#ive seen those dragons before

[helpmyinterestsareverywhere]

Whenever I pick up a Lloyd LEGO set and see a blue figure included I like to try and ignore it and play a game of "is it gonna be Jay or Nya?" and not find out until I get to build it

(It's a win-win situation everytime - i love them both <3)

[rocaillefox]

tbh i see the denigration of animal fiction (or scifi, or fantasy, etc) so often when criticisms of outright racial caricatures are present so it does kinda feel like avoiding addressing those issues when writing is simplified down to 'genre fiction' or the genre is used as a point of mockery. like every genre has a complex history and has impacted peoples lives positively and negatively; you denying the conversation doesnt mean the conversation isnt happening, it just comes across as ignorant of the ways All forms of media can serve to create and reinforce caricatures and dominant trains of thought

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

What is Broken IV (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader) FINALE

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Warnings: traumatic childbirth, blood, semi-suicidal thoughts, Aemond is fantasizing about murder again, all the angst

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: I don't understand why, but thanks so much for all the support I've gotten from this horribly angsty fic! This is my first go at angst so I really appreciate it. I'm gonna work on two happy-ish fic chapters before I get started on When It Breaks, but it's coming...

And a huge, enourmous thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ripdragonbeans for being my betas for this! I was so anxious about getting this absolutely right and they were so kind and encouraging. Love yall forever 💜💜💜

Taglist is done via reblogs

Series Masterlist

What is Broken

She was so light, his ābrazȳrītsos.

Even while carrying their children – their sons – Aemond swore she was lighter than when he left. He held her close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her legs draped over his forearm. With every step, he could feel more of the liquid that had spilled from her womb - now mixed with small, hateful tendrils of blood -  dampening his sleeve.

Gods, how much blood had he seen in the past year? How much had he spilled himself? There had even been times when he reveled in its metallic tang. But the sight of her blood was nothing less than abhorrent.

He ran faster, until he could not make out the faces of those he passed, shouting for a Maester to be sent to their chambers immediately. One of them must be a servant. With luck, the Maester would already be there when they arrived.

She cried out as he began to ascend the stairs, wincing with each step, her weak grip on him tightening. “It hurts, Aemond.”

“I know, my love.” He slowed down, though his pounding heart urged him to do just the opposite. “I’m so sorry. The maester will be here soon, and he’ll help you feel better, hmm?”

“He has to stop it. It’s too early,” her voice cracked, and Aemond’s heart with it. “They’re not ready!”

But it couldn’t be stopped, not by man or gods. Their children would be born today. The only question was whether they would survive. If their mother would survive. Her poor body was so weak, and her heart… he had broken that, too.

If any of them died today, that blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly accept his damnation to the worst of the seven hells.

“Come now,” he chided gently as they reached the corridor to their chambers. “Our sons are dragons – they will be strong. And so will you, ābrazȳrītsos.”

“Sons?” She lifted her head, her entire body trembling with the effort it took. Her eyes – those beautiful eyes now gilded by the setting sun outside the windows – locked with his. “How… you sound so sure.”

Just one more lie. One more, and then he would never lie to her again.

Besides, this lie was small, nearly inconsequential. Many fathers insisted that their children would be sons until the child itself proved them wrong. It would be so easy for her to believe. The truth would hurt her – perhaps weaken her further. Aemond did not want her to hear Alys’ name. She should never have to even think of that witch ever again.

But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not sully the birth of his sons with yet another lie. He pushed their door open with a shoulder, never breaking her gaze. “Alys told me after you left. Before… she had a vision of us holding our sons. I’m so sorry, love.”

She slumped again, her face dropping into the curve of his neck. Once, she kissed him there, slept with her head tucked there. Now, it was simply where her head lolled. “I’m glad it’s sons. You’ll have two heirs…”

Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain, but Aemond heard it clearly. It echoed in his very bones. So if I live, you’ll have no more need of me. The gods had just crumbled the ground beneath him, his heart and soul with it. He was falling, falling, falling…

“I am glad, too.” He set her down gently in the bed, brushing away several tangles of hair stuck to her sweaty brow before arranging the pillows around her, hoping he was adequately managing to hide his devastation. For he could not bear to be without her, could not bear to love her only from a distance. He would go mad. Yet he would happily accept that horrible fate if it meant he would not lose her to the Stranger. “Mother will be, as well.”

“Mother!” She tried to rise, but he held her softly to the bed. “I can’t do this without Mother, Aemond. We must return home immediately!”

“I am afraid that is not an option, Princess.” Maester Artos stood just within the doorway, maids and Septas streaming in behind him. He was a mountain of a man, better suited to the battlefield than the birthing bed. But he was good at what he did – very good. Aemond had seen him work miracles on men who should have never survived their injuries.

The moment the women began attending to his wife, he approached the Maester, speaking quietly so as not to frighten her. “Something is wrong, Artos, she is bleeding. And she’s very weak.”

Artos hardly acknowledged him, looking only at the princess lying in the bed. “The blood is not the problem. She is distressed and too thin.” He stated, as cold and clinical as all other Maesters.

“Yes, I know that already.” Aemond took a shaky, calming breath. He did not like the way Artos observed her, as if she was a thing to be studied rather than a woman – a princess. Perhaps when it was all over, he’d kill the man for it. “I fear she is not strong enough to survive this.”

She cried out behind them. Two maids were pressing damp cloths to her forehead. Another was hastily braiding her hair back. A Septa had begun cutting away her dress, leaving her only in her chemise as two more maids removed her slippers and stockings. Two other Septas knelt by the windows, praying, while one woman who seemed to be neither maid nor Septa laid metal and wood instruments atop a tall, thin table.

It took every ounce of Aemond’s self-control not to go to her. To shove away each woman because it should be him – and him alone – to touch his wife while she was so vulnerable. He should be the one to protect her, but he couldn’t. He could only hurt her, it seemed.

“Artos!” Aemond hissed.

“Is her spirit weak as well?” There was suspicion in his dark eyes. The same he’d shown when he confirmed Alys was carrying a child. If he hadn’t been so proficient a healer, Aemond might have killed him then.

But for now, Aemond was glad Artos was alive. He swallowed, avoiding looking back at the bed as his wife continued to whimper and moan. “Yes.” The maester just hummed before approaching the bed. Aemond followed, kneeling at the bedside, the maids immediately clearing away.

“This is Maester Artos, ābrazȳrītsos.” She stared wide-eyed at the hulking mass of the man who now knelt between her legs. Aemond tugged on her hand, her gaze snapping back to him. “I know him well. He’s going to take very good care of you, I promise.”

She shuddered, her eyes closed tight as she squeezed Aemond’s hand so hard he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He delighted in it. She was not as weak as he thought, thank the gods. If she needed to break every bone in his hand – in his body – to live through this, he would let her do so without complaint.

“Are you going to stay with me?” she asked, her voice already ravaged by screaming.

Aemond blinked. When they first learned they were to have a child, he swore he would. But now, it seemed impossible for her to want him there. Not after what he’d done. “Do you… want me to stay?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but another moan of pain. Her eyes darted all over his face. The longer she stayed silent, the further Aemond’s stomach dropped, and his heart ached.

“I believe it wise to have the prince wait outside,” Artos said decisively.

Aemond felt her hand slide out of his, the sensation the same as if he were falling from Vhagar’s back—her answer.

He nodded, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, trailing a hand down her cheek. “I love you.”

As he walked to the door, he still held a little shred of hope in his heart, waiting to hear her say it back.

It never came.

The moment the door shut behind Aemond, she regretted sending him away. She wanted to call him back so she wouldn’t be alone with so many strangers. But panic began to set in as the maids pulled her gently down the bed, and her voice failed her.

“It won’t be long now, princess,” the maester said, but she found no comfort in it. She couldn’t even remember his name. Alton? Alyn? Amos? Aemond had said he trusted him, but…

But that meant he had been here when Aemond was with Alys. And that glint of pity in his eyes, not just for her conditions, but for what he knew. He knew. Seven Hells, he’d probably been the one to care for Alys and her pregnancy.

Alys. Alys, Alys, fucking Alys!

She did not know what to think of the woman who had stolen so much from her. Had she stolen it, or had Aemond given it? She could hardly make sense of what she’d learned in that dreary little room.

Alys was not the evil, scheming witch she had first imagined. But neither was she innocent in the affair, not wholly. She was not remorseful for her actions, but she apologized for hurting her. She had been kind.

Blinding pain shot through her, and she screamed. Wordless and desperate, her only outlet for release. She needed to scream, needed to roar, needed to breathe fire. Anything to distract from this. Gods, she even wished for a moment for Alys to be there, holding her hand. At least then, she could return some of that pain.

“Princess,” the maester said, though he sounded far away. Though it was more likely that her shouting was drowning him out. “Very soon, I will ask that you push. Do you know how, your highness?”

Push. That’s what the septas had instructed Helaena to do at the birth of her twins and for Maelor. She even had vague memories of the word from when she peeked through the open door to her mother’s chambers when Daeron was born. But what it meant and how to do it?

Her confusion must have been apparent, for the maester continued. His voice was frustratingly calm and steady. “It is fine if you do not, princess. You must simply follow your instincts. When you feel the urge, push the child outward with all your might.”

“I have no might.” She heard herself laughing through tears and only then realized she was crying. Someone took her hand – she didn’t know who. But the feeling of another’s skin on hers was heavenly.

“You have carried these babes for months,” the maester – Artos! that was his name – said gently, “while your husband and the realm were at war. In my estimation, you are the mightiest woman in Westeros.”

She felt nearly every muscle she had tense, turning her answering grateful smile into a grimace. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have weathered her pregnancy as well as a paper boat in a storm. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not still love her husband after he betrayed her. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have let her emotions weaken her or put her children’s lives in danger.

She was far from the mightiest woman in Westeros, and she could not do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She was only a weak and broken little girl.

A maid approached, a fresh cool, damp cloth in her hands. The princess had not looked at any of their faces, too absorbed in her pain and panic. But now, she caught the eyes of this girl—deep, rich brown, so similar to her own – to her mother’s.

“I want my mother,” she whispered to the maid, even knowing it was impossible. “I can’t do this without her.”

The maid gaped at her as if she could not fathom a princess ever speaking to her. She looked to her companions for guidance, but the princess only looked into the maid’s eyes and thought of her mother—the scent of the rosemary oil she used in her hair, the warmth of her embrace, and the soothing tones of her voice.

“Please, I want my mother,” she begged. A new surge of pain gripped her, radiating into her legs. They were coming faster now; she barely had time to breathe between each wave. “Please.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” The maid’s voice was high and breathy, nothing like her mother’s. “The queen is not here.”

She cried, turning away from those false eyes. She was alone – entirely and utterly alone.

“Princess, I need you to be strong now.” Artos’ sweaty brow was furrowed with half a dozen creases, his eyes wide and mouth a firm line. He looked more like a commander on a battlefield than a maester. The Grand Maester would have smiled at her, but he was not here, either. “Your labors are progressing quickly. It is nearly time to push.”

“I don’t know how,” she cried. She refused to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could almost imagine she was home.

Artos wrapped his hands around her ankles, pushing them upwards and further apart. “You do, princess. The Mother wove the knowledge into your body. Listen to it, and all will be well.”

“I – ”

Her next scream rattled the room, the keep, the entirety of the Riverlands.

Fire, ice, steel, and claw seemed to rake down her spine to her thighs. But Artos was right; her body reacted to the pain, her muscles moving near-unconsciously to force the babe out of her womb. She followed the instinct, pushing it harder, harder, harder.

“Very good, princess!” Was that Artos or Orwyle? She couldn’t tell anymore.

It was never-ending.

Pain, pushing, and a brief moment of reprieve.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It lasted hours, days, perhaps even years.

Was a child – a son – even worth this pain? How could she love someone who had tortured her so? Would she ever be able to look at him without remembering how she suffered?

Pain.

Pain.

PAIN.

Then –

“Stop, princess!”

She went limp, vaguely beginning to feel other sensations creep in: the coolness of the water on her forehead, the slight scratching of the sheets beneath her, and the hushed whispers of the maids and midwives.

The pain was still there, but softer. Less insistent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice nearly unrecognizable, even to her.

Artos emerged from between her legs, relief painted over his harsh face. “Nothing is wrong, princess. It is simply time to be gentle and allow your body to do its work.” He smiled, chuckling under his breath. “I can see your babe’s white hair – quite a bit of it.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. Deep, joyous laughter. Another slight wave of pain passed through her, but she didn’t care at all. She was thinking about her niece and nephew, how Jaehaerys was born with nearly a full mane of silver frizz while Jaehaera had not a single hair on her head until she was over a year old. “He has hair?”

“Yes, although I do not know yet whether it is a boy, princess.”

“It is. He is.”

There was one more brief surge of pain, and then she heard her son cry.

It was torture to wait outside while his ābrazȳrītsos screamed with pain. At first, Aemond stood leaning against the wall, as Aegon did when Helaena began her labors, but his knees failed him when he heard a scream that rattled the world.

He’d been on the floor since, resisting the urge to cover his ears. But he had caused her this pain, so he must listen.

He would be in that room with her if he hadn’t been a weak, damnable fool. He would have held her hand, letting her release her pain onto him. She had only squeezed his hand once, yet he still felt the ghost of her touch on his skin. He would savor that pain for the rest of his life.

It seemed to be never-ending, the torture his son was inflicting upon her. How could he ever forgive the child for doing this to his own mother?

Then, it stopped.

Aemond leaped to his feet, panic infecting his blood like a disease. Why had she gone quiet? What was wrong? Was she dead? He couldn’t face –

A babe cried—his first cry, with his first breath.

Their son.

He tried to push the door open, but it was locked.

“Let me in!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. “Artos, let me in!”

There was no answer, but he could hear soft voices inside. None sounded like hers. Oh gods, had she brought their son into the world at the cost of her own life?

Aemond slammed himself against the door again and again, not caring for the damage he was doing to his own body. “Open the door now, Artos!”

He threw himself against the wood again and again. At some point, it had to yield. Either it would, or his body would.

It opened just before he launched himself at it again—not all the way, but it was open. Then, Artos stared at him through the gap with his hateful, disapproving gaze.

“Let me in,” he growled. Trying to force the door open was useless, as the maester was practically a giant and, apparently, throwing all his strength into holding it closed. “If you don’t let me see my wife, I swear I’ll – ”

“Your wife has not finished her labors yet, my prince.” Damn him, the mountainous bastard. “But I am pleased to inform you that she has borne you a son.”

Though he knew it was to be a son, the words still shot through him. A son. His son. Their son.

