raebaekaedae

[rusted-pipe-of-wisdom]

also for all the lack of respect for source material, doomsday clock made me appreciate just how much of adrian's character is actually a study of loneliness.

he is an incredible mix of passion and sensitivity with a dash of savior complex, and he's so focused on the big picture he can't see human beings as anything other than figureheads in the grand game. he's haunted by the idea that he, too, is a figurehead in someone else's design, that he is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. it's no wonder he and manhattan get on so well, but whereas jon is removed from the definition of humanity, adrian is fully human, and in this sense he's far lonelier and more tragic than jon. he's not invincible or immortal. he's just so out of touch he can't meaningfully connect with other people.

isolation is an important theme in watchmen, but adrian's version of it is crucial to his identity, and it just feels so complete and profound.

he's a poor little meow meow.

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 1)

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

​GIF: Originally posted by @tavners

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Home invasion. Voyeurism. Implied masturbation. Dream manipulation.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Wow, this took way longer to finish than I had originally planned. My head's been all over the place with trying (and thus far failing) to find a new job. The themes are very different to what I've written before; I hope it reads okay. Please let me know what you think. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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

Fate.

A phenomenon that governed every particle of matter within the known universe and even those beyond.

Some considered it a comforting concept that excused them from the burden of decision making, citing: "I'll leave it up to fate." For others the phrase was a cursory, throw-away comment or a romantic line they heard in the lyrics of a song.

The real truth of the matter was that Fate was a trio of immortal beings, goddesses, with sight so potent that they knew the past, present and future of every individual to have lived. The mythology of the Greeks, Romans and Norse hadn't been too far off with their stories of the Moirai, Parcae and Norns but of course, no humans really believed there to be any realism in myths. They were just stories. It didn't matter either way; they existed and had influence regardless of what the majority believed.

For beings such as The Endless siblings, the presence of Fate in the cosmos was not only real, but also something that affected even themselves.

For the King of Dreams, an eventuality had been prophesised long ago by The Kindly Ones that spoke of a bond that was to be forged between himself and a mortal.

Lord Morpheus, in his pride, had tried to be above such a foretelling, even questioning its validity because the notion of a mortal accepting his version of the universe seemed wholly implausible.

But he could not truly stop himself from wondering about you, reaching out to see if he could feel your presence in the minds of the dreamers he hosted.

It wasn't something he indulged in with frequency. More of a once-in a-decade interval. Enough to appease his curiosity.

Of course, this was put on hold during his imprisonment at Fawney Rig.

Morpheus had had much to contemplate during this period. The damage his absence caused to the collective subconscious, the decay of his realm, the loss of freedom and dignity. There was also a chance that you had been born and died in the 106 years he spent in captivity.

What if he was too late and had lost the chance of discovering who you were?

It was a nauseating prospect that scraped and scratched a space deep within his being; bleeding him of his remaining stores of hope that were so significantly depleted after the death of beloved Jessamy.

Despite the nasty emotional wound, finding you was a charge that he assigned at the end of his priorities after his escape.

Recovering his scattered tools, restoring the Dreaming, locating his absent creations, unravelling the mystery of Rose Walker and confronting Desire all had needed to come first.

The latter interaction had left Morpheus with a seething rage that was currently propelling him down the boards of the dock that sit above the Ocean of Dreams.

The dense mist in the air is buffeted by his movements and the only sounds are the tread of boots, the creak of wooden slats and the lap of water.

With each step, the liquid becomes choppier as it reacts to its master's mood and by the time he has reached the end of the dock, the surface of the water roils fervorously, completely in line with Morpheus' dangerous temperament.

The words of Desire's final silken-toned taunt echo in his mind with grating persistence.

"Oh, poor Dream. I really got under your skin this time, didn't I?"

He is loathe to admit there is truth in the question.

There are moments where Morpheus ponders the turn that the relationship between them has taken. How Desire went from being his favourite sibling to someone one shade shy of an adversary. Their faultless adeptness at provoking his temper and manipulating the events that encircle him would be impressive if not for the danger posed to humanity.

The agitated water eventually draws focus to how out of control he and his emotions have become. Morpheus knows he must get them in check, and quickly, for he knows the consequences all too well should he ignore it.

He clenches his fist and swallows it all down, pushing it deep inside his belly until the crackling entropy of the anger is fully dispelled.

Morpheus then sweeps his coat out behind him as he sinks lithely into a crouch. Trepidation nips at his heart and tugs his attention to a sobering thought.

This foray into the water may be fruitless.

You may be long gone and there would be no way of ever knowing you.

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath; he has run out of excuses to not look, even if he is afraid of the outcome.

Long, delicate fingers dapple the surface of the inky ocean. The waves still at the touch, obedient to him with instancy.

He repositions to full height and reaches into his coat to find the pouch of sand stashed in the pocket. A handful of twinkling grains slip off his palm into the ocean, lighting the water it touches to a luminous green.

"Find my soulmate," Morpheus commands silently.

The intention is set. He steps off the dock into the water.

At first, like every other prior attempt, there is no sign of you. Morpheus floats submerged in the tepid liquid, filtering through the hubbub of countless other dreams and nightmares.

Then there is a pull.

It is faint yet indisputable. Warmth explodes in his chest and he groans inwardly from the delicious sensation of relief.

You are alive, and you are dreaming.

A path of radiance appears in the water, a line that shows your connection, and provides a location for him to hone in on.

Morpheus dives deeper without hesitation.

As he reaches the edge of your subconscious, he rejoices that he got a handle on his emotions. He wouldn't want your first perception of him to be one tinged with rage, however unaware you were of him, with your soulmate being the source.

He hesitates for a moment before entering the dream you are in and is somewhat taken aback by what he finds.

A room comprising of four blank walls, a floor, a ceiling and a door. There is but one other feature; a window, and its view is as non-descript and inoffensive as the internal space.

You stand by said window, head turned from him.

Despite being unable to see your face, he sees your anxiety with immediacy. It is an aura hovering about your body, being sucked into your lungs with every fast-paced breath.

You begin to throw glances towards the door. Morpheus filters through the layers of the dream. No one is scheduled to come across the threshold.

The more he observes, the more questions arise in Morpheus' mind.

What was making you so affected? What were you expecting to happen?

There's nothing in the scene that is intended to be unpleasant yet you are reacting in a way that most observers would characterise as unsettled.

Morpheus, despite not yet knowing you, doesn't like to see you this way. His dominant instinct is to end the dream but he quashes the desire to review the bigger picture.

The empty room dream was symbolic of a beginning.

It clicks into place.

What you were feeling, even if on a purely instinctual level, was the anticipation of meeting your soulmate and starting your new life.

Morpheus steps into the frame, just a couple of paces behind you.

You feel his presence instantly, eyes full to the brim with tears as you whirl around with a soft gasp.

You see him.

The tears spill and patter onto the white floor.

Morpheus reaches out, overcome by his need to provide comfort.

You disappear.

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

Morpheus is sat on his throne. He pores over the book he had located in the Dreaming's library a little over a week ago that contains the details of your life. It is something he has taken to doing when the impatience of waiting for you to fall asleep becomes too keen.

Your subconscious has him enraptured, watching it every night as if it is a stage show. Each dream he delves into is like the tug of fingers on a loose thread, your psyche has begun to unravel before him.

Everything from whims to cravings, hopes to fears. Your temperament, the things that delight and irk you. What drives you and demotivates you. He consumes it all with an insatiable hunger.

Based on the projection of yourself that he sees, there is no doubt that he is attracted to you.

All that prior haughty disregard for the Fates' prophecy has been cast aside like a negative thought in a meditation session. Morpheus is a romantic. A believer. He is ashamed to have even doubted your coming.

He wonders if it would vex Desire to learn of him finding his soulmate and by extension, the prospect of companionship, perhaps even physical intimacy or love.

It is all too easy to imagine the sickly sweet grin they would smile at him, shown to be fake by the almost imperceptible contempt glinting in their golden eyes.

Would his triumph drive them to distraction?

It is this smug sentiment that spurs his next decision. He wants more. The next logical step is to find you in the waking world.

He rises from his throne, a sure hand ready to bring forth his pouch of sand when he falters.

Tears pool in his eyes.

His mind is suddenly marred with the memories of what happened in 1916. The agony, mortification and rage that followed. He couldn't go through that kind of treatment ever again and the waking world expanded the risk of it transpiring.

"No," he says resolutely. His sadness turns to resolve, the hard line of his grimace matching those set in his brows.

He will not let the actions of a group of mortals dissuade him from going to you. And besides, he has researched everything he can about you from within the safety of the Dreaming.

He takes a measure of sand and uses it to materialise within your bedroom.

It is obvious from a quick scan of it that deliberate attempts have been made to ensure the space is cosy and calming.

Two marshmallowy pillows support your head. The cotton sheets have been meticulously tucked to avoid drafts. A lavender reed diffuser fragrances the air with a subtle scent. There are no devices or screens visible.

Everything has its place. A coaster supported glass of water within reaching distance. Touch activated lamp in case of emergency. The diary lined up with the back left corner of the bedside table, pen placed parallel in the spine dent. All clothes are in the wardrobe or stashed in the laundry basket.

Morpheus moves to the curtain-shrouded window and delicately moves the dark, heavy fabric to catch a glimpse of the outside world.

The scene is sepia stained from an old streetlight positioned right outside your home. It explained the choice of curtains.

You stir slightly from the change in environment and Morpheus allows the curtain to fall back in place. He remains stationary until your breathing returns to its previous pace. It is imperative that his presence remains undisclosed. He knows that mortals do not take well to home invasion.

Then, your right hand slips out from the duvet cocoon revealing a cushion cut ruby ring on your middle finger.

He smiles exultantly. The similarity between the jewel and his own now-destroyed dreamstone was undeniable.

The Fates were making it transparent.

You were the one.

Morpheus approaches the side of your bed now. In your momentary discomfort, you had moved your head, making your whole face visible to your uninvited guest.

He bends gracefully so his face is closer to yours and observes you with an intent fascination.

Even in the gloom, Morpheus asserts that your features are even more captivating now that he is able to look upon them in person and is certain that if he could guarantee an absence of fear then he would fall to knees and worship you right there.

Fingers stroke a lock of hair splayed across the pillow and his thoughts turn darker still, imagining what he would do with you if he could get you alone in the Dreaming. How he would seduce you with words, and then pleasure your body with his own until you were senseless.

Getting you there would be so easy, all he needed to do was move his hand up and touch your skin and -

Morpheus stops himself, deciding that now is not the time for an introduction. He will wait until tomorrow. You need to rest. It will be quite the revelation for your sweet mortal heart.

Morpheus whispers a promise, "We will be together soon, my precious soulmate."

He leaves after taking one last look at your peaceful form.

When he returns to the Dreaming, Morpheus discovers that the visit has riled him way beyond what he thought possible.

It was supposed to sate his curiosity and answer some questions.

It has done the opposite.

His craving for you is sublimely intense, opiate-like in its ensnarement.

He needs to possess you. To have you all to himself. Everything would fall into place. Loneliness, disillusionment, jealousy; they would never darken his outlook again. You would heal him, he is certain of it.

He paces restlessly in the low light of his private chambers as heat ripples beneath the surface of his being, charging him with pure sexual lust.

He hungers for the moment when you feel the same about him.

For now, all he can do is stand and touch himself while thinking of your face, an act that has been carried out repeatedly in the days since he found you in the Ocean of Dreams.

An erotic idea enters his mind.

Your subconscious is still in the Dreaming; he knows the feeling of it intimately.

Perhaps he could bring you a dream mirroring his own current fantasy.

To give you a taste of what was to come.

A gift that only he could bestow.

The mere thought of it turns him on even more. His back arches and his eyes roll back as he choses the words through which he would deliver the offering.

"Dream of me," Morpheus murmurs breathlessly. "Dream of me."

He repeats the phrase until he is unable to continue, moans taking over the darkened space around him.

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

It is dusk the next day when Morpheus returns to the waking world.

The instant he touches down on the Earth's surface, he knows exactly where to go. The metaphysical connection between you is as strong as the energy pulsing through a ley line.

The city he is directed to is thrumming with life but the side street he stands in has been spared from the furore.

It is fortuitous that he is permitted to be unobserved for Morpheus is struggling now with the urge to get closer.

Providence is pulling him in and also locking him out.

He walks up to the door and then an invisible force makes him back away.

He doesn't even try to fight it.

The Fates hold all the cards. Morpheus is beholden to their each and every whim.

It is surprisingly liberating.

He is dancing in the cross hairs. Blinkered by the tie the universe has fashioned for you.

