#the seven rishis

[father-of-the-void]

The modern view of the development of human civilization is far removed from the evolution of man according to the system of Yoga. The modern idea of civilization developing gradually through the growth of technology and scientific thinking contradicts the yogic point of view which rather sees culture as having been originally formulated and passed down by sages ... If the essence of civilization is technology then the modern view may be right, but if it is the culture of spirit, it is quite wrong. By my interpretation civilization was founded by yogis, seers and sages.

— David Frawley

[vera-keller]

in other news i was in a&e for 12 hours but that's not even the best bit the best bit is the nhs has been assfucked so hard by rishi sunak that on thursday night 10pm i went in and was there until 4am and all they managed to do was a single test and then told me i needed to wait another 4 hours for results because they were so shortstaffed they literally could not do it any sooner so i went home (i live 5 minutes away from the hospital) when people who had been waiting there for even longer than me started clashing with security over how long they were stuck in the waiting room for and then i went back the next morning friday 10am and at long fucking last had a catheter stuck in my arm at 2:30pm after a blood test to prepare for dialysis then wasn't seen again until two hours with a thick ass tube in my arm just fucking about in the waiting room before they decided i do not in fact require dialysis after all and rather i should be presented with a multicoloured corsage of antibiotics to make sure my girlfailure kidneys behave as kidneys should. england is broken without repair and the gods gave our king cancer after he doubled his wages in media res of the cost of living crisis. thank you thank you thank you @memphisbelle and @legobrickcow for bringing me breakfast and visiting me twice when i was at my grimmest i adore you both

[rigvedanew]

Vedic Meditation Practices to Attain Enlightenment

Meditation played a central role in the Seven Rivers Civilization, which flourished over 4,000 years ago in the Indus and Sarasvati Valleys. This ancient, gentle, and nonviolent civilization left behind sacred texts called the Vedas. Through these texts, we discover precise methods for calming the mind, elevating consciousness, and achieving a state of oneness with the universe. Here’s a simple,…

[silentwalrus1]

I like to think about what if the Kaminoans just, fucked all the way up and made the clones telepaths on purpose.

Kamino is in the Rishi maze, the equivalent of total buttfuck nowhere. This is like a cattle processing plant in rural Montana manufacturing an order for Shenzhen as outlined by a third party intermediary from Monaco who keeps contact with neither production nor “client” and nobody’s first language is Basic. Jedi are like, totally psychic right? Right. Psychic army for psychic clients, sounds right, checks out. There are whole ass telepathic alien species out there, some of which are also Jedi. Why would they want NON-psychic clones. Get it done, Tally Ho or Nala Says or whatever her name is. Chop chop.

Cue like seven years into production and the Kaminoan project leads are starting to get some… inklings…. that maybe some of the deliverable specs were perhaps not so much well-researched as based off cross-galactic hearsay some underpaid analysts pulled off space reddit. This is a business, okay? You’re not gonna make profit manufacturing two million units of fucking anything if you treat it like a luxury product, but especially not if the product has goddamn childhood development & socialization needs. Of fucking course some shit maybe slipped through the cracks. What are we supposed to fucking do now, Lama goddamn Sue sir, tell the Jedi or the pickled fucking Sith that oopsie woopsie, we got the specs wrong half a decade in and have to start over again?

No. No we are not. We are going to lie our fucking semi-aquatic asses off, is what we’re gonna do, and so will you clones if you know what’s good for you. NONE of you are fucking psychic, and you never were. Got that? Understood?

Fast forward to Jedi pickup D-Day and every time anyone with a lightsaber gets within aural biosystem of choice distance the clones immediately start loudly and dutifully Having Conversations.

Hello Commander Sir, It Is I, Trooper McSoldierClone, What A Weather It Is Today, Ha Ha? Over. Yes Indeed McTrooper One Two Three Four, I Am Agree, Now Here Is An Order To Follow Which I Am Vociferously Giving You, Acknowledge Orally, Over. Every clone making rock-hard sweating eye contact like don’t fuck it up as they mentally chant encouragement and script notes and jeering performance feedback at each other. Cadets trooping to fucking speech practice to learn speaking out loud with all the enthusiasm and skill of the average white suburban Floridian teenager taking their fifth mandatory Spanish 1 class. The jedi are like damn these poor asylum grown freaks are so unsocialized and uncomfortable around us, Their Owners, this is so tragic and horrid and unfortunate and meanwhile every clone standing silently in formation is mentally spectating the 400-person telepathic tetris team sport they invented with the same vibes as a football world cup back alley street party complete with official & unofficial betting pools and expert panel commentary

[shallcarvemaam]

[humanpurposes]

De Facto

She can't afford to fantasize over Aemond Targaryen, he's her boss and the Prime Minister... but stopping is easier said than done- this fic now has a part two :)

Main Masterlist

PM!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of SA, questionable power dynamics, politics (putting my degree to good use), unnecessary world building

Words: 7700

A/n: Thanks for the inspo @ewanmitchellcrumbs, sorry it's not Dishy Rishi tho :(

Throughout the whole train journey into Central King’s Landing, she’s sure she’s dreaming. Her body feels strangely light, her hands are restless and her heart is beating steadily in her chest. 

She flows effortlessly with the stream of commuters, along the platform, through the station’s glass atrium, then left towards Conquest Street. She knows her way around this part of the city already, and though she’s never been inside, she’s walked past Hightower House countless times.

This time is different. Now she walks up to the iron gates, pressing her thumbnail into her index finger, because the armed guards are making her nervous. 

She tells them her name and one of them mutters into a radio.

Her eyes run along the gold crest that marks the gate, a shield divided into seven, a sun for Dorne, a rose for The Reach, a stag for The Stormlands, a Trout for The Riverlands, a Falcon for The Vale, a Kraken for The Iron Islands, a wolf for The North, and at its heart is the symbol that unites them, the three headed dragon (although strictly speaking, Westeros abolished its monarchy centuries ago).

Suddenly one of the guards catches her attention. He opens the gate for her, and says she’ll be given a security pass and instructions to use the staff entrance following her official induction.

Hightower House stands proudly before her, an ornate facade of balustrades and columns, order and symmetry, an obvious juxtaposition of the medieval majesty of the Red Keep, just down the road.

It all feels very daunting, but the last five years have led her to this moment, the entirety of her adult life. She keeps telling herself that she deserves to be here, after all, she was the one who made it through the first round of applications, who made it to the shortlist and the final interviews, and she was the only one of hundreds of applicants who received the phone call, offering her a position as a personal advisor to the Prime Minister.

The contract only lasts two years, but it is the most effective stepping stone into a career in politics that she could ever ask for.

The entire morning is spent working out formalities. First she meets the deputy chief of staff, a handsome man named Criston Cole, who she’ll directly report to. He shows her through mountains of paperwork and gives her a brief overview of her role. Essentially, she is to assist the Prime Minister on whatever he deems necessary, policy aims, speeches, media coverage, political rhetoric, public image. 

“You’re a glorified assistant,” Cole says as she reads and signs page after page of her employment contract, “but with a salary to reflect it, so don’t feel discouraged. There will be some admin work which can get tedious, but you’ve been selected for your expertise and your passion for the party.”

That’s the crucial part of the job. Everything she does will be to benefit Mr Targayren as head of the Green Party, still running off the high of their victory at the last general election, just under a year ago. 

She signs her last signature triumphantly, despite the ache in her wrist, and hands the pen back to Cole with a smile. “All done?” she asks hopefully.

Cole grimaces sympathetically. “Not quite.”

There are four people to meet before she’s officially in. She takes a deep breath to soothe herself. It’s all just more formalities, which she can understand, given the weight of this job.

The first is the Prime Minister's private secretary, a glamorous woman with black hair and piercing green eyes, named Alys Rivers. She greets her warmly, having already spoken over the phone with her several times. She also knows her CV off by heart. It’s a little strange having someone know almost everything about her education and employment history when her face is unfamiliar.