“Is he healthy? Is she?” There was no more fight in his voice. The warrior prince had vanished, replaced only by the husband and father. By all the gods, he was a father.

Artos nodded. “The boy is small but healthy. Your maester may have miscalculated the date of conception. He is remarkably healthy for being born so early.”

“And my wife?”

“She is tired, but well. The second babe is not quite ready to emerge, so she is resting.”

The weight of all the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt like the little boy he had once been on Driftmark, wanting nothing more than to see his zaldrīzītsos and take comfort in her embrace. “May I see her? Please.”

“I’m afraid not, my prince.” Artos at least had the decency to sound genuinely apologetic. “She needs this rest. With the first birth, she was wonderfully strong, more than I could have ever imagined. But I fear she has depleted her strength. She fell asleep the moment it was done.”

“Is… is it bad that she fell asleep?”

Artos sighed, his eyes turning to the floor. “Ordinarily, no, but with how thin she is, how weak… it worries me.”

No. No, no, no. “Is there anything you can do? To help strengthen her?”

“I am afraid not, my prince.”

“Well, do something. Do whatever you can.”

A soft moan came from behind the door. Ābrazȳrītsos. Aemond pushed against the door, opening it as far as he could to try and catch the barest glimpse of her.

Her eyes were nearly closed, her reddened cheeks making them appear as dark as night. Her chemise was soaked through with sweat and whatever other fluids came out with their child. But no blood beyond what he already knew to be there.

“Ābrazȳrītsos! I’m here!” He shouted. It took a moment for her to look his way. He could have sworn she smiled. “I’m with you! You must be strong, my love. I know you can be. I love you! I love you so much, ñuha zaldrīzītsos!”

Artos pushed against the door, forcing Aemond back. “That is enough, my prince. Upsetting her will only drain her strength.”

Aemond knew it was true, that his presence would likely upset her rather than comfort her. So, he stopped resisting and allowed the maester to close the door. Just before it closed, he whispered one final command, “Take care of her, Artos. She is my world.”

The pain returned, worse than before. The lightning crept down her spine again, but it was now accompanied by a great force set on tearing her body apart at the seams. Pushing brought no relief, nor did it seem to move her son any closer to the world.

Artos came to her bedside, resting the back of his hand against her brow.

 “It’s worse this time,” she confided in the maester when it finally ebbed. “It’s so much worse. Why?”

He sighed and sat on the bedside, his massive hand nearly eclipsing her head as he stroked her hair. It made her feel remarkably like a kitten. “I cannot say, princess. There are many possibilities. This child could be larger, in a slightly different position, or…” He hesitated. “As I said, there are too many possibilities for me to be sure.”

His pause unsettled her, but it soon faded away when another wave went through her. “Is he nearly ready? I can’t do this much longer.” At least she knew what to do this time, so surely it would be better.

“Ah, another son, is it?” Artos stood from the bed to examine her spread legs. Several maids gently moved her to replace the sheets beneath her. “Not yet, but soon. Your motherly instincts will tell you when.”

Motherly instincts. Gods, she was a mother now. There was a child on the other side of the room that she had given birth to, that she had grown within her. A son who would depend on her for his entire life. Her, and his father.

Aemond would be a good father, she knew, even if he were decidedly lacking as a husband. But as a father, he would be attentive, kind, and loving. He would give their sons all the love he was denied by their own father.

They would not repeat the mistakes of the past. They would love their sons. They would not ignore them, speaking to them only to scold them. They would teach them the language of their ancestors themselves instead of relying on tutors. As soon as they were old enough, they would teach them how to be compassionate and fair rulers. They would not force them to marry for political advantage or the continuation of the bloodline but let them fall in love, as they had.

She could see them now. Both with white hair and unruly curls. Bright lilac eyes. The elder would take after her, but with Aemond’s determination. The younger would take after their father but with her gentle temperament.

As if the vision was summoning her second son, she felt her body constricting, muscles tightening. Without fear, she began to push.

“Princess, stop!”

Artos screamed as if someone was holding a sword to his throat, desperate and panicked. His eyes were wide and bulging as he looked from her face to where her second son should be emerging. “You mustn’t push now, princess. Not once. I…”

He stood, pulling one of the Septas aside. Others followed, and their frantic, poorly hushed whispers grew louder. She knew the sight should frighten her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Aemond said he trusted this man and had seen him work miracles. Whatever was wrong, Artos would fix it.

She was sure.

Artos burst out of the door without warning. Aemond pushed away from the wall. “Is it over?”

The maester sighed.

Shit. Seven Hells and all the Gods.

“Your wife is strong, my prince,” he began. Holy gods, he sounded as if he would cry. “Enough so that I would have little doubt that she could deliver your second child, but…”

“What’s wrong?” Aemond felt his heart race, his blood surge, his finger twitching for his sword. He was going into battle, but this was not a battle he could fight with steel or fire. This was not a battle he could fight at all. “Artos?”

“The babe is not in the right position.” He moved his hands as if it would somehow make Aemond understand what he was saying.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the babe cannot be born, your highness.”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything she had suffered and survived.

“If she were to continue her labors, neither she nor the child would live.” Artos put a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. “I can save only one. Who survives… that is your decision, my prince.”

The gods were cruel to force this upon him – the very choice that had damned their family decades ago when Viserys chose to sacrifice his wife and queen for the chance at a son. That was where the seeds of destruction had been sown.

Aemond could not repeat the mistakes of the past. He would not be like his father. He had his son and heir. A second would be preferred, but not at the cost of his ābrazȳrītsos.

His ābrazȳrītsos, whose heart would break to lose her son. Who would never forgive him if he decided to –

He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t let her die, and he couldn’t let their son die.

He couldn't live without her, and he couldn’t take away her will to live.

He tore himself out of Artos’ grasp and stormed into the room.

Aemond threw open the door, his eyes wide and wet, and suddenly, she was not so sure that Maester Artos would fix whatever was wrong.

He ran to the bed, not sparing a glance at their new son. She burst into sobs the moment he took her in his arms. “Oh, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered into her hair as he kissed her temples. She entwined her fingers with his, desperately squeezing. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Liar. Sweet Liar. Beloved Liar.

“I want Mother. I want Helaena.” Her voice crackled with tears and exhaustion. Everything hurt. Someone – most likely her – was crying, though it sounded distant. And if Aemond was here, not waiting outside…

If Aemond was here, holding her hand and stroking her hair, it meant something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Mother is not here right now,” he said, squeezing her hand tighter. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t meet her gaze. “And Helaena… she can’t be here. I’m so sorry.”

“She told me she would hold my hand like I did for her. She promised!”

“I know. I know, my love, but it is not possible.”

Because Helaena was dead. So were Daeron, and Jaehaerys, and Jaehaera, and Maelor, and Otto, and Ser Criston, and nearly every other person she loved. Aegon would be dead soon, too, then she would only have her mother and her husband.

Her mother, who had begged her to forgive the husband who betrayed her and broken her heart.

“I can’t do this alone, Aemond. I can’t.”

“You can, I know it. You are so strong, dearest.” Yet there was no confidence in his voice.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear his hair out just to make him hurt, too. “I can’t! I’ll die if you make me, Aemond, I know it. I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. “My love, I…” his voice faded, leaving them in total silence, save for that distant crying.

Then, he kissed her—not the soft kisses on the temple or head of the past fortnight, but the way he had kissed her when he said goodbye all those months ago. His lips slotted against hers perfectly, and she opened for him on instinct. She knew she should stop, push him away, and scold him, but she couldn’t.

Everything felt wrong—her entire body felt wrong. But this, kissing Aemond, felt right. Her desperation for comfort far overpowered her anger and resentment. Her trembling hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. She pulled him closer, wanting more—more rightness, more connection, more feeling.

More Aemond.

But he pulled away, resting his brow against hers as she chased his lips again. He placed a hand on either side of her face, holding her still. “I’m going to fix this,” he rasped, his voice shredded by fear and desperation. “I will fix this, I swear.”

Then, he let go.

He stood from the bed and turned away from his wife.

He was leaving. He was fucking leaving her.

She screamed his name, cursed him, begged him to come back, hurled insults, and cried for him. He couldn’t do this to her, not after everything he’d already done.

This was not love. The heat that burned in her chest was not love.

It was hate.

For the first time in her life, she truly hated Aemond.

“Alys!” Aemond bellowed as he descended the stairs to the servant’s quarters, taking the steps two, three at a time. No one dared approach him. Not even Artos had tried to stop him as he ran away from his ābrazȳrītsos.

She may hate him forever for this, for leaving her when she was so weak and scared.

Fine. It would be worth it.

“ALYS!” The door snapped from its upper hinge as he tore it open. The witch was precisely where she’d been when Aemond left, her hand on her chin as she looked into the fire. What vile hell did she see in her visions now? “Alys!”

“I heard you, Aemond.” She did not look at him, only staring at the flames, those green eyes flitting around as if she were reading a book. “The entire continent heard you.” There was no humor in her voice, no hint of a smile on her face.

He swallowed, panting. He was crying – weeping like a little boy. That didn’t matter now. Very little mattered now.

Aemond fell to his knees before the witch with whom he had destroyed his life. He would do whatever she asked, destroy what little was left of his pride if necessary. “I need your help, Alys. Please.”

“She’s dying?”

“Yes. The maester said I had to… that I had to choose who to save.”

“And you can’t choose between her and the child.”

 “No, I – ” he swallowed as his voice shattered. He was going to vomit. “I can’t, Alys. I can’t. Please.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” She was colder than the Wall, than the entirety of the lands beyond it.

“Save them, both of them.”

Alys’ eyes narrowed. Her face was painted with an expression he had never seen. He had no clue what it meant. “What would you sacrifice,” she asked flatly, “to ensure your wife and her children – your true heirs – live?”

“Anything,” Aemond croaked, “Everything.”

One corner of her sinful mouth lifted in a way that did not bring him comfort. She sighed as if taking the time to thoroughly consider his plea. The wicked bitch was gleefully stalling when the lives of his wife and child could end at any moment.

“Please, Alys,” he begged again, desperation crawling through his veins like spreading ice. “I cannot live without her, and she will never recover from her grief if she loses the babe.”

Something passed over her face, and she smiled fully. “You have always been a man of loyalty and nobility, Aemond.” Her grin sharpened as she laid one delicate hand upon her belly. “Almost always, at least.”

“Alys,” he growled in warning.

“Oh, don’t be a beast about it,” she scoffed. “I will do it – save them. If only in memory of our time together.”

Aemond sagged as relief swept through him, but it did not last long. She was still dying. The babe was still dying. Whatever Alys would do, she needed to do it now. He opened his mouth to command her to start, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I promise it will be done.” She flung her hand to the door in dismissal. “You should be there for her. She is still so very frightened.”

He needed nothing more to run back to his wife.

She was alone. Even with Maester Artos and the dozen women hovering around her, even with her son cooing softly from the cradle by the window, she had never felt so alone.

Aemond was gone.

He’d left her. Without even a goodbye, he’d left her. He had not even stopped to meet his son.

Artos murmured something to one of the Septas, who quickly gathered the other women on the far side of the room. He approached the bed, again seating himself upon the edge, and pressed the back of his fingers to her brow briefly before petting her hair. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“Am I going to die?”

He hesitated in answering. “I cannot say for certain…”

“I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.” Her heart constricted as his fingers brushed against a spot where Aemond had kissed her. “You told him, now tell me.”

“Very well,” he sighed. His harsh face fell, and she swore she could see his eyes glistening. “The babe is breech. It should emerge head-first, but it is not. It’s… the way it is attempting to come out is nearly impossible. Should I not intervene, one or both of you will die.”

No. No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. To suffer for this long, to endure what she endured, only for her child to enter the world wrong? In a way that would kill them? She had always been good and devout. She prayed and studied holy texts, listened to her Septas and the Maesters, and avoided sin at all costs. Then why was she being punished?

Unless… the gods had not sent this to punish her.

Aemond had abandoned her and their marriage – their holy union – when he slept with Alys. It would be fitting, and very like the gods, for him to lose that which he had forsaken. She and her second son were merely instruments of punishment. But it wasn’t fair.

“There is nothing you can do?” She felt hollow as Artos continued to look at her in pity.

The warrior-maester looked as if he were about to cry, as well. “In these situations, it is usually asked of the father whom he would rather save.”

So that was why Artos left the room – to ask Aemond whether to save her or the child.

“Who did he choose?” Either answer would devastate her. He would either prove the fragility of his love for her, or he would willingly break her heart by killing their son. Whatever he chose, he would become a kinslayer thrice over.

“He… he did not, your highness.”

“What?”

“I explained the situation, and he stormed in here – to you. When he left, he said nothing. He just ran. I presumed he had…” But he hadn’t. Had not said a word about the peril she and their son were now in.

A coward. Too frightened to maintain his vows of marriage. Too weak to admit his wrongdoing. Too cowardly to even make this most crucial of decisions. The gods damn him.

If they hadn’t already.

“So… what will you do?” If she had to be the one to make the decision, so be it.

“There are three options.” None of them were very good, she knew, simply by looking at his forlorn face. She had thought him a grave man when she first saw him. Now, he looked mournful – a reluctant harbinger of death. “I can forcibly remove the child, more than likely killing it in the process. I can attempt to save it and, in so doing, certainly kill you. Or we can proceed with the birth, risking killing both of you and pray that the gods may be merciful.”

Such a choice – a decision of life and death – should be difficult. It should tear away at the soul to condemn another. It should be far beyond the limits of the heart or mind.

But it was easy.

“Save him,” she whispered. “Let me die.”

Artos frowned deeply, shook his head, and said something in return, but she did not listen – she could not and would not hear his words. She only vaguely saw him move to the end bed, ripping away the sleeve of his robes as he barked orders at the maid and midwives. Perhaps the gods were merciful to dull her senses now so she could pass peacefully.

What did it matter if she died now?

She will have fulfilled her duty and given her husband his heirs. Finding a new wife would be easy – what woman would not want to marry him? Even if news of Alys spread beyond the walls of Harrenhal, surely it was nothing in exchange for a crown. Aemond would have everything he needed to be king.

If she lived, what sort of life would it be? To raise one son while constantly mourning the other. To be the wife of a man she could no longer trust. To remain empty, a shell of her former self. She would be alive, but she would still be a ghost.

“Save him,” she said again, her voice fading.

It was easier this way. Hadn’t she already learned that it was easier not to fight? Letting Aemond take care of her was easier than fighting him. Perhaps it would be easier to let him care for the children, too. He would love them enough that they would not feel her absence.