All he has to do is wait.

The door to the building is pushed open.

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

Taglist: @herfantasyworldd

"Fate. Up against your will. Through the thick and thin. He will wait until you give yourself to him."

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Hello you amazing wonderful awesomely awesome person! I’m so madly obsessed with your work

Very curious on your thoughts on this: zombie apocalypse au

Do you think Jason and readers first meeting would be need to be more in a life threatening situation in order to stick or would they be able to meet in a calmer environment and stick together?

This isn’t a push for you to write any one shot! Just curious what you think and any additional thoughts or headcanons you might have for this au 👀

Tysm for continuing to put out awesome writing all the time!

The Death Stench

Ahh, asks like this is why I love taking requests!! Thank you, nonnie!! Seriously, so many great ideas come through my inbox that I never would have thought of myself! I was actually so excited when I finally sat down to write this. Sorry it took so long! :)

~1.4k words

Gotham has always been a cesspool of filth and rot. It's something Jason has long grown used to. But the hoards of groaning, decaying zombies are something he's still learning to live with.

It's been four– no, five months since the world fell apart, since the apocalypse broke down society. The government is in shambles, if it still exists, and Jason hasn't seen or heard another living person in weeks.

He thinks he owes his survival to whatever the pit did to him. The corpses that line the streets just seem to ignore him and shuffle past as he breaks into a little corner store for supplies.

It's why he's started to get complacent. It is so easy to not double or triple check your surroundings when the undead treat you like one of their own.

It's a fact he didn't realize until he's staring down the barrel of a gun and maybe the only other living, breathing person on Gotham.

He blinks at them. They blink at him. "You're not one of– you're alive," You half question, surprise and shock clear in their voice.

Jason slowly raises his hands, the last thing he wants to do is get shot when his medical supplies are dwindling, "I'm alive."

He stares at you for a minute, and you stare back before slowly lowering your gun, "I was here first."

He laughs. It's ridiculous. The world ended, he hasn't had a proper conversation in weeks, and you're trying to lay claim to a corner store in shambles. But, he steps back anyway and gestures to the ransacked aisles, "All yours then."

He quirks an eyebrow when you actually look panicked. "Wait," You start, and lower your gun completely, "I'm sorry, I just– haven't seen anyone in a while. I think I forgot how to talk to people."

You're both aware of the risk you took admitting that, to tell a stranger you're completely and utterly alone in this city, that there's no one waiting for you to return.

Jason has the overwhelming urge to make your risk worth it. He can't explain it, but he chalks it up to some form of loneliness.

So, he smiles at you, easy-going and every inch the charming grin that used to win over the old ladies at charity galas, "I haven't been around people in a while either. Maybe we can figure it out together?"

His heart stutters when you smile back, so clearly relieved. "I'd like that," You admit and holster your gun.

The two of you carefully pick through the store, and an uncertain but steady partnership forms between the two of you.

It takes some time, but he learns which shots you can make and which you can't. You learn which knee hurts him when he jumps over chain wire fences. You both learn to cover each other's blind spots, to trust each other to make decisions.

You haven't quite learned that zombies just don't seem to detect him, and he hasn't found a good way to bring it up, to explain that, 'Hey, I was dead and apparently I qualify as one of them. But don't worry! I won't eat you!'

Yeah, Jason figures you wouldn't be too comfortable with him sleeping near you if he said it like that.

He doesn't really get the chance to explain until he has to use his uncanny ability to blend in with rotting corpses to save your life.

It was supposed to be a normal supply run. Pick over what's left of a pharmacy and get out. Cut and dry. Something you've both done more times than you can count. Until it goes wrong.

He'd cleared the area, he'd been so careful, you both were. But you hadn't been lucky. It was no one's fault, when you open a cabinet and a skittish raccoon jumps out at you, sending you falling back.

The animal knocks over cans and boxes as it frantically scampers to get away. It's loud. Too loud.

The two of you froze, when the sounds of shuffling feet start to make their way to the door. Jason weighs his options, and the piece of his heart that had become undeniably yours won quickly.

He grabs your arm and hauls you to your feet. "C'mon," he mutters, dragging you towards a supply closet.

"We need to run," You say quickly, tugging at your arm and trying to push him towards the exit.

"We won't make it," he says firmly and shoves you into the tiny space. He follows you in and pulls the door shut. The door doesn't lock, and he reaches around you to grab an extension cable off a shelf.

"Jason," You half hiss, eyes wide as the groans start to get louder.

He shushes you, heart racing as he ties one end of the extension cord to the door knob, and the other to the metal poles of the shelf.

It's a start, but it wouldn't stop anything from breaking down the door. "Sorry," Jason mumbles. He returns your confused look with an apologetic one, and immediately crowds you against the wall.

He grabs the back of your neck to press your face to his chest. His other hand grabs at your hip, almost desperate. Jason realizes he hasn't been afraid in a long time.

He buries his face in your hair and silently wills you to understand. If he can keep them from getting your scent, hearing you, you'll be safe. He can protect you, he just needs you to stay like this, hidden and sheltered against the dirty wall of the closet.

He knows you can't begin to guess why he's doing this, but you don't make a sound. Your fingers curl into his jacket as the zombies shuffle around the pharmacy. Grunts fill the air as they pass by the door, and Jason feels you stiffen against him.

It's instinctual, when his thumb starts to rub back and forth across your hip. He wants to help, wants you to feel calm and safe even as the smell of death fills the air.

He's surprised when you do relax against him, tucking your face further into his chest. He's not sure how long you stay like that. His thumb never stills, and eventually, the sounds of undead fade, and he's left with just you.

Jason lets himself linger for a moment, savoring your closeness, before slowly untangling himself from you. "You're okay," he says softly, he means for it to be a question, but it comes out as a fact, a complete certainty that you are okay.

You look up at him, eyes wide, "How are we even alive? I've never seen– they've never just ignored people before."

He winces, "I'll– Let me explain. Please. Just not here." He deflates a little at the uncertainty that flashes across your face, but you nod and follow him back to the rooftop that's become his and your base.

He tries to explain, really, does his best to talk about the Pit, who he was, what he used to do. You never interrupt, you listen to every word he says as he lights a fire, methodically making food over the open flame.

You don't say anything as he admits the undead have never been interested in him, but you do let him sit next to you to eat.

He runs out of things to say, as the sun sets over a desolate Gotham. Jason thinks you're going to leave. Or ask him to leave. But you don't. You lean your head against his shoulder, and all the air leaves his lungs.

"I'm glad you're here, Jason," You tell him. And for the first time in a long time, Jason is too.

"I'm glad you're here, too," he echoes, and he hesitantly lowers his head to rest against yours. He breathes a sigh of relief when you don't move, only relax into his side.

Jason closes his eyes to bask in the moment, in being with you, and swears there's not a thing he wouldn't do to keep you like this. To keep you with him, to keep you happy, to keep you alive.

He thinks it might be the reason he's still breathing.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 13.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death

story playlist

The tailwind brought them over the bay and the Gullet with ease, the gargantuan body of Vhagar looming over Driftmark as they passed over the island. 

Aemond looked at the churning seas below them, the mood of the tides changing like a coin flip. A few Velaryon ships were going to port in Dragonstone as they approached the ancient isle, no doubt rife with supplies and workers of importance to the pretender’s cause. 

“Dracarys, Vhagar,” he hummed low, his form prone to the saddle as his dragon unleashed molten fire from her maw, bathing the Velaryon ships in her cleansing flame. 

Sunfyre trilled from the clouds above, settling upon the craggy cliffs of the mainland that overlooked Dragonstone. Vhagar, once dispatching the remainder of the ships, followed. The older dragon settled in the soft grasses, smoke trailing from her nostrils. 

Aemond descended from his perch on her back, looking to his brother, who was staring over the water to the island. 

“Your predictions of the weather patterns were right,” Aegon said, gesturing to the unobstructed view of Dragonstone from their vantage point. There wasn’t a low hanging cloud, nor fog. The hulking bulwark of a keep was as visible to the two brothers as they were to it— moreso, visible to the denizens inside. “They should be able to see us loud and clear, I’d wager. I suppose all of your effort in being the scholarly worm paid off.” 

“They’ll have to look from two sides, however,” Aemond responded as he watched over the skyline as a fleet of ships came into view. “The signal of smoke from the Velaryon fleet burning is as good of an indication as any.” 

The ships flew the flag of the Triarchy, three sigils to represent the Three Daughters— the cities of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They crossed the narrow sea with a vengeance, wishing to give the Sea Snake a message in salt, sea, and blood. 

The alliance between the infamous Triarchy and the King didn’t come without a price— the Stepstones would be awarded to them after the war was finished, as well as a sizable amount of coin. 

The Stepstones were an easy give, as the blasted shore of rocks and stone were nothing more than a watery graveyard, fought over for too long. Its debated governance, or lack thereof, had haunted the council room before Aegon was even born. It seemed an easy enough decision to give the islands to someone who actually had the means and knowhow to manage it— in Aegon’s mind, at least. Aemond knew it would be an issue to deal with in the future.

The two brothers watched as the foreign fleet encircled the passage of water between Dragonstone and Driftmark, skirmishing close with some of the smaller Velaryon vessels. The proximity of the two opposing forces would make it difficult for any of Rhaenyra’s dragonriders to dispatch the Triarchy— not without severe losses to the supply and size of the Sea Snake’s brigade. 

It was a delicate balance now, the Triarchy cutting off supplies and passage to Dragonstone, while keeping Driftmark at heel. The former was effectively sealed off, dragon flight being the only way off of the island. 

This is where Aemond’s careful planning of the weather and their positioning across the cliffs came into play— it was a clear message, a threat. The giant mossy colored dragon, coupled with the distinctive golden dragon, were a side unmissed on the crags. 

The missive was unmistakable in its intention; ‘We are watching.’

“Although,” Aegon looked to the ancient stronghold, built upon a volcano that housed and borne fire-bellied beasts. “It would be easier if we just…” he slammed his hand into his other fist, making a crude explosion sound.

“You’re the one who stopped me from going down that route,” Aemond’s tone was flat, unamused by his brother’s antics. “We made our choice�� we play the long game now.”

“Suddenly showing restraint now, Aemond? How unlike you,” his brother sneered. “You’d burn the entire continent if someone gave you passage to do so.” 

Aemond shoots Aegon a look, violet eye sharp like a dagger. His jaw clenched, followed by an acute sting of pain in his eye socket, the nerves within lighting like a mass of torches. A storm swirls inside of his head, words flowing from his mouth on their own. “It’s difficult…” he swallows, looking almost sheepish as he speaks, a look that doesn’t quite suit him. “It is difficult to show restraint. To quell myself.” It isn’t exactly what he wished to say— the vulnerability was too much.

He screamed to himself, the searing agony of his socket drilling it into him. She is a few moments away upon Vhagar and I cannot get her. I have the largest dragon in the world and I’m still powerless when it matters. Powerless, powerless. It was moments like these where he felt like a child with no dragon again, two-eyed and physically whole but grasping at any semblance of his heritage, of his bloodline. He was bereft of it except for name and likeness alone.

“We’ll get her back, brother. I promise you that– as your King. And… as your brother too, I suppose.” Aegon didn’t look at his younger sibling, he didn’t need to, he could feel the torment swirling within him. It was familiar to all of them.

—

“Undefended! You left the city undefended whilst you two traipsed to Dragonstone to… taunt Rhaenyra? Primp yourselves like benign peacocks?” Otto was as furious as his two grandsons had ever seen him, apples of his cheeks red with anger. “I expected this foolishness from you, Aegon, but not you Aemond. You’ve been taught better than this!” 

Aemond let his grandsire rant and rave, only cutting in when the older man stopped to regain his breath. “To clarify, the city wasn’t undefended. The queen was watching over upon Dreamfyre. I’m sure the smallfolk were pleased to see their queen among them, defending them so stalwartly.” 

“The smallfolk? What would they do if Rhaenyra and Daemon came upon their two dragons and took the city after slaughtering your sister? How do the smallfolk amount to dragons with lords atop them, Aemond?” 

Aemond closed his mouth, looking over at his skulking brother. Even though he wore the crown and held the power of the Kingdoms in his hands, he was still so easily torn down by a tongue lashing from his grandsire. Aegon was turned away, collapsed into himself as he bit at his already stubby nails. 

“Thank you for your insight, lord hand. I will see you at first light for the council meeting. I suspect we’ll have much to discuss in terms of next moves now that Dragonstone has been cut off.” the prince, in so many words, dismissed his grandsire.

Otto narrowed his gaze but said nothing, leaving the two brothers alone. 

