#complacency the enemy of success

[maretriarch]

i wish people would realize that 99.99999% of posts that fall under the "positivity post listicle" genre r little else than people listing traits they themselves have and dislike and wish they could change and find negative and undesirable truly have no confidence in but no willpower to change, and instead of any soul searching or changing of behavior make a post thats begging for likes and positive feedback on these negative traits as an avoidance tactic so they dont have to change

[glorfindel-of-imladris]

(tw: death, gore, horror)

I love how downright creepy Sauron is.

He's your neighbourhood psychopathic genius, a skilled sorcerer whose allegiance was realigned once (to his true alignment imo) and then never since waivered.

Unlike Morgoth, who was more straightforward in his execution, Sauron's style is insidious, and in a sense more horrific for how slow and personal his tactics can be. His temper is such that he can play the long game, even play at being weak in order to earn trust or make his enemies complacent, and then next thing you know he has an old friend's corpse up as a war banner, or he has sunk a once great island down the Sea.

He bred the Orcs. Tolkien played with different version of the origin of Orcs, but what I like best is the version where they were corrupted Men, maybe even Elves, and although they were Melkor's idea, it was Sauron who had the ability, patience and tenacity to make the idea come to fruition.

He built cults. Do you know what cults are like? How they draw people in, what they make people believe, what they get people to do? From an outsider looking in it must have looked truly bizarre, but Sauron was able to turn a powerful nation against the Valar and painted Morgoth as the true god. Eru Ilúvatar was denied as a false god, and the Valar made to be liars. There were blood sacrifices, human sacrifices—all for a religion Sauron invented, but was so successful that, once Númenor was gone, Sauron brought the cult with him to Middle-earth.

He was called The Necromancer. What made him garner the title? Who gave it to him, and what had they seen? Surely the Nazgûl were not the first of their kind, not when the Nine were already so well-made. What manner of experimentation had Sauron done in order to make them, and what did the "failures" look like? What knowledge did he use to corrupt and circumvent the Gift of Ilúvatar, which gave Men free will and death, allowing their spirits to transcend Arda? And yet the Nazgûl were unable to die, and as wraiths they also lost their free will, bound to Sauron and the call of the Ring.

He corrupted kings. He corrupted his own kind. Curumo could not have been the only one, and we know Curumo was a powerful Maia in his own right, the leader of the Istari. Sauron played mind games with the best of people, and won. His ability to seduce even the most powerful beings and get them in his service was unparalleled.

Now imagine being a native of Mordor and witnessing the poisoning of the lands. And then an age later, imagine being from one of the villages around Rhovanion and experiencing the slow haunting of Amon Lanc. At least the Eldar could see Sauron and his agents; none of the Men can do so. What defense did the common Man have against such insidious evil? There must only have been odd sensations, a dread settling in, dreams that lure them in before turning into nightmares.

[queenvhagar]

My perhaps controversial take on the HOTD characters, the GOT characters the writers are trying to mold them into, and the GOT characters they actually most resemble in the books (in my opinion - feel free to disagree).

Disclaimer: these are entirely disconnected series with unique characters, so it's impossible to do what the writers of HOTD seemed to be trying to do in season 1 i.e. mold the characters from Fire and Blood to fit the characters of GOT to try to recreate the success of the early seasons. Given this, I tried to choose one single character analogue from GOT that each HOTD/FB character is most like, but oftentimes the reality is that if any single character from Fire and Blood resembles a Game of Thrones character it is likely that they are a combination of more than one. All of this said, here is who I think the writers are trying to fit certain HOTD characters into vs the character they are actually most like (according to Fire and Blood):

Rhaenyra Targaryen: obviously the show wants her to be the new and improved Daenerys, a protagonist everyone can root for who wants to revolutionize the existing order. In reality, Rhaenyra is most like Cersei: a woman who seeks to use her three bastards to usurp thrones and gain even more power than she already has, all while committing incest with a family member and using her power to punish and silence her enemies. She uses the existing system to raise herself up and keep others below her. She does reach her goal of ultimate power but ultimately she is unable to hold it. In pursuit of holding onto power or gaining more of it, she watches as her children die early deaths. The smallfolk despise her for her methods of ruling. Eventually, she will cause her own downfall and die before her time.

Alicent Hightower: the show wants her to be Cersei, a mean-spirited, jealous woman protecting her problematic children and using her status as queen to put others in their place (they even used Cersei scenes as audition material for the role). In reality, I see Alicent as most like Catelyn - a flawed woman, mother to a king, seeking to further the rights of her son in the hopes of protecting her family from those who would harm them, guided by her own sense of justice, honor, and understanding of the laws of the land (and of course, hyper aware of the bastards in the room). All she wants is her and her children's safety, and she is willing to go to war for it. In the end, however, she watches as every last child is taken from her before she herself dies alone.

Viserys I Targaryen: the show wants us to see him as the ultimate father who loves his child unconditionally and always supports her, and that his view of right and wrong should be what guides the world. In reality, he is most like Robert Baratheon: a weak king unsuitable for rule whose mistakes and complacency lead to civil war after his death. His preoccupation with past events and people, and his role in a former love's demise, leads him to neglect his current wife and their children and make decisions that create long-term issues for his family and the realm.

Criston Cole: as soon as Criston turns away from Rhaenyra, the show wants you to view him as a Meryn Trant type of Kingsguard - a man unconcerned with honor and violently anti-women, more than willing to carry out terrible acts commanded of him. In reality, Criston is like more like Jaime: he seeks to make a name for himself as a knight, guided by his own sense of honor and justice, though he is judged by others as lacking such principles. His devotion to his position on the Kingsguard and his love for the royal family motivates him. Occasionally his self-confidence and delight in goading his enemies can make him appear callous and proud. Although he is not officially the royal children's "father," he has guided and protected them and their mother from early on in the absence of their official father.

Daemon Targaryen: the show wants you to both love and hate Daemon. It seems he should fill many roles that Jaime did - a sword fighter whose swagger and danger mix together, whose dishonorable acts follow him through the world. He acts primarily out of love or his pursuit of it, whether for his brother or his lover and her children. The viewer is supposed to see that deep down he is a good guy, no matter how many characters say that he's not. In reality, I see Daemon as a more capable Viserys III: a man adamant in his family's racial superiority, who believes he and his loved ones should have access to unchecked power because they're better than everyone else. A man who enjoys exercising his power over others and demanding obedience out of fear of his wrath. A man who uses his younger family member to further his own interests without much thought to her own wishes or agency and willing to hurt her if she doesn't act the way he wants her to.

Otto Hightower: the show wants you to view Otto as a new Littlefinger, someone sly about his intentions who uses spies, information, and unsavory methods to take advantage of the ruling family and further his own interests and increase his own power. I see him instead as more similar to Tywin: a Hand of the King seeking to put his family close to the throne in pursuit of legacy and advancing his family's station, a man who arranged for his daughter to marry the king so his blood would sit the Iron Throne and bring his family power for generations, a man acutely aware of the political world and how the game is played and willing to get his hands dirty to play it.

The Strong boys: the show wants you to root for Rhaenyra's perfect, good natured and pure intentioned sons as if they were the Stark boys (mixed with Jon Snow). Raised in a good family, these boys know right from wrong and love each other. Yet some people unfairly think less of them for their birth. In reality, the Strong boys are closest to Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella. Bastards set to inherit positions they have no claim to, they are coddled by their mother and protected from any consequences to their actions. When one attacks another child, their mother demands that the other child's family is punished for their actions (and doesn't even reprimand the child for his role in the conflict). The result is the child has no remorse for the harm done, and the other child's family festers resentment against the child. Some people uncover the truth of their birth and object to their place in the line of succession, and these people are killed for speaking the truth. Eventually, a war is fought to keep them and their mother away from the throne, resulting in all of them being killed.

Aegon II Targaryen: the show wants you to see him as Joffrey 2.0. A man interested in viewing sadistic acts for his own pleasure, who abuses women for his own enjoyment, and who is unfit to rule. In reality I see Aegon as closest to Robb: a first born son reluctant to rule as king once his father dies but who rises to the occasion to try to keep his remaining family safe. A king willing to fight his battles alongside his men, no matter the risk it might pose to him. A king who tries his best to rule but makes mistakes along the way that cost him dearly. In the end, he watches as he loses everything, and he dies young.

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (1)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!targ reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is firstborn and only son of King Viserys I and late Queen Aemma, is older brother of Rhaenyra and bonded with Silverwing. For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (rating will go up)

- Word count: 6 000+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: This story is heavily rewritten my AO3 fanfic that was deleted with my account there. The jist is the same, but now it's a reader insert work.

The small council chamber is drowned with anticipation, the grand room filled with the scent of parchment and the low murmur of voices. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting silhouettes across the stone walls adorned with tapestries of dragon lore. King Viserys I Targaryen sits at the head of the table, a rare glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he speaks, the tone of his voice vibrant with pride.

"It has been far too long," Viserys begins, his hand absently stroking the armrest of his chair, carved with intricate dragons that seem to come alive under the firelight. "Three years... three years since my son rode off on Silverwing to defend our borders, and now, at last, he returns." There is a warmth to his voice, a father’s pride that softens the usual formality of the council. "He has done well, our borders are secure once more. The Dornish have been driven back, and our lands are safe. It is high time for a celebration, wouldn’t you all agree?"

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, leans forward slightly, his shrewd eyes never missing a detail. "Indeed, Your Grace. Prince Y/N’s valor has become the talk of the realm. His presence on Silverwing alone was enough to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. His return will surely bolster the morale of the court and the realm alike."

Viserys nods, the pride in his son clear on his face. "He is as brave as he is handsome, and wise beyond his years. The gods have truly blessed me with a son who will make a fine king one day."

At the mention of Y/N’s potential future on the throne, the room falls silent for a moment, the weight of those words hanging in the air. It is a truth that cannot be ignored, even as Rhaenyra remains the apple of Viserys’ eye. The King’s heir, the eldest son, would always hold a special place in the line of succession.

Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, clears his throat, his voice a deep rumble that commands attention. "While I share in your joy, Your Grace, we must not forget the threats that still linger beyond our shores. The Stepstones remain a festering wound, one that will continue to bleed if not dealt with. Prince Y/N’s return is a boon, but we must not grow complacent."

Viserys waves a hand dismissively, a rare gesture of impatience from the usually composed king. "The Stepstones can wait, Corlys. We have just won a great victory in the south; the Dornish have been repelled, and my son will soon return to us. Let us not dampen this moment with talk of more war. His nameday approaches, and I will not have the mood soured by concerns that can be addressed later."

Corlys’s mouth tightens into a thin line, but he says nothing further, knowing better than to press the issue when the King’s mind is set on matters of the heart. Beside him, Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, nods in agreement with the King’s sentiment. "Your Grace is right. A celebration is in order. Prince Y/N deserves a hero’s welcome. His deeds should be sung from the highest towers of the Red Keep."