Distantly, she felt pressure between her legs, then heard her firstborn son cry out to echo her own screams.

Her son.

Oh, he had no name.

She couldn’t leave him motherless and without a name.

Months ago, she had decided on names, but they were hard to remember now. What was it? She could grant him this one last gift. She just needed to remember…

“Daeron.”

Yes. It had been her brother’s name. Her kind, brave, daring brother. He died some months ago. There had been a battle. Why was her little brother fighting? He was too young for that.

Tendrils of pale mist crept into the edges of her vision, playfully willing her to sleep.

Once she was gone, Daeron—her Daeron—would have a little brother, too. He would need a name as well—a strong name, a courageous name. When she was dead, he would need courage.

“Aenar.”

A strong name. With courage enough to forge a new beginning.

There. Names for her sons, the little princes.

With that last parting gift, she could close her eyes at last.

Goodbye, she tried to say.

I love you, my children.

Be kind to each other.

Love each other always.

Goodbye.

The mist filled her vision, illuminated by a distant light. It was cool, like a late spring morning. She did not hurt anymore. Did not feel anything but an overwhelming sense of peace.

The distant light faded.

The mist darkened.

Through it, she swore she could see grass-green eyes and hear the faraway cry of a babe.

She was still screaming. Good.

Screaming meant she was still alive. Screaming meant Alys was fulfilling her promise. Screaming meant that Aemond was racing back to his wife – his living, breathing, beloved wife – and not her corpse.

The door was still locked when he arrived—one final obstacle between him and his family.

No, not final. Far from it. The door was the only tangible thing keeping him from his wife and children, yes, but there was far more beyond it. The pain he caused her, the hatred his ābrazȳrītsos now surely felt for him, and the third child that would soon be born still kept them as far apart as the earth and stars.

They would get past it. They had to. They were siblings, husband and wife, now destined to become King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They were meant for each other. The gods or fate or whatever else had made her for him and him for her.

They were two parts of the same whole, cleaved.

“Prince Aemond.”

Cregan Stark, the man who humiliated him and his wife mere hours ago, stood behind him. Aemond snarled. “Leave. Now.”

Stark stood strong and still. “You have been my enemy. You may be still, I have not decided. I have no admiration nor respect for you, my prince. In short, I do not like you.”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Aemond asked. He did not wish to greet his sons with blood-soaked hands, but if Stark didn’t close his fucking mouth –

“To lose the woman you love so dearly in this way… it is a pain I know all too well and one I would not wish on anyone. I have instructed all my men to pray for the Princess and the child, and I will join them soon. Negotiations will be postponed indefinitely.”

“I…” Perhaps Aemond had underestimated the brute, if he was a brute at all. And though he knew the prayers were unnecessary, gratitude still dulled his rage. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He simply inclined his head and walked away, leaving Aemond leaning against that godsdamned door, listening to nothing but the sound of his own panting breath.

Oh gods.

He froze.

The screaming was gone.

It was silent.

Was she dead?

Had Alys betrayed him?

He would kill her. He would tear her apart with his own hands and –

A child cried.

Then…

Oh, thank each and every god a thousand times over.

For then, Aemond heard his wife laughing.

“Princess?”

She always expected that the voice of the Father would be deep and smooth, but shouldn’t it be the Mother to greet her, given how she died? And shouldn’t the gods greet her by name, not her title?

“Princess, it is time to wake up,” the voice said again. “Open your eyes for me.”

Oh, her eyes were closed. She should open them.

The Heavens were not as bright as she imagined, nor as golden. They were dark and sparsely decorated and looked very much like –

“I am not dead?”

Maester Artos looked down at her and smiled. It reminded her of the few times she had seen her father smile at her, sparking a warmth in her chest she had not felt for years. She had not known she still remembered those smiles. “I am very happy to say you are not, your highness.”

“But, my son – ”

“He lives, too.”

It couldn’t be. After all the suffering of the past year, she could not believe it could be true. Loss had become a certainty, as sure as the sun rising each morning.

A babe cried, and she turned toward the sound. A young maid was wrapping an infant boy with a shock of white curls in a cobalt blue blanket. Daeron.

A different, softer cry came from the other end of the room. There, another boy with only a smattering of silver wisps atop his head was being gently cleaned by a Septa. Aenar.

Her sons – alive and well and here.

She threw her head back against the pillows and laughed.

She laughed with joy and relief, with eight months of eager waiting and sickness. She laughed with a body nearly dead, saved only by some miracle she did not understand. And she laughed with a heart that was both shattered and overflowing.

This was the moment she had dreamed of since she learned she was pregnant, since the moment she married Aemond. She had dreamed of this all her life. It was her destiny, even if it was vastly different from how she had dreamed it. For she was not at home in the Red Keep but within the cursed stones of Harrenhal. Her mother was not by her side but miles away. The family that was supposed to crowd around her and coo over the children were nearly all dead. And her husband…

“Let me in!” he shouted through the door, the wood pounding against stone as he threw himself against it. He had been doing that before, but she did not notice until now. It was so like him, the impatience and need to act, that she laughed again. “Ābrazȳrītsos! Is that you? Tell me you are safe!”

Taking her laughter as permission, Artos opened the door. It was mere heartbeats later that Aemond was upon the bed, his eye flitting over every inch of her, his hands roaming to try and locate something wrong, to stem blood that did not flow or relieve pain that did not exist.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless. “I did it, lēkia, and I’m fine.”

“You did it?” He looked down at her in utter disbelief and joy before his eye drifted to the Maester. Tears slipped from his eye and caught the light of the setting sun. “She did it…”

Her gaze went to the maid that held her firstborn – the girl with eyes like her mother’s. Fitting, for her to be the one to hold him. But it was her turn. “Bring Daeron to me,” she ordered,” some strength at last returning to her voice. “I want to hold him.”

Aemond stared at her. “Daeron?”

Was he angry that she named their sons without him? She couldn’t quite tell. Her mind was still fuzzy, like the mist she had seen still lay over her, casting everything in a sweet, happy light. She shrugged. “There are already too many Aegons, so…”

He laughed. She had missed that sound – she loved it so dearly. He settled into the bed next to her, their bodies fitting together perfectly, like two halves of a broken plate. So many familiar feelings – the warmth of his arm around her, the rhythm of his heart, his lips kissing her temple in the gentle way that always sent shivers down her spine. Hadn’t her spine hurt not long ago? “Daeron is perfect.”

Indeed, he was absolutely perfect. So tiny and precious as he was put in her arms, looking up at his parents with wide lilac eyes. Neither she nor Aemond said anything as they beheld him, taking in each tiny, perfect detail. The wild curls of his silver hair. Each and every eyelash framing his bright eyes. The pink of his lips. Fingers and toes so wonderfully soft and small. A toothless smile that lit the world.

“He’s going to be king someday,” she realized aloud. How could someone so tiny rule an entire kingdom? He had a lot of growing to do before the Conqueror’s Crown would fit.

“A great king, I think,” Aemond mused. He held out a finger, and Daeron instinctively wrapped his hand around it. “Wise and strong. Daring, like his namesake.”

“He must be kind, too.”

“He will be,” Aemond assured, brushing out her damp, tangled hair with his fingers. The feeling was so familiar, but each touch had her flinching slightly. “We will raise him to be kind. His brother, too.”

“Aenar.”

Aemond stiffened. Had he forgotten they had another son, or did he not like the name she gave him? He pulled his finger back from his son’s fist to touch the babe’s hair. “The Exile?”

“I just thought…” Perhaps it had been a foolish name. But it had felt right when it came to her, when she was on the brink of death. “Our family needs a new beginning.”

“Yes… I suppose it does.” He kissed her again with slightly too much pressure. “Another fine name.”

She looked at the Septa that had been cleaning him. Maester Artos stood with her now, along with several other women, crowding so much she could not see the babe. “I want to hold him, too. Bring him to me.”

None of them moved. The room fell silent.

“Allow me just a moment longer, princess,” Artos said. His voice shook, and he would not look at her or Aemond. “I am still finishing my assessment of the boy.”

He’s dead, her mind insisted. They saved your life at the cost of his. He died because of you.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Daeron began fussing in her arms, disturbed by how she began to tremble. She failed one son by killing him, and now she was already failing as a mother to the one who survived. Aemond tightened his arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer as his free arm gently lifted their son into his own grasp.

He hushed her, ducking his head to press his cheek to hers. “Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos. Izūgō daor īlo bēvili gō.” Calm, little wife. Do not panic before we have reason to.

“Kostan daor,” she whimpered. If Aenar was dead…

“Is he alive?” Aemond’s hand moved to shelter Daeron’s head as if to shield him from whatever danger or heartbreak lurked. She turned to press herself into him – into the safety of his arms.

Brother. Husband. Protector.

Why did the feel and scent of him no longer make her feel safe?

“Yes, my prince,” Artos answered.

“Will he remain that way?”

“Yes…”

“You could tell me he’s green-skinned and winged for all I care.” His arm curled protectively around her, but it did not comfort her. Rather, she bristled against it, the possessiveness of it. He did not notice. “He’s alive, and that’s enough. Bring him.”

Artos hesitated but obeyed, hastily wrapping the babe in a dark blanket.

He looked whole – unbroken. Aenar’s eyes were closed as the Maester placed him in her arms, but she could feel his warmth, his little heart beating, and the faint rise and fall of his chest. He only woke when a tear fell from her cheek onto his.

Even then, he did not cry. He only looked at his mother with bright eyes – the same shade of violet as his father's and brother’s. “Ñuha trēso,” she whispered, and he smiled. My son.

“Taobosa sylvȳse,” Aemond added. “He already recognizes the language of his ancestors. He will serve his brother well. Dārys sepār Ondoso zȳhon.” Wise boy. The King and his Hand.

They had two perfect sons. So why did Artos still look like that?

The Maester’s frown deepened. “I am afraid…” he cleared his throat. “It appears that the younger prince was injured during the birth.”

She examined him again but could find nothing wrong. He was perfect. Surely, Artos was mistaken.

“May I?” His large hand hovered over the edge of the blanket.

Her instinct was to pull away, to not let this man touch her son. Yes, he had saved both their lives, but he must be wrong now. Why should she let him make a problem where there was none?

She suppressed that instinct and allowed him to uncover Aenar’s right arm. Artos’ demeanor had made it seem as though something was horribly wrong – that the arm would be missing or deformed. But it was just an arm, small and plump and pale, with a splotch of reddish-purple covering the shoulder like a pauldron.

“It… is it a birthmark?” She brushed a thumb over it, the skin smooth but slightly raised. A birthmark wasn’t an injury, nor was it exceedingly unusual. There were several families where such a mark appeared on nearly every child born.

“Explain yourself, Artos,” Aemond hissed. He looked ready to tear the man to pieces. If he did, he would likely do so without even setting Daeron down.

With a sigh, Artos ran a finger down the length of Aenar’s arm. “Note how he gives no reaction.”

“So he is calm,” Aemond spat. “I fail to see the injury.”

“Do the same to the elder.” He repeated the touch. “Gently, my prince.”

Aemond obeyed with a scowl. The moment he touched the babe, Daeron squirmed and flailed his arm.

“But he looks fine.” She looked down at her second son, her wise boy, and held out a finger, as Aemond had with Daeron. Aenar’s left arm squirmed within its wrappings, but the right was still. She touched the arm, silently pleading with the gods for it to move, for that tiny hand to reach for her.

It remained still. A desperate noise escaped her. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond and Artos said in unison. Her husband attempted to pull her into his chest, but she pushed him away. An embrace could not fix this. Nothing could. He did not pursue her again.

“It is not uncommon among children born breech.” the Maester explained. “I have seen many such injuries and many even worse.”

Artos offered no sympathy or apologies, and she was thankful for it. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain of knowing that her son would never be whole, just like his father. But unlike Aemond, he was never even given the chance, wounded from his first breath. What would the people call him? ‘Prince Aenar One-Arm, son of King Aemond One-Eye?’

“What do we do?” She asked her husband, the Maester, the gods. Anyone who may have an answer.

Aemond’s face was drawn with grief – for his son and for himself. “He will adapt, as I did. I will ensure it. He will be stronger for this. I promise.”

I cannot trust your promises.

The thought was a sudden gale of icy wind scattering the lovely mist coating her mind into oblivion, leaving her with only stark, wicked reality and the faint memory of green eyes.

“How did I survive?”

Too quickly, Aemond turned to her, taking hold of her chin and pulling her close to him. “It does not matter, ābrazȳrītsos. All that does is that you are still with me. You and Aenar.”

If he wasn’t holding her firstborn, she would have shoved him from the bed.Liar. Liar. Liar.

I will fix this. he’d said before he left her. The pure, unrelenting anger she felt as she watched him leave had prevented her from considering what those words meant. Now, she could think of nothing else. What could he do? He was no midwife nor Maester. He had no knowledge of childbirth, beyond the few questions he’d asked of Orwyle months ago. What could he have done for her and Aenar except beg the help of another?

Of Alys.

Alys, who had eyes the color of fresh grass and possessed a dark magic that allowed her visions of the future. Was she also able to influence that future?

How?

At what cost?

What had Aemond promised her in exchange for their lives?

“No Maester wants to admit to ignorance,” Artos smiled sadly as Aenar continued to try to wriggle his left arm free of his blanket, “but I cannot explain it. All I can think is that the gods are kind to you, princess, and for that, I am glad.”

She could not look at him or any of the others in the room who watched her as if they could see the Mother’s hand upon her shoulder.

The gods weren’t kind. They were cruel to allow her to now owe her very life, and that of her son’s, to the two people who had destroyed her. Would she ever be able to look upon Aenar and not remember? To not feel her soul torn between unyielding hatred and infinite gratitude?

Yet, she had her life – and her sons. Surely anything was worth that.

Wasn’t it?

“I’m tired,” she said. The day had seemed to last a year, and the sun had not even set. “I want to rest now.”

After what she endured, no one argued.

His ābrazȳrītsos fell asleep mere moments after Daeron and Aenar were settled into their cradles. She did not even wake when Aemond lifted her so the servants could replace the soiled bedding. Just as she had so many times before, she tucked her face into his neck as they sat in the window, sighing contentedly. Now, he lay beside her in the bed, trying to memorize how it felt to have her in his arms.

When she woke, he knew she would never allow him to hold her like this again.

She knew. Somehow, his wife knew what he had done to ensure she and Aenar survived, and she would never forgive him for it for as long as she lived.

But she would live.

Aenar would live. Though he would bear the wounds of his father’s sins forever.