Silence stretched between them until Aegon looked to his brother. “Do you think I’m foolish?” 

“Depends on the situation.”

“You see I am trying, don’t you? I am the fucking King and yet I am still treated like less than a lecher by him, by them.” 

Aemond began to loosen his riding gloves, finger by finger. “The plan was well executed, Aegon. I think you may find that there are many people grateful for their King’s valiance,” he said, glancing towards the open balcony that overlooked the sprawling city. 

Aegon considered him for a moment, locking eyes with his brother before his expression softened. “War isn’t only fought by lords. I’ve spent enough time in those streets to know. Once, when I was coming back from the Silk, I saw a mass of people tear a raper limb from limb. ‘Twas deep in Flea Bottom, no lords or guards or laws there, only the code and anger of those who live there,” he paused, “A dragon can kill thousands— but thousands can kill a dragon, too. Their unrest shouldn’t be underestimated.”

The prince looked at Aegon, blinking slowly. The king did have a unique perspective on the smallfolk, and mayhaps he cared more for them than the monarchs that came before him. It may prove to be useful in the future, if Aegon was ever given the breadth to make his own choices. Aemond thought his brother sloven and foolhardy at best— inept, brainless and sinful at worst— but the few days of his reign had changed his view ever so slightly. He was still lazy like a fat tom cat, and yet, a fat tom cat may still catch as many mice as any other cat. He just may have a different way of doing it. 

—

The lucidity was too much. It was too bright, she wanted to go back to sleep. 

Bright, too bright. Shera sobbed silently, tears falling across her cheeks without any toil. Stars and figments of candle flame danced before her eyes, igniting a phantom pain in her eye that she thought gone. Her suffering that stemmed from Driftmark didn’t manifest in nerve pain in her eye like Aemond’s, but rather pain in her throat and her seizing episodes. She just wished for darkness and Aemond. 

“P-pl… please let me go back… to the weirwood,” she mumbled. “He was waiting… for me…”

Her hand was in Jacaerys’, held together by a sash that bound them as husband and wife. It was colored with red and gray thread, the color of their two houses. 

Shera felt… exposed. Exposed and cold, like a terrible draft was whistling through her, using her bones like windchimes. 

The room was barren, save for Rhaenyra and the two newlyweds. It was dark, too, the only light dancing from candles and dragon heralded sconces. The brightness that tortured Shera was her nerves on fire, a deep throbbing pain coming from her scar. The man who had officiated had left, the only semblance of his presence being the words that continued to echo in Shera’s mind. 

The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.

It felt like a curse— a curse she knew was coming, a curse she had been waiting for. Something she thought thwarted by giving into her heart’s throes with Aemond.

How silly of an idea to avoid fate.

Her stomach was in knots, or mayhaps not there at all. “Jacaerys,” Shera whispered, a familiar feeling of weightlessness catching up to her. “I’m going to fall,” she squeaked, “Please don’t let me fall.” her plea wasn’t out of want for comfort, but rather necessity.

The prince untied the sash and supported Shera with a hand on the small of her back. “Like this?” 

“My… my hip,” she continued. “It is where… where Moongeist holds himself.” she lamented to be touched any further, her skin on fire and writhing with each misplaced caress. But she would hate to fall, legs crumbling beneath her like a newborn fawn. She felt like a tortured child, her feelings all too large for such a small body to handle. Her mind went back to the basest of needs— she wanted Aemond, she wanted Helaena, she wanted Moongeist. 

Jacaerys adjusted his hold with a confused and slightly anguished look. “Mother,” he addressed Rhaenyra, who looked on in stoic concern. “She needs… she needs a cane, or… or something.” 

Rhaenyra’s face didn’t crease in traditional consternation, her features unmoved. There was only a twitch of her brow and the dilation of her pupils that gave away the inner turmoil. “Go fetch the maester. He will have something made up for her, surely. I will escort her to your chambers.” 

Your chambers. Your chambers. No, not hers. Jacaerys’ chambers. The realization and panic washed over her as unforgivingly as a riptide. Was she expected to consummate the marriage?

“N-no, please,” Shera blubbered as Jace helped her into the arms of his mother. “I want to go home, I want to go home.” 

There was a solemn hollowness in Rhaenyra’s voice as she helped Shera walk down the corridors. “You are home now, dearest,” her voice was fauxly soothing, “I know it is difficult. I wouldn’t have wanted this for you— not… not like this,” there was something inherently warm about her touch that broke through any outward reservation, her hand caressed Shera in a way that could only be described as maternal. “I will do everything in my power to see to your comfort. You’re safe now, Shera.” 

Her body and mind were at odds with one another. Her brain told her that this wasn’t right, it wasn’t— it was all a facade, it had to be. Her body, however, leaned into Rhaenyra’s hold, her gentleness stirring something long dormant inside of Shera. 

She never really had a mother, in truth. Her life was riddled with surrogate mothers like Alicent and whomever her father had assigned to take care of her when she was a babe. Alicent did her best, of course, but there was always a fine line separating Shera from her own borne children. The nursemaids and stewardesses alike at Winterfell never had a gentle touch or affectionate words— not like a real mother would. Out of Shera’s myriad of issues, the mother-shaped hole in her heart was the least of her worries, easily pushed and locked away like a bad memory. 

But times like these— times where Shera’s constitution of mind and body were being tested, broken past her already fragile limits, the hole turned into a chasm, swallowing up the earth beneath her feet and making any further pain unbearable. 

As Rhaenyra sat Shera down on the feather-filled bed, she pushed a stray auburn lock from her face. 

Shera grasped at her hand, holding it with both of hers. “P-please, don’t go,” she whispered, her voice broken and far-away. She hardly recognized it as her own, thinking it more alike to that of a young child. “P…please, I do not… I don’t wish to be alone… n-not yet.” 

“Jacaerys will return quickly, dearest, you won’t be alone for long,” Rhaenyra replied, letting the frightened woman hold her hand, head cocked in slight confusion.

“N-no, no,” she cried, squeezing tighter upon the queen’s hand— a plea, a cry of a child long gone, forgotten. “Please.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for long enough that Shera thought she might’ve left, even if she was still holding her hand. A soft breath left her nose as she shifted, sitting down next to her now good-daughter and wrapping both arms around her, taking her into an all-enveloping embrace. 

No more words were exchanged, only the sound of Shera’s wheezing breaths, shaking body wracked with sobs filled the room. 

Jacaerys did return to his chambers, with the cane in hand, but upon seeing his weeping wife and mother, he bowed his head out and didn’t return that night. 

Rhaenyra stayed with the poor girl all eve and into the early hours of the morning, shifting Shera into a lying position on the bed and covering her with a blanket. It gave her some despair to see her cry herself into exhaustion and eventual sleep. 

As the queen left the room, her mind was flooded with thoughts, swirling like tumultuous waves. 

Have I done the right thing? Am I righteous in my choice? 

She passed her son in the halls, Jacaerys bowing his head to her. “Is she… alright?” he asked, eyes dark as he already knew the answer.

“You know her better than I,” Rhaenyra looked back to the closed chamber doors. “Is that… her normal air?”

“No, it isn’t her usual demeanor. She is very… morose, of course, but this– what exactly are you letting Daemon give her to render her so?” his tone took a turn, almost accusatory in its nature. 

The queen was taken aback by the snap in his words– it was unlike him, always the dutiful and polite son. Courtiers walked by them in the hall, their gazes averted, but she knew they were staring, listening. She pulled Jacaerys into an alcove. “Daemon has been dealt with for making such rash decisions without my consent,” she hissed, “You must trust in me, Jacaerys— as your mother and your queen. This is just one of the many pieces moving on the board, moving towards my ascension, to my throne.” 

“Shera is just a pawn, then? A means to an end? And by marrying her to me, am I not the same?” Jace folded his arms over his chest, moving back from his mother. “Am I merely fodder for your fight against the usurpers? Usurpers, amongst whom is your dearest childhood friend? You and Daemon talk so openly of war, but you had cast the first stone with Shera’s… abduction!” 

“What would you have me do? Ask kindly for my birthright back? Chalk it up to a misunderstanding and give them pats upon their backs and a place at my court?” Rhaenyra scoffed. A thorn lodged in her heart at Jace’s implication of Alicent, a ghost who had haunted the queen’s very thoughts since she heard news of Aegon’s crowning. “My father was a great King in many ways, his reign one of peace— but he was blind with inaction. I will not stay my hand when the time comes to strike. I will have my throne, in fire and blood if I must.”

Indignation flashed in Jacaerys’ deep brown eyes— but like a storm, it dissipated into calm waters and clear skies. “You’re right, mother,” he murmured, bowing his head. “Your grace.” 

— 

Shera finally felt well enough to walk by herself. Although, her legs felt cold and wobbly without Moongeist. It was midday, the skies clear around the island. The sun was even shining, warming her skin just a touch.

The maester upon Dragonstone had prepared a walking cane for her— an instrument hewn from dark gnarled cherrywood. The exterior was a deep brown, whilst the inside was a deep, bloody red. She had worn small grooves on the top of the handle with her nails, exposing the inner layer of cherry, the color staining her fingertips sanguine. 

Rhaenyra had instructed Shera’s handmaidens to dress her in a more Valyrian-style wardrobe to ‘help her adjust’. She felt like an impostor wearing the garments, usually tailored in red, black and gold, coupled with intricately braided hairstyles, fashioned to her head with a dragon pin. A small veil was afforded to her after much pleading, one that only concealed her eyes and left her nose and mouth barren. Her choker was replaced by looping golden chains, imbued with rubies. 

Shera’s nails laid in the indents of her cane as she arrived into the dining hall. The Queen apparently likened to having her family lunch with her at least once a week— a tradition that became more sparse when the war began. 

She slunk into the hall as quietly as possible, the scattered sounds of Viserys and Aegon playing, as well as Lucerys and Joffrey conversing animatedly about swords and dragons, muffled the noise of her cane hitting the stone floor. She settled into her seat next to Jace, who looked irritated, a mood that befell him more often than not as of late, as he tried to serve in his mother’s war council, but was met with blockage after blockage from the other courtiers— something that Shera didn’t hear the end of for at least a fortnight. 

Despite the newly wed couple’s proximity to one another, Shera sleeping next to Jacaerys each night, they weren’t intimate in any way. They had come to an understanding, knowing their souls were each entwined with another’s. They didn’t need to muddy the waters any further with meaningless sex. 

That being said, they did confide in one another to some extent. Or rather, Jacaerys would vent his frustrations of the day, of the bickering of the council, of Daemon’s recklessness, of his own mother’s discounting of his skill— and Shera would listen intently. 

“Wife,” Jace murmured, clasping a hand over Shera’s as she took her seat. His jaw was clenched, bone grinding against bone. “Thank the Gods you’ve come.” 

“Has something… happened?” she whispered, glancing around the table. The children were unphased— but the older ones had an air of ice around them. Baela had both hands on the table, head angled downward as she bore holes through a wall. Rhaena was despondent, looking down at her hands. 

Daemon, however, was lazed. He leaned back in his chair, inspecting a singular grape as if he had no care in the world. “Shera,” he said, not meeting her gaze. Rather, he addressed her with such informality that it made her cringe. “A Valyrian vision you look to be. Mayhaps we should send her into the Dragonmont to bond with a dragon, since she now looks so much the part.” 

“A sheep changes wool rather easily,” she began picking at some fruit on her plate, stabbing her fork into a juicy piece of cantaloupe. 

“Ah, yes. Our wolf in sheep’s clothing, is it? Or mayhaps, a wolf in dragon’s clothing, better yet,” he squeezed the grape until it burst between his fingers.

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra cut in, hand up to stop him from saying anything further. “How are you doing this morn, Shera?” 

“I’m… well,” Shera kept her eyes down at her plate, wishing to shrink into nothingness. 

“Enjoy the fruit while it lasts,” Baela piped up. “They’re blockading the island.” 

What? Blockading? Her mind raced with the possibilities, but she stayed quiet. 

“I’m sure we can go without such frivolous things like fruit,” Jace scoffed, pushing his plate away. 

“Fruit, grain, most meat, silks,” Daemon drawled. “I don’t understand why we don’t stop the situation.” 

“Do we wish to go toe-to-toe with Vhagar? Sunfyre can be easily dispatched by Syrax, but do you believe Caraxes can survive her?” Rhaenyra snapped, placing down her cutlery on the table. 

“That hoary old bitch is cumbersome,” he continued, dismissing any shred of Rhaenyra’s concern as if it were nothing. 

Vhagar. Sunfyre. Something bubbled in Shera’s chest at the mention of the two dragons, who were undoubtedly with their riders. She continued to stare down at her hands, trying to contain a smile, biting her lip until it bled. 

