#scaled and icy justice | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 6 months ago

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Legacy (the pyre)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: castle black

- Next part: of snow

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

The icy air of Castle Black was sharp and biting, but it did nothing to temper the fire in your veins. The courtyard was eerily silent, save for the crackling of the massive pyre that had been constructed in its center. Snow fell gently, the flakes catching the golden glow of the flames that now licked at the edges of the wooden platform.

Before the pyre stood the men who had betrayed Jon Snow—Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, and the boy Olly, along with several others who had participated in the mutiny. Their hands were bound, their faces pale and tight with fear. Some muttered prayers to the Seven and the Old Gods; others stared ahead defiantly, their fates sealed.

Above them all loomed Viserion, her pale gold and cream scales glinting in the firelight as she shifted restlessly, her massive wings stirring the air. Her eyes burned with an intelligence and ferocity that made the gathered men tremble. The dragon’s low growl reverberated through the courtyard, a promise of what was to come.

You stood tall before the pyre, your silver hair whipping in the wind, your violet eyes cold and unyielding. The snow melted as it touched the heat of the flames, steam rising around you like a shroud.

“This is justice,” you declared, your voice carrying over the crackling fire and the muffled sobs of the condemned. “You betrayed your sworn brother, a man who sought only to protect you. You plunged your blades into the man I called my son. And for that, you will burn.”

Alliser Thorne, standing at the forefront, glared at you with unbroken defiance. “You call this justice?” he spat, his voice hoarse but strong. “This is vengeance. You’re no better than a Wildling queen, riding a beast of flame and fury.”

You stepped closer, your expression hardening. “You think yourself noble, Alliser? You who killed a man in the dark, surrounded by cowards? You think you can shame me with your words?” You gestured to the pyre. “This is mercy compared to what you deserve.”

Olly, the youngest among them, whimpered, his eyes wide with terror. His fear tugged at something deep within you, but you pushed it aside. He had made his choice, just as the others had.

Raising your voice, you called out to your dragon. “Dracarys!”

Viserion let out a deafening roar, her neck arching gracefully as she reared back. The air grew unbearably hot as fire erupted from her maw, a torrent of golden flames that engulfed the pyre and the men bound to it. Their screams pierced the night, a terrible, haunting sound that echoed across the Wall. The flames danced higher, consuming everything in their path, as the snow melted into slush beneath your feet.

The assembled men of Castle Black stood in stunned silence, some looking away while others watched with grim faces. Justice, vengeance, or horror—it was all the same to them now.

As the screams faded and the fire roared, Davos Seaworth burst into the courtyard, his face pale and drawn, his breath visible in the cold air. He pushed his way through the onlookers, his eyes wide with urgency as he called out to you.

“My lady!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the crackle of flames. “You must come back inside! At once!”

You turned sharply, the cold expression on your face softening into confusion. “What is it, Ser Davos?”

“It’s Jon!” he exclaimed, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place—fear, hope, disbelief. “The Red Woman… she’s done something. You need to see this.”

Your heart lurched, your breath catching in your throat. Without another word, you spun on your heel and began striding toward the keep, the heat of the pyre and the cold of the night forgotten as you followed Davos back inside.

Viserion let out a low rumble behind you, her wings folding as she settled near the smoldering pyre. The crowd parted as you passed, their eyes lingering on you with a mixture of awe and fear.

Inside, the air was heavy with an unnatural stillness. You could feel it in your bones as you ascended the stairs to Jon’s quarters, your footsteps quick and determined. Davos stayed close behind you, his expression grim but focused.

When you reached the room, you stopped short at the doorway. Melisandre stood at Jon’s side, her hands outstretched over his still body. The ruby at her throat glowed faintly, pulsing with a dim, otherworldly light. The air around her shimmered, as if the very fabric of reality bent to her will.

“What have you done?” you demanded, your voice sharp and filled with suspicion.

Melisandre turned to you, her face serene but lined with exhaustion. “What I was meant to do,” she said softly. “The Lord of Light has not abandoned us.”

You stared at her, your heart pounding as you stepped closer to Jon’s lifeless form. His face was pale, his chest still. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing had changed. But then, you saw it—a flicker of movement, the faintest rise and fall of his chest.

Your hand flew to your mouth as your knees threatened to buckle. “Jon…” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks as you reached for him. “Jon.”

The room held its breath as you watched, the faint pulse of life slowly returning to the man you had thought lost forever.

The halls of Dragonstone were quiet, save for the soft patter of servant footsteps and the distant crash of waves against the rocky cliffs below. Tywin Lannister sat in his solar, a fire crackling in the hearth as he reviewed reports from the capital and updates from his emissaries scattered across Westeros. The weight of governance was a familiar burden, one he bore with ease, yet tonight his focus was fractured.

The absence of his wife weighed on him—not as a distraction, but as a variable. Her sudden departure to the North, riding Viserion under the cover of darkness, had left him both irritated and uneasy. She was strong, fearless, and determined—but also unpredictable. It was a trait he admired, even if it vexed him.

A sharp knock at the door broke through his thoughts. Tywin’s sharp green eyes lifted from the parchment. “Enter.”

The door creaked open, revealing a flustered young servant carrying a squirming Damon in her arms. The boy’s face was red and tear-streaked, his small fists balled as he wailed loudly. The servant, clearly out of her depth, struggled to soothe him.

“My lord,” she stammered, her voice trembling, “the young master… he will not settle. He misses his mother, and none of us can calm him.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to the boy with a mixture of irritation and something more subtle—concern. He set down the parchment and rose from his chair, the firelight casting his imposing shadow across the room.

“Bring him here,” Tywin ordered, his tone even but firm.

The servant hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, gently setting Damon on his feet in front of Tywin. The boy’s cries quieted slightly as he looked up at his father, his violet eyes were wet with tears, which only made pale green flecks in them more pronounced.

“Damon,” Tywin said, his voice softer now but still commanding. He knelt slightly to bring himself closer to the boy’s level. “What is the meaning of this?”

Damon sniffled, his bottom lip trembling as he wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Mama’s gone,” he whimpered, his small voice cracking. “I want Mama.”

Tywin’s expression remained stern, but his gaze softened imperceptibly. He placed a steady hand on Damon’s small shoulder, his touch firm but not unkind. “Your mother will return,” he said firmly. “She has important matters to attend to. In the meantime, you are here, under my care. You are a Lannister. Do you know what that means?”

Damon blinked up at him, his sobs quieting as he listened. “It means… I’m strong?” he said hesitantly, his small voice unsure but hopeful.

Tywin’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. “Yes. It means you are strong. And strength is not shown by tears but by how you endure. Do you understand?”

The boy sniffled again, nodding slowly, though his tears hadn’t completely stopped. “But I miss her,” he said softly, his voice breaking again.

Tywin’s gaze remained steady. “Missing someone does not make you weak. But letting it control you does. Your mother would not want to see you like this.”

Damon’s small fists unclenched, and he wiped his face again, this time with a little more determination. “I’ll be strong,” he said quietly, though his voice wavered. “Like you.”

Tywin straightened, his hand still on Damon’s shoulder as he regarded the boy. “Good,” he said simply. “Now, come. Sit with me.”

He led Damon to the large chair by the hearth, lifting the boy effortlessly and setting him on his knee. The boy leaned into his father’s chest, still sniffling softly but beginning to calm. Tywin picked up the parchment he had been reading earlier, holding it in one hand while his other arm rested around Damon, steadying him.

“Do you know why your mother left?” Tywin asked after a moment, his tone conversational.

Damon shook his head. “To punish bad men at the Wall,” he said, his small voice uncertain.

Tywin nodded. “Yes. She went because she believed it was the right thing to do. She acted with purpose and conviction. That is what it means to be a leader. To put the needs of others before your own desires. Do you understand?”

Damon tilted his head slightly, his small brow furrowing in thought. “I think so.”

Tywin allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “Good. Because one day, Damon, you will be a leader too. Dragonstone, Casterly Rock—they will be yours to command. You must be ready.”

Damon’s eyes widened slightly, the weight of those words dawning on him. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Tywin replied, his tone firm but not unkind. “You have the blood of lions and dragons. Never forget that.”

Damon seemed to draw strength from his father’s words, his small hands curling into determined fists. “I won’t forget.”

For the first time that night, Tywin allowed himself a moment of quiet pride. He returned his focus to the parchment, the boy settling against him as the fire crackled softly in the hearth.

The servant lingered near the door, watching the scene with a mixture of awe and relief before quietly slipping away. Damon remained nestled against his father, his small breaths steadying as sleep began to claim him.

And for a moment, the weight of the world outside the walls of Dragonstone seemed a little less pressing.

The morning sun was barely visible through the dense fog rolling over Dragonstone. The air inside the war council chamber was strained but orderly as Tywin Lannister stood at the head of the table, his sharp green eyes scanning the map of Westeros spread before him. Jaime Lannister was sitting nearby, arms crossed, while Varys lingered in the shadows, his hands folded neatly in front of him.

The quiet hum of conversation among the assembled lords and knights was abruptly shattered as the heavy doors to the chamber burst open. Two of Tywin's men, their faces pale and their breaths ragged, stumbled inside, their armor clinking with every hurried step.

"My lord!" one of them exclaimed, his voice filled with panic. "Dragonmont… there's something inside. Something that attacked us!"

Tywin straightened, his gaze narrowing. The room fell silent as every pair of eyes turned toward the men. "Speak clearly," he commanded, his tone icy but composed. "What happened?"

The soldier swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill of the castle. "We went to prepare food for Viserion, should the lady return with her dragon. But something else was there… something smaller, but just as deadly. It—it killed one of our men, my lord. Ripped him apart before we could do anything."

A ripple of unease spread through the room. Jaime stood up, his golden hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "What do you mean, something smaller?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

The second soldier, his hands trembling, spoke up. "A dragon, Ser Jaime. It was about the size of a horse, but it moved faster than anything I've ever seen. Its scales were dark—black, maybe, with streaks of red. It burned the others alive before taking flight deeper into Dragonmont."

The weight of those words settled heavily over the chamber. Tywin’s expression remained impassive, but his gaze flicked to Varys, who raised a brow in faint amusement.

"A second dragon," Varys mused, his voice smooth and measured. "How curious. Could it be that one of Viserion's eggs hatched after all this time? Such a creature would be far too small to have been here before."

Jaime frowned, his gaze shifting between Varys and Tywin. "If it was one of her eggs… I didn’t think any were viable. That’s what we were told."

Varys offered a faint, knowing smile. "Tales of dragons are often filled with mysteries and half-truths. Perhaps the heat of Dragonmont was enough to awaken the dormant life within one of the eggs. Or perhaps something else entirely is at play."

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the implications. "You’re suggesting that this dragon, if it truly exists, is newly hatched?"

"It would seem so, my lord," Varys replied smoothly. "A creature of such size could not have been hidden here for long without discovery. If it is indeed from one of Viserion’s eggs, it raises… intriguing possibilities."

The soldiers shifted uneasily, their fear still palpable. One of them ventured hesitantly, "My lord, what should we do? That beast… it’s dangerous. And if it’s still in Dragonmont—"

Tywin raised a hand, silencing him. His gaze was cold and calculating as he addressed the room. "If there is a second dragon, it belongs to my wife—and by extension, to House Lannister. Its presence here may be unsettling, but it is an asset, not a threat."

Jaime stepped closer to Tywin, his expression skeptical. "And what do you propose we do with it? You saw how difficult it was to control Viserion, even with Y/N. Another dragon, unbonded and unchecked, could be catastrophic."

"Which is why it must be secured," Tywin replied evenly, his tone brooking no argument. "I want a team sent into Dragonmont immediately to confirm the creature’s presence and ensure it does not escape."

"My lord," the first soldier stammered, his voice shaking, "with all due respect, no man will willingly go back in there. Not after what we saw."

Jaime smirked faintly, though his humor was grim. "So much for Lannister bravery."

Tywin’s glare silenced him. "If none of you have the spine for it, I’ll see to it that others are brought in who do. This dragon will not roam unchecked."

Varys tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. "Might I suggest that, should this dragon indeed be viable, we consider how best to use it? Dragons do not merely symbolize power, my lord—they are power incarnate. To possess a second would tip the balance in our favor."

Tywin didn’t reply immediately, his mind clearly working through the layers of this revelation. Finally, he turned to Jaime. "You will lead the effort to secure this creature. Take only those you trust and proceed cautiously. I will not have any more unnecessary losses."

Jaime nodded, though his expression remained doubtful. "As you command."

The anxiety in the room remained as the soldiers were dismissed, their relief evident as they hurried out. Tywin turned back to the map, his fingers tracing the edge of the parchment as he considered his next move.

"If it is true," he said quietly, almost to himself, "then House Lannister’s strength will grow tenfold."

Varys inclined his head, his smile faint but knowing. "And with it, your enemies’ fear."

Jaime left the room to begin his preparations, his steps purposeful despite the uncertainty etched on his face. Tywin remained behind, his gaze fixed on the map as the implications of the morning’s revelation took root.

Far below in Dragonmont, the shadows stirred once more, and the low growl of a young, hungry dragon echoed through the depths.

The dim light of the candles in Jon Snow’s quarters flickered as though trembling in anticipation, the air heavy with an almost suffocating silence. You stood frozen near the door, your hands trembling despite the warmth of the room. Ghost, normally a calm and watchful presence, paced uneasily at Jon’s side, his red eyes glowing with something primal and unsettling. His low growls filled the room, vibrating through the wooden floor beneath your boots.

On the table lay Jon, his chest rising and falling faintly, the stillness of death having given way to something impossibly fragile—life. His pale skin seemed to glow under the dim light, and his dark curls were damp with sweat. Beside him, Melisandre stepped back, her face unreadable but her eyes flickering with the faintest glimmer of something resembling awe.

Behind you, Davos Seaworth lingered, his presence steady but subdued. His voice broke the silence, a soft and reverent murmur. “He’s breathing, my lady. He’s alive.”

Your breath caught, a lump rising in your throat as you stepped forward, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like a storm. Jon Snow, the boy you had raised as your own, the man you had grieved for, was alive—but at what cost?

Ghost let out another growl, his ears flattening as he stood protectively over Jon’s prone form. His unease mirrored your own, a gnawing fear that this miracle carried a terrible price.

As you approached the table, your voice trembled. “Jon?”

Jon stirred at the sound of your voice, his head shifting slightly on the table. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing his grey, haunted eyes. His gaze was unfocused at first, his breaths shallow and uneven. But then his eyes met yours, and something shifted. Recognition dawned, faint but unmistakable.

“Mother,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and weak, yet filled with a depth of emotion that broke something inside you.

A sob escaped your lips, and before you realized it, you were at his side, leaning over him. Your hands cupped his face, your fingers trembling as they brushed against his cold, clammy skin. “Jon,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Oh, my sweet boy… you’re alive.”

Jon’s gaze softened, though it was still clouded with confusion. “You… came,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I… saw you. I think I saw you. In the dark.”

Tears streamed down your face as you leaned closer, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’ll always be here.”

Your arms wrapped around him gently, pulling him into a careful embrace. His body was weak and unsteady, but he leaned into you, his breaths shallow but real. The relief that flooded through you was overwhelming, a tidal wave of joy and anguish that left you trembling.

