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indulgentdaydream · 1 year ago

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I added these two together. I hope you guys don’t mind! Since I added them together I’m also making this a two parter. My first one ever!!

Comparisons Pt.1

Jason Todd x Jealous!Insecure!Fem!Reader || Angst/Fluff || Word Count: 2,488

Part 2

Warnings: not proofread as of yet. Maybe will after i post who knows

After a six hour morning shift as a dishwasher, you were ready to head home.

It was the early afternoon, your shift having ended at 12. It was sunny. Warm, but not too hot. You were still in your work clothes, simple black pants and a black t shirt, your tote bag full of belongings over your shoulder. It was nice weather for the half hour walk you had back to your apartment. Better than the weather you’ve faired before.

Jason usually picked you up after your shifts, no matter where he was, as long as he wasn’t on patrol. He never wanted you to be seen in public near the Red Hood. He didn’t want you as a target.

“It’s bad enough I come straight here after patrol some nights.” He had said once.

“I’m just that irresistible, eh?” You had smiled.

He laughed, kissing your shoulder, “Damn right, baby.”

This day, though, you knew he was busy with a certain case he was working on. One he wouldn’t tell you about. He had been hard at work on it for the last few weeks, barely able to make much time for you. You didn’t mind. He tried as much as he could, even if it ended up being a five minute phone call, or a visit in the middle of night in between beaten-up thugs.

The sun hits your face and warms your skin in a comfortable way. Your headphones blocked out the Gotham noise, making the moment more enjoyable. Your favourite music instead of honking horns, sounds of engines, distant sirens, and people yelling.

You were stuck in your own world. You began thinking of asking Jason if he wanted to take you for a ride on his bike later. If he was free. You knew it’d be hard for him to say no. He loved taking you for rides. He didn’t have to say anything for you to know that.

You turn a corner, stuck in your head. Thinking about what you were going to do when you got home. You weren’t used to the morning shift.

You start your walk down the road, passing busy storefronts. Crystal shops. Pet stores. Mostly cafés and diners. You briefly considered working as a dishwasher at one of these places instead so you didn’t have to walk as far.

Maybe you and Jason could go to a diner tonight? That was a hopeful thought. There wouldn’t be time.

You’re walking past the third outdoor seating that takes up most of the sidewalk, small bistro tables hidden from the sun by large, white, beach-style umbrellas. Nearly identical to the two others you had passed, only different colour schemes.

You stare straight ahead, the extended seating narrowing the sidewalk and making it harder for people to walk around. You’re nearly halfway past the café when a hand reaches over breaching the shaded area and entering the sunlight to gently grasp onto your wrist.

You’re already twisting, ready to pull the mace Jason had bought you (though you more-so believe stolen from Batman himself, as you could see where he had scratched out the bat symbol on the canister) out of your tote bag and aim, when your eyes land on the owner of the arm, stretched across the thin barrier separating the seating from the sidewalk.

It’s Jason. His face hidden behind sunglasses, a small frown on his lips as he looks up at you from the shade. He waits for you to slip off your headphones before speaking.

“I was waving to you,” his thumb absentmindedly stroking the back of your hand. “You didn’t see?”

“Sorry,” You smile in relief at him, stepping closer to the barricade so as not to impede the flow of foot traffic. “I was more focused on getting around.”

There was someone sitting across from him. You didn’t think much of it at first. You saw red hair. That was regular with Jason, since he was always hanging around with Roy. Or Kory.

That’s who you thought it was. Roy. Nothing different at all. You turned to greet him, a smile ready on your face.

The second you clocked the pretty face, the waist-long, flowing, shiny red hair, your smile faltered.

Artemis gave you a sincere, friendly smile, her fingers swirling her straw in her cup.

Something churned in your stomach, “Hello.”

Jason’s grip on your wrist tightened slightly once, speaking up, “Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?”

You look back to him, “You said you were busy today.”

He frowns again. Technically, he had never said that. But it was true.

“Sit with us,” Artemis said, pointing behind her. “The entrance is there. We’re almost done anyways. Jason can drive you the rest of the way.”

You nodded, sending the best smile back to Artemis that you could muster in the moment.

As you approached, Jason reached towards the empty table behind him, flipping the chair and placing it at their own table, in between him and Artemis, facing where you had just been standing.

Something in the back of your mind noted how he didn’t even stand to do it, his face still pointed towards Artemis, his eyes concealed by his shades, hiding his expression. You sit down, placing your tote bag on the ground beside on, on your right, between you and Jason.

He picked it up and moved it onto the table without a word.

“This is my girlfriend,” Jason introduces you, his hands back on the table, folded in front of him. “This is Artemis. She’s helping me with my case.”

You nod, your mouth suddenly dry as she smiles at you again, “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she smiles again, stretching out plump lips to present straight, shiny teeth.

Jason’s quick goes back to talking with her about whatever they had been talking about before you had walked past, wrapping things up.

You weren’t even capable of listening at this point.

You trusted Jason. You’d always trust Jason. This was for the case and nothing more. You knew that.