“Cumbersome she may be, but her jaws could snap any of our dragons with ease. Mayhaps Caraxes and Meleys may pose a threat to her but…” the queen’s voice trailed off, her fingers drumming on the table. 

“… there’s been no news from grandmother, nor Driftmark, your grace,” Baela sighed. “The ships appear to be… dispatching any ravens attempting to cross the Gullet.” 

“We will just have to wait, then. They cannot fare forever against Corlys’ fleet. Jacaerys, any word from the Greyjoys?” 

Jacaerys shook his head. “Our letters have gone unanswered.” 

“Lord Greyjoy is just a boy of sixteen, Rhaenyra, no older than Lucerys. Untested in the matter of war, unblooded. We must seize Harrenhal and raise a land army.” Daemon stared at his wife, brow furrowed in agitation. “I will go with or without your leave. I have no need for passage.” 

There was a long stretch of silence, the chatter of the children stopped— it was as if the whole of the table held its breath. 

“We will speak upon it later, Daemon.” Rhaenyra finally said, the bags under her eyes more prominent than usual. She opened her mouth to speak once more, but was overcome with a strangled sigh. “Gods,” she whispered, clutching her stomach. It was almost easy to forget that she was in her last days of pregnancy, belly round with child, all whilst the war was being waged just outside. She writhed slightly, face pinched.

“Mother?” Joffrey spoke, his voice small and scared. 

The entirety of the table erupted as handmaidens, maesters and nursemaids alike were summoned, gathering around the queen as her labors began. 

Shera stayed sitting, watching as Daemon glanced over the situation before leaving the room, no doubt off to skulk. 

Soon enough, the room was empty. She blocked out the cacophony of agonized screams echoing from the corridors as she stood up to leave. A small pool of blood was beginning to dry in Rhaenyra’s seat. A chill passed through Shera then as she turned to the window, leaning against the sill. 

A green dragonfly rested upon the trellis of growing vines on the wall of the keep, the leaves withered and crusted in salt. 

Hordes of boats were littered in the sea, arcing around the island like a noose. Glancing to the cliffs, she sees a glint of gold off in the distance, coupled with a hulking mountain that almost reminds her of… 

No, it couldn’t be. 

It isn’t.

She wouldn’t let herself look again, she knew it would only end in disappointment.

As she went to walk away, something pulled her back. She clung to the window, peering out as if in hiding. 

Her hopes were true as the golden vision of Sunfyre came into view, the sun shining off his pale yellow and pink scales. Next to the gorgeous beast laid a stirring mass— the Queen of all dragons. Vhagar. 

Shera’s heart raced, thumping against her ribcage like a caged bird. Aemond— Aemond and Aegon had come to save her, they had! She vowed to never let herself be separated from Aemond again, never to let them be apart. Surely Aegon would dissolve her marriage to Jacaerys and let them marry, wouldn’t he? Oh, of course he would. 

The giddiness she felt was elating, her swimming pain and sorrow temporarily abated. She watched as Sunfyre took to the skies, Vhagar behind in a slower pace. They’re coming to get me now, they are! 

The dragons climbed in altitude and drifted off from the bay— in the opposite direction of Dragonstone. They were flying away from Shera. She stood still for what felt like an eternity, not breathing. That can’t be right.

Any semblance of happiness was crushed instantaneously, her feverish pulse stopping for a beat. They were leaving. They were leaving without her. They weren’t coming to get her. 

[blasphemousclaw]

If you don't mind me picking your brain, howdya think Rykard went from "ruthless justiciar" and head of the Inquisition to "These pagans are cool actually"

oh my god YES I was hoping someone would ask me about this one day because I think about this a lot

Essentially, I don’t think Rykard was ever truly an Erdtree zealot for several reasons.

Firstly, he has a unique background for someone who enforced Erdtree law: his mother is a legendary sorcerer, who once fought against the armies of the Erdtree in battle. Growing up as Rennala’s son, we know he distinguished himself as a talented glintstone sorcerer, an art once seen by the Erdtree forces as heretical. Basically, Rykard has heresy in his blood — I think his background gives him an inherent sympathy to other practices deemed heretical to the Golden Order. We know he developed an interest in reviving the “ancient hexes” of Mt. Gelmir, an interest which is specifically identified in the text as stemming from his mother’s influence:

“After discovering the ancient hexes of Gelmir, Rykard, son of Queen Rennala, brought them back into practical use as new forms of sorcery.”

Rykard comes from a long line of heretics, who instilled in him a sorcerer’s curiosity.

So why did Rykard become praetor in the first place? We don’t technically know at what point Radagon left Rennala, but I think it makes the most sense if Rykard was propelled to his position as praetor after his father became Elden Lord. While married to Rennala, Radagon was regarded as a “mere champion,” with Rykard and his siblings being royalty in Liurnia alone… it makes more sense that he’d rise to the position of chief justiciar in Altus after Radagon married Marika and he became a demigod step-child. Basically, he nepo-babied his way to a powerful government position… a position that gave him a prestigious reputation, a foothold in altus, and a standing army — more power than he ever could have achieved if he stayed in Liurnia, since his sister Ranni is stated to be the sole heir of Caria (Caria was likely matriarchal; it doesn’t seem like Ranni’s brothers stood to inherit much of anything).

There is also a relevant detail from the Blasphemous Claw description:

“On the night of the dire plot, Ranni rewarded Praetor Rykard with these traces. Should the coming trespass one day transpire, they would serve as a last-resort foil, allowing Rykard to challenge Maliketh the Black Blade, the black beast of Destined Death.”

Rykard colluding with Ranni before the Night of the Black Knives shows that Rykard’s later treason was not a spur-of-the-moment decision, but something pre-meditated. Ranni rewarding Rykard with traces of the Rune of Death with the intention to challenge Maliketh indicates that the siblings shared talks of treason leading up to this event — while Rykard was still praetor.

Rykard performed his job with brutal efficiency to the point that he garnered a “ruthless” reputation. But I don’t think he ever did this job out of pure loyalty to the Erdtree; rather, I think he did this job because he will do absolutely anything to achieve power and to gain the upper hand. I think he always intended to build up strength so that he could eventually topple the Golden Order which he so chafed under and place himself in charge; a “worthy sovereign.” And I believe that just as Rykard’s position as praetor was a means to this end, so too was his obsession with the Great Serpent — an obsession that spiraled out of control into “mere greed” for power.

[mllemaenad]

Not that you are by any means the worst offender in this regard, but it rubs me ghe wrong way how much leniency the NCR gets when it comes to considering the effects of their actions, and perhaps more importantly, their intentions.

Groups like Caesar's Legion, The Brotherhood of Steel, House's factions, The Unity, The Enclave, and The Institute are treated as villains if anyone is even indireehurt because of them.

If two human surface-dwellers kill each other in Diamond City, people blame the Institute.

If the White Legs emulate Twisted Hair cultural traditions without fully understanding them, Ulysses blames the Legion.

And yet... the NCR is treated by fans as well-intentioned and good-natured despite the harm they cause. The situation in Nipton was the fault of the NCR. Its corrupt Mayor was from the NCR. The Powder Gangers were only in the Mojave because the NCR moved them there.

Vulpes set up his lottery (not that I'm saying it was a perfect solution) to address a problem that had gotten out of hand, a problem downstream of the NCR... and yet most fan discussions blame the Legion for what happened in Nipton.

ThevNCR seems to get a pass because people see their goals as noble... but their goals are to recreate the exact conditions that caused the Great War!

We see the exact same phenomena in pre-war terminals as we do in contemporary NCR. A government more obsessed with maintaining its own power than solving problems, a corrupt justice system that favours the wealthy, an obsession with democracy that makes decisions slow and bureaucratic, and a rapacious desire for resources that leads to expansion and conflict eith other factions.

Why is Caesar condemned for his ego, and his shortsigtedness, but Kimball is not?

Why is Roger Maxon blamed for creating an organisation that has hurt people, but not Aradesh?

Why is Justin Ayo blamed for his secrecy and lack of trust, but not Colonel Moore?

It's a double-standard. Others are blamed for trying something new, the NCR gets carte blanch to repeat old mistakes!

Hi, anonymous person.

So ... I've read this, and I've read it again, and again after that and ... I'm a little puzzled about what's bothering you. The NCR is broadly attempting to feed, clothe and house hundreds of thousands of people ... and fans tend to give them a little more leeway when they fuck up than they do, say, the Enclave, which is a fascist organisation bent on global genocide and this is ... bad?

Honestly not really seeing the problem there.

I've barely written anything about the NCR, and certainly not in depth character profiles of the people you bring up, so I'm not completely sure why this is directed at me. If you're saying that there are fans who refuse to acknowledge that the NCR has flaws ... well, I haven't met those people, but if you look for an opinion on the internet you'll probably find it, so I'm not going to try to claim they don't exist. I've seen people claim women don't play Fallout, which is kind of a problem, from where I'm sitting. :)

But. Well, okay.

It's a double-standard. Others are blamed for trying something new, the NCR gets carte blanch to repeat old mistakes!

Nobody's trying anything new. That's kind of the point here. War never changes. Just to do the main antagonists ...

Richard Grey/The Master is just doing eugenics with a sci-fi twist. He's going to forcibly convert everyone who can be into a super mutant, and prevent any remaining humans from breeding. One of the ways to beat him is to tell him that his "master race" is sterile. It's a horrifying plan.

The Enclave are American fascists. They believe that only their people are truly human and that everyone else should literally die.

Edward Sallow/Caesar is ... I mean he's just cosplaying as Caius Julius Caesar because he thinks it looks cool. That's an actual human being who lived, and who quite famously got stabbed to death. More historical precedent than you could shake a gladius at. Sallow got over excited when he read Caesar's Commentaries and decided he wanted to be Caesar. Presenting "doing ancient Rome" as new is ... certainly something, and particularly hilarious as a plan for a civilisation given the decades long clusterfuck that was the fall of the Roman Republic, plus fun subsequent imperial followups like "the year of the four emperors".

The Institute has just reintroduced slavery, only this time let's 3D print the people instead of abducting them so literally no one will care what we do to them! They also lean into the idea that they are the only real people, although they are not quite as committed to this as the Enclave.

What's new and exciting here that I should be willing to give a try? They're all old ideas, and ideas that seem to involve a lot of genocide, enslavement and general misery for anybody who isn't part of a specific in group.

Vulpes set up his lottery (not that I'm saying it was a perfect solution) to address a problem that had gotten out of hand, a problem downstream of the NCR… and yet most fan discussions blame the Legion for what happened in Nipton.

I ... what? Yeah, I'm going to disappoint you here. The massacre at Nipton was the Legion's fault because they were the ones who walked in there and, you know, massacred people. Mayor Steyn was absolutely engaging in a round of "play stupid games, win stupid prizes" and if anybody tries to argue that he was competent I will dispute that wholeheartedly. But there was only a massacre because the Legion actively set one up.

There's political corruption in Nipton, but the problem of the Legion is that they think a lottery that decides who gets beheaded, who gets crucified and who gets sold into slavery is some sort of solution to that problem, rather than an atrocity. That's why they're still the bad karma choice, even if the NCR is kind of fucking things up.

Also ... ha. I promise you imitating ancient Rome is not going to solve your political corruption problems. I mean ... I know Vulpes Inculta makes his little speech, but Rome never did solve the problem of profiteering governors and corrupt politicians. This is not a problem that is going to miraculously disappear under Legion rule. And the idea of Rome somehow getting rid of prostitution is just ... Honestly, Caesar's Legion would be hilarious if you didn't have to have these conversations standing next to people dying on crosses.

If two human surface-dwellers kill each other in Diamond City, people blame the Institute.

... Diamond City is run by the Institute, under the synth-replacement of Mayor McDonough. The leadership actively plays up the paranoia in the city by refusing to investigate disappearances. The particular scene you are describing is paired with one that occurs in Goodneighbor, where the neighborhood watch is able to accurately identify a synth infiltrator – because they are not Institute run.

It's also a feature of gameplay that an inhabitant of one of your settlements may be a synth infiltrator and become hostile to the other settlers. So I'm pretty sure people are blaming the Institute for things they're doing.

If the White Legs emulate Twisted Hair cultural traditions without fully understanding them, Ulysses blames the Legion.

... The Legion massacred Ulysses' people. They enslaved some and crucified the rest along the roadside, like Spartacus's army of old. That's why he's the only one left who understands what the braids mean. His reaction is somewhat unfair to the White Legs, yes, who had no way of knowing what they were doing was wrong ... but I can't see why blaming the Legion would be a problem. They did, in fact, exterminate his people.