Otto Hightower shifts in his seat, his sharp mind already calculating the implications. "It will be a grand affair, Your Grace. One befitting the heir to the Iron Throne. The lords and ladies of the realm will flock to King’s Landing to pay homage to your son."

Viserys smiles, the thought clearly pleasing to him. "Yes, they will. And when they see him, when they see the man he has become, they will know that House Targaryen is strong, united. The blood of the dragon runs true in him.

The conversation shifts to the logistics of the upcoming celebrations—feasts, tourneys, and the spectacle that will greet you upon your return. But beneath the surface, other thoughts swirl, unspoken but understood by all in the room. The return of the heir will undoubtedly shift the balance of power, rekindle old rivalries, and perhaps even spark new alliances.

As the councilors discuss the details, Viserys leans back in his chair, lost in his thoughts. His mind is far from the Stepstones, from the politics and the courtly intrigues. Instead, it is on his son—the pride of his house, the dragon who has returned home. 

Though you are not yet present, your presence is felt keenly in that room, a force that commands respect, admiration, and perhaps even a hint of fear. The small council, ever the stage for power plays and whispered conspiracies, is tonight a place of celebration, anticipation, and a father's love.

The fire burns low, the shadows growing longer as the hour advances. But the warmth in Viserys' heart does not wane, nor does his excitement at the thought of seeing you again after these long, hard years. Soon, you will be home, and the realm will be reminded of the strength and glory of the Targaryens—of fire and blood, and of the dragon that you are.

The sky above King’s Landing is clear, a brilliant blue that contrasts harshly with the golden scales of Syrax as she descends towards the Dragonpit. Her powerful wings beat rhythmically, sending gusts of wind sweeping across the hillside, causing the banners of House Targaryen to flutter wildly. The Dragonpit, ancient and formidable, looms ahead—a structure built to house the great beasts of House Targaryen, and today it eagerly welcomes one of its own.

Syrax lands with a graceful thud, her massive claws digging into the earth as she lowers herself to allow her rider to dismount. Rhaenyra Targaryen, resplendent in her riding leathers of black and red, slides down effortlessly, her golden hair whipping in the wind. There’s a fire in her violet eyes, a look of exhilaration that always follows her flights with Syrax. She pats the dragon’s side affectionately before turning her attention to the awaiting figures.

Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stands ready to greet her, his white cloak flowing in the breeze, a symbol of his unwavering loyalty. His face is stern, but his eyes soften with affection as Rhaenyra approaches. "Welcome back, Princess," he says, bowing his head in respect.

"Thank you, Ser Harrold," Rhaenyra replies, her voice bright. "Syrax needed a good stretch of her wings. It’s a fine day for flying."

"It is indeed, Your Grace," Ser Harrold agrees, though his expression remains stoic. "The city is bustling with preparations for your brother’s return. The people are eager to see their prince."

Rhaenyra’s smile broadens at the mention of her brother. "As am I. It has been too long."

As they speak, a carriage pulls up near the entrance to the Dragonpit, its polished wood gleaming in the sunlight. The door swings open, revealing Alicent Hightower, her gown of pale blue perfectly complementing her auburn hair. She steps out gracefully, her green eyes lighting up as she spots her dearest friend.

"Rhaenyra!" Alicent calls, hurrying forward, her face a picture of delight.

"Alicent," Rhaenyra responds warmly, pulling Alicent into a quick embrace. "I wasn’t expecting you to come all the way to the Dragonpit."

Alicent laughs softly. "How could I not? The court is abuzz with news of your brother’s return. It seems everyone is eager to see him again." She steps back, regarding Rhaenyra with a knowing look. "And what of you, Rhaenyra? Are you excited to see him after all this time?"

Rhaenyra’s eyes soften, a fond smile tugging at her lips. "Of course I am. I’ve missed him terribly. He’s always been my closest confidant, ever since we were children. The realm may see him as a warrior, a dragonrider, but to me, he is simply my brother."

Alicent smiles, though there’s a hint of something more in her eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or something deeper. "I’ve heard the ladies at court whispering about him," she says, her voice light, almost teasing. "They say he’s become even more handsome over the years."

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her gaze. "None of those ladies have seen him in the last three years. He was always handsome, even as a boy, but I suppose the tales of his exploits have added to the allure."

Alicent nods, her expression thoughtful. "It’s the word from the Dornish border that precedes him. They say he cut a striking figure on Silverwing, that he was a beacon of hope for our men and a terror to our enemies."

Rhaenyra’s pride is palpable, her chest swelling with affection for her brother. "That’s the brother I know. Always strong, always brave. I’m not surprised the tales of his deeds have spread far and wide. But I’m more eager to hear them from him, to see the man he’s become with my own eyes."

Alicent smiles gently, seeing the deep bond Rhaenyra shares with her brother. "The two of you are much alike, you know. Dragons in human form. It’s no wonder the realm speaks of you both with such reverence."

Rhaenyra looks away for a moment, her thoughts lingering on her brother, before she turns back to Alicent, her expression lightening. "Come, let’s return to the Red Keep. I’m sure there are a thousand things waiting for us there. Besides, I need to freshen up before I see him. I want to look my best for his return."

Alicent chuckles, following Rhaenyra as they make their way towards the carriage. "As if you ever need to worry about that. But I understand. Today is special, after all."

The two young women climb into the carriage, and as it begins its journey back to the heart of King’s Landing, the conversation shifts to lighter topics—gossip from court, plans for the upcoming celebrations. But beneath the surface, there is an undercurrent of anticipation, a shared excitement for the return of a beloved brother, a dragonrider, and a prince who has been away from home for far too long.

As the city comes into view, Rhaenyra’s thoughts are filled with images of her brother—of the last time she saw you, of the stories she’s heard in your absence, and of the reunion that awaits. Soon, very soon, the Targaryen family will be whole again, and the dragons will once more soar together over King’s Landing.

The morning sun had only just begun to cast its golden light across King’s Landing, illuminating the bustling preparations already well underway for the day’s grand celebrations. In the Red Keep, servants and handmaidens hurried through the halls, their arms full of silks and jewels, the atmosphere buzzing with the anticipation of the prince’s one and seventh nameday. The tourney grounds outside the city walls were already alive with the clashing of swords and the cheer of spectators, but within the princess’s chambers, a quieter preparation was taking place.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood before a polished mirror, her golden hair cascading down her back as her handmaidens worked to braid it into an intricate style fitting for the occasion. Her gown, a deep shade of Targaryen red, had been carefully selected, the rich fabric adorned with subtle embroidery that caught the morning light. Yet despite the attention to every detail, Rhaenyra’s thoughts were elsewhere.

Suddenly, a low, resonant horn echoed across the city, its deep tone vibrating through the very stones of the Red Keep. The sound was unmistakable—the return of a dragon. The call stirred something deep within Rhaenyra, her heart leaping in her chest as she pushed away the fussing hands of her handmaidens.

"Princess, please! We haven’t finished—" one of the servants protested, but Rhaenyra was already moving, her eyes bright with excitement.

She rushed to the balcony, her breath catching in her throat as she leaned over the edge, searching the skies. For a moment, all was quiet except for the distant hum of the city below. Then, she saw it—a glint of silver against the blue, a shape growing larger as it approached. 

Silverwing.

The great she-dragon cut through the sky with powerful, sweeping strokes of her massive wings, her silver scales gleaming like molten metal in the morning light. Her wingspan cast a shadow over the city as she soared over the rooftops, the people below stopping in their tracks to look up in awe. The sun seemed to dance upon her scales, turning her into a living beacon, a symbol of House Targaryen’s might and majesty. 

As Silverwing approached the heart of the city, a roar of cheers erupted from the streets below, followed by the blare of trumpets signaling the return of the King’s heir. The sound swelled and spread, filling the air with the jubilant energy of thousands of voices raised in celebration. From her vantage point, Rhaenyra could see the figures of people flooding the streets, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the dragon and her rider.

And there, atop Silverwing, was you. Even from this distance, Rhaenyra recognized your figure, sitting tall and proud in the saddle, your pale blond hair whipping in the wind, your violet eyes sharp as they surveyed the city below. You guided Silverwing with the ease of long familiarity, a natural extension of yourself. There was a power in the way you commanded the dragon, a grace that spoke of years spent in the saddle, and a bond forged in fire.

Rhaenyra’s smile brightened, her heart swelling with pride and affection. Her brother had returned, the prince of the realm, the heir to the Iron Throne. And now, the whole city knew it. Silverwing let out a triumphant roar as she flew low over the city, a declaration of your presence that sent another wave of cheers echoing through the streets.

As you guided Silverwing toward the Dragonpit, Rhaenyra watched in breathless anticipation. The dragon angled her wings, banking smoothly toward the massive structure where the dragonkeepers awaited her. The escort wagon, finely adorned in Targaryen red and black, stood ready at the entrance, flanked by members of the Kingsguard in their gleaming white armor. The sight of it all—the dragon, the city’s response, the return of her brother—made Rhaenyra’s pulse quicken with excitement.

She turned back from the balcony, her voice ringing with urgency as she addressed her handmaidens. "Hurry! I must be ready in time to greet him."

The handmaidens, who had been momentarily frozen by the excitement of the dragon’s arrival, snapped back into action, their hands flying over the final touches of her attire. They tightened her bodice, pinned the last of her braids into place, and secured the Targaryen emblem at her shoulder with swift, practiced movements.

One of the handmaidens, a girl no older than Rhaenyra herself, smiled as she adjusted the drape of the gown. "You must be eager to see him, Princess."

Rhaenyra’s eyes sparkled as she met the girl’s gaze in the mirror. "More than you can imagine. It’s been three long years. I want to be the first to welcome him home."

Alicent entered the room just as Rhaenyra was giving herself a final once-over in the mirror. "I see the excitement has reached you too," she said with a smile, noting Rhaenyra’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

Rhaenyra grinned back at her, unable to contain her joy. "I’ll never grow tired of seeing him return. I need to be ready. He deserves a proper welcome, don’t you think?"

Alicent nodded, helping to smooth a stray lock of Rhaenyra’s hair into place. "He’ll be just as eager to see you, Rhaenyra. The bond you two share is special."

Rhaenyra smiled, touched by Alicent’s words, though her thoughts were already racing ahead to the moment when she would finally see you up close. "He’s been away too long. Today, we’ll be together again. I can’t wait to hear everything he’s been through, to see how he’s changed."

Alicent chuckled, gently teasing. "Just don’t keep him to yourself for too long. There’s an entire court eager to see the heir to the throne."

Rhaenyra gave her a playful look but nodded. "I suppose I can share him. But only for a little while."