Jason had never really spoke about Artemis before. He had mentioned her once, in the early months of your relationship. You had done something. He had later asked you not to, saying he had a bad memory of it from his ex. He had never even mentioned her name. You knew he didn’t like talking about her.

However, you had been out with Jason and Roy at a bar once. Roy had briefly mentioned Jason’s ex, since she was included in the story. Jason had changed the topic fast after that. Then when he’d gotten up to use to washroom, you’d asked Roy to tell you more about her.

“Just what she looks like,” You reasoned. “So I can recognize her if need be.”

Roy hesitated in telling you, but he still did.

You trusted Jason. However, you were losing trust in Roy. He had never mentioned how gorgeous this woman is.

Her skin was smooth. Not a blemish or wrinkle in sight. You tried not to stare, but you couldn’t help it. Her hair was perfect. Her skin flawless. On further inspection you even realized she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

She wasn’t wearing any makeup and she looked that good?

Artemis lifted her coffee cup to her lips, nodding to something Jason was saying. Nothing you understood, anyways. Even if you were listening. You caught sight of her flexed arm as she finished off the drink. She was strong. Probably worked out nearly as much as Jason, but far more slim than he was. But in a good way.

She smiled again, wide, displaying her pearly whites. You ran a tongue over your own teeth, pursing your lips quietly in thought. Yours weren’t anywhere near that.

Your arms suddenly felt itchy as you looked over Artemis’ again. You looked down. You needed to take your eyes off of her. You were being stupid. Jason had broken up with her. Jason had picked you. He had been dating you for nearly a year and a half.

Your eyes drifted to your own arms, spots of acne along biceps. No definition in sight. Your under eye bags suddenly felt like they were on broadcast. Your face felt gritty, your hand coming up to absentmindedly scratch at the break out you had along your cheek. The frizz of your own hair visible in the corner of your eyes.

You looked back up, looking out at the busy street. Jason had chosen you. Jason loved you. Jason kissed you everyday and always made sure to tell you how much he loved you.

Except in the past few weeks while he had been busy with this case.

Had he been working with her this whole time?

You glanced back down as Jason placed his hand on your knee. He always did this when you guys were out. You look back up at him. He’s leaning on the table with her other arm, straight-faced, nodding along to something Artemis was saying. Even her voice is pretty. Her tone carrying a confidence you were failing to find in the moment.

You looked back down to your own legs, Jason’s thumb moving lightly back and forth over the side of your knee. He didn’t even know he was doing it. He never did.

You looked over to Artemis’ legs, hidden underneath a pair of jeans. Even then you could see how skinny hers were. Could see that her thighs weren’t spilling off the sides of the small metal bistro chair.

Soon enough, she was standing, beginning to say her goodbyes. You swallowed thickly. She was tall too. An amazon, you remember Roy mentioning. How could you forget.

The crop top she was wearing fit her nicely, showing off her toned stomach and even dipping down at the neckline to show some cleavage.

You looked away, your arms folding across your stomach, hiding your own torso.

She smiles at Jason. You quickly look to Jason and find him smiling, too. A genuine smile. One he had yet to give you while you’d been sitting here.

You’re his girlfriend, you remind yourself. He loves you.

She smiles at you and gives her farewell. You can only nod. You watch as she leaves.

God. She was nice, too. Nicer than you had wanted to be to her.

She walks in the direction you had come from. Her hair flowing behind her, an expensive-looking purse hanging from her shoulder. Most men walking past stop to turn and look at her. She ignored them all.

That never happened to you. In fact, Jason had been the first guy to ever even ask you out. You never understood why you were his choice. Not when he was able to pull women like that.

Jason pats your knee and pulls you out of your thoughts, “Want to get anything before we go?”

You can’t even face him. She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. A fucking amazonian warrior.

You stare down at the table, catching sight of your own hands. Your nails worn from your shift at the restaurant, fingertips still wrinkled from the water.

Why the hell would he ever stay with you if she was still in his life?

“No.” You finally answer. “Thank you.”

He nodded, sighing as he fished out his wallet to pay for their coffees. He counts the bills and change, speaking with his head down, “How many times have I told you not to walk around with your headphones on?”

You lift your head to look at him, “What?”

He doesn’t look at you, his eyes still hidden by his shades. “Your headphones. You get so lost in your music you couldn’t even see me waving to get your attention.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, “I was looking past you. I didn’t expect to see you—”

“I was calling your name, too. If your headphones were off then you could’ve heard me.” He tossed a twenty onto the table, leaning forward on his elbows to look at you. “Anyone could sneak up on you.”

You pursed your lips, your brows tightening at him.

Why did she get a smile and not me?

Jason gestured to your bag on the table, “Same with this. The hell you putting it on the floor for? You wouldn’t notice it was taken until far too late—”

“You don’t have to drive me,” you interrupted. “I’ll walk.”

Jason cocked his head slightly, looking genuinely curious, “Why? Car’s right over there—“

“I’ll walk.” You repeated. Firmly.

You needed the walk. You had to try and work the jealousy out of your mind before you got into it with Jason. You didn’t want to argue. Not now. Not in public.

Jason sighed, running a hand over his mouth, “Don’t be like that.” He started to stand, his keys jingling in his hand, “Come on.”

