#the northern wind's blog

[thenorthernwindsblog]

North

Listening to North by Sleeping At Last at 4 in the morning.

[sobellethesimmer]

Camila, she’s simply stunning...

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[novaursa]

The Dragon and The Wolf

- Summary: Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second born child of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is a dragonrider. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (expect for rating to go higher in the next chapter)

- Word count: 3 681

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

- A/N: I had this one stored away, but I've decided to post it on a request. Harwin Strong one is not yet finished, but will be posted in coming days. I'll see how both of these are received before posting more.

The wind whips across the snow-dusted fields, biting and cold, as you soar above on your dragon, Thraxata. The North stretches below like a vast, white ocean, with Winterfell looming ahead in the distance, its grey walls rising like ancient guardians against the winter sky. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting a pale light that glimmers off the frost-coated land.

Thraxata’s dark scales gleam like polished obsidian, a stark contrast to the endless white beneath. Her massive wings carve through the air with graceful power, the membrane tinted in deep shades of violet and blue, like the twilight sky before night fully descends. She is known as the Midnight Fury in whispers—born of shadow and flame, a terror in the night skies. Her roar splits the silence, echoing across the fields, a sound both commanding and otherworldly.

From your perch on her back, you spot the waiting banners below: the direwolf of Stark, surrounded by lesser sigils of Northern houses. Lord Cregan Stark stands at their forefront, a tall figure clad in thick furs and armor, as still and stern as the land he rules. He expects a prince, no doubt, a son of Rhaenyra, a warrior with fire in his veins. But you are no prince.

You are Y/N Velaryon, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Silver-haired like your mother, with eyes the color of amethyst flames, you are the embodiment of old Valyria—a sight that would capture any man’s breath, even in the frozen heart of the North. Unlike your brothers, there is no questioning the blood that runs in your veins. You carry both the fire of your ancestors and the steel of the sea, a daughter of dragon and salt.

Thraxata descends with a mighty sweep of her wings, stirring a storm of snow and ice as her talons dig into the frozen ground. Her head swivels as she growls low, a deep rumble that vibrates through your body, her violet eyes fixed on the assembled Northerners. You dismount with practiced grace, the long cloak of thick fur billowing behind you as your boots crunch into the snow.

The men whisper, their breath misting in the cold air, eyes wide with awe and trepidation. No prince, but something more—something wilder, something that belongs in tales and legends.

Cregan Stark steps forward, his eyes fixed on you. They are grey like the winter itself, hard and sharp, yet there is a glint of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of admiration beneath the layers of duty. He dips his head in a respectful nod, though his eyes never leave yours.

"Princess," he greets you, his voice deep and resonant, like a wolf's growl beneath the snow. "Winterfell welcomes you. I had expected a prince, but the Queen has sent a dragon nonetheless."

Your lips curve into a small smile, cold as the winter air. "My brothers may be princes, but it is I who bears the fire and ice that binds our realms, Lord Stark. I trust you will remember the oaths sworn to my mother, and the duty you hold to the true Queen."

His eyes narrow slightly, though there is no hostility, merely calculation. "The North remembers its oaths, Princess. But oaths are easily sworn and easily forgotten when the fires of war draw near. I would hear your words and judge for myself where our loyalties lie."

Thraxata’s tail lashes behind you, sending a spray of snow into the air. You can sense her restlessness, her desire to protect you, to assert her dominance in this land where dragons are more myth than reality. But you place a gloved hand on her scaled flank, a silent command, and she stills, though her eyes remain fixed on Cregan.

"You speak with wisdom, my lord," you reply, your voice firm but laced with the authority of the blood you carry. "But the North has never bent to whispers or empty promises. My mother’s cause is just, her claim undeniable. The realm needs strength, and you know as well as I that only fire can bring the long night to its knees."

There’s a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—in Cregan’s gaze. He steps closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until you are but a breath away. The North has always been a place where respect is earned through strength and resolve, not titles or finery. In that moment, you realize that your mother’s choice was not a mistake; you were sent because here, in this land of cold and iron, you are seen not as a delicate princess, but as something fiercer.

"Then perhaps the Queen chose wisely in sending you," he murmurs, his voice low, for your ears alone. "The North respects strength, and it seems that is something you possess in abundance, Y/N Velaryon."

There is a tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of the game you both play. He is the Wolf of Winterfell, and you are the Dragon sent to bind him to your mother’s cause. But there is something else too—a flicker of intrigue, of something more personal beneath the formalities.

“I shall make my case before the gathered lords,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “And I trust that Winterfell will extend the hospitality due to a dragon and her rider.”

He gives a slight incline of his head, a gesture of respect between equals. “Winterfell is yours, Princess. And I look forward to seeing just how fierce the fire of a dragon truly burns.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to his men. The banners dip in a formal show of respect as you walk forward, the Northern lords parting to make way for you. Thraxata stays behind, watchful, a dark shadow against the snow.

As you enter the gates of Winterfell, you can feel the eyes of Cregan Stark on your back, heavy with unspoken questions, and perhaps—just perhaps—the first stirrings of something that could grow amidst the frost and flame.

The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall is a great contrast to the biting cold outside. The stone walls are thick and ancient, adorned with tapestries depicting wolves in the hunt and battles long past. A roaring fire burns in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that dance across the rough-hewn beams above. The scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat fills the air, mingling with the faint tang of iron and earth, as though even the stone itself remembers the blood spilled within these walls.

You stride forward with measured grace, your fur-lined cloak trailing behind you. Eyes turn your way as you pass, curious glances that are quickly averted once they meet your violet gaze. The courtiers and bannermen of Winterfell are not accustomed to your kind—a dragonrider with Valyrian blood, a figure more suited to the tales of Old Nan than to the cold North. They murmur among themselves, voices hushed but thick with speculation, wondering if you are as fierce as the stories of your mother suggest.

Lord Cregan walks beside you, his stride steady and sure, the embodiment of Northern strength and resolve. He leads you to the head of the hall, where a carved wooden chair sits, draped in furs—a seat of honor, meant for you. As you take your place, his voice rings out, commanding the attention of everyone present.

"The Princess Y/N Velaryon graces us with her presence. Her arrival is most fortunate, for it seems the North’s business does not wait. House Glover has brought a criminal before us—a man accused of grave crimes—and they demand justice. Perhaps," he says, his grey eyes locking onto yours, "it would be fitting for a dragon to pass judgment."

There’s no mistaking the challenge in his words. This is a test, one meant to gauge your strength, your understanding of Northern customs, and how you wield your authority. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction, as do the assembled lords. You know this moment is pivotal; how you handle this situation will determine whether they see you as just another southern princess, or as something more—someone who can command both fire and frost.

You meet his gaze evenly, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It would be an honor to dispense justice in the North, Lord Stark. Show me this criminal and let us see what manner of man he is."

Cregan gives a slight nod, and with a gesture, the doors at the end of the hall creak open. The sound echoes through the chamber as two men of House Glover drag a prisoner forward, shoving him to his knees before you. He’s a ragged, weathered man with wild eyes and a face marked by scars. His clothes are filthy and torn, his hands bound with rough cord. There’s a stink about him—of sweat, fear, and desperation.

One of the Glovers steps forward, bowing briefly before addressing you and Cregan. "This man, Wyl Gray, is accused of murdering his kin and stealing from their holdings. He fled north to escape our justice, but we tracked him down and brought him here, as is our right."

The hall falls silent, all eyes on you now. The weight of their expectation is palpable. You rise slowly from your seat, descending the steps with a regal grace. Your voice is soft but carries through the room with the authority that only a dragonrider can wield.

"Wyl Gray," you say, your tone cold as the Northern winds, "you stand accused of betraying your own blood and committing theft in the lands sworn to House Glover. What have you to say in your defense?"

The man’s eyes dart around wildly, searching for some hope, some mercy, but finding none. He looks up at you, trembling slightly. "I did what I had to," he snarls, his voice hoarse. "My kin treated me worse than a dog, taking what was mine by right. I took back what they stole from me—nothing more!"

The hall murmurs in response to his words, some in anger, others in grudging acknowledgment. You can see the flickers of approval from a few of the assembled Northerners—they value strength, even when twisted by desperation. But you know better than to be swayed by the claims of a desperate man. His actions speak louder than his words.

You step closer, your gaze piercing. "You claim they took from you, yet you took their lives. Blood demands blood, Wyl Gray. In the North, justice is harsh and swift, but it is also fair. A man who cannot protect what is his without resorting to murder is a man unfit to live among honorable men."

Cregan watches you intently, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the shift in the room. The lords are weighing your words, assessing how well you understand their ways. It’s not enough to be just, you must be decisive—and you must show that you are not ruled by softness.

"You are guilty of murder and theft," you continue, your voice unwavering. "But the North does not deal in mercy for such crimes. You shall face the punishment decreed by the Old Ways. Justice shall be meted out by the one who passes the sentence."

A heavy silence falls over the hall. This is the moment—where the test truly lies. You could ask Cregan to deal with the criminal himself, and none would question it. But you understand what is truly being asked of you. The North respects those who do not flinch from difficult decisions, those who stand by their words with action.

You turn to Cregan. "Bring me the sword," you command.

There’s a ripple of surprise among the lords, but Cregan’s expression shifts, a hint of approval crossing his stern features. He gestures, and a massive sword, long and sharp, is placed into your hands. Its weight is heavy, but you hold it with ease, feeling the cold steel beneath your fingers.

You step before the kneeling man. His eyes widen in terror, realizing that you intend to carry out the sentence yourself. You look down at him, feeling no pity, only the cold resolve needed to see justice done. "In the name of House Glover, for the blood you have spilled and the dishonor you have brought upon yourself, I sentence you to death. May the gods judge your soul as they see fit."

With a swift, clean stroke, you bring the sword down, severing his head from his body. The hall is silent, save for the soft thud of the head hitting the stone floor and the hiss of blood soaking into the rushes.

You let out a breath, handing the sword back to a waiting Stark guard. The lords nod with approval, respect in their eyes. This is not a land for those who shy away from harsh truths or difficult choices. You have shown them that you understand the North’s ways—and that you are as much dragon as you are queen’s daughter.

Cregan steps forward, a slight smile touching his lips. "Well done, Princess. The North remembers strength, and today, you have proven yours."

There’s a weight to his words, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve passed his test. The respect between you has grown, forged not only by fire and ice, but by a mutual understanding of what it takes to rule.

As the hall begins to stir with renewed conversation, you feel Cregan’s eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you. It’s not just respect now—there’s a flicker of something deeper, something that might grow, given time.

But for now, you’ve earned your place among the wolves. And in doing so, you’ve taken the first step toward binding the North to your mother’s cause.

A little more than two weeks have passed since your arrival at Winterfell, and in that time, you have come to understand the North in ways few from the south ever do. The cold no longer bites as fiercely, the rough customs of the Northerners have become familiar, and even the solemn howls of the wolves at night are a comfort rather than a cause for concern. You’ve spent your days among Cregan’s people, riding alongside his bannermen, sitting in council with his advisors, and breaking bread with his warriors in the hall. You’ve proven yourself capable in all the ways that matter to them—skilled with both words and steel, a dragon in human form.

The Northern lords have come to trust you, their respect won by your ability to speak plainly and match them in courage. They see in you a reflection of their own values—honor, strength, and loyalty. Even Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, has found her lair in the craggy wilderness nearby, roosting among the jagged rocks as if she, too, feels at home in this stark and wild land. The villagers whisper tales of the black dragon seen circling the mountains, her shadow long across the snow, a fearsome guardian from the days of old.

Today, you ride out with Lord Cregan and his men on a hunt. The sky is a bleak grey, thick with the promise of snow, and the air carries the scent of pine and earth. The forest is dense, the trees tall and ancient, their branches heavy with frost. It’s a test, of sorts—Cregan’s way of seeing how well you handle yourself in their world, not just as a rider of dragons, but as a hunter and a leader.

You ride astride a hardy Northern stallion, its breath steaming in the cold air, and you match the men stride for stride as they navigate the rough terrain. Cregan rides beside you, his expression more open than it had been when you first met. Over these past weeks, a bond has formed between you—one built on mutual respect and a growing sense of trust. He speaks more freely now, and there’s a warmth in his tone that was absent when you first arrived.

