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Alicent, aemond, helaena calm after the storm

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leon is an angel i love him a lot

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Leon S. Kennerdy in RESIDENT EVIL 2

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cú allaidh - shera stark.

I am that very witch. When I sleep my spirit slips away from my body and dances naked with The Devil.

art by me. 4hrs in procreate.

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Oceanside Beach in the morning: between Florence and Yachats, Oregon. 16 September 2022.

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what if i told yall shera has a little gap in between her front teeth

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made finn and his weird children in this picrew. and then edited some colors around. had lots of fun with it (:

from left to right: samsa vesgar, finn flint, trystane strong.

bigger versions under the cut bc i like how they turned out,,

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does anyone know an artist that may be good at doing like.... a house sigil for a fanmade house :3

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“i know it’s over” by the smiths. aegon ii targaryen. i will not elaborate.

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the fire spread throughout my bones and stayed

Summary: She knows. Larys never told her of his very first dream, but when his feet found the weirwood he found her, too, dark hair braided over her shoulder, cotton dress stained with smudges of grass and dirt. She’d smiled at him, the way an older sibling should, the way ten-year-old Harwin never did to his crippled nine-year-old brother, and offered to pray to the old gods with him.

Her very presence had been prayer enough.

Or, nine-year-old Larys Strong and his fourteen-year-old half-sister, Alys, have more in common than just a father.

Characters: Young Larys Strong, Young Alys Rivers.

Warnings: Internalized ableism, ableism, ableist language.

read on ao3!

The dreams come in the blackest nights, in a flash of fire and smoke and a spreading pain behind his eyes, thrumming in tandem with his tempest of a heartbeat.

A flash of marbled silver, and two dragons dancing above Gods Eye; Harrenhal consumed by flame. Choking ash and blood spilling blood and blood spilling blood —

When Larys wakes, his skin sheened with sweat, a black bird with three beady eyes bears down upon him, crooning to him in the crackling voice of the Stranger. The only breath that can fill his lungs is thick and dark and acrid.

He does not realize the dream has ended until he feels the grass beneath his bare feet, his cane sinking into the mud, and the bleeding eyes of the weirwood boring into him. The summer air is warm, but he shivers anyways, because the Old Gods have only ever looked through him, never at him.

I’m still dreaming, Larys thinks, but the words pass through him like wind through stalks of ghost grass. The pale light of the full moon filters through the weirwood’s amber leaves, rustling in the wind; their shadows dance upon the earth. He falls splay-kneed in front of the tree.

Alys is behind him.

The old gods tell him. In the muffled footfalls in dirt, in the sound of grass brushing at the hem of her dress. She treads carefully in the godswood; Larys can only think of his brute of a big brother crashing through the trees as if the very land was made for him to desecrate.

She slips beneath the gnarled branches of the weirwood and sits beside him, sparing him no peace. “It happened again, didn’t it?”

Larys glances at her. It must be the hour of the wolf, but Alys’ eyes are bright, as if she hasn’t been sleeping at all; she’s only fourteen, tall and lean, but seems so much older and wiser in the dark.

“No,” he answers in a quiet, low voice.. He gnaws at his lip, even though the maester and his father have told him off for it more times than he can count. He feels the tips of his ears fluster fire-hot.

She knows. Larys never told her of his very first dream, but when his feet found the weirwood he found her, too, dark hair braided over her shoulder, cotton dress stained with smudges of grass and dirt. She’d smiled at him, the way an older sibling should, the way ten-year-old Harwin never did to his crippled nine-year-old brother, and offered to pray to the old gods with him.

Her very presence had been prayer enough.

Alys kneads her fingers into the white roots protruding from the ground, tilting her head. She looks more like him than Harwin does, all bone and willow-thin limbs that seem too long for her body. If he didn’t know any better, if his father hadn’t clout him on the ear the first and only time he’d suggested Alys was his full-blooded sister, he could have believed they had the same mother.