He reached to take your bag for you, a large brown envelope already in his hand. Whatever Artemis had given him.

You reached out and snatched it from his hand. You stood, throwing it over your shoulder. “I’ll walk.”

Jason stared at you for a moment, seemingly frozen in place.

He sighed through his nose, “What’s wrong?”

You took a deep breath trying to control your emotions. This was stupid. Jason had broken up with her for a reason. Had been dating you for the last year and a half for a reason.

Unfortunately, your mouth was working faster than your mind, “Don’t act like you didn’t start this.”

Jason pushed his shoulders back. He tried again, “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, frustrated.

“Fine,” he stuffed his free hand in his pocket. “Just don’t be wearing your headphones while walking around.“

You were tired. Your shift had been long. You were worked up from your mind running all the comparisons between you and Artemis. It was still running them, you suppose, as otherwise you wouldn’t have said, “I guess you wouldn’t have to worry about her all the time. She can handle herself.”

Jason’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his first shown emotion since that smile he’d given her, “Who?” Then they shot up almost just as quickly. “Artemis? Is that was this is about?”

You felt your face heat up in embarrassment at his realization. He’d figured you out.

His shoulders tensed, “Do you really not trust me?”

The way he had said it, his tone, has made it sound like the silliest thing in the world. Now it made you feel even stupider. Of course you trusted him.

You caught people staring in the corner of your vision. You ducked your head back down.

You gripped your tote bag at the straps over your shoulder and stormed off.

You heard Jason call your name as you passed by him again, on the other side of the barrier, headed back to your apartment.

Hope you guys enjoyed!! Pt 2 will be out later this week!!

Update!! Part 2 is here!!!

Part 2

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #dc #red hood #jason todd fic #red hood x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x you #red hood x you #missy writes #ask missy #jason todd x y/n #dc x y/n #dc x fem!reader #dc x you #dc x reader #dc fic #red hood x fem!reader #red hood fic

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fairytalelover33 · 1 year ago

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Are Those Tears?

Thorin x Female Reader

Prompt: When Thorin stares death in the face, you both realize your feelings for each other may be a little stronger than friendship.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Some slight blood/gore, mentions of death, Thorin being a softie for once.

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Nothing could have prepared you for this journey. No amount of training would have sufficed. The whole company making it this far virtually intact was a miracle within itself. You had all survived attempt after attempt on your lives. It seemed that the odds of completing this journey were in your favor, having escaped each encounter with mere scrapes and bruises.

But this time you might not be so lucky.

The muscles in your arms and core ache, as you cling desperately to the branch of a fallen tree on the edge of a cliff, your legs dangling hundreds of feet above the ground. You can hear the grunts and bellows of your incapacitated comrades, confirming that they are in the same predicament as you. The snarls and howls of the Wargs add to the cacophony, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You realize that the only thing keeping the large predators and their riders from swooping in and slaughtering you all is the blazing fire surrounding the tree you all cling to. Azog the defiler sits astride a white Warg, pacing back and forth in front of the wall of flames separating them from you. You see Azog and his mutt pause in their pacing, the pale orc's scarred face hardening.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

"Thorin, no!" Balin exclaims quietly. You lift your head as a large boot plants onto the tree trunk next to you. The figure makes his way past, through the flames, towards the pale orc. The long dark hair, peppered with streaks of grey, the broad shoulders, the determined stride. It was unmistakably Thorin.

No.

A sudden wave of desperation crashes over you, making your stomach turn. You just want to reach out and grab him, yank him back. You want to scream, to beg, to yell at him to just turn around. Your breathing becomes ragged, and one quiet word manages to claw its way out of your throat, repeating over and over under your breath, like a prayer waiting to be answered.

"No. No. No. No." Thorin's steps do not falter, his sword glinting in the light of the blazing inferno that lines his path. It feels as though the world is moving in slow motion as Thorin charges the pale orc, armed with his sword and his shield. His Oaken Shield. How life has a funny way of coming full circle. Azog the defiler guides his pale furred Warg in a mighty leap from the boulder he had been perched upon.

The blow dealt to Thorin as the white Warg collides with him in mid-air snaps you back to reality with a rush of dread. The force of the beasts bodyweight stops Thorin in his tracks, sending him crashing to earth. Reality sets in as you hear the rest of the company fighting the pull of gravity, straining to hold on to the strand of life that is this fallen tree.

Azog wheels his pale beast around, charging at Thorin once more, and sending a bone rattling blow of his mace to the dwarf's chest, knocking him back to the ground. A pang hits you directly in your heart, and flows through your bloodstream, some desperate feeling you can't quite place seeping into your very bones. You don't understand the feeling well enough to give it a name. All you know is that it gives you enough strength to muscle yourself up with a strangled cry, huffing and gritting your teeth as you clamber up to the trunk of the tree. You can barely feel the heat that burns the palms of your hands, red and raw from clinging to the rough bark of the tree branch.

The Hobbit, Bilbo, seems to have the same rush of bravery that you do, and you see his small form scramble up to the trunk of the tree, pausing to take one deep breath to right his turbulent mind before charging into the fray, armed with his little elvish knife.

