#CIRCLET PRINCESS

[ladies-of-fiction]

Characters Named Hiyori

Hiyori Hayama (Extreme Hearts), Hiyori Iki (Noragami)

Hiyori Izumi (Girls Go Around), Hiyori Kasugano (Sketchbook)

Hiyori Moritani (Kotoura-san), Hiyori Nishiyama (Hiyokoi)

Hiyori Sarugaki (Bleach), Hiyori Sena (Charade Maniacs)

Hiyori Sugiura (Circlet Princess), Hiyori Tamura (Lucky Star)

[gloriousmonsters]

watching a wind waker playthrough now and I love how categorically bad ganondorf is at locating zelda. in ocarina of time she's backflipping around disguised as a member of the people known to be closely connected to the royal family playing little magic tunes talking with Link etc and he ONLY catches on that it's her bc she literally takes off her disguise and says 'I am Princess Zelda.' in wind waker he's literally having his people kidnap every single young girl with pointy ears, presumably so he can wave his Triforce hand over them like a barcode scanner and go 'yeah, not this one' until he eventually finds her by trying every single pointy-eared girl one by one. homeboy is giving heinz doofenshmirtz a run for his money. he's lucky that Link dresses in green and immediately tries to stab him on meeting 95% of the time bc otherwise i fully believe he wouldn't be able to locate Link either

[caliburn-not-calculator]

Per the ask game: All the rwd fics sound awesome, but I’m actually really curious about the BG3 ficlets— that could mean almost anything! Thanks! <3

None of them are finished but they’re just little drabbles of my Tav for the most part

I don’t game very much so I haven’t even finished my first play through but they’re a silly lil conniving bard and I love them. Most of the ficlets are snippets from battles, scenery I thought was cool, and a couple of funny party interactions, mostly with Gale or Wyll. (Side note, wyll my beloved he’s the best)

Also some that are sad Gale because you know me and wet cat wizards. Gotta make that man depressed

(Also for fun here is my tav, I’ve been meaning to draw them but I haven’t gotten around to it)

[an-unfortunate-bard]

Why are his eyes always so big and sad

[d4isywhims]

underdark antics 🍄

underdark lighting is top tier muah i feel like everyone's underdark screenies turn out SO good 😤 her name is esme btw hihi

[bogarielfrogariel]

thinking about what if bonnevance had that dog in him. thinking about what if he had lived. what if he and amma made it through and won. thinking about how she has zero morals and will do anything it takes and she does the dirty work without him asking and she keeps him safe and washes the blood from her hair before he sees her

[inamindfarfaraway]

It turns out that articulating this has only made me think about it more, and appreciate all four mentioned characters more, so I will in fact elaborate.

How Sofia is like Superman:

Sofia is fundamentally ordinary. She spends her early life in a small, lower-class family in a village, trained by her loving parents in their menial jobs (her mother’s tailoring and shoemaking and her late father’s sailing, as she learned how to sail when she was four) and eager to help, grateful for and content with everything they have. This upbringing makes her humble, down-to-earth, sincere, polite and above all, kind.

Suddenly everything changes. She acquires Power. Greatness is thrust upon her and a whole new identity emerges, one with unique supernatural abilities she struggles to understand and the glorious legacy of a family she just became part of to live up to and the weight of a whole people on her shoulders. She’s a symbol, a player on the stage of the world that she’s been a nobody in. Many respect and admire her. Some envy or feel threatened by her Power and scheme to remove or exploit it. Everybody outside her inner circle constantly treats her like she’s above them when she is utterly incapable of seeing herself that way. They expect more from her. They expect the best.

She also moves from her hometown to much grander, more advanced environments, including a castle/fortress emblematic of her Powerful family heritage. She enters a new occupation, makes new friends, and gains new life experience and skills. However, she never forgets her roots and frequently returns to the town.

The core theme of her narrative is what it means to be Powerful, and her conclusion is that those with more Power have a moral imperative to use it for the good of those with less. She's an archetypal paragon of virtue. Doing the right thing for the sake of it is her sole motivation to go out of her way to enhance and protect as many lives as possible. Her faith in herself may waver, but not in her morals. She never enjoys hurting people and will attempt diplomacy first and use aggression or violence as an absolute last resort in conflict resolution. Her selflessness, charisma, compassion and genuine trustworthiness are such that she amasses countless allies. If a villain has the potential to reform, she can convince them to try. If a colder or more cynical character can stand to let more vulnerability, hope and joy into their life, she can open that door. She inspires people to be better, to deserve her belief in them. She shows them the good they are capable of.

Everywhere she goes, she is Different, exceptional in every sense: a commoner among royalty; a royal among commoners; the first girl on the Flying Derby team; the only girl in her class to pass the moral element of the princess test; the only stepdaughter on the Dads and Daughters Day trip; the only bearer of the Amulet of Avalor qualified to free Elena; the first Protector not to have innate magic or be from the Mystic Isles. So she doesn’t quite fit into any one paradigm anywhere. She must make the world fit around her while overcoming deep, chronic insecurities about her worth, wondering if she can ever belong and be all that people want her to be, need her to be. This Differentness, and what it pushes her to accomplish to prove herself, make her even more impressive in turn.

She feels compelled to keep her normal, everyday life with her friends and occupation separate from her heroic adventures. Everyone knows that they live in a fantastical setting (though most aren’t as aware of the lore as she becomes), but her magic and the duties she undertakes related to it are a solemnly guarded secret to all but her closest loved ones, and not even all of them for years. She hides to magically transform. Her headquarters as the Storykeeper is explicitly called the Secret Library. She makes excuses to leave to go on Protector missions. This narrative pattern reinforces her theme of being Different. For as thriving as her social life is and as much as she cares about community, most of the time her responsibilities are shouldered alone.

Her optimism is often mistaken for immature naivety. In fact, she’s very intelligent, perceptive, realistic and practical. It isn’t that she can’t accept the existence of plain evil - she does, and opposes it staunchly and bravely - it’s that she would invariably prefer to do too little damage than too much. And it isn’t that she’s never suffered either…

Roland is her dad. She is his daughter. That’s unquestionable. But she had a dad before him that she lost, and while she was so young that she doesn’t seem to remember him much, the love was nonetheless there and it mattered and it’s gone and that matters. She wouldn’t trade her adoptive family and home for anything, but a mother and father needed to die to let her have them. Love and grief are inextricably intertwined for her.

Despite her formidable, versatile Power, performance of incredible feats and army of loyal connections by the end, she is still ordinary! She behaves like a normal person. An extremely good person, but a normal one. Her strength of character is just human. Kindness is the most powerful force in the universe and utterly unremarkable. We can never do everything Princess Sofia is capable of, but we can all always do what she would do in our situation.

How Elena is like Batman:

Elena is born great, the heir to a long lineage of wealth, influence and benevolent leadership in their community. She’s always had Power. She doesn’t need to come to terms with that the way Sofia does. What she needs to learn is more about doing than being: how best to apply that Power to help the people less fortunate than her. Her warm, wonderful parents are excellent role models. She strives to make them proud. Having only one family and one home, she feels completely secure.

Then in an instant that security is shattered. With a blast of magic fired from a wand, her parents are murdered before her eyes. Her home, her world, goes from a place where she is safe and loved to an unpredictable, uncontrollable environment full of cruelty, pain and fear. This trauma defines her character.

Afterward, she leaves her country and travels the world for years. When she returns, it’s with an equally defining mission: to purge her community of evil and protect her people, to prevent the wrong that killed her parents and childhood from happening to anyone else.

Like Sofia, she's a beacon of idealism who is kind for the sake of it and brings out the best in a growing supporting cast. Her people rally around her to take a stand against evil. She holds the unshakeable convictions that there is good in everyone and it’s never too late for redemption. She’s a supportive mentor to the younger princesses Sofia and Isabel.