When the hunt begins, you do not hesitate to join the chase. The hounds bay as they track the scent of a massive stag, and you ride hard, your cloak snapping behind you in the wind. You’re no stranger to riding, and you handle your steed with ease, navigating the twisting paths and snow-laden ground. When the time comes to strike, you draw your bow with practiced precision, letting the arrow fly. It finds its mark true, and the stag falls. The men around you roar with approval, slapping their shields and calling your name in praise. They respect a woman who can hunt as well as any man, and here, they see you as one of their own—a warrior, not just a princess.

As the hunt winds down, Cregan approaches you, his face flushed from the cold and the thrill of the chase. "You’ve more than earned your place among us, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff but warm. "Few could keep pace with Northern men in their own forests, let alone best them. I see now why the Queen sent you instead of a prince. You’ve shown strength and wisdom—two things the North values above all else."

You incline your head in acknowledgment. "I’ve come to admire the North and its people. But admiration is not the same as allegiance. I must ask, Lord Stark—will you now stand by my mother and send your armies south to fight in her name?"

Cregan’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his eyes as he considers your question. He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze turning toward the distant horizon, where the land stretches into a vast, icy wilderness. "The North is not like the South," he says finally, his tone measured. "Our duty is first and foremost to our own. With winter coming, my responsibility is to the Wall and to the people who must survive the cold months ahead. I cannot, in good conscience, march thousands of men south when their families might starve without them."

You frown slightly, frustration creeping in. "So you’ll abandon my mother’s cause? You gave your word, Lord Stark."

Cregan’s eyes meet yours, unwavering. "I do not break my word, Princess. I swore to uphold my oaths, and I will. But sending armies south would be folly with winter approaching. However," he continues, his tone softening as he watches your reaction, "there are those in the North who would fight, even in the harshest winters. The Greybeards—elders, warriors who have lived long and seen much. When winter comes, many of them leave their homes, believing it is better to pass in battle than to linger and be a burden on their kin. They are few in number, but each is worth a dozen younger men in skill and experience. I will send them to your mother, to fight in her name. They may not be an army, but they are a force to be reckoned with."

It’s a compromise, one that you didn’t expect but cannot wholly dismiss. You nod slowly, understanding the practicality behind his words. "Your support, even in this way, will strengthen our position. I thank you for honoring your oath, Lord Stark."

Cregan remains silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more personal. "There is another matter I wish to discuss—a way to bind North and South even closer. You’ve proven yourself in the eyes of my people, and I have come to value your counsel and your strength. The North needs a Warden, but it also needs stability and unity. I am in need of a wife, Y/N."

His words catch you off guard. You had expected negotiations over troops and strategies, but not this. You study him closely, searching for any hint of jest, but there is none. His gaze is steady, earnest even, and the weight of his words is not lost on you.

"A marriage alliance," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. It’s a move that makes sense, politically and strategically. Your mother’s cause would be strengthened by such a bond, and Cregan’s position would be solidified, uniting the North under his leadership. But you know it’s more than just politics—there’s something personal in his offer, a recognition of the connection that has grown between you over these weeks.

Cregan inclines his head. "A marriage would do more than just bind our houses. It would be a show of unity between North and South, and it would ensure that whatever may come in this war, our strength remains undivided. You are a woman worthy of the North, and I would be honored to stand beside you as more than just allies."

You consider his words carefully, your mind weighing the implications. There’s a certain inevitability in the offer, a recognition that your paths have been converging since the moment you arrived at Winterfell. You could refuse, insist on keeping your independence, but you know that this is more than just a marriage proposal—it’s a partnership that could shape the course of the war and the future of the realm.

Finally, you meet his gaze, your voice clear and firm. "If this is the path we choose, Lord Stark, know that I will be as fierce in our union as I am in battle. The North will have a wife who is as much dragon as she is Velaryon. But I do not take such matters lightly—if we are to do this, it must be done with respect, trust, and understanding."

Cregan’s smile is genuine, his eyes gleaming with both respect and something warmer. "I would expect nothing less, Y/N. We’ll have much to discuss in the days to come, but I believe this could be the start of something greater than either of us alone."

The weight of his words lingers between you, and as you ride back toward Winterfell together, there’s an unspoken understanding—a shared resolve. You have won the respect of the North, secured their support, and now, perhaps, you are on the verge of something more—an alliance forged not just in duty, but in fire and ice, strength and trust.

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part one

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

warnings: grief mention

word count: 4k

a/n: here is the idea that has been plaguing my brain since i started this blog. more installments to follow. any comments, feedback, thoughts are always appreciated, especially since this is my first longer piece on here. thank you to whomever requested this. it is not exactly what you asked for, but rest assured the story shall eventually give you what you desire.

next part | series masterlist

The Tyrell girl finds herself with the distinct thought that there is absolutely nothing special about Cregan Stark after all. 

She decides upon this in her quarters at King’s Landing, which are modest in size, almost befitting a young lady from a family as opulent as House Tyrell. The sheer silks of the curtains blow inwards gently in the face of the afternoon wind that drifts in from the open window, the slight smell of seawater and the remnants of a cooler day. 

The girl in the vanity mirror gazes back at her with a delicately downturned chin and round doe eyes that look up underneath delicate wisps of long lashes. She gives the look another attempt, pressing her lips together slightly to give her a darling pout as she opens a small pot of rouge. The color comes from an ornate box that is covered in gilded roses and twisting thorns. Her fingernails tap gently on the edge of the metal as she opens the rouge with a soft click. With one of her fingers, she presses into the coloring only the slightest bit to pull some onto her skin. 

Her plump lips are parted carefully as she raises her hand to dab the color to her mouth, leaning forward slightly. Some of her loose curls sway softly with the motion, and she rests her elbow against the edge of the vanity’s table. Once she has finished, she reaches down to open a drawer and produces a white lace handkerchief that is embroidered with the sigil of House Tyrell – a beautiful rose in shimmering golden silk. When she wipes her finger against the fabric, a light stain of pink is left behind. 

She returns to her earlier judgement, regarding the young lord she is set to meet with shortly. Cregan Stark is heavy on her mind that day. 

It was not too long ago that the Northern men had arrived in King’s Landing. Soon after followed their liege lord, the Lord of Winterfell, the man who holds the court at present. With him had come an even larger force and with that army he had seized control of the entire city in a very short manner of time. It would seem the young lord had every intention of continuing the war that had consumed the noble houses, much to the concern of House Tyrell.

The House is ran by a woman at present. The Tyrell girl thought of her mother briefly, and of her little brother Lyonel who was only two years of age. She knew her mother did not wish for the war to continue. That very mother had then told the girl that while this Northern lord maintained a firm hold on King’s Landing it was her responsibility to do what she did best: win him over.

There was little to complain about when the request was delivered to her. On the contrary, she had already predicted the wishes of her mother and had ensured she was in the throne room the moment Cregan Stark had first pushed those large doors open, blue eyes sharp and sword still in his hand as he led his bannermen in. It is with perfect clarity that she can recall the moment his head lifted to the balcony of the grand room, meeting her gaze for the first time. 

She could additionally recall each and every following occurrence of the prolonged gaze they exchanged whenever they happened to cross paths. After a few instances of this, heavy looks where the Northern lord would hold her stare as if he had no intention of ever looking elsewhere again, she found his eyes began to wander. To the lady’s lace she occasionally wove into her elaborate hairstyles, to the small freshwater pearls that spilled over of her collarbones, and then down further to the way the embroidery at the top of her gowns would sweep across her breasts that were pushed upward by the tightness of her whalebone corsets.

And once an adequate trap had been laid, the Rose of the Court had swept in with angelic grace and poise to introduce herself to him. It had gone as smoothly as she could have expected – save for the way she had found Cregan Stark was smarter than she expected. The shine in his eyes when she’d spoken let her know that this Northern lord would not fall prey to her so easily. 

Nevertheless, he has called upon her that afternoon. Which is why she is spending a rather grey day dabbing the subtlest of color onto her lips before smoothing her delicately arranged hair into place and informing her maid she is ready to depart.

They are to meet in the castle’s gardens, as per her own request. She had spent quite some time in the gardens during her time in King’s Landing, and found men were much more likely to deem a conservation there pleasant as it would reflect her scents of rose water and lavender oil and honey.

She catches sight of him as she makes her way down one of the pathways made of little rocks, her elegant heels tapping on the small, pearl-colored pebbles as she approaches. Lord Stark is facing away from her, his hands clasped behind his back. He is still dressed in dark colors but has opted against the heavy furs that had adorned his broad shoulders the first time she had seen him. His hair is a striking shade of red that when caught by sunlight shines almost golden about the edges. But this day, the sky is overcast and gloomy with a few gusts of wind and the faint smell of rain that perhaps foretold an incoming summer storm.

Cregan Stark turns as he hears her drawing nearer, his chin raising slightly as his stern gaze falls upon the Tyrell girl. 

She has settled for a hurried step, the heavy skirts of her elaborate dress clutched in her petite hands as she rushes up to him rather quickly, bringing a natural red flush to her cheeks. As if she had been quite fretful over the idea of making him wait for even a moment. Her maid trails behind, grasping at the fluttering of her headdress that the wind plucks at in gusts. The maid is providing the girl with a small amount of distance as she stops to catch her breath in front of Cregan.

“I do hope I have not kept you waiting, Lord Stark,” The Tyrell girl begins, her shoulders rolling back elegantly as she speaks. The action draws further attention to the prominence of her collarbone, over which a thin necklace of gold lays. Her eyebrows raise and draw closer as she gives Cregan a honeyed and apologetic smile. The color of her lips is that of a blooming rose.

Cregan finds there are no shortages of places to look when it comes to her. And yet there is no safe place to rest his eyes upon, no part of her that has not been subtly enhanced or maneuvered to make her look as comely as might be possible. It is no wonder that she has enchanted half of his bannermen as if by some sort of spell, leaving longing eyes and craning necks in her wake as she glides about the court. 

And Cregan cannot truthfully declare he is immune to her beauty. The only reason he has noticed so much regarding her is that he had been staring, all dry swallows and heavy-lidded eyes, at her since arriving. The way she made his blood rush hot in his veins, her face and figure more than pleasing. Cregan will not imagine – he is a gentleman, and she a highborn lady -but he could imagine, if he allows himself to, and he could imagine much whenever she enters his line of sight. She needn’t say a word to draw his eye.

He settles for looking into her eyes, although they are perhaps the most disarming feature on her dollish face.

“No, you have not Lady Tyrell.” There is a depth to his tone that she is not used to, even after a week of hearing Northern accents echoing down the halls of King’s Landing. He pronounces both her name and title by enunciating both syllables with a low timbre. She notices the way he intentionally kept his gaze to her eyes, his brows neutral and his features even. A proper Northern lord, perhaps. The girl will figure him out for herself soon enough.

“Oh, thank goodness,” She breathes the first word as a sigh of sweet relief, pausing for a moment to catch her breath since she had hurried so worriedly over to him. A hand comes to her chest, sliding over the top of her full breasts as she presses down to soothe her aching lungs.

Cregan’s eyes flick down.

“I would hate to be late. I know how busy you must be, what with all of your responsibilities here at King’s Landing,” There is that sweet smile again, breaking across her face like the sun through the sky in the early hours of the morning. When she folds her hands gracefully across her front, her cleavage comes together impossibly tighter as her arms press to her sides.

Cregan looks back up to her face, hand clenching lightly.

“Aye, I have been quite busy. Handling the remnants of Aegon’s supporters has proved a heavy task.” His eyes are light, reflective of the overcast sky above their heads. They narrow a bit as he speaks, his expression stern and his voice gruff. She wonders for a moment over how seriously he must take himself.

“A difficult yet vital task, verily.” The Tyrell girl’s eyelashes flutter lightly. She dips her head as if to acknowledge the severity and importance of his work at the capital.

He beholds her for a heartbeat, the slightest twitch of his heavy brows when she speaks with a tone that implies the most agreeable and sweet countenance. It is the perfect thing to reply with, a simple sentence that does not ally herself with either side of the war. An easy compliment given to him like candy. Here is a girl who has learned to play the game of court.

And before Cregan can push the subject further to see if he might glimpse a hint of her true opinion on the matter, the girl is already turning towards the path. He waits a moment while she begins to walk, observing the way she steps with effortless grace. Letting out a small sigh, his wide shoulders drop and he takes a few heavy steps to catch up with her.

The maid trails behind them, and Cregan wonders for a moment if she needs anything from the girl. As he glances over his shoulder, the girl catches notice and smiles, sugary and pleasant.