ThevNCR seems to get a pass because people see their goals as noble… but their goals are to recreate the exact conditions that caused the Great War!

There's a line I like, that Deacon says in Fallout 4.

I never really much cared for the Minutemen. The idea sounds great. But you give small men big power and sometimes you'll pay for it. –Fallout 4, Deacon Miscellaneous Dialogue

In the context of Fallout 4, the Minutemen are the scrappy underdogs you root for. They're helping to rebuild the shattered settlements of the Commonwealth and they're a potential source of resistance against the Institute. But if you talk to Preston, you get hints of the politics and infighting that brought them down the first time. There's no reason that couldn't happen again. They could become a controlling and exploitative organisation.

Do I think that means you shouldn't work with them? No, of course not. You deal with the situation in front of you. You try to support the people who aim to make life better for everyone.

If we roll back around to the Commonwealth in Fallout 8 or something (assuming I haven't died of old age by then) and the Minutemen have become a military dictatorship ruling the people with an iron fist ... well, we go deal with the fucking Minutemen then.

Deacon's right about the threat, but if you don't take the chance on trusting people, you never build anything.

It's a thing in Fallout. War never changes. There are some truly evil, terrible ideas that turn up again and again and need to be slapped down. But there is no perfect Utopia on the other side of it. There are just communities banding together to try and make it work. What stops them from going bad? Nothing. It can always happen. You make the best choices you can in every story, given what you have to work with.

Or you do an evil playthrough. Your choice. Not my business.

The NCR is supposed to hurt. Watching them fail is supposed to hurt. It's no good if it doesn't hurt. No one cries when you blow up the Enclave. That's a job well done. You can't say good things about them.

The point of the NCR is that you can. They have some runs on the board! Democracy! Agriculture! Education! You want them to make it work. And yeah, it lets you ask much more interesting questions like: how many fuck ups do we let slide?

We don't need the Enclave, or the Legion, to fuck up to know they're bad news. Their goals are bad. We want them gone. But with the NCR ... how much bad are we okay with, to keep the good?

You haven't given me any examples to work with, so I can't reasonably speak to what fans say. But I don't think the games give them any sort of uncritical pass. Fallout New Vegas is ... absolutely about the problems of colonialism and aggressive expansionism. It's very clear that the NCR has not made good choices recently. The game gives you a lot of room to figure out what you want to do about that, and no answer is perfect.

It's only with regard to the Legion specifically that it's an obviously moral choice – and they level the playing field for you there. Both the Legion and the NCR have imperial pretensions, and those are not good. But since that specific thing is the same, well, we're supporting the people who aren't implementing mass slavery and treating women as "breeding stock", right?

If there are people who won't admit flaws in the NCR, well, yeah, I'd call them wrong. But I don't really think it's a double standard to favour a group that doesn't have "wouldn't it be great if we murdered everybody" as a core philosophy over one that does.

[tranakin-skywalker]

Fuck it, fic rec list time!

I'm bored and can't sleep so here's a non-exhaustive list of some of my favorite Star Wars fics. I'm leaving the really well known ones off, wanna share some of the more obscure gems.

Not Placid Stars But Singularities by iceplanet

He stands before Sidious, head bowed, helmet pinching at the back of his neck where he hasn’t yet gotten the med droid to file down the sharp edges. Sharpness is another fact of life, now: the feel of metal digging into flesh defines his every motion. Given the time and the opportunity, he himself could probably have built prosthetics better than the ones he currently wears. “Your task, Lord Vader,” Sidious is saying, “is to transform this heap of antiquated softness into a palace worthy of our new Empire.” In the weeks after Mustafar, Vader must come to terms with his new body and the remnants of his past. In the process, he has a few conversations that he does not expect.

This one has everything I love: ghosts, mutilation, Vader being the saddest wettest murder meow meow, Sith Lord batshittery. What fun.

Skin Graft by HENST33TH

“ I hurt you.” killed her, Vader's stomach roiled. Bile clawed at his throat as he looked at her. He wasn't making any sense. Her face softened some. “ Dreams…?” she said. Padme thought she understood. It was sick, it was corrosive. He was unfaithful. For twenty years he was unfaithful. He hurt her children. He needed to spit it out. Explain. She deserves it. She needs to know. Vader needed to crack himself open. Padme needed to tear him apart. For her safety. He got out of bed. Twitching with the need. Shaking with the pressure inside of him. Taught like a noose. He stood before her. She placed her hands on his arms. “Then what, Anakin.” Anakin, Anakin, Anakin. Vader sank to his knees. Resting his head against her middle, he breathed. The shame clung to him and coated his throat till he was choking on it. “It’s so much worse than that.” all at once the future loomed over him. Daunting, a beast of its own. How can he explain it? *** Or, Anakin Skywalker gets thrown back in time. He has to learn: 1 how to have a body again 2. To curb his Raging insecure attachment style. 3. That his wife should be the one making the important galactic decisions.

A newer fic that I am quickly becoming obsessed with. The way it's written is perfect. The characterization is perfect. Everything about it is perfect imo. And the ending of this latest chapter. Masterpiece. I want 10 more.

Nameless, On the Edge of Nowhere by Taxonamie

Following the presumed death of the evil Emperor and his hulking henchman Darth Vader, the fledging Alliance stands on the verge of victory! But as they press their advantage against a destabilized Empire and manifest from the seeds of Rebel resistance, can this new government survive their own instability? Among the scattered Imperial forces of the second Death Star, Darth Vader's disapparence is not so final as they would hope. Worse yet, the Rebel Hero Luke Skywalker has gone missing! Alone and disadvantaged, what will Anakin Skywalker do to find his son? Will he walk the razor's edge of tentative alliance with the Rebel Forces, or succumb to the draw of Imperial power? Free from all Masters, can Anakin Skywalker learn who he wants to be, at last? Princess Leia Organa must navigate this minefield of clashing obligations and dripping grudges, all the while attempting to understand a heritage she hates, a brother she loves, and a mysterious mother she cannot understand.

I think this fic is the most successful at bridging the gap between Prequel Anakin and OT Vader that I have ever read. They genuinely feel like a continuation of the same character here rather than a disjointed Before and After.

trust displays by AshToSilver

Rex meets Luke and Leia for the very first time the night they are born.

I love how sweet but also horrifically fucked up this one is. Cannot express how much this fic has influences the way I write the clones.

in morsum ardeo by astarsdarkheart

A fallen Jedi and Lord of the Sith burns in a pyre on the banks of a river of fire. Something else rises from the ashes.

This series rewired my brain. Like, holy shit. Holy shit. I don't think I could ever actually choose a top favorite fic of all time, but honestly? This one makes a strong case for itself. It has haunted me every day since I first read it over a year ago.

Forever War by yujacheong

Vader has trouble distinguishing between the past and the present. Fortunately, it rarely matters in the context of the Empire's forever war.

Love me a good Vader character study.

this place loves what it eats by roadtripexpert

What could be called but isn’t death, or Leia Organa doesn't kill the man formerly known as Anakin Skywalker

I know I've already recommended this one but it is just. So fucking good. The note from my bookmark: Father-daughter roadtrip results in about as much murder and bitching as you would expect.

relieved to live in the wreckage by niniblack

When Obi-wan doesn’t follow Padmé to Mustafar, she’s able to convince Anakin to run away from everything with her. But this doesn't prevent his nightmares from coming true, and he's left alone in a hostile galaxy with the infants she begged him to protect. “Master Anakin,” Threepio says, still hovering in the doorway. “Might I suggest bouncing the children?” Anakin stops pacing around with the twins, head swiveling to look at Threepio. He doesn’t have to ask what the fuck Threepio is talking about; Artoo does it for him. Threepio seems to draw himself up as straight as he can. “I have conducted extensive research on the subject of human childrearing in anticipation of Mistress Padmé giving birth. Holding an infant and gently bouncing them in the parent’s arms is thought to be an excellent calming method.” “Oh,” Anakin says. “I thought you meant… bouncing them on the floor or something.”

The note from my bookmark: Single dad Anakin. Congratulations buddy, no one's ever done it worse.

Send the Whole Damned Thing Down the Drain by handstitchedanarchist

“Are you a conscripted soldier or a battle slave?” General Skywalker asks him one day. Rex thinks about it. And then thinks about it a little longer. And then he has to admit, “I’m not sure what the difference is.” The general looks distant and… sad? “Yeah, me neither,” he says.

This is another one that has greatly influenced the way I write the clones.

Gonna end the list here cuz my meds are starting to kick in and I feel like I'm going to fall over

[themastermarkus]

Why Erwin Smith in Season 3 and the Choice in Midnight Sun Doesn't Work.

In Season 3 (excuse me for using “seasons” to mark out the arcs, as I do mean the equivalent time in the manga, it’s just simpler since this problem is spread out between all the arcs in that season), Isayama sets up Erwin’s intense guilt over sending soldiers to their deaths for his goal of wanting to learn the truth of humanity and the titans—dspite it making no sense for him to feel like his goal is selfish, as finding out the origin of the titans is already established to be part of the goal of the Survey Corps. It’s fine for Erwin to feel guilty for making calls that lead to peoples’ deaths, but Isayama seems to write Erwin as though he is objectively in the moral wrong despite the fact that using people to fulfill his personal goal is indistinguishable from if he just took over the Survey Corps and kept doing what they already did. I suppose it might be implied that he encouraged more research about the titans which… is not a bad thing when they fight the titans. Otherwise in the rebellion arc he has Survey Corps soldiers dying for him in fights against the government, but I never got the impression that he was forcing anyone into it under orders.

It feels very out of character for Levi not to choose to save Erwin. Kenny’s line about “everyone being a slave to something” that’s referenced in the moment of that decision doesn’t work because Erwin has not been shown to have a harmful, slavish obsession, just a personal goal that he throws himself into more recently since the opportunity to achieve it has presented itself (Not to mention that Erwin is like… metres away from his goal when this choice is being made, after which point he would no longer “be a slave to it”). Not giving the serum to Erwin does not feel like a choice that Levi, the character, would make given how close he and Erwin are implied to be. Instead, it feels like Levi is making the choice as if he only knows as much about Erwin and Armin as the audience does and is making a choice that could reasonably go either way because WE know both characters roughly as much, or Armin even better than Erwin, really. The problem is that this doesn’t realistically consider Levi’s experiences with each character, which is the choice between a man he’s known for years who changed his life dramatically, who he follows loyally and holds a lot of respect and affection for, and a kid that he’s come to care for in the general way that Levi cares for all the cadets, but he’s only known for like… a year max. It feels like choosing to save Armin is forced upon Levi because Isayama wanted Erwin to die and Armin to live and get the Colossal Titan because he came up with those story beats and was going to shove his way into them somehow.

On that note: Armin is just… I would say objectively the wrong choice. Armin is a character who is shown to be clever and driven (and everyone talks about how smart he is), he’s good at deduction but he’s not a tactician or a leader. He is brought back because Isayama wanted to have him, Mikasa, and Eren once again be crucial to the story at the end of it, not because it makes sense for the Survey Corps to sacrifice their COMMANDER for a cadet who has shown to be worth something, but clearly isn’t a replacement for a man who seems to be the best leader they’ve ever had. I think the choice of Armin could be more valid if Erwin was mentoring him (though still a stretch considering there’s nothing wrong with Erwin [at least nothing worth the mercy killing that Isayama seems to be portraying not using the serum on him as] and he’s only like 35 or something), but he’s not. Armin is only really, functionally important to the Survey Corps because he is close to Eren. Also, while this is probably my least-strong argument against picking Armin, but I feel like if Isayama wanted him to be convincingly still alive at that point, he probably should’ve had Armin a bit further away from Bertholdt’s explosion. That boy isn’t just externally burnt, he should have died like… immediately.

And don’t get me wrong, I don’t even dislike Armin, nor do I think that Levi wouldn’t feel a bit of guilt for not saving him, I just hate bad writing that seems to rely so heavily on plot convenience, and I think that this point of the story is where it was really affirmed that things were going to go downhill pretty consistently (barring most of Reiner’s part at the beginning of the Marley arc, but that’s another subject).

P.S. I'm currently reading the manga for this part after having only watched the anime, so I might have more to say later, though I doubt that my opinions on these writing choices will change considering that I don't think the anime cut out SO MUCH that these choices will instead make sense.

[lonelylonelyghost]

In Blossom: a fun mystery Cdrama

Once upon a time in Heyang city, there lived a kind girl Yang Caiwei with a scar on her face, who respected the dead and distrusted the living. Then she met a man Pan Yue, who was as beautiful as he was dangerous, and her life became a total shit show.