The next is a young woman named Maris, the other of Mr Targaryen’s personal advisors. She has dark hair and a look of determination in her grey eyes. She explains that there are always two personal advisors, but hired on alternating years. She was hired at the start of Mr Targaryen’s premiership, and has a year left of her contract.

There are a thousand questions she wants to ask Maris, but before she can even scratch the surface, Cole’s checking his watch and dragging her off to another office.

Otto Hightower is the chief of staff. He’s thin and wiry, but incredibly intimidating. He has tired, sunken eyes that seem to glare right through her, and a passive but severe expression on his face, as though he’s scrutinising, having already decided she’s a waste of his time.

It’s not a great feeling, being looked at like that by a man she’s idolised for years. She knows his career timeline by heart. He earned his bachelors in Politics and Economics from Oldtown, before doing a masters in International Relations at King’s Landing, where he met and befriended Viserys Targaryen. He worked his way to becoming an MP and soon into Viserys’ cabinet when be became Prime Minister.

But things changed when Otto’s daughter married Viserys. No one really knows the whole truth, but Otto resigned from the Black Party, and took over from his own brother as leader of the opposition.

Now he works in the background, the mastermind behind his grandson’s remarkable successes.

Cole explains that Mr Hightower had the final say in the shortlist and determining which applicant would be given the final job offer.

“You had an impressive application,” he says, briefly looking up from a document. “I’m sure you’ll do well with us.”

“Thank you, Mr Hightower,” she says through the slight tremble in her jaw.

Other than that, the interaction is brief, and soon Cole is ushering her out of the room, back to Alys’ office, as richly decorated as the rest of the building. Maris is sitting at another desk, typing away furiously on a laptop.

“Tea? Coffee? Water?” Cole offers her, gesturing for her to take a seat on a green leather sofa.

“Water would be lovely,” she says.

“Maris,” he calls.

She glares up from her laptop. “That’s not my job.”

“No, but it’s courtesy,” he says.

Alys’ slight smirk doesn’t escape her attention.

Maris purses her lips, but she closes her laptop, pointedly slams her hands against the arms of her chair, and marches out of the room, her shiny black heels clicking against the dark wood floor.

“She’s nice really,” Cole says, “just a bit… direct at times.”

“Direct,” Alys groans to herself. 

She feels her brow flicker into a frown but stops herself.

“She’s good at her job,” Criston says like he might say something else, but he doesn’t.

When Maris returns, she seems a little less on edge.

She takes the glass of water with a cautious hand, Maris’ eyes lingering on her maroon painted nails. 

“I like your top,” Maris says.

She glances down. It’s nothing special, black and long-sleeved, to go with her long blue and green patterned skirt.

“Thank you,” she says.

Maris hums to herself before she goes back to her desk.

“Do you often work in here?” she asks.

Maris shrugs. “It depends.” She doesn’t care to explain further.

Alys is smirking again.

“Mr Targaryen was in a meeting with the cabinet this morning,” Cole says, then checks his watch. “He has a few phone calls to make, but he should be ready to see you at about 4pm. Maris?”

“Yes?” 

“Will you show her in around then?”

“Yeah,” she says, flatly, “of course.”

Cole shakes her hand before he leaves. “Alys will show you out when you leave. I’ll see you on Monday morning.”

She continues to wait on the sofa, restless in the silence that follows once the door has shut. Alys and Maris are both typing, their nails clicking against their keyboards. She starts to bounce her leg and stops herself.

Her mind is racing. The day seems to have gone well so far, but what if she meets Mr Targaryen and it all falls apart? What if he decides he doesn’t like her and sends her packing? 

She’s too lost in her own head to notice the flash of Alys’ emerald green dress as she stands in front of her. That is, until she’s leaning down and waving a bar of chocolate in front of her. “Get a bit of sugar in you,” she says, “and breathe slowly.”

She smiles as she takes the bar and places a single cube on her tongue. She lets it melt, savouring the sweetness and the slight bitterness of its taste.

You can do this, she thinks to herself with every inhale. And then she exhales. You are here for a reason.

The phone on Alys’ desk rings. She checks her own phone. It’s exactly 3:59.

“Yes, sir, Maris will show her in now.”

Aemond Targaryen is on the other end of the line. Her heart drops at the thought.

As the second son of Viserys, it seems like he was always destined for the family business. He differs from his father and grandfather in that he did Politics and Philosophy at Sunspear, before going on to do his masters in History at Oldtown, and then another masters in International Relations at King’s Landing. By all accounts, he is fiercely intelligent, mature beyond his years, with the right balance of intimidating and charismatic to command the support he needed to get in as MP for Rosby, then as party leader.

In fact, it had been his first campaign that inspired her to apply for a degree in politics in the first place. She loved how he spoke, how he managed to strike a balance between grace and passion, and how deeply he cared for his policies. He was poised and perfect, but driven by a genuine want for improvement.

He perfected his craft within a matter of years. With the mess Rhaenyra Targaryen had made of the country, it was all too easy for him to win a majority with a few winning speeches, a hand running through his silver hair, that lazy half-smirk and the intense look in his eyes that just made you want to fall at his feet. And people do. The press adore him, his party worships him, foreign dignitaries often remark on his charm but also his capabilities as a negotiator and a leader.

Maris leads her out of the office, along a quiet corridor. She stops outside a door with gold lettering: Office of A. Targaryen, Prime Minister

Seeing it in front of her, strangely, seems to subdue her nerves. Her chest flutters, but the anxiety is more manageable than before.

Maris taps her knuckles against the door three times.

From the other side of the door she hears a gentle but chilling voice. “Enter.”

She follows Maris inside.

He’s perched against his desk, his long, silver hair falling around his shoulders as he looks over a few pieces of paper. He wears a white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, black slacks and brown leather shoes.

He looks up slowly, the light of the early Autumn evening beaming through the windows, over the sharp features of his face, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, his neck.

His eyes find hers, unashamed and curious.

Suddenly she can feel her heart in her throat.

Maris introduces her. “I’m sure Alys already debriefed you, but she’s here for her induction. Cole said you wanted to meet her as a formality and–”

It feels awfully like she’s talking for the sake of it.

“That will be all, Maris,” Mr Targaryen says softly. She can’t help but watch the way his lips move when he speaks.

“Oh, are you sure, sir?” she asks. Her face is twisted into a slight frown but her eyes are wide. “I just thought, for her sake, it might be useful if I’m here to explain everything.”

“I’m sure, thank you.”

She stands with her hands clasped in front of her skirt as she listens to Maris’ footsteps move towards the door. It opens and closes, and now all she can hear are her own breaths, gently flowing through her nose.

She doesn’t know where to look. At the patterned carpet on the floor? No, it would be rude of her to hang her head. At the portraits that line the wall? At the bookshelves? At the desk? No, that all seems too intrusive. Out the window? No, that might seem like she’s not paying attention.

So her eyes settle on him.

He hasn’t moved from his position, but he’s placed the paper on the desk behind him, leaning with his palms at the edge. His eyes glance over her once, up and down.

Fuck, he’s so much better looking in person.

Then he stands to his full height, and picks up a clipboard from the desk. He flicks through a few of the pages and hums softly to himself.

“You had an impressive application,” he says.

She swallows through the slightly dry feeling in her throat. “Thank you, sir.”

“And an excellently written cover letter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You did your masters in Comparative Politics at Sunspear. Oberyen Martell is still head of faculty there, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. He taught one of my modules, Security Studies.”

“He’s an interesting character,” he muses, smiling to himself. “He was my supervisor for my undergrad dissertation.”

She already knew that. Dr Martell loved to go on about his star student. She would too if she taught the future Prime Minister.