“How has the capital treated you, my lord? Aside from your important work, that is,” Her chin raises as she looks at him sideways. It is a fair way she has to look up, with the obvious height he has on her. She has never been considered tall, but even so, Cregan’s stature is quite imposing.

Cregan considers her words for a moment. The gardens are quiet, most of the lords and ladies inside to avoid the low clouds that hang precariously above them.

“The South is not much like the North,” He meets her eyes with a heavy gaze as he speaks. There is a heaviness about him in general – stern and disciplined. “I came for the war and find there’s one in every corner of your court.”

She keeps her eyes to the ground for a moment, her expression cool and pleasing. So it would seem Cregan Stark was not altogether empty-headed and boorish.

“Life at court can be quite turbulent at times, it is true,” A honey-tongued and cool concession, smooth as river water over rocks. “But your steadfast devotion to bringing justice is a refreshing presence. Others of your idealism have long since left these walls.”

At first glance, it is a compliment of the softest praise. But Cregan is not foolish enough to take her words for their immediate meaning. No, what Cregan hears instead is an unimpressed warning of what happens to those who come to King’s Landing with good intentions.

“I swore an oath and intend to keep it,” His brow creases in a serious frown. “Even should those I made that oath to no longer draw breath.”

“How very honorable,” Swift and candied, the words fall from her rosy lips as she walks gracefully at his side, finding herself with a flash of annoyance as she has to increase her pace to keep up with his wide steps. This is supposed to be a leisurely stroll, why is it that every step he takes has the length and intent of someone walking towards a particular destination? “It is good to know that the stories of Northern loyalty ring true.”

Cregan feels his jaw tighten slightly, his eyes on her face as she upturns her chin to meet his gaze once more. The look on her face implies she is impressed, but the Lord of Winterfell has an eye for falsehoods and this girl is covered in them, no matter how coquettishly smoothed they are.

A frown of contemplation folds onto his stern face. “It is our nature, my lady.”

“So it is.” A saccharine smile and the glitter of wide eyes. The garden’s flowers are in full bloom, upturned to the sky to catch the possible rain that would occur in the later evening. The petals facing the clouds, waiting, watching. Leaning towards the water they wish for. A small flutter of wings can be heard as a butterfly brushes past. “To be true to one’s nature, you will find, is not a common occurrence here at court. If it is Northern custom to be honest and straightforward, it is Southern custom to be prudent and waiting.” 

There is an eloquent way of describing the venomous snake pit that was the capital. Most of the men there came for their own personal interest or gain, clawing to the top of the food chain through underhanded tactics and broken oaths and lies. Most men worked their entire lives for a fragment of what Cregan Stark had come to King’s Landing and taken in one day.

“Therefore, you must imagine why you are so fascinating to many of us here at court.”  She explains in a tone of light and airy amiableness, meeting his gaze as if admitting why she had been staring after him so often since his arrival at King’s Landing. This is not exclusively a lie – she was sizing him up, same as every other noble who cared enough to keep an eye on the larger game at play. But some of her staring had been purely self-indulgent, much to her own irritation.

“And you have lived here at court long?” Cregan’s question is reserved and polite.

“A couple of years now,” The Tyrell girl looks out in front of her again while they walk, surveying the gardens around them thoughtfully as if she had not seen them a thousand times. “I served as a lady in waiting to Queen Helaena. The Hightowers are bannermen of House Tyrell and I had been betrothed to her younger brother Daeron from his birth. We had been set to marry this year, however…”

She could not care less about her betrothal to Daeron. It had served her well, allowing her more time to live unmarried as Daeron was much younger than her and the two had never met. And then he had died, and she found herself lacking the safety and security of a royal and wealthy betrothed who was miles away. She wishes she could say she had mourned him, but she had not known him at all.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady Tyrell.” There is an almost warm quality in his voice as Cregan offers his sincere condolences. She looks down, as she knows she should. Many had given her similar sentiments in regard to the loss of her betrothed, but she did not find herself shedding a single tear for the fallen prince. It is not that there had been no love between them: it is that there had been nothing between them at all. Daeron had never so much as written her a single letter in an attempt to know her. But his sister plagues her thoughts.

Helaena had been a dear friend, a companion, a confidant. It was Helaena who had offered the girl company in that first frightening year at court, who had been unfaltering honest and direct with her. There were no court games or schemes at play with Helaena, no power struggles or competition or backstabbing. The Tyrell girl had been devastated to lose the Queen. Much more so than a stranger she had never even laid eyes upon. Daeron was a figment of imagination from the mind of her childhood self; Helaena had been flesh and blood and dreams and understanding. 

She is glad her eyes are downcast; she can feel the glassy haze falling over them and the way her smile lacks any warmth. After a moment, she forces a happier smile back upon her lips and dips her head slightly.

“I thank you, Lord Stark. It has been difficult in the face of such a loss, but I do hope to persevere.”  The brightness of her voice lowers to a softer tone. She is well used to pretending to mourn her late betrothed. It is not hard when she simply examines her feelings over Helaena, but such raw and angry grief is not befitting of a lady. No one wishes to see her scream and tear at her hair over the pain that rakes carved, hollow cavities into her chest. They wish for a light dab at a stray tear, a quiet, palatable sadness they can soothe with promises of future love and happiness.

Cregan does not know what to make of her reaction, unable to see her face as it is turned away. Her words are even, practiced. 

“I have only spent my time between the capital and Highgarden. There is much of the world I have yet to see,” The Tyrell girl guides the conversation back to Cregan’s original question with ease and experience. She catches his stormy eyes gazing intensely at her once more, sucking in a gentle breath that she wishes she could say is done on purpose to feign interest.

“I imagine I might fair poorly in the North,” She continues hurriedly, eyelashes fluttering as she regains control over her composure, eyes cast to the sky as she presents a sheepish breath of laughter. “With the cold and what not.”

Cregan’s lips twitch faintly at her admission, his head tilting a little as he gazes down at her. It is an amusing thought, this delicate rose in her pastel fabrics and shining jewelry among the ice and snow. He rather wishes to see it, he finds.

“Aye, I fear even our summers would prove challenging for those raised in such fair climate.” The amusement reaches his eyes and she finds herself watching as Cregan looks down, doing his best to remain a gentleman and fighting off the smile that seems to be threatening to break out at the corners of his lips. She hears what his words truthfully mean: he views the Southerners as weaker, used to sunshine and easy days. 

Does he fancy himself better because he spent all his time in nightmarish weather, buried under pelts and furs and smelling of sweat and snow? She is eager to see how he’d fare in court without the large army he had brought with him.

“Oh, I simply could not bear it,” She sighs deeply, as if even the thought of such bitter cold was too worrying a predicament to bear in her delicate mind. “I am afraid you shall not be seeing me in the North anytime soon, Lord Stark.”

“A pity, my lady,” There is still a measure of serious composure in his face, but Cregan’s eyes shimmer with something else as he watches her bring her hand to her chest again, smoothing down the expensive fabrics and then up over the soft flesh of her breasts. An action that feigns worry and concern and draws his attention. She has a way of leading the eye about in a subtle manner. Her figure gives him pause. “The North offers a great beauty for those who choose to brave it.”

Her eyes flick to his and there is a moment where Cregan can almost see her sharp mind discerning whether his comment is a challenge or a jab or merely an observation. It fascinates him, yet his face betrays nothing of the thought.

“Perhaps I should amend my previous statement,” The soft laugh that escapes her lips and the sweetness of her expression makes Cregan wonder if he has imagined something. “If my lord was so kind as to offer me an invitation to Winterfell, I would, of course, be honored beyond words.”

Cregan wonders for a moment if he can discern her true intentions. She intrigues him, much more than she should. It was her alone of all the Southern ladies who had approached him directly, introducing herself and offering welcome. Cregan knows it is not from the goodness of her heart. She could fool his bannerman with her wide eyes and friendly smiles, but Cregan was attuned to lies, no matter how beautifully they were spun. Attuned, yet perhaps not immune to their crafter.

It is likely she seeks marriage, now that her betrothed has fallen in battle. Cregan is a perfect candidate. But he cannot be sure, not when she’s blinking up at him with such sweet and thoughtful eyes. Her weapons are great and her skill with them is more so. Before Cregan can open his mouth to mention that he would in fact, wish to see her with rosy cheeks bitten from the cold and snowflakes in her soft hair, she casts her eyes to the sky, frowning thoughtfully.

“It would seem that the evening storm is rolling in sooner that anticipated,” She muses, sighing a little, as if she is truly saddened their stroll is coming to an end. They have almost walked to the end of the gardens anyhow. “I shall excuse myself, if you do not mind, Lord Stark.”

Cregan lowers his head in understanding, his eyes meeting hers as he lifts his chin. He holds the stare for longer than needed. “Go ahead, my lady. I would hate to see you caught in the rain. You might melt.”

She blinks, that sweet smile on her lips but not quite reaching her eyes as she feels her jaw tighten slightly. How utterly charming. As if to subtly let her know he has not fallen for a single thing she has said or done in the last hour. She imagines he finds that amusing.

“How kind of you, my lord.” She offers him through a mildly forced grace, her right eye twitching a little as she gives a deep curtsy that once again showcases just how fortunately she is blessed in the bosom. Cregan finds his mouth dry, his shoulders rolling back slightly. “Do not hesitate to call upon me should you need anything at court. I hear it can be quite challenging for those raised in such fair company.”

When she draws herself up, she gives him one last smile before she turns to collect her maid and disappears.

Cregan hears his own words shot back at him with the most amiable and honeyed cadence but realizes a moment too late. He runs a hand through his red hair and then over his face as he sighs. But as he does so, he feels the ghost of a smile on his lips. Cregan finds himself shaking his head, gazing in the direction she has vanished into for a long moment in silence.

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[thenorthernwindsblog]

TNW

Middle Ages and Ironmen.

[lalunanymph]

who’s your (baby) daddy. [3] 

╰┈➤ After being dumped by your boyfriend of 3 years, you decide to switch things up and go on your own version of a “hot girl summer”—subsequently finding yourself with a surprise that would arrive in 9 months time. The catch? You have absolutely no idea which of the men you slept with is your baby’s daddy.

𖨆♡𖨆 nanami x reader, gojou x reader, toji x reader, sukuna x reader

# mechanic!toji, explicit smut, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of babies, girlies fighting, mentions of food, toji is a deadbeat dad wbk minors and ageless blogs dni

‗ ❍ masterlist  

You were never one to be this reckless.

All your life, you were raised by two strict parents who always taught you to look both ways before you crossed the roads, to always ask as many questions as you could and never take things at face value.

Growing up, you were defined as being ‘bossy’ by people around you, a term loosely thrown at any young girl who exhibited even a shred of backbone; the kind of treatment that a man would never get in this world. 

And so, this perspective was what shaped you to be the best at what you did—to give your all, but to always be cautious in what you were giving away in the first place. 

What your parents, school and life failed to teach you was to not believe in a handsome and charming man. For the day you met Fushiguro Toji was the day when that caution all went down the drain. Little did you know that a chance meeting with him would result in you fainting in the middle of an OBGYN’s room like one of those delicate princesses from cartoons you used to watch when you were younger, with that man being the first one to catch you before you jarred to the ground.

But, to get to the present, you had to first backtrack through the past. 

It was a few weeks after that party in the Getos residence when you were given an assignment to go to the countryside—of all places—to interview an anonymous worker who wanted to spill on the conditions of his factory.

Mia had once told you that a good story was like a sandcastle—you could build and build it as much as you wanted from a variety of leads, but once the relevant people caught wind, they would descend upon that little sand house of evidence you built to knock it back to the ground. But, there was another thing those secretive higher-ups failed to recognize; how journalists always waited for the tide to recede before striking. 

At that time, the case had been red-hot and you were the first one on the frontlines to catch it. 

You had driven all the way towards the outskirts of Tokyo, towards the sleepy town of Kamakura—a journey of almost 2 hours with the traffic—where the worker would be waiting for you in a nondescript cafe to tell you his side of the story. Back then, you had no idea if you were already pregnant or if it had not happened just yet; all you recalled was how swelteringly hot it was. 

The cafe offered a cool respite and you ducked under the awning, tightening your blazer around your shoulders. He was a short, flat-nosed man with a northern dialect who gestured too much that he almost knocked back your cup of coffee. Nonetheless, you did your job, hmming and ohhing when he divulged a new piece of mistreatment, only getting to the juicy parts half an hour into your conversation.