However, due to her personal experience of victimhood, she has a particular investment in Justice and its amoral sibling vengeance. She wants to make sure that she never loses her loved ones again. She never wants to feel that helpless again. Where Sofia simply wants to put good into the world, Elena wants to hurt evil. Not satisfied with being a fair ruler from her comfortable palace, she risks her life to capture criminals and defeat all manner of threats to the kingdom, learning to wield multiple weapons and counter the supernatural. She’s more aggressive toward antagonists and can find catharsis in violent force. Her vengeful rage can motivate incredible heroism, like saving Avalor from Shuriki twice, but also drive her to self-destruction and endangering the very people she’s vowed to defend, like with Esteban. This can make her preaching of second chances hypocritical. Her ultimate test of character is whether she can choose forgiveness, and prioritize keeping people safe, over revenge.

Her series has a stronger emphasis on moral complexity, naturally arising from the theme of Justice. She and her allies judge how lenient and forgiving they should be toward criminals - for example, the sirenas, Esteban, Victor and Carla - and how much their circumstances, sympathetic qualities and repentance matter compared to the pain they've caused, and discuss their different perspectives. How does Elena balance her beliefs in both retribution and redemption? Since the most important things to her are her family and Justice, what does and should she do when her beloved family member turns out to be a nuanced anti-villain with blood on his hands who doesn’t want to be held accountable by the law? At what point does her own desire to harm become just as immoral as the malice of those she’s determined to punish?

Family is another core theme. You might expect Elena, a teenager ruling a kingdom in a series with a darker, more mature overall tone, to be more independent than Sofia. But because Elena’s narrative and themes don’t cast her as so Different and the abnormal elements of her life aren’t secret from her inner circle of family and friends, they frequently accompany her on her adventures and even sometimes take the lead. They also don’t necessarily have conventional nuclear family roles and origins. Since her cousin Esteban and the princesses’ parents died, their grandparents have acted more directly parental to them. Esteban was like a brother to Elena and Isabel before Shuriki’s dictatorship, but having aged during the forty-one years the rest of the family were magically sealed in objects, is now something of a father figure to Isabel. Elena and her best friends are a close enough unit to be considered found family. Romance is present, but not nearly as important as these bonds of family and friendship. Side characters are much more involved in it than Elena. She has multiple potential love interests, who have their own other potential love interests, and none of those pairings are officially committed to.

However, Elena does prefer to do certain things on her own. This is selfless to a significant degree: she feels responsible for everyone else’s welfare and is averse to letting others get hurt when she thinks that she can handle a problem. But it has selfish elements too. Between being unable to separate her inherited Power from her identity and her brutal loss of autonomy, she enjoys control. At the start of her crusade she’s accustomed to feeling alone. She’s highly confident in her abilities and opinions to the point of sometimes being proud, stubborn and self-righteous, and can be irrational in how much she lets her emotions guide her decisions, especially anger. She learns how to be humbler, listen to others’ wisdom and effectively delegate.

Her non-linear mental health journey is a key plot thread. She has PTSD from her parents’ deaths, carries her grief and is greatly affected by the chronic stresses of managing a kingdom throughout the story. She has flashbacks and panic attacks. As for hypervigilance, she obsessively uses surveillance to spy on criminals. She later likewise spies on the preparations for her coronation, despite everyone else having them covered and her friends having dragged her outside for a rest day to curb her workaholism. In one episode, finally putting all the main villains behind bars fills her with such overwhelming relief that she sings a whole song about how she “can barely recognize” the feeling of being “free” and “happy to be alive” after spending “years on alert”; a day later, the villains have escaped, Esteban is an antagonist now and practically dead to her due to his crimes and their clashing trauma responses, and she’s had multiple emotional breakdowns and is afraid of how more of them could hurt her loved ones. Season Three gives her potent magic that responds to her emotions to force her to improve her emotional regulation. She tries to suppress her emotions, but it’s unhealthy and unsustainable. When push comes to shove, she conquers her inner demons, fixes her mistakes and moves forward to do right by her people and family, because she’s a hero.

In light of these parallels, I propose a new characterization test: if Sofia/Elena wouldn’t do an action, under any circumstances, think twice about writing Clark/Bruce doing it. If Sofia/Elena would do it, Clark/Bruce probably would as well. Also…

I was a farmboy in Smallville doing alright

Found out I was an alien overnight

Now I’ve gotta figure out how to do it right

So much to learn and see

Got a crystal fortress from my space family

But I’m most at home with humanity

My power’s out of this world, so you can count on me

I’m so excited to be

The Man of Steel

I’m finding out what being super’s all about

The Man of Steel

Making my way, it’s an adventure every day (Superman)

It’s gonna be my time (Superman)

I’ll show them all that I’m

The Man of Steel

And…

In a city full of strife (The Dark Knight)

A hero fights to protect life (The Dark Knight)

With his family by his side (The Dark Knight)

It’s a wild and daring ride

The Dark Knight

The Dark Knight of Gotham

Sin and secrets everywhere (Sin and secrets everywhere)

Noble friends are always there (Noble friends always there)

Courage shines from deep within (Courage shines from within)

Let his caped crusade begin

The Dark Knight, the Dark Knight

The Dark Knight of Gotham

Sofia the First is like if Superman were a Disney Princess and Elena of Avalor is like if Batman were a Disney Princess. Except the Disney Junior shows are truer to the DC superheroes’ themes and spirit than a great deal of media about the superheroes are. I will not elaborate.

[ilmaru-art]

Hi everyone!

Here is the workflow of making a sterling silver tiara Freya with moonstone 🧝🏼‍♀️✨

[thekinslayed]

The Young Heart Beats a Little Faster

summary | A certain knight earns the affection of a young princess.

pairing | gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader

tags | young gwayne, young reader, first crush <3 <3, depictions of violence, set in s1 ep1

wordcount | 1.8k

note | in a gwayne hightower mood bc i think he's just so perfect and handsome and–

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated! (divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)

No other heart would beat faster than a young girl’s from the first strike of the arrow of infatuation. All it took was a moment, a fleeting glance, a quirk of the lips, and suddenly, her hands would start to feel clammy, her skin growing hot with its hairs raised, and her cheeks rightfully flushed like a blooming rose. After that, her mind would carry no other thought but those of her sweet gentleman, hoping for another moment in his presence, and perhaps something more.

It happened to you at four and ten. On a day filled with excitement and glee for the coming of your youngest sibling, the Keep was rightfully buzzed. King Viserys had called for a tourney to be held and with that announcement came a flurry of young knights and lordlings to the capital. You didn’t fawn over each one you passed in the halls, nor did you care for much of them at all. You were a princess. If anything, it was more sensible for them to crane their heads to look at you, not the other way around. 

Not one for pompous fests and stiff-necked boys on horses, you were sure to be properly bored at the tourney. One after the other, they were all fairly skilled and worryingly eager for violence— Massey, Baratheon, Lannister. You weren’t squirming in your seats in eagerness for any of them, not like Rhaenyra and Alicent were to your right, both of whose curious whispers about this mysterious Ser Cole were poorly hidden under bejeweled hands. You were starting to consider crouching low enough to sneak out of the royal box and back to your mother’s chambers instead, where your attention would be better directed, that was until the next challenger was called upon. Spectators’ intrigue grew as a knight embellished in green rode through the lists, the Master of Revels announcing him as the Lord Hand’s eldest.

Gwayne Hightower.

A young man of seven and ten recently bestowed with his knighthood. It was not his name that finally piqued your stubborn curiosity, nor the tasteful green velvet adorning his armor, but the fiery tresses that spilled once his helmet was removed… and those eyes. Blue like the sky on a clear spring day, careful in scanning his audience before him. It had laid on you for scarcely a second, but it was enough to render your heart pumping, the tips of your ears heating up as he rode closer. Your hands clenched your skirts as you craned your neck to get a better glance at Ser Gwayne. He asked for Lady Tarly’s favor, his lance receiving a circlet of peonies that were laid right under yours of leaves of pine and a spray of baby’s breath. Your stomach dipped in disappointment, and girlish lips frowned. Though, the sound of his voice made up for it, smooth as silk and deep with a sure confidence as he pronounced his promise of winning the tourney with her favor.

Ser Gwayne rode exceptionally well, knocking off the young Dondarrion lad in two passes. He’d sent House Thorne’s heir to the dirt in the next, then little lord Peake with almost no effort. With every victory, you applauded with zeal at the edge of your seat, and with every triumph, Gwayne’s eyes returned to the royal box. The dutiful son searched for the look of approval in his father Otto, who sat right behind you, but your foolish heart would like to believe he’d taken glimpses of you in doing so. Your dashing knight would be the victor by the day’s end, you were sure of it. 