He flicks to another page. She watches as his eyes skim over the words in front of him. “And you came with glowing reviews from Tyland Lannister.”

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to respond to that– it makes her sound more like a product than a person– so she just smiles, as delicately as she can, making sure not to squint her eyes too much. 

She had spent the last year as Mr Lannister’s Parliamentary Assistant, at his office in the Red Keep, starting just as he had been appointed as Foreign Secretary. 

“How was he as a boss?” Mr Targayren asks.

Straightforward, she thinks. He took his job seriously and was decidedly not a fan of smalltalk. His office often worked in silence, and even when he was stressed he was efficient.

“No complaints,” she says.

“I’m sure you were all kept busy, cleaning up Corlys Velaryon’s mess after the Stepstones.”

A minor military excursion to defend a few key trading routes, or at least that’s how it had started. Within a matter of months the Stepstones had spiralled beyond control, costing Corlys Velaryon his seat and the Blacks their majority in Parliament.

“If I remember right, it was Daemon Targaryen pushing that particular policy,” she says.

The corner of his mouth curls upward. It could be a smile but she’s not entirely sure. 

“Sir,” she adds, hoping to soften the blow of her unintentional insult; what idiot tries to correct the Prime Minister on their first day on the job? She does, clearly.

He doesn’t seem irritated or angry, more amused. A cryptic “hmm” sounds in his throat as he flicks back to the first document. “And before that you were a campaign manager for the party, yes?”

“Yes,” she says brightly, grateful for the change of subject. “I was working in the Stormlands in the lead up to the general election.” The region was formerly a Black stronghold, but turned Green thanks in part to her efforts.

“Excellent work,” he says.

The smooth, seductive tone of his voice seems to come so naturally to him. She bites her tongue at the image it prompts in her head, of his lips brushing over her ear, his hands resting on her waist, she can almost feel it–

No. That’s wrong. So wrong.

Fantasising about the Prime Minister of Westeros is not a habit she can afford to keep up, not when she’s supposed to be working with him in such close proximity.

But that’s easier said than done.

Cole enters his office, bright and early on Monday morning, before the rest of Hightower House is awake.

Aemond’s routine is the same every day. Up at 5am, run a few laps of the expansive gardens or spend an hour going through his meticulously planned gym routine. He showers, shaves, applies his skincare and haircare products, dabs some perfume on his wrists, dresses, and takes breakfast and a black coffee in his office. By 7:30am he’s ready to work.

He needs the routines and the outlets. They help keep him sane.

He’d seen how this position twisted his father into a tired, irritable and irrational man, how it got to Rhaenyra’s head until she became a liability to herself. He won’t be like them. He has a reputation to uphold, a legacy to claim.

Cole places a folder on his desk. “The background check you ordered, sir.”

He thanks him, quietly and sincerely, and waits until he’s left the room to open the folder.

His new personal advisor intrigues him. He’d made the request for the background check as soon as their meeting had ended on Friday. 

She has no criminal record, which is unsurprising, that definitely would have come up sooner if she had one.

He browses through her education history, a star student at Storm’s End Grammar School, a bachelor’s in history from Rainwood, a masters from Suspear, where she was head of Debate Soc and Amnesty International, while working various internships and retail jobs in between.

The next page is full of articles from student publications, The Importance of Integrity in Politics for the Rainwood Student Journal, Sovereignty in the Stepstones for Red Sun Rising. He reads through them both. Her writing is immaculate, concise and convincing.

The final page is more personal, social media profiles. It’s nothing scandalous, but she clearly has a certain image she wants to project. Her Instagram is full of art and history museums, coffee shops and preppy outfits. She has a few pictures on her LinkedIn of her at the Green Party conference last year, pictured with a group of girls her age and a caption that talks about the importance of representation in politics, with links to various charities and initiatives. In the photo she’s wearing a white silk shirt, open just enough to show off a dainty gold necklace and a hint of the swell of her chest.

She seems perfect. Too perfect for his own good.

The first months go smoothly enough. 

Maris is a practical person. She’s good with numbers, good for bouncing off ideas for economic policies and analysing data for him, even if she is a little overbearing at times.

But she fills the gaps perfectly. He secretly looks forward to their meetings and debriefings, when he asks her to write or edit speeches for him, or run through questions with him before a press conference. Politics is never easy, but she has a remarkable talent for keeping a level head. He likes that she’s always calm and composed. He likes her soft, reassuring smiles and the sharp look in her eyes. 

They just click. She’s always switched on, always knows the right things to say and do, always knows what he needs.

Every moment they are alone feels monumental; the settled quiet of his office when she first walks in and takes a seat on the other side of his desk; when they make an exchange, debriefing papers for an empty coffee cup, and their fingers will brush over each other; when he stands over her shoulder to read the document she’s working on, close enough to smell her perfume and feel a heat simmering under his skin. It’s starting to become unbearable, and yet he craves that feeling.

And then, one morning, he gets a phone call from the Crownlands Messenger. They’re about to publish a story. His brother has been accused of inappropriate conduct by no less than three women.

Fucking Aegon.

The entire country is in an uproar. How can anyone trust their Parliamentary representatives when they do shit like this? Is Aegon an outlier or is this just scratching the surface? What will his punishment be? What else are the Greens hiding? 

There are hundreds of emergency meetings with his grandfather, tense phone calls, bearating headlines, and onslaughts of outrage online. There’s no question about it, Aegon has to resign as an MP, but the damage is done. The polls are turning Black instead of Green. People don’t trust the ruling party, or its leader.

It’s late. Aemond paces his office while a headache pulses in his head. He’s long ditched the coffee for whisky, swirling it about in his glass. He sent Maris home hours ago. He doesn’t have the patience for anyone at the moment. Except for the woman leaning against his desk, flicking through news articles and the pages of notes she’s prepared for him.

Tomorrow is PMQs. No doubt there’s only one topic the Blacks will be asking about. He can already see Rhaenyra and Daemon’s smug faces, the delight they’ll take in watching him fall apart. There’s just no way he’s getting out of this easily.

He feels so restless. His hands are trembling and his lips won’t seem to stop moving, so he places himself against the wall, mindlessly tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes another generous sip.

From the desk he hears a heavy sigh that hums slightly in her throat. “Is there anything else you want to go over, sir?” she asks.

“No, I think we’ve exhausted the hypotheticals,” he says, running his free hand through his hair. He resists the urge to pull at the roots, to take his frustration out on something. “It’s just– fuck’s sake, I’ve been saying Aegon’s a liability for years. But no, Otto always wanted to keep pushing for him. Said it was good for the family’s image.”

She places her phone and the document behind her, and takes a few steps towards him.

He glances down at her, at the way the low light of the lamps and the fireplace glows against her skin, the contented sort of look in her eyes. 

Her eyes flicker down at his now empty glass. “Refill, sir?” Her lips stay slightly parted once she stops speaking.

Then he realises he’s staring.

“No, thank you,” he mutters, tapping his finger against the glass. “I should probably stop now.”

She takes the glass from him with her middle finger and thumb, avoiding touching his hand before she takes it away. Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to his head but his heart sinks at the lack of contact.

What is he doing? It must be after 9pm now and he’s still keeping her here without a real reason. 

She’s standing by the drinks cabinet, carefully placing the crystal bottle of whisky away and setting the empty glass out for housekeeping to clean up in the morning.

Instead of thinking about her, the way her hair looks, the way her skirt hugs her waist and the curve of her backside and thighs, he tries to think about how much he hates Aegon. This only makes him more agitated.

He closes his eyes and throws his head against the wall. His heart is racing and there’s a hollow feeling in his chest. He’s craving something, not another drink, not a smoke (he quit once he was first elected as an MP). He wants something else, something dangerous and damning. 

The heels of her shoes tap softly against the floor, until she’s standing in front of him.