The wretched hound of hell clamps its jaws around Thorin. The sickening sound of Thorin's ribs cracking reaches your ears, making your head swim. You can feel yourself call out his name in agony, but it sounds like someone else's voice is coming from your mouth as you stumble a few steps along the fallen tree. You right yourself in time to see the mutt toss Thorin like a farm dog tosses a snake, his form crashing onto a patch of hard rock on the hillside.

"(Y/N)!" Balin shouts as you start hauling it to where Thorin lays, hot on Bilbo's heels. "No, Lass! It's too dangerous!" No response comes from your lips, your mouth set in a grimace as you have a clear view out to where one of the Defilers minions is preparing to behead Thorin. He lies pinned upon the rocky ground, his breathing ragged, teeth clenched in defiance as he grasps around desperately for his sword.

You quickly overtake Bilbo, and with a muffled grunt you stiffen your shoulders, tackling the Orc with the force of your body weight, bowling it over. You can hear Azog's roar of dissent as you stop the orcs deadly blow mid swing. A sharp pain explodes like a lightning strike in your right shoulder, making you cry out. As you and the orc tumble away from Thorin, the filthy monster rolls atop you with a snarl, pinning you down. You struggle futilely beneath it, flailing like a madman, grasping for something, anything to protect yourself, and finding nothing. The orc raises its armored fist, pulling back to deliver a skull crushing blow.

Suddenly, the orc shrieks, blood spewing from its mouth, spraying you in the face. It falls to the side, revealing a fiery eyed Bilbo, delivering continuous blows with his small, but mighty blade. You gasp for air, viciously wiping your face with the sleeve of your tunic and scrambling away.

You crawl to the barely conscious form of Thorin, not caring about the rocks and twigs scraping your skin through the thin fabric of your clothing. Ignoring the shooting pain in your shoulder, you pull yourself up to your knees, cradling his head in your lap. His half-lidded gaze holds yours for a moment, as if trying to see into your very soul. A thin sheen of sweat coats his face as he murmurs a single word, before slipping into the warm embrace of unconsciousness.

"(Y/N)..." Thorin breathes out softly. If you had not been watching his lips move you would have assumed you imagined it. His eyes flicker shut, his ragged gasps slowing to shallow breaths. Tears well up in your eyes as you brush some of his sweat drenched hair from his regal face.

"Just hold on. Please." You whimper helplessly, gazing down at him. You look up to see the heart wrenching sight of Bilbo all alone, standing his ground as the monsters descend upon you, his hands shaking as he holds his sword at the ready. The hobbit plants his feet, swinging his sword wildly around in an attempt to intimidate the foes before him. Sparks fly from the burning portion of forest that surrounds you, and you feel a deep sadness, wondering if this is truly the end of your adventure.

You take another moment to gaze down at Thorin. You trace his face with your eyes, trying to memorize every feature and contour. Running your thumb over his cheekbone in a way you would have never been brave enough to do before, a sigh escapes your lips. With a shaky breath, you lean down, hesitating for a moment before pressing a feather soft kiss to his forehead, holding back the tears that threaten to spill. Wishing more than anything that you had been brave enough to tell him how you feel, you now vow to not go down a weeping, helpless mess. You hold back your tears, forcing yourself to stare defiantly back at the group of vicious carnivores that approach the three of you.

One of the Wargs snaps its head to the side, sniffing the air. A sudden battle cry makes you start, and you whip your gaze in the direction of the commotion. Your spirit lifts as the unmistakable figures of Fili and Kili come charging in from a gap in the flames, tailed closely by Dwalin. They attack the Wargs and their riders swiftly, slicing and hacking with their weapons. You try to get up to help, but your energy is sapped from wrestling the Orc. You opt to be a close-range protector to Thorin, crouching in front of him, your fingers wrapping around the hilt of his sword that you spotted lying a few feet away.

A vicious noise that you didn't know you were capable of making tears its way through your throat as a Warg stalks toward Thorin with a snarl. You grip the hilt of the sword tighter, your knuckles white as you prepare to fight tooth and nail to protect Thorin. You shift on your feet as you crouch low, poised to spring up and drive the blade straight through the roof of the beasts' mouth and into its brain.

Before you get the chance, a giant flurry of wind and feathers scoops up the Warg, the beast yelping as it is hurled unceremoniously from the cliffside. You scramble back slightly, your mouth falling open as you look to the sky in disbelief and slight fear.

Eagles bigger than you have ever seen circle the cliffs edge, swooping in to snatch and dispose of the Wargs and their riders. Some of the mighty birds use the wind from their wings to fan the flames that burn the forest, singeing a group of mutts. You feel a moment of peace, but it doesn't last long. Your eyes widen slightly, terror etching your face as one of the birds makes a beeline for you.

"Wait. Wait! WAIT!" You shriek, as the giant bird envelops you in its claws. The fur of Thorin's jacket, which you had been holding on to, slips from your grasp as the creature tosses you off the edge of the cliff. You tumble through the air, screaming bloody murder, before landing with a thud on the back of another eagle, knocking the wind out of you slightly. You curse under your breath as you gasp for air, trying to regain your bearings. Your eyes scan around, realizing that every member of the company was either caged safely in the claws of one of the Avians, or sat comfortably atop one.