That was until Daemon chose him to challenge.

Your uncle played dirty. Everyone knew that. Rhaenyra did, evident in the way she subtly smirked in interest, and so did Lord Hightower, who started to shift uneasily in his seat. Time seemed to slow when both men stood at either end of the tilt, shiny armor glinting in the afternoon sun. For a moment, Gwayne seemed to have fair chances of success when he almost knocked the rogue prince off his horse at the first pass, but his loss would soon come when Daemon swept at the horse’s feet with his lance. A dirty play, though unsurprising coming from your uncle. You gasped as your auburn knight was sent straight down, smashing head-first onto the ground. For a moment, you worried he had been injured too seriously when he lay unmoving for a moment, your heart thunderously beating in your ears as an anxious gnawing in your chest sent cold sweat down your spine. He was dragged off by squires, before coming back to his senses and limping off with a bowed head. Your amethyst hues stayed glued to the sight of his hobbling form as Ser Gwayne exited the arena, and with his departure went your heart. 

When the king was called to a matter regarding your mother, you’d taken the opportunity to sneak off behind him. As your father made haste to the royal chambers, you’d taken a different route. You wanted to find him, console him for his loss but praise him for the stunning skill he had displayed. With every step you took, you thought about what you wanted to say, how you would say it, and hopefully, what he would say back. 

You are a fine knight, Ser Gwayne.

Do not think of it as a loss, Ser Gwayne, you are the victor in my eyes.

Are you promised to anyone, Ser Gwayne? I sure hope not, for I think we are the most suitable match.

Ser Gwayne, do you think me beautiful?

Your mind ran in a frenzy while tried to look for those fiery locks as you made your way to the tents, though all you had gotten were looks of confusion from the young men who were unexpecting of a princess’s arrival. With an awkward smile and hasty steps, you scurried about, eyes earnestly searching for where you may find him. When your hope started to dwindle and you started to consider returning to the box with a dismayed heart, the sight of slender limbs and dirtied red hair greeted you. He was with a squire, grumbling in barely concealed anger as he limped back to the Keep to recover. You turned frozen in your tracks, the warmth in your skin returning and your palms dampening as he started to approach where you stood. His eyes met yours as you stood like a fool, recognition flickering in his blazing blues as he straightened his posture in respect to your station. The blooming of maturity at his young age made him tower over you, leaving you feeling smaller under his gaze. 

“Princess,” he bowed, your stomach fluttering with his address.

“S-ser Gwayne.” Your mouth closed and open as you thought of what else to say, the words you rehearsed in your mind wiped clean when finally stood face to face with the object of your girlish fancy. "Are you alright, good ser? You took quite a fall." Your heart clenched at the sight of him— nose bloodied, hair all mussed, and his cheek all scratched.

"I thank you for your concern, but I am alright. Such is the nature of jousting, I'm afraid," he dismissed, waving it off nonchalantly. “Should you not be at the box, princess? The tourney is far from over,” Gwayne noted.

“I…I have seen all I needed to see,” you responded, nervously biting your lip as you willed yourself to gather the courage to speak and not make a stuttering fool out of yourself. You swore the gods were playing a jest on you and twisting your tongue on purpose with the way speaking started to seem an impossible feat, managing only a few decent words with coherence.

“Ah, not a fan of it then?” he breathed out a chuckle. You could see all the tiny freckles that littered his porcelain skin with this proximity, though stained with dirt, as well as the light litter of stubble on his chin, and you thought him utterly handsome. His nose was perfectly sculpted, lips nicely rosy and you wondered if they had ever known a touch of a girl’s; you hoped they didn’t, you prayed you would be the first.

“I wasn’t, but watching you might have changed my mind,” you praised, though he seemed unbelieving of your words. His hand rubbed at his nape as his eyes flickered to his dirtied boots.

“I lost,” he muttered.

Emboldened, you took a small step forward. “My uncle is no honorable opponent, losing to him barely means anything towards your skill. The fact you did not yield to his tricks says something more of your dignity as a knight,” you said, hope gleaming in your young heart as his face visibly lit up at your words. 

“You were cheering for me when I won against Thorne,” Gwayne pointed out, lips lifting into a soft, shy smile. You were left stunned in surprise, having not expected him to notice.

Was he watching you as well?

“I-I was… as well as when you defeated all other opponents before Daemon. You were excellent, ser.” Your cheeks were sure to be a shade of beet red. The late spring air had suddenly turned much hotter in his vicinity, and your knee was starting to tremble in the effort of trying to remain collected. You were ill-prepared to face him, despite the inexplicable pull that made you leave your seat. 

“Perhaps I might have made a mistake in not asking for the princess’ favor. If I had, I might have had a better chance of winning,” he mused. You watched him watch you, his eyes running over your features as you fidgeted in your spot. An opportunity was presenting itself to you, one you might never come by if you missed it now. You swallowed thickly, calming your ever-beating heart. 

“I would still give it to you… if you asked."

“You would?” he asked, eyes flickering to your empty hands. Confusion painted over his features at the absent sight of your favor, and you thought him adorable with the way his brows furrowed.

“Mhm, should you want it," you nodded, lips lifted in a crooked smile.

“It would be an honor, prince—” Gwayne’s words were cut short as you took one last step closer and lifted to the balls of your feet to plant an innocent kiss on his cheek. Your lips tingled at the touch, though slightly dusted with the grime from his fall. An enormous smile threatened to break on your features, but your fingertips covered your lips shyly, giggles spilling through. Your knight was left stunned, his jaw slightly agape at your sudden act. The bubble of your moment was burst by the deep voice of Ser Westerling calling for you, bidding you to return upon your father’s behest. You lifted your skirts to return to the Keep, leaving a still dumbfounded knight in his spot.

“See you at the feast, Ser Gwayne!” you called back, excited laughter echoing through the hall as you ran back. What would greet you in your mother’s chambers would soon wipe away any semblance of happiness this small moment had gifted you, but the sight of Gwayne as you looked back, smiling with his fingertips tracing where your lips had been on his cheek, would be a memory you would treasure from that day.

[novaursa]

A Union of Ice and Fire

- Summary: After your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, approves of the marriage between you and Cregan Stark, you marry under watchful eyes of gods of old. And one week later, a raven arrives carrying dark news.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra and her second born child. The reader is also a dragonrider. These events happen right after The Dragon and The Wolf. For the full list of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 663

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

- A/N: since the last part have gotten more then a hundred likes in less then 24 hours, here is the continuation of it. Your guys are awesome. I have not slept for days as I'm trying to push everything out on schedule, but you are making it all worth it. ❤️

The godswood is still beneath a canopy of winter's fading touch, its ancient weirwood tree standing tall and ominous. The red leaves shift in the cold wind, whispering the secrets of ancient times as you, Y/N Velaryon, stand before it. You can feel the eyes of the old gods upon you, watching from within the carved face, its mouth twisted in a silent scream. The eyes of the heart tree, pools of deep crimson, look upon you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

You are dressed in the finest gown Winterfell could muster—one that suits both a dragon’s daughter and the lady you are to become. Your gown is silver and red, reminiscent of your lineage, shimmering in the dim light of the godswood. Your silver hair, braided with strands of black wool, cascades down your back, and a simple circlet rests on your brow, a mark of your high birth and future station as the Lady of Winterfell. You feel the weight of history and duty pressing down on you, yet within that weight lies a spark of something new—a bond forged with the North and the man who now stands beside you.

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, is a figure of rugged strength, his presence commanding yet not overbearing. He wears a heavy black fur cloak over his dark grey tunic, the stark wolf sigil prominent across his broad chest. His dark hair is tied back, exposing the harsh lines of his face—his strong jaw and storm-grey eyes that have a softness only you seem to have unlocked. Though his expression remains solemn, the corners of his mouth twitch as he glances at you, the unspoken warmth between you growing stronger with every passing moment. 

You stand together in front of the weirwood, surrounded by the Northern lords who had pledged their loyalty to your mother. Despite their stern faces, there is respect in their eyes. These are not men given to idle chatter or false pleasantries. They value loyalty, honor, and oaths—things your union represents.