“And that's why the deal fell through.” You perked up and positioned your recorder closer to him, frowning. 

“Are you positive?”

“Yes,” he enthused, “It was because of that near lawsuit. All the big guys were talking about it near the watercooler,” he puffed out his chest, mimicking the deep drawl of Kaizen’s top executive. “‘Those damn assholes—they always ruin everything. Told ya we shouldn’t have made a deal with those trigger-happy vultures’.” 

“I see,” you furiously scribbled down his words verbatim. 

He was happy to spill more about the company’s numerous HR violations, and you had literally gasped when you heard they were denying work VISAs to their immigrant workers. It all made your blood boil. 

Towards the end of the interview, you bowed to him and he did the same, double and even triple checking that you would not mention his name in your piece. You made the solemn promise that you did not, and that he would be termed as an ‘anonymous whistleblower’. 

The sun was already setting when you decided to drive back to Tokyo, and you reasoned that it would not take you long. That was before you drove over a nail, and your back tire exploded, causing you to swerve and hit the side of the road, your yell of fear giving way to the unbearable stillness of disbelief.

No fucking way. 

You exhaled out a low groan and slammed your head to the steering wheel. Just fucking great. Here you were, stuck in the middle of god knows where on a stretch of road with nothing but a field of wildflowers as far as the eye could see. Miserably, you stared at the clock, watching the minutes slip by, stubbornly refusing to head out and check on your tire; maybe if you closed your eyes hard enough, you’d awake in your bed to find this all a horrible nightmare. 

Fingers twitching, your first instinct was to call Kento. 

But, reality set in and you remembered that he was no longer someone you could freely call. You no longer had the privilege to call him up whenever you wished, to hear his voice and how he sighed in defeat at your clumsiness but would always come to save you even if you never asked.

It wouldn’t hurt to call him just this once… wouldn’t it?

You had no idea which entity possessed you to reach for your phone. His number was always the first one on your contact list, where it rightfully belonged. But what if he blocked you? You shook those thoughts from your mind and focused on the dial tone.

Ring… ring… ring…

Your heart sank all the way to your stomach. Of course he would not pick up. It was a Friday evening and he was probably with another girl. Kento did not need you in his life any longer. 

“Hello?” 

Your voice caught at the back of your throat.

“Hello? Y/N?” 

It’s incredible how someone’s voice had the ability to bring back a wave of memories. You closed your eyes and did not reply.

“Y/N? Hey—you okay?” Nanami was not a man who was easily concerned, having been around enough volatile situations at work to hone his veneer of apathy. But, the worry in his voice was unmistakable. “Y/N? What’s wrong? Are you hurt—?” 

Suddenly, your common sense returned. You shouldn't have called him in the first place. Clicking the red button, you ended the call and sagged forward, clutching the phone in your hand and pressing it to your forehead. Idiot. You were such an idiot. Your cheeks were wet and you sniffed, wiping the back of your hand over your nose. 

A familiar chord from a well-loved song played from the radio. 

Living alone… I think of all the friends I've known… But when I dial the telephone… Nobody's home…

All by myself, you mouthed the song's lyrics, sinking back into your car seat. “Damn it,” you groaned and forced yourself to straighten, roughly pushing the button to cut the song off before you could faint from crying too much and dying of carbon monoxide poisoning. Silence descended upon you like a thick fog.

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to spend the night here, you reasoned.

Skyscrapers and tall buildings were swapped out for thick trees and a lack of light pollution. Perhaps you could even see the stars tonight, something you had not done since you were a little girl. Perhaps—

A loud knock on your window jolted you from your reverie. 

It was the bulk of a man and judging from his frame, he was huge. 

You shrank back into your car seat, praying he did not see you. “I’m going to die, I’m going to die.” So this was how you were to meet your demise; murdered in the middle of a flower field. Did your insurance cover this? You really should have read the manual. In the throes of your thoughts, you hadn’t anticipated him moving to your window and tapping on it. 

A squeak fell from your mouth and you cracked the window open slightly. 

The face that greeted you took your breath away. Dark blue eyes that were closer to navy, inky black locks that fell across his forehead and a smirk on his scarred lips. Holy shit. 

“Car trouble, miss?” 

You meekly nodded and scanned down his impressive chest and abdomen. You wanted to tell yourself you were searching for a hint of a weapon, but that was a lie. God, how was his chest that defined under that tight black shirt? 

Swallowing, you cracked the window wider and meekly nodded. “I t-think I ran over a nail.”

“Let me take a look,” he offered and raised a thumb towards the front of the road. “I have a workshop nearby. I can fix it for ya. That good with ya?”  

You were surprised to find a tow truck in your rearview mirror and gazed at him with wide eyes. “H-how did you know—?” 

“I was driving past here and saw the flat tire,” he explained with that same infuriating smirk. “Thought I could try my luck and see who needed my help.”

Your answering laugh was hollow and you unbuckle your seatbelt, getting out of the car. This close, he was taller—almost towering over you and you felt like a rag doll next to him. Though he seemed nice enough, your guard was still up. 

“Sure. That’d be great.” 

At your words, he nodded towards the tow truck. “Get in the front. I’ll hook ‘er right up.” His jeans were covered with grease stains and his hands had the hard look of labor on them. Perhaps he was telling the truth. By now, the sun was slowly making its grand exit, the shades of night soon drawing close. There was no way you could drive back home in this state, not when your chest felt tight and you were terrified of driving in the dark. 

You obediently followed and sat in the cracked passenger seat, fidgeting with your fingers. He got into the driver’s side and with his sheer size, his shoulder was almost brushing yours. He looked like one of those obnoxious gym bros but the way he carried himself was more subdued, a confidence that did not need to be compensated with flexing and Instagram likes. His vibe was unmatched and you found yourself easing around him. 

He drove the tow truck forward and you observed his roughened but deft hands hitch the hook underside and secured it in place. In a matter of efficient minutes, he had done the job and hopped back in, the truck jerking to life.

“Wear your seatbelt.” You scrambled to click the buckle and continued fidgeting with the straps of your purse.

“So, where’d you come from?” he asked amicably and you glanced at him, startled that he was making conversation. “Ya look spooked, so I’m guessing not from here, eh?”

“No,” you murmured, “I’m from Tokyo.”

“What’s a city girl like you doing here?” A lilting teasing tone that made you wonder if he was holding back laughter at your state. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you shyly laced your fingers together.

“I was here for a business interview. I work at a newspaper publishing company.”

You had no idea why you were divulging this to him. For all you knew, he could’ve been an axe murderer who picked up women using this modus operandi and he was planning to take you back to his lair before chopping you up into pieces. 

As if sensing you tense, he glanced at you. “The name’s Toji. Fushiguro Toji. What’s yours?”

“Y/N,” you said and did not give your last name. “Thanks for helping me, Fushiguro-san.”

“I ain’t doing this out of the goodness of my heart, doll,” he drawled and there was something in the wake of his mischievous smile. “I ain’t charity.”

Somehow, this prickly admission made you loosen and you found a smile on your face. “Honest. I like that.”

His laughter was low and almost smoky, which gave you the illusion that he was someone who smoked. The scenery flew past—rolling hills and miles of fields that sprawled out like a Van Gogh painting. Though you had never been much for the countryside, you could understand why city people regularly flocked to the safety of the greener pastures when the smog and fray got too much.

Ahead, a simple mechanic workshop attached to a double-storey home came into view. Toji carefully parked the tow truck and told you to wait inside. Those rippling muscular arms were put into good use when he physically pushed your car into the workshop, immediately getting to work. 

He toiled under your curious stare. For someone of his build and burly strength, he was surprisingly nimble with the tools, and in what seemed like a whir of screwing, pumping and a lot of grunting, your car was fixed. By now, it was purely dark and you could barely make out the fields outside his windows and shivered to think of what could hide inconspicuously in those stalks of waving, tall grass.

“Okay, I’ve fixed your tire.”

You nearly jumped from your skin, momentarily forgetting that he was here with you. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Toji’s curiosity edged you to explain, not wanting him to get a wrong impression of why you had suddenly paled. 

“It’s—uh… dark.”

“That tends to happen when night comes.” He was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of worry in his tone. Something about him—whether his presence or his unassuming dark blue eyes—made you blurt out the truth. 

“I’m…” you twisted the keys in your fingers, stalling. “... do you know if there’s a motel nearby that I can bunk in for the night?”

He snorted. “You ‘fraid of driving in the night?” 

When you didn’t reply, he got his answer. “Shit. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark?” 

Wincing, you cleared your throat, adopting an air of sheepishness to ward off his judgement. “Yeah. I had a bad accident when I was younger; I tend to stay away from roads when there’s no sun.”

There was contemplation when he rapped his knuckles atop your car’s roof. 

“You said Tokyo, right?”

“Yeah.”

Toji kissed his teeth and stared out of his workshop’s window. “Hmm. I have a spare room. You could crash there.”

You didn’t dare believe it. The cautious part of you—the one that looked twice before crossing any road—was screaming at you to not take him up on his offer. But the other part—the one that could not even bear to look out the window when driving past a pitch black road, shuddered at the thought of making the arduous journey back into the city.

Images of thieves, ghosts, scarecrows and even aliens flashed in your mind. 

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he amended and you considered your options.

“You don’t mind?” 

“If by not minding ya mean I won’t charge ya, then no,” he said, a tinge of amusement in his tone. 

You couldn't’ help the grin that tugged at the corner of your lips. 

“Okay. I’ll stay out of your way—it’s just for tonight.” 

Toji nodded and swept one large hand in front of him, gesturing for you to follow. You did, staring at the broad muscles of his back and wondering how a guy in the countryside got this buff. But, it made sense; he was a mechanic and he seemed to work alone. 

He fumbled with his keys before unlocking the door, letting you step in first. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Like his workshop, his home was bare and sparsely furnished. Everything had a use and everything was in its place; it seemed ordinary enough. 

“This is… nice.”

“You think so?” 

“There’s no axe hanging on the wall so I guess I have to count myself lucky.” 

He laughed at your joke; a full-bodied, low sound that was pleasing to hear. Toji showed you to your room and even left you a spare towel and a set of old clothes that looked like it belonged to a woman—perhaps a girlfriend. 

“Hey, you sure this person doesn’t mind me using her stuff?” you poked your head past the door to quip at him. Toji was halfway boiling some water and he flickered his gaze to you, shrugging. 

“She’s not here.”

“Your girl?” you frowned, wondering if it was too late to refuse his offer despite how much the simple yet wide bed was beckoning you for rest.

“Ex,” he intoned from the kitchen. “Broken up months ago. She left some clothes here so might as well, eh?” 

Pursing your lips, you decided not to push him too much on this. Rather, you shut the door, locking it for good measure before starting to undress. The hot water was a soothing salve on your sore muscles and you sighed, dunking your head under the stream and letting it wash your tiredness away. 

You scrubbed your skin until it shone, washed your hair and even used some of his shampoo. Halfway through, the stream turned into a trickle and eventually, the water stopped altogether. Still with suds in your hair, you frowned and wrapped your towel around you. 

“Hey, Toji?” 

“Yeah?” 

He sounded far away and from the distance, you could hear the commentary of a sports event or another humming low in the background.

“Your shower isn't working.”

“Seriously? Fuck—this dump always had plumbing problem.” His grumbling grew closer and if he found you disconcerting in just a towel, he didn’t comment on it, averting his eyes politely. Toji bent down to check the pipe, mumbling under his breath and you tried not to get too puddles on his flooring. 

“Fuck!” 

A jet of water seemed to explode around the both of you, drenching you and completely soaking him, your shriek echoing across the tiles. Toji blindly reached for the piping and twisted it, the water stopping and leaving the both of you blinking.

“Shit, you’re all wet.”

Toji groaned, scarred lips twisted into a frown. Uncaring that a stranger was right in front of him, he peeled his shirt from his glistening abdomen, tossing it onto the floor. You fought hard not to ogle at his defined muscles, preferring to drop your stare and find the cracks of your toes more interesting than this fine specimen of a man. 

“Not exactly something a man wants to hear.”

“Not exactly something I envisioned telling a man in the first place.”

Your retort caught him off-guard and his gaze touched yours. Biting down on a smile, you had to stop yourself from laughing at how the strands of inky locks dripping down his chiselled features reminded you of a disgruntled dog. 

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not! Here—” you quickly passed him the smaller towel and he wiped the droplets from his face, his exacerbated annoyance making it hard not to burst out into peals of giggles. His annoyance was palpable and you reigned your reactions in, taking a step back to give him space, but it was a wrong move.