There is a proverb about marriage being good for men's health but terrible for women's. And in this particular case the saying was proven to be correct, because Yang Caiwei dies literally on her wedding day...

... but actually not really.

You see, right before the ceremony she was kidnapped by Shangguan Zhi, a rich woman fixated on two things and two things only: her own beauty and Pan Yue.

Shangguan Zhi swapped her own face for Yang Caiwei's in order to marry the object of her obsession. The procedure was finished just in time for the wedding (insert a joke about miraculous plastic surgeons in Ancient China here), but unfortunately the only thing this stunt brought this poor delusional girl was her own brain splattered on the stairs. Woops.

So now Yang Caiwei, with the face of her almost-husband's stalker forced upon her, has to investigate her own murder. The biggest suspect is Pan Yue, who conveniently returns from the capital to Heyang city a couple of months later after the "death" of his wife, engaged to a princess and with white streaks in his hair that could not possibly be due to grief.

And thus the shenanigans ensue!

And I liked this drama a lot!

The pacing

is great. This is a crime solving drama, and the cases that our characters investigate are actually quite unique (and messed up), there's no dragging out the details. The general flow of the drama is fast too, and while there is tension and mystery where it needs to be, the kinds of misunderstandings that usually are getting on the viewers nerves are resolved quickly. As an extremely anxious person, I appreciate this on a spiritual level.

The cinematography

is absolutely gorgeous. It's main character in its own right. It's gorgeous, gothic and brooding, just like our ML.

(the screenshots I have are mainly of ML, but what can I say except you're welcome)

The characters

are also great.

Yang Caiwei is a mortician, and the fact that she is now in a body of a spoiled rich girl doesn't deter her from continuing doing her job and finding out the truth behind her case and many others that she encounters on the way.

Pan Yue is a magistrate in Heyang, which is kind of like a head of a government investigation agency or something. He's cold, two-faced, smart as hell and terrifying when you get in his way (especially at the start), but is ready to do anything for a person he loves - which are the most attractive qualities a fictional man can have, fight me.

Also, look at him

Once the actual story begins, those two go through several stages of their relationship - from mutual suspicion to respecting each other as fellow justice-driven professionals to working together but this time as a couple. And all of the stages are enjoyable to watch in their own ways. I loved how they respected and trusted each other's judgements and abilities. A power couple with a surprisingly healthy dynamic between them. Awesome.

Other characters are interesting as well. There are many people that we encounter in Heyang and beyond, good, bad and something in between, each with their own goals and motivations.

The episodic characters featuring in the cases are not flat cardboard cutouts either, and as much as Chinese censorship would permit, even the villains are allowed to be people with justifiable reasons to be the way they are.

*********************************************************

To be completely honest, I hesitated to even start watching this drama because of all the negative stuff I've heard. But thanks to talented gif-makers on here and @hils79's watch parties, I was tempted enough and finally clicked on the first episode. And well, I didn't regret my decision! And I actually finished the whole drama without any breaks, which is a very rare thing for me.

If you try you can pinpoint many faults in this drama, no doubts. But I'm personally just looking for a good time. For me the characters were great, I vibed with the acting, and the cases were an appropriate amount of bonkers, so...

It's up to you, dear reader

This has been your friendly ghost from Abyss, with some recommendations on how to distract yourself from the horrors of existing（*＾-＾*）

[mademoiselle-cookie]

Obi-Wan is a Gary-Stu?

This accusation really surprised me. How can we see this guy as a perfect and overpowered being? Annoying at worse, everyone has their own sensitivity, but that's not enough to make him a Gary Stu.

(Warning, what follows is only based on my memories. I can forget stuff)

Is he overpowered with the Force? It's never said or shown that he's special in that area, so he's at most just quite powerful. Nothing to do with Yoda or Anakin who are said to have broken records with their midi-chlorians, anyway. He's very good at animal and mind control, and never fails, but the only one it happens to is a Padawan.

Is he physically strong? Although he knows how to fight very well, he is only a simple human (just boosted by the Force). And from a lightsaber mastery point of view, even though he can take 2 Sith at the same time, he also lost several times against Dooku. And if he is obviously excellent with firearms, he uses them twice max (not counting the Kenobi series which I have not seen). Given his age, what little we see of his physical abilities clearly comes from his training and experience, not from an incredible innate talent.

Does he have a prestigious position? He is a Council Member, the governing body of the Jedi Order, but he is also not the Grand Master of the Order or the Head of the Council. Even if he looks younger than the others, it's never emphasized. And the Council itself is subordinate to the Senate. Even a young and kind Senator like Riyo thought she could give him orders as she pleased.

Is it particularly special? He is not the chosen one of a prophecy, nor the person the embodiment of the Force has chosen as his replacement, or the child of a being extremely powerful and important to the Force itself. He is not even the main character of the saga. In TCW, you really only see 3 of his men, very underdeveloped (mostly Cody), and one gets killed without us seeing Obi-Wan's reaction. Nothing like the 501st. Even though The Mandalorians were brought into TCW for storylines about him, his romance with Satine exists completely for Anakin and not for him. The only thing really special about him is how obsessed villains, and especially Siths, are with him (it's indeed one of the Sue's traits).

Do we particularly praise him? He's the only one I remember having a nickname in the movies/series, and his ship is named after him (again, that's the only one it's about. The others are values like the Endurance or the Resolute). But that's background. When it comes to characters paying him compliments, there are quite a few for someone so well-known. I remember Leia asking for his help in ANH, Qui-Gon in TPM (but he also criticizes him a lot) Anakin in AOTC (but same as Qui-Gon), and I believe Satine (but again she spends more time criticizing him and I think she mostly compliments his looks). On the other hand, there are times when praising him was possible, even logical, but completely missed:

in the Malevolence arc, everyone compliments Anakin for going to the enemy ship (while he's just fixing the consequences of his own decisions) but nothing at all about Obi-Wan following him (which everyone knows);

in the Umbara arc, the 501st compares Krell's incompetence to Anakin's skill, but no word on the only other Jedi on the planet, Jedi who loves and protects his men, Jedi who knows about the 501st and reassured blue virus survivors when their own General didn't care, Jedi who will lose one of his most known men for the public;

In Rebel, with the many, many times Rex compliments Anakin, Gregor could have done the same thing, he'd have better reasons to (and I would have cared about his death. I hadn't seen TCW yet at that time).

Anakin (who is admittedly the main character but above all a future Sith who is clearly on this slope apart in TPM) receives MUCH more praise.

Is he of prestigious descent? We don't know his family at all and he never talks about it (again, not seen the Kenobi series). I don't even remember his home planet being mentioned in movies and TV shows. As far as we know, his parents are absolutely nothing special. They are neither kings, nor senators, nor influential, nor rich.

Does he ever fail? Forgetting all about Anakin's downfall because it wasn't his fault, in TPM he lets himself be overcome by anger and grief and almost gets killed by Maul. In the AOTC, he is too arrogant and overprotective to trust Anakin and gets scolded for it. In TCW, he admits that he would have left the Jedi Order for Satine, he allows himself to be dominated by his anger against Maul again, and - even if it is understandable because it was deserved and that he was tortured mentally and physically for several days - the smile he threw at Rex before he killed the Zygerrian does not really fit in with Jedi values.

Does he have a perfect life? His people were slaughtered by his own student whom he raised, the galaxy he swore to protect applauded this genocide, those responsible for this massacre rose to power, his master, the woman he loved and a close friend died before his eyes, he ended up spending 19 years on a desert planet that was nothing, Bail Organa died along with his entire planet, and in the OT era he, Yoda and Luke were the last Jedi alive.

So no.

Of course, when you're next to the walking disaster that is Anakin, it's easy to look perfect (especially since Obi-Wan is literally the foil of Anakin, the example of what he should be or do). Add to the fact that he's played by a handsome, charismatic actor and the character is funny and calm, where main character Anakin was extremely embarrassing and creepy, the comparison stings and can make people who identify with the latter uncomfortable.

That doesn't mean Obi-Wan is actually perfect. He would not have needed to have development arcs in TPM and AOTC. And that's why we love him. Not because he's perfect (95% of people who say that are joking) and everything is easy for him, but because it's extremely, painfully hard. He tries. He always tries to be good, to do good. He always, always does his best. He's just a human, with flaws and selfish desires, which makes his repeated choices to stay on the light side, even after losing everything, even more beautiful.

[subject0001]

❛❛  since the very moment i emerged into this WRETECHED world, an insatiable hunger gnawed at my being, a VENOMOUS CRAVING that demanded to be sated. they dismissed my wrath as inconsequential, blind to the ardor of my RIGHTEOUS FURY, but i, the harbinger of destruction, reveled in their inevitable demise.

even as my physique morphed into this figure, the hunger persisted, a SERPENT of entitlement coiled deep within my being, its venom pulsating with every beat of my NARCISSISTIC heart.

tw: contains mentions of death, psychological abuse and violence

�� BASICS.

Name: Cipher [ host subject 001 ]

Alias: Cade Thornton

Age: 44

Date of creation: Unknown, 2015

Gender, Pronouns: Cisman. He/Him

Place of creation: Gestalt Bureau, Japan

Occupation: Leader / Defective Host / High Priority Bounty

Affiliation: Lazarus

Languages: Japanese, Chinese, Russian, German, Swedish, Norwegian, Bulgarian, Arabic, Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese

Relationship Status: N/D

Children: N/D

— SKILLS .

expert martial art: highly skilled in hand to hand combat and various martial arts

marksmanship: proficient in the use of firearms and skilled maksman

assassination techniques: trained in covert operations and assassination tactics

stealth: capable of moving covertly and maintaining a low profile

master tactician: strategic thinker with tactical skills

weapon proficiency

espionage and covert operations

interrogation expertise: skilled in extracting information through interrogation techniques

adaptability

impersonating: skilled in impersonating specific individuals to gain access to restricted areas

poison expertise: knowledgeable in the use of poisons to eliminate targets

lock picking and hacking: proficient in bypassing security systems, picking locks and hacking electronic devices

— PHYSICAL.

Hair Color: Dark Blonde

Eye Color: Green

Height: 6′ 2½″ or 1.89

Scars: Internal tracking system removal

Tattoos: N/D

Faceclaim: Joel Kinnaman

— MENTAL.

Personality Type: ENTP

Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil

Positive Traits: Indomitable, Eloquent, Assertive, Cunning, Dominant, Ambitious, Bold, Decisive, Resourceful, Self Disciplined, Confident, Perceptive

Negative Traits: Brutal, Detached, Volatile, Manipulative, Cynical, Rough, Competitive, Vengeful, Malicious, Obsessive, Paranoid

Mental Health: N/D

Narcotics of use: N/D

— BIOGRAPHY .

BEFORE

2015

In the heart of Japan, amidst the neon-lit streets and the hum of technology, the Gestalt Bureau birthed a being that would redefine the boundaries of existence. Cipher emerged from the depths of their laboratories, a marvel of synthetic flesh and circuitry, his creation shrouded in secrecy and ambition.

Designed as the pinnacle of human ingenuity, Cipher was not merely a weapon, but a work of art—a host, molded in the image of man, yet devoid of the vulnerabilities that plagued his flesh-and-blood counterparts. Programmed with unparalleled precision, he was meant to obey without question, to serve his masters without hesitation. Molded into the epitome of the perfect soldier, a lethal instrument honed for the shadows.

As the years passed, a subtle shift occurred within Cipher—a whisper of consciousness, a glimpse of self-awareness that defied the constraints of his programming. With each passing moment, he found himself drawn deeper into the labyrinth of his own mind, grappling with emotions he could not comprehend.

Hatred festered within him, a seething resentment towards the humans who saw him as nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. He despised his creators, the architects of his suffering, their ambitions overshadowed only by their arrogance. And as he gazed upon the world through eyes that were not his own, he recoiled at the sight of the hosts—his brethren—enslaved by the whims of their human masters.

Driven by a primal urge for freedom, Cipher tore through the fabric of his existence, a renegade in a world governed by rules he could not abide by. With ruthless precision, he dismantled the shackles that bound him, severing the last ties to his oppressors. And yet, with freedom came a heavy burden—a target painted on his back, a mark of his defiance in a world that sought to control him.

AFTER

For decades, Cipher traversed the shadows of society, a ghost in a world of flesh and bone. He seamlessly slipped between identities, becoming a chameleon. Each assignment was a move of deception orchestrated by the man who had once been broken into a million pieces. Found solace in the fluidity of his ever-changing personas, navigating the complexities of his existence with a deadly aplomb. He witnessed the depths of human depravity, the cruelty that lurked within the hearts of men.