The wind howls softly through the trees as the words are spoken. An elderly man, one of the old greybeards Cregan trusts, steps forward to perform the ceremony. He bears the weight of tradition in his voice as he begins, "Before the eyes of gods and men, here in the presence of the Old Gods, we witness the union of Lord Cregan Stark and Lady Y/N Velaryon."

The words reverberate through the godswood as the old gods bear silent witness to this union. You feel the chill of the North seeping into your bones, but beside you, Cregan’s warmth is a constant presence. He takes your hand, his grip firm yet gentle, a silent vow of protection and partnership. You look up at him, catching his eye, and in that moment, everything else fades away—the whispers of the leaves, the weight of duty, even the biting cold.

He speaks his vow, his voice deep and resonant, “By the laws of gods and men, I take you, Y/N Velaryon, as my wife. In the warmth of summer and the depths of winter, I am yours.” His eyes remain locked on yours, and there is no doubt in his words—only sincerity.

You return the vow, your voice clear and strong despite the flutter of emotions within you. “I take you, Cregan Stark, as my husband. I am yours in joy and sorrow, in strength and weakness, until the last breath leaves my body.”

With those words, you feel a binding, something deeper than mere words can convey—a connection woven with the strength of dragon and wolf, the blood of Targaryen and Stark, old and new. The old gods seem to hum in approval, the wind growing still for just a breath as if the gods themselves acknowledge your vows.

A simple silver ring is placed upon your finger, and you do the same for him with a band of dark steel, forged in the cold depths of the North. The greybeard raises his hands to the sky, sealing your vows. “It is done. By the Old Gods, let this union be blessed.”

Cregan leans in, his breath warm against your cold cheeks, and presses his lips to yours—your first kiss as husband and wife. His kiss is firm and sure, unyielding yet tender, a promise in itself. The lords of the North around you nod in approval, murmuring words of congratulations, and you are aware of the new title you carry now: Lady Stark of Winterfell.

The feast is held in the Great Hall, warmth radiating from the roaring hearths. The long tables are set with rich food—roasted meats, thick stews, and dark bread—simple fare compared to what you’ve known in King’s Landing, but rich in flavor and warmth. The hall echoes with laughter, the booming voices of the North pleased with this rare celebration in the harshest season.

You sit beside Cregan at the high table, your hand resting near his, fingers occasionally brushing as you speak with those who come to offer their congratulations. The conversation flows easily now, the tension of duty replaced with the comfort of companionship. Cregan leans in at one point, speaking low enough that only you can hear. “I never expected that a dragon would bring warmth to Winterfell, but here you are.”

You smile softly, feeling that warmth within you too. “And I never imagined the North could feel like home,” you reply, and there is truth in your words. Despite the cold stone of the castle, there’s a fire kindling here, one that grows every time your gaze meets his.

As the night deepens and the mead flows freely, the toasts begin. The lords raise their cups, shouting their oaths of loyalty to House Stark and to the new Lady of Winterfell. Cregan raises his cup as well, his voice clear over the noise, “To my wife, Y/N, who brings fire to this cold land. May our union stand as strong as the walls of Winterfell and burn as bright as the flames of a dragon.”

The hall erupts in cheers, and you lift your cup in return, the warmth of the mead settling in your chest. Your gaze meets Cregan’s again, and this time, the unspoken promise between you is undeniable.

This is just the beginning—a union of ice and fire, of dragon and wolf. And as you take another sip, the sound of laughter and joy surrounding you, you can’t help but feel that, together, you might just weather whatever storms the gods have yet to send your way.

The Great Hall of Winterfell buzzes with life as the feast reaches its height. The low, flickering light from the blazing hearths casts dancing shadows over stone walls, illuminating the gathering of lords, bannermen, and their kin. The long tables are laden with Northern fare—boar roasted to perfection, trout caught fresh from icy rivers, steaming bowls of mutton stew, and bread so dark and hearty it could sustain a man through the longest winter. Jugs of spiced mead and strong ale are passed freely, filling cups to the brim. The warmth of the hearths contrasts sharply with the cold that clings outside, yet the room feels alive with the camaraderie of the North.

You sit at the high table, beside your new husband, Lord Cregan Stark. The feast is different from the courtly banquets you grew up with. There is little of the polished elegance and courtly games found in King’s Landing—no fine silk hangings or delicate dishes of fruit and honey. Instead, the feast here is raw and primal, filled with the hearty laughter of men and women who understand that life is a harsh, fleeting gift, to be savored when they can.

The Northern customs are as stern as the land itself. Men challenge one another to bouts of strength, arm wrestling contests, and tests of drink—seeing who can down the most ale without falling over. Women engage in singing competitions, their voices strong and clear, carrying the melodies of old Northern ballads. There’s a rugged, unrefined beauty in the festivities, a sense of unity born from shared hardship and deep-rooted traditions.

A few of the Greybeards who pledged to your cause earlier have gathered near the hearth, exchanging old tales of battles and victories. Occasionally, their eyes glance your way, nodding approvingly, as though silently acknowledging the part you now play in their world.

As the night deepens, you feel the weight of more eyes upon you, lords and ladies watching with growing anticipation. The atmosphere shifts subtly, laughter and talk giving way to murmurs. You can almost sense it coming—the bedding.

The first to raise the call is Lord Umber, his face flushed from drink, his booming voice ringing out across the hall. “It’s time!” he bellows, slamming his fist on the table. “Bring out the bride and groom to the bed! Let’s show the lady how it’s done in the North!”

The hall erupts with cheers and laughter, the men pounding their fists on the tables, ready to tear away the finery and see the marriage consummated in the rough, loud tradition of the North. A few women cackle, egging the men on, while others smirk knowingly.

You tense instinctively, your eyes darting to Cregan. You see the storm flash in his grey eyes, a deep frown pulling at his features. He stands, and the hall quiets, expecting him to give in to the custom, to allow the lords their entertainment. Instead, he raises a hand, his voice cutting through the din like a sharp blade. “There will be no bedding tonight.”

A ripple of disbelief courses through the crowd, followed quickly by grumbles of dissatisfaction. Lord Umber, unsteady on his feet, glares at Cregan with drunken indignation. “What’s this, Lord Stark? Denying tradition? Are we to let the lady keep her gown on, untouched and unproven?”

Cregan’s gaze hardens. His voice remains calm, but there is steel beneath the words. “I am Lord of Winterfell, and I will not have my wife paraded like some prize sow for your amusement. The old gods have blessed our union, and that is enough.” His tone brooks no argument, and a dangerous quiet settles over the hall.

Lord Bolton leans forward, his voice dripping with condescension. “It’s not the way things are done, Stark. We’ve had our feast, our drink, and now we demand our right to the bedding ceremony.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you stand beside Cregan, lifting your chin proudly. “There will be no ceremony, and I stand with my lord husband in this. I am not some maid to be stripped and gawked at for your sport. If any man thinks he can force his will upon us, then he can come forward now and see what the Midnight Fury and Winterfell’s wolves think of it.”

The hall falls utterly silent. Your words, carrying a trace of the Valyrian fire that flows in your blood, hang in the air. The image of your dragon, Thraxata, looms over their thoughts, the Midnight Fury’s violet eyes mirroring yours. Your defiance reminds them that you are no meek Southern bride, but a daughter of House Velaryon, with the blood of Rhaenyra Targaryen in your veins.

Cregan’s hand subtly brushes yours under the table, a silent reassurance. His voice, now low and firm, cuts through the tension. “Any man who wishes to question me can take it up tomorrow in the courtyard. We can settle it with steel if words are not enough. But tonight, I will not have my bride humiliated.”

Several of the lords look away, muttering into their cups. Lord Umber slumps back into his seat, cursing under his breath. None are fool enough to challenge Cregan, not with his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.

One of the women, Lady Mormont, raises her cup with a grin. “Well spoken, Lady Y/N. I’d wager no man here could match your fire, dragon-born as you are.” Her toast is echoed by a few others, and slowly, the hall returns to its revelry, though the grumbling doesn’t entirely fade.

You share a look with Cregan, a silent understanding passing between you. He inclines his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips, before he stands again, addressing the hall. “The night grows late. My lady and I will take our leave. Enjoy the rest of the feast.” With that, he offers you his arm, and together, you leave the hall.