Your feet slipped on the slick floor and you squealed, heart dropping to your stomach as you lost your balance and jarred onto the floor. 

“Y/N!” 

Strong arms reached for you, holding you up and bringing you back to your feet. Your heart was hammering a mile a minute, your cheek pressed to his pecs as you steadied your breathing. 

“Shit.”

“Y-you okay?” you were surprised to find a waver in his tone when he eyed your quickly scrambling form. You cursed and hitched the towel higher around your bare breasts. 

“Y-yeah.” 

The towel had slipped up and exposed the split of your thighs where a searing pain was spreading across your hip. You cursed and rubbed the bump, cursing under your breath, face twisted in pain. 

“Shit—looks like it’s g’na bruise. Wait, I’ll get first aid.” 

Toji gingerly let you go and left the bathroom. You hobbled out, mindful of your steps and collapsed onto the bed, still massaging the tender spot, your teeth clenched as the waves of pain ebbed and flowed around you. 

He returned and found you on the bed, still alleviating the pain and burying your groans into the sheets. Gentle hands brushed yours aside and you jumped when you felt him prod the bruise.

“Ow!” 

“Sorry—needed to see how bad it was.”

You whimpered when he rubbed some ointment onto the welt, his touch now softer than before. He barely gave you time to flinch away when he peeled your towel back further, the dark triangle between your legs peeking through, your modesty all but ruined in front of this gorgeous stranger. 

His touch was soothing and instead of closing your eyes and enjoying it, you preferred to use humour as a tool of deflection to ward off the awkwardness that clung between the both of you like a film of grease. “Do you always bring women home to your shitty plumbing and give them near concussions?”

You winced when he placed a bandage over the injury; his snort of laughter both reeked of annoyance and amusement in one breath. 

“Nope. You’re the first.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Despite meeting him for a short moment, you could tell that he had rolled his eyes. Once he patched you up and left you to dress, you took the chance to make amends and sought him out. He was seated at the dining table, dressed once more and nursing a mug of tea. Without asking, he reached for a spare cup and poured you a drink, asking without words to join him. 

And you did, tentatively taking a seat opposite of him. 

Understanding the fact that this night had already started off on a weird footing, you decided to lean into it rather than resist. 

“So, Toji from Kamakura. What brings you here?”

He clicked his tongue, a sly grin in place. “Tryna unearth my deepest secrets already?”

You took a sip of the warm beverage, feeling its curls of comfort radiating deep in your chest. You had no idea why you were so adamant on telling yourself you were never one to be reckless when here you were, drinking from a stranger’s cup, staying under his roof and hoping to God he did not lace your tea with a roofie. 

“Why? Afraid I’ll recognize your name?” 

“Maybe you would.”

You couldn’t tell if he was serious and he let you ferment in your discomfort before breaking the tension with a snort. 

“I was from Tokyo, too. Came from a rich but terrible family. Ran away when I was 17 and never looked back. You?” 

Oh. You deflated a bit and shared with him a fleeting smile. 

“My parents were accountants but I never took that route. Loved words more than numbers.”

He hummed. “So, you combined them both?” 

“Well, you gotta appease your parents sometimes.”

“I get that.” You had a thought that no, he didn’t. Toji did not seem like a guy that played by anyone’s rules or games; he marched to the beat of his own damn drum as evident from the curling tattoos around his arm and the unusual scar across his lips. 

Without thinking, you reached out and brushed the tips of your fingers lightly on his skin, admiring the pattern and swirls. 

“I like the design. Was always thinking about getting a tattoo.”

“You should,” he said, voice gruff. But, he did not make a move to shift away from you. 

“May I see more of it?” Your request was timid, and from the pause that vibrated between the both of you like the echoes of a gong, you would think he was going to refuse. But, Toji was proving to surprise you at every turn and pushed the sleeve of his black crew neck sweater up, revealing more of the distinct whorls that seemed to bloom from his tanned and scarred skin. 

“Here.”

You traced one design lightly, unaware at how his breathing had turned ragged, not when you glanced up at him. 

Those dark blues drowned you in their depths and you felt like you could not breathe. 

“Toji—”

He leaned in, palm skimming your cheek. The air seemed to spark and burn like metal meeting metal and you found you wanted to discover if those flickers would catch aflame. 

“You know… I never do this, but…”

He did not finish his sentence, not when you bridged the gap and pressed your lips to his. He tasted of chamomile and nicotine, and when his tongue dipped into the crevices of your mouth, cajoling yours into a sultry dance, you found you liked the weight of his unsaid words between your teeth. 

Toji pulled back slightly, flickering his eyes back to your lips as if he could retrace them by memory alone. 

“Do you wanna—”

“Yeah,” you tried to hide how heavily you were breathing but it was no use. Every rise and fall of your chest throbbed with the growing attraction you could not hide. “Want it.”

“Y/N—”

Proving to yourself that you were more reckless than you discredited yourself with, you clambered onto his lap, thighs pressed on either side of his hips, the shirt he gave you riding up slightly to reveal the soft flesh of your stomach. 

Toji cupped your face in both of his palms, calloused thumbs brushing your cheekbones. He brought you forward, tipping you over to him and drinking from your lips once more, a desperate edge in his kisses this time. Your moans were swallowed by his infuriatingly soft kisses, that plush mouth like a flower blossoming under your lips, letting you shyly sampling the stain of nicotine on his tongue. 

How could a mere kiss leave you panting like you had run a marathon? Whatever spell Toji casted on you, it worked and you fixed him with a half-lidded gaze. “More—please.” 

You didn’t have to ask him twice. Putting those burly muscles to good use, Toji picked you up effortlessly, your bare thighs straddling his tapered waist as he took swift strides towards a room you haven't noticed—one hidden behind a wall. Keeping you still in his arms where you could feel every ripple of his defined muscles pressed against your body, you could not stop yourself from nibbling and sucking the salt off his neck, your moans clashing hotly on his sensitive skin.

A quick grunt, and your pajamas were ripped off your body, leaving you bare and spread for his eyes. Tonight, you threw away your preconceived worries about constantly being the cautious one and embraced the insanity. It seemed that Toji and you were on the same wavelength and he peeled off his tight black shirt off his frame, letting you ogle at just how ripped he was. 

It was obscene how good he looked above you, and it seemed like your legs parted automatically for him to settle between them. Those dark blue eyes were riddled with lust, a smirk growing on his scarred lips—the same lips that made their way down the column of your throat. There was no reason why you let out a lustful moan beyond the fact that every touch of his lips on your skin sent jolts of pleasure down your spine, going south to settle deeply in the centre of your body; your clit twitching when he tongued your nipples. 

There was no gentleness when he flipped you over to your hands and knees, your face pushed into the woolen blankets that smelled musky and almost soapy—exactly like how Toji smelled like. Imbued with the scent of him that seemed to saturate your every pore and the feel of his lips on your neck, the hot press of his calloused fingers mapping a straight line down your back like he was tracing the spine of a book. 

Like a well-loved story, you unfurled yourself for him, letting him pinch your nipples and teasingly run his cock through your soaked folds. Heavy breathing filled the space between the both of you, curling around like thick smoke, choking you back with the pressure of his cockhead slowly splitting you open. 

“Fuck. You’re so tight.”

You scrambled to hold onto reality; it had been far too long since you felt a cock this good in you. “Toji—ngh!”

It was dawning on you how much of an enigma Toji truly was—he fucked you like you were nothing but a whore, ramming his hips against yours, palming your breasts and slapping the plush flesh. But there was a softness in how he placed hot, open mouth kisses down your neck that made your toes curl, how those same rough palms ran down your sides, the callouses rasping against your skin leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. 

With his larger build, it was easy for him to bear down on you, press your entire frame to his bed and manoeuvre you however he wanted. Those same coarse fingers touched your clit, rubbing tight circles on it, leaving pangs of pleasure that got you clenching down on his cock. Tips of his inky locks brushed your shoulder and you gasped when he bit down on your pulse point, that sudden sharp burst of pain getting you threateningly close to the edge.

The slick feeling of his precum staining your thighs and your juices barely gave his cock any friction and restraint from reaching all the way to the neck of your cervix. 

“God—Toji!” you cried and pressed one palm onto your lower stomach, eyes growing wide at how you could feel him there. “C-can feel you so deep.” 

“Yeah—I’m all the way here, beautiful?” he draped his larger palm on yours, grunting when your soft mewls touched the shell of his ear, the pleasure growing too much for both of you to hold back. Like a tidal wave, your orgasm was building, reaching massive heights and you were half afraid to come down. 

“Toji—!” 

“Cum for me, pretty girl. Go ahead and mess up my cock.” One strong arm wrapped around you and pressed you tight to his defined chest. “I’ll be here to catch you, baby.” 

“Condom!” you gasped and patted his hand to let you go. Rather than letting you out of his sight, Toji lifted you up, twisting you so that your tits were pressed to his chest and all you could do to not let your bum slam to the ground was to keep your arms wrapped around his neck. 

“Where?” he grunted. Your head was growing lighter—Toji was literally dragging you up and down his cock as he walked, strong enough to keep fucking you without a break. 

“My room,” you squealed and he brought you to a different spot; you had never been this fast in your life to rummage through your purse and reach for a packet, ripping the silver square in haste and letting him pull out long enough to cover his lewdly shiny cock with the rubber. 

Taking over from where you both left off, Toji slammed you against the wall, his scarred mouth to your eye level and you tipped your head up, your legs helplessly shaking in the air. There was no doubt your arms would be sore tomorrow, your core all but bent in half to take his thick girth into your creamy depths. 

“Toji, Toji—”

“Cum for me, doll. Cum for me.” 

Who were you to deny him, especially when he snarled at you to give in and flood his cock. 

Your release broke with a vengeance and you screamed out his name, hips canting madly to milk his cock, feeling his seed dripping down your thighs. You were too tired to even complain when he sat you down on the bed and removed the condom, splatters of white droplets painting your lower belly. 

“Mhm—Toji...”

“Go to sleep,” he reassured, “I’ll get cleaned up and join you.”

But, you were out before he could even fulfill his promise and as he returned back into the guest room to find you completely out cold, he had to smile. Getting in next to you,Toji leaned over and clicked off the light switch, the room drenched in darkness and the soft whistles of your snores. 

“Goodnight, Y/N from Tokyo,” he whispered as he pulled up the quilt to your chin, hiding your naked body from his sight to give you some semblance of decency. He was unsure of how you would react the next morning when you woke up… or god forbid when you found out the truth about him. 

But, Toji did not let those thoughts ruin the glow of his post-orgasm bliss. 

If there was one thing Toji was certain about, it would be this—there truly was not another woman like you for miles around him in this sleepy down. 

Sunlight tickled your eyes and you pried open your lids, finding yourself pressed close to another warm body.

The memories of last night came back with stunning clarity and your cheeks were warmer than a sun-drenched rock, disbelief in yourself for how you had given yourself completely to this stranger. A handsome stranger, but regardless, he was still someone you didn't know very well.

“Morning.” Crap—the hot stranger was awake. 

You did not respond, scrunching your eyes close tightly in hopes he would believe you were still asleep and did not force you to go through with this awkwardness.

“Your snores stopped—I know you’re awake, Y/N.” 

Deciding that you could not delay the inevitable, you pried your eyes open to fix him with a sheepish smile. “Morning,” you croaked, stale breath making you wince. But Toji did not pay any mind to these natural occurrences and offered you a small smile. 

“Gonna take a shower.”

You hummed, peeling your sticky, naked body out of his embrace. “Don’t bump your head.”

“Ha—fucking—ha.” You watched the ripped curve of his back leave the bed and forced your eyes to tear away from literally ogling at him and risking being called a pervert this early in the morning. 

You laid in the wide bed, stretching your arms overhead and enjoying the thrill of birds outside the window. Something about the country seemed charming enough and you briefly allowed yourself to muse how your life would be if you were to leave the city and start a new life away from the fog, the noise pollution, the memory of Kento on every street you walked on—

The loud ring of the doorbell jolted you from your musings, wondering if you would go get it. You reasoned that this was Toji’s home and he should be the one to answer it, but the rapid stream of water that echoed from the bathroom reminded you that he was currently occupied. 

Another grating ring and you stifled a groan, standing up on shaky legs and picking up your pyjama top from last night. Toji’s old shirt was large enough to fall to your thighs, giving you at least a semblance of decency. You staggered to the door, unlatching it only to come face to face with a pair of brown eyes that widened at the sight of you.