He opens his eyes.

She frowns slightly before lifting her hand and delicately placing it on his shoulder. “You need to relax, sir,” she says.

He lets out a low “hmm,” as he weighs out his options. This seems like a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.

“That’s not going to happen with you here,” he says.

Her calm, somewhat smug expression falls. She looks so innocent now, so sweet. “What does that mean?” she says.

He leans in closer to her, until the tip of his nose barely brushes against hers. “I think you know what it means, darling.”

She hesitates, before her mouth spreads into an eager smile that shows off her teeth.

Her hands find his, ensnaring him under a soft but commanding grip. She leads him away from the wall, to the sofa by the fireplace. 

He settles on it, leaning against the arm as she comes to her knees before him, spreading his legs apart to make room for herself.

She palms her hand over the hardness that’s been straining painfully against his trousers for hours now. She feels along his clothed cock, pressing her cheek against it and gazing up at him with a look of teasing innocence.

Aemond knows he is done for, jaw slack, chest rising and falling as he breathes. He would have never presumed he would find himself in this kind of position, not after all the work’s he’s had to do cleaning up the mess of Aegon’s fuck ups, not after working this hard to get where he is, and least of all because he believes himself to be a decent man. 

But he doesn’t stop her as her fingers undo the button and the zip on his trousers, and he doesn’t make any kind of protest as she takes his freed cock in her hand and teasingly strokes along it. 

He keeps his hands firmly on the sofa, digging his fingertips and his nails into the leather, as if he hasn’t been dreaming of having her like this for weeks, as if he hasn’t fucked his own hand countless times pretending it was her.

He doesn’t have to pretend anymore. He looks down, his jaw slack, barely containing his strained breaths, and there she is, doe-eyed and eager as she places a delicate kiss to his flushed tip. Her lips barely brush against him before she pulls away, keeping a hold at the base.

His arousal stains her mouth and she fucking grins.

“Enjoying yourself?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir,” she says, sweetly, earnestly.

He runs his hand against her hair, gently, as if trying to soothe her. It seems to take her by surprise which only serves to excite him further.

She leans into his touch, lips parting, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy.

Until he grips his fist and pulls. He tilts her head up. It shouldn’t hurt, but it’s enough to bring her attention back to him.

He decides he won’t tell her what to do, not directly, but she’s a smart girl, she knows what he wants. 

With her eyes wide again, she opens her mouth and inches his cock past her lips. The tightness in his gut starts to burn as she works up and down his length, slowly– excruciatingly slowly. It’s not in anyway relaxing, he thinks, but it’s a nice kind of torture.

He loses himself to the warmth and the wetness of her mouth, her tongue running over the underside of his cock, her lips teasing over the tip before she moves back down, using her hands where her mouth can’t reach.

He chokes out a throaty “fuck,” knowing there’s a security guard outside the door, and probably a few of the staff still lingering about. 

But she looks so beautiful like this, her brow furrowed in determination as she tries to take him deeper and deeper, desperate to please him, happy to make him suffer for it. And the little noises she makes, the gags and the moans. He imagines that she likes this, that she’s been wanting this for as long as he has, and if he pulled her onto his lap and slid his fingers under her skirt, he’d find her drenched.

She starts to up the pace until he brings his hand to the side of her face again, his hand large enough that he can rest his palm against her cheek and tease his fingers through her hair. Her eyes dart up to his, wide and teary. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, “nice and slow, just like that.”

She whimpers around him, breathing desperately through her nose.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he coos, “you started this, didn’t you? Wanted to taste me? Wanted to feel my cock in your mouth?”

She hums in agreement.

“Just fucking take it then,” he says with a clenched jaw, gripping her hair to bob her head up and down, keeping that torturous pace.

The pleasure builds slowly, running hotly through his body, but he fights the urge to clamp both hands around her head and buck his hips up to fuck her throat.

He comes harder than he thinks he ever has before, keeping himself sheathed within her as he paints the inside of her mouth, and pulls her head away to see the last few drops spill against her lips.

She gazes up at him with dazed and glassy eyes. She’s panting, trying to catch her breath. Her forehead glistens with sweat, mascara runs down her face and his spend drips over her chin.

He wipes some of the mess away with his thumbs, cradling her face in his hands. “Swallow,” he orders.

Her mouth closes and her throat bobs. He can already feel the tension in his gut tightening again.

If only he could keep her like this forever.

She makes it to Hightower House at the usual time of 8am, despite leaving work so late last night. Despite the hours she spent consumed by thoughts of Aemond Targaryen as she rode the train and dragged herself into her bed. Despite the aching arousal that went unfulfilled. Despite the marks on her knees and the stiffness in her jaw.

When she walks into Alys’ office to sign in, she’s already there, perfectly poised and typing away on her laptop. 

“Morning,” she says brightly.

Alys looks up from the screen. The white light shining from below makes her face look a little eerie. “Morning,” she says with a smug look on her face.

She ignores it, scrawling down the time and her signature beside her name.

“You were working rather late last night,” Alys says.

“Yeah, I was,” she mutters, placing the pen down and straightening her spine.

Alys is staring at her. Her eyes are unnervingly bright. “He never asks Maris to work late.”

Her heart drops.

It’s like she can feel the weight of him in her mouth, the taste of him on her tongue.

“I bet he’s just realised I’m more of a people pleaser,” she says.

Alys hums and smiles. “Yeah?”

She doesn’t have time for this. She hangs up her coat and her bag, and picks up two black coffees from the coffee machine in the kitchenette down the hall.

Aemond is in his office, leaning back in his chair with his mobile pressed to his ear. He doesn’t react much when he sees her, he just watches her as she sets one of the cups in front of him. He raises his eyebrows in thanks and brings it to his lips.

She imagines the person on the other end of the call is starting to bore him.

“Yeah… yeah… I know… well there’s not much to be done now but get it over with.”

She takes a few sips from her own cup, wiping the corners of her mouth. Aemond follows her fingers as she does.

“I’ll speak to you after. Yes, thank you, grandfather.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto a stack of papers on the desk. “Seven fucking Hells.”

“How did that go?” she asks.

Aemond rolls his eyes and huffs a tired laugh. “He wants to talk through candidates for the by-election in Duskendale. I said I’ll think about it if I survive PMQs.”

She sets her coffee cup down. “What are you most worried about? You’ve prepared for this. What’s worrying you?”

Aemond taps his fingers against the desk. She tries not to ignore the thrill it sends through her belly.

“I’ve never had to deal with something like this. I’ve never been this worried about the party’s image, but that’s usually because I do everything right.”

The whole Aegon situation is beyond his control, and yet he’ll be getting the scrutiny for it.

“People need to be able to trust you,” she says.

Aemond looks up at her expectantly.

“Is Aegon still a party member?” she asks.

Aemond’s expression darkens. “That was discussed. Otto wants him to remain an official member.”

“You’re the Prime Minister. Put your foot down.”

“I can’t,” he says, standing and fixing the rolled up sleeves and undone buttons on his shirt before he reaches for his tie.

“You can’t afford not to. If you go easy on Aegon, Rhaenyra’s going to play to some kind of ‘the Greens are anti woman card.’ Your voters need to know you’re taking this seriously.”

“And throw my own brother under the bus?” he says, sternly.

But she can tell he’s still nervous. His hands are shaking as he ties the tie around his neck.

She pauses, wondering where the line is here. Aegon Targaryen will be fine. He’ll be put under investigation and keep getting bad press for a while, but he can live off daddy’s money in the meantime, and in a few years the whole scandal will be forgotten.

She takes a few steps towards him and comes close enough to smell the dark, boozy smell of his perfume, and shoos his hands away.

“What would be better for the country,” she asks, tilting her head and keeping her eyes focused as she fastens his tie, “presenting yourself as a leader who is committed to integrity and respect, or leaving yourself open to further criticism?”