As you exit the Great Hall, the distant sounds of merriment and music follow you down the stone corridors of Winterfell. The cold air bites at your cheeks, but you feel warmth bloom in your chest as Cregan’s hand covers yours, holding it close. He leads you through the winding halls, the firelight casting long shadows along the ancient stones.

When you reach your chambers, Cregan pauses at the door, turning to face you fully. There’s a softness in his eyes now, the hard edge he wore in the hall melted away. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice warm and sincere. “For standing with me back there.”

You squeeze his hand gently, meeting his gaze with a smile. “We stand together now, Cregan. In all things.”

He nods, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Then let’s face whatever comes next together—wolf and dragon, side by side.”

With that, he opens the door, and you step inside, ready to begin the next chapter of your shared life in the North. As the door closes behind you, the echoes of the feast are left behind, and all that remains is the quiet of the night and the warmth of the partnership you’ve begun to forge together.

The chamber is dimly lit by the soft glow of a single hearth fire, shadows dancing across the stone walls. The furs piled atop the bed emit a faint, musky scent of the North. The air is heavy with the lingering warmth of the feast, yet there is a different tension in this room—a tension born not of duty or politics, but of anticipation.

Cregan’s eyes are on you, dark and intense as he moves closer, the depth of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. There’s no rush in his movements, only a measured patience as he approaches you, one hand gently cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheek. His touch is warm against your cool skin, rough from years of sword work yet unexpectedly tender now. He studies you as if memorizing every detail—the gleam of your violet eyes, the curve of your lips, and the cascade of silver hair that falls around you like moonlight.

"You’re certain?" he murmurs, searching your gaze one last time, his voice a rumble that’s both reassuring and laced with a restrained hunger.

You lift your chin, meeting his eyes with unwavering confidence. “I’m no fragile maiden, Cregan. I won’t break. I know what I want, and I want you.”

There’s no fear in your gaze, only want—raw, unfiltered, and clear as dragonfire. A dark chuckle escapes him, his fingers tracing down the side of your neck, making your breath hitch. “Dragon’s blood runs in your veins. I should’ve known better than to treat you like some delicate thing.” There’s admiration in his voice now, mingling with desire.

He moves behind you, fingers deft as they untie the laces of your gown, the fabric slipping from your shoulders with a whisper. You don’t shy away, holding his gaze in the reflection of the mirror across the room as he lets the gown fall to the floor. The firelight catches the contours of your body, accentuating the smooth planes of your skin. You stand bare before him, unabashed and fierce, a vision of Valyrian beauty—both alien and mesmerizing in this land of cold stone and shadow.

Cregan’s eyes darken as they roam over you, a mix of reverence and primal hunger in his gaze. “You’re a sight to behold, Y/N. Fierce and untamed—a dragon among wolves.” His words are heavy with the desire he’s been holding back, and there’s a certain awe in how he takes you in, as though every curve and line is something to be worshiped.

You reach out, tugging at his tunic, impatient now. “Enough staring, my lord. I need you.”

There’s a flash of amusement in his eyes, quickly followed by understanding. He obliges, undressing with practiced efficiency, discarding his layers until there’s nothing between you but the warmth of your shared desire. His body is strong, every muscle honed from the harsh life of the North, but it’s his eyes—dark, stormy, and focused solely on you—that make your pulse quicken.

When he finally steps forward, he pulls you into a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s heated, his lips firm against yours, claiming and giving in equal measure. You answer with equal fervor, fingers threading through his dark hair, pulling him closer, wanting more. The kiss is a battle of wills—passionate, wild, neither of you holding anything back.

His hands move to your hips, lifting you with an ease that speaks of his strength. He carries you to the bed, laying you down on the soft furs as he leans over you, his weight pressing against you in a way that feels comforting, possessive, and thrilling all at once.

His hand trails down your thigh as he settles between your legs, eyes locked onto yours as he positions himself. There’s a pause, a moment where he searches your face for any sign of hesitation, but all he finds is your unwavering gaze, filled with want and a flicker of challenge.

“Hold on to me,” he whispers, his voice rough as he begins to push forward, entering you with a deliberate slowness. There’s a sharp sting as he breaks through your maidenhead, but you bite down on your lip, refusing to flinch. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him close, adjusting to the sensation as he stills, giving you time to accommodate the fullness.

His forehead rests against yours, breath ragged as he murmurs, “Easy… I don’t want to hurt you.”

The pain gradually subsides, replaced by a deeper ache that burns with need. You move your hips slightly, testing the new feeling, and when you find pleasure laced within the discomfort, you whisper, “Move, Cregan. I can take it.”

He grins, a low, appreciative sound rumbling in his chest as he begins to move, slow at first, letting you guide the rhythm. The first few thrusts are measured, careful, but soon the pace quickens as the heat between you builds. You meet him thrust for thrust, each movement sending a jolt of pleasure through you, until the initial discomfort fades entirely, replaced by a growing intensity that coils in your belly.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you encourage him to go faster, harder. “More,” you gasp, voice breathy as you ride the wave of sensation. He obliges without hesitation, his control slipping as the primal side of him takes over.

It’s wild and untamed, your bodies moving together in a rhythm as old as time itself. The room is filled with the sounds of your shared passion—breathless moans, the rustle of furs, the slap of skin against skin. There’s no pretense, no holding back. It’s raw, a clash of fire and ice, of dragon and wolf.

Cregan’s grip tightens on your hips as he drives deeper, his breathing harsh and ragged. “Gods, Y/N, you’re—” He breaks off, unable to finish as he loses himself in the pleasure, his focus entirely on you, on your gasps and the way you move beneath him.

You arch against him, chasing the rising tide within you, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge. “Don’t stop,” you pant, your voice a breathless plea.

When your release finally crashes over you, it’s powerful, your entire body tensing as you cry out his name, fingers digging into his back. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure radiating outwards as you tighten around him. Cregan’s control shatters as he follows you over the edge, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he spills inside you, his pace faltering, then stilling as he buries himself fully in you.

For a moment, the world is nothing but the sound of your shared breaths, harsh and uneven, as you both come down from the intensity. He collapses beside you, pulling you against him, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

You’re both silent for a long while, simply savoring the closeness. Eventually, Cregan presses a kiss to your forehead, his voice a low murmur in the quiet room. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed, Y/N.”

You smile against his chest, content in the afterglow. “And you’re everything I knew I wanted.”

The night stretches out before you, the fire crackling softly, and for now, there’s only warmth—no cold, no politics, no war—just the shared comfort of two souls bound by desire and destiny. As you drift into sleep in his arms, you can’t help but feel that this is just the beginning of something wild and fierce, something that can withstand even the harshest of winters.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow-covered courtyards of Winterfell. The icy air bites at your cheeks as you walk through the godswood, hand in hand with Cregan. The week since your marriage has passed in a blur of quiet moments, shared laughter, and the gradual weaving of your lives together. In those precious days, you’ve come to find comfort in the North’s cold embrace, and in the steady presence of the man who has proven himself to be more than just your husband—he is your equal, your partner, your anchor in this unfamiliar land.

But that newfound warmth shatters with the arrival of the raven.

You’re back in the Great Hall, lingering by the hearth, when the doors creak open. A servant rushes in, holding a sealed scroll. You don’t need to see the wax to know who sent it—your heart tells you. The servant approaches, bowing low as he hands the message to you. The dark wax bears the three-headed dragon of your house, sealing the words of your mother, Queen Rhaenyra.

You break the seal with trembling fingers, your pulse quickening with a nameless dread. Cregan stands beside you, his brow furrowed as he watches your face closely. He knows by the change in your expression that whatever this message holds, it isn’t good. 

The words on the parchment seem to blur as your eyes scan over them, each line a knife driven into your chest:

Lucerys Velaryon is dead. My sweet boy was slain by Aemond Targaryen, along with his dragon, Arrax. He did not survive the fall into the storms of Shipbreaker Bay.

The world tilts beneath you, and it’s as though the breath has been stolen from your lungs. Your vision narrows, the words echoing in your mind until they’re the only thing you can hear. Lucerys is dead. The little brother you helped raise, who smiled so sweetly, who always looked up to you with those wide eyes filled with trust and affection—he’s gone, stolen away by your cousin’s cruelty and Vhagar’s monstrous power.