The woman at the other end blinked once, twice, and then raked her gaze up and down your barely dressed form, a sudden flash of anger in her eyes. 

“Who are you—?” 

“You slut!” she screamed and pushed past you, wild dark hair mimicking the storm in her almost black gaze. “Where is he? Is he here?”

“Whoa—“ you stumbled back, surprised at her rage, “Who are you?”

Nothing you did could prepare you for her next words. “I’m his girlfriend.”

“W-what?” Through this sudden flash of realisation, you failed to notice the little boy clinging to her leg. 

“He was supposed to be watching his son today.”

Her words didn’t seem to make sense. A son? But the longer you looked at him, you couldn’t deny it. There he was, standing wide-eyed, a full carbon copy of the man you slept with last night. Your stomach sank like you had swallowed a stone. 

Bracing all her anger into her raised voice, she bellowed, “Toji!” 

At this altercation, the dark-haired man came staggering out of the bathroom in nothing but his towel, flabbergasted at the sight of her. 

“Shit—Mira.”

“You gonna explain this to me?” Jabbing her finger in your direction, you couldn’t help but feel as though she was disgustingly pointing out at a bug she had accidentally squashed under her old sneakers. 

Toji flitted his gaze from your shocked expression to her fuming one and furrowed his brow. “There’s nothing to explain.” 

“Who is she?!” 

“Just some rando—ow—hey!” Mira had raised her hand to slap him, and you gasped, hand flying to your mouth at her audacity. 

“You’re such an asshole, Fushiguro. You didn’t send me any money last month—”

Toji rubbed his cheek and growled at her. “I told’ya! I was running low—”

“So you’re resorting to fucking your customers, now?” Hurting worse than her blinding slap was her sudden accusation that all but threw your dignity under the bus.

Right. Of course. You were just his customer; last night didn't mean anything, definitely not to Toji. 

Despite the fact that none of this was making any sense, you swallowed the bile you wanted to hurl at her. If this was his girlfriend, why was she speaking as though she was a spurned wife? 

But, you decided you had intruded enough. Not only were they bickering in broad daylight with raised voices, but they were doing it in front of their son who could only glance back and forth at his mama and papa with wide, hurt-filled blue eyes. 

Stepping back into the room, it seemed that they both did not notice you until you stood before them with your purse in hand. Fishing inside your wallet, you produced a substantial amount of money and passed it to Toji. 

“Here—the money you need.” 

As if he were stepping out from a nightmare, the burly man blinked and gingerly took the cash. “Y/N—wait.”

You paused, waiting for him to struggle with his words. Mira was nowhere to be seen, the world growing smaller to encompass your cold fury and this stammering man before you. 

“I can explain. Mira is not my wife, she’s just my ex who’s taking care of Megumi. My real wife died a long time ago.”

You sighed, rubbing your aching temple. “Toji, I don’t—argh!” 

Something cold and faintly smelling of cream collided with your cheek and you touched your face, pulling your hand back to find it covered with whipped cream. You were confronted by the sight of Mira—her chest heaving, face red and holding that incriminatory can in one hand, a mad gleam in her eye. 

“You crazy bitch!” you yelled, swiping off a glob of cream that threatened to glop into your eye, fixing her with an incredulous stare. 

“Get out!” 

“Mira—” Toji was about to stop her when he got pied in the face with another spray, this one landing right in his mouth and making him choke on his next words. 

“I was gonna!” The anger and indignancy rose in you and you have never felt this humiliated in your life; cream in your hair, cheeks burning and your pride smashed into a million pieces. 

This is what you get for fucking random men, Y/N. 

“Mira—stop. Y/N—”

You stepped back, raising your hand, about to smack the can out of her grasp when she jettisoned you with another stream of cold cream. Having had enough, you wrenched the can out of her hands and gave her a taste of her own medicine—literally and figuratively. She sputtered out a mouthful of that sweet cream and launched into a mad tirade, about to lunge at you before Toji ransomed her into his unyielding arms.

“Guh—bitch!” 

“My hair!” you screeched. “You ruined my hair you fucking batshit insane bitch!” 

Wiping the last glob of cream and shaking off the flecks onto the floor, you threw her a glare so unnerving that even Toji flinched. 

In a voice colder than Arctic ice, you turned your anger to the tall, deceptive man who winced at the sight of more cream dripping down onto the large shirt he had borrowed you. 

“Goodbye, Toji.” 

Despite how badly you wanted to walk out with your dignity intact, it was undeniable that a half-naked woman covered with cream was about as dignified as a drunk person who shat their pants in a club. 

You scuttled past the small, wide-eyed boy in nothing but his father’s shirt, whipped cream dripping down your chin and your burning cheeks. 

“Papa, why is she not wearing any clothes?” That innocent question was the last straw and you quickly closed the door behind you, trying and failing to bite down on your groan of shame.

The last thing you heard as you hightailed it to your car was Mira’s condescending, 

“I don’t get paid enough to deal with your disgusting ass, Toji.”

You came back to the present, rousing to consciousness on the hard examination bed to find three men staring at you in blatant concern.

One of them—the one who had seen you butt naked and covered with whipped cream (but not in a sexual way), was gazing down with barely concealed disbelief.

Toji was the one who first broke the silence. “Y/N?” 

Sukuna was less delicate, getting to the bone of things. “Why didn't you tell us you were pregnant?” 

But, you couldn't speak up, vocal cords ransomed by fear. 

“So, you don’t know which one is the father?” Gojo. His piercing cerulean eyes were filled with an unnamed emotion. 

In the end, it was Shoko who broke the tension by muttering, “I can take some samples from each of you and run it with Y/N’s amniotic fluid.” 

Before you could speak, or even give a rousing reasoning as to why this was important not just for you, but for the baby, Sukuna scoffed and stepped back, his arms crossed. 

“Count me out.”

You swallowed down on your mortification and turned your wide gaze to the tattooed man who looked like he would rather be suffering in the pits of hell than stay for one more second in this crowded, overstuffed room full of potential fathers.

“Sukuna—”

“Yeah, me, too. I already have a kid. I ain’t gonna pay for this one, too.” 

It hurt that they were not willing to even take an hour out of their day to help you find out the truth; that they would discard you just like that—like you didn’t even mean much to them in the first place.

To your surprise, it was Gojo who was trying to convince the dark-haired man to stay. “Toji—”

Finding your voice, you glared at the two men who were the personification of a dog with its tail between its legs. One quick blow and you’re positive the both of them would’ve folded like they were a house of cards. 

“This isn’t about us anymore, okay!” 

You softened your tone, imploring them to understand. “At least just take the test. Please. We have to think about the baby—regardless of who it belongs to and until the test is ready, don’t you want to at least know the child?” 

None of them spoke, too stunned by your outburst. Toji cleared his throat and shook his head, about to retort when Ieiri supplied softly: “It’s a girl.”

There was a collective sharp inhale from each man. 

This time, it was Sukuna who exhaled. “A girl? Damn.” The rosy-haired man’s musing fell on deaf ears for the others, but not on yours. You heard him crystal clear. “I’ve always wanted a girl…” 

“A baby girl, eh? Guess we have to show a good role model.” Satoru winked at you and this tiny show of acceptance warmed your heart that had long gone cold from the previously hostile interaction. 

However, the atmosphere in the room came crashing down again when Toji scoffed. “You both can do that. I’m out.”

There was nothing you could say to convince him. This time, you let the tall, dark-haired man go; thinking it was useless to hinder someone who didn’t even want to be there in the first place. 

You had thought that Sukuna would stay to at least provide his sample, but he sighed and turned towards the door, following Toji's heels. 

“If you would please excuse me.” 

It was just you and Gojo left in the OB GYN room. 

You turned your dulled gaze to him, gently pressing your palm to your stomach where your baby girl was currently growing. With a jaded sigh, you asked him, “Don’t you want to leave, too?” 

Proving that he was a bag full of surprises, the white-haired CEO snorted. “Nah. That baby girl may be mine and I wanna be there for her.” Twinkling cerulean eyes filled you with hope for the first time during this long day. “Besides, you said it yourself—this is not about us. It’s about her.” 

His words melted your heart and you were grateful that even if no one would be there for you, at least Gojo would. 

“Thank you… Satoru.”

— reblogs and feedback are very much loved <3

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy and repost, or claim as your own

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Edwin, Charles, and Monty (Human Didn't Know They Were Dating AU)

Monty is familiar with the Landscape with the Fall of Icarus. He wrote a fucking paper on it for his class on the Renaissance (his professor was way too into the High and Early Renaissance and only crammed the Dutch and the Northern Renaissances in at the end of the semester, only giving each of them a week, but Monty still picked Pieter Bruegel the Elder to write about because he’s a stubborn bitch, even if it gave him a fuckton more research to do). He’s familiar with what it’s like when a boy with wax on his wings flies too close to the sun. He’s familiar with the concept of hubris, and avarice, and pride.

But Monty didn’t know what it felt like to fly through the air, the wind between your wings, the sun kissing your skin, until now. He didn’t know what it felt like for the wax to burn away and melt itself into your skin, searing your flesh, until now.

And he didn’t know why anyone would risk such a thing until now.

Until them.

And now he can’t imagine a life in which he didn’t reach out, knowing that he would plunge off the cliff face and drown in the rocky ocean beneath.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, it’ll be a quick death, with the fall killing him instantly instead of forcing him to be pulled around in the ocean, the riptide pulling him out to slowly drown beneath the waves.

(With Monty’s luck, there’s no way that’s happening.)

-aletterinthenameofsanity, underneath the sunrise (show me where your love lies)

Twice the dreams, but half the love

Be careful what you bottle up

The chemistry is a mess, it seems

But me, I'm still a sunbeam

Tell me, when the party ends

Will you still love who I am, I am?

Scar-crossed lovers forever

I'm checking myself out forever

I'm saving this all for later

-Fall Out Boy, Heaven, Iowa

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

[thenorthernwindsblog]

TNW

 Ballet du Grand Théâtre de Genève: Pontus Lidburg’s Giselle (x)

[tovieplays]

      

NEW MODS VIDEO IS LIVE NOW!!! FOLLOW FOR MORE

 | Visual mods |

*No music notes mod for sims 4: by Krys29 https://modthesims.info/d/540385/no-music-notes-for-sims-4.html

*No Zzz for Sims 4 https://modthesims.info/d/540287/no-zzz-for-sims-4.html

*Missing plumbob by  https://ko-fi.com/s/b737098fd3 

    | Gameplay mods |

*SimCare https://www.patreon.com/posts/simcare-early-91664292 

*Mccc - https://deaderpool-mccc.com/ 

*Weerbesu UI cheats https://www.patreon.com/posts/ui-cheats-v1-16-26240068

*Smarter Pie Menu: Searchable https://www.patreon.com/posts/smarter-pie-menu-81030137

*Steady Sit & Seat Any Sim: https://www.patreon.com/posts/mod-steady-sit-83645525

*Steady Sit & Seat Any Sim: https://www.patreon.com/posts/mod-steady-sit-83645525

*Mini-Mod: Greetings: https://www.patreon.com/posts/nc4t-mini-mod-65202018 

*First Impressions: https://www.patreon.com/posts/44832679 

*Mod: Turn On TV: https://www.patreon.com/posts/mod-turn-on-tv-70261108 

*Control Any Sim https://modthesims.info/d/634595/control-any-sim-v1-2-4.html 

*Healthy living mod : https://www.patreon.com/posts/healthy-living-102663074 

*Autonomy Toggle : https://www.patreon.com/posts/bg-autonomy-31612207 

*Midnitetech power outages mod https://www.patreon.com/midnitetech/posts 

*Midnitetech doom scrolling https://www.patreon.com/midnitetech/posts 

* Nerdy doll Cupids corner lower refresh rate https://www.patreon.com/posts/cupids-corner-108827515 

*UTOPYA Brawling Mod https://www.patreon.com/UTOPYA_cc/posts

*UTOPYA make the bed mod https://www.patreon.com/UTOPYA_cc/posts

*UTOPYA pool table mod https://www.patreon.com/posts/functional-pool-97981170 

*Waronkcc functional cars https://www.patreon.com/posts/61053382 

| Overrides |

*Luxe Gift Box Override by LargeTayterTots https://www.patreon.com/posts/luxe-gift-box-by-104977636 