After his wife had fallen asleep, Maester Artos had told him that it would likely be necessary to amputate Aenar’s arm. The purple mark on his shoulder had grown, apparently indicating further bleeding within the limb. If it grew much more before morning, the arm would be removed before midday.

It was his fault, Aemond knew.

Alys had told him that in her visions, both boys had been healthy. But that was before his ābrazȳrītsos knew that he betrayed her. Before he brought her to this cursed place. Before he failed to stop her from meeting Alys and learning the full extent of his sins.

He only hoped Aenar would not grow to hate him for it.

For now, the boy slept in his crib, limp arm hidden beneath the dark blanket he was swaddled in. Aemond rose from the bed, moving closer to his son.

How peaceful he looked now, with the redness of his skin finally faded. He did not have as much hair as his older brother, but his was wilder - more reminiscent of his mother’s curls than his father’s straight locks. At least he had that part of her, if not the warm brown eyes Aemond had hoped for.

In the other cradle, Daeron fussed slightly, though he did not wake. It seemed he resented being confined within the tight swaddle of his blanket. The thought made Aemond smile, remembering how his younger brother once did the same. It faded quickly.

He had to go to Alys. To thank her for giving him his family - a kindness he did not deserve. To say goodbye to the child he would never meet. Another cost he would force himself to pay.

He had to go now, while his ābrazȳrītsos slept.

“Before our wedding,” he whispered, careful not to wake her as he approached, “I promised to hold you every night I could, that I would do anything to return to you when I was away. I have failed to uphold that promise, and for that, I am so sorry.”

When he stroked her cheek, she turned into his touch, a small smile upon her lips. Seeing that some unconscious part of her still reacted to him with love warmed his heart, even as the knowledge that her conscious mind would never allow her to do so felt like a dagger buried in his gut.

Aemond knelt at her side, basking in her beauty, memorizing her peaceful face. “Now, I swear my devotion again. I know you no longer wish for me to hold you, and I promise I will not try to persuade you otherwise. But I swear I will always be with you, to love and protect you, even if I must do it from a distance. I will never fail you again.”

It did not matter that she could not hear his vow. Even if she did, she would not believe him. But he made it anyway, for his own sake, and so the gods, wherever they may be, would hear him. It was to them he spoke next.

“Should I ever harm you again, I pray that the gods will strike me down where I stand. And if they do not, I shall do so myself.” He kissed her brow - the sealing of a promise and a farewell - and left.

A maid shrunk away as she passed Aemond in a corridor deep beneath Harrenhal, cradling the bundle of cloth she carried closer to her chest. It was one of the same maids who had tended to his wife—the young girl with deep brown eyes. She did not wear the clothing of a midwife, but the colors of her linen dress were similar. Perhaps a midwife in training.

Strange, then, for her to be here. Stranger still for her to be seemingly performing the duties of a laundress.

He glanced down at the bundle of cloth she carried and froze.

There was blood. Too much blood.

A young midwife, carrying bedlinens soaked with blood.

What would you sacrifice? Alys had asked.

Aemond ran.

He knew what he would find. There was no other explanation. Yet he still hoped and prayed he was wrong. Loss had followed him like a loyal dog for so long, but today it was banished. It must be.

Alys stood in front of her fire. One hand rested on a stomach that was not as distended as it had been only hours ago.

His wife’s stomach now looked very much the same.

“What did you do?” His voice shook with fear and guilt and shame. Gods, he felt so weak.

Her eyes, cold and distant, slid to his. “What you asked.”

“I didn’t ask you to…” This blood was on his hands - the blood of his child.

The word that had haunted him for more than a year - the word that had nearly led to the death of every person he ever loved - echoed in his mind.

Kinslayer.

Killer of his nephew. His uncle. His child.

Aemond looked back into the corridor, hoping to see the young midwife again. Had he not looked closely enough? Had she been carrying the body of his child within those bloody linens?

“I only wanted you to save my wife and son.” His words were a justification, a plea. It fell on the deaf ears of the gods and the dead child’s mother.

“And you thought there would be no cost?” Alys laughed, cruel and cackling. “No god in the world is so generous as to save a life and ask for nothing in exchange, boy.”

“I didn’t think – ”

“You never do.”

Grief morphed into anger. Reckless, aimless, dangerous rage. “You should have told me!”

“What would you have done?” She faced him fully now, her hand falling to her side. There was no trace of the woman who had once comforted and reassured him - who had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. There was only annoyance and derision. It reminded Aemond of his dead half-sister and her bastard sons. “If I had told you?”

“I –”

“Would you have left your wife to die? Let her son die?” Alys’ lip curled in a hateful sneer. “You could not choose between wife and son, yet you believe you could have chosen between two sons?”

The world stopped. Only Alys’ flickering fire and burning eyes remained.

“I… it was a boy?” Aemond leaned against the wall, sliding down to his knees, savoring the scrape of the rough stone against his back. He deserved every bit of pain. More.

Alys let a single hint of sorrow slip through her cold façade. “It was. Three sons within a year. What your father would have given to have had the same.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to think about his father. The king who had nearly destroyed his throne by choosing one child over another.

Gods, was he any better?

Did his ignorance of his son’s sacrifice absolve him of blame? The guilt?

It certainly didn’t feel like it.

Alys sighed. “Better for his death to mean something than for his life to be spent destitute and fatherless.”

“I would not have allowed that to happen,” Aemond said. It was a reflex, a reassurance he’d grown used to giving since he learned he seeded a bastard.

“Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if my visions had not changed. But now…” She shook her head, more exasperated than sorrowful. Did she mourn the child at all? “No. You’d have wanted us as far away as possible and done anything you could to not think of us.”

“I would have ensured your comfort.” The words felt as hollow as his chest.

“Your wife would, yes.” Alys smiled fondly, just as she had when his ābrazȳrītsos sat across from her earlier that very day. She had never smiled that way for Aemond. Never truly cared for him. He should have known. “She is kind-hearted. But not you. Your resentment of me, of us, would have festered until you found some way to be rid of us.”

He wanted to deny it. To say that there was nothing that could drive him to do what she insinuated. Once, it would have been true. But now, with the man he’d become in the war and how close he’d come to losing his heart itself, it would be a lie.

If he had killed Alys along with the rest of her cursed family, would he have become this man? Would he have learned to cherish the metallic tang of blood and its warmth as it coated his hands? Would he have become so proficient a liar that false words rolled off his tongue like a Valyrian lullaby? Would he have grown so accustomed to violence that it now came as naturally to him as loving his wife?

Would he have broken his ābrazȳrītsos’s heart?

He’d trusted her visions. It had been a mistake.

One mistake that led to thousands more, and it was all her fault.

Alys was the one who lied, who deceived him. Who had pulled his strings as if he were no more than a puppet, knowing that he was married and his wife was lonely and infirm.

His failure as a husband. His wife’s pain. The death of his third son.

Her fault. Her fault. Her fault.

Aemond’s heart slowed, his breathing becoming deep and steady. No longer the heart of a broken boy or a desperate husband. Now, it was the blackened heart that had carried him through countless battles and raging rivers of blood.

“I will be rid of you now,” he hissed as he stood. “And I will be rid of you forever.”

The bitch had enough sense to look scared.

“In memory of the son you killed, I will allow you to live. But no more than that.” She didn’t even deserve that, this woman who did not mourn her own child. Perhaps it was good that the babe was gone, for surely he would have suffered with a witch as his mother.

He approached Alys, sneering down at her and the false bravery on her wicked face. “As Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I banish you from these lands forever. You have ten days to leave Westeros. After that, if you are ever seen here again…” He reached out and grabbed her by the throat, holding just tight enough to steal a bit of her breath - just enough to make her fight for it.

“I will kill you myself,” he promised. “Without hesitation or remorse, I will kill you. Slowly. And I will savor every moment, for it will bring me far greater pleasure than that withered cunt of yours ever did.”

She fell to her knees when he released her, clutching at her throat as she coughed and gulped for air. He didn’t care. He only turned on his heel and left, not sparing a single glance at the woman who had only hours ago been carrying his bastard child.

Only one woman mattered now, had ever truly mattered to him.

His ābrazȳrītsos was still asleep when he returned to their chamber, as were their sons. They had no idea where he had gone - that he had even left at all. No inkling of the fact that a moment ago, he had again become the man who wiped an entire bloodline from the earth, slaughtered tens of thousands, and delighted in the suffering he had wrought.

Now, as he leaned down to gently kiss his sons’ brows and muss their soft hair, he was a mere man of twenty, his heart bursting with love and affection for his family. How could a heart overflow with such love at the same moment it was fracturing with grief and regret?

It was a question far beyond him at that moment. Perhaps forever beyond his reach.

He was so tired. Too tired to consider the heartbreak that would come when he woke in the morning and his wife pulled out of his grasp. He could face that pain when it came. But now, he needed to feel whole, if only for a few hours.

So, Aemond climbed into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her into his chest. He remained awake only long enough to kiss the top of her head and whisper, “Jāla tetan, ābrazȳrītsos. Īlon lentot selagon kosti.” It is over, ābrazȳrītsos. We can go home.

She woke to the sound of Daeron fussing. Strange how quickly she was able to tell them apart, even just by their little noises of discontentment. Although, considering she had been with them every moment of the last seven - near eight - months, it may not be strange at all. Perhaps that was why she felt so sure that it had been Daeron who occupied the top of her belly, constantly pestering her with his tiny fists pounding against her at the most inopportune times.

“Hush, little prince,” a soft voice said. “You’ll wake up your mother, and after what you and your brother put her through, I dare say she needs her rest.” A maid was speaking to him, a slight, old woman leaning over his crib. She had not seen the maid before, and somehow, it comforted her.

Daeron continued to grumble. She moved to stand but found Aemond’s arms wrapped around her waist. Thankfully, he was still asleep. Quite deeply asleep, apparently, for when she untangled herself from him, he did not wake.

The maid curtsied when she saw the princess approaching and stepped away from Daeron’s cradle. His fussing had now roused Aenar, but the younger prince made no sound, only glaring at his brother in what seemed to be intense displeasure at his sleep being interrupted.

“Is something wrong with him?” she asked the old maid. Daeron quieted slightly upon seeing his mother but still fussed.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, princess.” The old maid had a kind, soothing voice - that of a wise grandmother. She looked at the babes with fondness and a hint of apology. “They are simply hungry.”

“Where is the wetnurse?” She immediately regretted asking. In her sleepy haze, she had forgotten that Alys was the wetnurse at Harrenhal. Why wasn’t she here? Did she even want Alys here? No, of course she didn’t. Had Aemond requested another be found so she would not have to see Alys again?

The old maid looked away, sighing. “I’m afraid she’s left us. No wonder why, poor thing lost her babe again. Such a shame. We all thought she’d had a miracle with this one. But not to worry, Maester Artos sent some men to find another girl from the closest village.” She shook her head and again leaned over Daeron’s crib. “You’ll be fed soon, darling prince, don’t you worry.”

Alys’ child - Aemond’s child - was dead?

It was a good thing, wasn’t it? There would be no bastard son of the new king, no living reminder of what he’d done. This was good news. She should be happy, shouldn’t she?

But she wanted to cry.

“Mother, forgive me,” the old maid looked horrified as she clutched her pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star. “I should not have said that, princess. Not when you’ve only just finished your own labors. Please, forgive me.”

She glanced at Aenar, now peacefully asleep once more. How close she had come to losing him. It had devastated her. Made her willing to forfeit her own life if only he could live. If she had lost him and had to live with that loss… it would have driven her mad.

“How…” she licked her lips. “How many children has she lost?”

The old maid dropped her pendant. “I do not know, exactly. Enough that we all stopped counting.”

Oh gods. She blinked to clear her eyes, wiping away an errant tear with her thumb. “You said she’s gone?”

“Yes, princess. She left in the night. Didn’t say where she was going, to my knowledge.”

It made no sense. If Aemond had struck a bargain with Alys to save her and Aenar’s lives, why would she leave? Had whatever he offered her not been enough to keep her in the place where she’d lost so many children?

Daeron cried again, his face reddened and wrinkled. He was so hungry, she could nearly feel it herself. She… she could feel it. When she looked down at herself, she saw two dark stains on her chemise right above her breasts. Her milk had finally come in, which meant -

“I can feed them.”

The old maid looked aghast. “Princess, there is no need - ”

“I want to do it.” She was their mother, why shouldn’t she be the one to feed them? It was her body that made them, that brought them into the world. It made sense that it would continue to care for them even now. “Can you show me how?”

It took a moment for the maid to close her mouth before she smiled gently. “I’ve raised nine children myself, princess. I think I know a few tricks.”

The maid had gone by the time Aemond woke.

Daeron was still suckling at her left breast while Aenar had fallen asleep using the right as his pillow. She had not realized how heavy and uncomfortable they had felt until the boys had drunk from her, easing the pressure that she’d become accustomed to.

“You should not be doing that yourself,” Aemond muttered as he raised himself on an elbow. His eye darted from son to son, only ever glancing over her exposed breasts. Once, he loved to worship them, quite similarly to how his sons fed from her now. “Where is the wetnurse?”

Did he not know that Alys had left? Had no one told him of the death of his child?

No. Those were the faint remnants of tear tracks lining his cheeks, and there was a deep sadness in his eye that was not there when he held his sons for the first time. He knew. He knew, and he was grieving, though he was fighting to hide it. She still saw it.

Perhaps that was the real reason he never returned to King’s Landing during the war - he knew she would be able to see the guilt on his face.

“There is no other wetnurse,” she explained gently. “Alys left. They’re looking for another woman now.”

Aemond froze, his gaze growing distant. She could not decipher his expression. Rage? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief?

“I’m sorry, Aemond.” He frowned and shook his head, but she continued. “Truly, I am.”

“It’s better this way,” he whispered. He didn’t believe it. Neither did she.

He reached out to her. No, not to her, but to Aenar, gently stroking his hair. She allowed him to take the babe and hold him against his own chest.

Aenar opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Then, he smiled.

Aemond took in a deep breath. “That boy should never have existed,” he said, letting Aenar take hold of his thumb and mouth at it. “I already had what I needed. And wanted.”

So it was a boy. Another son. A brother for her own. Would he have had his father’s nose, as Daeron did? Or his stern brow, like Aenar? Gods, why did she care?

“You are allowed to mourn him. He was innocent. I bear him no ill will.” Bastard or no, a babe was a babe, blameless of his parents’ sins. Deep in her heart, she mourned him, as well.

Again, Aemond shook his head. “I cannot mourn what never should have been.” He turned his head to face her, face open and pleading. “And I am mourning too much already.”

“I am alive. Aenar is alive. There is nothing to mourn.”