Your hand loosens, and the letter slips from your grasp, fluttering to the ground. You’re dimly aware of Cregan’s hand on your shoulder, his voice low and steady, calling your name. “Y/N? What is it?” But you can’t form the words. The grief wells up inside you, sharp and overwhelming, until it’s too much to hold back.

Your knees buckle, and suddenly you’re sinking to the floor, your body trembling uncontrollably. Tears blur your vision, hot and relentless, as sobs tear from your throat. It’s not the delicate, quiet grief of a lady; it’s raw and fierce, like the storm you imagine your brother faced in his final moments. The cry that escapes your lips is a mixture of pain and rage, the sound reverberating through the Great Hall, silencing all who might hear.

Cregan is at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees, pulling you into his arms. “Y/N, what happened? Tell me—what did the message say?” His voice is firm, but you can hear the worry in it. He’s never seen you like this, never seen you break. You’ve always been the dragon’s daughter—strong, unyielding. But right now, you feel like nothing more than a shattered, grieving sister.

You choke out the words between sobs, your hands clutching at his tunic as if he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. “My brother… Lucerys… He’s dead. Aemond… Aemond killed him. He’s gone, Cregan. My little brother is gone.”

Cregan’s arms tighten around you as he processes what you’ve said. For a long moment, he’s silent, his jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with anger. When he finally speaks, there’s a steel in his voice that matches the ice in his veins. “The bastard. Aemond will answer for this kinslaying. I swear it.” But even his promise of vengeance can’t reach you through the fog of your grief.

You bury your face in his chest, letting the tears flow freely, uncaring of who might see. You’ve lost people before—friends, kin—but this is different. This is your brother, your sweet Lucerys, who still had so much life ahead of him. He was just a boy, trying to do his duty, and he was cut down for it. The injustice of it burns like acid in your veins.

Cregan doesn’t let go, even as your sobs wrack your body. He holds you through it all, his large hands rubbing soothing circles on your back, his presence a steady rock amidst the storm of your grief. He whispers soft words meant to comfort, though you barely register them, lost in your sorrow. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m here, and I won’t let you face this alone.”

Minutes pass—or maybe it’s hours—before the tears finally subside, leaving you hollow and exhausted. You pull back slightly, looking up at Cregan with tear-streaked eyes. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only unwavering support and a simmering rage on your behalf. His thumb gently wipes away the last of your tears, his expression softening.

“You’re not alone, Y/N,” he says quietly. “I know the North is not your home, but I am. I will stand with you, no matter what comes next. We’ll face it—ice and fire, dragon and wolf. Aemond will pay for what he’s done.”

You swallow hard, nodding, though your voice is barely above a whisper when you finally speak. “We’ll make them pay, Cregan. For Lucerys, for my mother’s grief… for all of it.”

There’s a hardness in your words now, a resolve born from the depths of your pain. You may be grieving, but beneath that grief lies a core of molten steel—a fire that won’t be quenched until justice is done.

Cregan leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, grounding you in the warmth of his presence. “When the time comes, we’ll fight—together. Until then, rest. You’re stronger than you know, Y/N.”

You nod, though the weariness of grief still clings to you. With Cregan’s help, you rise to your feet, your legs shaky but steady enough to stand. As you take a deep breath, you feel the fire rekindling within you, fueled by the love you have for your family and the support of the man who now stands at your side.

You may have broken in this moment, but you won’t stay broken. You are a daughter of House Velaryon, a granddaughter of House Targaryen. You are forged in fire, and though grief threatens to consume you, it also gives you strength.

The war has only begun, and you’ll see it through. For your brother. For your family. For all those who stand with you.

[half-of-a-gay]

Armor Between Us

Knight!Sevika x princess!reader

(The poll results came in positive so here it is. Let me know what you think and please be gentle it's my first work.😊)

When political corruption, forbidden love, and an old enemy threaten the realm, Sevika must navigate her loyalties, her growing feelings for the princess, and the ghosts of her past to protect everything she holds dear.

Chaper 1 ... Chaper 2 link

The Knight’s Favor

On the eve of battle, a stoic knight receives an unexpected gift from the kingdom's radiant princess—a token of hope that will bind their fates forever.

---

The royal courtyard buzzes with tension. Dawn is a faint glow on the horizon, and the air smells of damp earth and steel. The kingdom’s army has gathered, ready to ride into battle at when the sun rises. Horses snort and paw at the ground, their riders murmuring quiet prayers or sharpening weapons. The clash to come is a crucial one—the fate of the realm rests on it.

Sevika stands apart from the others, tightening the straps on her saddle. Her armor glints faintly in the torchlight, battered but well-kept, a testament to her years of service. At twenty-five, she is already a rising star among the kingdom’s knights—a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Her tall, muscular frame and the cold precision in her movements intimidate even her fellow soldiers. But tonight, there’s a subtle tremor in her hands as she works. She can’t shake the weight pressing on her chest—the burden of what lies ahead.

She has no time for sentiment, yet a fleeting thought crosses her mind: If I fall, who will remember me?

The princess walks among the ranks, stopping to speak with the soldiers, offering words of encouragement. She approaches Sevika, who stands stoically by her horse.

“Sir Sevika?” a soft voice interrupts her thoughts.

She freezes. It’s not just the words that halt her—it’s the voice itself. Warm, clear, and unfamiliar. When she turns, she finds herself looking at none other than Princess. Her heart stutters in her chest.

The princess stands before her, her presence a striking contrast to the grim scene around them. Her long cloak sways gently in the breeze, and her golden circlet catches the faint light. Her eyes—bright, intelligent, and filled with something Sevika doesn’t dare name—meet Sevika’s with an intensity that makes her throat tighten.

Sevika immediately bows, one hand pressed to her chest. “Your Highness,” she says stiffly, unsure how to act around royalty. Her voice is lower than she intends, roughened by the tension in her jaw. Despite her commanding presence, she is a little rough around the edges, more at ease with a sword in her hand than polite conversation.

“Please, rise,” the princess says, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "You are Sir Sevika, aren’t you? They speak of you often in the court—how you never falter, no matter the odds. They say you’re one of our finest knights."

Sevika straightens, but she doesn’t meet the princess’s gaze. Instead, she focuses on the ground, her expression impassive. “I am honored by your words, Your Highness. But I am only doing my duty.”

The princess steps closer, close enough that Sevika can catch the faint scent of lavender. “Duty alone doesn’t make someone a hero, Sir Sevika. I see the way the soldiers look at you. They trust you with their lives.”

Sevika’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t know what to say to that—praise has never sat comfortably on her shoulders. “The men fight for their kingdom. I am no different.”

The princess tilts her head, studying her. She notices Sevika’s worn armor and the tension in her shoulders. She sees the faint tremor in Sevika’s hand as she adjusts the straps of her saddle—a sign of nerves she’s trying to suppress. "You carry more than most. I can see it in your eyes." Her voice softens, as though speaking to a wounded animal. "You’re afraid."

Sevika’s gaze snaps to hers, a flicker of defiance in her storm-grey eyes. "Knights don’t fear battle, Your Highness."

The princess smiles knowingly. "No, but they fear what comes after."

Sevika’s breath catches. She opens her mouth to respond, but the words don’t come. How does this princess, someone who has likely never set foot on a battlefield, see so clearly into her heart?

Before the silence can stretch too long, the princess reaches into the folds of her cloak and produces a delicate handkerchief. It is embroidered with golden thread and adorned with a faint symbol of the royal crest.

“For you,” she says, offering it to Sevika. “To keep with you during the battle.”

Sevika stares at the handkerchief, then at the princess, unsure what to do. “Your Highness, I… I don’t understand.”

“It’s a token,” the princess says, her voice steady. “For luck. And as a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?” Sevika asks, her voice low.

The princess takes another step closer, her hand still extended. “That you don’t fight for faceless kings and crowns, Sir Sevika. You fight for the people who believe in you. And I believe in you.”

Sevika feels something shift in her chest—something heavy, something she’s carried for years, easing just slightly. Her hand trembles as she takes the handkerchief, her rough, calloused fingers brushing against the princess’s softer ones.