She pushes the knot up tightly against his collar for emphasis.

Aemond just smirks. “You’re very persuasive,” he says.

“That’s my job, sir.”

She gasps as his hand grabs her hip and pulls her against him. His breath runs hotly over her face as he tilts her chin up to look at him. His throat hums as he breathes.

She could fall apart then and there.

Until a knock on the door has her practically shoving him away.

Aemond chuckles and shrugs on his suit jacket. “Enter,” he calls.

She turns her back to the door to hide the flustered look on her face, pretending to look through a bookshelf that she’s never really looked at properly before.

“Car for you, sir,” Alys says from the doorway.

Aemond calls for her by her surname. Fuck– she was supposed to pack his briefcase before he left. She takes a breath and goes about collecting all the pages of notes and briefings he’ll need. 

She brings it to him, and notices Maris standing in the hallway behind Alys. Maris usually goes with him to the Red Keep for PMQs, but today he requests that she accompany him. She supposes it makes sense, she’s been the one helping him prepare after all.

Maris’ face is a storm. Alys looks down at her feet and tries to stifle a giggle.

The next few hours are a blur. She trails after Aemond through the ornate corridors, keeping her eyes on his silver hair, flowing down the back of his black suit jacket. Somewhere along the way, Cole and the head of security, a man Aemond greets as “Mr Westerling”, joins them.

They leave through the front entrance, into the sharp September air and into a black car. The hum of the engine and the smell of leather makes her nauseous, but they’re only in the car for a matter of minutes before the door swings open and she’s been ushered towards the Red Keep.

Once a seat of Kings, now the red stone castle seems a little out of place with the rest of the city. This is where Parliament gathers.

As they walk through its halls, Aemond tells her to throw a few questions at him. She has them all memorised in her head, able to recite a few without really thinking about it. Aemond mutters the answers they’ve rehearsed under his breath, smiling politely and waving as they pass by civil servants, MPs, Green and Black party members alike. They even pass Cregan Stark, leader of the Northern Independence party. He whispers all of their names in her ear.

There’s a small room where Aemond waits in before he enters the Great Hall. She can hear the noise and the chatter on the other side of the double doors, engraved with the same crest that marks the gates to Hightower House.

He won��t stop moving, adjusting his tie and his cuffs, tutting and pursing his lips.

She makes sure Cole and Westerling are muttering to each other before she leans into Aemond, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers, “don’t see it as a chance for them to criticise you, see it as an opportunity for you to reassure everyone else of how brilliant you are.”

Aemond turns his head towards her. He’s not touching her but she feels the proximity.

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” he says.

She smiles. “It’s all perspective.”

Before Aemond is called into the hall, Cole directs her to the gallery, above the benches where the MPs sit.

She and Aemond meet eyes before she leaves. She stops herself from reaching for him, not wanting to leave his side.

“Good luck,” she says.

As if he needs it. She watches everything unfold from the gallery, the MPs sat below her like she’s watching a play in a theatre.

Aemond starts off with an amazing opening speech which, at her recommendation, doesn’t shy away from the issue of the whole Aegon scandal. He affirms his commitment to ensuring that central government is a safe and inclusive working environment, which is when he announces Aegon’s resignation as an MP, as well as his removal from the Green Party.

The chamber in an uproar. A few members of the Green Party make a bit of a fuss, but mostly Aemond’s announcement is applauded, even by a good number of Black Party members.

Rhaenyra, Aemond’s sister and predecessor, is at a loss for words, as is her deputy, Daemon.

Aemond seems to get a boost of confidence from this and takes every question in his stride, using elements from the answers she had rehearsed with him and even throwing in a few one liners which has half the room cheering him.

And he’s fucking hot when he’s cocky.

While he speaks all she can think of is how he sounded while she was between his legs. “Good girl… just fucking take it…” she has to clench her fists and her jaw at the wave of arousal that rises within her.

Afterwards she walks with him to the car. A whole host of Green Party members crowd him as they walk through the hallways, praising him, commending him. He smiles graciously, looking over his shoulder every so often to look at her, to make sure she’s not fallen behind.

The silence of the car is unbearable with Cole and Westerling in the front, and Aemond beside her, drumming his fingers against his thigh and running his other hand through his hair.

She presses her thighs at the obvious arousal pooling at her centre.

Seven hells, she’s acting like she’s in heat.

She follows Aemond back through Hightower House, past Alys’ office, to his own office. When he closes the door behind them, he locks it.

She leans against the desk, keeping her hands on the wood behind her.

Aemond turns back to her with a ravenous look in his pale blue eyes. He reaches into his pocket, effortlessly pulling his hair into a low bun, as he usually does in informal company.

She can’t take her eye off him as he tosses his jacket over the sofa, and begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. Then he stalks towards her, his chin tilted down and his lips in a tight line, until he’s close enough to paw at her waist. 

“I suppose I should thank you for your help,” he says, eyes fixed on his hands as they tease over the fabric of the red mini skirt she had picked out this morning, the way she squirms underneath him.

“Oh,” she breathes. One of his hands trails up, untucking her blouse from her skirt and brushing his fingertips against the bare skin underneath. “Just… doing my job, sir.”

He hums to himself as his hand works its way round to her backside, squeezing gently. “Do you like calling me ‘sir’?”

She can’t help but nod, dazed at the feeling of his hands tracing the shape of her body.

“Yeah, I think you do,” he says, leaning in to press a slow, firm kiss to her neck.

Her resolve is shattered. She throws her hands around his neck, pulling herself into him, desperate to feel him against her, to stay close to him.

She almost whines when he moves away, much to his amusement, feeling her mouth fall into a pout.

“Don’t tell me I’ve got a brat,” he says, taking her chin in his hand. “Are you going to be good for me, pet?”

“Yes, sir,” she utters.

“See? You don’t even need to be told,” he says with a smile. “You’re going to turn around and lean over the desk.”

She follows his instructions without missing a beat, bracing herself on her forearms, against the surface. She feels her skirt being pushed up over her hips, her tights and panties pulled down in one go, fingertips trailing over her thighs. Then she feels his breath against the wetness of her bare pussy. 

She can’t help but let out a quiet moan, pressing her nails into the wood in anticipation.

“Haven’t even fucking touched you yet, are you that desperate for me?”

“Yes, sir,” she whimpers, trying to look over her shoulder.

Aemond’s hand finds its way against her head, pressing her down. And he doesn’t let go.

His fingers drag through her folds, teasing her entrance and her clit before he slides in a single digit. It feels so different from her own, longer and thicker, pressing into her at an unfamiliar angle. She feels utterly weightless, the obscene sound of him moving in and out of her only adding to her arousal.

Aemond’s voice is dark and husky, as it was last night. “Good girl,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?”

When she doesn’t reply, he withdraws and lands a stinging slap against her cheek, before he pushes into her again. “Answer me,” he says, clearly and firmly.

“Yes, sir,” she says, frantically trying to nod against his hold of her head. “Feels so fucking good.”

He increases his speed, pumping in and out of her until her climax washes over her. It happens gradually, building and building before a pleasant numbness washes through her, to every corner of her body. 

While she comes down from her high, her attention is caught by the sound of a belt buckle and rustling fabric.

The tip of his cock presses into her without warning. He inches further and further in until he bottoms out, the material of his trousers pressing against her skin– the cunt hasn’t even bothered to take off his clothes.

He finally relents his hold of her head, grabbing at her waist as he ruts into her. It’s fast and primal, adrenaline pumping through her blood, Aemond’s fingers digging into her flesh, her breath coming out in moans, his belt buckle hitting the desk with every harsh thrust.

“Knew you were a little slut,” he grits out, grabbing at her cheeks and spreading them out to watch his cock moving in and out of her. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

She covers her mouth with her hand to hold back the wanton noises threatening to slip past her lips. 