Behind you, Davos remained silent, giving you the space to grieve and rejoice. Melisandre watched from the shadows, her ruby pendant faintly glowing, her face serene yet enigmatic.

But even as you held Jon, a storm raged within your mind. He is alive, you reminded yourself over and over, clinging to the joy of it. But the voice in your mind, the one that whispered truths too dark to ignore, would not be silenced.

"At what cost?" it asked, gnawing at the edges of your relief. You thought of the flames roaring in the courtyard, the screams of the traitors as they burned alive. The thought made your stomach churn. Was that the price?

You pulled back slightly, your hands still cradling Jon’s face as you looked into his eyes. “Jon, do you know what happened? Do you remember anything?”

He shook his head faintly, his brow furrowing. “I… I was in the dark,” he said softly. “It was cold. Empty. And then… I heard voices. Yours.” His gaze flickered with uncertainty. “And hers.”

Your jaw tightened as you turned to Melisandre, your tears giving way to a sharp glare. “What did you do?” you demanded, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and fear. “What price did you pay for this?”

Melisandre met your gaze evenly, her voice calm and unflinching. “I did what the Lord of Light willed. Life was taken, and life was returned. The flames of the traitors were accepted as a sacrifice.”

You stiffened, your mind racing. Her words rang with a grim truth, and the memory of the pyre flashed before your eyes—the heat, the screams, the finality of it all. “You’re saying that burning them made this possible?”

“Yes,” Melisandre said firmly, her voice carrying the weight of conviction. “The Lord of Light requires balance. Death for life. Your act of justice in the courtyard satisfied the flames. It allowed me to call him back.”

You clenched your fists, your body trembling with anger and unease. “You used me,” you said, your voice cold. “You waited for me to carry out your god’s will without telling me the truth.”

Melisandre inclined her head slightly, her expression serene but unapologetic. “It was not deception, my lady. It was fate. You made your choice, and it was the right one. The Lord of Light guided your hand.”

You stared at her, your fury mingling with confusion and unease. The room seemed to grow colder, the weight of her words pressing down on you like the icy winds beyond the Wall.

“I will never forgive you for what you’ve done,” you said finally, your voice trembling but resolute. “If you ever try to manipulate me again, I will ensure the flames take you next.”

Melisandre said nothing, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before shifting back to Jon.

Jon stirred again, drawing your attention back to him. He looked at you with a mixture of weariness and gratitude, his lips parting as he whispered, “You saved me.”

“No,” you replied, your voice softening as you stroked his hair. “You saved yourself, Jon. You’ve always been stronger than you know.”

Ghost, still uneasy, let out a soft whine, his red eyes fixed on Jon as though sensing something neither of you could. You placed a reassuring hand on the direwolf’s head, silently promising that you would protect Jon, no matter what.

In the quiet of the room, you held Jon close, your tears falling freely as the storm inside you raged on. Joy and grief, relief and fear—they swirled together, leaving you raw and vulnerable. But one thing was certain: Jon was alive. And no matter the cost, you would ensure he stayed that way.

The cavernous tunnels of Dragonmont were dark and suffocating. The air was filled with the sulfurous stench of the volcano’s dormant power, and every step taken by Jaime Lannister and his men seemed to echo endlessly in the vast emptiness. The group moved cautiously, their hands gripping swords, spears, and crossbows as they ventured deeper into the mountain.

Jaime led the way, his expression a mask of determination. The stories brought back by Tywin’s terrified soldiers had been troubling enough, but the idea of a second dragon hiding within Dragonmont was something that could not be ignored. If it truly existed, it was both a threat and a potential asset, but Jaime couldn’t shake the unease settling in his gut.

“This place is cursed,” one of the soldiers muttered under his breath, glancing nervously at the darkened passage ahead.

“Quiet,” Jaime ordered, his voice low but firm. “Keep your eyes open and your mouths shut. If there’s a dragon in here, you’ll hear it long before you see it.”

Another soldier, younger and less disciplined, whispered, “Do you really think it’s a dragon, Ser Jaime? Couldn’t it just be some… creature from the depths?”

Jaime shot him a sharp look. “You heard the men’s accounts. It’s a dragon. The question is how large and how dangerous.”

The group pressed on, the tension mounting with every step. The tunnel began to widen, the walls shimmering faintly with deposits of obsidian. The heat grew more oppressive, beads of sweat forming on the soldiers’ brows despite the chill of fear running down their spines.

“Tracks,” one of the men said, kneeling near the ground and holding his torch closer. The faint indentations in the dirt were unmistakable—clawed feet, larger than any normal beast, but still small enough to suggest youth.

Jaime crouched beside him, studying the marks. “It’s fresh,” he said grimly, rising to his feet. “Whatever it is, it’s close.”

The sound of heavy breathing broke the silence, a low, guttural rumble that sent a shiver down everyone’s spine. The soldiers froze, their eyes darting around the chamber as the noise grew louder.

“Form up,” Jaime ordered, his voice steady despite the mounting tension. The men moved quickly, forming a semi-circle with their weapons raised, their breaths coming in shallow, panicked gasps.

From the shadows ahead, two glowing yellow eyes appeared, narrowing as they focused on the intruders. A low growl rumbled through the air, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath their feet.

“Hold your ground,” Jaime barked, drawing his sword as the creature stepped into the torchlight.

The dragon was small—about the size of a horse—but no less menacing. Its sleek, black scales glinted in the dim light, streaked with veins of deep crimson that pulsed like molten lava. Smoke curled from its nostrils, and its sharp teeth gleamed as it opened its maw, letting out a piercing roar that echoed through the cavern.

The men faltered, their grips on their weapons tightening as the beast reared back, its wings spreading wide and casting long shadows against the walls.

“Steady!” Jaime shouted, stepping forward to rally his men. “It’s just a beast. Remember the plan.”

The dragon lunged forward, its talons scraping against the rocky ground as it advanced. The soldiers held their positions, waiting for the creature to step into the trap they had carefully laid—a series of reinforced nets and spiked restraints designed to hold even a young dragon.

“Now!” Jaime yelled, signaling for the men to spring the trap.

The nets shot forward, ensnaring the dragon’s wings and pinning it to the ground. The creature thrashed wildly, its growls turning into enraged roars as it struggled against the restraints. The soldiers moved quickly, driving iron spikes into the ground to anchor the nets.

For a moment, it seemed as though they had succeeded. The dragon’s movements grew more frenzied, but the nets held, and the men began to cautiously close the distance.

Jaime held up a hand, signaling for them to stop. “Wait,” he said, his eyes fixed on the dragon. “Let it tire itself out. Don’t get too close.”

But the dragon was far from finished. With a deafening roar, it surged upward, the muscles in its powerful wings straining against the netting. The iron spikes began to creak and groan, and before the men could react, the restraints snapped free.

“Fall back!” Jaime shouted as the dragon burst from the trap, its wings unfurling and sending a gust of hot air through the chamber. It lunged at the nearest soldier, its talons raking through armor and flesh with terrifying ease.

Chaos erupted as the soldiers scrambled to retreat, their shouts of panic echoing through the cavern. The dragon turned its fiery gaze toward Jaime, smoke billowing from its nostrils as it prepared to strike again.

“Hold your ground!” Jaime roared, though his own heart pounded in his chest as he raised his sword.

The dragon reared back, its head darting forward with a hiss, and Jaime swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade narrowly missing its snout. The creature roared again, its massive wings sending rocks and debris clattering to the ground as it leapt toward the shadows.

“Regroup!” Jaime shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Back to the entrance! Now!”

The soldiers obeyed, retreating toward the relative safety of the tunnel, their faces pale with terror. Jaime lingered for a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the dragon as it disappeared into the darkness, its growls echoing ominously.

As the men gathered near the tunnel’s mouth, gasping for breath and tending to their wounds, Jaime turned to them, his jaw clenched. “This isn’t over,” he said grimly. “We’ll trap it again. And this time, we’ll make sure it holds.”

But as the dragon’s distant roars echoed through the mountain, Jaime couldn’t help but feel a flicker of doubt. This creature was no ordinary beast—and it wouldn’t be subdued so easily.

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bluemerakis · 3 months ago

Text

❝ SHORT STRAW ❞ ──── BLUEMERAKIS

synopsis. based on the episode “a very supernatural christmas”, john winchester’s absence gives dean the chance to reflect on the state of his life, where he realises he got stuck with the one parent he could’ve lived without.

──── warnings. heavy angst, cussing, john winchester hate.

word count. 2.3k

THE JAWS OF NEBRASKAN WINTER don’t know mercy. Its gaping maw looms over the desolate city of Broken Bow, where it whispers an icy tale that settles deep within Dean’s bones—a narrative that just feels like it belongs. And its haunting familiarity is the only reason that it doesn’t sting—doesn’t maul him like an unwelcome trespasser.

Because the cold. . . it just belongs.

Snow streams out in a relentless flurry that cascades over the city, blanketing every architectural peak and worn-down road in sight. Dean’s settled himself against the frost-kissed pane of the motel’s window, nose practically pressed to the glass as he scales the infinite white that nestles into the landscape. But he’s not worried about the way the world gradually seems to disappear—not when the stone-cold bitch had branded him a target at the tender age of four.

The universe is a predator—or at least, that’s what John Winchester always says. It has a knack for the weak and the vulnerable, and will swallow you whole given the chance. Dean doesn’t think of himself as weak, but it’s difficult to deny that he’s vulnerable when his father seems to have no trouble making collateral out of him—formulating plans that leave his neck exposed to the unpredictable fangs of chance, time and time again.

A time like now, where he was left alone to both protect and lie to Sammy while his father was off chasing some false sense of justice. The thought makes him scoff, the hypocrisy of it all squirming beneath his skin like an itch that will never ease away. But he shifts against the windowsill, anyway because it does something to ward off the urge to scratch. To scratch and scratch until he’s raw with the stinging truth that the world doesn’t do justice.

Ain’t no justice in living, only vengeance. Regret. Guilt.

For a man that had spent a good deal of Dean’s so-called childhood snapping the eldest Winchester out of naive daydream and into realist survival, John Winchester sure seemed caught up in the myth of a hero—always trying to save the freaking day. And just for once, Dean hopes, dreams, that his father would one day realise that nobody needed saving more than his own two sons.

But only idiots dream. Dean doesn’t—not anymore. Dreams are reserved for those who don’t know who they are, those who’d like to imagine they could be more. But he knows exactly who he is, what his father had raised him to be:

A lamb awaiting its eventual slaughter.

Dean was a bargaining chip. Expendable. Whenever trouble cornered the Winchester trio, it was always Dean placed on the offence with a gun forced into his palm, while Sammy had his father’s hand to cradle his. Now, the feel of a firearm’s grip felt more comforting than any other means of the very limited support left at Dean’s disposal, the tinge of gunpowder always lingering where his father’s presence couldn’t.

For a second, his head lowers to his lap, where he cradles the gun he knows better than either one of his parents. His eyes trace over its frame, then down the ivory grip—lightly worn by years spent strangling it in search of emotional support. He huffs dryly. Where the prospect of flying bullets should normally have him watching his back, he felt protected. And where his father was supposed to be present, covering his ass, Dean knew that he was never more vulnerable than at John Winchester’s side.

Within reach.

Heaving a deep sigh, the grip on his colt tightens carefully, eyes lifting skyward once more—like the view of the frozen world beyond the window pane would numb the concoction of emotions that fester within him. Quench the fire that he feels igniting at the mere thought of the mess he’d come to call his life.

It doesn’t work.

This fire—the one that consumes him—it doesn’t snuff out under one or two breaths of composure. It doesn’t just fade away. Not unless he does, first. He could try to convince himself that he’ll never be consumed by the type of rage that drives his father to the brink, but he’s not so sure that he could escape something so primal—something written in stone by the same cursed DNA that courses through his veins.

He tracks the way the snowflakes flutter through the air. Their fall from heaven is majestic, almost hypnotising. He finds himself admiring their resolve—the way they fall with collected grace even after the atmosphere discarded them to the pitiful ruins of humanity below. The imagery resonates with some neglected part of him. His jaw clenches at the ache that creeps into his chest, his fingers tightening around the colt’s grip—like he’d be able to gauge the feel of his father’s hand from the countless times he’d manned this gun before Dean.

But he doesn’t know the feeling enough to recognise it.

As the cold settles into the air, it uses all its might to mock the comfort of a blanket, but does little to soothe the chill rattling Sammy’s teeth from some other corner of the room. And it does everything to remind Dean that he’s very much alive. He’d never needed the reminder, not when surviving was the sole objective of his existence. Not when his father’s voice sat nestled in the back of his head, abrading his thoughts like a frostbite that would never heal as it drills him with the responsibility to protect his brother at the cost of his own existence.

Because Dean Winchester didn’t exist for his own convenience. It was always for John Winchester’s.

Behind him, Sammy’s voice, soft and devoid of the hope Dean thought was his only his to sport, filters through the stagnant air of the room.

“Dad isn’t coming, is he?”

The question catches him off-guard, halting his thoughts in place. But Dean’s been caught in this situation enough times to automate a response that doesn’t require an ounce of consideration, his attention steadfast on the snowfall beyond the window as he says, “he’ll be here, Sammy.”

There’s the soft rustle of clothing that Dean guesses is the worked up arms of his little brother forming a tight cross along his chest, a hopeless scoff blaring through. “No, he won’t,” Sam mumbles bitterly, meekly, but the part of Dean that knows the truth latches onto those faint words as though they’d been blared from the rooftop. Because it’s a truth that he already owns, and the lie that neither of the brothers would ever buy—no matter how hard he tried to sell it on his father’s behalf.

Dean’s breath hitches in his chest, his teeth reaching for the skin of his cheek as his gaze staggers from the window pane. His head drops to drink in the view of his lap, his lower lip falling loose with a silence that had always felt more natural than finding the right words. He knew what to say—what he was supposed to say. But he didn’t know how to mean it. Didn’t know if he could, anymore.

Behind him, Sammy finds his voice once more. It’s dull—too dull, a sound that no kid his age should ever be able to recognise, let-alone produce. “He won’t be here because he never is,” he says glumly, but he simmers into a silence that begs Dean to differ. Disprove.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at him—can’t bring himself to. And then there’s a soft shuffle of boots that retreat into the quiet gloom of the room, the sound heavy enough to paint the image of heartbreak that Dean had been trying so hard to avoid.

A few seconds of tense silence pass, and when he finally finds it in himself to spare his brother a glance over his shoulder, the movement feels heavy. Reluctant. There’s nothing he could say that would bring Sammy any sort of comfort. If he knew how to do that sort of thing, he’d know company other than firearms and a routine outside of safe-guarding beside the motel’s windowsill. He didn’t know how to nurture, only how to protect. But his little brother needed more than that, and he couldn’t give it.

He watches as his brother finds the creaky bed pressed against the chipped walls of the room. The younger Winchester kicks off his boots near the foot of the bed, the corners of his lips downturned with a frown that doesn’t take much practice. It sits on his face like it’s natural, now, moulded by the hands of desolate acceptance.