“I… will keep it safe,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The princess smiles, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world fades away. “May it bring you home safely.”

Before Sevika can respond, the princess turns and walks away, her cloak trailing behind her like a whisper in the wind. Sevika watches her go, the handkerchief clutched tightly in her fist.

When the sun finally rises, and the army marches toward the battlefield, Sevika tucks the handkerchief into her armor, close to her heart. For the first time, she feels something she hasn’t felt in years.

Hope.

[thedragonagelesbian]

the inquisition showing up at halamshiral in their ugly nutcracker suits meanwhile cyrus hawke, champion of kirkwall, storm sentinel of the college of enchanters, wielder of the lost sword of shartan and bearer of the standard of dirthamen, and honored guest of ambassador briala rolls up wearing nothing less than a scaled onyx replica of emperor kordillus drakon i’s half-mask, replete with a red cape with a high, arcing collar and swooping epaulets to suggest unfolded wings, over a simplified ivory white version of merrill’s romance outfit

which yiseeril (unlike the inquisitor i originally wrote this post about) thinks is the funniest & most delightful thing she's ever seen, quite possibly ever.

the inquisition showing up at halamshiral in their ugly nutcracker suits meanwhile cyrus hawke, champion of kirkwall and honored guest of ambassador briala, rolls up wearing nothing less than a scaled onyx replica of emperor kordillus drakon i’s half-mask, replete with a red cape with a high, arcing collar and swooping epaulets to suggest unfolded wings, over a simplified ivory white version of merrill’s romance outfit

[thesimline]

While I absolutely adore all historical costume, the Tudor era has to be one of my all time favourites. The luxurious textiles, the rich colours, the opulent details - it's truly heaven for a costume nerd like myself. Tudor fashion was heavily influenced by key figures in the royal court such as Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. Wealthier aristocratic women would demonstrate their status through their striking silhouettes, highly-embellished outer layers and ostentatious headdresses. While the clothing of lower classes remained much more simple than the upper class, the newly fashionable silhouette still trickled down through social strata. CC links under the cut.

You can find more of my historical content here:

1300s ✺ 1400s ✺ 1500s ✺ 1600s ✺ 1700s ✺ 1800s

QUEEN

Hair | Crown | Circlet | Earrings (TSR) | Ruff | Dress | Cloak

PRINCESS

Hair | French Hood | Earrings (TSR) | Necklace (retired - direct download) | Dress | Undershirt | Ring (TSR)

NOBLEWOMAN ONE

Hair | Earrings | Ruff | Dress | Necklace | Undershirt | Fan

NOBLEWOMAN TWO

Hair | Earrings (TSR) | Dress | Undershirt | Necklace | Ring

LADY ONE

Gable Hood | Necklace | Dress | Undershirt | Right Ring (TSR) | Left Ring (TSR)

LADY TWO

Headpiece | Hair (TSR) | Earrings | Ruff | Necklace (retired - direct download) | Dress | Ring (TSR)

PATRICIAN

Hat (TSR) | Hair (TSR) | Earrings | Ruff | Necklace | Dress | Gloves

MERCHANT'S WIFE

Hat | Hair | Earrings (TSR) | Dress | Cuffs | Ring One (TSR) | Ring Two

CITIZEN

Hat | Hair | Earrings (TSR) | Dress

TRADEMAN'S WIFE

Hair | Dress | Belt (TSR)

HOUSEKEEPER

Head Covering | Outfit

FARMWORKER

Hat | Wimple | Outfit | Basket | Shoes (TSR)

With thanks to some amazing creators: @leeleesims1 @thesimpireblr @the-melancholy-maiden @strangestorytellersims @elfdor @glitterberrysims @plazasims @natalia-auditore @miikocc @teanmoon @simsregalia @waxesnostalgic @simverses @ms-marysims @simulatedstyles @batsfromwesteros @shoelala-sims @tzuhu @zx-ta @lady-moriel @dancemachinetrait @historicalsimslife @pralinesims @rustys-cc @simstomaggie @sims4nexus @zurkdesign @pea-milk @plumbobteasociety

[criticallyinneedofadar]

Hey! I hope you're doing well!

I was wondering if you could do a little something with the reader being Gil Galad sister and falling for Celebrimbor everytime they meet (Gil galad teasing his sister about it👀).

Fluff or angst, I let you choose 🫣❤️‍🔥

This was so fun to write!! It might be a bit ooc from Gil Galad but I love the idea of him being an absolute menace to those he's close to.

The Princess of Lindon

The first time you met Celebrimbor, you couldn’t understand why your brother held him in such high regard. Standing in the gilded halls of Lindon, he seemed a touch too serious, his golden hair catching the sunlight in sharp lines that matched the geometric precision of his voice. His words, though, carried weight: precise, deliberate, but never unkind.

“You must be Ereinion’s sister,” he said, bowing his head slightly, though his eyes—bright as polished mithril—never left yours. “He speaks of you often.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow, flicking a glance at your brother, who stood at Celebrimbor’s side, his mouth twitching in a barely restrained grin. “I hope only good things.”

Gil-galad didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “I told him you’re stubborn as a dwarf and twice as likely to quarrel.”

“Charming,” you shot back, your tone sweet as honeyed wine, though your gaze lingered a moment too long on Celebrimbor’s face. He was watching you, amused.

In the days that followed, you found yourself seeking his company more than you intended, drawn to his quiet passion for his craft. Each visit to his workshop was another step into a world of firelight and molten beauty. You marveled at the works he created, from delicately wrought circlets to great armaments destined for Elven lords.

“What do you think?” he asked one evening, holding up an unfinished pendant. Its design was intricate, almost fragile—a series of interwoven vines encircling a starburst.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended. When his fingers brushed yours as he handed it to you, the heat from the forge wasn’t the only thing warming your cheeks.

+++++++++++

The afternoon sun poured through Lindon’s archways as you descended the steps leading to Celebrimbor’s forge. You had intended to slip away unnoticed, but your brother, as always, had other plans. Ereinion appeared out of nowhere, his long strides carrying him into your path with a smirk that could melt glaciers.

“Off to the forges again, are you?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. The crown of Lindon glittered faintly in the light, but his expression was anything but regal. Mischief radiated from him like heat from a forge.

You sighed, stepping around him. “Yes, brother, I am. Kindly move.”

“What gift have you for him this time? A poem? Another rare flower?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Or are you simply going to gaze at him longingly until he notices?”

Your pace quickened, but he matched you step for step. “Perhaps you should write him a letter, sister. Something heartfelt. I can help! How about—‘Oh, Celebrimbor, your hands of steel and heart of fire have utterly captured me—’”

You stopped abruptly, spinning to face him with a glare sharp enough to rival any blade in Celebrimbor’s workshop. “Do you ever stop talking?”

He grinned unabashedly. “Not when I’m having this much fun.”

“I’ll have you know,” you began, jabbing a finger at his chest, “that your meddling will get you nowhere. Celebrimbor and I are merely—”

“Friends? Colleagues? Acquaintances?” He rolled his eyes theatrically. “Sister, even the trees know how you feel. You could outshine the Two Trees with the way you look at him.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but no words came. The accusation struck closer to home than you cared to admit.

Taking your silence as victory, Ereinion leaned down, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Listen, all I’m saying is, if you’re going to keep this up, I expect an invitation to the wedding. I’ll even officiate, if you like.”

You shoved him—gently, though it didn’t stop him from stumbling back a step, laughing as though he’d won some great battle.

“Go bother someone else,” you snapped, marching off toward the forge.

“Don’t keep him waiting!” he called after you, his voice still laced with amusement.

++++++++++

Years passed, and your visits became a quiet ritual. Sometimes you brought small gifts—a poem you’d written, a rare flower you’d found during a walk through Lindon’s forests. Other times, you simply sat in the corner of his workshop, content to watch him work, the rhythmic hammering of metal a soothing cadence.

Gil-galad noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

“Planning on making him a crown, sister?” he teased one afternoon, catching you on your way to Celebrimbor’s forge.

You glared at him. “Planning on minding your own business?”

He feigned a look of shock. “Oh, but it is my business! The sister of the High King consorting with Eregion’s lord? What will people think?”