“You know that is not what I mean, ābrazȳrītsos.”

She did. He mourned not for the loss of a life, but for the loss of their life. The life they should have shared, and would have, had Aemond not strayed. In truth, she mourned for it, too.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Daeron finally finished feeding, stretching his little arms to push her breast away. She pulled her robe closed again to combat the chill.

Aemond raised a hand to help her. She flinched away. He winced in response.

“Ābrazȳrītsos, please.” His voice was already breaking, his eye watering. The sight should have tugged at her heart. His begging should have fanned the flames of her anger. But looking at him, she felt very little of anything, save a small seed of pity. “Alys is gone. My… the bastard is gone. Can we not return to the way we were? Pretend none of this ever happened? Can’t you forgive me at last?”

The answer came without hesitation.

“No, Aemond.”

Within her, there was no longer a grassland, barren with loneliness and despair. The never-ending field of raging fire had also vanished. In its place was a small, lush garden, safely contained within tall stone walls draped with flowers and a polished iron gate – locked firmly, but perhaps not sealed forever.

“I shall always be your sister, your blood, and the mother of your children.” Daeron cooed, as if he knew she was talking about him, and she could not help but smile down at him. “I will remain your wife in the eyes of gods and men. And when Aegon dies, I will be your faithful queen.”

Aemond shook as his breath quickened, failing to keep the heartbreak. “You will be a wonderful queen, ābrazȳrītsos. I know it.”

She pulled away, taking Aenar from him and into her empty arm. “But I will never again be your ābrazȳrītsos.” She forced herself to ignore the whimpering, broken cry that escaped him, the breath that carried it echoing like a death rattle. “I will not share your bed. And I will no longer allow you to hold my heart.”

Between desperate sobs, Aemond raised his head to face her. Utter devastation lay in his eye, but so too did acceptance. Anguished surrender. “My heart is and always shall be yours.”

I don’t want it, her mind told her, even as her heart cried, I will cherish it forever.

But her decision was made. In all but name, their marriage – their once legendary romance – was finished. A few fragments of love remained but would never be repaired. Could never be.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, her sons still in her arms. Aemond began to reach for her, but when she did not even acknowledge him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Though it tugged at her heart, it was the same she would feel for any man weeping so, no longer the instinctive pull of a wife. She did not comfort him.

The soft, pitiful sounds of Aemond’s grief faded as she walked toward the eastern window, settling herself in the cushioned seat just beneath it.

Daeron smiled, watching the trembling branches of an oak tree dotted with the first tight green buds of the season. Aenar angled his head just so, until the sun warmed every bit of his fat, pink face, then promptly fell asleep. She sighed, taking in the sweet scent of spring on the wind, and realized she had not breathed so easily in months.

It was a lovely morning in Harrenhal.

[jozor-johai]

The Red Comet appears exactly 400 years after the Doom of Valyria. Doesn’t that seem significant?

Because round numbers like that make me want to look twice here… and in doing so, there’s something very interesting in the timeline that GRRM has made efforts to keep slightly veiled.

The Red Comet appears a year before the turn of the century in ASOIAF—that is to say, 299 AC. The Doom occurs in 102 BC. The non-existent year zero of this kind of timekeeping makes it look wrong, but that’s exactly 400 years.

I always thought it was interesting that the Doom of Valyria happened in 102 BC—it’s so close to being a round number, but it’s just off. Just enough off, though, that the Red Comet in 299 AC lines up.

Round numbers feel meaningful, and that’s even true for the characters within the world of ASOIAF:

Joffrey and Margaery shall marry on the first day of the new year, which as it happens is also the first day of the new century. The ceremony will herald the dawn of a new era. (ASOS Tyrion I)

The new century, of course, is 300 years since Aegon’s Conquest:

It’s a new century, my lady. The three hundredth year since Aegon’s Conquest. (ASOS Sansa IV)

It’s almost dissatisfying that all this talk of the new century doesn’t line up with the Doom and doesn’t line up with the Red Coment.

So do we have Aegon to blame for making these numbers not line up? Actually, no—Aegon invaded Westeros in 2BC, exactly 100 years after the Doom of Valyria.

It was then that he crowned himself… but that’s not the date that Westeros counts years from; Westeros counts the years from his coronation in Oldtown. This is a detail apparently so interesting (and perhaps important) that it’s described twice in The World of Ice and Fire. For example:

Only a handful of lords had been present for Aegon’s first coronation at the mouth of the Blackwater, but hundreds were on hand to witness his second, and tens of thousands cheered him afterward in the streets of Oldtown as he rode through the city on Balerion’s back. Amongst those at Aegon’s second coronation were the maesters and archmaesters of the Citadel. Perhaps for that reason, it was this coronation, rather than the Aegonfort crowning or the day of Aegon’s Landing, that became fixed as the start of Aegon’s reign.

If Westeros counted years from the year Aegon crowned himself, rather than from the year Aegon was crowned by the Citadel, then the year that the Red Comet appeared in the sky would be 300AC, and that would be exactly 400 years after the Doom. Seen that way, everything lines up curiously well…

So much happens when the Red Comet arrives—the revival of dragons and the return of magic in the world, whatever the relationship between those things is. Those events, and that year, feels much more like the “dawn of a new era.”

Additionally, seeing it all line up so well raises some eyebrows. Seeing all the dates like this make it seem significant that Aegon invaded exactly 100 years later, and makes room for interpreting the Red Comet as potentially having some kind of relationship to the Doom, because 400 years feels just too regular. Why does the comet appear exactly 300 years after Aegon’s invasion, exactly 400 years after the Doom?

At the least, there’s a sense of fate involved that Dany’s dragons wake exactly 400 years after the Doom—or do the revival of magic and the return of dragons both relate to some unknown third factor?

[luxstring]

Happy Valentines Dayyyyyy~

Malleus offered to take Stolas to a ruin that he always wanted to visit. Stolas loves ruins and their history [ruins r common in Stolas' home and its always been used to study a lot of their history] so they both having fun, Stolas especially [I've nvr drawn him excited before, he looks adorable]

ALSO, i added a few details to Stolas and Malleus. Ive always wanted stolas to have face markings like those elves ive seen on google, so i added markings shaped like an owls face [u can only see it clearly when he outs his hair up]

For Mal, i added scales to his face and spiked his ears a bit [I was kinda sad you can only see his dragon features when he overblots :(]

I can only offer a sketch since I’m PILED with homework atm.

[talon-dragonbeast]

i havent seen this experience talked about much in the nonhuman community, so i thought i could share mine.

i wasnt actually dragonkin as a child, or at least i dont think so. its not that i didnt realise it either, or that i didnt know being human wasnt the only option there was; i was completely, 100% human. well, maybe not 100%– i'd say more like 90%. you see, i was human as a child; that i can be sure of. but i think the possibility of becoming nonhuman, the potential for nonhumanity was always there. im not sure if its because of atypical brain structure, autism/neurodivergency, or just personality– nature vs nurture, and all that.

the thing is, i was human. and now im not. so what happened?

well, i... don't know exactly. but i have a theory.

my brain always had that potential nonhumanity, yes, but if child me hadn't loved animals as much as i did, if i hadn't stayed in the library at recess every day, if i hadn't found a book on dragons and absorbed myself in what would become a long-term special interest, if i had more friends in school... the list goes on. basically, if things had been a little different, i might not even be nonhuman today. i would still be me, of course, but a different me. a human me.

so why am i sharing this? i always read about other critters' experiences with their nonhumanity, and ive noticed that a very common experience is being born nonhuman. on the other claw, there are critters that were human before, but then experienced something that made them become nonhuman. this is not to invalidate any of them, of course! but i had never heard of any experience that was between those two. and i realised that if i wanted to read experiences like mine, i had to write mine first! so, please, share yours! id love to read what you write, even if it's just a few sentences.

[odditycircus-2002]

Mortal Kombat 1 Intros Part IV

A/N: I'm a fan of The Boys and have been watching the newest episodes of season 4. Of course, I love to hate Homelander, and it's satisfying to watch fatalities performed on him in Mortal Kombat 1 after watching him perform heinous crap. This led me to watch his intros and then other Mortal Kombat character intros, and inspiration hit! So I hope y'all like this.😁

Oh! And for those of you that are new, the reader here is a Gorgon, meaning snake hair and wears a mask since they can turn people into stone. They also happen to be an Imperial Healer with a bit of a dark side. Hope that helps!😁

Batch I

Batch II

Batch III

Homelander

Y/N: You are not a god. You’re simply, bad product.

Homelander: You’ll be praying to me for mercy soon enough.

/

Y/N: Why should I give you respect when it’ll only go to the bottomless gaping pit of insecurity you call a soul?

Homelander shivers sarcastically: Should I be intimidated by you?

/

Y/N thoughtfully: Perhaps a virus is in order...

Homelander scoffs: A God is above something so insignificant to him.

/

Homelander: What's with the ridiculous mask? Are you trying to cosplay as some D-List Supe?

Y/N: Why don't you take it off and find out?

/

Homelander: Pray to all the “gods” you want, you won’t survive against me.

Y/N: Why assume that I pray to any of them?

/

Homelander incredulously: You actually want to fuck that disgusting freak?!

Y/N with snakes out ready to bite: Unlike you, Baraka doessssn't fill me with revulsion at the sight of him!

Omni-Man

Y/N: One look and this should be over, fast.

Omni-Man: I'll break your neck before you can even get a peek at me.

/

Y/N: Having been betrayed by a cccccharlatan lover before, I know your wife would want you dead.

Omni-Man angrily: You're not her, so your point means nothing.

/

Y/N cautiously: Your medicine could treat Tarkat?

Omni-Man: If you comply and pledge your allegiance to the Empire, all your patients may receive Viltrum care.

/

Omni-Man: You have stupidly condemned your patients to death!

Y/N: I would rather have my heart ripped out than be fooled twiccccce by a charlatan!

/

Omni-Man: Think it over; what will you have serving a diseased ruler and others with her plague for 500 years?

Y/N: I will have no regrets pursuing my lifelong dream.

/

Omni-Man: I'll rip your damn head off in under a minute.

Y/N ominously: Rest assured, this fight will be a real Scourge.

Raiden

Y/N: Are you aware that Madam Bo's special tea is local around my canton?

Raiden: How in the world did she acquire it then?

/

Y/N: I would’ve paid all the koins in Outworld to have seen you absolutely humiliate Shao.

Raiden: I sense you and him never got along.

/

Y/N: I can confidently say that you’re healing up nicely since we fought the Dragon Army.

Raiden: I’m not sure I would’ve survived without your medical care.

/

Raiden: It must be hard being The Colony's lead Healer.

Y/N: Everyone who dies under my care is a blow to my soul.

/

Raiden: Why is there a statue of Kung Lao in the Wu Shi’s Courtyard?

Y/N shrugs: Kung Lao mentioned how he always wanted a statue of himself.

/

Raiden: You’re very different from how your Titan self acts.

Y/N shivers in disgust: I should thank Liu Kang for not having me predestined for Shang Tsung.

/

Raiden: You only have yourself to blame for missing your chance with Y/N.

Shang Tsung chuckles: You say that as if I don’t still have a chance to win them back.

Kung Lao

Y/N: So far, I don’t see any signs of Tarkat but there’s still a chance you could spread it without apparent symptoms.

Kung Lao: You are not putting my mind at ease, at all.

/

Y/N: You’re inviting me? I don’t even know if I’m able to stomach regular food anymore.

Kung Lao: It would be a crime if you didn’t get to try Madam Bo’s cooking at least once!

/

Y/N: How did you not loose any fingers when you first made that hat???

Kung Lao smugly: Through much practice and much skill

/

Kung Lao: I beaten you in our last fight, so what will change here?

Y/N mischievously: This time, I’m not holding back.

/

Kung Lao: Can you believe that the Wu Shi have a trap dungeon?

Y/N hisses in amusement: Who knew the Shaolin were so diabolical?

/

Kung Lao: You and Baraka aren’t a couple???

Y/N sighs wistfully: How I wish that to be true…

/

Baraka: I don’t always understand what Y/N sees in me.

Kung Lao: You definitely have something more than Shang Tsung.

Kenshi

Y/N: I am sorry I couldn't have saved your sight.

Kenshi: You did the best anyone could in that situation.

/

Y/N: What is it like using Sento to see?

Kenshi: It’s like when you stare at a flame and look away, you see the light of the flame even though it’s gone.

/

Y/N: According to Earthrealm myths, the closest to describing my current form is a “Gorgon”.

Kenshi: Perhaps that’s because there have been other gorgons before.

/

Kenshi: I don’t know Y/N, that seems a bit excessive even by the Yakuza’s standards.

Y/N: You and Kitana think a bit of food tampering is too much.

/

Kenshi in surprise: You and Shang Tsung weren’t just lab partners?

Y/N angrily: I was a fool to fall for his charmssss in the first place!

/

Kenshi: Given how you both act around one another, I'm surprised you and Baraka aren't together.

Y/N: I'm grateful to have him in my life.

/

Kenshi: The Colony is fortunate to have you and Y/N.

Baraka: I thank Deliah every day for sending them my way.

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

idk if anyone knows who im talking about but that one user on here whos whole bit is being obsessed with whirlpool creeps me out a little

like theyve posted suggestive art and gore of him (and also iirc a bdsm joke about him and coral? which isnt really that bad but also like hi those are feral dragons) (not to mention straight up defending him [and also darkstalker]) which is kind of. idk because buddy what😬

obviously i get being extremely fixated on a character (especially an 'unconventional' one, my favorite character definitely isnt liked by everyone) but i dunno man. always gotten sort of a bad vibe from them and its such a shame because i absolutely love their artstyle

ive never seen anyone talk about them before so i feel like i might be the problem or something idk just had to get this off my chest

.

[hugemilkshake]

Heyaa! :D may i request the dragon cookies (seperately please!) x reader (gn prefered) ? I love how u write the dragon cookies aaargh >_< <333 my obssession for them is going crazy every single second

Reader has anger issues and gets into fights with others quite often, like i can imagine reader who insults them or the dragons they go like "SHUT YO B*TCH*SS UP-" like bro be yelling and screaming and kicking other people's *ss 😭💀 while the dragons try to calm them down and reassure them- it be funny as hell😭ive never seen anyone done this before so if u see this i appreciate it if u actually did this<3! Thanks n take care :D

Enjoy the milkshake! I finally have an excuse to write an aggressive reader 🌸✨😊💅🤪

The dragons x aggressive reader headcannon

-platonic or romantic-

Pitaya Dragon

Pitaya doesn’t actually mind your anger issues! They find it quite amusing actually

Now if you know, Pitaya loves to fight so there’s no doubt that they won’t challenge you

But unlike another dragon, they know when they’ve got to far

So Pitaya will leave you alone until your calm again

It is advised to keep away from Snap Dragon though, lest you influence the young dragon

Ananas Dragon

Ananas isn’t very happy with your anger issues

Like they get that everyone sometimes loses it, but for you it’s almost every day.