Sammy’s eyes catch his briefly, and suddenly, the brown in them seems darker. Duller. It doesn’t linger for long before the younger brother reaches across the mattress to pull the comforter back, discarding Dean into the rear to be forgotten along with the rest of the day’s disappointment as he settles himself into the sheets. His back is deliberately turned to Dean, like he deserves the shun for being void of miracles. It stings him, but he has to brace against it because their life was no fairytale. And there’d never be a spell to break the curse that seems to bind it.

As he watches over Sammy’s curled up figure beneath the sheets, Dean realises, then, that being stuck with a father like his meant that not even the nativity of childhood was safe from the truth of John’s absence. The only shelter that existed in their lives was the physical ruins below which they slept. But there was no—and would never be—anything durable enough to shield them from the wrecking ball that was John Winchester.

Dean would know. He had tried, and it had cost him enough. He was sure that as the years went by, it’d eventually cost him everything.

“It’ll all be better when you wake up,” he says suddenly, eyes fixed on his little brother with the hope that he’d spare him some ounce of acknowledgment. Forgiveness. But he doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even stir. He swallows thickly before continuing to push a narrative he knows doesn’t cut it—one he feels obliged to deliver. “You’ll see. He’ll be here,” he says firmly—he doesn’t know why. He knows the truth, and it’s exactly why he doesn’t promise.

It would be the hundredth one he’d broken on account of his dad.

But Sammy has been through enough disappointment to not get his hopes up, so he says nothing. Does nothing. But Dean notes the way the steady rise and fall of his figure becomes more drawn out, like he’d finally found a sleep peaceful enough to escape the woes of their life. And he doesn’t probe him further because he deserves that much, at the very least.

He turns his attention back to the window, watching a view he knows won’t change. Nobody was coming. Not tonight—possibly not for the next few days. Who the hell knows, anyway? He slips a glance over to the cupboard near the motel’s doorway, where a couple of gifts he’d stolen from a house down the road takes temporary refuge. He plans to lay it out beneath the tree for Sammy to find come morning and play it off as gifts from their dad.

A bitter part of him aches in protest, but he swallows it down. This was bigger than him. This was about Sammy. If Dean couldn’t protect his own relationship with his father, he could only try to ensure that the same didn’t happen with his brother—not because John Winchester deserved it, but because Sammy deserved to know the type of love that Dean never seemed to qualify for. Not that his planned stunt made it real. Not that it was any of his father’s doing. Dean didn’t even think their father would know what to gift either of them if he’d even taken a chance to think about it.

He scoffs sourly. Screw ‘im, he declares silently, turning his attention back to Sammy’s sleeping figure. He could stay gone, for all Dean cared.

There was nothing fundamentally important about John Winchester. Everything a father should do, Dean could do. He did do them. The only thing his father could still exist to offer was a physical presence to provide comfort, protection. But then again, Dean had never, in his short time of existing, come to know the man as being capable of anything such as that. So, truly, his father’s absence was not an absence at all. Only a truth.

The truth that with or without John Winchester, Dean would survive.

And then the coldest truth of them all strikes his heart like an ode to John Winchester’s cruelty:

Dean could not miss what was never there.

But Sammy—bless his brother—in all his naive goodness, could. So, for him, Dean would spend the rest of his life trying to breathe life into his father’s absence—to keep the man real beyond the occasional and rare sighting of a year. To keep his memory alive, or, at least, the portion of it that actually deserved to live.

With a heart that staggers beneath a burden that should’ve never been his to bear, Dean’s gaze strays from Sammy’s sleeping figure to fixate the window before him once more. The pane is more transparent than his dad had ever been with either of them, giving way to a view that would always be barren; fatherless. And if Dean squinted hard enough, he could almost picture that his father was right here—in the reflection that looked too much like his own, but would always hold a trace of the worst part of himself.

A trace of John Winchester.

He stares a little harder and recognises the furrow nestled between his brows, and the way his jaw strains with the tension of untold truths. The way his eyes glint with distrust and careful calculation. The buried anger that pulls his lips into a taut line incapable of providing affirmation. Praise. The look of judgement that had been cast upon him by his father to the point where he could not feel anything else toward himself—mirrors never reflecting anything beyond a scowl.

In a picture that looked so much like the man he’d never live up to, Dean could only hope that—caught up in the faux-fest of playing his father’s role—he wouldn’t turn out to be exactly like him.

a/n: idk i was on some sad shit period shit when i started this. I just kinda chose violence and decided that if i must suffer you all will suffer too. read this too many times n became blind to errors so you are blind too and don’t see them ok? cool bye

tags — @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @titsout4jackles @ultravi0lence14 @angelicjackles @starzify @rositaslabyrinth @littlesoulshine @figthoughts @walkslikesummeractslikerain @daylighted @honeyryewhiskey @deansbbyx @jasvtsc @maddie0101 @lieutenantchaos @spn-reader @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @youdontknowe @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @spoontriestowriteandfails @beelzebzb @piptoost @lunaleah @kr804573 @idontwannabehere78 @lanasgirlfr @cas-only-angel @nperoconelcositoarriba @alidiggory92 @idk-123-0 @mahi-wayy @tuxedoe @cassiecourtemanche @rositaslabyrinth @samslovebug @viluren @h8aaz @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @cowboysandcigarettes @emeraldcrs @jensenacklesballsack @wa1ks @multiversefanfics @beausling

want to become part of the taglist for future dean winchester works?

other works — supernatural masterlist

layout inspo from most talented bree <3 @titsout4jackles

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bangchansdirty-slut · 1 year ago

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The Queen's punishment

Paring: Serpent Queen GP!Minnie x Peasant!Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: Queen Minnie must discipline Peasant Reader for stealing food from most of the markets. Instead of using the usual punishment, she decides to get creative.

More: Masterlist

A/n: I'm not sure whether to add Gidle to my masterlist or not. Please comment if you have any thoughts. Also, requests are open.

The Serpent Queen, Minnie Yontararak, was feared throughout the kingdom for her icy demeanor and unyielding rule. Her subjects quaked at the mere mention of her name, for they knew that disobedience would meet with swift and brutal punishment. One such offender was a young peasant girl named Y/n, who had been caught stealing food from several markets across the kingdom. Minnie, ever the stern disciplinarian, summoned Y/n before her throne to dispense justice. Instead of the usual punishment of public flogging or banishment, however, the queen had a more creative punishment in mind. She led Y/n to her lavish chambers and, to the girl's confusion, attached a leash to her collar.

Minnie then instructed Y/n to kneel before her, and began to pull on the leash, forcing the girl onto her knees. Next, she tugged the leash so that Y/n's face was mere inches from her own. As Y/n stared up at the queen in terror, Minnie pulled the leash once more, causing Y/n to fall forward and land with her face smothered against Minnie's generous cleavage. To Y/n's further horror, Minnie's cleavage seemed to be made not of flesh, but of a massive, pulsating, scaled cock, bigger than anything she could have ever imagined. As she struggled to breathe, the queen began to stroke her cock, teasing the girl mercilessly.

"Don't worry," the serpent queen purred, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through Y/n's body. "This won't hurt." She gently guided Y/n's head upward, revealing the enormous, pulsing head of her cock. It was easily as big around as Y/n's waist, and stretched upwards for what seemed like an eternity. Minnie placed a hand on the back of Y/n's head, urging her to open her mouth. Y/n hesitantly obeyed, and the serpent queen thrust her cock forward, forcing it past Y/n's lips and into her mouth. Y/n gagged on the immense size of the queen's cock, feeling it stretch her throat almost to the breaking point.

As Y/n struggled to breathe, Minnie began to stroke her cock faster and harder, grinding her hips against the girl's face. The queen's serpentine tail coiled around them, adding to the sensation of being completely dominated by this overpowering creature. Minnie's breath came in short, ragged gasps as she neared climax, and she tugged on the leash, pulling Y/n's head even further down onto her cock. The girl felt the queen's hot cum spill down her throat, filling her mouth and running down her chin.

As the last of her orgasm subsided, Minnie released the leash and allowed Y/n to gasp for air. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" she purred, a playful glint in her eye. But before Y/n could respond, the queen grabbed her roughly by the hair and forced her to stand once again. She pushed Y/n onto all fours on the bed, and as the girl looked over her shoulder, she saw the queen's serpentine tail slithering out from behind her. It grew larger and larger until it was easily as big as the queen herself, and was covered in thick, scaled cock. Minnie positioned herself behind Y/n and slowly pushed her enormous cock forward, forcing it inside the girl's tight, quivering ass.

Y/n let out a loud cry of pain as the tail stretched her insides, but the queen didn't stop. She thrust her cock deeper and deeper, filling Y/n with the heat and size of her cock. The girl could feel the tip of the tail brushing against her womb, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her body despite the pain. Minnie began to thrust more roughly, her hips slapping against Y/n's ass as she took her roughly from behind. The queen's clawed hands dug into Y/n's shoulders, leaving long, bloody trails as she held the girl in place.

As Y/n's body adjusted to the enormous size of the cock, Minnie started to move faster, her thrusts becoming deeper and harder. She let out a low growl of pleasure, the sound vibrating against Y/n's back as her hips met with the girl's ass. Y/n could feel the queen's claws digging into her flesh, leaving trails of pain that mixed with the sensation of being stretched and filled to the brink. The bed beneath them creaked and groaned as their bodies moved in unison, the sounds of their passion filling the room.

The serpent queen's tail continued to grow, stretching impossibly large, its scaled cock thrusting deeper and deeper inside Y/n with each thrust. The girl could feel the heat and size of the cock pressing against her insides, the sensation both overwhelming and exhilarating. She tried to arch her back, to meet each thrust with equal force, but found herself unable to match the power and strength of the queen.

With each passing moment, the pleasure built inside Y/n, threatening to consume her. The tightness around Minnie's cock, the stretching of her insides, the feel of the claws digging into her flesh - it all combined to create a sensation that was both agonizing and euphoric. As she neared her climax, Y/n let out a loud moan, the sound muffled by the pillow as she bit down on it, her body shuddering with the force of her orgasm.

Minnie felt the girl's body tense beneath her, and with a final, powerful thrust, she released her orgasm as well, her hot cum spilling into Y/n's ass as her cock throbbed inside. The weight of the serpent queen pressed down on Y/n's back, her claws digging deeper into her flesh. The girl could feel the aftershocks of Minnie's climax as her insides quivered and contracted around the enormous cock still buried within her.

As the queen's breathing began to steady, she slowly withdrew her cock from Y/n's ass, the scaled shaft retracting back into her tail. The girl felt a pang of loss as the heat and size departed from her body, but Minnie wasn't finished yet. With a wicked grin, she reached down and pulled Y/n roughly onto her back. The girl's limbs were still shaking from the force of her orgasm, but she managed to keep her eyes open as she stared up at the queen.

"That's a good pet," she cooed, stroking Y/n's cheek with her claw. "Now it's time for you to rest." With that, the queen disappeared from the room, leaving Y/n sprawled on the bed, spent and satisfied.

The girl lay there for a while, her body still quivering from the exertion and the pleasure. As she drifted off to sleep, she could feel the weight of the queen's favor pressing down upon her, a warm, comforting presence in the darkness of the room. Minnie had chosen her, and she would serve her faithfully, no matter what trials or pleasures that might bring.

------

A/n: Despite Minnie's name her GP is definitely ain't mini. sorry just had to say it. Also, can we talk about how hot Gidle was in Super Lady mv.

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siderealscribblings · 2 months ago

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Of course I can't just be married and happy without some bloody Archon sticking their nose where it doesn't belong.

Even if Furina didn't share Neuvillette's distaste for Archons as a species, she was quickly sympathizing with his ill feelings towards them. She had been stood up, lied to, and now ambushed by an Archon who claimed to be home in Snezhnaya after days of narrowly dodging attempts on her life. Now she stood staring up at the Tsaritsa like a fool, alone and completely unarmed in the presence of one of the strongest of the Seven…a woman who had been implicated in one attempt on Furina's life already.

Why does she look so normal? Furina thought. She was pretty, Furina supposed, but not perfect; not an inhuman beauty made of ice and starlight like Furina imagined. It was both a relief and unnerving to know that Archons could look like ordinary people; Furina had no doubt blathered like an idiot to two Archons on two separate occasions without realizing who either of them were.

Snowflakes fell from Irina's hair as she shook it out with a small sigh. "Forgive me, but I've barely felt like myself all week. I hope you don't mind if I let my hair down."

Furina's mouth was perilously dry as she searched for the right words to say. She was a goddess, she reminded herself; the Tsaritsa was a peer, not a terribly scary ice woman with suspicious motivations. What would a goddess say if she found an "old friend" standing in front of her after hiding her face all weekend?

"Well…you could have just accepted my invitation and skipped this silly charade," Furina huffed, hiding fear behind indignation as she lifted her skirts and hiked her way up onto the stage. "Honestly, I'm beginning to think I'm the only Archon who doesn't go around disguised in one way or another."

Irina's icy blue eyes narrowed and for a moment Furina felt blood freeze in her veins. Then her serene, severe expression cracked and a soft snort filled the silence. "I would have…I just find high society galas terribly dull . And my presence might have created problems for you, if I revealed myself."

"But now that I have," Irina continued, tilting her head to the side as she regarded Furina. "...did you truly not recognize me?"

Recognize you? Furina thought. From where? And when?

"I said I wouldn't, didn't I?" Furina laughed airily. "I don't know why you're surprised…don't take it personally, but I don't remember much from my youth. It was a long time ago and so much has happened to me since."

For once, Furina was being totally honest with someone; odd that it was with the Tsaritsa of all people. Although-

"Are you really the Tsaritsa or is this just another layer of your charade?" Furina said, tapping her chin thoughtfully as she looked Irina over. Granted, she didn't have the best track record of identifying Archons on sight, but Irina still looked like the ordinary researcher she had met near the docks. "I find it hard to believe the director of the Fatui would allow herself to be shot without turning her would-be murderers into snowballs."

"Arrows are nothing but annoyances at my age," Irina said, twisting her fingers and creating a crystalline arrow of blue ice. She could detect no sign of any Vision, but Irina had skillfully hidden so many things from her already. And Furina of all people did not want to start demanding that all Archons prove themselves.

"Besides, I had faith that the Goddess of Justice would avenge any attack on her guests," Irina said, tossing the arrow up and down as she regarded the Oratrice. "I wonder if you will use this marvelous machine to judge your would-be killer…or if you will render your verdict personally."

The Oratrice groaned, heavy brass and steel shifting as the scales swayed back and forth. Was it listening to them? Was it actually going to speak to Furina for once in its own defense?

More importantly…does she really not know the assassins have been killed? Furina thought, her expression betraying none of the confusion and turmoil she felt.

"You seem to have quite the interest in the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale," Furina remarked. "I'm afraid we're not mass producing them yet but if you'd like a version for Snezhnaya, you may leave your ordering information with Neuvillette. Shall we put the order down for Irina or Madam Tsaritsa?"

"Depends on if it is Focalors or Furina that is selling it," Irina said, the ice arrow twirling unnervingly between her fingers. "We are all entitled to our sentimental pet names; every god gets sick of divinity and requires a break, don't we?"