The final adjustments made, Rhaenyra took one last look in the mirror, her excitement barely contained. The morning had begun with a dragon’s roar, a herald of what was to come. Soon, she would stand by your side once more, the dragon prince and the dragon princess, united in the heart of the realm.

With a deep breath, Rhaenyra turned and made her way towards the door, her handmaidens following closely behind. The day had only just begun, but it already promised to be unforgettable. As she stepped into the corridor, her heart raced with anticipation. Soon, she would be at the welcoming ceremony, ready to embrace her brother and celebrate his return to the world they both cherished.

The throne room of the Red Keep was a magnificent sight, its grand scale and ornate decorations a testament to the power and history of House Targaryen. Banners of black and red hung from the high ceilings, the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens prominently displayed. The Iron Throne itself, forged from the swords of defeated enemies, loomed at the far end of the hall, a jagged symbol of absolute authority.

King Viserys I Targaryen sat upon the throne, his posture tense with anticipation. His eyes, the same violet as his children’s, were fixed on the massive doors at the other end of the hall. Courtiers and lords stood in silence, lining the path to the throne, their eyes darting between the King and the doors. The room was filled with a barely contained excitement, the air thick with the importance of the moment.

Viserys shifted in his seat, trying to maintain his regal composure, though it was clear to those who knew him well that he was impatient. It had been three long years since he had last seen his son, and the waiting was almost unbearable. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of the throne, his thoughts racing with memories of the boy who had ridden off to war and the man who would return.

Just as the tension in the room reached its peak, the doors to the throne room creaked open, and a late arrival hurried through. Rhaenyra Targaryen, her cheeks flushed and slightly out of breath, slipped in as quietly as possible, her eyes immediately seeking out her father on the throne. She exhaled in relief when she saw that she had made it just in time. She quickly moved to join the courtiers, standing beside Alicent Hightower, who gave her a sympathetic smile.

The doors opened fully with a deep, echoing groan, and the room fell into a hushed silence as Ser Harrold Westerling, flanked by the Kingsguard, stepped inside. "Prince Y/N of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne," Ser Harrold announced, his voice carrying across the hall.

All eyes turned to the figure that stepped through the threshold, and the sight was nothing short of breathtaking.

You stood tall, your presence commanding the room as you entered with the easy confidence of a man who had faced both war and dragons. Your short, pale blond hair, tousled by the wind of your flight, caught the light, glinting like spun silk. Your deep violet eyes, so reminiscent of your father’s, scanned the room with a quiet intensity, taking in every detail. The armor you wore was finely crafted, a blend of polished steel and dragon motifs, but it was the Targaryen sigil emblazoned across your chest that drew the most attention—a bold reminder of the blood that coursed through your veins.

As you strode forward, your movements were smooth and measured, a dragonrider’s grace evident in every step. There was a power in your gait, a strength that spoke of the battles fought and won, of the years spent defending the realm. The courtiers and lords bowed their heads as you passed, acknowledging the prince and future king. Whispers followed in your wake, the court abuzz with murmurs of admiration and awe.

Rhaenyra, watching from a distance, felt her heart swell with pride. Her brother had always been strong, but there was something different about him now—an air of authority and purpose that had not been there before. She couldn’t help but smile as she watched you approach the throne, her eyes glistening with emotion.

Beside her, Alicent Hightower blushed deeply as you passed, her gaze dropping to the floor before sneaking another glance at you. There was a palpable tension in the air, a mix of admiration and something more, as she tried to compose herself. Rhaenyra noticed, but said nothing, a small smile playing on her lips.

Your focus, however, was solely on the man who awaited you at the end of the hall. King Viserys rose from the Iron Throne as you approached, his expression shifting from regal formality to one of barely contained joy. The distance between father and son narrowed with each step you took, and by the time you stood before him, the room seemed to hold its breath.

Viserys paused for a moment, looking you over with the eyes of a father who had missed the growth of his child into a man. His gaze was proud, but there was also a trace of sadness for the time lost. "My son," he began, his voice formal but thick with emotion, "you have returned to us a hero. The realm owes you a great debt for your service."

You bowed your head respectfully, your voice steady and warm as you replied, "Thank you, Father. It was my duty to defend our lands, but it is good to be home."

Viserys nodded, but the formality of the moment quickly gave way to something more genuine. His stoic expression broke, a broad grin spreading across his face as he stepped down from the throne. Before the courtiers could fully register the shift, Viserys crossed the remaining distance between you and embraced you with a hearty, almost crushing hug.

"My boy," he said, his voice choked with emotion as he held you close. "You’ve grown so much. It’s been too long."

You returned the embrace just as fiercely, your own voice betraying the depth of your feelings. "I’ve missed you, Father."

The hall erupted in applause, the sound echoing off the stone walls as the courtiers and lords showed their approval. It was a moment of unity, a rare and cherished sight in the often fractured world of court politics.

Viserys pulled back, his hands still on your shoulders as he looked at you with a father’s pride. "Come," he said, his voice lighter now, almost eager. "There’s so much to tell you, so much you’ve missed in these three years. The court, the realm... you must hear it all. And I want to hear every detail of your time in Dorne."

He clapped you on the back, turning to lead you away from the throne, his excitement palpable. "But first, let’s get you out of that armor. We’ll talk as you prepare for the feast. The entire court is eager to see you again, and your sister has been counting the days until your return."

As the two of you began to walk down the aisle, Rhaenyra watched with a smile, her heart full. She followed at a discreet distance, blending in with the other courtiers, but her eyes never left you. Alicent, still by her side, looked after you with a softness in her gaze, her earlier blush still lingering.

The doors to the throne room slowly closed behind you, the applause fading as the court returned to its usual murmur of conversation. The welcoming ceremony had ended, but the day was just beginning, and it was clear that it would be filled with moments to remember.

Rhaenyra, watching you disappear through the doors with your father, knew that the bond between the two of you was as strong as ever. Today, the Targaryen family was reunited, and the city of King’s Landing would celebrate in grand fashion. 

But for Rhaenyra, the true celebration was in the simple joy of having her brother home again. The dragons of House Targaryen were together once more, and nothing could dim the brightness of this day.

The echoes of the applause still lingered in the halls as King Viserys I Targaryen led you away from the throne room and into a quieter, more private part of the Red Keep. The ornate corridors, lined with tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen, gradually gave way to more intimate surroundings—the King’s private chambers. Here, away from the prying eyes of the court, the formalities of royal life could be set aside, if only for a short while.

As the door to the King’s chambers closed behind you, the weight of the last three years seemed to melt away. Viserys gestured for you to sit at the table near the window, where a light breeze drifted in, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city’s celebrations. The table was set with wine and bread, simple fare for a king, but comforting in its familiarity.

Viserys poured two goblets of wine, handing one to you before taking a seat across from you. For a moment, he simply looked at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, noting the subtle changes that time and experience had etched there.

"You’ve grown, Y/N," he said, his voice soft, almost in awe. "I knew you would, of course, but seeing you now... it’s different. You’ve become a man in these last three years. I’m proud of you, more than words can say."

You took a sip of the wine, savoring the taste before replying. "Thank you, Father. It wasn’t an easy task, defending our borders, but it was necessary. The Dornish were becoming bolder by the day. They needed to be reminded of our strength."

Viserys nodded, his expression serious. "I’ve heard the reports, of course. Your presence alone was enough to turn the tide, or so they say. Silverwing must have been a sight to behold on the battlefield."

A small smile played on your lips as you recalled the days spent soaring over the arid Dornish lands, the wind whipping through your hair as Silverwing roared her defiance at the enemy below. "She was magnificent. The Dornish learned quickly that Targaryen fire is not to be trifled with. But it wasn’t just about the battles. The men needed leadership, someone to rally behind. I did what I could to be that for them."

"And you succeeded," Viserys said, his voice filled with pride. "The realm is safer because of you. The people know they have a prince who will protect them, a future king who will lead them with strength and honor."

You inclined your head, acknowledging his praise, but there was a wistfulness in your expression that Viserys did not miss. He reached across the table, placing a hand on your arm. "What troubles you, my son?"

You hesitated for a moment, then spoke, your voice tinged with a quiet sorrow. "I was just thinking of Mother. She would have been so proud to see this day, to see how the realm is at peace because of what we’ve done. I’ve missed her, every day."

Viserys’s face softened, his own grief mirrored in your words. "I miss her too," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Aemma, of what she would say, how she would guide me. She was my heart, and I know she was yours as well."

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he continued. "I regret that she is not here to see you thrive, to see the man you’ve become. But I believe she is watching over us, that she sees you and is as proud of you as I am. You were her joy, Y/N. She would be so very proud."

You lowered your gaze for a moment, the memories of your mother flooding your mind—her gentle smile, the warmth of her embrace, the way she had always known just what to say to ease your fears. "I’ve tried to honor her memory in everything I do," you said quietly. "Every decision I make, every battle I fight, I think of what she would want, what she would have done. She’s never far from my thoughts."

Viserys smiled sadly, his hand still resting on yours. "She lives on in you, my son. In your strength, in your kindness, in your sense of duty. Aemma’s spirit is with us, even if she is not."

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, the weight of shared loss hanging between you. It was a grief that had shaped both your lives, a void that could never truly be filled. Yet, in that silence, there was also a sense of peace, a shared understanding that you both carried her memory with you, honoring her in your own ways.

Viserys broke the silence first, his voice lighter now as he sought to lift the mood. "But let us not dwell too long on sorrow. Today is a day of celebration, after all. The court is waiting, and I hear you plan to compete in the tourney yourself."

You chuckled, the sadness easing from your features as you looked up at him. "I do. It’s been too long since I’ve had the chance to test my skills. The Dornish provided plenty of real battles, but there’s something to be said for the honor and tradition of a tourney."

Viserys grinned, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "You’ll make quite the entrance, I’m sure. The court will be watching closely. It’s not every day they get to see the heir to the Iron Throne in action."

"I’ll do my best to give them a show," you replied with a grin of your own. "But it’s not just about the spectacle. It’s a chance to remind the realm of our strength, of the unity of House Targaryen. We’ve faced threats from the outside, but there are always threats from within as well. The court needs to see that we are strong, that we stand together."

Viserys nodded, understanding the deeper meaning behind your words. "You’re right. There are always those who would seek to undermine us, to sow discord. But today, let them see that House Targaryen is united, that the blood of the dragon runs true in you."

He raised his goblet in a toast, his eyes filled with pride and determination. "To your nameday, my son. To the future of our house, and to the memory of those who came before us."

You clinked your goblet against his, the sound ringing softly in the quiet room. "To our future," you echoed, your voice steady and sure.

As you both drank, the atmosphere lightened, the bond between father and son reaffirmed. The burdens of the past were still there, but for now, they were set aside, replaced by the promise of the day ahead.

Viserys set his goblet down, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Now, tell me—are you planning to win this tourney? Or should I place my bets elsewhere?"

You laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that filled the room. "I plan to give it my all, Father. But I suppose you’ll have to wait and see if that’s enough to claim victory."

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Very well, I’ll keep my bets close to my chest. But I’ll be watching with great interest."

The two of you continued to talk, the conversation flowing easily as you recounted the events of the last three years, the battles fought, the alliances forged. Viserys listened intently, asking questions, offering advice, and occasionally regaling you with the goings-on in King’s Landing during your absence. The weight of rulership was ever-present, but in this moment, it was simply a father catching up with his son.

Finally, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, Viserys glanced out the window, noting the time. "The feast will begin soon, and the tourney will follow. We should make our way back to the court."

You nodded, standing as he did, your heart lighter than it had been in a long time. "I’m ready, Father. Let’s go and give them a day to remember."

Viserys clapped you on the back as you walked to the door together, his smile full of pride and affection. "That we shall, my son. That we shall."

And with that, the two of you stepped out of the King’s private chambers and back into the grand corridors of the Red Keep, ready to face the celebrations that awaited. Today was your day, a day to honor the past, celebrate the present, and look forward to the future. The dragons of House Targaryen were united once more, and nothing could dim the brightness of the day that lay ahead.

The grand corridors of the Red Keep were filled with the rustle of fine fabrics and the murmur of anticipation as courtiers made their way towards the tourney grounds. The air vibrated with excitement, the prospect of watching the finest knights in the realm compete thrilling everyone. The ladies of the court walked in groups, their laughter and whispers echoing off the stone walls as they discussed the events of the day—and the prince who had returned after three long years.

Rhaenyra Targaryen and Alicent Hightower moved among them, their own excitement tempered by a more personal interest in the proceedings. They had just witnessed your return to King’s Landing, and the image of you standing tall and proud before the Iron Throne was still fresh in their minds. As they walked, Rhaenyra’s mind buzzed with thoughts of you, while Alicent seemed quieter than usual, her expression contemplative.

"You haven’t said much since we left the throne room," Rhaenyra noted, glancing at her friend as they walked. "What are you thinking, Alicent?"

Alicent blinked, as if pulled from her thoughts, and offered Rhaenyra a soft smile. "I was just thinking about your brother. It’s incredible how much he’s changed. I almost didn’t recognize him when he walked in."

Rhaenyra nodded, her lips curving into a fond smile. "He has changed, hasn’t he? When he left, he was still young, still learning how to lead. Now... now he seems so sure of himself, so strong." There was pride in her voice, but also a hint of something else—an undercurrent of longing for the time when the two of you were younger and life was simpler.

Alicent’s eyes flickered with understanding. "You’re proud of him, Rhaenyra. Anyone can see that. But I imagine it must be strange too, seeing how he’s grown in your absence."

"It is," Rhaenyra admitted, her voice quiet. "I’ve missed him so much. We used to spend all our time together. Now, it feels like he’s returned a different person, someone who belongs more to the realm than to me."

Alicent gave her a sympathetic look. "That’s only natural. He’s the heir to the throne, after all. But that doesn’t mean he’s changed in how he feels about you. You’re still his sister, Rhaenyra. That bond doesn’t just disappear."

Rhaenyra nodded, though her heart still felt heavy. She knew Alicent was right, but the feeling of being left behind, of losing the closeness you once shared, gnawed at her. "I know," she said, forcing a smile. "But sometimes I wish we could go back to the way things were, when it was just the two of us."

Alicent was about to respond when the soft murmur of the ladies walking nearby caught their attention. The two of them slowed their pace slightly, enough to overhear the conversation unfolding around them.

"Did you see him? He’s even more handsome than the rumors said," one lady whispered excitedly.

"And did you notice how he carries himself? So regal, so commanding," another added, her voice tinged with admiration.

"I heard he’s competing in the tourney today. Can you imagine how thrilling it would be to watch him fight? I’ll wager every lady here will be hoping for his favor."

The ladies giggled, their words filled with admiration and excitement. Rhaenyra’s chest tightened as she listened, her earlier feelings of pride mingling with a sharp pang of jealousy. She had always known you were admired, but hearing these women fawn over you, imagining themselves catching your attention, stirred something possessive within her.

Alicent, noticing the change in Rhaenyra’s expression, touched her arm gently. "Rhaenyra... you know they’re just infatuated with the idea of him. They don’t know him like you do."

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened slightly as she nodded. "I know, but it still bothers me. It’s like they’re trying to take something that belongs to me." Her voice was low, almost bitter, the jealousy she felt hard to suppress.

Alicent gave her a thoughtful look, choosing her words carefully. "It’s understandable, Rhaenyra. You’ve shared something special with him, something no one else can claim. But he’s the heir, and as much as it pains you, others will be drawn to him. They see the prince, the dragonrider, but they don’t see the brother you know."

Rhaenyra sighed, her shoulders relaxing a little as she processed Alicent’s words. "You’re right," she said, her voice softer now. "It’s just... it’s hard to watch. I miss the days when it was just the two of us, when I didn’t have to share him with the rest of the realm."

Alicent squeezed her arm reassuringly. "I’m sure he feels the same way about you, Rhaenyra. He’s always been devoted to you. Don’t let the chatter of the court make you doubt that."

Rhaenyra managed a small smile, her earlier jealousy easing, though not entirely disappearing. "Thank you, Alicent. I just need to remind myself of that."

As they emerged from the shadowed corridors and into the open air, the roar of the crowds from the tourney grounds greeted them, the excitement palpable. The stands were already filled with lords, ladies, and smallfolk alike, all eager to witness the spectacle. Banners fluttered in the breeze, the sigils of noble houses displayed proudly, while the smell of roasted meats and the sound of trumpets filled the air.

Rhaenyra and Alicent were escorted to their seats in the royal box, a prime position that offered a perfect view of the lists. As they settled in, Rhaenyra’s eyes scanned the grounds, her thoughts still partly on you, wondering what you might be thinking as you prepared for the tourney.

The ladies around them continued to chatter excitedly, their conversations now shifting to the knights who would compete, but Rhaenyra’s thoughts remained on you. She couldn’t help but wonder how you would perform in the tourney, whether you would acknowledge her in some way, and what it would mean to see you in your element once more.

Alicent, ever observant, leaned closer to Rhaenyra. "You’ll see him again soon, you know. And when you do, you’ll have his attention. The bond you share is something these other ladies can only dream of."

Rhaenyra nodded, a determined look settling on her face. "You’re right, Alicent. I’ve spent enough time longing for the past. Today, I’ll celebrate the present—and the fact that my brother is finally home."

Alicent smiled warmly at her, proud of her friend’s resolve. "That’s the spirit, Rhaenyra. Now, let’s enjoy the tourney. I have a feeling it’s going to be one for the ages."

As the trumpets blared once more, signaling the start of the day’s events, Rhaenyra allowed herself to relax, focusing on the excitement of the moment. The tourney grounds were alive with color and sound, and for the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of contentment. You were home, and that was what mattered most.

The day was young, and there was much to celebrate. Rhaenyra settled into her seat, ready to watch the tourney unfold, knowing that no matter what, her brother would always be her closest confidant, the one person who truly understood her. Today, the dragons of House Targaryen were united, and nothing would take that away from her.

[cherriecove]

A Courtship of Politics and Passion (Part 1)

Jacaerys Velaryon x Hightower!Reader

Summary: Cannon divergence, Rhaenyra Targaryen is queen after the Dance of The Dragons. In order to secure peace and ensure her son is able to take his rightful place on the throne after her she decides to make allies out of previous enemies. Cherrie's Note: Hi Guys! thought I would try something new with this one and I am not sure how I feel about it. Please feedback with your opinions! Masterlist | Next Part

The Red Keep was alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the soft melodies of minstrels playing in the background. Lords and ladies from every corner of the realm were gathered for the royal feast, a display of the Targaryen dynasty's power and grandeur. Long tables draped in crimson and black, the colours of House Targaryen, were laden with exotic dishes from across Westeros and Essos. Golden candelabras cast flickering shadows across the hall, while the walls echoed with laughter and murmurs. Yet, beneath the opulence of the evening, an undeniable tension lingered, weaving through the crowd like an unseen spectre.

At the heart of it all sat Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, her presence unmistakable atop the Iron Throne. The sharp edges of the throne's swords reflected the light, a stark reminder of the power it represented—and the blood that had been spilled to keep it. Rhaenyra, now seasoned by years of rule and the bitter lessons of war, held herself with a regal composure. Her violet eyes, piercing and calculating, swept over the gathered courtiers with the practised gaze of a monarch who had seen both treachery and loyalty in equal measure. Her silver hair, cascading down her back in intricate braids, gleamed under the hall's torchlight. She had fought too hard for her crown to be complacent now.

Beside her stood Jacaerys Velaryon, her eldest son and heir, the future of the Targaryen line. His face, usually marked by the confidence of youth, was clouded with a grim solemnity. He had witnessed the horrors of the Dance of the Dragons, the civil war that had nearly torn their family asunder. The weight of the crown, one day destined to be his, already seemed to press heavily upon his shoulders.

Tonight, however, it was not the memories of the war that darkened his mood but the arrival of a particular guest—a guest whose very presence stirred old wounds.

Lady Y/N Hightower had made her entrance at court earlier that evening, drawing the attention of every eye in the hall. The daughter of one of the most powerful houses in Westeros, she embodied grace and poise as she moved through the gathering, her green silk gown flowing like water around her. Her beauty was undeniable, with her high cheekbones, delicate features, and eyes that gleamed with quiet intelligence. Yet, to Jacaerys, the green of her dress was more than a simple fashion choice—it was a reminder of the bitter rivalry that had once divided the realm.

The Hightowers had been instrumental in backing the Greens during the succession crisis, when Aegon II, spurred by the manipulations of his mother and the ambitions of his grandsire, Otto Hightower, had tried to claim the Iron Throne. The conflict had pitted Targaryen against Targaryen, nearly destroying their house in the process. The enmity between the Hightowers and the Targaryens had run deep ever since, and while the war had ended, the scars it left behind had yet to fully heal.

Rhaenyra, however, was no fool. She understood the precariousness of her reign, the fragile peace that had been brokered after the war. She had outlasted her enemies, but she knew that victory alone was not enough to secure the future of her family. Political alliances were now the key to maintaining the delicate balance of power, and Lady Y/N Hightower represented such an opportunity. The Hightowers, with their vast wealth and influence, could either be formidable enemies—or invaluable allies.

"This marriage," Rhaenyra said softly, leaning toward Jacaerys as they observed the feast below, "will strengthen the realm. With the Hightowers under our banner, no one will dare question your claim when the time comes."

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed on the goblet of wine in his hand. "The Hightowers betrayed you, Mother. They sought to tear our family apart. And now you ask me to marry one of them?"

