrey Smith. We had guys playing roles that no one complained about. No one cared about touches.

“We had young players like Derek Barnett, like Corey Clement, like Nelson Agholor buy into what the leaders on the team were doing. Then there were guys that kept making plays, like Agholor, Carson [Wentz], Nick [Foles] and Zach Ertz all year. We had everybody contribute, when Jake Elliott hit a 61-yard field goal, Kamu [Grugier-Hill] filling in as a kicker in a game, Trey Burton playing long snapper. No one ever doubted. Everyone expected everyone else to execute. I knew as a teammate that everyone cared enough to prepare. So when something happened, we were able to keep going.”

Dallas Goedert will also be making his Eagles debut. It’ll certainly be a different environment from his days at South Dakota State.

We’re still double-digit hours away from playing the damn game as of posting, and waiting for this one absolutely sucks. If I’m a fan, I’d be tailgating as close to Lot K as possible right now, then move the tailgate there when all lots open and get wild.

And there’s still a way to get in to tonight’s game! It might cost you a good amount but there’s only one Super Bowl LII celebration season-opening game.

Finally, Brian Dawkins will be given his Hall of Fame ring later this season when the Birds take on the Panthers.

The Roundup:

Start your day off with a new episode of the Crossing Broadcast.

Ah yes we still have the Phillies to deal with. At least not tonight, thank God.

Despite Atlanta choking to the Red Sox yesterday afternoon, the Phillies could not cut their deficit to two games and lost to the God damn Marlins 2-1. Their lone run came off a single by Asdrubal Cabrera in the top of the eighth that scored Jose Bautista.

The Phils only got six hits, despite loading up the top of the order with Carlos Santana, Justin Bour, Cabrera, Rhys Hoskins, and Nick Williams. Half of their hits came from Jorge Alfaro, who was in the seven hole.

Nick Pivetta only lasted four innings and gave up two runs off three hits with four strikeouts. Tommy Hunter and Seranthony Dominguez pitched the other four innings and gave up only one hit to go along with four strikeouts.

They’re off today thank god, but have a weekend series in Queens against the Mets. Aaron Nola, who’s schedule got adjusted again to start in two games against the Braves later this month, will start.

Take a listen to the latest edition of Crossed Up as well, if you want to hear more depressing Phillies talk.

In other sports news, Le’Veon Bell still hasn’t reported to Steelers camp.

Trevor Story launched three home runs last night, including one measuring at 505 FEET.

Nike released their commercial featuring Colin Kaepernick that will air during tonight’s Birds game.

The Players Coalition is tired of the same damn questions.

Meek Mill and Sixers owner Michael Rubin showed up on The Tonight Show.

In the news, a search warrant is out at the house of the New Jersey couple that defrauded a homeless man of $400,000. They’ll also have to appear in court.

The New York Times posted an anonymous editorial from someone inside the Trump Administration.

The post Your Thursday Morning Roundup appeared first on Crossing Broad.

Your Thursday Morning Roundup published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[flauntpage]

Your Thursday Morning Roundup

We’re finally here. It’s gameday.

Falcons-Eagles, just like January, but in the season opener. Tonight at 8:20 on NBC. Banner gets raised, Eagles play football. Probably will be warm. Season pump-up video is out. Bud Light unveiled the Philly Special statue. We can stop with people (media) hating on Doug Pederson despite some normal people loving him. It’s time to play the God damn game. Let’s get it, even without Carson Wentz, Alshon Jeffery, and Mack Hollins, amongst others.

Despite celebrating the Super Bowl tonight, Malcolm Jenkins and the rest of the team are focused on this season.

“Looking around at the guys that we have, we definitely have a talented team that can match up with anybody,” Jenkins said. “That’s as far as it goes. Hopefully, we can take our potential and do something with it. I feel comfortable with the guys that we have fitting into the scheme. This is definitely a confident bunch of guys.

“The team last year was the closest I ever played with — on and off the field. All of the adversity forced us to come together and either sink or swim. We have to work on that unity that we had last year. Last year, we brought in character guys that had a winning pedigree and are unselfish. Guys like LeGarrette Blount, Chris Long, and Torrey Smith. We had guys playing roles that no one complained about. No one cared about touches.

“We had young players like Derek Barnett, like Corey Clement, like Nelson Agholor buy into what the leaders on the team were doing. Then there were guys that kept making plays, like Agholor, Carson [Wentz], Nick [Foles] and Zach Ertz all year. We had everybody contribute, when Jake Elliott hit a 61-yard field goal, Kamu [Grugier-Hill] filling in as a kicker in a game, Trey Burton playing long snapper. No one ever doubted. Everyone expected everyone else to execute. I knew as a teammate that everyone cared enough to prepare. So when something happened, we were able to keep going.”

Dallas Goedert will also be making his Eagles debut. It’ll certainly be a different environment from his days at South Dakota State.

We’re still double-digit hours away from playing the damn game as of posting, and waiting for this one absolutely sucks. If I’m a fan, I’d be tailgating as close to Lot K as possible right now, then move the tailgate there when all lots open and get wild.

And there’s still a way to get in to tonight’s game! It might cost you a good amount but there’s only one Super Bowl LII celebration season-opening game.

Finally, Brian Dawkins will be given his Hall of Fame ring later this season when the Birds take on the Panthers.

The Roundup:

Start your day off with a new episode of the Crossing Broadcast.

Ah yes we still have the Phillies to deal with. At least not tonight, thank God.

Despite Atlanta choking to the Red Sox yesterday afternoon, the Phillies could not cut their deficit to two games and lost to the God damn Marlins 2-1. Their lone run came off a single by Asdrubal Cabrera in the top of the eighth that scored Jose Bautista.

The Phils only got six hits, despite loading up the top of the order with Carlos Santana, Justin Bour, Cabrera, Rhys Hoskins, and Nick Williams. Half of their hits came from Jorge Alfaro, who was in the seven hole.

Nick Pivetta only lasted four innings and gave up two runs off three hits with four strikeouts. Tommy Hunter and Seranthony Dominguez pitched the other four innings and gave up only one hit to go along with four strikeouts.

They’re off today thank god, but have a weekend series in Queens against the Mets. Aaron Nola, who’s schedule got adjusted again to start in two games against the Braves later this month, will start.

Take a listen to the latest edition of Crossed Up as well, if you want to hear more depressing Phillies talk.

In other sports news, Le’Veon Bell still hasn’t reported to Steelers camp.

Trevor Story launched three home runs last night, including one measuring at 505 FEET.

Nike released their commercial featuring Colin Kaepernick that will air during tonight’s Birds game.

The Players Coalition is tired of the same damn questions.

Meek Mill and Sixers owner Michael Rubin showed up on The Tonight Show.

In the news, a search warrant is out at the house of the New Jersey couple that defrauded a homeless man of $400,000. They’ll also have to appear in court.

The New York Times posted an anonymous editorial from someone inside the Trump Administration.

The post Your Thursday Morning Roundup appeared first on Crossing Broad.

Your Thursday Morning Roundup published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/