"Don't I know it," Furina said, hands clasped firmly behind her back to keep her fingers from shaking. "Well…would you like to sit for a moment ? You've had a hard couple of days; I'm sure you're exhausted. "

"Terribly…but there are miles to go before we rest," Irina said, balancing the tip of the arrow on her fingertip. "You look well…I heard you had something of an uprising recently."

"Oh… that," Furina waved her hand, dismissing both the concern and her very real fear with a casual laugh. "Just a little hissy fit over the melusine that was dealt with before things got too out of hand; you know how mortals are."

"I do," Irina said, watching the arrow spin between her fingers. "Though I understand them less and less with each passing day…"

She looked almost melancholic for a moment, but by the time Furina looked again her expression was one of cold, regal superiority; the kind of gravitas that Furina worked incredibly hard to command.

"I am glad to see you well," Irina admitted after a moment. "Despite the uneasy way we left things, I was concerned when I heard someone might make an attempt on your life this weekend."

"You…you heard someone was going to attack me," Furina said, blinking in irritation. "A warning would have been nice."

"Would you have believed me if you did?" Irina said, head tilting to one side. "I have somewhat of an unfavorable reputation outside of my country; I imagine you have members of your court with strong opinions when it comes to the Tsaritsa."

"My courtiers have strong opinions on the sort of napkins one should use for lunch," Furina said, earning another brittle laugh from the Tsaritsa. "But I admire their honesty…and would have appreciated the same from someone who called herself my friend ."

"Honesty is a bad product with excellent marketing," Irina scoffed. "Everyone wants it-"

"-but no one is satisfied with it once they have it," Furina said, blinking as the second half of the quote appeared in her mind.

"One of your better turns of phrase," Irina said, spinning the ice arrow as she looked up at Neuvillette's seat thoughtfully. "Forgive the deception…I just wanted to make sure that you didn't remember me. I suppose it's for the best…we walk very different paths, despite the affection I still have for you."

Affection? Furina's brow furrowed as Irina flipped the arrow up and caught it by the tail.

"Though…I am not the only one who holds your memory dear, it seems," Irina said, eyes narrowing as she flung the ice arrow at Neuvillette's seat before Furina could so much as flinch. She glanced up, expecting to see the lovely Sumeran leather chair she had bought for him ruined, but instead the arrow hung in mid-air, suspended as though protected by some kind of shield.

"What the…" Furina trailed off as the air shimmered and revealed a blonde woman perched in Neuvillette's chair, the arrow caught between her fingers mere inches from her face. "Wait…you're-"

"As I suspected…you seem to have an infestation of rats in your Opera," Irina snarled.

"I've always found rats to be kind of cute, so I'll take the compliment," the woman said, snapping the ice arrow in two with a twist of her fingers. " Hello there Rina."

"Lumine," Irina growled, giving name to a face that had haunted Furina's nightmares for years.

| Read More... |

| Chapter 1 |

| The Games of Divinity (Neuvillette Knows AU) |

#my writing #the games of divinity #neuvifuri #furilette #The thrilling conclusion to Furina's Best and Worst Birthday Ever

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dexterkronos · 6 months ago

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Not done, not done...

"Before Nico and the Niners, before DEMA and the Banditos (or during), and both before and maybe after Torchbearer, there is… "Spooky Jim".

Honestly, it's very unclear what this "Spooky Jim" seems to be in relation to Josh Dun. Is he the self Josh wants to be? The self that Josh fears becoming? Is he both? Neither? A dog???

Ultimately, we aren't sure. All we know is that he has impeccable fashion sense, a good sense of rhythm, and a general ease with turning Blurryface's presence into something… bearable. Just because the pros exist, however, doesn't mean we can forget the potential cons…"

----------------------------

My take on 'Spooky Jim' from Twenty One Pilots/Josh Dun (I am fuzzy on the origins), which was honestly one of the hardest design challenges I've encountered so far.

I'm natively a Minecraft Texture Designer, so I thought I'd put my skills to the test on this deceptively simple design. After many hours of aggressively arguing with myself on hair placement, dying from mid 30s C heat, and one too many desperate rabbit hole dives to try understand Spooky Jim to a level where I feel I can do justice... we have this guy :D

Debating on making the skin public, may do so in the future.

His friend Blurryface has already been made :D

Clancy, Torchbearer and Jenna (Scaled & Icy) have renders too! Feel free to go give them a glance; you might find some clues for a fic I'm cooking 👁

#clique minecraft skins #minecraft render #minecraft character design #twenty one pilots clique #twenty øne piløts #twenty one pilots #spooky jim #spookyjim #josh dun #digital art #art by the clique #skeleton clique #clique art #dexter kronos textures #dexter kronos fanarts #(please someone come to me with the masterlist of Spooky Jim lore im dying inside)

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lucky-cambion · 10 months ago

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Arthur has just witnessed a murder. And it wasn’t a flock of crows flying over bison and deer in the flat, hot prairie that always makes Arthur want to pull out his journal and charcoal. Arthur has witnessed a man take another man’s life in the freezing Grizzly mountains. He watched from a few yards away as a stranger strangled another stranger. Watched as the choking man pulled and clawed on the others’ arms. Looked at the ringed hand falling down lifelessly. Tried not to think of Mr. Downes and the wailing he heard as he left the farm.

This shouldn’t mean anything to him, shouldn’t make bile rise up in the back of his throat and his blood run fire hot in his veins, he’s lost count of the men he’s killed and the reasons why, whether the reason was—somewhat—honourable or the kind that has been sitting heavily on his shoulders lately. But regardless of all of this, Arthur feels conflicted, stuck between continuing down the icy path or beating the murderer within an inch of his life.

Arthur knows he is not someone worthy of enacting justice, or delivering retribution. He knows this like he knows the weight of a revolver in his hand; like he knows the feeling of bones cracking and breaking under his knuckles; like he knows the fear in a man’s eyes when he realises he’s about to die; like he knows the newfound amplified feeling of remorse when he finds a ring on a dead man’s finger, or a letter from a loved one tucked into a coat pocket near their heart.

As he jerks the reigns back to find the murderer, he wonders if he’s doing this because he’s disgusted by the blatant disregard this man has for other people’s lives. But he thinks it’s more likely that he’s trying to pay penance for his crimes, making a futile effort to even the scales, to become better—because the worse his tuberculosis gets, the less he feels like it’s his own blood he coughs onto the back of his hand.

Arthur isn’t concerned with the motivation for his wrath as he chases the murderer down, nor is he concerned with the fact that this anger and violence is the reason for the mucus coating his lungs and the blood in the back of his throat. His concern is instead with the dead body left in front of a copse of evergreens, left to be eaten by the wolves and foxes, the ring on its right hand to be forgotten with its bones. Arthur similarly leaves a man in the snow, but what separates Arthur from the man whose nose he just broke is that Arthur left the man breathing, and ensures the man’s horse is nearby, so that he may see the next sunrise, and so that he can go see his wife in the morning.

Arthur is often considered by others as an unstoppable force, impassive, and it’s perceptions like these that led him to collecting debts. Arthur believed himself to be strong as well, but knew he was no cold, unstoppable force. In actuality, he was made hard by the hurt and grief that wracked his body, and he told Rains Fall as much. As Arthur gradually became thinner and paler, with dark half moons settling under his eyes as his sickness progressed, his impassiveness seemed to melt away with his fever. And every time he was faced with his own mortality when caught a glance of himself in the reflection of a glass in a saloon, the mirror in a hotel, or the rippling surface of a stream, Arthur became more and more scared. Scared of the death that so many of his loved ones faced, scared of the inevitability of it, of the life that no matter how hard he tried to grasp, continued to seep out of the cracks between his fingers.

#first thing I’ve written in a longggg time #here have this *drops it* *runs away* *hides in a corner and covers my eyes*#rdr2 #Arthur Morgan #red dead redemption 2 #more of a character study and analysis than a fic #ignore this #please #fanfic

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aggressive-positivity-network · 5 months ago

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Anyone else feel like, with everything that’s going on, it’s a bit absurd to go to work, attend school, and tend to the small responsibilities that make up the life that is currently hanging in the balance of the not so blind Justice’s scales?

Like yeah, my friends and I could be in deep peril, and we are probably on our way to a very dark place in history, but let me just read “On Plymouth Plantation” real quick. God.

I feel like we need a tragedy day. Like a snow day, but instead of icy roads, the news stations declare that the world is just too batshit to care about today, and we need to stay home and watch old movies.

#current events

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vampireshaman · 9 months ago

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HOTD VERSE: THE DRAGON'S ORACLE

Name: Lady Hae-seol Kim

Titles: Lady of the Misty Isles, The Dragon's Oracle, The Spirit Weaver

Allegiance: Neutral (torn between Team Green and Team Black)

House Sigil: A black dragon intertwined with a crescent moon over misty waves

Dragon: Daeyoung, a silver-scaled dragon with black wings, known for her cold, icy breath and elemental powers. Daeyoung communicates in fragmented sentences.

BACKGROUND: THE ORACLE

Lady Hae-seol Kim hails from the Misty Isles, a region renowned not for isolation, but for its unique position in the realm's politics. The Isles are influential, maintaining robust political ties while standing as steadfast allies to House Targaryen. House Kim, one of the few remaining families with a genuine spiritual connection, commands respect for their mystical insights, though their specific practices are not widely known.

Raised under the guidance of her grandmother—a revered oracle who had served the Targaryens during the reigns of Jaehaerys I and Viserys I—Hae-seol was steeped in the traditions of her house. Her grandmother's wisdom established House Kim's crucial role as spiritual advisors, a role Hae-seol inherited.

Unbeknownst to many, Hae-seol is believed to be the reincarnation of the Radiant Moon, a figure of ancient legend said to embody the moon’s power. This reincarnation grants her significant but secretive supernatural abilities, including control over light and lunar magic. Hae-seol keeps these powers hidden, maintaining a facade of normalcy while secretly wielding the power to purify dark forces and use a green-enchanted bow with white lotus arrows.

BACKGROUND: THE MARRIAGE

Hae-seol’s arranged marriage to a powerful but treacherous lord was a strategic move fraught with hidden motives. Her new husband and his family had deceived her, intending to use her as a pawn in their schemes. The Misty Isles’ spiritual heritage, while respected, had not prepared her for the treachery she was about to face.

Finalizing their marriage with a blood pact that made Haeseol of royal blood-- Haeseol's trust and sense of comfort in her husband's arms was taken advantage of as he then threw her into the chasm below, her panicked cry fading into the darkness of the dragon's lair below.

Daeyoung’s Backstory:

Before her fateful encounter with Hae-seol, Daeyoung was a dragon of profound dignity and strength, living harmoniously with her kin. However, her life took a dark turn when she was captured by humans. Daeyoung was stolen from her family—her siblings and mother—by those who sought to exploit her for their own gain.

The captivity was brutal. Daeyoung endured cruel treatment and horrific experiments, resulting in numerous scars across her once-pristine scales. The humans, driven by greed and fear, inflicted unthinkable suffering upon her. This period of torment bred a deep-seated hatred for humans within Daeyoung. Her scars were not just physical but emotional, marking her soul with a profound disdain for the race that had wronged her so grievously.

The Tragic Misunderstanding:

The final blow to Daeyoung's sanity and sense of justice came when her young were murdered, and she was led to believe that these killings were the work of Hae-seol’s new family. Daeyoung’s grief and anger fueled her vengeance, leading her to believe that the only way to avenge her offspring was to target the sacrificial royal daughters whom she mistakenly thought were connected to her tormentors.

Hae-seol’s arrival in the chasm, where Daeyoung had taken refuge after the betrayal, was marked by a fierce and violent confrontation. Daeyoung’s rage and hatred for humans culminated in a devastating attack against Hae-seol, whom she saw as an agent of the same cruelty that had destroyed her family.

The Turning Point:

As Hae-seol and Daeyoung clashed, the brutality of the dragon’s assault left Daeyoung critically wounded. Despite the pain and anger, a pivotal moment of clarity struck Daeyoung as she lay on the brink of death. The realization dawned that her quest for vengeance had been misguided; she had been manipulated into exacting retribution on the wrong targets.

This moment of enlightenment came too late for many, but it was Hae-seol’s act of unexpected mercy that shifted the course of their intertwined fates. Rather than ending Daeyoung’s life, Hae-seol chose to heal her. This act of compassion bridged the chasm of hatred that had defined their encounter, transforming their relationship from one of animosity to one of mutual understanding and respect.

Dragon and Rider Bond:

The bond between Hae-seol and Daeyoung emerged from the ashes of their violent conflict. Despite Daeyoung’s enduring hatred for humans, Hae-seol’s act of healing and her compassionate nature forged a profound connection between them. Daeyoung’s acceptance of Hae-seol as her rider was not just a recognition of Hae-seol’s power but also a testament to the deep healing that had taken place between them.

Daeyoung, who had once been a symbol of rage and vengeance, became a loyal and powerful ally to Hae-seol. Their bond symbolizes a union of strength and empathy, transcending the hatred that had once defined Daeyoung’s existence. Together, they form a formidable duo, with Daeyoung’s icy breath and elemental prowess complementing Hae-seol’s mystical abilities and wisdom.

THE IRON THRONE: A HOUSE DIVIDED

The Targaryen court’s perception of Hae-seol’s bond with Daeyoung is marked by a complex interplay of fascination, skepticism, and intrigue.

Intrigue:

Hae-seol’s relationship with Daeyoung is a subject of great interest at court. The unique nature of their bond, especially given that Hae-seol is not of Targaryen blood, adds an element of mystery and allure. The court is captivated by the rare and powerful connection between a dragon and a non-Targaryen rider. Hae-seol’s ability to summon Daeyoung using an enchanted whistle, a secretive and mystical artifact she wears around her neck, enhances the enigma surrounding their alliance.

Skepticism:

Despite the fascination, there is an undercurrent of skepticism regarding Hae-seol’s claim to such a powerful dragon. Some members of the court question the authenticity of their bond and whether Hae-seol’s non-Targaryen status affects her connection with Daeyoung. The fact that Daeyoung’s hatred for humans was so deeply rooted in her captivity and subsequent trauma adds a layer of complexity that the court grapples with. The secrecy surrounding Daeyoung’s presence and the nature of their bond only fuel these doubts.

Admiration:

Many in the court admire Hae-seol for her strength, resilience, and the remarkable bond she shares with Daeyoung. Her ability to transform Daeyoung’s rage and suffering into a powerful alliance is seen as a testament to her character and capabilities. Hae-seol’s role as *The Dragon's Oracle* is recognized as a significant asset to House Targaryen, providing both mystical guidance and a formidable dragon companion.

PERCEPTION: BLACK V. GREEN

Hightowers (Team Green):

Hae-seol is more sympathetic toward Queen Regent and now Dowager Queen Alicent. She views the Hightowers with a degree of wariness, but she recognizes the complexity of their situation. The Hightowers, despite their own flaws and ambitions, have been subject to a series of unsettling events that have shaped their current stance. Hae-seol is aware of the political maneuvers and intrigue within the Hightower faction but appreciates their stability and perseverance amidst the chaos.