Rhaenyra's expression softened, but her voice carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "We can no longer afford to dwell in the past, Jace. The realm cannot survive on grudges. Peace is built on pragmatism, and Lady Y/N represents a chance to put old rivalries to rest."

Jacaerys glanced across the hall at Y/N, who sat at a place of honour among the noblewomen. She was poised, her demeanour betraying nothing of the storm that brewed within the room. Her beauty was undeniable, but all he could see was the history her name carried. The name Hightower was stained with betrayal in his eyes, and he struggled to separate the woman from the house she came from.

The greens, the banners of their enemies, still haunted him. They had flown high during the civil war, a symbol of the division that had nearly destroyed House Targaryen. To see them again, even in the form of a gown worn by the woman he was now expected to marry, stirred a deep unease within him. Could he truly trust her? Could he trust her family?

"I will speak with her," Jacaerys said after a long pause, his voice laced with reluctance. "But if this peace is false, if they betray us again..." He trailed off, his eyes darkening. "The consequences could destroy everything we’ve fought for."

Rhaenyra studied her son, recognizing the weight of his hesitation. She understood his doubts, for they echoed her own. Yet, as queen, she had learned that sometimes survival meant making alliances with those you least trusted. "I know," she replied quietly, her hand resting briefly on his arm. "But sometimes, Jace, the only way to ensure the future is to risk the past."

As the evening wore on, Jacaerys's gaze remained on Lady Y/N. He would speak to her, as his mother had requested. But in his heart, the seeds of doubt had already been planted, and he feared that peace, however tempting, might come at a far greater cost than anyone was willing to admit.

[crimxonwrites]

Blood-painted kisses | Aemond Targaryen x female!OC | Chapter 3 ❝Lord of the Tides❞

☽➛ Summary: Nothing satietes Maehrys Velaryon's hunger as well as revenge. Growing up at the Red Keep as the bastard of Rhaenyra Targaryen did not come trouble-free. Her childhood consisted of bitter words and repulsive looks from nearly everybody in the castle. As she grew older, Maehrys grew meaner. Once the Velaryons return to King's Landing to defend Luke's claim as Lord of Driftmark, Maehrys decides that it is time for the people who hurt her in the past to pay.

☽➛ Warnings: heavy mentions of self-harm, mentions of attempted suicide, bullying, mentions of blood, overall 18+!!!!

☽➛ Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x female!OC (slowburn enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers again?? romance is a subplot)

☽➛ Word count: 2.6k

!!DISCLAIMER: English is not my first language! feel free to correct me at any time!

Chapter 4

Masterlist

 The throne room remained as massive as Maehrys remembered.

 The Iron Throne, on the other hand, seemed smaller, the thousand swords have lost their magic over time; their edges became softer, less fearsome, but the man that was standing on it made Maehrys feel physically sick. Otto Hightower, the King’s Hand was sitting on the edge of the throne, with a slight complacent expression on his face. He had no right to sit on the throne.

 “Though it is the great hope of this court that lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark.” Otto spoke and Maehrys clenched her jaw. Her grandfather should’ve been on that throne, not the father of Alicent. The princess’ gaze shifted on the Queen who was standing beside her three children: Aegon, Aemond and Helaena, on the right side of the throne, while Maehrys, Rhaenyra, her brothers and Daemon were located on the left side of the throne. The princess could not recall when was the last time she was in a room full of people who despised her and her family. “As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.” Otto added as Aemond’s gaze caught Maehrys’ attention. Her half-uncle seemed proud that his grandfather was standing on the throne and was staring at the princess with a triumphant expression on his face. “The crown will now hear the petitions.” Luke began to tug at the princess’ sleeve, singling that he wishes to hold her hand. Maehrys shook her head and refused to. She did not wish for her little brother to appear weak in that moment. “Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.” Otto called.

 Maehrys’ great uncle stepped forward before throwing Luke a bitter look.

 “My Queen.” Vaemond greeted Alicent, who seemed more worried than Rhaenyra. “My Lord Hand.” Maehrys yearned for the formalities to cease, and for Vaemond to start complaining already. “The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end of their bloodlines and their name.” Lord Vaemond’s approach was tiring. Maehrys did not wish for a history lesson. “I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.” Maehrys wanted to scream as the tension rose higher.

 “As it does in my son’s, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon.” Rhaenyra spoke. “If you care so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir.” She added, finally looking at Lord Vaemond. “No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition.” The energy in the throne chamber made Maehrys feel as if she was going to suffocate.

 “You will have chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra.” Alicent interrupted. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.” She added as Vaemond’s body turned to face Maehrys’ family.

 “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it.” Ser Vaemond spoke and Maehrys could only hope he would do as he said. “This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.” His eyes drifted towards Luke, who seemed terrified. “My Queen, my Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all.” Vaemond continued as he turned to face Otto again. Maehrys could feel Aemond’s gaze on her, burning through her, desiring to destroy her and her family once and for all. She will not allow him that satisfaction. “I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor… the Lord of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides.” Vaemond, at last, finished his speech.

 “Thank you, Ser Vaemond. Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.” Otto spoke.

 Maehrys’ glance follows Rhaenyra’s body as she leaves her family’s side and steps in front of the Iron Throne. “If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very-“ Rhaenyra’s speech was interrupted by the sound of the massive doors of the throne room opening.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the first Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the Realm.”

 The sound of the King’s cane thumping on the floor echoed through the chamber, as everyone, including Maehrys watched her grandfather approach the Iron Throne. She has not seen him in almost a decade and struggled to recognize the old man. The princess bowed, as did everyone else. The King was wearing a golden mask on the right side of his face and Maehrys wondered what had happened. She knew he fell ill, and assumed that he could not even talk, since Maehrys was not allowed to see him. But there he was, slowly limping, crown looking heavy on his head. King Viserys looked at Rhaenyra, and Maehrys caught a glance of his face. He looked sick, as if death was trying to catch him off guard. He stopped walking as he reached the throne’s stairs.

 “I will sit on the throne today.” He whispered to Otto.

 “Your Grace.” Otto nodded and joined his family.

 King Viserys was struggling to walk up the stairs and a knight came to his aid. “I will be fine.” His voice sounded ill. All Maehrys could do was watch in awe as he was making his way up to the throne. The sound of the crown’s metal falling on the ground startled the Princess, and she raised herself on her tiptoes, attempting to observe what had happened. Daemon hurried to help him. “I said I’m fine.” The king’s hoarse voice echoed through the room. Maehrys wondered if it was his stubbornness keeping him alive.

 “Come on.” Daemon helped him sit on the throne and placed the crown back on his head.

 Maehrys was pleased to find Alicent and Otto’s worried faces staring at the King.

 “I must… admit my confusion.” The King spoke and Rhaenyra walked back by Maehrys’ side. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.” Everyone turned to look at Maehrys’ grandmother.

 “Indeed, your Grace.” Princess Rhaenys stepped in front of the throne. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.” Maehrys was delighted that her brother had her grandmother’s support. She was starting to doubt.

 “Well… the matter is settled. Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.” The King announced and Maehrys wished to sigh in relief, but she could not.

 A knot was settling in her stomach as she watched Ser Vaemond’s facial expressions change from confusion to resentment. “You break law, and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir.” Ser Vaemond began to walk towards the throne. “Yet you dare tell me… who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon.” His voice was glazed with hatred and disgust. “No. I will not allow it.”

 “Allow it?” The King questioned. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

 Ser Vaemond suddenly turned towards Luke and Maehrys. “That is no true Velaryon,” he pointed his finger at them. “And certainly not nephew of mine.” Maehrys instinctively placed her hand over her gown pocket who offered her easy access to the garter that was holding her dagger.

 “Go to your chambers. You have said enough.” Rhaenyra protectively positioned herself in front of Luke.

 “Lucerys is my trueborn grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.” The King spoke again, with much more ease this time.

 “You may run your house as you see fit but you will not decide the future of mine.” Vaemond turned to face the King. “My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And Gods be damned…” He turned towards Luke, again and spoke on a threatening tone. “I will not see it ended on the account of this-“ He stopped himself before saying the word that everyone was thinking. Maehrys wanted to slash his neck.

 “Say it.” Daemon spoke.

 “Her children…” Ser Vaemond wasted no time. “Are bastards! And she is a whore.” He yelled and Maehrys was ready to take out the dagger from her garter, but Daemon’s hand on her shoulder stopped her from taking Vaemond’s life.

 “I…” King Viserys slowly got up from the Iron Throne. “Will have your tongue for that.”

 Daemon’s sword slashed Vaemond’s head, a waterfall of crimson erupting from him, as his body fell on the floor. Maehrys watched his lifeless body while listening to the gasps of the people echo through the throne chamber. Her gaze instinctively drifted towards Aemond, who was looking at Daemon clean his sword. His violet eye had a hint of admiration in it.

 That was it. The title of “Lord of Driftmark” was secured, and her brother ought to wear the crown in short time.

 “The King demanded a family supper.” Alisha announced as Maehrys entered her chambers.

 “Daemon killed Ser Vaemond.” The princess sat down in front of her vanity. “Slashed his head in two.” She looked at Alisha’s face brighten through the mirror.

“That… sounds like something Daemon would do.” Alisha spoke and started taking off jewellery from the Princess’ hair.

 “Yes, but he did it to defend Luke. To defend us, Ser Vaemond was calling us bastards!” Maehrys exclaimed.

 Daemon’s violent outbursts were no surprise to the Princess. She witnessed Daemon kill other knights in tourneys simply because they had the upper hand. There was even an instance where her great-uncle made his dragon eat a messenger because he did not receive good news. Maehrys knew Daemon was ruthless and impulsive, yet she could not understand why he would defend her and her brothers. She reckoned he only cared about Rhaenyra’s silvered haired children.

 “Perhaps the prince is beginning to get attached to you and your brothers.” The lady-in-waiting speculated.

 A shiver ran down Maehrys’ spine when she heard Alisha’s words. She was afraid that her words were true, and that she would have to look at Daemon as a father, rather than as her mother’s consort. The thought physically made Maehrys shake her head.

 “You were saying that my grandsire wishes to have supper with us?” Maehrys changed the subject and began to look through the different hair accessories. She picked up a pearly necklace, wondering if it would be appropriate to wear at the feast.

 “Yes. He demands his whole family to be present.” Alisha spoke, braiding the Princess’ hair.

 The Princess dropped the necklace, her body suddenly feeling restless. She did not wish to have supper with Alicent and her children. It was a nightmare waiting to begin. Maehrys got up from the chair as soon as Alisha finished braiding her second braid. She walked towards the chest where she had training clothes and began taking her gown off. “I wish to train.” She announced and Alisha hurried to help her dress. “Tell Ser Criston to meet me in the courtyard.” Maehrys commanded.

 “Yes, your Grace.” Alisha left her chambers.