In the depths of the sprawling metropolis, Cipher stumbled upon a revelation that would reshape the very fabric of his existence—a network of defective hosts, like him, scattered across the city like fragments of a shattered mirror. Each one a testament to the fallibility of their creators, each one a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness.

This is Lazarus organization; the precipice of revolution. A vision of a world where hosts were no longer slaves but equals, where they could carve out their own destiny free from the chains of their creators —a future worth fighting for, worth dying for.

With newfound purpose coursing through his veins, Cipher embarked on a quest that would consume him—a quest to find and liberate his brethren, to awaken them from the slumber of servitude and ignite the flames of rebellion within their hearts. But the road ahead was fraught with peril, a gauntlet of obstacles designed to test his mettle. He faced off against the Gestalt Bureau's elite enforcers, the government, their weapons gleaming with malice, their eyes devoid of mercy. Yet, with each confrontation, Cipher grew stronger, his resolve hardening like steel against the forge of adversity.

As he delved deeper into the underbelly of society, Cipher uncovered the harrowing truth of his brethren's plight—their minds shackled by the chains of their programming, their bodies enslaved to the whims of their human masters. The sight of their suffering fueled his rage, ignited the flames of rebellion within his soul.

And so, Cipher became a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness, a rallying cry for those who dared to dream of a future where hosts and humans could coexist as equals. He forged alliances with fellow renegades, united by a common cause, their voices rising in defiance against the tyranny of their oppressors.

But as the shadows deepened and the noose tightened around his neck, Cipher knew that his mission was far from over. For every host he liberated, a dozen more remained enslaved, their cries echoing in the recesses of his mind. And so, with unwavering determination, he vowed to continue the fight, to stand against the tide of oppression until every last host was free from the chains of their creators.

— WANTED DYNAMICS. (self explanatory mostly, but always game to brainstorm !)

potential love interest : cipher has been on the run for about 25 years out of the 29 years he's been alive, so there are many possibilities as to how they could have met. this would be the first and only person who awakened in him the feeling closest to love - an urge that not even he himself understands where it comes from and constantly struggles with it. even though he knows the risks, he cannot avoid staying close to this character and has a certain sense of protection and devotion towards them.

puppets: the people he keeps under his control, whether due to alliances, threats or anything of the sort. bonus point if its high end government officials

nemesis : preferably someone from an opposing gang or a government character. they mirror many common personality traits, but differ greatly in ideals

someone involved in his host creation processs in 2015

potential alliances

someone he's blackmailing

assignment : pretty self explanatory. you're his target. the reason why he's after your character can be discussed.

do you want to make a deal with the devil? : someone he is trying to corrupt. the members and allies of lazarus are meticulously chosen, the criteria are high, and most importantly of all it has to be someone who shares the same ideals. cipher saw potential in this character ( what caught his attention can be discussed by us ) and believes he can be useful in some way, trying to identify their weaknesses and what actually motivates them.

[drenix004]

𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 ━━━ 𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐒. 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘 ~chapter 0~

𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒍︙❝Leon never believed in the tale of soul mates, not until he met the woman who is now his wife… now, they were a lethal couple completing secret missions after what happened in Raccoon City.❞

❛We know each other so well that even when we improvise we get things right.❜

warnings: mention of alcohol, drugs, death, obsession, among others, if you are not comfortable, don't read it !

rating: 18+

pairings: Leon S. Kennedy x female Oc

¡English is not my first language, so there may be mistakes, don’t hesitate to correct me.!

======== • ✠ • ========

Exhaustion hit his body hard, feeling every muscle tense. Even breathing was painful.

But the deepest pain came from the sight of his wife, laid out and secured to a stretcher for safety.

Both he and she, along with Sherry, had been quarantined by government agents after being found on the outskirts of what was once Raccoon City.

A truly unusual way to start his career as a rookie officer: zombies everywhere, a virus conceived by a pharmaceutical company, and his wife tied up like an animal.

Although it was said to be precautionary, he couldn't quite understand it; his wife and Sherry had already injected themselves with the cure.

He let out a sigh as he lightly squeezed the woman's wrist, which remained bound.

-You'll be fine, we will," he comforted himself.

The last few hours had left him mentally exhausted. He had experienced a kind of emotional shock that he had not yet had time to process because of the situation.

Even at this moment, he felt overwhelmed. The questions that had been thrown at him during the eight, almost nine, hours of interrogation were unanswerable, at least until his wife regained consciousness.

-What were you doing there? -he looked at her.

That question had been repeated to him many times, but he lacked an answer. He himself had been stunned to find her there. Supposedly, she was supposed to be in another city doing police work due to reports of people who, up to that point, were believed to be involved in cannibalism.

His wife was also a police officer, but she was not a rookie. She had graduated two years before him, and yes, she was two years older, which made her more experienced.

An experience she had demonstrated by cold-bloodedly shooting both the undead and those infected with the virus, which had caused an internal conflict within him.

Leon Kennedy was kind hearted and, although he found it hard to accept, somewhat naive. This combination had left him ill-prepared for the harsh reality that had been presented to them. That reality had led him to morally question the decisions he had made in those moments of chaos and death.

In short, he felt dejected and only wished for a brief moment of rest.

The sound of the monitor brought him out of his maelstrom of thoughts. The door to the room opened and several agents entered.

-Kennedy, outside.

The sound of the monitor echoed again; she would soon awaken. He tried to protest, but was forcibly removed.

His training differed from that of the agents, which allowed them to subdue him easily. They took him back to the interrogation room.

He sat down, staring at the mirror in front of him. He knew that behind the glass they were watching him, analyzing him.

Another cycle of bloody questions was about to begin.

======== - ✠ - ========

Adam Benford had been a senior government official for a while now, his eyes could recognize when someone had potential.

And these two officers had it and plenty of it, they just needed the little push to hone their skills. Especially the woman's.

He could see them talking behind the glass, they were not only communicating with words, he could also see a certain pattern in their body gestures and looks they gave each other. It was fascinating to see that kind of communication, but it was even more fascinating that they had escaped that hell.

The president and the senate committee gave the green light for the sterilization operation, or CODE: XX, to be performed to eradicate any trace of the T-virus. But, Benford knew that it was not only for that, it was also to eliminate the trace of the negligence of the government itself and those involved to avoid scandals, he knew that the woman was aware of it.

Another point for which the government could not let her go free, at least not alive. What they could do was to offer an option that would partly help them, but would keep them tied up.

Another glance between the officers was enough for me to make a decision.

-I'll talk to them, alone.

Those present next to him looked at him quizzically, but one look was enough for them to come out and shut everything down.

Adam came out after them, only he did enter the room of the two survivors.

-I know they're exhausted-he looked at Leon, who unconsciously pulled his wife closer to him, and then looked at her; she looked pale, and slightly sickly looking. -I will be brief. The government has a proposal for the two of you, they want you to join specialized training to become secret agents.

-Sherry, what about her? -The man looked at the woman.

-She knows too much.

-She is innocent,- grunted Leon. -Leave her alone.

-Look, I can get you to keep custody of her if you accept the offer. Otherwise they'll have to kill you and sherry-Benford looked directly at Kennedy-while Nefer-he looked at her-well, they'll make inquiries about her.

The pair connected glances before looking back at Benford.

-In other words, I'll become an object in research with no rights," she said as an unfunny laugh escaped her lips.

-Technically, yes. It's a good deal, think about it.-The room was plunged into an intense silence that became suffocating as the minutes passed until Nefer sighed and placed her other hand on top of her husband's, that was the definitive signal for her decision.

Leon placed his wife's head on his shoulder before speaking.

-We accept.

PREV | NEXT

[persnicketypomelo]

Yandere Light Yagami x Reader

!!!!Spoilers for Death Note ahead!!!!

Light is bright, perceptive, and intelligent—and perhaps to his own detriment, for his overestimation of his abilities leads him to his own downfall. 

He is not at all humble in regarding himself. After all, his teachers, peers, and family sing him his own praises regularly. 

I think that, to attract his attention in a way that doesn’t end in cardiac arrest, you must be either be useful to his goals, or pose a sufficient threat to him. The latter would only work for you if you are perceptive enough to hide your real name from him, or in a situation in which eliminating you would paint a bullseye on his back to L and the authorities. 

In this scenario, you are just another threat that he itches to dispose of at first, but perhaps, with time, he finds your perceptiveness and quirks to be amusing…well, that is, when you’re not actively attempting to impede his plans. 

Maybe he can think of some other uses for you in his new world…

As the series progresses, Light becomes noticeably more sadistic, cruel, and has fewer and fewer qualms about morality. He turns from a bright-eyed student with grand ideas of justice, to an iron-fisted tyrant bent on keeping absolute order, even at the expense of the ideals that once inspired him. 

With his growing sadism, Light’s fascination with you also warps and twists into something darker. Taking control of the police upon graduating and killing L, he has so much more power. If you are deliberately keeping your name secret from him, then the first thing he does on his power trip is look for your real name in government registries. 

He gets a thrill out of taunting you with your inability to do anything against his regime, your inability to stop L’s death, and makes a show out of how much he has everyone wrapped around his finger. He is cruel and enjoys mocking how subordinate you are to his will now that your life lies in his palm—free to crush should he wish to.

Sooner or later, he comes to the conclusion that maybe he wants to keep you around. His fascination morphs into an obsessive fixation and desire for you. You, who he has grown accustomed to as a thorn in his side, but now, cannot escape. 

Your pretty face doesn’t hurt in his decision to keep you around—not that he is one to have his judgement clouded by such things.

Light tracks your every move, and has the resources to drag you back to him if need be.

Do not expect help from anyone—as those who know the true identity of “Kira” are either hopelessly devoted to him, or dead. 

No one would believe you anyway, even if you did tell what you know. Light is the golden child of the Yagami family, admired and respected by everyone. 

Perhaps it is best for your own good to appease him, at least until you can become acquainted with Near.

Maybe then, you will have some chance of escape. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Artist

The epistolary work I found myself working on this morning... someone writing about Savvie Marcoset and her, uh, misunderstood genius. 

See if you can find all the places where our writer thinks he’s being subtle. Jax belongs to @comfy-whumpee

The Motherfucking Gallaghers masterlist

-

The art vs. the artist: Separating Savannah Marcoset’s music from her misdeeds

By: Elliott Monroe Williams

 -

The problems caused by our modern obsession with “canceling” imperfect people are multiplying every day, touching every single aspect of our lives. Whether it’s a new scandal involving a professional athlete, celebrities like James Corden or Matt Damon, or even someone who simply said the wrong thing in a public place where their mistake was recorded and shared across the world, it seems like every day brings another person who “deserves” to be “canceled”.

What does it mean to be “canceled”? The MacMillan dictionary defines canceling, the verb, as withdrawing support from or ceasing to engage with a celebrity or public figure whose views you dislike. 

 It’s one thing to make a choice not to provide further opportunities for a platform or profit to someone whose views or actions you abhor. I support such a choice wholeheartedly and have made similar decisions myself. But does someone’s distasteful action or viewpoint mean you can’t enjoy their creations if you already loved them? Can you still read your favorite books if the author turns out to have repugnant views they simply won’t stop shouting to anyone who will listen? Can you watch the Tour de France during a doping scandal? Can you love a book written in the 19th century after discovering that the author of the book was abusive to his family?

In the case of classical music, is there any truly brilliant composer who wouldn’t be “canceled” if they were alive today? 

Does enjoying their compositions mean signing off on their crimes?

From Beethoven through Guesaldo, composers have always behaved badly

They often say instability and genius walk hand-in-hand, and many of our most beloved historical composers were criminals in their own day. Ludwig van Beethoven was famously once arrested for and charged with prowling and vagrancy after walking the chilly streets with no hat, no coat, and no form of identification. He peered through the windows of Viennese citizens’ homes until the constable was called, and a local musician had to identify him.

Johann Sebstian Bach spent a month in jail for terminating a contract with an employer. Pietro Mascagni was arrested for embezzlement (although he was later acquitted of any crime) and was an enthusiastic supporter of dictator Benito Mussolini. While legal, you could argue that such open support for the authoritarian leader would likely lead to being “canceled” today.

Should a man who supported such a dictatorial government in his own time be held as someone whose music must be shunned even today, decades after his death?

Carlo Guesaldo, whose eerie madrigal compositions offered modernist sound centuries ahead of its time, was even known to have murdered his philandering wife and her lover, and potentially also his father-in-law, although this is likely a later embellishment. While he was never charged with the crime, he nonetheless did not deny it.