Ananas would probably be the one to try and prevent you from cursing random people out

This dragon will make you meditate and tell you to “calm down”

This usually never works

Lotus Dragon

While Lotus will get a little annoyed at how often you get angry, they never get mad at you FOR being angry

Lotus will just wrap their arms around you and calm you down

But there are times when Lotus has to hold you back from being and absolute menace to everyone.

Those times make Lotus wonder how you even got here

Lychee Dragon

Lychee finds your anger funny.

This bastard of a dragon will purposely get you angry just to see your reactions

And when you blow up at them, they just kick their feet and giggle like a middle school girl

They honestly don’t know when to stop teasing you.

Longan Dragon

To put it simply, Longan GENERALLY could not care less

You could be on your way to murder a man and the Ivory Dragon will turn a blind eye

But what did you expect? It’s Longan after all

Well the only time Longan will intervene is when you might do something to ruin their plans.

And when that happens, run. Or not.

Depends on how close the two of you are

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Dark Moon | Chapter Six

Pairing | yandere!Jimin x Reader

Word Count | 3,2k

Warnings | +18, yandere themes, blood, unusual and dangerous use of a knife, revenge, violence, explicit and dirty language, this is not for minors.

This fanfiction is yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | She just wanted to escape her past, take charge of her life and break out of her steel cage, praying in God for a miracle that could change her life for good.

And her prayers were heard, but it was not the Divine that answered her.

That was certainly the devil in the guise of an angel, she thought as those corrupted and empty eyes searched her soul with extreme voracity.

He turned a sweet, false smile on her, before pushing her into the abyss.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! In this chapter there will be a slight change for MC, I hope you will enjoy the chapter, let me know what you think! 💜

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @dragons-flare, @m00njinnie, @seokjins-luigi, @pjmsneverland, @jimincrystal, @ajkwww, @ungodlyjoon, @hecateslittlewitchling, @namjoonsbuspass, @darkuni63, @xicanacorpse

Taglist is open!

Chapter List - Previous - Next

"How is she?"

The dark-haired boy lifted his eyes to Seokjin, who was staring at him with his hands in his pockets, still dressed smartly and wearing perfectly polished-toed shoes.

"They stitched her up and now they're giving her an IV, she's lost too much blood," was Jimin's laconic reply, who was leaning against the wall of the waiting room pondering what to do.

They were in a private clinic, there was no danger of awkward questions; it belonged to a cousin of Seokjin's. That was where they went when they urgently needed a doctor.

"And what are you going to do with Ester?"

"I was just about to talk about her," he broke off from the wall, "She's one of your girls, but she disrespected me, Jin."

"You don't want to kill her," Seokjin said, although it was clear from his tone that he wasn't all that interested, but Jimin shook his head and the man relaxed his shoulders; every woman present at the Dark Moon was a big, juicy source of income.

"I want to teach her what respect is for me and my orders, I won't allow just any whore to challenge a decision of mine," he said harshly.

"You're right, besides it might stir up the others to do the same in case there are further jealousies" he pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance, irritated, "All right, instruct her" he gave his consent and made to turn on his heels and leave, but Jimin blocked him.

"I'll take her."

"How?" he had heard perfectly well, but he wanted to push him to be more detailed.

"You made me a proposition and this is my last answer, I'll take her."

Because the Dark Moon was a den of snakes and she would only be safe in his arms.

"I'll prepare the bow, then," smiled Jin, Jimin snorted, smiling faintly.

Then she saw him leave and his smile faded, he had a score to settle with Ester and it didn't take him long to return to the Dark Moon, Namjoon greeted him with a look of understanding.

"Hanon locked her in her room, all she did was scream and throw objects everywhere."

Just the thought of such a scene irritated the man.

"I'll give her a good reason to scream if she cares that much," he hissed, Namjoon nodded, knowing his friend, he would not go lightly.

When he entered the room that had seen better days, Jimin found a mad woman inside, messy locks fell across her red, furious face, and broken and bruised objects were scattered everywhere, victims of Ester's rage.

The woman stopped only at the sight of the man stuck on the threshold watching her; Jimin's expression was indecipherable, but his eyes were harder than ice, a detail that made the young woman's lips tighten.

Jimin took two steps inside the bedroom, closing the door behind him, turned the key already in the lock slowly, and a boulder dropped on her stomach.

"Jimin..." the nasal voice because of the hysterical crying and the punch she had received sounded whiny, which did not faze him.

"Ester" dropped the key into one of his pockets and gave it his undivided attention, "Tell me, Ester.... That stupid scene, what do you think it would have led to?"

The girl swallowed, suddenly frozen.

"I asked you nicely to take care of her, to explain things to her," continued Jimin calmly, "And instead you send her to the hospital," he chuckled without amusement.

Ester did not know what to say, she felt only cruel satisfaction in knowing that Y/N's condition was so critical as to require qualified medical attention.

The bitch had to be punished, she thought.

"How do you explain this?"

"I'm yours," asserted the woman simply, "You shouldn't have let her take my place, who is she? You don't even know her, she doesn't know what you like in bed, and even if she did she wouldn't be able to satisfy you, you've been looking for me all along," she growled through tears, Jimin raised an amused eyebrow.

Perhaps Y/N did not know what he liked in bed, but for what little he had had her, she had managed to give him an unforgettable blowjob; Ester's jealousy amused and irritated him at the same time.

Ester could claim to be his, but he certainly did not belong to her.

"I don't know how true that can be," the man crossed his legs, "You say you're mine, but I've seen you satisfy many other men before and after me...besides, who says I've only ever sought you out?" he asked with a smile, remembering vividly that he had had sex with countless other women. The fact that at the Dark Moon he had chosen Ester as his favorite had been totally random; everyone had chosen a girl and he had done the same, choosing one of the prettiest and best. He didn't think that this would make her head swell.

"You've come back to me now," remarked the woman, giving no sign of having listened to a single word Jimin said, blatantly pretending.

The boy remained impassive a few moments before opening his legs slightly.

"Come here," he patted his own powerful thigh wrapped in tight dark pants, Ester remained interdicted and guarded, making the boy snort, "Don't make me repeat myself," he hissed.

The woman took a few steps in his direction, when she saw that Jimin had no strange intentions she became braver, even going so far as to sit on the man who waited patiently for her.

"Lively little girl," he smiled sweetly, arranging a few strands behind her ear, Ester's heart beat inexorably, enchanted by the heavenly vision that was Jimin, "Repeat to me what you told me at first."

As if bewitched by the boy's charm, Ester repeated his words once more, "I am yours..." Jimin nodded, leaving a kiss on the woman's neck.

"Again, Ester," the woman threw her head back under the tender strokes of Jimin's tongue along her skin, inside she exulted in lust.

"I'm yours...!" she moaned when her intimacy came in contact with Jimin's cock, she felt the tip press against her core through the tight fabric, Ester shuddered at the idea of being able to enjoy that rapturous hardness once more and vibrated excitedly when Jimin pushed her against the bed, straddling her body.

"Say it again and again..." he whispered hoarsely, touching the intimacy of the young woman, who arched her back at the contact, thrusting her hips against his hand, which crossed the barrier of her dress to tickle her clit directly.

Long moans dispersed through the room, Ester not holding back from letting everyone know what was going on in there, as if to prove that Jimin never intended to punish her, that she would always remain his favorite.

That is, until Jimin's fingers were replaced by something icy, smooth, and hard that penetrated her slit.

She had not even noticed that the boy had retrieved the object, nor did she know where he got it from or what it was.

Maybe it was-

"Stop moving like a bitch in heat," Jimin ordered her, Ester frowned, she was about to cum, why would she stop-, "Stop if you don't want me to slice you, Ester" was his final warning.

"Jimin, what-"

"Go ahead, say again that you're mine-until you yourself realize the bullshit you keep babbling," he hissed, scrutinizing her cruelly with a derisive smile, his hand made the object penetrate deeper, which caused Ester to squint.

Jimin's words confused her-what game was he playing? And most importantly...

"What do you have in your hand, Jimin?"

"Are you referring to the thing you're sucking up so easily? Hmm... in my opinion you can get there," he said vaguely getting no answer, he huffed, "Come on... you always asked me to give it to you, which is impossible given the rules here at the Dark Moon," he chuckled, holding the base tightly.

At those words Ester blanched.

The switchblade that Jimin always carried with him.

"Jimin... this is a joke, isn't it?" she asked tensely, the boy replied by pressing the knife handle harder against her walls, just a simple gesture and the blade would snap like a spring.

"A whore without a pussy would be worthless," reasoned Jimin, there Ester had confirmation that the man was serious, she began to tremble and break into a cold sweat.

If before pleasure was the only thing she felt, now terror had encompassed every fiber of her body.

"Jimin, please..." she cried tremblingly, but the boy shushed her.

"Your arrogance has always disgusted me, Ester.... but your disobedience is the worst thing about you, I've always let it go because it was pleasurable to fuck you, but now I can't see what attracted me to you anymore," he spat, "Do you want it fast or slow?" he asked mellifluously, smiling fearfully.

Ester quickly denied with her head, she was a lake of tears and unrestrained sobs, "Don't! I-I won't give you any more trouble, I swear, I swear!" she screamed breathlessly, unable to move her body because of the terror she was feeling.

The man after a few moments moved away, withdrawing his weapon accordingly, Ester relaxed slightly before she felt a hissing sound cleave the air and something liquid dripping from one of her cheeks.

Wide-eyed she brought a trembling hand to her face and with a horrible foreboding saw blood, she was breathless when she realized what had happened.

Jimin watched uninterestedly as the woman's despair, her face scarred, ran to the mirror to ascertain her condition, he saw her collapse on her own knees amid sobs and cries, the only thing he felt was annoyance at that scene which he said was ridiculous. She had touched Y/N's face, he had done the same to hers. Permanently.

"You'll be able to satisfy clients with perversions like that, too, aren't you happy?"

He walked out of the room as he entered it, meeting Namjoon's gaze.

"I hope you haven’t damaged it too much."

Jimin shrugged, "Clients care about what's between her legs, she was unsightly even before," Namjoon rolled his eyes.

"I'll go get someone to treat her, she's screaming more than before," he hissed holding the bridge of his nose tightly between two fingers.

Jimin patted him twice before heading out of the brothel, ready to finish the job he had started.

The man cast a glance at the woman sitting in the back seat, she was still dazed from the medication that prevented her from feeling pain, she stood staring out of the tinted windows.

A large medical patch covered her entire cheek, just as a bandage wrapped her head tightly and securely.

At her side Taehyung made sure she did not attempt any strange moves; the boy was dressed in casual clothes unlike the young woman who was wearing only pajamas and slippers.

It was nighttime, Jimin had made sure to pick her up in a safe time frame for everyone so as not to raise even the slightest doubt.

"Where do you think I'm taking you?" broke the silence Jimin, Y/N barely lifted her head.

"To the Dark Moon, that's where I belong, isn't it?" she replied apathetically, a slow smile lapped the young male's face.

"You got it wrong this time, honey," he said, leaving her interjected.

"What do you mean?"

"I found a better use for you," he chuckled, almost breathing in the fear of the poor girl, who upset cast a glance at Taehyung.

She hadn't known him long, but in the clinic when she was surrounded by doctors, he had given her the impression that he was a calm and lucid man, or so she thought, although she remembered perfectly well that if Jimin wasn't there, then Taehyung himself would be there to give her that "checkup."

"Calm down, kitten, if he wanted to hurt you, he would have already done so, right?" he affirmed, instantly procuring a glare of lightning from Y/N.

"He did hurt me," she huffed inviperately, squeezing herself into her seat.

Jimin looked at her from the mirror, studying the woman's emaciated contours, her lips tightened into a line were a sign of her strange inner turmoil.

He did not want to get to the point of hurting her again, yet the way he had been raised left no room for pity, if she tried any bullshit he would pay for every single consequence.

After a few kilometers the car stopped in front of a seemingly very luxurious apartment establishment, a garage opened up for them and Jimin wasted no time in getting in, Taehyung on the other hand did not lose sight of every corner of the street, although from the angelic faces they remained gentlemen of the underworld. Seokjin as already specified had his hands full just about everywhere, dealing not only in his brothel - a source of more than excellent income - but also in dealing and often murder for hire.

There were not exactly a few of their enemies.

Y/N squared off with a bad feeling the other cars present-where had they taken her?

"Get her out," ordered Jimin, Taehyung opened his door first and going around he allowed the woman to get out as well, holding her firmly by the arm, not only to prevent her from escaping - she had nowhere to go given the enclosed space they were in - but also because he was unsure of her strength, the young woman in fact was unsteady on her own legs.

Out of the corner of his eye Jimin noticed that Taehyung was about to take her in his arms, which inexplicably irritated him. He knew that his friend had no interest in the girl, but that did not stop him from harshly jerking the other away from her to take her personally in his arms stunning not only Taehyung, but Y/N herself, who tried to shrink as much as possible under his dark gaze. The man's grip was firm, but she felt herself falling into the arms of her tormentor.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked with a knot in her throat; Jimin did not answer immediately.

First he climbed stairs that led them to a larger door, from that opened a long, dimly lit hallway and then more stairs to climb until they reached a landing with an elevator.

When they entered and the doors closed he finally spoke.

"You are in your new home."

A thousand questions poured into Y/N's head, confused and agitated. Had she been sold? So, is this how it was going to end?

She had basically ended up like her sister, she thought sorrowfully, regretting several times the absurd idea of looking for a similar job to support herself.

"More to the point, you are in your new home, yours and Jimin's," Taehyung chuckled, as the elevator doors opened to show a series of numbered, digitally locking doors.

"What?"

Taehyung typed a code on the keypad on the door with the number 7, which opened with a soft, almost imperceptible click.

The first thing the woman saw was a spacious, modern living room with an L-shaped sofa of soft dark leather that drew all the attention to itself.

"What does that mean?"

Jimin made a sign to his friend, who understood instantly. He wanted to be alone with Y/N.

"I'm off, see you soon kitten," he greeted her before disappearing, carefully closing the door behind him, the resulting sound no longer sounding so soft to Y/N's ears.

She felt she was being teased.