“They’ll think you’re insufferable.”

“I am insufferable.” He grinned, leaning in. “But at least I’m not pining.”

Your glare could have felled an Orc, but Ereinion only laughed, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Go on, then. Don’t keep him waiting.”

++++++++++

It wasn’t just your brother who noticed. Galadriel, with her piercing gaze and sharp tongue, was impossible to fool. She cornered you one evening after a feast, her eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement.

“Celebrimbor?” she asked bluntly, swirling her wine.

“What about him?” you replied, feigning ignorance.

Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “You watch him as though he’s a riddle you’re trying to solve.”

“And you watch everyone as though you know the answer,” you shot back, though your face betrayed you, the faintest flush creeping up your neck.

She laughed—a rare, musical sound. “He’s a good man. Just be careful. His heart is tied to his craft as much as it could ever be tied to you.”

++++++++++

The moments you shared with Celebrimbor were often quiet, but each one built upon the last, weaving a bond as delicate and strong as mithril. He never spoke openly of his feelings, but his actions spoke for him. He listened when you spoke of your dreams and fears, crafting small trinkets to match your words—a silver leaf when you told him of your favorite tree, a delicate sunburst when you mentioned longing for the warmth of Valinor’s light.

One night, as you stood beneath the stars, he handed you a simple ring, its design understated but flawless.

“For you,” he said, his voice almost hesitant. “A reminder that even the smallest things can endure.”

You slipped it onto your finger, the cool metal warming almost instantly. “It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

He hesitated, then added, “Not everything I make is for kings.”

++++++++++

By the time Elrond began visiting Lindon more frequently, the dynamic between you and Celebrimbor had become a favorite subject of teasing.

“Have you told him yet?” Elrond asked, his expression far too innocent for someone meddling in your affairs.

“Told who what?” you replied, pretending to be oblivious.

He only smiled. “You’ll know when you’re ready.”

++++++++++

Ereinion wasn’t often in Celebrimbor’s forge. The High King had little need to concern himself with the intricacies of smithing, but today he’d come with a purpose—a commission he needed to discuss. Yet as he pushed open the heavy doors, he paused, one hand still on the iron handle.

The scene before him was not what he’d expected.

His sister and Celebrimbor stood close together, the soft glow of the forge casting golden light over their faces. Celebrimbor’s hands cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, while she held onto his tunic as if afraid he might vanish. They were locked in a kiss—tentative at first but growing deeper, the unspoken feelings between them finally laid bare.

A sly grin grew on his lips.

“Am I interrupting?” he called, loud enough to startle them apart.

His sister turned first, her face a picture of mortified surprise. Celebrimbor, ever composed, cleared his throat and took a step back, though the slight flush on his cheeks betrayed him.

“Ereinion!” she exclaimed, her tone sharp enough to cut. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied, striding further into the room. “But I suppose I don’t need to.”

She glared at him, arms crossing defensively. Celebrimbor, meanwhile, was very pointedly looking anywhere but at the High King.

“It’s about time, really,” Gil-galad continued, his grin widening. “I was beginning to think I’d have to forge an alliance contract just to get the two of you to admit it.”

“Brother, dearest,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “go away.”

He ignored her, addressing Celebrimbor instead. “Welcome to the family, old friend. About time you made it official.”

Celebrimbor opened his mouth as if to respond, but your glare cut him off. “Don’t encourage him,” you hissed.

“Encourage me? I’m practically overjoyed!” Ereinion raised his hands in mock surrender. “But fine, I’ll leave you to your…moment. Just remember—dinner tonight. And don’t be late.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out, laughing under his breath. Behind him, he heard his sister mutter something about his insufferable nature, but it only made him smile more.

He had waited years to see her happy, and now she was. That, to him, was worth every ounce of teasing.

[warwickroyals]

Sunderland's Royal Jewel Vault (57/∞) ♛

↬ Queen Irene's Stillwater Sapphire Tiara

When Lady Irene Wynn married Louis, the Prince of Danforth, in 1968, the provincial government of Lakota gifted her 18 sapphires, one representing each year of her life. The brilliant blue sapphires were sourced from the Stillwater Gulch, located in the Rocky Mountains. Ranging in colour from cornflower blue to purple, Lakota sapphires were first discovered along the Missouri River in the 1860s. Since then, the gemstones have been sported by celebrities and politicians, first ladies and royal consorts across the globe, including Irene’s contemporaries Lady Bird Johnson, Queen Sofía of Spain, and Queen Sirikit. Irene’s sapphires were displayed with her other wedding gifts at St. Mary’s Palace, but she didn’t wear them until after she became queen consort in 1970. Queen Irene commissioned a sapphire tiara from Albemarle in the spring of 1973. Despite owning a range of tiaras of diverse colours and profiles, Irene lacked a sapphire diadem, as her mother-in-law, Queen Katherine, still had ownership over the Regal Circlet, which was typically reserved for current queen consorts. The need for a sapphire tiara was a question of fashion, but also diplomacy: blue was a national colour of many foreign countries, including St. George, which was a dominion of Sunderland at the time. When Katherine refused to fork the Regal Circlet over, Irene turned to her collection of Lakota sapphires. The resulting tiara featured a dramatic floral and foliate spray set on a series of diamond fleur-de-lys motifs, hinting at the Queen’s French ancestry. Queen Irene first wore the tiara on a state visit to South Korea in 1975. The tiara made future appearances during a 1979 state visit to Sweden and a 1982 visit from French president François Mitterrand. During this time, the tiara was paired with the Herring sapphire necklace, which Irene purchased in 1974. Throughout the 1990s, he tiara became a staple at state banquets and galas from republics, notably France and the United States of America. In 1995, the tiara was worn along with Queen Alexandra’s Sapphires for Irene’s Silver Jubilee Portrait with her St. George Honours. More recent appearances of the tiara include diplomatic events with the heads of state of Kuwait (2001), Japan (2004), and Estonia (2008). The Queen last wore the tiara in 2018 for the highly publicized (and criticized) American state banquet at Chester Palace. The tiara complemented a white dress, and the Queen’s Order of Brandenburg sash: red, white, and blue. Earlier that year, Queen Katherine passed away, and the Regal Circlet finally entered Irene’s possession, although she has only worn it once since. The Stillwater sapphire tiara remains unique to Queen Irene, with no other members wearing it in an official capacity—although it was “worn” by an infant Princess Jacqueline in a 1976 portrait.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to the Coronet

A coronet is what you think of when you think of a crown. But Coronets aren't just worn by royalty but are also used by the nobility to denote rank during their ceremonies. The use of coronets have stopped becoming a regular occurance these days but provide an interesting WorldBuilding tool. Of course, if you're building your own world, you can use whatever symbols, colours and details you like, so don't forget to get creative.

So what's the difference between each one?

The Heir to the Throne

They will have a particular coronet, separate from their siblings. They will wear a half crown wrought of gold sporting single arch from front to back over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine.

Child of a sovereign (Princes and Princesses)

In England, they wear a gold coronet mounted with fleur-de-lis and crosses with no arches over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine.

Child of an heir apparent

A gold coronet mounted with strawberry leaves, crosses and fleur-de-lis over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine.

Child of a son of a sovereign

Their golden coronet consists of crosses and strawberry leaves over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine.

Child of a daughter of a sovereign

A gold coronet of fleur-de-lis and strawberry leaves.

Duke/Duchess

A silver-gilt coronet with eight strawberry leaves over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine. It's chased to look as though there's gems but there's no actual stones in the coronet.

Marquess/Marchioness

A coronet set with four strawberry leaves and four "pearls" (Not pearls but actually silver balls) over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine. These balls are set on points between each leaf. It's chased to look as though there's gems but there's no actual stones in the coronet.

Earl/Countess

A coronet set with eight strawberry leaves and eight "pearls" over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine. These pearls are set on raised points higher than the leaves. It's chased to look as though there's gems but there's no actual stones in the coronet.

Viscount/Viscountess

A coronet set with sixteen joining "pearls" over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine. It's chased to look as though there's gems but there's no actual stones in the coronet.

Baron/Baroness

A plain silver-gilt circlet, with six "pearls" over a velvet cap trimmed with ermine. It isn't chased.