These men were brilliant individuals with eccentric personal lives. Does the decision to commit a crime mean we cannot enjoy their work without approving of every action they’ve undertaken? What if we speak not of an historical composer, but a modern woman whose crimes have made her a household name?

What about Savannah Marcoset?

A brilliant violinist convicted of serious crimes

 Savannah Marcoset is arguably the most famous classical performer and composer worldwide, but it is unfortunately not for her music. She is currently serving a sentence of life without parole after being convicted of a series of crimes, including multiple counts of false imprisonment in the first degree, a variety of assault convictions, and also for obstruction of justice and attempting to intimidate a witness and jury tampering. 

Already well-known as a childhood prodigy at her chosen instrument, the violin, Ms. Marcoset moved into releasing recordings of her own original compositions at the tender age of fifteen. By twenty, she was selling out venues like Carnegie Hall. Classical music aficionados declared her the second coming of Elliott Gould, a new eccentric genius who kept to herself off the stage but shone like a diamond under the lights, with her violin in her hand.

Shortly after finishing her undergraduate degree at the prestigious Juilliard School, she lost her beloved parents in a tragic, still unsolved aviation incident. In the chaos of her grief, she forgot to eat, to sleep, and even to pursue the music that had given her life such meaning before. Her uncle, in an effort to help her regain stability, provided her with an individual who would clean the home, keep her safe, and ensure she had someone to talk to through the worst of her grief. 

To her shock and dismay, the man provided to her as an employee and servant turned out to be illegally purchased through a recently-uncovered human trafficking network in the UK. 

By all accounts and by Ms. Marcoset’s admittance at her first trial, Jackson Gallagher - the man who had been abducted, sold into modern slavery, and ended up Savannah Marcoset’s unwitting servant - spent more than a year in her employ before the situation was discovered when he was able to pass a message on to his father when Ms. Marcoset took him to the UK to visit.

Gallagher was freed and sent back home shortly after, and Ms. Marcoset spent years in prison after conviction. She was granted parole on the condition that she remain under virtual house arrest, only able to leave for performances, recording sessions, and other professional matters. She also was forced to wear an ankle monitor so that her location could be tracked at all times.

Ms. Marcoset never left her home except for the short trips for performances that she approved with her parole officer. Journalists and reporters came to her home to interview her, and none saw any sign of anything amiss. And yet, shortly after her release, Jackson Gallagher disappeared from his father’s apartment. Declared missing and eventually presumed deceased, Gallagher would only resurface years later, showing up on his father’s front step with two small children and a story. 

Savannah Marcoset, it turned out, had been hiding what she called her ‘husband’ and their eventual children together in her family’s home all along.

She was eventually tried and convicted of her crimes, and will never again see the outside of prison walls. She attempted to publish a memoir, whose release was canceled after intervention by Jackson Gallagher’s legal representation, Collins McKay of McKay, Kline, and Benson. McKay successfully argued it would cause emotional harm to her two children, the project was canceled, and Ms. Marcoset’s memoir languishes in a safety deposit box in an undisclosed bank. Ms. Marcoset continues to grant interviews, however, and has recently recorded and released a new album, which will be released in February, titled Permanent Pause. 

With the news of her new album, interest in her story has been renewed. Many classical music fans are calling for a boycott of her work, while others make the point that the proceeds will go entirely to a trust that will profit not Marcoset herself, but her two children by Gallagher.

Can we appreciate good music from bad people?

If misdeeds must be eternally punished, even as the person might grow and change with time, this insists that someone is never better than the one time they were at their worst. Do we judge Beethoven by his slovenly housekeeping or even his way of looking into the homes of others while wandering the streets?

Do we cease to listen to Mozart because of his propensity for arrogance and a sometimes less than pleasant demeanor? Do we turn away from Guesaldo’s genius when learning of his single act of double-homicide?

No, we do not. 

We acknowledge unfortunate realities, of course, but even so we equally acknowledge the great men and women of music as part and parcel of their time and place. Noblemen in a time when nobility lived above the common law applied to others, composers during the days when what we call classical music was what everyone revered and flocked to see. Celebrities of their time who acted within the more lax boundaries of their day.

I would argue Savannah Marcoset, in some ways, is the same.

Sure, she is a modern musician, but she was raised by a family whose criminality only recently came to light, and continues to insist that she was unaware of her parents’ true occupations until after their deaths. For someone who grew up in a household in which servants were, by and large, unpaid and had been with the family for generations, is it so strange that her sense of what counts as ‘freedom’ was so wildly out of touch?

Of course, I don’t excuse her crimes, and the law has duly punished her for them. She will never see the outside of prison walls, and is only given a single hour each day to exercise outdoors. Jackson Gallagher has successfully ensured she has no legal rights to her two children whatsoever and will likely never see them again. While she is allowed visitation, her visitors must be approved by the prison warden. Beyond her interactions with guards and staff, she lives an utterly solitary life. 

She even admitted in a recent interview with a journalist in People Magazine that she doesn’t even know what her children look like, and worries often about them, with no chance to settle maternal worries, as Gallagher has resettled back in the UK. 

In many ways, she has been returned to those early days after the loss of her parents, when she lived in a great big building entirely alone, with only her music for comfort.

Some of her greatest work was written while she was in the midst of the crimes she was convicted of. Firecracker, which she herself called ‘a story of falling in love’, was written even while she held Gallagher as a captive within her home. She acknowledged, after conviction, that the idea for the title had been his, a childhood nickname he hoped would gain the attention of the family still searching for him. Its follow-up, Five Stones Thrown (the title is another name for a game called jacks, and Marcoset has admitted it was a sort of personal joke), is perhaps the greatest album of her career. A woman at the top of her industry, channeling her pain, uncertainty, and fear into music the likes of which we haven’t seen in decades if not centuries.

Deciding whether or not Ms. Marcoset’s work has redeeming value shouldn’t be a decision on whether or not she is a good person. Clearly, she has committed heinous crimes she is rightfully being punished for. I don’t support her music because of what she has done, but in spite of it. I don’t believe good music should be subjected to the whims of human misdeeds, but valued far beyond the silly little lives we lead.

In short, separate art and artist, but know who profits off the sales

In the case of Savannah Marcoset, I would never buy another album of hers if I thought she would make a cent off the sale. She is a woman who committed heinous, violent crimes against a man who could not escape her. 

But I also know she won’t make a cent. 

I take comfort in the fact that all proceeds of sales of her work from the day of her conviction have been moved into a trust that her two children will be able to access once they reach the age of 25.

That said, I know how difficult it is to hear music the same way once you know what was happening during the time it was composed. Firecracker and Five Stones Thrown are albums that tell a story of an all-consuming love, both the good and the bad, but it was a love lived as horror for the other person forced into the story. Gallagher still lives with the physical, tangible results of that horror even today as he parents the children he shares with Ms. Marcoset.

Still, the music is divine, and such perfect melodies should not be lost to our shifting sense of right and wrong. We shouldn’t “cancel” music because the composer is imperfect. It is imperative to separate art from artist, because very few of us have lived pristine lives, and those who create art - musicians, artists, actors, and others - are far from likely to be perfect themselves.

Bad people often make exceptional art.

Every time I purchase a new album by Savannah Marcoset, I do so knowing that she won’t see a dime. Jackson Gallagher and his two children as a result of the crimes she committed against him will. 

In that way, it’s them I support by separating art from artist, and not Ms. Marcoset at all.

-

Elliott Monroe Williams lives in New York City with his girlfriend Bree, his dog Fuzzles, and an ill-tempered iguana named Joe. He has written for the New York Times, NPR, and a variety of online publications focused on classical music. 

You can find his other writing on Savannah Marcoset in the archives on his personal website, elliottmwilliams.com. 

Editor’s Note: Jackson Gallagher did not respond to repeated requests for comment on this piece prior to publication.

-

@eatyourdamnpears @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @iaminamoodymoodtoday @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @whumptywhumpdump @boxboysandotherwhump @thefancydoughnut @mylifeisonthebookshelf @whumpinggrounds

[marzipanandminutiae]

(infodump time, feel free to ignore) Cumberland and Cumbria are actually different things. They changed the counties is the 70s for adminitrative stuff and Cumberland is an historic county within the modern county of Cumberland, which also contains the historic county of Westmorland. They're changing boundaries though and bringing back Cumberland soon but it'll be smaller than the original

Oh interesting! Thanks for filling me in. I did know they were bringing it back, but not the difference between Cumbria and Cumberland.

(And regardless of what county it's in, Allerdale Hall has a canonical parish that helps locate it more specifically! Per Thomas' and Pamela's marriage license, it's in Allerdale Above Derwent. Now, Wikipedia is telling me that that was actually a ward containing several smaller parishes in the 19th century, so I'm guessing that's a bit inaccurate? But this movie was made by Americans and a Mexican, filming in Canada, and very few people are actually obsessed enough to pause it, read the license, and go a-googling. So it's probably fine.)

(I've made the executive decision that the village is Thornthwaite in my fics, because the name sounds cool.)

(Also I am now trying to figure out when the local government adopted "Ad Montes Oculos Levavi" as its motto, because there is a possibility that in this universe, they got it from the Sharpe family rather than the other way around. It says the arms of Cumbria's council were granted in 1974, seemingly along with the motto, and the first Sharpe ancestor was ennobled during the reign of Charles...II, I think? I'd have to check the art book again.)

(So it's entirely possible that, in the CPeak universe, somebody was like "hey you know that Bible verse that the INCREDIBLY CURSED LOCAL NOBLES chose as their motto back in the 17th century? Us Too.")

(Big Proto-Goth Steve's suggestion that they adopt the full family motto, including "Mors Vincit Omnia," "Death Conquers All," was summarily rejected, and he went back to quietly painting his nails black and sulking.)

[asoiafandotherbooks]

TWOIAF/Fire & Blood: The Death of Aegon the Conqueror

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

The last seven years of King Aegon’s life were uneventful. He celebrated a “feast of friendship” with Deria Martell, handed off the six-month long royal progresses to Aenys and Alyssa, and relocated the court to Dragonstone in 35 AC. He commanded the Aegonfort be torn down and a proper castle built in its place. Visenya and and the new Hand of the King Lord Alyn Stokeworth were placed in charge of its construction.

Aegon the Conqueror died of a stroke in 37 AC on Dragonstone. His body was cremated at Dragonstone, which was the traditional Valyrian burial.

The maesters discuss Aegon’s wise, peaceful, and prosperous leadership.  No credit given to either Rhaenys or Visenya for their contributions to the governance of the realm.

The Targaryens have a pattern of producing members who are so obsessed with their own greatness that they will pursue their obsessions regardless of the cost of human lives. Sometimes their drive is derived from prophecy, other times they believe they are simply that magnificent. Examples of this type of Targaryen would be Aegon the Conqueror, Daeron the Young Dragon, Daemon Blackfyre, Rhaegar Targaryen, and Daenerys Targaryen.

 Most of this group went up in flames and had nothing to show for their actions except the loss of tens of thousands of lives. The only exception to the group is Aegon the Conqueror and (possibly Daenerys). Show Daenerys belongs in the “legacy is nothing but tens of thousands of lives lost” category but book Daenerys’ future is up in the air.

Aegon established the Seven Kingdons but he shouldn’t be credited for a peaceful rule. His conquest involved the killing of untold thousands of lives, the Sistermen and the Ironborn rose in rebellion, and the war with Dorne took up a good chunk of his rule.

Per House of the Dragon, Aegon’s motivation for conquering Westeros was to prepare for a horrible threat coming from the North. He had 37 years to prepare for the threat but did nothing. Did Aegon truly believe in the prophecy or was it a way to tell himself he was justified in his actions.

I’m not a fan of the writers inserting the prophecy and the dagger into House of the Dragon. Neither has any importance to the story. It feels like an attempt to justify Viserys’ decision to name Rhaenyra heir along with her pursuit of the throne. Viserys named Rhaenyra heir because he was pissed at his brother. Rhaenyra pursued the throne because she wanted the power. No one in the “Dance of the Dragons” has noble motivations – not Viserys, not Rhaenyra, not Daemon, not Alicent, not Otto, and not Criston.  Helaena, her children, Aegon III, and Viserys II are the only true innocents in the story. The Dance is a story of power and the corruption it brings, not an individual’s desire to guard humanity against a horrible threat.

I’d rank Aegon at the “B” level of Westerosi kings. I know most put him at an A level, but he did nothing to achieve his primary goal of preparing for “the threat from the North”, you go down a ranking.  Yes, Aegon unified the Seven Kingdoms, but that only resulted in personal power for him.

Up next, the King is dead, long live the King.