"What does that mean?" she repeated more somberly, Jimin took a seat on the sofa, crossing his legs in a pose that screamed elegance and power.

"I bought you, that's what it means."

It was a lie, Seokjin had made a gift of her to Jimin, but the latter with that statement tried to give himself an intimidating aura, buying a person after all was not something everyday, one had to be a powerful and influential person to do so, the man wanted her to feel fear in his presence.

She was stunned, "Why would you do that? You hate me, you find me useless! Is this another way to torture me?" she hissed with tears in her eyes, "You made me lose everything, what more do you want from me?"

She was broken.

She had run away from a monster to save her sister, but she had lost her and had been humiliated in more ways than one by Jimin and his former lover, if she could have ended it to avoid more suffering she would have taken the chance.

"I don't hate you, silly," sighed Jimin as he took off his jacket, "You irritate me with your stubborn attitude, but I don't hate you...it's other people I reserve my poison for, it's precious, it's the fuel that gets me going, my beautiful girl" he got up from his seat to go pour himself a few shots of vanilla rum, the crystal mini bar displayed his small but expensive collection of drinks, they were mostly classic brands, Jimin must have been an experienced drinker.

He sipped slowly from his glass, the plump, glossy lips matched perfectly with the transparent rim, soaking up the amber liquid, the piercing tapped lightly against the crystalline surface. Y/N imagined the sinful taste they had, wondered why she had not met him in his angel form, why she was given the devil, after the hell she had already been accustomed to.

"And then..." he continued, "I wouldn't let you stay at the Dark Moon a minute longer, I've already told you that but maybe it's better to refresh your memory," he murmured as he approached, the girl took small steps back, nothing compared to the male's two strides, "I won't let any other man get his hands on you, I want you and consequently you belong to me," he said casting a languid glance at the woman's lips.

"And what will you do in case you get tired of me?" she provoked him.

Jimin's eyes darkened, "What should I do with a stupid little girl like you?" he asked, not answering her question.

Neither of them would have liked the answer.

He took a lock of her soft hair in his fingers, bringing it to his nose he inhaled its light fragrance, the hospital had turned the girl off. He decided to leave her alone for the time being, she needed to recover, and from her thin, depressed appearance he guessed it would take quite some time.

"Here is a room with a bathroom for you, you will also find clean clothes, you may go," he turned away from her, who resumed breathing normally. Jimin was lethal and she feared it was not for one simple reason.

It may have sounded absurd, but no matter how much her instincts screamed at her to escape from the clutches of that monster, a much darker part of her could not stop pointing out its bewitching and sinful aspect.

Hers was a desire that had to be kept silent and hidden inside the closet because it was shameful and sick.

[greenhousethree]

Good Enough

100-Word Drabbles for Arthur and Ginny Weasley

Fifteen drabbles written for @thethreebroomsticksfic Weasley Week, Oct 16th: Arthur Weasley. Read below or on AO3.

i.

“You’re joking.”

Molly chews back her smile, shakes her head coyly. The house isn’t quiet, per say, but in a rare stroke of luck the twins and Ronnie’s naps have aligned.

And he’s wedged around the bathroom sink with his wife, giggling like children over a potion that’s just changed color.

“A girl…”

The day she’s born, Fabian is there. Peers over the bassinet for so long, Arthur wonders if he too is counting ten perfect pink toes.

“Shit,” he says to Arthur over a cigar that night, after talking war, “this world will never be good enough for her.”

ii.

It’s his turn tonight, when they hear little feet across the kitchen floor. He’s not surprised it’s her, face still blotchy, hair sticking up everywhere from this afternoon’s tantrum that left her knackered.

She whips around in the pantry doorway, eyes like saucers. “I’m hungry.”

After leftover stew from her yellow paisley bowl, he lays in bed with her. Grants her request for a story on the condition she doesn’t suck her thumb.

“Once upon a time, there was a witch named Ginny who lived in a deep, dark wood…”

“No, Daddy,” she whispers, eyes nearly closed. “I’m a dragon.”

iii.

Molly tells him she cried the whole way home from King’s Cross. By early afternoon, he can still tell— the aftershocks seem to surprise her, those gasping little breaths. 

“You know the best part of being the last one left,” he divulges over homemade strawberry ice cream that has yet to do the trick, “is that no one’s here to fight you for your pick of broomstick.”

The rest of her bowl melts on the porch swing. She’s out until it gets dark in the orchard, comes in for supper with leaves in her hair and the biggest jack-o-lantern grin. 

iv.

The day they bring her back home, he carries her trunk upstairs and sits beside her on the bed. Apologizes for ever blaming her, even for a second. 

She counters by saying something lifeless and self-loathing and broken. Eleven-year-old fingers pick at bruised nail beds— tiny, perfect hands. He still can’t fathom it.

That night, Molly brings her dinner and doesn’t come back down. When he heads up to bed, he sees they’ve clearly emptied all her shelves, stacked every novel and journal and textbook outside her door where they can’t hurt her. 

He’s never been angrier in his life.

v.

Since this morning, he’s meant to tell her he’s sorry— sorry they couldn’t offer her anything better on her birthday than this condemnable house-turned-war room. Sorry for the second-hand leather satchel wrapped in faded Christmas paper, even though she wanted a broom; sorry everyone’s thoughts are on tomorrow’s hearing.

After dinner he finally says it, out of Molly’s earshot. Sitting on the stairs leading from the kitchen, plates of fudgy cake in hand. 

“Don’t apologize.” She’s still smiling huge, bumps his shoulder. The Flatulence Fez the twins crowned her with slips down over one eye. “I really love the bag.”

vi.

It should’ve been the day that made them proudest as parents, marrying off their firstborn. It wasn’t. 

This morning, they boxed up centerpieces and charger plates in the shed, repaired all the furniture, met with the Order. His ears still ring. The house is eerie without those three. 

He finds them in her room. His wife is clutching their daughter as she sobs harder than he’s ever seen, inconsolable, wracking herself hoarse. He feels it like a sword to the chest.

In bed later, Molly shakes her head with that look he earns sometimes when he’s being thick. “She’s heartbroken.”

vii.

Friday before Easter, he changes from work robes into something Muggle and tweed and itchy. Platform 9¾ is packed with people avoiding eye contact, and the Express is late. It was late in December, too— arrived without Luna. He waits, terror tightening his throat.

He’s numb with relief when he sees her, one of the only kids lugging a trunk like he advised. She’s swimming in a jumper he’s sure is Ron’s, and that twinges a bit. There’s something different, he notices, walking to the entrance. Colder. Quiet. He doesn’t ask… can’t quite bear to.

Four days later, they flee.

viii.

She’s fighting him. Kicking, clawing.

He holds on with everything he has, arms clasped around her chest, and it’s like he can feel her breaking inside. But if he lets go, he’ll lose her, too. Like Fred. 

Like the body they’re all staring at, lifeless at Hagrid’s feet.

Weeks later, when the Boy Who Lived finds him in the shed one night, hedging, guiltier than anyone he’s ever seen, he already knows. For a moment he considers letting the kid squirm, like the father ought to do.

But then he remembers her first year, and wordlessly hands over a screwdriver. 

ix.

“One more,” she tells their waitress, pointing at a coaster she’s put in the middle. “For my sixth brother.”

The table falls quiet. But then George chuckles and they all take his cue, except Molly.

Snow collects on the windows as the bangers and pies and chips are served. She laments early-morning practices to them all, pretends she’s already bored of all the travel.

“Knock it off,” Charlie snickers, grinning. “Rookies can’t complain. We know you’re having a blast.”

At the end of the night she beats everyone to the bar, pays their tab. Arthur suspects it’s her whole paycheck.

x.

“I definitely saw you cry,” she accuses. She’s graceful even in smugness, grinning something wicked over her lipstick-stained champagne flute.

He pretends to grumble, but he knows she knows. “Hard not to, with the bloody groom getting all choked up.”

The band calls them up soon after, and he pulls her close. “It’s okay,” she murmurs as her face starts to blur again, inches away. “Just admit you’ve gone soft, Dad. I won’t tell.” He tugs on her hand to spin her, chuckling.

They cut cake, and Harry whispers something that makes her laugh, and she lights up the room.

xi.

Predictably, the stadium loses it when she flies out with a new surname on her kit. Ron rolls his eyes as she lands on the pitch with a bit of swagger.

She flies well today, but he reckons she could miss every shot and the commentators would still talk of nothing else. In the stands, Harry laughs when Arthur leans over to ask how it feels to play second fiddle. 

“I’ll never be good enough for her,” he snorts over the rim of his pint. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

She scores twelve goals, and the Harpies clinch playoffs.

xii.

“I’d kill for a drink about now,” she mutters, leaning against the railing. He knows better than to say she probably shouldn’t be out here, either— the venue’s porch, serving as refuge for men who normally never smoke.

He takes a long drag as they watch her boys toddle after their dad on the lawn. “Nearly there, sweetheart.” Treading lightly with his words, lest he incur any of what Muriel’s other well-intended mourners did with their attempts at small talk (“Like a fucking whale, thanks for asking”).

“Hey,” she smirks, “maybe you and Mum can buy a beach cottage now.”

xiii.

The mug Molly poured when they arrived is tepid now, sitting on the table. Shadows lengthen like ghosts beneath his daughter’s eyes; he suspects they’re five days old.

The kids are all asleep, Molly updates them.

Her jaw tightens. At her temple, he notices a couple of gray strands. “I can’t—” she whispers. Squeezes her eyes shut; nothing else comes out. “They need their dad. I’m not good enough on my own.”

“He’ll come home safe, darling. Always does.” And he makes her promise to never say that again. 

He takes both of her hands in his, and they’re cold.

xiv.

They’re celebrating Ted and Vic beneath a canopy of fairy lights. Bill’s weepy toast prompts Fleur to frisk his brothers till she finds George’s flask.

She never realizes Ginny’s stowing the bottle. 

His children outlast their kids and spouses. It’s one of those nights he can’t let himself miss, tired as he is. 

His daughter points a wobbly finger. “Lils has a boyfriend, by the way. Doesn’t think we know. Harry’s going spare.”

He chuckles. “Now he gets it. Imagine trying to justify hating the Chosen One.”

She laughs, nearly tips her chair. “You should tell him that. Might help.”

xv.

It comes in waves. Feels like a lifetime has passed since yesterday; another before that. Molly— bless her— tried to prepare him for it. Tried to comfort him. Imagine.

It feels too big now, their little house on the beach. Perfect for two lives, cavernous with just one. 

She finds him in the garden before sunset. Small, warm hands enclose his. 

“Look, Dad.” 

It’s a delicate, fluttering thing with blue wings, bobbing on the wind. Molly’s favorite. 

“She’s found us again.”

He smiles and tucks a silver lock behind her ear, meeting her gaze— precisely the same shade of brown.

[gunpowderraven]

critical role: by someone that hasn’t seen any of it

hi so we recently got into dimension 20 and our friends have been tugging us towards critical role for a very long time at this point but we still haven’t watched any of it nor do we know all that much about anything that actually happens in it. however we do intend to actually start watching soon so we decided it was the perfect opportunity to make one of those ‘all the things i know about this thing i haven’t watched’ posts, show it to our critrole friends, and then actually get into critrole and be able to look back and laugh about it later

also the images are all sourced via friend so this is all one hundred percent no wiki no google knowledge, just from tumblr and discord convos and stuff. and some cast compilation videos that were very funny

update: we are now watching cr3! liveblog tag for silly lb -> #cr3 lb

vox machina

from left to right:

- i have literally no idea who the two halflings are. i’ve never seen them before in my life. what. uh. paladin and bard? im literally just guessing. who plays these characters. what

- grog? grug? this is travis’ pc maybe. also hypothesizing hes a half-orc barbarian or something similar? ive seen like one clip of him

- percival frederick von something something de rolo i think there’s a iii in his name as well, his name is long and very german but he does not have a german accent. or a french one. at separate times i have thought this character was german and french and then i heard him talk and was like. What. anyway i know he’s taliesin’s pc and he invented guns and is also possessed sometimes by big bird demon, and he has a nifty plague doctor mask. also tragic backstory. his entire family is dead i think. no mercy percy! he has a thing with vex? also his hair did a wilbur. the gay people on tumblr love this twink. i also think i love this twink

- vax’ildan! i think i may have actually spelled that right! half-elf? vex is his twin? and he’s... liam’s pc i think. yeah that’s it. he gives me angsty boy energy tho. not as much as percy but this boy has seen some shit. also he might be a rogue or a ranger who even knows. he looks like gay jon snow

- vex’ahlia which i definitely didn’t spell right. i think the next one is marisha’s pc so this one is... uh... laura? i think she’s the ranger actually. i think she has a bear. not like a gay bear like an actual animal bear. though it could be gay too i dunno. she has a think with percy. or everyone wants her to have a thing with percy. i genuinely can’t tell. anyway get that traumatized twink girl

- keyleth... marisha’s pc. some kind of spellcaster? maybe sorcerer? wild magic? she Also has a thing with percy maybe. or vex. or both. who even knows. everyone wants that twink. one time she threw herself off a cliff and turned into a goldfish and almost died and it was hilarious

anything else i know about this:

- there are evil bitches called the briarwoods and they might be vampires

- this is the one that got a tv show and might have also been the first critrole campaign idek

- d. ragons? chromia something. dragons. i hope i haven’t been lied to about the dragons. i hope there are actually dragons in this. there’s like a chromium something with dragon symbols tho

mighty nein

from left to right:

- mollymauk! ...tealeaf? another taliesin pc. the trans people like this one. i don’t know what their pronouns are. but theyre slaying every time i see them at any time. no idea what class but maybe a spellcaster?

- ...beau? i know her exclusively through lesbian ship art so i know her name is beau something bc that’s the ship names but i don’t know if that’s short for something. monk? no clue. also no clue who plays her either. maybe marisha?