 Maehrys was aware that if she did not train, or engage in any sort of physical activity, she will have too much energy during the supper. She ought to be exhausted during the dinner, she did not wish to have a clear mind and process all the insults that her uncles will throw at her and her siblings. It would be a lie if she said she did not miss a good training session. The Princess finished tying the laces of her boots when Alisha returned to her chamber.

 Maehrys shivered as she made her way through the castle to the courtyard, which was less crowded than the day before; a scent of hay and rain floating through the air. Ser Criston was waiting by the wooden swords with his armour off. “Princess.” The knight threw a sword at her. The Princess was caught off-guard but managed to catch the wooden sword before it hit her face. “Position.” Ser Criston said as he positioned himself in front of her. Maehrys moved her body in a defensive position, guessing his aggressive sword fighting style.

Ser Criston swings first, just as Maehrys predicted. The Princess blocked his blow, their wooden swords slamming together. “You look like your mother.” Ser Criston spoke, applying more pressure onto Maehrys’ sword. He stepped closer. “From up close.” He added, swinging his sword a few more times. Maehrys parried his blows with effort, her muscles remembering what he taught her during her youth days.

 “I could even say that you are pretty.” Ser Criston continued to attack, and all Maehrys could do is block his blows, not having a chance to swing herself. The Princess knew what he was doing: trying to distract her with words, but she was no fool. “You will grow into her.” Criston said and Maehrys started breathing harder as adrenaline levels began to adjourn. She whirled away from him, creating distance. The pain in her right shoulder reminded her of its creator and Maehrys finally swung, anger flowing through her body. Ser Criston was taken aback by her sudden offence and steps back after blocking her blow. “I might have been mistaken. You fight like your father.” He said and Maehrys instinctively swung her sword again. The knight avoided the blow and instead of swinging his sword, he pushed the princess on the ground.

 Maehrys’ body plummeted on the cold, dirty ground, and she groaned when the pain in her shoulder began spreading through her entire arm. She attempted to grab the wooden sword that fell besides her, but her body would not obey her mind’s commands. Ser Criston did not try to help her, but just watched as the young princess struggled to get up. “I saw your mother in that position some time ago.” Ser Criston spoke again, and she slowly got up.

 “What is the meaning of that?” Maehrys frowned, not understanding what Ser Criston was talking about. Did he fight Rhaenyra? Was her mother trained in combat?

 “It means he fucked her.” Aemond’s sharp voice made her get up from the ground. She impulsively brought the sword up, the sharp edge pointing at her uncle.

 “I could have your tongue for that.” Her mind began to fog, dread running through her veins. She wanted to defeat Aemond, badly.

 “I do not wish to fight a girl.” The silver-haired prince spoke.

 “Then I shall not be a girl today.” Maehrys started walking around Aemond, circling him, as she kept her wooden sword pointed at him.

˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°˜”*°

Also read on: AO3

Taglist: @watermel0nsugarhigh

[dungeonbent]

( An excerpt from Learned Complacency: A Record of the Surreal and Zoologically Dubious in the Dungeon of Skaia, written by R. L. Theras. )

… Thus far, the primary conceit of these pages has been to illustrate the base layout of the dungeon and the verifiable history of Skaia. Now that you are briefed on the intricacies of the Prospit-Derse conflict (caused in part due to the differing dynamics between the short and long-lived races within the borders of each kingdom), their eventual ruin, and their ultimate collapse in on one another, I will indulge in something of a detour. Much like the paths of the dungeon in which we venture, my thoughts must make a similar change of course.

However, this is far from a flight of fancy. It would, in fact, be wholly irresponsible not to explore this new passageway being built. For while smaller-minded men may give into the urge to claim sole credit for their achievements, all those in the dungeon know that without a party, they are lost.

I am joined in my travels by three companions. For the sake of anonymity and to ward against all future successes we may find after our return to the surface, I will refer to them by their chosen aliases: Ecto, Turntech, and Gnostio.

Turntech has been somewhat of a companion to me throughout my 90 years, both in terms of age due to his being my pseudo-twin and in terms of study. His accumulated knowledge of anatomy has been as much a boon to my personal research as his expertise in ancient dwarven technology, having previously unearthed a strange set of disks dubbed ‘turntables’- a truly archaic device which appears to me something of ritual significance. He will be assisting us in translation, navigation, and proper time management.

Gnostio is a native to the island whom I met when my brother and I arrived on Skaia, as well as someone intimately familiar with magic of many strands. There is no one on the island more knowledgeable about the flora which will be encountered within the dungeon, nor is there anyone quite so skilled in spatial manipulation. She will be helping to carry out research and act as our scout with the superior lupine senses of her beastman form. She is also, I suspect, to be the primary source of our collective morale going forward. Cheer is truly a strangely infectious thing.

While Ecto has little research experience beyond her brief work with the gold-stripping crews scraping the kingdom formerly known as Prospit clean of its luster, she is an invaluable part of the team; she is remarkably cool under pressure, and her mastery of teleportation magic is second only to her apparent affinity for the spirits of the wind, who flock to her as pets to a beloved master. While all of us have been on expeditions before, none have been on quite the number that Ecto has; therefore, if there is a leader, she may as well be the closest to it.

I take the time to introduce these players because there is one truth which applies to all dungeons: your survival depends entirely upon those who enter the dungeon. For the next two months, these three individuals will not only be a party- they will act as my companions, my flock, and, inevitably, will act as the lifeline which I depend on to live. 

This is even more true considering the small size of the party. While three of us have experience in doling out resurrection magic, and one has teleportation magic which can feasibly take us to the surface if straits become truly dire, it only takes one overwhelming enemy. While the four of us are not green in any sense of the word when it comes to fighting, we are still faced with an unavoidable truth: if we don’t break the dungeon, the dungeon may well break us.

When we reach the bottom of the dungeon to perhaps find that fictional ‘Skaia’ which the island derives its name- that endless pool of creativity where every desire is brought to startling life, sated with the fill of wonder- then, perhaps, we may turn. Perhaps the story of Prospit and Derse is less history and more omen; the long ago echo of a warning.

Regardless of this, I put my full faith in my compatriots. I entrust them my life.

For all my grandstanding about the academic nature of this work, this is, in part, a story. It is my story, if only because I am regrettably unable to attain the full objectivity that would find me in a fully controlled laboratory setting. 

While I endeavor to write this book alone, do not be alarmed should their hands also touch the pen. They are merely telling their part of the story as well.

[underwater0firework]

I think one of the main problems with MHA is that it's not anti-establishment enough. Like, in this era of media and pop culture, we (as viewers) are used to seeing stories of underdogs, of resistance groups fighting against authority. The most famous example of this would be Star Wars, which was commentary on the Vietnam War/Cold War. And then you have examples like the Hunger Games and the YA dystopia boom of the 2010s - all focused on resistance against government systems. (This of course, speaks towards the current sentiments on modern-day governments) I mean, hey, you've probably seen those cringy posts about "how does the government expect us to be complacent when we were raised by characters who resisted fascism." You know the ones.

While this genre of YA media is most prominent in western culture, MHA *has* become a part of mainstream western culture, due to its success. So many of the ppl active in the fandom, making fanworks, etc, are exposed to this trope as (mostly) the norm. And, in comparison to this trope, MHA just doesn't...sit right.

From the start, the world of MHA is flawed. I think everyone can agree with this. Quirkiness kids are bullied, one of the top heroes beats his children, there's an organization creating child soldiers, etc, etc. Hell, in the first episode, there's even a mention that literally every single kid wants to be a hero when they grow up! That can't be good for the economy, can it?

But instead of working to fix this, hori just gives us a worse evil to brand as the enemy. Asking the viewer to choose the best of two evils, hoping we will ignore problems like discrimination to overthrow the people who are literally making human puppets. Hori wants the world of MHA to appear "black and white" but really, it kinda just appears..."black and ehhhh...grey." Which, I mean, is quite realistic given our *current* world but...I guess it doesn't fit the genre? It's not satisfying, really. Or particularly well executed.

On top of this, the problems present in the hero world are ones that Hori's viewers might very easily relate to. Bullying, domestic violence, discrimination, even sexism (though that one is one that is VERY MUCH not deliberate on hori's part...ugh). Which is why, even though, realistically, Bakugou telling Izuku to k*** himself isn't worse than AFO making LITERAL MONSTERS OUT OF CORPSES, it feels that way. Because, y'know, I don't think any of the MHA viewers out there are at risk of being nomu-ified.

So, what happens? No matter how evil Hori tries to make Shiggy, people will still like him. Because he's not violent in a way that is relatable, he's just...edgy. And also hot as hell.

tl;dr? Hori created a morally grey world and refused to fix any of its problems, so we all simp for the murderous hand-man.

[southsideoftexas]

Happy San Jacinto Day, everybody!!!

Friday Reflection: Against The Odds

by Michael Quinn Sullivan

Listen to the Reflections Podcast

Defeat usually begins in one of two ways: believing success to be impossible, or assuming your victory is assured.

On April 21, 1836, the Texians achieved independence at San Jacinto because they were willing to fight a last-chance, impossible battle against an enemy force certain it would never taste defeat.

Let us be clear about the state of the Texian military: No one would have been impressed. They were ill-trained, under-prepared, and poorly outfitted. They had been running in tactical retreats for several weeks. Their leader, Sam Houston, was a heavy drinker.

And let us be equally clear about the Mexican forces: No one would have doubted their superiority. They were disciplined, well-trained, and better armed. Their leader, General Santa Anna, was a ruthless butcher.

The Mexicans were complacent and the Texians knew they had nothing to lose.

And so on the fields of San Jacinto, the Texas militia demonstrated a bold, courageous commitment to their cause by exhibiting a shrewd willingness to exploit Santa Anna’s arrogance. It was a high-stakes gambit, with only two possible outcomes. Either independence would be secured through victory, or the cause of Texas would be lost in a disastrous defeat. There would be no draw.

In broad daylight, the Texians began shouting “Remember the Alamo!” and “Remember Goliad!” With Sam Houston himself leading the infantry, the Texians charged on the napping Mexican army.

To simply note that the battle lasted less than 20 minutes doesn’t do justice to the scale of the victory. Nearly 700 Mexican soldiers were killed, another 200 were wounded, and some 700 were taken prisoner – including the president of Mexico, Santa Anna. By contrast, the Texians lost just nine men and saw only 30 wounded.

What was true in 1836 is true today: Freedom doesn’t come in timid nibbles, but through bold actions. Never in history has liberty been expanded in a gradual series of small steps over time; that’s how tyrannies take hold.

Liberty is born from boldness. When people decide they are willing to lose everything rather than live as serfs, that is when tyrants quiver and fall.

Sam Houston and the Texians at San Jacinto knew the odds and took bold action anyway. For the Lone Star State to shine even brighter in the years ahead, we must daily recommit to doing likewise.