“What did you see this time?”

Her voice pulls at the words lodged in his throat, willing them free, when all Larys wants to do is sit in silence and pretend he’s the normal, no-name second son of Lyonel Strong, who has no clubfoot and doesn’t dream of the future’s fires.

“Harrenhal was…” Larys frowns. If his dreams are true, past and future, as Alys once said, what kind of power does he grant them by speaking them aloud? He rolls his lip between his teeth, harder, and the taste of iron spreads across his tongue.

Alys watches, but doesn’t scold; she only smiles, like he imagines their mother would have, and takes his hand. “We’ll strike a deal. I’ll tell you of my last green dream. You tell me yours.”

Through the darkness Larys sees her eyes, the same shade as sage and pine needles, lined with something black. A streak runs down her lips. She’s staring the same way the weirwood does; the same way the three-eyed raven did each time Larys awoke.

Witch, they call her, the same way they call him Clubfoot, but in front of him he only sees his half-sister, not quite his flesh and blood, but more than a stranger. He and Harwin share parents, but with Alys, Larys shares dreams, and shouldn’t that mean more than having the same mother?

“Okay,” he says tentatively, sighing, trying to ease the weight pressing down upon his shoulders. His breath comes heavy and thick. “You first.”

Alys nearly grins, canine teeth poking into the flesh of her lower lip. “A prince.” The words come from her lips quicker than lightning. “Silver-haired, with sapphire eyes. His great dragon danced above the Gods Eye. Her shadow swallowed the Riverlands whole.”

“I saw our home burn,” Larys sputters, not allowing the air between them breath for a single second. “The flames rose so high they touched the clouds. And— And I saw your dragon, too. I think. There were two. One was red, and…”

“Harrenhal hasn’t burned since Aegon’s Conquest,” Alys cuts in sharply. “We see the past too sometimes, you know.”

“It wasn’t Balerion who burned it, it was…” Larys rubs his fingers together and feels soot between them, mixed with something sticky and wet. The flush spreads to his cheeks “It doesn’t matter. You don’t believe me.”

“I will always believe you, little brother. You saw the past, that’s all.” Alys squeezes his hand. Her smile quivers. He thinks some of the ash rubs off on to her, but when she draws her hands back, the only thing they’re stained with is smudges of dirt. “We must stick together, you and I.”

“I know, sister.” The word is cloyingly sweet on his tongue. Only here, in witness of the gods, are they allowed to share blood and bone and dreams.

“The world will fear us some day, as they did the greenseers of old. You and me and my silver dragon prince.”

Larys nods, but mouth is full of cotton and his eyes heavy. He can only bring himself to look up at the eyes of the weirwood, twisted and scorned, glaring into him. He wipes his hands on his tunic and heaves himself onto his feet without waiting for Alys. Night melts into dawn across the godswood, at the corner of his eye; he wonders if his father would even care if he was found missing from his bed. Alys could go disappear for a moon and no one would bat an eye. He leans on his cane, legs aching and back burning. He tells himself it’s from sitting improperly, but everything has begun hurting more and more as of late.

Alys stands after him, takes his free hand again, and wordlessly they begin the walk through the godswood, back to Harrenhal. Her nails dig into his skin.

If she feels the blood dripping from his palms, or smells the ash clinging to his frame, she says nothing of it.

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this is how a girl becomes holy

Summary: She’s five-and-ten when Viserys Targaryen takes her to wife and declares her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; not yet a year past the death of his first. She’s six-and-ten when she becomes a mother. Somehow the latter feels more daunting.

Characters: Young Alicent Hightower, baby Aegon II Targaryen, Viserys I Targaryen, Otto Hightower.

Warnings: Implied/Referenced death in childbirth, implied marital rape, childbirth, underage pregnancy. All canon-typical, unfortunately.

inspired by this post and this post !! title/quote from prelude by brynne rebele-henry. read on ao3!