Targaryens (Team Black):

Hae-seol views Rhaenyra with significant suspicion. Her perceptions are shaped by several troubling events: the convenient death of Laenor, the rapid marriage of Rhaenyra to Daemon shortly after his wife’s death, the maiming of Aemond’s eye, and Rhaenyra’s insistence on "sharply questioning" a young boy over rumors of her bastard sons—who were easily identifiable by their dark hair color. Hae-seol also disapproves of Daemon’s brutal act of beheading Lord Corlys Velaryon for speaking out about these bastards, and the death of Prince Jaehaerys. Although Hae-seol was not present for all these events, her visions provided her with enough insight to recognize the troubling patterns and potential for manipulation within Rhaenyra’s faction. As a result, she maintains a cautious distance from the Targaryens, aware of the instability and strife that may accompany their rule.

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE

In the Targaryen court, Hae-seol occupies a unique and influential position. As *The Dragon's Oracle*, she offers valuable spiritual and mystical insights. Her bond with Daeyoung, though not widely known, is a critical aspect of her role. Hae-seol uses her enchanted whistle to summon Daeyoung discreetly, maintaining a level of secrecy about their connection while leveraging Daeyoung’s powers when necessary.

Her neutrality in the ongoing civil war is a delicate balancing act. Hae-seol must navigate the treacherous political landscape while preserving her house’s honor and spiritual heritage. Her bond with Daeyoung represents a rare and potent alliance, making her a key figure in the realm’s intricate power dynamics.

GOALS AND STRUGGLES

Hae-seol faces personal struggles as she reconciles her duties with her personal desires and the weight of her bond with Daeyoung. Her role requires her to balance her house’s spiritual heritage with the demands of the Targaryen court. The healing and redemption of Daeyoung reflect Hae-seol’s own journey of overcoming betrayal and forging a new path.

Her primary goal is to navigate the complex political landscape while upholding her house’s honor and contributing positively to House Targaryen. Hae-seol aims to use her unique position to influence the court and ensure a stable future for her realm, all while managing the delicate balance between secrecy and the profound power she wields.

CONCLUSION

Lady Hae-seol Kim’s story is one of deep personal transformation and mystical strength. Her bond with Daeyoung, forged from shared suffering and redemption, sets her apart as a unique and influential figure in the Targaryen court. Despite the complexities of their relationship and the challenges they face, Hae-seol’s resilience and wisdom make her a pivotal player in the realm’s intricate politics and mystical heritage.

#house of the dragon roleplay #hotd rp #hotd verse: the dragon's oracle #ੈ𑁍༘ VERSE PAGE

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azikarue · 2 years ago

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Life In Color : Chapter 27 : Beyblade

Emily, Mariah, Rick, Michael | FFN Rating: T | FFN Link ❖ The melodic trill of crickets was more grating than relaxing tonight, Emily realized with a frown. She had too many other things fighting for purchase in her mind, making tension run icy hot from her temples down into the set of her shoulders. She took a deep breath, forced herself to loosen the hold her fingers had on the case she was carrying, and soldiered on toward the river.

The footsteps behind her sped up to match her pace.

At the beginning of their journey, once they’d snuck through the minefield of snoring beybladers and out of the dojo, Mariah had attempted to start a conversation. Now it seemed that some of Emily’s seriousness had rubbed off on her; she hadn’t uttered a single word in the past few minutes. She would have felt bad for killing Mariah’s thunder if it weren’t for the gravity of the situation.

The future of beyblading was dangerously close to belonging to BEGA because, no matter what Tyson thought, there was no guarantee Kai was going to come back and battle.

Emily didn’t want to be the naysayer, but it was time somebody started exhibiting some common sense. They were three battles in and hanging onto their last shred of hope by a thread. If nobody else could master the Hard Metal System in the next twenty-four hours, there was every possibility they would never have a fifth blader and would lose the Justice Five Tournament.

As that thought burned itself into the back of her brain, Emily arrived at the crest of the hill leading down to the riverbank. Mariah came to a stop by her side. At the bottom of the grassy slope lay the river, slithering like a snake as light glistened on the surface like starry scales. Out here, away from the dojo and in the cool of the night, it would almost feel like everything was normal if it weren’t for the weight of the case in her hand.

“Well, well, well – look who finally turned up,” Rick said, staring up the hill with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Yeah,” Michael chimed in. Rick didn’t have his boombox, but there was no power on earth that could keep Michael from bringing his lucky baseball; he was tossing it into his glove with an air of impatience. “You certainly kept us waiting long enough.”

Emily rolled her eyes and started down the incline. “It didn’t kill you,” she said when she reached the bottom.

“Boys can be so impatient,” Mariah sighed, joining the group. “I told Lee that’s probably why he hasn’t been able to master the new beyblade yet. He wants it to spin like Galeon right away, gets mad when it doesn’t, and sends it flying out of control.” She shook her head ruefully.

“Speaking of Lee, when you said you were bringing someone else, he’s more who I had in mind.”

Leave it to Rick to be brutally honest. Emily admired that trait most days, but the way Mariah’s eyes snapped over to fix him with a warning look didn’t bode well.

“No offense,” Rick added, cocking one eyebrow when he sensed the mood shift and caught the look on her face.

“Rick’s got a point, though,” Michael said. “Statistically, Lee’s got the best chance of beating Garland or Brooklyn out of anyone else on the White Tiger team. If you don’t count Ray.”

“If we were going by team statistics, Michael, you wouldn’t be here,” Emily said firmly. “It was Max and Rick that represented the All Starz in the World Championships.”

Michael opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, gripping his baseball so hard that his fingertips were white. Rick snorted, an arrogant smirk on his lips. Michael shot him a glare and threw his ball into his glove with twice his normal force, but didn’t comment.

In reality, Emily’s data did point to Lee as an obvious choice to wield the Metal System effectively. She was on her way to wake him up when she ran into Mariah first. Her friend was eager to know where she was going and why and if she could help. Emily found herself changing her mind and inviting her along before she fully realized what she was doing.

However, the more she thought about it after, the better it sounded.

Mariah didn’t battle much in the tournament, which meant Emily’s data was woefully incomplete, but there was no doubting she was one of the best beybladers in the league. She was spirited and skilled and wasn’t as inclined to trip over her ego as the boys were. Emily thought she might end up being perfect for the Hard Metal System.

“So are we gonna take that puppy for a spin or what?” Rick was eyeing Emily’s case eagerly. “Or did we come all this way to wish on a star that Kai comes crawling back?”

Mariah tutted. “Impatient.”

“I prefer ‘realistic’,” Rick shot back. “If you think Kai’s gonna show his face after that thrashing from Brooklyn, you’re delusional. While we’ve been wasting our time waiting on him, BEGA’s put themselves in position to win the tournament!”

“Just because one of us isn’t man enough to own up to his mistakes for the sake of his friends, doesn’t mean Kai won’t,” Mariah argued with a narrow gaze. “Is that any way to talk about someone who stood up for you when your team was being booed?”

Rick was a whole foot taller than Mariah, but she wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by him. Emily liked that about her, even if she’d been hoping Mariah would act as a buffer for Rick and Michael’s inevitable bickering instead of perpetuating her own argument. She sighed and tucked the case under her arm so she had both hands free to clean her glasses.

A vein throbbed in Rick’s temple at Mariah’s insult. “If Kai cared that much, he wouldn’t have tried to join BEGA in the first place.”

“It’s not the first time Kai’s switched sides—”

“Surprise, surprise!”

“—but it wouldn’t be the first time he came to his senses and did the right thing either!” Mariah finished unflinchingly. “Although,” she added a sheepish afterthought, “I would’ve preferred to have Galux back before he returned Black Dranzer to BIOVOLT.”

Emily snorted. No kidding. She’d chewed all her nails down to nothing wondering if she’d ever see Trygator again. But dredging up Kai’s past shortcomings wasn’t getting them any closer to having a fifth beyblader on their team. As Rick detailed, with colorful language, how Mariah’s argument wasn’t winning her case, Emily walked over to the grass.

She set the carrying case down on the hillside and retrieved the Metal System prototype from inside. It was a generic, well-balanced beyblade that she’d whipped up last minute after helping Kenny build Dranzer. The Bladebreakers did seem sure that Kai would be back, but Emily definitely didn’t know him well enough to take that gamble.

“Hey, Michael, want to give this a shot?”

Michael, who had been watching Rick and Mariah bicker with interest, met her gaze with a spark in his eye. “Oh, yeah!” he said, tossing his baseball glove aside.

“Why does he get to go first?” Rick asked in outrage, suddenly willing to cut the argument short.

Emily ignored him – she didn’t answer obvious questions when she had better things to do – and instructed Michael to hand over Trygle. Carefully and efficiently, she transferred its bit to the new beyblade. It flashed when it clicked into place, ready for action.

“You’re going to want to launch away from the bridge, in case you lose control,” she told Michael as she handed over the beyblade with its launcher. “I’m not about to foot the bill for a new one. And do your best to steer clear of the water; that blade’s kind of irreplaceable.”

“No pressure, though,” Michael said sarcastically. He loaded the launcher warily.

“Don’t screw this up,” Rick interjected, a smirk appearing on his face as Michael’s expression grew irritated.

“Rick, you and Mariah can be his opponents.”

Rick snorted and reached into his pocket for his beyblade. “He won’t keep it spinning long enough to get close to Rock Bison,” he said while Mariah pulled Galux from her hair.

“We’ll see about that,” Michael said, his bravado resurfacing. He adopted a launching stance; feet apart, arms raised, ripcord gripped in his right hand.

Mariah and Rick followed suit, looking like odd mirrors of one another launching with opposite hands. Emily watched all three of them stare each other down, remaining stock still even as the nighttime breeze combed through their hair and clothing. After a moment, she realized they were waiting on her to count them down.

“Three… Two… One…”

“Let it rip!” they cried in unison.

Trygle exploded off of it’s launcher, sending Michael stumbling back. It looked like it might be over for him before it began, until he cursed under his breath and steadied himself. Impressively, his blade steadied with him.

“Trygle!” he called out, pointing straight ahead at where Rick and Mariah’s blades were spinning side by side. “Take ‘em out!”

With a burst of speed, Trygle charged Rock Bison and Galux. Clouds of dust flanked it like wings as it surged forward, maintaining a straight course. Michael had obviously taken the lessons the others learned whilst training with the Metal System to heart. Emily was impressed.

Unfortunately a head-on attack wasn’t going to cut it against the likes of Rick and Mariah, whose beyblades dodged in opposite directions just in time to avoid a devastating impact. Trygle flew right between them, making them wobble in its slipstream, but leaving them unaffected otherwise.

“C’mon, Trygle!” Michael’s hands balled into fists as he fought for control. He managed to get Trygle to slow down enough to turn around in a wide arc. Unfortunately, it leaned too far into the turn and its attack ring cut into the ground. “Aw, shit!” Michael spat as it dug a spiral into the dirt, before grinding to a halt in the center.

“Way to go!” Rick guffawed. “That’ll make BEGA run for the hills.”

“Shut up, Rick!” Michael snapped as he stomped over to pull Trygle from the groove it had carved for itself. “Like you could do any better!”

“Isn’t that why we’re training?” Mariah interrupted before the argument could really get going. She held out her hand and caught Galux deftly, without looking. “Not even Tyson mastered his new beyblade in one try.”

“I’m not waiting around all night for Michael to master that thing.” Rick recalled Rock Bison and walked over to Michael in a handful of long strides. “Hand it over. We’re taking it in turns.”

Michael frowned and looked to Emily for confirmation.

Emily sighed. “That’s probably the best way to do it since I only have one beyblade,” she answered apologetically. With parts being as hard to come by as they were, she was lucky they had enough material for her to scrape into a sixth blade in the first place. “Sorry, Michael.”

“Whatever,” Michael pouted and took Trygle’s bit chip out before handing the beyblade over to Rick.

Rick smirked smugly and the two of them readied their beyblades for battle.

“Whatever happened to ladies first?” Mariah asked as she watched the boys finish their preparations. Emily recognized it as an attempt to rile Rick up instead of the complaint it might have been mistaken for. She had a feeling this would be an interesting battle.

“Michael did go first,” Rick snarked.

“Hey!”

Emily sighed, mentally lamenting that this, of all moments, could be their final hope.

“Are you guys ready, yet?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and preparing herself to compare Rick and Michael’s trial runs. “Need I remind you that, even if one of you masters the Hard Metal System tonight, there’s only twenty-four hours before you’ll be facing one of the strongest beybladers BEGA has?”

“Yeah, yeah – keep your shirt on.” Rick rolled his eyes, but hunkered down for his launch nonetheless.

Across from him, Mariah and Michael got ready, too. Emily noticed Michael was launching left-handed this time and made a mental note to work the difference in power output into her calculations. Once they were all settled, she counted down and watched them launch.

The force of Rick’s launch sent him skidding back a few inches, but he managed to keep his footing better than Michael. Michael seemed to take that as a personal slight; when Rock Bison thundered toward him, he sent Trygle out to meet him head-on. Mariah followed suit and all three beyblades collided in a shower of sparks.

“Keep trying all you want,” Rick shouted over the sound of metal grinding, “but you’re no match for me and Rock Bison!”

“We’ll see about that!”

“Yeah, Rick – could your ego be any bigger?”

Emily bet it could be, especially if he mastered the Hard Metal System before either of the other two. So far he was doing a good job of battling with it like it was his normal beyblade. He landed a couple strong attacks that sent Michael and Mariah reeling. Emily was debating whether he was getting the hang of it or if it was the fact that his chosen attacks didn’t require much finesse when he got a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“All right, Rock Bison,” Rick cried, raising his arm and splaying his fingers out against the canopy of stars, “Drop Rock Attack!”

“Rick, be careful!” Emily called as rubble packed in around his beyblade. Drop Rock was a risky move when he hadn’t even proved he could handle the basics. “Don’t get cocky!”

“I know what I’m doing!”

The rocks around Rick’s beyblade morphed into a solid block of stone and hurtled toward his opponents. Michael and Mariah both poised themselves to evade the attack, but it turned out to be unnecessary.

With a few inches to go, Rock Bison’s movement stuttered and a mighty explosion broke the stone back down into dozens of smaller rocks that flew out in every direction like bullets. Emily shielded herself as best she could. Mariah and Michael dove out of the way. Rick swore. And all three beyblades went flying in opposite directions and landed completely still in the dust.

“If that’s knowing what you’re doing, I’d hate to see you completely clueless,” Michael grumbled as he got to his feet and tried to beat the dirt out of his clothes with his hat.

“I warned you,” Emily scolded, rushing over to make sure the beyblade was okay. “An attack like that when you haven’t learned to control the Metal System could’ve destroyed the blade!” Thankfully, it didn’t seem any worse for wear. She let out a sigh of relief.

“If you hadn’t distracted me, that attack would’ve landed fine!”

“Right, Rick.” Mariah looked wholly unimpressed with dirt smudged on her face and clothes. “We’ll be sure to tell the whole stadium to be quiet while you battle in the next round.”

Rick glowered at her and Michael snickered, returning his baseball cap to his head.

“Mariah’s turn,” Emily announced and handed Rick back his bit chip. “Maybe a girl on the team is what we need, after all.”

“Doubt it,” Rick mumbled as he put Rock Bison back together.