- i have seen this character but i do not know their name. or anything else about them

- oh this is the sad wizard boy caleb widogast. he’s gay for essek thelyss (or something. i didnt spell that right) who is a npc i think. yeah. sad wizard. every time i see him he’s just being a wizard and sad. the gays love him too but he’s more of a distraught otter than a sad twink. maybe he and percy should start a club tho. also i think he’s played by liam

- i KNOW this character’s name i think it starts with s but i can’t remember for the life of me. scriv? scrat? no thats the rat from ice age. possibly a menace? i think im getting them mixed up with someone else. they look cool as hell though

- jester!! laura pc i think perhaps. i want to get drunk with her and tell her about all of my problems. yeah. i dont know anything about her actually. beaujester exists tho i know that

- YASHA. CRUSH ME HOLY FUCK. sorry im normal ? her voice makes me a little crazy insane. ive seen a few clips of her. mostly gay shit with beau. uh she’s played by ashley and she could kick my ass very easily

oh my god there’s another photo

- i think there’s only one character different here and it’s caduceus clay fun fact i hated this mfer for really dumb shitty personal reasons for a while before deciding it was very stupid to blame a fictional character for interpersonal drama and now im fine with him. wait does mollymauk die or something. wait a second. no, wait, fuck—

- ALSO WHO’S THAT FUCKER IN THE BACKGROUND I JUST NOTICED THAT

anything else i know about this:

- yeah i got nothing. no idea about the lore or the plot or anything bc i pretty much exclusively see gay ship art of these pcs. love wins i support it

bells hells

from left to right, one more time:

- look my brain is just saying gertrude from dungeons & drag queens but obviously that’s incorrect. so i don’t know who this is

- or this! but she looks very pretty and i love the little... monkey... bird? pls tell me these two characters have some kind of wild opposites dynamic they look like they do

- LITTLE ROBOT GUY . fcg? fgc? i think it was the first one. uh. liam pc? ?????? i think he gets bitches

- orym...? i know one of these characters is named orym. and i think it’s this one. i also see gay fanart of him

- i don’t know who the guy underneath him is

- or the lady with the purple hair god i really don’t know shit about this campaign sorry

- ashton greymoore, taliesin pc, my friend luna loves this guy, he’s. rocks? he’s rocks. groovy.

- someone in this campaign is named like dorian or something and im guessing its this one bc idk who they are either

anything else i know about this:

- flying.......... ship?

- this is the ongoing one i think

thank you for coming to my ted talk, i can’t wait to look back at this in a few months and laugh my ass off. hope u enjoyed this mess

[dapper-lil-arts]

Do you have any top tier horse yuri fic recs?

Hmm, i got a couple, lemme think

This one is a very sweet slice of life EG Sunset x Scitwi one, its got a lovely interpretation of the characters; With the expected but very welcome pairing of cool punk girl and adorable nerd. and i plan on doing fanart of it! The writer knows her stuff nyeheh =v= This is the best "Rarity and Applejack get drunk together and mushy stuff happens" Fic i seen out there, a trope that is surprisingly recurring, ive seen others like this! But this one is the best, hands down. A mutual of mine wrote it and its just a wonderful time! This one is a super fun horror esque rarijack fic where rarity is haunted and applejack tries to help her. its got fantastic prose and its just damn lovely! I've done fanart of it before, its a sweet one, and its also just a really interesting direction to take Rarity's character that i'm almost sad to not see more of. Overpowered rarity whennnn Although i don't ship twilight and trixie, this fic of this pairing, that is still ongoing, is fucking hilarious. The comedy has wonderful timing, and the takes on the characters are endlessly entertaining

Stay tuned to this wonderful fic of Rarijack anthros (Inspired by the ones i designed, too!!) 'cause its gonna have a sex sequel that i've already gotten a sneak peek or two of, and i'm frotthing at the mouth about it. biting things even (i sketched the cover btw!)

This fic isn't rly horse yuri but its 1000 words of Sunset Shimmer being the utter insane badass i always wished she was; and I will continue writing her like so. I'm glad to see another writer also concidered the same

If you're like me, and think that sex is funny, this fic and it's two sequels are for you. Sunset Shimmer throws a party of deranged proportions that ends in debauchery and indulgence that nearly destroys the fabric of equestria; and it's consequences are hilarious. This is a rly cute short trans rarity fic, and it has a delightful amount of rarijack within. utterly adorbs. Almost sad to see it so short! Finaly, i'd be amiss to not recommend the fics i've written myself; Here are my two biggest and most awesomest i've done: The Return of Midnight Sparkle Is a take on MLP where there is no EG universe, and rather, Sunset Shimmer is brought to the mane 6 per twilight's request, and she absolutely does not feel like she belongs, and its a narrative about her desperate attempts of fitting in; and dealing with the fallout of her failings. I put an inordinate amount of effort on this one, even drawing covers for each chapter. I went DERRANGED with the idea of "what if sunset shimmer was on FIM and also it was gay as fuck." i basicaly wrote an entire season of the show and its finale. If you're a fan of Sunset Shimmer and Twilight Sparkle as a pairing, cannot recommend enough. Here's some of the art i made for it. Insanely sick chapter covers im super proud of The Princess and the Peasant is an all you can eat buffet for Rarijack enjoyers, I've taken the baseline of the story of "shrek 1" and i made it about Applejack and Rarity; And also expanded upon it and fixed some of the annoyances with the og story (No third act misunderstanding! On the contrary. Third act understanding. SEX.) The humble farmer Applejack has to rescue fair Princess Rarity from a dragon keep, and escort her across Equestria to ensure that her farm and family are safe. Of course, on the journey, those two grow a bit close... Too close. VEry very very veyr close. Here's a comic i've made of one of my fave scenes of it lmaooo Cannot express enough; If you're a fan of rarijack? This fic is EVERYTHING for you.

[aerltarg]

thinking again about my sad boys, aegon and rhaegar, the dragonbane and the last dragon, being depressed since childhood, finding solace in their happy ladies, daenaera and lyanna. but while aegon's older siblings died, rhaegar lost his younger ones. but hey, at least aegon got to be close to his dear younger bro viserys! meanwhile, rhaegar just couldn't have a chance to build any proper relationship with his younger bro viserys, with everything between them. also to think that daeron the young dragon was aegon and daenaera's son and jon, rhaegar and lyanna's son, admired him and considered him one of his heroes... oh bless them, i love them so much

[...] As she stood before the king that Maiden’s Day, clad in pale white silk, Myrish lace, and pearls, her long hair shining in the torchlight and her cheeks flush with excitement, Daenaera was but six years old, yet so beautiful she took the breath away. The blood of Old Valyria was strong in her, as is oft seen in the sons and daughters of the seahorse; her hair was silver laced with gold, her eyes as blue as a summer sea, her skin as smooth and pale as winter snow. “She sparkled,” Mushroom says, “and when she smiled, the singers in the galley rejoiced, for they knew that here at last was a maid worthy of a song.” Daenaera’s smile transformed her face, men agreed; it was sweet and bold and mischievious, all at once. Those who saw it could not fail to think, “Here is a bright, sweet, happy little girl, the perfect antidote to the young king’s gloom.” (Fire & Blood)

When Aegon III returned her smile and said, “Thank you for coming, my lady, you look very pretty,” even Lord Unwin Peake surely must have known that the game was lost. (Fire & Blood)

[...] Hope and good feeling reigned over the Red Keep as the new year dawned. Though younger than her predecessor, Queen Daenaera was a happier child, and her sunny nature did much to lighten the king’s gloom…for a while, at the least. Aegon III was seen about the court more often than had been his wont, and even left the castle on three occasions to show his bride such sights as the city offered (though he refused to take her to the Dragonpit, where Lady Rhaena’s young dragon, Morning, made her lair). His Grace seemed to take a new interest in his studies, and Mushroom was oft summoned to entertain the king and queen at supper (“The sound of the queen’s laughter was like music to this fool, so sweet that even the king was known to smile”). (Fire & Blood)

[...] “But I am not certain it was in Rhaegar to be happy.” “You make him sound so sour,” Dany protested. “Not sour, no, but… there was a melancholy to Prince Rhaegar, a sense…” The old man hesitated again. “Say it,” she urged. “A sense…?” “…of doom. He was born in grief, my queen, and that shadow hung over him all his days.” Viserys had spoken of Rhaegar's birth only once. Perhaps the tale saddened him too much. “It was the shadow of Summerhall that haunted him, was it not?” “Yes. And yet Summerhall was the place the prince loved best. He would go there from time to time, with only his harp for company. Even the knights of the Kingsguard did not attend him there. He liked to sleep in the ruined hall, beneath the moon and stars, and whenever he came back he would bring a song. When you heard him play his high harp with the silver strings and sing of twilights and tears and the death of kings, you could not but feel that he was singing of himself and those he loved.” (ASOS, Daenerys IV)

“At the welcoming feast, the prince had taken up his silver-stringed harp and played for them. A song of love and doom, Jon Connington recalled, and every woman in the hall was weeping when he put down the harp.” (ADWD, The Griffin Reborn)

“The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle.” (ASOS, Bran II)

“By night the prince played his silver harp and made her weep. When she had been presented to him, Cersei had almost drowned in the depths of his sad purple eyes.” (AFFC, Cersei V)

“No one knew,” said Meera, “but the mystery knight was short of stature, and clad in ill-fitting armor made up of bits and pieces. The device upon his shield was a heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face.” (ASOS, Bran II)

“Whoever he was, the old gods gave strength to his arm. [...] the common folk cheered lustily for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, as the new champion soon was called. When his fallen foes sought to ransom horse and armor, the Knight of the Laughing Tree spoke in a booming voice through his helm, saying, 'Teach your squires honor, that shall be ransom enough.'” (ASOS, Bran II)

“He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister’s eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black.” (AGOT, Eddard I)

“Robert will never keep to one bed,” Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm’s End. “I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.” Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled. “Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature. (AGOT, Eddard IX)

“It was said that Rhaegar had named that place the tower of joy.” (AGOT, Eddard X)

[softness-and-shattering]

Ok the latest episode of dungeon meshi is gory as fuck.

Major episode 11 SPOILERS

Given that the episode is dragon part one, I assumed they would fight the dragon, mostly fail, cliffhanger, and the next episode would be defeating it.

I did NOT expect them to kill it, root around its insides, and find Falins fucking bones!!

The foot comes down on Senshi and he immediately vomits blood? Chilchuk knocked out by bricks to the head, Laios loses his leg?! (Nitpick but. If the leg was disconnected what was keeping him from falling out the dragons mouth? Anime rule of cool physics?)

And then. Chilchuk and Senshi is heaps of pain and Laios' leg is just itchy? Its a good joke, but I think there's more. Those heals were too easy after that amount of unprecedented violent gore.

Laios had a btw-line about of the dragon and is mating and then dismissed the thought with no given reason. So I think next episode theres gonna be a second Red dragon. ( Its possible part 2 will be next season, but following more common episode title namings, red dragon 1 and 2 will be the season finale. )

And theres the unanswered question of the whole season, why is the dragon more active, why is the ecosystem of the dungeon off-balance. I think next episode will be our big clue.

Re Falin, its no coinicidence we were introduced to the racist rich guy who assures us that souls dont leave bodies in the dungeon. That was confusing up till the last episode because the characters sure act like death is possible, and we've seen dead people and heard about body-retrieval. Then Namari goes to revivals to ask about Falin and there are bodies stored behind the desk guy. Which puts the pieces together, bodies that can be retrieved are retrieved, and the people can be revived. If someone cares to, and presumably pays for it. Someones gotta pay for retrievals.

Its also no accident that our warm-fuzzy sibling scene before finding Falins skull is about a ghost who is trapped with his body, and Falins intuition/ability with ghost magic. Can she be revived, will she stick around as a ghost, remains to be seen. (Remains.)

As someone who hasnt yet read the manga, Im also curious about long term story. Ive gotten the impression that theres significant story to go, possibly probably they reach the end of the dungeon? But Ive not seen Falin present in any of the art, and for the story to continue they need motivation to keep going.

So Im guessing that Falin ends up as a ghost, or unreviveable, and they have to get to the bottom to find the mad mage, work out what stops people from crossing over post-death (does that include monsters, orcs, humanoid mermaids or fish-oid[???]mermen), and only then can they bring Falin back to life.

That or they revive her and theres some other plot hook, but my guess is what I just described.

(Another silly nitpick, the fire is blocked by the adamantium but the heat isnt a problem until after the fire is done? "WE HAVE TO MAKE SURE TO EXHAUST ALL ITS FUEL" THAT WOULDVE LEFT FALIN BEYOND ALL HOPE!!!!!!)

And its funny re Senshi's knife, ooh its mithril it can cut through anything, well of course! he's used it to cut every single monster theyve eaten! And we never wondered how! Foreshadowing by cookware, its ridiculous and I love it.

Last point is it just me or are...is it Kaka and Kiki? Theyre discount Vex and Vax, right?

[offline-nobody]

this is probably a terrible post to make but i dont care because by god some of the take ive been seeing on the house of the dragon finale have been just absurdly stupid

like yall seem so determined to classify all these characters as ‘morally good’ or ‘morally bad’ when one of the most important details of the show is that no character is inherently good or evil

‘alicents a bad person for agreeing to let rhaenrya kill aegon’ where you not paying attention to the full minute of silent deliberation beforehand?? the fact that she cant bring herself to even say the words, just a quick nod before turning around?? the whole point of that minute of silence was alicent having to chose between one life and the thousands that will die if this war continues. this isnt a decision she makes lightly, and isnt one that she even wants to make, but she recognises the necessity of it, even if she doesnt want to. why am i seeing it boiled down to ‘alicent is an inherently bad person’ shut up, no character is inherently good or evil, they are the products of every other moment that has come before, they are stuck in a situation in which they have no good options, and are trying to navigate it to what they believe is the best possible outcome, even when that outcome directly contradicts what others want.

‘rhaenyra bringing up a son for a son is bad and therefore shes a bad person’ also shut up. it hasnt been that long since lucerys died, of course shes still upset about it. in her eyes, alicent is in part to blame, alongside otto, aegon, and everybody else who she believed to conspire against her. its not even the point of the seen, shes essentially throwing it in there to guilt trip alicent. she doesnt want aegon dead because of ‘a son for a son’ she wants him dead because as long as hes still around, shell be seen as the usurper, thatll be her legacy unless she makes it aegons. yes technically the debt has been paid but thats not the point here, the point is that, to rhaenyra, she has lost so much in this war and alicent has lost less (which isnt necessarily true but how would rhaenyra know whats happening in kings landing). yes this is a bad thing for rhaenyra to throw at alicent, but that doesnt make rhaenyra a bad person, just a person who has done both good and bad things in the past, who has had good and bad things happen to her, and is acting on those things.

this isnt even everything, theres so many moments that rely on subtly that some of yall are just not seeing. like im sorry this show has complicated characters that dont fall into easy good and bad boxes. im sorry these characters are complex and nuanced and that is what makes them interesting to watch. honestly its like yall werent even paying attention to english literature in school. characters can be more than one thing, in fact characters should be more than one thing, because people are more than one thing

im sorry for rambling so much, but it just felt like whiplash going from watching the show and finding the finale to be one of the greatest episodes of television, to seeing people attempt to boil it down to good and bad, and then getting annoyed when characters would act with nuance