You hear a rage filled roar in the distance as the eagles whisk you all away. You feel a pit in your stomach, realizing that Azog is still alive, and you know that he will never stop hunting down the line of Durin. Your stomach drops as your worried mind flickers back to Thorin. You try to spot him, your eyes scanning each of the birds. The morning sun makes it nearly impossible, partially blinding you. You tuck your face into the soft feathers you sit upon, tears pricking your eyes as you pray the eagles will land soon.

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Groggily lifting your bruised and battered head, you scan around, realizing the eagles are making their descent. They all circle slowly down, landing atop a rocky spire, where you can see for miles around. Your eagle lands last, and your heart drops as you see Thorin lying still upon the flat ground, the company standing around him. You slide down from the back of the eagle, crumpling slightly as your legs hit the ground. Fili and Kili appear at your side almost instantly, supporting you under your arms as you try to regain your balance. You wince as Kili bumps your shoulder, hissing through your teeth.

"Are you alright, (Y/N)?" Kili asks in concern, releasing your arm slightly.

"Yes, I just... never mind me." You tear your eyes away from Thorin, finding Bilbo a few feet away. You pull away from the brothers, limping over to hug Bilbo. "Thank you." You whisper, pulling back and meeting Bilbo's gaze. He nods, and nothing else needs to be said. Bilbo is smart enough to be able to read the emotion behind your eyes. Your hand rests on his shoulder, and you both smile softly before you turn your gaze back to Thorin.

Gandalf kneels beside Thorin, his hand hovering over his face as he murmurs some spell over his unconscious form. You can feel the tears of desperation welling up in your eyes as you look on helplessly, silently begging whatever God is listening to please, let him live. You can feel yourself shaking as the company waits with bated breath. Then, his eyes finally flutter open, the dwarf drawing a deep breath.

Hot tears fall from your eyes, and you don't bother to stop them. You feel as though a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. He lives. He clambers to his feet, aided by Dwalin and Kili. He shakes them off, the angry look on his face surprising you all. He locks eyes with you, before flickering his gaze to Bilbo.

"You two." Thorin says in an accusing tone, glaring at the both of you. A confused look crosses your face, the rest of the company looking on.

"What were you doing?" Thorin snaps. "You nearly got yourselves killed!" Your eyes lock onto his, and you don't bother wiping the tears from your face as you stand bewildered.

"Did I not say that you would be a burden?" Thorin hisses, stalking towards you. "That you would not survive in the wild? That you had no place amongst us?" You hold his gaze, teary eyed as he looks between yourself and Bilbo, seemingly berating you. He pauses for a moment, the rest of the company sharing glances in disbelief.

Emotion suddenly takes over Thorin's face. "I have never been so wrong, in all my life." He steps forward, embracing Bilbo, patting him on the back. You could almost laugh at the look of shock on Bilbo's face as he tentatively returns his hug. Thorin pulls back, meeting Bilbos eyes with an apologetic look. "I am sorry I doubted you."

Thorin's eyes turn to you, his face softening as he looks at your tear-stained face. He takes the few steps to close the distance between you. The company becomes rather quiet as he silently approaches, his eyes never leaving your face. He stops in front of you, pausing, and you sniffle slightly, looking down at your feet, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Your heart stops as his rough hand rises to your face, gently tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes search yours, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he wipes away a fresh tear.

"Are those tears, Amrâlimê?" Thorin murmurs, making your heart skip a beat. He brings his other hand to your face, wiping away the rest of your tears, even as your eyes well up more. "No more of those." He says quietly, leaning forward and nuzzling his nose against yours gently, before pulling back to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" He murmurs, his eyes scanning your form. His hand still cupping your jaw gently. You shake your head, your eyes locked on his. Kili speaks up at your lie, knowing you are indeed hurt.

"She hurt her right shoulder." Kili says, before falling silent with an apologetic look. You glare at him, sighing in defeat as Thorin calls over Oin to take a look at your shoulder.

"What about you? You definitely need to be checked out, Thorin." You say sternly as thorin guides you to sit on a rock a few feet away. A small smile graces his face.

"I appreciate your concern. But you come first." He says softly, making you blush profusely. He gives a nod to Oin before stepping away to speak with Gandalf. Fili and Kili make their way over to you, giving each other a knowing look. You narrow your eyes at them before tugging on Kili's sleeve, making him kneel down to your level on the hard ground as Oin examines your shoulder.

"Kili, what does... Amrâlimê mean?" You ask inquisitively, as you know minimal Khuzdul. The brothers share another look, smiling at each other.

"You will find out in time." Kili says cryptically, standing up with a grin after giving you a pat on the back. You give him an exasperated look, cursing as Oin adjusts your shoulder. The brothers turn away with smirks plastering their faces, leaving you to ponder what Thorin could possibly have said.

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frostbitebakery · 1 year ago

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Part 1

Part 2

“We’re losing him!”

“Hold on, Obi-Wan. It’s not your time yet.”

“The infection is eating through the thyroid.”