Emily pretended she didn’t hear him and got ready for their third attempt of the night. “Same rules,” she told Mariah, handing over the beyblade. “Launch away from the bridge, avoid the water, and don’t try anything fancy” –she shot Rick a look– “before you can battle without losing control.”

Mariah nodded resolutely and they all began the countdown together.

“Three… Two… One… Let it rip!”

Like the other two, the kickback hit Mariah hard. She fell back on her butt, catching herself with the heels of her hands. She seemed to have prepared for such an eventuality, because her eyes remained fixed on Galux the whole time and its path never wavered.

“Whoa, nice one!” Michael said. “Even steadier than Rick’s launch.”

“Shut up,” Rick grumbled, but even he looked impressed.

Mariah didn’t reply, too busy maintaining her concentration. Her sharp eyes never strayed from Galux as it glided around, dealing glancing blows to each of the boys’ blades in turn. The attacks spurred Rick and Michael into action and they set their blades on a course directly for hers.

Mariah got to her feet slowly, keeping her gaze steady, and watched their approach. When they got too close to correct their trajectory, she called out to Galux and it darted obediently out of the way, before pulling a tricky reversal and claiming the center of the battlefield once more.

Emily could feel the moment they all collectively held their breath, eager to see if Mariah would slip up after a maneuver like that. When her beyblade spun true, Michael let out an impressed whistle and he and Rick took up the offensive again.

And again, Galux dodged at the last second, then sprung back. If she kept going like this, Emily would nominate Mariah as their fifth team member and focus the training on her. With such little time to prepare, it made sense to pass the torch to whoever had the most control during their trial run.

She was about to say it out loud when something went wrong. After a third dodge, Mariah let out a gleeful cheer and her concentration slipped just enough that Galux didn’t pull off the reversal.

“Oh no – Galux!” Mariah cried out in alarm as the beyblade headed straight for the river.

Time moved in slow motion as they all rushed for the blade, trying to keep Mariah’s bitbeast and all of Emily’s hard work from being washed downstream.

Emily was closest so, using every ounce of skill from her toughest tennis matches, she dove for it. Relief flooded her veins when her fist closed around the beyblade right before it fell in the river. She hit the ground with a grunt. The bruises and dirt would be worth it. She could only hope to be able to say the same about their late night training session when this was all over.

“I’m so sorry!” Mariah skidded to a halt at her side, spraying her with more dirt. “I was so excited, but then it wouldn’t come back and I panicked. Blading with that thing is like trying to tame a wild animal!”

Emily let Mariah help her up, mostly because she didn’t want to risk dropping the beyblade when they were standing so close to the water. Once they were a safe distance away and standing in a circle with the boys, she uncurled her fingers and found, to her relief, that the beyblade was unscathed.

“No harm done this time.” She tucked it into her pocket so she could wipe off her glasses on a clean corner of her shirt, then fished it out again. “I guess we’re back to you, Michael.”

She did her best to keep the disappointment she was feeling out of her tone. She knew it would be an uphill battle. Knew firsthand from the hours she’d spent in secret trying and failing to master the beyblade on her own before admitting that maybe someone else would be better suited. Their failure still stung. Worst of all, it left her feeling like she could have done better for them, somehow.

“Don’t you want a turn?” Mariah asked with a gentle, if not tentative, smile.

In contrast, Rick was frowning, staring off into the middle distance. And Michael was hiding his expression with the brim of his hat, hands in his pockets. It seemed like they were feeling the same defeat that Emily was.

“I’ve tried plenty,” Emily admitted, the words sour on her tongue. “Taking the data into consideration, the three of you have much better chances of learning to use the Hard Metal System by our deadline. That’s where we should focus our efforts.”

Rick’s eyebrows drew closer together and Michael’s expression darkened. For the first time since creating the Hard Metal System, Emily was feeling hopeless.

Mariah looked around at all of them, a combination of confusion and exasperation on her face. “I thought the whole point of this was that the numbers don’t matter,” she said. “Tyson and the others didn’t master the Metal System because they were statistically better than us!”

“It didn’t hurt their odds,” Michael pointed out, sounding none-too-pleased about it.

“If they were that good, we wouldn’t be stuck between a rock and a hard place right now,” Rick grouched, using his attitude as a defense mechanism. “One more loss and the future of beyblading is shot.”

“The data doesn’t lie. Ray, Max, and Daichi are three of the best we’ve got.” Emily had known in the back of her mind, from the moment the challenge was issued, who would fight by Tyson’s side. Maybe trying to twist fate and add someone else to the mix was always doomed to fail, but it was the best option she could think of. “If Kai wasn’t defunct, he’d be the next logical choice. We don’t have the luxury, so it has to be one of you.” It wouldn’t be her.

“I’ve had about enough of this!” Mariah stomped her foot.

Emily, Rick, and Michael turned, in unison, to look at her like she’d lost it.

“If data was all that mattered, we wouldn’t be challenging BEGA at all,” Mariah said once she had all of their attention. Her hands were on her hips and her cheeks were flushed under the dirt, but her eyes were fiery. “It’s not the data that’s at risk – it’s the spirit of the game! It’s the love of beyblading that’s enough to make you want to practice and grow stronger and have fun doing it! That’s how battles are won and that’s how Tyson, Ray, Max, and Daichi mastered the Hard Metal System!”

She looked at each of them, one by one, breathing heavily.

“I don’t care what the data says and I don’t care if you’re feeling discouraged. It doesn’t matter how much time is left – we’re going to keep trying until we can’t anymore, because we all love beyblading too much not to. Or did you all forget that part?”

Maybe, Emily thought, she had forgotten. In the midst of all the failed attempts to master the Hard Metal System and the hours spent on the sidelines as others fought nerve wracking battles that determined the fate of beyblading and her own future… Maybe she’d forgotten that a strong beyblade wielded by a strong beyblader was only half of the equation.

But she remembered now.

She remembered being seven years-old and telling her parents she wanted to beyblade and play tennis when she was older and being told that, sooner or later, she’d have to choose one. She remembered being so determined not to pick, that she kept up with both – plus her studies, so her parents wouldn’t make her drop one of her extracurricular activities – until one day someone approached her about an opportunity with the PPB. She remembered Judy honing in on her analytic potential, but acquiescing when Emily refused to sacrifice training time because she wanted to play so badly that it made her hands itch for her launcher or racket when she didn’t.

Emily was fortunate to be where she was thanks, in no small part, to her love of beyblading. She wanted that to always be enough to ensure a future with the sport. The thought of other children never having the opportunities she had because BEGA wanted to replace the love of the game with a hefty paycheck was unthinkable.

“I knew I brought you along for a reason,” she said and reached into her pocket for Trygator. Its bit chip gleamed. “Thanks Mariah.”

She met her friend’s surprised gaze and watched it melt into a warm smile.

“Any time! We all need a reminder once in a while,” Mariah said with a wink.

“As heartfelt as this is, are you gonna take your turn or not?” Rick didn’t flinch when they all looked his way and any of the darkness in his stare was replaced with a familiar confidence. “Because it’ll be my turn that much faster if you wanna skip.”

“That’s only if I don’t master it on my next turn, Rick,” Michael interjected, turning his baseball cap around. “I’m feeling lucky.”

“No one’s that lucky,” Rick quipped with a cocksure smirk. “Least of all you.”

“I might be,” Emily said, a feeling of determination swelling inside of her. “I helped design the Hard Metal System, after all. I know it better than any of you.” When she looked around at the others, they were all grinning. “If any of us are going to master it and fight with Tyson in the final round, it’s going to be me.”

“That settles it, then,” Rick said as he loaded Rock Bison onto its launcher. “Don’t expect us to go easy on you.”

Emily took a moment to hand Mariah back Galux’s bit chip before fixing Rick with a challenging look. “You’re gonna need every ounce of power to even come close to beating me,” she said smugly. “So do yourself a favor and give it your best shot.”

“Don’t worry, I plan on it.”

Michael and Mariah flanked Rick on either side. They were each formidable opponents on their own; together, Emily knew she’d have her work cut out for her. Instead of feeling apprehension or dread, she just felt excited. This was what beyblading was all about, she thought as she clicked Trygator’s bit into the Hard Metal blade. And it was a feeling that, win or lose, BEGA could never take away.

Emily inhaled deeply and took her stance at the same time as the other three.

“Remember to aim away from the bridge,” Michael advised, a mischievous smirk on his lips.

“And watch out for the water,” Mariah chimed in cheerfully. “That beyblade’s irreplaceable, you know!”

“And no fancy moves before you master the basics.” Rick’s fingers flexed on his launcher and his lips curled up into a grin.

Emily chuckled and led them in the countdown one more time.

“Three… Two… One… Let it rip!”

#beyblade #this turned out way longer than anticipated #therefore the wait for it did too #but we always get there in the end #I think it has to be obvious to the others that Tyson is hoping Kai will come back and battle BEGA with them #I also think that not everybody would have as much faith as Tyson does that everything will work out okay #and they're determined to do their part #I had fun with this one #azikarue #azikarue394 #azrfic #mayblade 2023

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eoe-everlasting · 13 days ago

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What would your tav/durges zodiac be?

Eoe

Born 9/30 near Rivington in the year 1390 DR (has been in Feywilds around 100 years) This makes her (images found on Pinterest):

Libra (Western) Aphrodite:

As a Libra, she carries the weight of justice in her bones—not the cold law of courts, but the soft, quiet kind: fairness between friends, the harmony of unspoken truths, the aching desire to keep peace even when the world burns. She’s graceful without knowing it, diplomatic out of instinct, and disarmed by beauty in all its forms. Her heart is a set of scales—ever tilting between empathy and reason, chaos and calm.

Year of the Horse (Eastern) Wood:

From the Wood Horse, she inherits a wild, untamed core. There’s movement in her spirit—restless, curious, brave. She bolts toward freedom like it’s a birthright, with a laugh that echoes down forgotten paths. Her kindness is radiant and real, but she refuses cages—emotional or otherwise. Creativity blooms in her like spring after long winters; she builds dreams as fast as she runs from pain.

Set(h) (Kemetic)

Set lingers—not the demon, but the divine storm. Eoe walks with contradictions braided into her soul. She’s the dreamwalker, the chaos-bringer and the chaos-soother. Like Set, she is a force of transition, upheaval, and necessary change. She doesn’t seek destruction—but she will not flinch from it, especially if it clears the way for something better. In her is the desert wind, the icy storm, the unexpected path.

#myeoe #bg3 oc #my ocs #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #oc #astral ember #the astral campfire #oc lore

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novaursa · 6 months ago

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Legacy (dragonfire)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: There are unspecified time jumps that go back and forth.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (death scene)

- Previous part: of dragons and gods

- Next part: contingency

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

The square before the Sept of Baelor was a sea of unease. Hundreds of citizens of King's Landing had gathered, their anxious whispers rippling through the crowd like dry leaves rustling in a storm. The massive steps of the Sept loomed above, flanked by the grim figures of the Faith Militant, their crude armor and spiked cudgels marking them as zealots loyal only to their cause. Opposite them, an immovable wall of crimson and gold—the Lannister men, their polished armor shining under the sun—stood ready. Beside them were the Tyrell soldiers, banners of green and gold fluttering in the breeze like delicate silk juxtaposed against the steel beneath.

The High Sparrow emerged last from the shadow of the Sept, his frail form dwarfed by the host of his followers. His hands were clasped before him in a show of humility, but the fire in his gaze betrayed his resolve. He was a man unbending, unafraid.

Before him stood Tywin Lannister, unyielding as ever, his crimson cloak flaring slightly in the breeze. At his right was Mace Tyrell, puffed with self-importance, while at his left, Lady Olenna Tyrell stood with her sharp-eyed scrutiny, the faintest curl of disdain on her lips. And you, the Targaryen bride of the Lion, stood beside Tywin with the imposing form of Viserion looming just behind you. The dragon’s golden eyes watched the square, unblinking, her massive wings tucked close to her scaled body, though her tail coiled faintly with anticipation.

The people in the crowd murmured prayers and gasped softly at the sight of the she-dragon, their gazes darting from the beast to you—silver-haired and dark-cloaked, a figure as regal as you were terrifying.

Tywin’s voice shattered the quiet, carrying across the square like a blade cutting through silk. “High Sparrow,” he began, his tone calm but carrying the weight of authority. “Have you come to your senses, or must I continue to demonstrate how futile your resistance is?”

The High Sparrow tilted his head, regarding Tywin with that infuriating calmness he wore like armor. “I answer to the Seven, Lord Tywin,” he replied, his voice soft but carrying. “Not to you. I am here only to speak for the gods.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his gaze remained steady. “Then let us speak plainly. Queen Margaery Tyrell is to be released immediately. She has been falsely imprisoned, humiliated for the sake of your petty zealotry. You will relinquish your hold over this city and return to the shadows where you belong.”

A murmur swept through the Faith Militant at the demand, hands tightening on weapons. Behind Tywin, Olenna’s lip curled in disdain, her cane tapping against the stone with quiet finality. “Release her, you pompous fool,” Olenna muttered loudly, though her voice carried only to those nearest her.

The High Sparrow, however, did not yield. “Your daughter is a sinner,” he said, turning his gaze to Mace Tyrell, who shifted nervously beside Tywin. “Her pride and lies brought her low. The Faith cleanses sin, my lords, and the people of this city have seen her crimes. Would you now undo the justice of the gods?”

Tywin took a step forward, the faint scrape of his boots against stone audible in the heavy silence. “Justice?” he echoed, his voice laced with icy disdain. “You call this chaos justice? You have turned this city into a breeding ground for fear and fanaticism. The gods do not command you—they are your excuse. You twist their words to suit your own power.”

The High Sparrow turned his gaze to you then, his calm eyes alight with something unreadable. “And you,” he said softly. “You stand with this man. You command a beast of flame and blood, yet you would march against the will of the gods. Do you not fear their judgment?”

The crowd hushed further, heads turning to look at you. Behind you, Viserion stirred faintly, the ground trembling as she shifted her weight, her claws scraping against the stone square. Her rumbling growl resonated through the silence, low and ominous, a reminder that she was there—waiting.

You stepped forward, your violet gaze fixed on the High Sparrow, unflinching. “The gods?” you replied, your voice clear and sharp. “The gods have no claim over me. Dragons bow to no one—not kings, not gods, and certainly not men who preach with lies on their lips.”

A ripple of shock swept through the crowd. Some gasped audibly, others began to murmur fervent prayers. Even Mace Tyrell paled, his mouth opening to object before Olenna silenced him with a sharp look.

The High Sparrow’s expression darkened ever so slightly, his hands still clasped but his voice turning colder. “Pride,” he murmured. “The sin that brought your ancestors low. It will bring you low as well, child of fire.”

You smirked faintly, tilting your head. “The last men who threatened me met their end in ash.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze sharpened. “And do you think you are above the wrath of the gods? I see you for what you are—an abomination. A woman who clings to power she cannot hope to control. The gods will strike you down, just as they strike down all who defy them.”

Tywin’s voice cut through the rising tension. “You overstep, Sparrow. Tread carefully.”