Suddenly a hand comes to her shoulder, pulling her up against his chest. One hand kneads at her breasts through her blouse and her bra, while the other slips between her legs, tracing quick circles over her clit.

“I wanna feel you come,” he rasps into her ear, “wanna feel my good girl clench around my cock.”

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She clings to his arms and digs her teeth into her bottom lip. She can feel herself hurtling towards her climax, if only he would move his fingers a little faster.

“Please,” she whispers.

“What was that, pet?” Aemond asks, brushing his lips over her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come!” she whines. “Fuck– please… please, I just want to come, sir.”

She feels him smiling against her as his fingers rub faster over her clit. She can feel how deep he is inside her, how his cock bullies against that sensitive spot, over and over again, until her orgasm tears through her.

She tries to keep her mouth shut but she can’t help the pleading groan that hums in her throat. Aemond holds her as she falls apart, fucking her thoroughly through it all.

Until finally, he reaches his end, hissing through his teeth and pulling out to spill himself onto her pussy. She feels the warmth, how it drips through her folds, for now uncaring of the mess they’ve surely made.

Aemond keeps holding her against his chest. His forehead falls against the back of her head and his hot breath echoes over her neck. “I really appreciate the work you’ve done for me,” he says breathlessly. “I think you and I make quite a pair, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” she mewls, letting her head fall against his arm.

Aemond hums a laugh to himself, it rumbles in his chest and against her back. “So pretty and polite,” he coos, “how did I ever manage without you until now, pet?”

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @targaryenrealnessdarling

A/n: I might do a part 2 to this so let me know if you would liked to be tagged :)

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

Tackling the threat from artificially generated images of child sex abuse must be a priority at the UK-hosted global AI summit this year, an internet safety organisation warned as it published its first data on the subject.

Such “astoundingly realistic images” pose a risk of normalising child sex abuse and tracking them to identify whether they are genuine or artificially created could also distract from helping real victims, the Internet Watch Foundation (IWF) said.

The organisation – which works to identify and remove online images and videos of child abuse – said while the number of AI images being identified is still small “the potential exists for criminals to produce unprecedented quantities of life-like child sexual abuse imagery”.

Of 29 URLs (web addresses) containing suspected AI-generated child sexual abuse imagery reported to the IWF between May 24 and June 30, seven were confirmed to contain AI-generated imagery.

This is the first data on AI-generated child sexual abuse imagery the IWF has published.

It said it could not immediately give locations for which countries the URLs were hosted in, but that the images contained Category A and B material – some of the most severe kinds of sexual abuse – with children as young as three years old depicted.

Its analysts also discovered an online “manual” written by offenders with the aim of helping other criminals train the AI and refine their prompts to return more realistic results.

The organisation said such imagery – despite not featuring real children – is not a victimless crime, warning that it can normalise the sexual abuse of children, and make it harder to spot when real children might be in danger.

Last month, Rishi Sunak announced the first global summit on artificial intelligence (AI) safety to be held in the UK in the autumn, focusing on the need for international co-ordinated action to mitigate the risks of the emerging technology generally.

Susie Hargreaves, chief executive of the IWF, said fit-for-purpose legislation needs to be brought in “to get ahead” of the threat posed by the technology’s specific use to create child sex abuse images.

She said: “AI is getting more sophisticated all the time. We are sounding the alarm and saying the Prime Minister needs to treat the serious threat it poses as the top priority when he hosts the first global AI summit later this year.

“We are not currently seeing these images in huge numbers, but it is clear to us the potential exists for criminals to produce unprecedented quantities of life-like child sexual abuse imagery.

“This would be potentially devastating for internet safety and for the safety of children online.

“Offenders are now using AI image generators to produce sometimes astoundingly realistic images of children suffering sexual abuse.

“For members of the public – some of this material would be utterly indistinguishable from a real image of a child being sexually abused. Having more of this material online makes the internet a more dangerous place.”

She said the continued abuse of this technology “could have profoundly dark consequences – and could see more and more people exposed to this harmful content”.

She added: “Depictions of child sexual abuse, even artificial ones, normalise sexual violence against children. We know there is a link between viewing child sexual abuse imagery and going on to commit contact offences against children.”

Dan Sexton, chief technical officer at the IWF, said: “Our worry is that, if AI imagery of child sexual abuse becomes indistinguishable from real imagery, there is a danger that IWF analysts could waste precious time attempting to identify and help law enforcement protect children that do not exist.

“This would mean real victims could fall between the cracks, and opportunities to prevent real life abuse could be missed.”

He added that the machine learning to create the images, in some cases, has been trained on data sets of real child victims of sexual abuse, therefore “children are still being harmed, and their suffering is being worked into this artificial imagery”.

The National Crime Agency (NCA) said while AI-generated content features only “in a handful of cases”, the risk “is increasing and we are taking it extremely seriously”.

Chris Farrimond, NCA director of threat leadership, said: “The creation or possession of pseudo-images – one created using AI or other technology – is an offence in the UK. As with other such child sexual abuse material viewed and shared online, pseudo-images also play a role in the normalisation and escalation of abuse among offenders.

“There is a very real possibility that if the volume of AI-generated material increases, this could greatly impact on law enforcement resources, increasing the time it takes for us to identify real children in need of protection.”

[i-am-aprl]

BRITAIN ARMS ISRAEL ISRAEL KILLS BRITS

The Israeli killing of seven aid workers in the Gaza Strip has reignited calls for the British government to stop selling weapons to Tel Aviv. Among the dead were three Britons who died after an airstrike hit their car. They were working for the World Central Kitchen, a charity providing food to thousands of Palestinians facing starvation amid Israel’s bombardment and blockade.

Supreme Court judges and hundreds of lawyers and academics have now written an open letter to UK Prime Minister Rishi Sunak, warning the continued shipment of arms is a breach of international law. Despite the growing pressure, Downing Street insists it won’t change its policy and will continue to back Israel’s onslaught.

[palestinegenocide]

Key Developments 

Israel kills 62 Palestinians, wounds 91 in the past 24 hours across Gaza, raising death toll since October 7 to 33,037 and number of wounded to 75,668

World Health Organization: Patients at al-Shifa will die if they are not evacuated, newborn deaths are on the rise in Gaza.

Hamas chief: Israel is maneuvering in negotiations to prolong the war on Gaza.

WCK demands third-party independent investigation into killing of seven aid workers in Deir al-Balah.

UN’s human rights council studies a resolution to impose arms embargo on Israel, warning of “possibility of genocide” in Gaza.

600 British lawyers in letter to Rishi Sunak demand halt to arms sales to Israel, argue that selling arms to Israel violates international law.

Hezbollah announces one of its fighters killed in Israeli strikes and that it carried out six attacks against Israeli positions across the border.

West Bank: One Palestinian killed near Jenin as Israeli forces raid Hebron, Bethlehem, and Qalqilya.

[talonabraxas]

Lord Agni - Tibetan Thangka Talon Abraxas

First, Agni sprang to life from out of Heaven; the second time from us came Jatavedas. Thirdly, the Manly-souled was in the waters. The pious lauds and kindles him the Eternal. Agni, we know thy three powers in three stations, we know thy forms in many a place divided. We know what name supreme thou hast in secret, we know the source from which thou hast proceeded. The Manly-souled lit thee in sea and waters; man's Viewer lit thee in the breast of heaven. There, as thou stoodest in the third high region, the Seers increased thee in the water's bosom. ~Rig Veda XLV

Alone without a second, Prajapati asked himself how he could procreate. From within his vast completeness he drew forth exertion and produced Agni through his mouth. Being thus created, it was natural for Agni to be an eater of food. Brought forth before the other gods, it was fitting that he should take his name from agre, meaning 'he comes in front'. Prajapati paused to observe his progeny and thought, "Here is an eater of food whom I have generated, and as there is nothing other than myself here that is food, I can only hope that he will not wish to eat." At that time all was barrenness. The earth was not and there was no life anywhere. Even as Prajapati considered this problem, Agni turned towards him with open mouth. Prajapati became afraid and his greatness, in the form of speech, departed from him.