“Stabilize him!”

“It’ll be alright, little one, don’t cry. Just squeeze my hand.”

“It’s attacking the mandible and sternum. Move, move!”

“It’s going to be alright.”

“Save what you can!”

“Hold on, Obi-Wan. Listen to the Force.”

The tears on Master Qui-Gon’s face looked strange. He had seen him cry before but never over him. It hurt to move his mouth, hurt even more to speak. Hurt— hurt a lot to speak. He wasn’t sure he was actually saying anything. But he tried because Master Qui-Gon looked devastated and Obi-Wan already had broken his heart by choosing to become a Shadow as soon as his return to the Temple was permanent. “The Force is with—“

Obi-Wan opens his eyes. Makes sure the mask is in place.

The rain still hasn’t ceased its steady downpour. He pulls Mace’s robe tight around himself. His own robe, seldom as he uses it, might have been lost on the battlefield where he had dropped it, but semantics. Mace’s spare robe squelches.

Obi-Wan will never be dry again.

Wings snap back into armored plates as the hyperjets power down, and Obi-Wan takes a bit of pleasure watching Cody land silently despite the mass of the clone armor.

“The siege is going well,” Cody says, tapping one of multiple antenna links on his helmet. Obi-Wan smiles under the mask. Quin and Bant have accused him many a times of having weird preferences, but the professionalism and calm control Cody so casually exudes is very, very attractive. The news makes him even more attractive. “Shouldn’t take longer than three months,” Cody continues, optimism apparent even with the vocoder.

Any kind of attraction spurning on Obi-Wan’s wet, frozen body drowns in the rain rather pityfully. “Three months,” he repeats in tap code where he’s gripping the robe.

The helmet turns to him fully. “Yes. It’s going really well.”

Obi-Wan strengthens his resolve to leech off any warmth Cody possesses when they crawl into bed after their shift.

“You can’t ever steal my voice,” Cody repeats in a murmur, fingertip stroking over the words on Obi-Wan’s forearm. He looks up to find blue eyes watching him over the mask. “Is that your sense of humor or your defiance speaking?”

The hand where he started tracing the letters moves back and forth, undecided. A little bit of both, then, Cody guesses.

The hand is retracted, flows so naturally into sign language. “Many tried.”

“Tried to steal your voice?” At Obi-Wan’s nod, Cody shuffles up the bed, re-categorizing the scars he’s seen. “No one was ever successful, I’m guessing.”

“Many broken bones on both sides,” is signed with a careless shrug before Obi-Wan turns serious, determination and the even more familiar defiance spinning Cody close. “I will only ever be silent of my own choosing.”

#my wips #jedi shadow!obi wan #mute!obi wan #obi wan kenobi #codywan #star wars #sw tcw #backstories are taking form #while I’m playing darts on wether #I should cyberpunk up the clone armor #all of this meanwhile is happening bc of #move by sol seppy

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gffa · 1 year ago

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The Acolyte gave some good evidence for another headcanon I have about the Force--that it seems to be a lot more difficult to lift sentient beings with the Force than it is to lift inanimate objects. Sol was desperately trying to hold onto both Mae and Osha but was failing, he was going to lose them both if he didn't make a choice, he couldn't hold on--but holding two small girls in the air shouldn't be that hard, right? To be fair, Sol was not in a calm state of mind and that makes the Force slippery for Jedi, it makes it extremely unreliable, we see that all over Star Wars, that if a Jedi is emotionally compromised, their control goes out the window and their connection to the Force goes wonky. But also I feel like it's reflected in Anakin's struggle to lift both Padme and Clovis on Scipio, where he's losing both of them and has to choose. Again, to be fair, emotional compromise there because he's scared of losing Padme, but it's Anakin "literally born from the Force" Skywalker. Or that it's reflected in the way it's both Anakin and Ahsoka to set Rex down on the ground after they shoot him off the cliff on Geonosis. In contrast, it takes tremendous focus and control on the level of someone like Mace Windu to carefully lift the clones over the cliff's edge on Ryloth. Sol is said to be a powerful Jedi and a lot is down to emotional control, the less a Jedi has, the less they're able to do, but also I love the idea that it would be harder to hold up a sentient being that has their own Force flow, their own ripples and emotions and thoughts and intentions and eddies in the Force potentially working against the Jedi trying to lift them, if the person is panicking or not in emotional control. Maybe even just that their thoughts are bombarding the psychic space wizard who literally has empathic powers because of the Force. Sentients are so much more complicated than inanimate objects, so even aside from Sol's upset state, it's so much harder to lift two living, breathing people who have their own Force signatures and presences and emotions whirling out around them.

#lumi.txt #star wars #the acolyte #the acolyte spoilers #master sol #osha aniseya #mae aniseya #meta

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novaursa · 7 months ago

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Legacy (golden roses)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: alliances

- Next part: bloodlines

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The courtyard of the Red Keep was alive with the hustle of the Tyrells' arrival, banners of gold roses fluttering in the breeze alongside the proud crimson of House Lannister. Courtiers and knights lined the pathway, their gazes expectant as the great doors opened to reveal the noble house of Highgarden entering in all their splendor.