*Presents Overhaul by Apricot Rush  https://www.patreon.com/posts/day-9-presents-94902582 

*Simkatu Computer Desktop Override https://www.patreon.com/simkatu/posts

*Ceiling replacement by surprise peach https://surprisepeach.tumblr.com/post/625013453550157824/this-replaces-the-ugly-white-ceilings-with-a 

*Pc game override by Ebonix https://www.patreon.com/posts/33560276

*Simkatu override flower arrangement https://www.patreon.com/simkatu/posts

*Dynamus Remote Override https://modthesims.info/m/10185139 

*Nv games Failed Energy Animation https://www.patreon.com/posts/small-mods-69121597 

*Default mop replacement LargeTayterTots  https://www.patreon.com/posts/default-haul-87565236 

| Romance mods |

*Purchase jewelry by rex :https://konansock.tumblr.com/post/751599316869791744/small-mod-purchase-jewelry-on-phones 

*SIMS4 MOD | Kiss-n-Grind 1.6 Waved Kiss https://www.patreon.com/posts/107870579 

*Simkatu cry mod https://www.patreon.com/simkatu/posts

*UTOPYA passionate gifts https://www.patreon.com/UTOPYA_cc/posts

| Cas and lighting mods |

*Vyxated Reflective CAS Background https://www.patreon.com/posts/reflection-cas-93254283

*Weerbesu More columns in CAS https://www.patreon.com/posts/more-columns-in-27751117

*No blu by LUUMIA https://luumiasims.com/post/176043227929/its-been-well-over-a-year-since-noblu-v1-came-out 

*Luumia NoGLO https://luumiasims.com/post/167217001494/i-released-the-noglo-mod-about-a-year-and-a-half 

*Simp4sims simpsetters https://www.patreon.com/posts/overhaul-01-57965057 

*Softerhaze Sunblind https://softerhaze.tumblr.com/post/708700219869691904/sunblind-the-landscape-images-above-excluding 

*K-Hippy K-505 Terrain Mod https://k-hippie.tumblr.com/post/171136399326/k-505-terrain-mod-replacement-4-all-worlds 

*CONTROLLED POSITION MOD by northern siberia winds https://www.patreon.com/posts/cas-tuning-mod-1-81104796 

shout out to all the incredible creators!

@plumlace @deaderpoolmc @twistedmexi @amellce @needcoffee4that @mizoreyukii @pandasamacc @midnitetech @nerdydoll-sims4 @utopya-cc @waronkccs-blog @largetaytertots @apricotrush @simkatu @ebonixsims @nv-gamesgames @vyxated @luumia @simp4sims @softerhaze @k-hippie @northernsiberiawinds

[mostly-mundane-atla]

Hi! Your blog is awesome. I don't know if I'm allowed to ask non-atla questions, so I hope this is okay. I'm working on a non-avatar ttrpg campaign that takes place both in a (fictional/fantasy) northern tundra region AND during a magical endless winter. The people in it aren't based on any specific culture but, given that they're successfully living in similar environments & have for countless generations, I want to draw as much inspiration & knowledge from real-life circumpolar cultures & native science as much as possible. Do you have any advice or even just fun, underappreciated ideas for winter tundra survival, things someone who grew up in a desert like me wouldn't think of on my own? If you need/want more direction: I'm particularly looking for clothing, shelters, resource gathering-practices for non-food (esp what kinds of resources would be valuable), as well as like, any fun details that evolve naturally in a culture that formed in the tundra that you'd want to see represented. I hope that makes sense ^^; Thanks so much if you decide to answer, have a good day either way <3

[I am SOOO sorry this took so long! Tumblr kept not saving my progress when i tapped "save draft" so i had to rewrite a few of these passages a few different times]

Don't worry about asking, friend, i get cultural questions all the time and i'm happy to share.

Note: my knowledge is almost entirely based on coastal tundra peoples with access to marine mammals. That's not to say it's impossible for people to live farther inland, just that it's not my area of expertise.

Clothing

Just about everything you wear is going to come off of a dead animal. This doesn't necessarily need to be the case if your fictional culture has a means of raising hardy livestock for fiber and a history of woven textiles, but even then skin clothes are warm and generally quite hard-wearing and are a good fit for living in these circumstances.

This amount of fur means lice are a perpetual problem. If you want to make that an immersive part of the game, you can work in a mechanic for checking scalps and clothing and bedding for lice.

Bird skins can also be used for clothing and waterfowl specifically has the benefit of water resistance. Fish skin can also be used for similar properties. Animal intestines can be made into a waterproof material if sewn with sinew and soaked before finishing.

On that note i'd recommend making a list of available animals and what qualities and textures their skins and furs have. Even if you don't intend on being incredibly descriptive with clothing, it's something better to have and not need than need and not have. And if you do anything else creative in a similar setting you have your nifty little source to consult.

When it comes to the actual construction of the clothes, you want a loose fit. Trapped air ia a great insulator and you want clothes to be easy to move in. Another benefit for loose-fitting upper body garments in cold weather is you can pull your arms in and keep them by your much warmer core. Not only will this option keep you comfortable, it can also prevent muscle injury or getting frostbite

Mittens can be worn on a string yoke. This doesn't have to be exclusive to children either. Wind can pick up out of nowhere and lost mittens means fingers exposed to arctic cold which can mean gangreen and amputations down the line.

Swimming or running to deliver a message may involve stripping nude, even in cold. Clothes soaked in water or sweat are deadly in the cold.

Clothes may be stored in bags outside when not in use. The low temperatures can kill bugs and bacteria. On a similar note, boots and coats are best to be hung to dry as soon as one is indoors for the day. This may mean it's normal for people to be topless indoors.

Boots should never have holes or tears. Frostbite and resulting gangreen is already bad enough but you especially do not want it on your feet

Shelter

You're going to want dwellings to have as few rooms and windows as possible and small doors. The fewer walls you have, the easier it is for heat to circulate throughout the whole dwelling. You'll probably want one room separating the door and where you sleep. Remember: trapped air is a great insulator.

The culture I've reconnected with is semi-nomadic so the permanent houses are not always occupied and a village can seem abandoned when it's just on its "off season". You can take that or leave it depending on what you're going for.

Even if the dwelling is not a tent, you're probably still going to have poles serving as a supporting frame.

Sod houses are common due to the availability of sod (the grass and the dirt its roots are tangled in). Tents made of warm, waterproof skins (like walrus skin) are also an option.

An easy way to insulate such a dwelling is to build a wall of packed snow around and fill the gaps with loose, airy snow. This traps air the same way down feathers do.

Non-Food Resource Gathering

While I imagine you meant obtaining resources outside of hunting, in a tundra or tundra-like setting, a lot of your resources are going to come from dead animals. Your garments and shelters and bedding are likely to be made of animal skins, with hollow and/or fluffy fur for warmth, or smoked intestine or fish skin, sewn with tiny stitches and soaked to keep everything flush, for waterproof boots and overlayers. Antlers and tusks are good carving materials for things like spoons and closures and slabs for armor and handles and also talismans and smoking pipes and beads and art. Baleen is good for art too, as well as boot soles and smaller sleds and beautiful baskets. Sinew and rawhide are good for thread, ties, and rope. Bones have a near infinite amount of uses from tiny wing bones to make sewing needles to huge whale bones used to build houses.

For the purposes of working this into a roleplaying game, i'd second the recommendation of keeping a list of animals in your universe and their properties, as well as the things that can be gathered from or made of them. A sort of crafting recipe guide would allow all kinds of quests and sidequests.

There are, of course, non-animal resources to gather for non-eating purposes. Soapstone is the traditional material for oil lamps. Grasses can be woven into baskets for any number of purposes, including supports to give the uppers of one's boots more structure. Wood, in the form of slices of tree trunks, can be hollowed out into bowls and small tubs and buckets or, as logs or slats, can make up flooring. Sturdy branches can be used for frames in houses, boats, and drums, and tree resin makes both good glue and antibiotic salve for closed wounds. Sod, also called turf, makes a good building material and moss is exellent insulation in boots. You can make a list of these too, if it helps.

If your fictional culture has a strong tradition of metallurgy, then they'd also mine for metal that can be used for knives. If not, slate is another option that requires significantly less fire. You could even have both and make the metal a status symbol.

Fun Details to Represent

There are so many lovely little things that show up in arctic cultures

First, a gift economy. Where a cash economy relies on a fairly individualistic culture where you work for someone else to earn capital and exchange that capital for goods and services, a more collectivist and interdependent culture natural to the harsh conditions of the tundra tends to result in a gift economy. The currency in a gift economy, to perhaps oversimplify, is favors. Someone does you a good turn, you remember that, and when you're in a position to help, you return the favor. Usually this means basic material things like hospitality and food, but the "gifts" exchanged can also be luck! King Islander boys would often wish hunters setting out at dawn good luck, with a slab of driftwood as a token of that luck, and if the hunters were successful, they'd give the boys who wished them luck a share of their catch. I believe it was Frank Ellana who remenised that this was what the world was like before money.

Another thing that would be nice to include is parenting practices considered fairly gentle to a Euro-American perspective. Physical punishments are traditionally treated as abuse and scolding a child is not only seen as wrong but something an adult ought to be ashamed of. Discipline is instead a series of moral lessons, teaching children why what they did was wrong and using stories as examples of the consequences. Given the amount of stories about the dangers of abusing a spouse or child, i'd say a lot of these lessons were proactive and preventative. Knowing someone will be hurt by it is considered enough of a deterrence to stop bad behaviors. Traditional potty training, for example, is also gentler in comparison; starting at a younger age (about six months) with more emphasis on praise and encouragment than routine. The goal here is to teach the baby to signal when they need to go so they can be taken out of mama's atigi and relieve themself in a hygenic manner instead of holding it until they get permission. Even our take on kissing is based on inhaling instead of pecking with the lips. This kind of gentleness is usually overlooked to instead focus on the badass hunter image or overall "cuteness" so it would be nice for it to be referenced.

Oral histories would be pretty neat too. I think the idea of learning to be a historian of oral histories is an interesting one and i think it has a lot of potential plot hooks for an rpg.

That's all i have for now. Sorry for the delayed response time. Happy gaming, and i'm always up for further discussion if you would like ^-^

[agentrouka-blog]

Okay I have Questions. Have you read grr Martins new post? He says, that dragons never wander far from dragonstone because otherwise there wound be dragons all over westeros and EVERY noble house would have some. Is he not basically confirming that you don't need valyrian blood to tame a dragon?

The blog post.

I dare say it is implied. According to this, the reluctance of dragons to wander far from specific locations of their own volition seems to be a key aspect of the Valyrian (and later Targaryen) ability to keep them under their exclusive control. Apart from the incest and restricting access to them and their eggs.

Also makes me suspect that the volcanic activity on Dragonstone is significant for the same reason the Fourteen Flames of Valyria are, and the reason why the Targaryen exiles settled there specifically. It's not exactly an attractive island, in all other respects. But it does have that sweet sulfuric air about it.

They bond with men… some men… and the why and how of that, and how it came to be, will eventually be revealed in more detail in THE WINDS OF WINTER and A DREAM OF SPRING and some in BLOOD & FIRE.  (Septon Barth got much of it right).

This clearly implies that the bond with humans is something that was artificially created once upon a time. (Blood magic...) From the perspective of the dragon, they are open to a bond but probably have some limited amount of choice over who they bond with. Bonding from hatching likely involves different factors to bonding based on special introduction to tamed dragons (Targaryens who claimed dragons in childhood or later) or even independent taming of wild dragons. Valyrian descent may or may not influence the likelihood of a bond forming.

We may well be served with a vague parallel to the process of warging within Northern magic, which is also essentially a form of blood magic (passed on through a much more widely deseminated bloodline in the North, especially beyond the Wall). But crucially, unlike the warg bond which originates with the human, the dragon bond is based in the dragons themselves.

Or so it seems to me.

[thenorthernwindsblog]

𖤣𖥧

Mother and her cub

[novaursa]

Hour of the Wolf

- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.

The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come. 

Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather. 

Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.

As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”

Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”

Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”

For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”

The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”

Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.

The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”

Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.

Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”

With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.

As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.

The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.

He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.

Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.

Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”

The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.

Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”

There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.

Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.

“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”

The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.

Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.

The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.

Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal. 

As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.

Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.

"Lord Cregan,

It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.

Maester Kennet"

Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.

He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.

But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.

You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.

It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.

You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.

Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.

Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.

Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.

Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”

The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.

But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.

“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”

You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”

Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.