But the High Sparrow ignored him, his focus entirely on you as he stepped forward. “Turn back from this path, dragon-rider,” he said, his voice rising, carrying over the crowd. “Turn back, or the fires you wield will consume you—body, soul, and name. Just like your father.”

Behind you, Viserion let out a sharp hiss, her head lowering, smoke curling from her nostrils as her eyes locked onto the High Sparrow. The Faith Militant tensed, their hands gripping weapons, but they did not move. The crowd murmured in fear, shrinking back, as though sensing the rising storm.

You stepped forward again, your voice unwavering, your command absolute. “Enough.”

Viserion growled louder, her tail sweeping across the stone with a deafening scrape.

The High Sparrow stopped, his calm mask breaking for the first time, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze as the beast behind you loomed closer.

“You speak of fire consuming me,” you continued, your voice low but carrying across the square. “But it is you who stands in the path of the dragon.”

The High Sparrow opened his mouth to respond, but you did not give him the chance. Your voice rang out, clear and commanding.

“Dracarys.”

Viserion responded immediately, her head snapping forward as she opened her jaws. A torrent of fire erupted from her throat, a blinding stream of gold and crimson that roared across the square. The heat struck like a physical force, searing the air as the High Sparrow’s final scream was drowned by the sound of the flames.

The Faith Militant staggered back, their faces lit with horror as the fire engulfed the High Sparrow, consuming his frail form in a heartbeat. His robes disintegrated to ash, his figure silhouetted for the barest moment before collapsing into a charred ruin.

The crowd erupted in chaos. Cries of terror filled the square as people scattered, falling over one another to escape the inferno. The Faith Militant turned, panicking, their courage broken as they dropped their weapons and fled.

Viserion roared triumphantly, the sound shaking the very stones beneath your feet as she lifted her head, smoke rising from her maw. She unfurled her wings, sending a blast of wind across the square that scattered ash and dust.

Tywin did not flinch, his green eyes watching the destruction with cold calculation. He turned to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Seize the remaining Faith Militant. Let no more harm come to the people.”

Mace Tyrell gaped, speechless, while Olenna allowed the faintest of smiles to curve her lips. “Well,” she murmured, her voice wry, “it seems negotiations are over.”

You stood tall before the flames, Viserion coiled protectively behind you, her golden eyes fixed on the city she now commanded. The people of King’s Landing would remember this day. They would remember the dragon who burned a god’s servant to ash.

And as the fires died down, Tywin stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. “The city will see order restored,” he said. “One way or another.”

You looked out over the square, your gaze unyielding. “And they will learn to fear the fire.”

Viserion’s rumble echoed in agreement, her presence a shadow over the broken remnants of the Faith. The gods had been defied, the High Sparrow silenced, and in his place stood power—raw, untamed, and absolute.

The Sept of Baelor had become a cavernous monument to silence. Its grandeur, once a symbol of the Faith’s unyielding power, now bore the weight of fire and fear. Smoke lingered faintly in the air, the smell of charred stone and ash clinging to the gilded arches and stained glass windows. The Faith Militant who had dared hold the Sept were either scattered, seized, or burned. The holy place now belonged to those with strength—not faith.

Tywin Lannister strode through the great doors of the Sept, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like the bloodied shadow of victory. You walked at his side, your silver hair still tousled by the wind and faint smudges of ash marking your riding leathers. Behind you, Lady Olenna Tyrell and Mace Tyrell followed, flanked by the Tyrell soldiers who had taken control of the square and now guarded every entrance to the building.

The clink of armor and echo of boots against marble filled the space as the procession moved deeper into the Sept. Candles still burned on the altars to the Seven, their light flickering uneasily as though afraid of the men and women who now strode through these sacred halls. The massive statue of the Crone—her lantern raised high—seemed to watch, its stone face impassive to the carnage that had unfolded moments before.

Tywin’s sharp gaze flicked ahead as a pair of Tyrell soldiers emerged, escorting Queen Margaery Tyrell between them. Her delicate wrists were still bound with rough cords, and her once-pristine gown hung in tatters, dirt and tears streaking the fine fabric. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn from days of imprisonment. Yet her eyes—so like her grandmother’s—held a quiet fire as she looked up at the people who had come for her.

“Margaery!” Lady Olenna’s voice cracked through the silence, a mix of fury and relief. She pushed past the guards with surprising swiftness, her cane tapping against the marble as she reached for her granddaughter. “Bring her to me at once, you oafs!”

The soldiers hesitated only briefly before releasing Margaery’s arms. She stumbled slightly, the weakness in her legs betraying her, but Olenna caught her with a surprisingly steady hand, holding her upright. “There now,” Olenna murmured sharply, brushing strands of hair from Margaery’s face with uncharacteristic tenderness. “They didn’t break you, did they? No, of course they didn’t. They couldn’t possibly.”

Margaery let out a shaky breath, her voice soft and hoarse. “Grandmother…”

“Quiet now,” Olenna said firmly, though there was no bite in her tone. “Save your strength for later. We’ll have you cleaned up and presentable before long, I promise you that.” She turned her sharp gaze to Mace, who hovered nearby, his face pale with worry. “Stop gawking like a buffoon and fetch her some water!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mace stammered, waving frantically at a nearby attendant to fulfill the request. “My sweet girl, they’ll pay for this. I swear it.”

Tywin watched the scene unfold with cool detachment, his sharp gaze lingering on Margaery for a long moment before he spoke, his voice carrying through the Sept. “You are fortunate,” he said evenly, addressing the young queen. “Were it not for the actions taken today, you might still be rotting in that cell.”

Margaery’s gaze shifted to Tywin, and despite her exhaustion, there was steel in her tone as she replied. “I would have endured.”

Olenna turned her head sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Endured? My dear, endurance is for fools and martyrs. You are neither. You are a Tyrell, and we do not endure. We survive.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly—whether in approval or amusement, it was difficult to say. He gestured to the guards nearby. “Remove her bonds.”

The Tyrell soldiers obeyed without hesitation, cutting the cords at Margaery’s wrists. She winced as the circulation returned to her hands, but she said nothing, merely inclining her head in gratitude as her grandmother steadied her.

You stepped forward then, your voice calm but clear. “The High Sparrow is dead. His hold over this city is broken.”

Margaery’s gaze turned to you, her expression unreadable as her tired eyes took in your form—the silver hair, the riding leathers still smudged with ash, the quiet power you exuded. “And his Faith Militant?” she asked softly.

“Scattered,” Tywin replied curtly. “Or dealt with.”

A faint tremor of relief crossed Margaery’s face, though she quickly masked it. “And the king? My husband—Tommen?”

“He is safe,” Tywin answered with authority. “He has been taken to his chambers, where he belongs. You will be reunited shortly.”

Olenna’s lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp eyes fixing on Tywin. “And what now, Lord Tywin? Do you intend to restore the crown to its rightful place, or will you allow another pack of zealots to take its reins?”

Tywin turned to face her fully, his expression hard as stone. “Order will be restored,” he said simply. “The Faith will not rise again.” His gaze shifted to Margaery. “You will return to your duties as queen—nothing more, nothing less.”

Margaery inclined her head faintly, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “And the people?”

“The people will learn to trust their king again,” Tywin replied coldly. “Or they will learn to fear him.”

Olenna huffed softly, though she said nothing further, merely offering her granddaughter a supportive arm as they turned to leave the hall. Mace bustled behind them, his face beaming with relief as he chattered about preparations for Margaery’s return to the Red Keep.

Tywin turned to you then, his gaze sharp and considering. “It’s done,” he said quietly, though there was no triumph in his tone—only certainty.

You glanced back at the wide doors of the Sept, where the light of day poured in like a judgment of its own. “The Faith may be broken,” you replied softly, “but this city will not soon forget what happened here.”

“They do not need to forget,” Tywin said, his voice unwavering. “They need only remember who holds power now.”

A faint growl echoed from outside, the sound unmistakable as Viserion’s shadow passed over the Sept once more. The light flickered, and the gathered soldiers below turned their faces to the sky, murmuring in awe and fear as the dragon’s presence lingered.

You turned back to Tywin, your violet eyes meeting his green ones with quiet resolve. “Fear may win you silence, but it will not win you loyalty.”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady. “Loyalty is earned in time. Fear ensures time to earn it.”

You did not argue, though a part of you wondered how long fear could hold this city together before it crumbled again. But for now, it was enough. The High Sparrow was ash, Margaery was free, and the Sept had been reclaimed.

As you followed Tywin from the halls of the Sept, the murmurs of the crowd outside grew louder. Some whispered of fire and dragons, others of a lion’s return to power. But all of them watched the sky, where Viserion circled, her presence a reminder that fire had come to King’s Landing once more.

The halls of Meereen’s Great Pyramid were quiet, save for the rustle of silks in the warm, perfumed breeze that rolled through the open windows. The sun burned high over Essos, but within the chambers of Daenerys Targaryen, a storm was brewing. Shadows of fluttering banners danced on the polished stone floor, as if the air itself held its breath.

Tyrion Lannister stood near the long table, a goblet of wine in his hand, though he had barely touched it. His sharp gaze lingered on the map of Westeros sprawled across the table’s surface—a place that, though vast and fractured, seemed far closer now than it had for years. Across from him, Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, stood with her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her silver hair gleamed in the light, cascading down her back like a river of moonlight. Her violet eyes burned with intensity as they fixed on Tyrion.

“So it is true,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with an undercurrent of fury. “The High Sparrow was burned alive by dragonfire.”

Tyrion inclined his head slightly, his voice measured. “Word travels fast, even across the Narrow Sea. The High Septon and much of his Faith Militant reduced to ash in the shadow of the Sept of Baelor.” He paused, swirling the wine absentmindedly. “A show of power, certainly, but one not entirely unexpected.”

“And the dragon?” Daenerys pressed, her voice rising ever so slightly.

Tyrion met her gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Viserion, yes. Your sister’s dragon, though it seems it has found itself in the service of my father.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed, her frustration evident as she turned to pace toward the window. “Viserion is no one’s servant. Dragon flew to Westeros for my sister, not for the Lannisters. Viserion is her dragon—my family’s dragon.”

Tyrion let out a dry chuckle, though there was little humor in it. “Perhaps. But dragons do not care for banners or bloodlines. They care for their riders. And your sister… is married to my father.”

Daenerys stopped, turning sharply to face him. “And you believe that makes Viserion a Lannister asset?”

Tyrion lifted his goblet and gave her a pointed look. “Dragons, as you say, bow to no one. But perception matters, Your Grace. My father did not merely burn the Faith Militant—he made a statement. He paraded your sister’s dragon through the skies of King’s Landing, and the people saw. They now see fire, and they see a lion standing beside it.”

Daenerys stared at him, her face hard and unreadable. “So my sister stands with the lions, then? She abandoned her blood?”

“Not by choice,” Tyrion countered, his voice softer now. “Or have you forgotten why she survived Robert’s Rebellion at all?”

Daenerys’s gaze darkened, and she turned back to the window, her hands tightening against the ledge. “Is it true? What they say? That Tywin Lannister smuggled her to the North—into the hands of the Starks?”

“It is,” Tyrion replied, his tone somber. “My father may have hated Aerys, but he was nothing if not pragmatic. He saw the writing on the wall. He knew Robert’s wrath would burn your sister as surely as it burned the Red Keep, so he acted. The North was far, and the Starks, honorable to a fault. It was the safest place for her.”

Daenerys turned back to him, her violet eyes searching his face. “And you believe he did this out of the goodness of his heart?”

Tyrion arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Tywin Lannister does nothing out of kindness. He saved her because it was the logical choice—and perhaps because some part of him could not see her slain like the rest. But his actions saved her life. And if what we hear is true, that same life now rides at his side, dragon and all.”

The Mother of Dragons fell silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Does he love her?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tyrion blinked, startled by the question. “Tywin Lannister is not a man given to displays of affection,” he said carefully. “But…” He hesitated, the memory of his father’s cold, calculating eyes flashing in his mind. “I think he values her more than he lets on. Perhaps even more than he understands himself.”

Daenerys frowned, her gaze distant as she absorbed his words. “And her son—my nephew?” She looked back at Tyrion. “Damon. I have heard whispers of him. What do you know?”

Tyrion set his goblet down and sighed, his tone turning more reflective. “Not much. I saw him once—briefly—before I left King’s Landing.”

Daenerys’s gaze sharpened. “When?”

Tyrion looked away for a moment, as though recalling the scene. “It was the night I escaped the Red Keep before they could execute me,” he said quietly. “I slipped into her chambers, thinking I might look at my father one last time… and perhaps find some answers.” His lips quirked faintly before his expression sobered. “But what I found was… unexpected.”

Daenerys stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What did you see?”

Tyrion let out a slow breath. “She was asleep beside him—my father, I mean. I had never seen him so still, so… human. It unnerved me.” He glanced at Daenerys, his expression thoughtful. “And there, in the cradle at the foot of the bed, was the boy—Damon.”

Daenerys’s expression softened, her voice a whisper. “And what was he like?”

Tyrion smiled faintly, a touch of wistfulness in his tone. “A babe, as all babes are. He had silver-gold hair like hers and, when he stirred, his eyes opened—mostly violet, like yours.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “For a moment, I thought I saw my father’s shadow lean over the child. As if even then, he was preparing to make the boy his heir.”

Daenerys turned her gaze toward the window, staring out across the vast horizon where the Narrow Sea stretched toward Westeros. “My sister’s son,” she said softly. “A dragon raised among lions.”

Tyrion regarded her carefully. “He is a babe now, but the world will watch him as he grows. Tywin will see to that.”

Daenerys nodded faintly, her expression resolute as the wind brushed her silver hair across her shoulders. “Then I must watch as well.” She turned to Tyrion, her gaze unyielding. “Viserion is my family’s dragon. And Damon is blood of my blood. If Tywin Lannister thinks he can wield them for his own ends, he will learn that dragons cannot be chained.”

Tyrion tilted his head, studying her with an unreadable expression. “Let us hope, Your Grace, that your sister sees the same truth before it’s too late.”

The room fell silent again, save for the wind that whispered across the stone. In the distance, the faint cry of gulls echoed over the city of Meereen, but both Tyrion and Daenerys stood still, their thoughts stretching across the sea to Westeros—where fire had been unleashed, and the game of thrones was far from over.

The Red Keep was quiet in the aftermath of the previous day’s chaos. The air still carried a faint scent of smoke, lingering like a ghost in the hallways, though life within the castle had resumed with nervous efficiency. The servants walked in silence, their eyes darting toward the windows as though expecting the shadow of the dragon to return at any moment.

In the Tower Hand, the animosity was far less quiet. The room was cast in shades of amber as the morning light filtered through the narrow windows, illuminating the stern edges of Tywin Lannister’s face. He sat at his heavy oak desk, fingers steepled before him, his eyes cold and watchful. Across from him stood Cersei Lannister, her back rigid with fury, the remnants of her humiliation from the past months simmering just beneath the surface. Behind her, near the hearth, Jaime Lannister leaned against the mantle with his arms crossed. He said nothing, though his gaze flicked between his sister and father with growing discomfort.

The silence stretched just long enough to grate on Cersei’s already frayed nerves. Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp as broken glass. “You dare reprimand me after everything you’ve done?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mind your tone, Cersei.”