You stood dutifully beside Tywin, your arm linked with his, feeling the weight of the moment as much as the eyes of the court upon you. The Tyrells had arrived not just as allies but as future family—ties carefully woven by marriage, ambition, and politics. Tywin stood with the silent authority he was known for, and though he offered no smile, there was a look of satisfaction on his face as he watched the procession.

Beside you, Cersei’s face was set in a tight, forced smile, her eyes hard as she focused on Margaery Tyrell, who walked beside her father, Lord Mace. The young Tyrell lady was as radiant as the tales told—her dress a flowing green that shimmered with gold embroidery, a crown of roses nestled in her hair. She met Joffrey’s gaze with a soft, deferential smile, her demeanor both charming and composed, a true lady of her house.

But more than once, you felt the lingering stares of the Tyrells drifting your way, assessing you, this unexpected Targaryen figure who now stood in Lannister red, her arm linked with the Hand of the King. The glances held curiosity, perhaps even intrigue—a dragon among lions, standing at Tywin’s side as his dutiful wife. You could feel the weight of their silent questions: Was your presence a calculated move? A symbol of Lannister dominance? Or perhaps a reminder that, in King’s Landing, alliances shifted as quickly as the winds.

As the Tyrells approached, Margaery stepped forward, her gaze drifting toward you before she greeted Joffrey with a graceful curtsy. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her voice soft yet clear, each word measured. “It is an honor to finally be here, standing before the crown.”

Joffrey looked down at her, a smirk playing on his lips, clearly pleased with the attention. “Lady Margaery,” he replied, his tone dripping with self-satisfaction. “The honor is ours, I assure you. The realm has awaited your arrival with eager anticipation.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, but she kept her silence, her gaze drifting toward Margaery with a thinly veiled disdain. You could feel the animosity rolling off her in waves, her displeasure at this new contender for influence beside her son far greater than any resentment she might hold toward you. She cast you a glance, and for a fleeting moment, there was almost a shared understanding between you—both of you had places in Joffrey’s court, yet the power each held was very different.

Lord Mace Tyrell, standing beside his daughter, offered a jovial smile to Tywin. “Lord Tywin,” he greeted, inclining his head. “It brings me great pride to see our houses joined in strength.”

Tywin gave a curt nod, his tone brisk and commanding. “Lord Mace,” he replied. “We are pleased to welcome House Tyrell to King’s Landing. Your support is invaluable to the realm.”

Mace’s gaze flickered toward you, his curiosity clear despite his polite smile. “And, of course, Lady Y/N,” he added, his tone carefully respectful. “It is a rare honor to see a Targaryen within these walls again, though under new colors.”

You returned his gaze evenly, meeting his curiosity with a practiced, serene smile. “The honor is mine, Lord Tyrell. House Lannister’s strength is renowned, and together with Highgarden, I believe the realm will know a time of prosperity it has not seen in years.”

Margaery’s gaze shifted toward you, her expression warm yet watchful. “Lady Y/N,” she said softly, her tone as pleasant as it was probing. “I’ve heard much of your grace and strength. It is heartening to see that the court of King’s Landing has such a presence.”

You inclined your head graciously, noting the calculation behind her polite words. “Thank you, Lady Margaery,” you replied, choosing each word with care. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the Rose of Highgarden, whose charm and beauty are known throughout the realm.”

She smiled, though her eyes held an unspoken challenge, a silent acknowledgment of the power struggles that permeated every corner of the court. In this subtle exchange, you understood that Margaery was more than a pretty face—she was a strategist in her own right, a lady prepared to wield influence where it mattered.

Tywin’s voice cut through the exchange, his tone brooking no delay. “Come,” he said, gesturing toward the entrance. “We have arranged accommodations for your family, Lord Mace. The feast in honor of our alliance will be held tonight.”

As he spoke, Tywin’s hand rested lightly over yours, a possessive gesture that subtly reinforced his claim on you—a reminder to everyone present that you, Targaryen princess, now bore the name Lannister.

Margaery’s gaze lingered on your joined hands, a glint of curiosity and perhaps even admiration flashing in her eyes before she turned her attention back to Joffrey, who was watching her with a mixture of infatuation and arrogance. You could almost sense Cersei’s irritation growing with every passing moment, her forced smile barely concealing her resentment as she watched Margaery skillfully manage Joffrey’s attention.

The procession moved forward, and as you walked beside Tywin, the weight of the Tyrells’ scrutiny followed. They assessed you with every glance, silently acknowledging the depth of your role here—a Targaryen who, though removed from her throne, had found a new seat of influence at Tywin Lannister’s side.

The murmur of noble voices filled the grand hall as lords and ladies from every corner of the realm mingled with the newly arrived Tyrells. You stayed close to Tywin, his hand resting lightly on yours, a subtle but unmistakable sign of your new life. The weight of his touch reminded the court, and perhaps yourself, of the role you now held beside him.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed two figures weaving through the crowd with purpose: Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, and his grandmother, Lady Olenna, the indomitable Queen of Thorns. They moved with a confident grace, both observing everything around them with a sharp, assessing gaze.