He sought an oblation within himself, thinking to appease the Devourer. He rubbed his forehead and obtained a ghee offering, but it was mixed with hairs; so he rejected it, pouring it upon the newly born earth. He ordered the earth to "suck it quickly", and where it was absorbed, plants and trees arose. He rubbed his forehead a second time and obtained another oblation which met with his approval. His own greatness urged him to offer it ("my own greatness [sva] has spoken [aha] it to me"). Thus he offered it, saying "Svaha " (which accompanies the oblation in the earthly agnihotra), whereupon the one that gives out heat (the sun) arose, followed by the one who ventilates (the wind). Only then did Agni turn away, and only thus, by offering the reproduction of himself, did Prajapati save himself from death. It is said that he who offers the agnihotra knowing this, reproduces himself, saving himself from the death of Agni, who is about to consume him.

Agni's three powers in three stations have reference to this 'reproduction' of Prajapati, this manifest universe. But even prior to its manifestation, his triple fire resides in the Invisible Sun. With creation, Agni expresses himself in the trinity of Agni-Vayu-Surya, the three occult degrees of fire which emanate his Seven Tongues, identified with the Sapta Rishis who overbrood and influence the descent of the Sons of Fire into the world. This can be traced in the mystical doctrine of the Forty-Nine Fires, each of which has a distinct function and meaning in the spiritual and physical worlds as well as a correspondence to one of the human psychic faculties. His three 'sons' are Pavaka (Purifier), representing electric or vaidyuta fire, Pavamana (Purifying), or the fire of friction, and Suchi (Purity), the solar fire. From these three spring the forty-five fires associated with the Pitris, the Asuras and the gods, bringing the total to forty-nine.

Emphasizing principle instead of Being, the same notion is expressed in the Vedic assertion that Agni originates in the 'womb' of rita, the great truth of Reality inherent in cosmic order and moral law as the living, moving fire of God, the Great Breath expanding and contracting as the divine heartbeat of the universe (the first Fire), spreading out as the vesture of akasha (the second Fire), and partaking of water born of fire to produce the Sons of the Fire Mist (the third Fire). Arising out of the 'mouth' of the One, Agni can be identified with Kama in the First Creation, desire rooted in truth and omnipotent, omnipresent energy, yielding universal will. In the secondary creation Agni's ubiquitous effectiveness descends unerringly into the manifesting world, laying the basis for the motion and substance of life itself. His three forms – the sun, lightning and fire – become "the structural presences of the cosmos and of the inner life of men".

Man needs four flames and three fires to become one on Earth, and he requires the essence of the forty-nine fires to be perfect. ~The Secret Doctrine

[father-of-the-void]

...the more I learned about 'the Seven Sages' on my journey through the ancient texts and commentaries, the more they began to sound to me like a religious cult armed with powerful spiritual ideas, fired by yogic asceticism and the quest for gnosis, manipulating the development of 'kingdoms' in India from retreats in the Himalayas. And maybe not only kingdoms in India, but elsewhere in the archaic world as well?

— Graham Hancock, Underworld: The Mysterious Origins of Civilization

[mariacallous]

A record number of Cabinet ministers lost their seats on Friday in Britain's general election, leaving only a couple of obvious contenders for the party leadership if Rishi Sunak resigns.

Nine members of Prime Minister Rishi Sunak's top team failed to be re-elected, beating the previous high of seven who lost out in 1997, as the ruling Conservatives suffered a mauling at the hands of the main opposition Labour party.

Grant Shapps, the UK's defence secretary for nearly a year, was the most high-profile casualty, losing his Welwyn Hatfield seat north of London.

Leader of the Commons Penny Mordaunt, who shot to international attention as a sword carrier at King Charles III's coronation last May, lost in Portsmouth North on England's south coast.

A former defence secretary, she tried twice to become Tory leader, and was tipped to try again after Thursday's election, with Sunak expected to stand down.

Other Tory casualties included Education Secretary Gillian Keegan, Justice Secretary Alex Chalk, Culture Secretary Lucy Frazer, Transport and Science Secretary Michelle Donelan.

Veteran minister Johnny Mercer and Brexit champion Jacob Rees-Mogg also lost out, as voters grew fed up with the Conservatives after 14 years in power.

The defeats have already sparked soul-searching among re-elected and departing Conservatives, who said the party had been punished for a series of scandals and infighting in recent years.

"I think that we have seen in this election an astonishing ill-discipline within the party", said former Justice Secretary Robert Buckland, after losing his seat.

Shapps, an MP since 2005, criticised the Tories' "inability to iron out their differences" amid an endless political "soap opera" that saw five prime ministers since the 2016 Brexit vote.

"What is crystal clear to me tonight –- it is not so much that Labour won but that the Conservatives lost," he added.

Right-winger Suella Braverman, sacked as interior minister by Sunak late last year for a series of incendiary comments, was re-elected and finance minister Jeremy Hunt survived a major scare to squeak victory.

Current interior minister James Cleverly also held on to his seat.

Secretary of State for Business and Trade Kemi Badenoch and security minister Tom Tugendhat also won their races.

Most of those high-profile survivors are expected to challenge for the leadership.

Braverman apologised to voters in her victory speech, saying the Tories had failed to listen to voters.

"The Conservative party let you down... we have got to do better and I will do everything in my power to rebuild trust. We need to listen to you. You have spoken to us very clearly," she said.

[barid-bel-medar]

The StarHeart Incident everyone!

Comic done by the most excellent @tunafishprincess!!!!

For some bonus trivia under the cut!

Legacy's Quirk is called Hadrian's Wall. She's capable of making barriers around herself (as she does in the last panel) or around others/objects. Her being named Jamie Stewart is 100% me finding it funny (the Stewarts were the longest ruling Scottish royal house at over six hundred years and seven of them got named James).

StarHeart is a massive reference to DC's 'Green Lantern, in particular the Golden Age Green Lantern Alan Scott, who's power originates from 'The Starheart' (which turned out to be connected to the Green Light of the more modern Green Lanterns). StarHeart's costume is a outfit in particular is a reference to Jennifer-Lynn Hayden's iconic hero outfit as Jade.

Rishi City is named for Rishi, a world in Star Wars.

[wheelie-butch]

Chants for Palestine

These are the chants I can remember doing at the pro-Palestine protests and vigils I've been to recently. People from the local mosques usually lead them with a loudspeaker.

They're pretty easy to pick up when you're there if you can hear okay but I thought being able to memorise them in advance might be helpful for some people, especially if you have difficulty hearing or processing audio. Having confidence in what you're saying really helps the protest sound effective.

Please add on any you know too!

Call and Response Chants

If you hear the first part, the part in bold is what you should shout back. Obviously if the people around you know a different version, follow what they're staying instead, but these are the ones I've been taught.

ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR - OCCUPATION NO MORE! / FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT - ISRAEL IS A TERROR STATE!

IN OUR THOUSANDS, IN OUR MILLIONS - WE ARE ALL PALESTINIANS!

FROM THE RIVER, TO THE SEA - PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! / FROM THE SEA, TO THE RIVER - PALESTINE WILL LIVE FOREVER!

RISHI SUNAK YOU CAN'T HIDE - WE CHARGE YOU WITH GENOCIDE! (this one I heard also with Kier Starmer's name, I assume other relevant politicians also get put in there)

GAZA GAZA DON'T YOU CRY - WE WILL NEVER LET YOU DIE! / GAZA GAZA DON'T YOU FROWN - WE WILL NEVER LET YOU DOWN!