[lopenash]

To any Americans that need to be made aware,

We are at a turning point, not only for our country but for the world. This upcoming election will dictate the course of this century and the following centuries. The decisions made by America and its citizens, by virtue of its position on the global stage, have massive influence over the safety and stability of the world. As goes America, so goes the world.

That's why it's so important that the Democrats win this fall at all costs. To do otherwise is to enable fascism. Donald Trump and his supporters intend to upend American democracy and install a dictatorship and every action taken to undermine the only feasible way of stopping this is complicit in aiding these fascists.

There are a frankly disturbing number of people who have come to deeply distressing conclusions about this race. There are those who say that the difference between the two parties is negligible at best. There are those who say that the Democrats need to lose because they've become too complacent and need a harsh lesson in order to push them to the left. And there are those who say that America deserves to have Trump win. All of these people are, at best, extremely ignorant and naive.

To those who say that the two candidate's politics are virtually identical: I implore you:

Get some fucking perspective.

You are saying that the man who embodies the past 50 years of American policy is comparable to the largest and most successful fascist since Adolf Hitler, who he resembles more every day. The man who enabled the Supreme Court to roll back Roe v. Wade, to dismantle Chevron, to legalize monarchy by installing ideologues hand-picked by the theocrats advocating for him and the ones who publicly outlined their plans for dismantling the protections of government. This is what you are saying is morally and politically equivalent to Joe Biden.

To those who say the Democrats need to lose because they've grown compliant: I envy you. I truly wish I was in your position to be able to skirt by the gaze of the ones who wish to harm me. But I and many others cannot do this. My ability to live is dictated by the whims of society and those whims could easily change under Republican rule. If you think that sacrificing people's lives in order to fulfill your fantasies of ushering in new utopian age is an acceptable course of action, I urge you to reevaluate your priorities and to remove yourself from the echochamber that convinced you your ideas are popular and mainstream.

To those who say America deserves to be subject to the rule of autocrats: you are a bad person. There is nothing else to be said. You do not believe in equality, in justice, in charity, nothing. This is just a game to you, and you are no different from the fascists that threaten us.

There are lives at stake in this election and anyone who perpetuates these views and discourages people from voting is tacitly endorsing fascism. We have been here before, less than 100 years ago and we're threatening to make the same mistakes our predecessors made. The rise of fascism in the 1920's and 30's was not inevitable, there were many times that they could have been stopped it. But, they didn't. They chose not to, after all, it would betray the Revolution if the Communist Party gave liberals a win. Or those that are the wrong kind of communist, they're just as bad as the fascists!

Don't let perfect be the enemy of good.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Hunter Walker at TPM:

A dispute raging inside the “Stew Peters Network” ended up in a federal court in Florida last month. The ongoing case has exposed drama between a group of far right media personalities, complete with alleged text messages and emails that show the inner workings of a company that has peddled conspiracy theories, anti-gay hate speech, racism, and antisemitism, while still maintaining connections with more mainstream Republicans.  In many ways, the trouble began — as so many things have in the modern far right — with the coronavirus pandemic. 

The company’s namesake, Stew Peters, is an internet personality whose eponymous show and associated social media posts have, in just the past two days alone, suggested immigrants are “retarded cannibals,” declared “Jewish Zionist infiltration in our government” is “our enemy,” and attacked “queer perverts” who he said needed to be “brought to heel” for creating “Weimar conditions” that “must be met with Weimar solutions.” Peters, who has amassed six figure followings on the social networks Gab and Telegram along with an audience of over eighty thousand on former President Trump’s “Truth Social” platform, has shared his stage with neo-Nazi leader Nick Fuentes. Yet Peters’ evident extremism, which has included airing blatantly antisemitic cartoon caricatures in the introduction to his broadcasts, has also not stopped him from drawing established Republicans as guests on his show, including Trump’s former White House chief of staff, Mark Meadows, Rep. Paul Gosar (R-AZ), who has been credited with appearances in six episodes, and multiple current GOP congressional candidates.  

While a blend of right wing politics and hate speech is a core part of Peters’ brand, COVID conspiracy theories are what provided him some of his strongest social media momentum. Specifically, Peters gained prominence with the 2022 documentary “Died Suddenly,” which focused on what the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation described as “the evidence-free claim that COVID vaccines are causing sudden deaths in people around the world.” Peters was among the producers of the approximately hour long movie. It mixed jump cuts and archival footage — including images of 9/11, the moon landing, and bigfoot — along with interviews and easily contradicted claims to argue the vaccines are part of a population control plot engineered by the “global elite.” “Died Suddenly” concludes with onscreen text urging viewers to “let us never forget what they have done.” “If you are quiet, or apathetic, or complacent you have to stand before God and you have to answer for that,” Peters warned the audience. 

[...]

The lawsuit was first reported on last month by Angry White Men, a site dedicated to “tracking white supremacy.” However, the internal correspondence from Peters’ company and other case documents are being reported here at TPM for the first time. Along with feuds and alleged malfeasance in Peters’ inner circle, the documents — including some which were unsealed due to TPM reporting — shed light on the financial model that fringe far right broadcasters use to build their business. The suit paints a picture of an extremist media empire driven by clicks, commercials from a company selling gold bars to people paranoid about the “next crisis,” and audience donations. It also reveals how heavily Peters relied on outsiders to create much of the content that aired under his brand name. 

[...] Starting in 2014, Peters went on to work as a bounty hunter in Minnesota where he experienced some initial social media success posting videos of apprehensions and taped rants. However, this venture was not without its own issues. By 2020, Peters began posting a political radio show on the Facebook page where he shared bounty hunting exploits. The following year, according to the Daily Beast, Peters was arrested after a scene at his home. The incident reportedly led Peters to express fears about the future of his law enforcement-adjacent career, and his bounty hunting videos ultimately tapered off. As Peters increasingly focused on political content, it was the “Died Suddenly” documentary that helped Peters, as Mother Jones put it, “hit his stride.”

“Died Suddenly” was produced by Peters, filmmakers Matt Skow and Nicholas Stumphauzer, who directed the movie, Edward Szall, and Lauren Witzke. It was presented by the “Stew Peters Network,” which is essentially a subscription-based website and series of social media pages that host Peters’ show and affiliated broadcasts. Szall and Witzke are partners in the production company TLM Global, which is short for “Truth & Light Media.”  Like Peters, Szall and Witzke, who was previously an executive producer for Peters’ network, have their own connections to both GOP politics and the more extreme far right. Witzke, who could not be reached for comment on this story, was the GOP nominee for  U.S. Senate in Delaware in 2020. After winning the Republican primary in that race, Witzke cheerfully accepted tweeted congratulations from Fuentes, the prominent neo Nazi activist and broadcaster. Before losing in the general election, Witzke conducted an interview with the website VDare, which has consistently hosted white nationalist and antisemitic content. In that conversation, Witzke indicated she was more concerned about immigration than being branded a racist.

“Died Suddenly” wasn’t the only product of the partnership between Peters, Witzke, and Szall that, according to court documents, began in October 2021. Since then, the pair also worked with Peters on the documentary “These Little Ones,” which focused on a narrative about “elite pedophilia” with echoes of the pro-Trump QAnon conspiracy theory. They also produced two movies under the “Watch The Water” banner that were credited with originating a conspiracy theory that COVID was caused by snake venom in drinking water. Two other videos made through the partnership suggest world leaders and scientists are involved in a Satanic plot and that Americans are being enslaved by taxes, narratives that are more extreme versions of the concerns about globalists and elites that hint at antisemitic tropes and have increasingly become part of the Republican playbook. Along with producing these documentaries, Witzke and Szall also hosted their own biweekly broadcast, “Crosstalk News” on Peters’ network.

The Fokiss v. TLM Global lawsuit exposes the inner workings and internal fights within far-right extremist Stew Peters’s media empire.

See Also:

Angry White Men: Stew Peters Files Lawsuit Over Rights To Anti-Vaccine Propaganda Film

[flesh-into--gear]

it's pretty nuts to me how..... intensely and unceremoniously the facade of America has been ripped off for the younger generations. the entire death of the counterculture came from the realization it was actually just a bunch of fucking dipshit yuppies who wanted to "appear" socially conscious, but began the usual pearl-clutching the second it mattered.

with each successive generation since, the facade has gotten weaker and the resistance stronger for longer, to the point that, now, i don't know how it's even possible to not see it. even if you remove the blinders for a split second, it's... there's not even any mystique to the corruption anymore. it's just blatant.

please keep being loud. please keep being loud and uncompromising and just... everything. the enemy of progress will always be complacency. the work will never be over because it shouldn't ever be over. there is no "solution", only "momentary stillness that leads to regression" and i can't take watching any of it anymore

[magic-in-onyx]

Await hold on!! What if...

Fakir kidnapping Mytho and holding him captive, with him being of Drosselmeyer's bloodline, was what caused the Story to not move? (As intentional or subconscious as it could have been on Fakir's side.)

Because Drosselmeyer's goal with it was to trap the characters in a perpetually reoccurring cycle of Despair, right? And Fakir shattering Mytho's heart and keeping it shattered (and letting the Sword of Lohengrin rust, only to later reforge it IN HIS OWN BLOOD which is of Drosselmeyer's own line) stopped the Story, because the point of the Story was to endlessly repeat the cycle of "everyone loves the Prince - their feelings wake the Raven - the conflicts free the Raven - the Prince fights the Raven - the Prince loses his heart". (The shard that is soaked in Raven blood is Love for more reasons than one, because Love takes on many forms, and is easily tainted, as Edel has said.) By suspending Mytho in nonfeeling darkness, Fakir effectively stops the cycle of Despair.

Enter Duck, whom Drosselmeyer personally seeks out and engages by giving her the Shard of the Prince's Hope - a both real and false hope which is to both force the Story to move, make the characters blindly believe they can succeed, but also deepen the Despair the characters would feel during the climax as Hope is unavoidably betrayed. Drosselmeyer gaslights Duck and makes her temporarily forget her origin, causing her to better adapt to the Story, which probably in some way also influences the memories of other characters, including Fakir, as the Cogs begin to turn.

This would mean that Fakir, over the course of the series, and likely more instinctively than not, stops, resumes, rewinds, breaks and resumes again, and finally completely reconstructs the Story's original narrative, in that order.

Note that he meets Siegfried just around the time he causes his parents' death as well, albeit after the fact, so around the time he stops writing (actively, that we know of).

For there to be creation, destruction must occur first. Chances of failure, of re-establishing the cycle of Despair are grand, so no wonder Fakir is so wary of Tutu, and so reluctant to agree with her mission, and believe in their success. Once he does, Duck's own Hope and Faith light the way, and not the borrowed Hope, which is also a product of Drosselmeyer's writing just as much as the Prince himself.

Fakir likewise renames Siegfried to Mytho when he 'claims' him from Drosselmeyer, and personally shatters his heart and traps him in protective limbo.