You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be. 

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.

The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.

Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.

The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home. 

As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.

Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.

You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again. 

Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.

“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.

Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love. 

Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”

Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”

Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”

The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.

Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.

“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.

Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”

The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together. 

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”

“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”

Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.

The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"

The Dragon That Followed the Wolf

In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.

It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.

Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.

It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.

Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.

The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.

Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.

The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.

Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.

On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.

The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.

During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.

King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.

In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.

Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.

[hausofkae]

BB'S RESOURCES

compiled is a list of all of the creators of my favorite custom content items & mods. included are the specs of my system for reference. this will be updated as often as possible. i am not wcif friendly & will always refer you here or my cc finds blog. thank you to all of the creators listed. [22/9/2023] ♡

overrides

BLS - default vehicle replacement.

lady moriel - grass & flower replacement.

stevenstudios - dance override

awingedllama - light wood bassinet.

alerion - san sequoia bridge override.

simstwink - san myshuno billboard overrides.

mizoreyukii - stand still in cas.

lighting + texture overrides

luumia: noblu v2, noglo v2, all eyes shine remover.

softerhaze: sunblind

miiko: ghibli clouds. pastel world (architecture).

bakie - skyline override.

lotharihoe - snowflake default replacement.

mizoreyukii - no fade on everything.

simmattically - cinematic live mode camera

CAS

defaults/skins/details/overrides.

lighting: vyxated front glo. (v1_rim)

background: reflection

sliders + presets + etc: luumia. magicbot. miiko. obscurus. vibrant pixels.

skintones: nesurii. lamatisse. sims3melancholic.

skin overlays: nesurii. lamtisse. northern siberia winds. sims3melancholic.

eyes: kijiko- remove EA lashes.

akalukery - underwear replacements.

faeish

pyxis

semplicesims

thepeachfaerie

makeup

twistedcat

faaeish

goppolsme

crypticsim

northernsiberiawinds

hair

simcelebrity.

sheabuttyr.

brandysims.

daylifesims.

arethabee.

kikovanity.

simstrouble.

aharrisbritney.

greenllamas.

ebonix

gegesims

okruee

ravensims.

oakiyo.

dogsill

aladdin

casteru

khadijah

mercy

qiocc

bobnewbie

ceeproductions

leahlillith

clothes

belloallure.

sentate.

caio-cc.

camuflaje.

greenllamas.

rimmings

gorilla

joancampbellbeauty

madlen.

bluecraving

joliebean

jius

murphy sims/bradford.

nucrests

ridgeport

ceeproductions

akalukery

adrienpastel

darte77

serenity

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accessories

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max20

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blarrfy

the clutter cat

tuds

pierisim

syboulette

ravasheen

peacemaker

simkoos

dsco

ars-botanica

severinka

bbygyal123

misc.

chewybutterfly (tattoos)

maximoons (tattoos)

hoodlem (tattoos)

BUILDERS

@bbygyal123

@rheya28

@ophernelia

@farfallasims

@biancml

@oatsimss

@pixelglam

mr.olkan

kateemerald

schnuck01

daniellebuilds

simplify

PC SPECS

macbook pro 2020.

8 GB memory.

494.38 GB storage.

2 TB cloud storage

apple M1 chip

 

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[countrymusiclover]

33 - Dragon vs Dragon

Part 34

The Lion Knight and Dragon Princess

Tags- just send an ask to be added @cdragons @kmc1989 @starkleila @noirrose21-blog @lover-of-books-and-tea

The first time I saw snow I was the right age of fourteen years old.  

Dismounting my horse the wind was catching my hair that matched the color of my hair.  My brother had made the journey with me and Ser Barriston.  “I’m proud of myself that I came prepared for these chilly winds and snow.” I smiled wearing a white fur cloak over an all black outfit. 

“It is a pleasure to have you visit the wall my ancestors created.” Lifting my head upward I saw a northern man with gray eyes and dark brown hair.  The figure made his way down the snowy steps bowing to my brother. “My prince.” 

Rhaegar smiled dressed in all black clothing making his hair the only white thing aside from the snow. “Thank you for your time, Lord Stark.” 

“My princess.” Brandon Stark brought my gloved hand up to his lips kissing it before he gestured to the wooden elevator pulling structure. “Would you both care to see the wall?” 

“Very much, Lord Brandon.” Sending him a kind smile following him onto the elevator.  Scanning my eyes out the gap of the elevator holes seeing the winter landscape was far as the eye could see.  “Have you ever traveled South,  Lord Brandon?” 

“No I haven’t , my princess.  My place is in the North after all Winter is Coming.” 

My brother raised a brow, chuckling lightly. “Coming you say.  What is this then that falls from the sky and is shivering my bones?” 

“This is only a light summer snow, my prince.  In winter it will cover all you see.” 

Brandon lifted the sliding door up allowing us to step out the leg first.  My boots crunched against the packed down snow until I stopped walking standing on the edge of the ice wall.  “This is truly incredible, Brandon.” 

“My ancestors brought King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne to see the Wall.  His grace stood at this very outlook and watched as their dragons,  the greatest power in the world,  refused to cross it.”  

Rhaegar glanced at the North lord believing in most things that couldn’t be seen. “Do you think the stories they say are true about wildlings and White Walkers?” 

“Do you think my ancestors built a 700 foot wall of ice to keep out snow and savages?” The eldest Stark son asked him a question back. 

Rhaegar raised a brow. “What does it keep out?” 

“White Walkers.” I replied to his question with a childish smirk on my lips. 

Brandon nodded in agreement with my answer. “The army of the Dead.” 

“Do you one day think we will have to face the creatures beyond the Wall?” I asked him feeling soft droplets of snow falling down onto my hair with a small crown formed with my hair.  The North was a foreign land to me yet in a way I didn’t shy away from the challenges it may throw at me. 

Brandon turned his body to face me. “Tis hard to know what we will face in the coming years, princess.  Northerners only know two things: to fight hard and be loyal to their own.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind, my lord.  Especially if I ever am given the chance to become Queen.” I smile fondly at the North lord.  Unknown to me that was the day my brother knew I might make a good ruling queen, learning how the other side of the world works. 

Traping through the dark hallways of the dragon castle I halted in my steps outside my sister's chamber door.  Knocking on her door I held the dagger loosely in my left hand behind my back.  The big door creaked opened revealing my sister's face in the light of the burning torches in the darkness.  “Sister, what are you doing here so late in the night?” 

“We need to talk through some things.  May I come in?” I questioned her doing my best to show no emotion when I spoke to her.  I wanted to but was unsure of the direction she truly wished to take us in at the moment. 

She stepped aside allowing me in before closing the door once I was inside her chambers. “What do we need to discuss this late of an hour?”

“What exactly is your plan?  Are we going to help Jon Snow or ride South and attempt to dethrone Cersei Lannister?” 

She knits her brows at me. “The Iron Throne is my destiny.  Although I suppose I should say it’s our destiny now that I know you’re alive and well.” 

“I don’t want it though.” 

She questioned me. “Why not?” 

“I don’t have to tell you anything until you answer my question.  Especially considering the Lannister fleet, the old Valyria houses and a whole army of dragons are under my command not yours.” 

My sister glared at me. “How dare you speak to me that way.” 

“A dragon vs a dragon.  You’ve faced someone who’s your equal.  That’s why you refuse to answer my previous questions.” I challenge her with a teasing look. 

Daenerys crossed her arms over her chest. “I will send my army and fly with my dragons to Kings Landing and remove Cersei Lannister from my throne.  Once she is gone the wheel will be broken once and for all.” 

“Until the day comes and the people start to see you as they saw our father.  A queen mad with power and three deadly dragons ready to burn the city to the ground.” 

She brought a hand up to her forehead. “You clearly don’t know me at all.” 

“You don’t know me,  sister.   You don’t know the smallfolk like I do.  You don’t know the Northerners like me.  It appears you don’t know a great many things I’m afraid to say.” 

My little sister spun on her heels heading towards the door about to throw it open and push me out. “I think it's time you leave my chambers, sister.” 

“Oh I’m not going anywhere until you tell me your course of action.” Leaning my back against her small table set up in the corner.  Wrapping my fingers tightly around the dagger handle for strength.  

Daenerys whipped her head around. “I already told you my course of action.  The Iron Throne is mine and I will take it.  With fire and blood I will take it!” 

“Then you’ll shortly lose it to someone else who seeks to take it from you.” 

She dropped her hands to her sides, still confused at what I was telling her. “What in the seven hells are you trying to tell me, Vaella!” 

“There’s a prophecy you weren’t taught.  A prophecy that only the Targaryen heirs were told.  If you wish to be the ruler to the Iron Throne then you must understand it.”  Striding across the room meeting her in the middle I drew the blade out from behind my back and in her line of sight. “The Song of Ice and Fire Aegon the Conqueror called it.  A great winter that hurts everyone including our enemies.  I believe he was talking about the Night King and his army.” 

Dany rolled her eyes. “The current enemy is Cersei Lannister who has declared war, not some myths of walking dead men.  What are we going to do about her?” 

“If you could take the throne without bloodshed would you-“ 

“Are you not angry that she sits on our throne?  That she’s taken our destiny from us.” She cut me off sharply. 

Scoffing at her I could feel a fire burning deep down inside of me. “We should declare war against her because we’re angry.” 

“No.  But we can’t do nothing when she has stolen our throne.” 

Pushing myself past her I almost got by until I saw her wrap her hand around my wrist spinning me around to face her. “Dany, let me go.” 

“Why do you wish to support Jon Snow so badly?” 

Meeting her purple gaze I sucked in a breath. “If we don’t have the support of all the houses then what’s the point in trying.  It’s just a throne of swords and a fancy title.  Whoever sits the throne should have earned the name and not simply been born with the popular family name.” 

“You know I can’t ever tell whose side you're truly on mine or someone else’s and it ends this instant!” She bared her teeth managing to snatch the dagger from my hand pointing it directly at my right eye. 

I grunted holding her wrist that held the dagger back just enough where she didn’t stab me through it.  “I’m not on any side.  I’m concerned for the entire realm.  We have to come together to fight the Night King.” My other hand was pushed against her chest with her freehand gripping onto the fabric of my cloak holding me close to her body. 

“I've only ever had faith in myself not anyone else and certainly not some bastard from the North.  That will never change except for my faith in you!” She bared her teeth at me without dropping the blade. 

Glaring at my little sister with no fear I spat in her face. “I'm right here, sister.  I gave you your name, alas it doesn't matter anymore if you wish to kill me.  So go on, do it.  Kill me!” 

“I've sent traitors away for less.” She muttered back to me. 

Raising my chin I kept waiting for her to stab me in the gut or something along those lines. “You can't do it can you.  You've only ever had someone else or your dragons kill someone.  Now that you have the chance you can't strike me because I'm your sister.” 

“You've told me I've done things wrong.  What would you suggest I do with a seemingly traitorous woman like you?” 

Growling in her face the fact that she held a blade near my eye was forgotten. “I'm your older sister for one.  So you should show me some respect and realize I know more than you do about the people of Westeros.  I know how they think because I've lived as a smallfolk, I've spoken with northern lords at the Wall, I've seen what Wildfire or dragons can do to a person, I've been raised as a princess and know the political side too.  My point is that you need me.” 

“What would you me do if I don't wish to kill you but greatly seem to need your help?” Dany asked me, lowering her hand holding the knife and stepping away from me. 

Holding out an open hand to her I declared in Velaryon. “Ivestragī īlva letagon īlva ānogar. Daor rȳ dīnilūks yn rȳ nykeā vow īlon mazverdagon naejot jemēla se se gods. ( Let us bind our blood. Not through marriage but through a vow we make to ourselves and the gods.” 

“Ao se nyke issi vēttan hen perzys. Syt bona mērī īlon shall udrāzma hēnkirī. ( You and I are made of fire.  For that alone we shall rule together.” My little sister placed Aegon the Conquerors dagger back into my hand,  dragging it across her palm with blood dripping onto the floor. 

Sliding the blade across my palm I met her gaze, holding my bleeding hand up to her. Aegon's dagger being held tightly in my other hand. “īlon letagon jemēla rȳ ānogar. ( We bind ourselves through blood.” 

“īlon letagon jemēla rȳ ānogar. ( We bind ourselves through blood.” She clasped her bleeding hand with my own, instantly staring into my purple eyes that matched hers. 

Cersei wouldn't have one dragon to face, now she must face two. 

[thenorthernwindsblog]

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