FREE! FREE! - PALESTINE!

Repeating Chants

(These ones don't have a call and response aspect but I find it helpful to only shout on every other shout the leader does, so you can hear when they change it up.)

CEASE FIRE NOW!

STOP BOMBING GAZA!

STOP BOMBING CHILDREN!

These are just the ones I've heard at my local events, please add on any others you know or variants!

[houseofbrat]

A carefully constructed plan inspired by Operation Bubble which protected the late Queen from Covid-19 was thrown into action.

He would have weekly treatment in London and factor in vital periods of rest time at Sandringham, Highgrove and Windsor.

But his health plan was thrown into turmoil when Prince Harry announced he would jet from Los Angeles to see his father.

While the King delayed his helicopter flight from Buckingham Palace to Sandringham, his wayward son was given just 30 minutes of his company at Clarence House.

Plans were in place to avoid the King contacting a secondary infection and Harry flying 5,000 miles on a jet was not ideal.

Aides prevented Harry, 39, joining his father at Sandringham fearing “we’d never get rid of him” and he needed to reduce his social contact while undergoing cancer treatment.

[...]

But the King was withdrawn from all public duty for 103 days although he continued reading government red boxes.

It can now be revealed the decision to postpone his public facing role was made as a “precautionary measure” because of the King’s diminished immune response to other diseases.

The Royal Household copied Covid-style protocols — or tiers imposed by the Government during the pandemic — to minimise secondary infection such as seasonal cold or flu.

A source said: “We had to minimise potential risk from other people, not because he couldn’t do the job.”

But as winter turned into spring and weather became warmer it meant they could relax the Covid-style tiers.

This was demonstrated when the King emerged from the Easter Sunday service and was greeted by 60 well-wishers at St George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle.

Just days earlier, the monarch and his team had received news that the treatment had gone better than anyone could have expected.

One insider said: “He was raring to go after the positive results and didn’t want to hang around any longer”.

It meant the King told aides that a trip to Australia, seen as the most important tour a monarch will ever take, must go ahead in the autumn, as first revealed by The Sun.

In May, his public comeback began at London's University College Hospital MacMillan Cancer Centre where he told patients he was having treatment later that day and confessed in an off-script moment he had lost his sense of taste.

[...]

Around 27,000 messages and get well soon cards had been sent to the King and Princess of Wales, and he told then-Prime Minister Rishi Sunak some of the “wonderful messages and cards” have “reduced me to tears”.

Despite the King’s positivity and drive to return to work and tour Australia, his aides and doctors remain “protective” about how many hours a day he can carry out public-facing duties.

While famous for being a “workaholic” with Harry and William once saying they would find him in his office working during the night, the King has been made to restrict public face-to-face interaction to only five hours a day.

This is expected to be the same when he goes to Australia with Camilla in October where the tour is expected to have engagements on around seven days.

Sources explain rest and recuperation are built into the King's usually hectic schedule so he is not exhausted.

[...]

In truth, if it was not the cancer then the prostate procedure would have stopped him riding at Trooping, it is said.

Amid the recovery his personal doctor Michael Dixon, previously slated and accused of backing controversial homeopathy, has been credited with aiding his recovery with a programme of complementary treatment.

The King will now spend summer months at Birkhall on the Balmoral estate and be surrounded by family, including the Princess of Wales who is continuing her own cancer journey.

He will keep a positive frame of mind tending his garden, taking long walks, painting and fishing.

And he will be ready and raring to go for Australia in October where his recovery could be even further down the line.

The trip Down Under which includes speaking at Common wealth Heads of Government Meeting in Samoa is expected to last less than two weeks including travel and take in Sydney and Canberra.

[...]

The King has been open about his prostate problem and cancer but it is unlikely he will now specifically name which cancer he has, so that to “reach out and embrace as many people as he can impacted by cancer. The more specific you are the fewer people you are able to engage and support.”

Of making the news public, an insider said: “I can’t tell you what a difference that has made for him, it came with his support.

“When presented with facts of how many suffered enlarged prostate, and that there was a public health campaign and therefore some good can come of his personal setback, he totally got that and has been genuinely bowled over by the scale of response to that and cancer itself.”

On social channels, Buckingham Palace has collaborated with charities MacMillan, Maggie’s and Cancer Research UK.

And when the King chose his comeback event, he attended University Hospitals cancer ward where he bonded with patients revealing he had lost his sense of taste and had treatment later that day.

But a source added: “Never say never. There are no current plans to reveal the cancer.

“But if he felt that the time was right��. . . ”

[archive link]

[celticcrossanon]

BRF Reading - 27th of December, 2023

This is speculation only

Cards drawn on the 27th of December, 2023

Was the 'Harry' mentioned in Rishi Sunak's Christmas skit meant to be any Harry (i.e. no one in particular, just who the audience thought of when they heard the name), or was it meant to be a particular Harry, such as Prince Harry?

Note: This is a reading done with all the cards in the deck in an upright position.

Interpretation: Prince Harry fits the cards below, but it could also be any other Harry who fits these cards.

Card One: The Four of Cups.

The Four of Cups is a card about refusing or overlooking opportunities. It is also my gossip card, as the picture shows Psyche's two sisters telling her all the gossip about her husband.

In this reading, the gossip interpretation of the card is coming through strongly. The Harry referred to in the skit is someone about whom there has been a lot of gossip/talk/speculation. It could also be a Harry who has missed out on several very good opportunities for one reason or another (not seeing them, not interested, walked away from them etc). This could be Prince Harry, who is missing out on the opportunities that come with being a royal, or it could be another Harry who fits those criteria.

Card Two: The Five of Pentacles

The Five of Pentacles is the card of being an outcast, being in exile. The Harry that was mentioned in the skit is currently an outcast of some sort. This could be Prince Harry, who has exiled himself from the royal family, or it could be a political Harry who is not part of the inner circle of politics, or it could be another Harry was is similarly on the outskirts of some event/circle.

Card Three: The Hermit

The Hermit is the card for Virgo, which is Prince Harry's sun sign, so this is a strong indication that Prince Harry was who the writers had in mind when they penned the skit. Alternatively, it could be another Harry who is a sun sign Virgo, or it could be a Harry with the qualities of the Hermit card - someone who works by themselves, is introspective, who tucks themselves away from society etc.

I am getting Prince Harry energy from this card. I am also getting an 'I can't act so you have to do it for me' energy from the card.

Underlying Energy: The Ten of Wands

The Ten of Wands is a card of burden, and the energy of this is very clear: The Harry in the skit is someone whose actions are a burden for the current Prime Minister of the UK.

Conclusion:

Based on all the cards above, I think that the 'Harry ' in the skit was meant to be Prince Harry, but I also think this will not be confirmed as the Prime Minister needs to be able to deny it was Prince Harry if necessary. I think that Prince Harry has been a burden to the Prime Minister by his actions, as per the underlying energy, and this was the Prime Minister's way of taking a little jab at him in retaliation. The name Harry would also have been chosen because of all the gossip about various Harrys in the UK (so no one can say the PM was picking on one specific Harry) and because the name is associated with someone who is disliked, an outcast, so the chance of people rising up in outrage over the skit is minimal,

Bonus Card: Has Harry been ringing the Prime Minister and asking for his security back?

Card Drawn: The Seven of Swords

The Seven of Swords is a card of sneaking around and going behind other people's backs, of deception, lies, trickery, cunning, and scheming. It is about getting away with something underhanded. and is known as the Thief card in tarot.

For me, this says yes, Harry was trying to get the Prime Minister to give him the 24/7 security he desires. He was going behind the backs of Ravec and the justice system to get what he wanted in a deceitful and underhanded way. Fortunately, as Harry does not have his security back, we can assume that the PM was either 'unavailable' to take his calls or that the PM refused to do this for Harry.