“My tone?” Cersei stepped forward, her golden hair catching the light like a tarnished crown. “I held this city together while you were off parading your Targaryen wife through Westeros! Do you think I wanted to stand before the gods and the people—alone—humiliated and dragged through the streets like some common whore?”

Tywin’s gaze remained unwavering, but his voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “And whose fault was that?”

Cersei’s face flushed crimson, her nails digging into the edge of the desk. “You left me. You abandoned me here to fend off enemies from all sides. You took your golden son and left for Highgarden. You sheltered a dragon under our home—under Casterly Rock!” Her voice rose with every word, edged with desperation. “And how convenient that the beast flew across the world to perch on your Targaryen bride’s shoulder!”

Tywin’s eyes flashed, and his hands flattened against the desk as he rose to his full height. “Do not presume to lecture me on matters of power, Cersei,” he said icily, his voice cutting through her anger like a blade. “While I was securing alliances and stamping out rebellion, you were inviting chaos into my city. The Faith Militant rose because of your folly. The king was placed in danger because of your arrogance. You were given stewardship of the capital, and you failed.”

Cersei faltered for a moment, her expression caught between rage and hurt. “What was I supposed to do? Sit idly while the Tyrells schemed against me? While enemies whispered in every shadow?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “Your paranoia does not excuse incompetence.”

Cersei’s fists tightened as her voice trembled with fury. “You speak of paranoia, but you weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like to live surrounded by vipers, always waiting for the next betrayal.” She looked over her shoulder briefly, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting someone to emerge from the walls. “Sometimes, I think Tyrion lingers here still—hiding somewhere, watching, waiting. I can feel his shadow behind every door.”

Tywin’s expression remained unyielding, unimpressed by her ramblings. “Tyrion is no specter haunting your failures, Cersei. He is gone. You would do well to stop chasing phantoms and focus on the enemies standing plainly before you.”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow. “How fortunate for you that you can dismiss my struggles so easily. After all, you’ve built yourself a fine life, haven’t you, Father? A Targaryen bride to bear you more sons. A dragon to burn away your problems. You’ve abandoned me—us—for her, for that fire-blooded witch.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a menacing calm. “Careful, Cersei. My patience with you grows thin.”

Cersei’s breath hitched, her anger giving way to something closer to desperation as she turned toward Jaime for support. “And you? Do you have nothing to say? Nothing to defend me with?”

Jaime, who had remained silent thus far, shifted uncomfortably by the hearth. His golden hand tapped lightly against his elbow, and his expression was tight, torn between loyalty and truth. “What do you want me to say, Cersei?” he asked finally, his voice low. “That Father is wrong? That you didn’t bring this on yourself?”

Cersei’s eyes widened, betrayal flashing across her face. “You take his side?”

“I take no side,” Jaime replied quietly. “I’m just tired of all of this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at the Red Keep beyond it. “We’ve made enemies everywhere, Cersei—more than I can count. And while you claw at shadows, Father does what he’s always done: he ensures we survive.”

Cersei’s lip trembled as her fury returned. “So you see nothing wrong with what he’s done? With her?”

Jaime’s gaze flicked to Tywin, his face unreadable. “What I see is a dragon in the sky and a city that now fears it. If that means peace, then so be it.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted back to Cersei, his voice as unyielding as ever. “You will accept the realities of our situation, Cersei. My marriage strengthens our position. The dragon ensures our dominance. I did not abandon you; I saved you. If you cannot see that, then you are blind.”

Cersei’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger now tempered with helplessness. “And what of me, then? What do I do now, Father? Stand in my chambers and pretend this city doesn’t hate me?”

Tywin regarded her for a long moment, his voice steady. “You will do as you are told. You will present yourself as the dowager queen—composed, dignified. The people must see unity in this family. I will not have your petty grievances undermine what we have built.”

Cersei opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s raised hand silenced her. “Enough. You will not speak of this again. Not to me, and certainly not to anyone else.”

Jaime pushed himself away from the hearth, his posture rigid as he moved toward the door. “Are we done here?”

Tywin inclined his head sharply. “Go. And take your sister with you.”

Jaime glanced at Cersei, but she refused to look at him, her eyes locked on the far wall. He let out a faint sigh before turning to leave. Cersei lingered for a moment longer, her face pale and taut with barely restrained anger. “This isn’t over, Father,” she muttered, her voice low. “It will never be over.”

Tywin did not reply. He simply watched as she turned and swept from the room, her steps echoing down the hall like fading thunder. When the door closed behind her, the room fell into silence once more, save for the faint crackle of the hearth.

Tywin sat back in his chair, his hands folding over the polished wood of his desk. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply, his face betraying nothing.

For all her fire, Cersei remained a child in his eyes—one who refused to see the world for what it was. He had secured the power she could not; he had given House Lannister fire and dominion. And he would not allow her pride to burn it to the ground.

The air in the solar was heavy with the scent of fresh flowers—Queen Margaery’s doing, no doubt—bouquets of bright blooms set in vases across the room to banish the memory of gloom and ash that had lingered within the castle. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains, carrying the faint sounds of life returning to the city beyond.

At the center of the room, you knelt on the thick carpet, your silver hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders as you tickled Damon’s chubby feet. The babe squealed in delight, his high, toothless giggles filling the space like music. Damon was a healthy, happy boy. His silver-gold hair glimmered in the sunlight, and his eyes were wide and curious as he wiggled on the blanket spread beneath him.

“Did you hear that?” you teased, grinning down at him as you gently tapped his belly. “Such a fierce laugh! A dragon’s laugh, is it not?”

Damon cooed, flailing his little arms as his tiny hands reached for your fingers. He caught one in a tight, surprisingly strong grip, tugging with determination that made you chuckle softly.

From the divan nearby, Lady Olenna Tyrell watched the scene with a critical eye, though there was unmistakable fondness in her gaze. “It’s always the little ones,” she mused, leaning on her cane. “They smile at you sweetly and steal your heart before you even notice.” Her tone turned wry. “And before long, they’re walking, talking terrors who rule over everyone.”

Queen Margaery Tyrell, seated beside her grandmother, smiled softly at the words. She looked much improved, her hair brushed to its shining glory and a rich gown of emerald silk draping gracefully over her frame. Though shadows of her imprisonment still lingered faintly in the hollows of her cheeks, the life in her eyes had returned.

“I think he’ll be a fine lord one day,” Margaery said, her voice gentle but confident. “With such a mother guiding him.”

You looked up at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. Margaery’s gaze was warm and steady as she inclined her head slightly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For what you did—for freeing me.”

You smiled faintly, though something heavy tugged at your chest. “I only did what was right. No one deserves to be caged, least of all you.”

Olenna snorted softly, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “Spare us the modesty, dear. You set fire to a godly nuisance and knocked some sense back into the city. That’s more than most would dare.”

“Viserion set fire,” you corrected lightly, glancing toward the open window as though expecting to see the dragon’s cream-and-gold form pass by. “I merely gave the command.”

“And that’s precisely the point,” Olenna countered, her gaze sharp as ever. “The command matters. You wield fire, my dear, and that makes all the difference.”

You turned back to Damon, who had managed to grab one of his toys—a small lion carved from polished wood—and was now gnawing determinedly on its ear. His eyes shone with curiosity as he turned the toy in his small hands. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted, and you allowed yourself the quiet joy of watching him.

Yet your thoughts drifted—unbidden and dark—to the vision you’d seen at the High Heart. The Wall, impossibly vast and ancient, shrouded in mist and shadow. The frozen ground beyond it crawling with death, a tide of pale, hollow faces marching under the banner of an endless night. You had seen fire battling ice, dragons against death, but even then, the outcome had been shrouded in uncertainty.

You swallowed, turning your attention back to the present, to the warmth of the sun and the laughter of your son.

“What troubles you?” Margaery’s voice broke the silence, soft and perceptive.

You looked up, forcing a smile. “Nothing that needs to trouble you now.” You hesitated, then spoke carefully, your tone quieter. “But when the time comes, will I have your support?”

Olenna raised a brow, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Support for what, exactly?”

You glanced at Margaery and Olenna in turn, your gaze steady. “When Westeros is faced with something far greater than crowns, banners, and blood feuds. When the world will need fire to combat the cold.”

There was a pause, Olenna watching you closely while Margaery tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. “Are you speaking of rebellion?” Margaery asked carefully. “Or something else?”

“Something else,” you replied, your voice firm but vague. “I cannot yet say when or how it will come, but I’ve seen the signs. When it does, fire must stand ready.”

Olenna’s lips pursed as she considered you. For all her crude tongue, she was not a woman who dismissed warnings lightly. “I’ve lived long enough to know when someone speaks with conviction,” she said slowly, her tone thoughtful. “And you, dear, are not one for empty words.”

Margaery nodded faintly, her expression softening. “If such a time comes, you will have my support—and that of House Tyrell.”

Olenna made a dismissive wave of her hand, though her gaze belied her flippancy. “I’m too old to march anywhere, but I’ll ensure the banners are raised if you ask. Consider it a promise—one rarely given, I assure you.”

Relief warmed your chest, though you kept your composure as you inclined your head graciously. “Thank you.”

Damon let out a happy squeal, as if voicing his approval, waving his wooden lion triumphantly in the air. You laughed softly, scooping him up into your arms as he giggled against your shoulder.

Margaery’s gaze lingered on the babe, her expression wistful. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured. “And strong. The realm will know his name one day.”

You kissed the top of Damon’s head, the softness of his hair brushing against your lips. “He is my greatest joy,” you replied quietly, though your words carried an edge of steel. “And I will see him safe—no matter the cost.”

Olenna tapped her cane again, nodding faintly. “Then we are agreed. For now, we play the games set before us. But when the time comes, we’ll be ready.”

You smiled softly, though your gaze drifted to the window, to the clear blue skies beyond. Somewhere in the distance, Viserion’s faint cry echoed—a reminder of the fire that lingered at your command.

And in your heart, you knew that fire would be needed before long. The vision of the Long Night had been no idle dream. It had been a warning. And when the cold crept southward, threatening to swallow the world, you would ensure the fire was ready to meet it.

For your son. For the realm.

And for the future yet to come.

The chamber of the Hand of the King was a place of quiet authority, its walls lined with maps, ledgers, and reports, all illuminated by the faint flicker of candlelight. The faint scent of ink, wax, and parchment lingered in the air—a mark of the constant work that defined Tywin Lannister. Here, where decisions shaped the realm, the man at its center sat, as composed and calculating as ever.

Tywin was at his desk, quill in hand, as he signed a final document with a flourish. The Lion of Lannister looked utterly imperious, clad in a dark crimson doublet adorned with gold embroidery, his presence an unshakable force. A small stack of sealed scrolls lay to one side, ready to be dispatched to lords across Westeros, while his unfurled map of the kingdom dominated the table.

You stood quietly at the far side of the room, watching him with curiosity and something softer. Tywin rarely stilled for long; his mind was always at work, and yet here he was, quietly overseeing the duties that he had reclaimed with an iron grip. Since his return to King’s Landing, the city itself seemed to be breathing easier—or perhaps, more cautiously. It was difficult to tell.

“You’ll exhaust yourself,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Tywin glanced up, his sharp green eyes settling on you. “Exhaustion accomplishes nothing. Work must be done.” His voice was calm, even, but there was no mistaking the faint edge of weariness in it.

You moved toward the desk, your footsteps soft against the stone floor. “You’ve reclaimed the city, Tywin. You’ve reestablished order, stamped out the Faith, and silenced the murmurs of rebellion. Can it not wait a single evening?”

“Reestablishing order is not the same as securing it,” Tywin replied without missing a beat. He set down his quill, his gaze steady. “Loyalty must be maintained, weaknesses identified and corrected. Power is not a fleeting thing to those who understand how to wield it.”

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer until you stood at the side of his desk. “And what of you? Are you to wield power until you collapse over that desk one day?”

The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Tywin’s mouth—a rare, fleeting expression. “I am not so frail as that.”

“No,” you agreed softly, your tone carrying a touch of warmth. “But even lions must rest.”

Tywin said nothing at first, watching you with that calculating gaze of his. You had long grown used to the weight of it, how he measured everyone in silence before responding. Finally, he exhaled softly and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And what would you have me do? Lounge about while the realm crumbles into complacency?”

“Lounge?” you echoed, allowing a faint smile to cross your lips as you circled the desk. “I would never dream of accusing you of such a thing, Lord Husband.”

His gaze tracked your movements as you stepped behind his chair. Resting your hands gently on his shoulders, you could feel the tension in him, the weight he carried in the stiffness of his posture. Slowly, you began to knead at the fabric of his doublet, your touch light but purposeful. “You are allowed a moment of peace,” you murmured. “The realm will not fall apart in the space of an evening.”

Tywin’s shoulders shifted beneath your touch, though he said nothing. For a long moment, the silence held between you—comfortable, familiar, though tinged with something unspoken. You moved back around to stand before him, meeting his gaze with a softness that few others ever dared to show him.

Without a word, you stepped closer, leaning down and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. It was a simple gesture, one you knew Tywin Lannister did not often receive, nor expect. You held him gently, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his doublet.

For a moment, Tywin remained still, his sharp mind likely questioning the intent of this rare show of affection. And then, almost imperceptibly, his hands moved. He brought an arm around your back, his touch steady and uncharacteristically careful, returning the gesture with a restraint born of years spent hardening himself against the world.

You closed your eyes, savoring the moment of calm. The weight of his arm settled around you, and you felt, for the first time in days, as though the fire and chaos of the world beyond these walls had quieted.

“Your father would call this foolish,” Tywin said quietly, his voice breaking the stillness.

You smiled faintly against his chest. “My father would call most things foolish.”

Tywin let out a soft, low hum—something that might have been the barest hint of amusement. His hand lingered at your back, unmoving, as though he had forgotten to let go. “Affection rarely wins wars,” he said, though the edge in his tone had dulled.

“And yet,” you murmured, lifting your head slightly to meet his gaze, “it sustains those who fight them.”

For a long moment, Tywin regarded you, his green eyes softer now, though still sharp with thought. “You think I need sustaining?”

“I think you are human,” you replied, your voice steady. “No matter how much you pretend otherwise.”

Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on you, as though taking your measure once again. Finally, he shifted, his hand dropping gently from your back as he leaned away. “You are insufferably stubborn,” he said, though there was no real bite to the words.

“As are you,” you countered lightly, stepping back with a faint smile.

He let out a quiet huff of breath, straightening in his chair as he regarded the stacks of work before him. “This is what keeps us alive,” he said, gesturing to the documents, maps, and orders laid out like pieces on a game board.

“And this,” you replied softly, resting a hand over your heart, “is what keeps us whole.”

Tywin glanced up at you then, and for once, there was no retort. His gaze softened—just slightly—and though his lips did not curve into a smile, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “One evening,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “No more.”

You smiled, inclining your head in satisfaction. “That will do, Lord Husband.”

He watched you for a moment longer before turning his attention briefly back to the papers on his desk, though his movements were slower, less driven. You had seen through his armor—cracks that no one else would dare look for—and for once, he did not seem to mind.

For tonight, at least, the lion would rest.

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