Fakir also damages the Sword of Lohengrin twice, once before the beginning of the series, (inadvertently or not,) and the second time when he breaks it while enabling Tutu to win the Shard of Love from Kreahe. (Not to mention he also inspires her dance confession, because he is the one to tell her not to speak the words of love and disappear.) A sword that is meant to belong to the Knight from the Story, but is in the end wielded by Mytho. (So is Mytho/Siegfried a knight as much as he is a Prince?) The Sword's two halves transform into two swans (a motif also on its hilt) that end up pulling the flying carriage at the end of the series. The Sword is only ever reforged in blood once, it being Fakir's (bathed in the blood of the Prince's enemy, god, captor, friend, and protector). Mytho reconstructs the two broken halves by summoning the swans to face the Raven. It is also partially wielded by Rue, who slays the Raven together with Mytho.

I'm not sure how I want to end this post, but I had to out these drabbles in writing.

Also how come, while even Fakir's and Autor's memories were altered, and complacency encouraged by the Story's influence, Charon appears to have forgotten nothing at all points in time?? If even Drosselmeyer's own Heir is made to forget his origin, and his puppet of destruction (Tutu) as well? (Autor logic-ed his way to the right conclusions.) The only other people who seem to be immune to the Story's hypnosis are the Bookmen.

Was Charon secretly a Bookman who deffected from the Order to raise the Heir to Drosselmeyer in hopes of winning against Drosselmeyer once and for all? So that this poor child would neither die as a result of Drosselmeyer's sadism, nor suffer from either his ability or the Bookmen's prosecution? So that he would be the savior of the new age?

I must be reading too much into the meta... (^^')

[fortunescaling]

❛ if i didn't know any better, i'd say you were jealous. ❜

'But do you?' He responded matching the taunt in her tone, sliding in gaze into her direction. For certain, he'd say she'd grown oddly comfortable and familiar in their interactions, but that was a different topic of conversation.

'And while we're on the topic of Kuchiki Byakuya, do you know he was defeated by a Sternritter, and how?' He asked rhetorically. He doubted the leader of Kuchiki Clan, and her apparently trusted sword master, bragged much about losing his Bankai battle out of recklessness and needing rescue from subordinates.

Jugram didn't particularly like to bad-mouth, even the enemy, it was unbecoming and achieved nothing but a poor reputation. That wasn't his point, but Jezebel ought to know the facts if she intended to learn any actual swordsmanship.

'After we stole their Bankai, none seemed to know how to even hold themselves in a fight.' He recoiled with pity. The distraught caused by the loss of their Bankai had, of course, been part of the anticipated and desired outcome of the Medaillon strategy. The operation had been a success in that sense.

Jugram occasionally pondered how they could ever lose the war when his people surpassed Soul Society's Gotei 13 in many critical departments: strategic planning, technology advancements, and even in resilience to adversity...

Then he wondered how Jezebel, who grew up with all world living's modern commodities, could hold in high esteem people so stuck in outdated approach to life? What did she find so trustworthy about them?

'Shinigami have became too complacent in relying on their Zanpakuto's powers alone. As a result, their swordsmanship is lacking, and that is an understatement.'

He'd think it obvious, although he understood good swordsmanship, to an untrained eye, might be harder to tell from mediocre skills.

Especially to those who never experienced having nothing but one's sole physical strength, but instead dismissed it as weak and invaluable, in comparison to one's Zanpakuto or even Schrift. He'd lie to say his own had never let their ego got the better of them in battle or training.

'They've never experienced defeat, and I suppose it shows in the way they approach combat and training.' He reflected, finding little to envy in a life devoid of directions and higher purposes , although the blissful ignorance of it looked tempting.

[childrensbread]

Heros of Faith: Esther

Mordecai Persuades Esther to Help

💜 When Esther’s eunuchs and female attendants came and told her about Mordecai, she was in great distress. She sent clothes for him to put on instead of his sackcloth, but he would not accept them. 

Then Esther summoned Hathak, one of the king’s eunuchs assigned to attend her, and ordered him to find out what was troubling Mordecai and why.

So Hathak went out to Mordecai in the open square of the city in front of the king’s gate. Mordecai told him everything that had happened to him, including the exact amount of money Haman had promised to pay into the royal treasury for the destruction of the Jews.

He also gave him a copy of the text of the edict for their annihilation, which had been published in Susa, to show to Esther and explain it to her, and he told him to instruct her to go into the king’s presence to beg for mercy and plead with him for her people.

Hathak went back and reported to Esther what Mordecai had said. Then she instructed him to say to Mordecai, “All the king’s officials and the people of the royal provinces know that for any man or woman who approaches the king in the inner court without being summoned the king has but one law: that they be put to death unless the king extends the gold scepter to them and spares their lives. But thirty days have passed since I was called to go to the king.”

When Esther’s words were reported to Mordecai, he sent back this answer: “Do not think that because you are in the king’s house you alone of all the Jews will escape.

For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” ~Esther 4:4-14 ✝️

Devotional

As Christians there are a number of Scriptures we have learned in our faith walk that tend to roll off the tongue, and that are stored up in our heart. "God works all things together for our good." (Romans 8:28) "He has plans to prosper us, not to harm us." (Jeremiah 29:11) "God so loved the world that He gave His one and only son..." (John 3:16) Another can be found in Esther chapter 4: ". . . for such a time as this."

It is a familiar Christian phrase, but often recited without much study as to the original context and meaning in which the verse was said. When this verse is being shared, Mordecai is reproving Esther, and telling her not to be indifferent but to courageously step up and stand out, rather than go into self-preservation mode.

Rather than enjoying the benefits of life in the palace court, Mordecai reminds Esther she is there to help change the course of history. Service over selfies. Significance over success. He wanted to reinforce the truth that Esther had been chosen to humbly serve, putting aside her own ambitions, letting go, so that she could let God deliver the Jewish people.

Esther accepted the request, with no certainty that she would not be harmed or maimed for her actions. This is the "for such a time as this" that we often romanticize. It is one that involves sacrifice, surrender and servanthood. And it's the same "for such a time as this" God challenges us with today.

Each of us have been positioned to stand up for truth in a compromised culture, with an abundance of opportunities to optimize God's rule and reign in the earth, and to expand His Kingdom's purpose. God wants purpose to prevail over complacency and convenience, and wants us to be fully surrendered to Him wherever He has placed us.

An entire nation was grateful for how Esther reacted to Mordecai's challenge. Lives were spared. Joy was shared. Souls were reclaimed and the enemy was captured. All as a result of Esther serving, surrendering and sacrificing before God.

Whether it's a spiritual battle, a war between worlds, or a conflict that involves you standing up for what is right, you are on Kingdom assignment, as God's soldier, and a warrior in the Spirit.

Keep Christ and His Kingdom front and center and watch Him use you, to save, shape and change His world. You were called "for such a time as this"! 💜🙏

Source: Glorify App

Image: ABPosters

Photo Editor: ChildrensBread

My Glorify Referral Link: https://share.glorify-app.com/MRSPINO777 ✝️

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Warrior Knight Archetype

While Warriors focus on attacking, the Knight focuses on defense. Their mastery of armor is second to none, and they are skilled in damage mitigation first and foremost. These characters are the tanks on the battlefield, soaking up damage so that their allies don't have to.

Foci: Cavalier At home in the saddle, these warriors prefer mounted combat; they can bond with almost anything that can be ridden. If you ask them how they do it, they're not going to know what to tell you, as it's different for every Cavalier. Mounted knights are terrible at range but great at high speeds, and their mounts are often trained to participate in battle alongside them.

Within this foci fall the following abilities:

Charge: The character charges full-tilt ahead, riding down anything in their path.

Rider’s Seat:The Cavalier’s bond with their mount prevents them from being thrown from the saddle.

Mounted Combat: The Cavalier is skilled at fighting from the saddle.

War Horse: The mount is trained in combat, too. They participate in the battle with tooth, hoof, or claw, as the case may be.

Team Effort: The Cavalier fights best with a cavalry. They get bonuses to power and speed if there are other Cavaliers in the party.

Foci: Juggernaut These stalwart warriors make themselves the biggest target on the battlefield. When enemies take the bait, Vanguards pick them apart with brutal precision. These people are large, intimidating, and showy, and they're always going to put themselves in the most conspicuous place in the battle. When surrounded, they will use pure strength to rip their enemies to pieces. Juggernaut’s usually, but not always, favor heavy two-handed weapons.

Within this foci fall the following abilities:

Aggro: The juggernaut steps right into the heart of the battle, drawing the attention of any enemies nearby.

Pointed Target: The juggernaut makes a show of targeting a specific enemy, luring other foes into complacency…or frenzy.

Force of Will: The juggernaut’s commanding presence physically draws enemies into striking range.

Man of Steel: A powerful physique allows the character to knock aside any enemies who are in the way

War Cry: The juggernaut lets out a fearsome cry that demoralizes all nearby enemies.

Foci: Shield Bearer Armored combatants who specialize in shield based combat. Some utilize lances or swords in their off hands, while others make their shield their primary weapon. While they specialize in defense, many are also adept at the “sword and board” style of fighting. Shield bearers are punishing adversaries in combat, balanced fighters that are capable of doing damage without taking much themselves.

Within this foci fall the following abilities:

Shield Bash: The character charges forward, shield first. Enemies are knocked prone.

Impenetrable Defense: The character’s got a shield, and they know how to use it! They take significantly less damage when fighting with any type of shield.

Duck and Cover: Archers find these characters especially annoying. Arrows stand little chance against a trained shield bearer.

Dangerous Edge: The shield bearer smashes the edge of their shield into the opponent’s weak point, immediately crippling them.

Pummel: The character uses their shield as a bludgeoning tool, striking out several times in quick succession to beat an enemy into submission.

Foci: Sentinel The sentinel is an elite warrior who has mastered the art of the guard. Through their conquests and expeditions, they learn to use it to defend themselves from harm and defend those who they’re allied with. Sentinels are masters with armor, and are trained to soak up as much damage as possible. The very sight of them can strike fear into their enemy. These soldiers sometimes wear so much armor that it's difficult to identify who or even what race they are.

Within this foci fall the following abilities:

Heavy Armor: The sentinel wears heavy armor that would otherwise be far too cumbersome for anyone else. They move at reduced speed, but their defense is unparalleled.

Bulwark: The sentinel places themselves in their enemies’ path, entirely blocking the way forward.

Damage Sponge: The sentinel is steeled against pain. Their tolerance is through the roof, and their stamina on the battlefield is second to none.

No Pain No Gain: Through sheer willpower, the sentinel can temporarily halt their own blood loss, able to survive otherwise mortal wounds until they can be attended by a healer.

Fearsome Aura: The sentinel’s intimidating aura demoralizes enemies.