She’s five-and-ten when Viserys Targaryen takes her to wife and declares her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; not yet a year past the death of his first. She’s six-and-ten when she becomes a mother. Somehow the latter feels more daunting.

Alicent is lying in the same bed Aemma Arryn perished in when she bears her first, and all she can think about is the scent of her blood, still clinging to the sheets, and the sad mewling of Baelon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, as he died in his crib. Her handmaidens and nurses surround her, flitting around the bedside like pigeons, fixing pillows and wiping sweat from her brow and neck. They try to hide it, but Alicent sees their nervous glances, hears the soft quiver in their voices as they urge her along, and feels the shake of their hands as they clutch her own. She thinks she catches the glint of silver protruding from the Grand Maester’s pocket as he stands between her legs.

Stillborn. Deformed. Dead in the cradle. Which of these fates will her babe share with their half-siblings? Or will Alicent finally be the one to bear the burden of a son? The pregnancy hasn’t been easy, it wouldn’t be, for a girl her age, but no harder than poor Aemma’s; perhaps she’s only some part in the gods’ cruel plan to punish Viserys, and she’ll die the same way as the woman she stole her crown and husband from.

When the pain becomes its worst, and she fears she’ll be split in two, she prays to the Stranger it isn’t so. She prays to the Mother for mercy, and wishes her own was there to comfort her; she prays to the Father for strength, while her own stands outside the chamber doors with the king, awaiting the birth of the grandson he hopes to put on the throne.

Would he do the same to me as Viserys did to Aemma? The thought shoots through Alicent’s mind as the muscles in her belly pulse and shriek. Ser Otto Hightower, servant of the Realm first, father second. Guilt mingles with pain and the question is gone, replaced by a quick prayer for forgiveness. Of course he would. It is his duty.

It would be her duty. Alicent, too, is a servant to the Realm. Her body is no longer her own, her wants and wishes must now be for the good of the kingdom, and her joy belongs to her son — the one pulled from her womb after hours of fear and suffering. He takes his first breath, and his screams overtake her own. The maester proclaims him male, and before Alicent can even lay her eyes upon her child, Viserys is in the room, flanked by her father.

The Grand Maester wraps him in cloth and passes the bundle to Viserys, congratulating him, murmuring that he’s hale and healthy and that the Seven Kingdoms have a new prince. Alicent smiles, because that’s what she’s supposed to do; no one spares her a glance. Some part of her is thankful they won’t see that it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Aegon, her husband, the king, declares his firstborn son. He looks to Alicent for approval, and she gives a nod; her son’s name has never been hers to decide. Viserys looks back down at Aegon, and his smile falters. The object of his desire after fifteen years of yearning; the prize of his patience and consolation for the murder of his first wife.

He places his son back in the arms of the maester, and leaves. Alicent’s father squeezes her shoulder. Well done. A shaky anger rises in her throat, but she doesn’t know who or what she’s angry at: her husband, her father, or her son?

Thank you, she murmurs back, in the voice of the queen, not of Lady Alicent.

They wash Aegon of every trace of her own flesh before giving him to her to hold for the first time. By then, the room has cleared, save for the lingering nurses who fuss over the queen and her prince, fetching fresh linens and milk of the poppy.

Wide, violet eyes stare up at Alicent’s brown ones; tufts of silver-blond hair peek out from beneath his shroud. A stranger’s babe with a conqueror's name. Her son does not belong to her, either.

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god complex? no, it’s quite simple really. get on your knees

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Like mother, like son

based on this post by @terrorofthetrident

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rest in peace to the father of fun and laughter...William Birkin 🤲

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Leon Kennedy in Resident Evil 2 Remake

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Deimos, Dragan Bibin, 2023

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(trips on a banana peel and falls over like a cartoon charaacter) might have bottled up the urge to do oc x canon content for too long uncensored @ twt novembermorgon