Loras reached you first, bowing respectfully to Tywin before straightening with a courteous nod in your direction. "Lord Tywin, Lady Y/N," he greeted, his voice polished and respectful. "I wanted to personally offer my greetings on behalf of House Tyrell. We are honored to join forces with such… formidable allies."

Tywin inclined his head, his gaze steady. “Ser Loras, it is we who are pleased. Your family’s strength and influence have been indispensable to the realm.”

Loras's eyes shifted to you, a flicker of interest visible beneath his calm exterior. “Lady Y/N, it’s rare to see a Targaryen gracing the court of the Iron Throne once more.” He smiled, a faint note of admiration in his tone. “I’ve heard tales of your poise and strength.”

You met his gaze with a composed smile, acknowledging his compliment gracefully. “Thank you, Ser Loras. House Tyrell’s reputation precedes it, and I am honored to stand with allies of such renown and nobility.”

Before Loras could respond, Lady Olenna stepped forward, her sharp eyes fixed intently on you as though you were a particularly interesting puzzle she intended to solve. She was smaller than her grandson, but her presence seemed to command the space around her, and she offered Tywin a curt nod before shifting her attention to you.

“Well, well,” Olenna said, her voice wry and tinged with amusement. “So this is the Targaryen girl Tywin’s gone and married. I must say, seeing a dragon in Lannister colors is quite the spectacle. Tell me, dear, how does it feel?”

Her directness startled some of the nearby courtiers, but you managed to maintain your composure, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “It feels… different,” you replied with quiet honesty, choosing your words carefully. “But House Lannister has proven to be a house of strength, and I am honored to be a part of it.”

Olenna’s sharp gaze flickered to Tywin, her expression skeptical. “Strength, indeed. Lord Tywin has built his reputation on it, after all.” She glanced back at you, her gaze softening just slightly. “But I wonder, dear… do you find such strength comforting? Or is it simply another cage?”

You felt the weight of her words, the quiet insinuation lingering in the air. But Tywin’s hand tightened ever so slightly over yours, a silent reminder that you were no pawn, at least not in the way others might think. You turned to Olenna, your eyes steady. “Strength is a complex thing, Lady Olenna. It can be a shield or a cage, depending on how one wields it. I choose to see it as an opportunity.”

Olenna’s eyes gleamed with something resembling approval. “Well said,” she replied, her voice laced with a hint of admiration. “Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye, Lady Y/N. Though I suspect that with Tywin as your husband, there would have to be.”

Tywin inclined his head, his gaze cool but respectful. “Lady Olenna, I assure you, my wife is as capable as she is perceptive.”

Olenna’s sharp eyes twinkled with mischief, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Oh, I never doubted that for a moment, Lord Tywin.” She looked between the two of you, her gaze lingering on the way he held you close, as though assessing every nuance of your relationship. “You’ve chosen well, I’ll grant you that. But know this,” she added, her voice lowering, “if there’s anything Lady Y/N requires, anything at all, House Tyrell is more than willing to oblige.”

Tywin’s gaze turned steely, though his tone remained polite. “I appreciate your… concern, Lady Olenna. But I assure you, my wife’s needs are well looked after.”

Olenna raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk on her face as she met his gaze unflinchingly. “Of course, Lord Tywin. But you’ll forgive me if I remain… attentive to matters that interest me.”

With that, she gave a final nod, her expression a mixture of amusement and satisfaction as she turned to leave, Loras following her with a slight, apologetic glance in your direction.

As the Tyrells walked away, Tywin’s grip on your hand relaxed slightly, though he remained silent, his gaze following them as they disappeared into the crowd.

You took a breath, glancing up at him with a hint of amusement. “They’re… certainly a force to be reckoned with,” you murmured.

Tywin looked down at you, his expression firm but softened by a glint of approval. “Yes, but they are also valuable allies. And they see that value in you as well.” He straightened, his gaze sharpening. “Lady Olenna may be testing us, but she won’t find us lacking.”

The following day dawned bright and clear, the air in the gardens of the Red Keep fragrant with blooming roses and jasmine. You walked alongside Sansa, who stayed close to your side, her arm linked with yours as you made your way toward the shaded pavilion where Margaery Tyrell and her handmaidens waited. It was a rare invitation, one that you knew held subtle significance, for Margaery to host a tea with you and Sansa—a gesture that, on the surface, seemed friendly but was undoubtedly layered with deeper intentions.

As you approached, Margaery rose with a warm smile, her eyes bright with a welcoming light. She was dressed in soft greens and golds once more, her hair woven with small flowers that added to her natural beauty. Her handmaidens stood nearby, their gazes lowering in respect as you and Sansa joined them.

"Lady Y/N, Lady Sansa," Margaery greeted, her tone cheerful as she gestured to the table set with delicate porcelain cups, small pastries, and a steaming teapot. "Thank you for joining me. I thought it might be pleasant to enjoy this beautiful morning together."

Sansa offered a polite smile, her hand still resting on your arm. "Thank you for the invitation, Lady Margaery. It’s… lovely out here.”

You inclined your head with a warm smile. “The pleasure is ours, Lady Margaery. The gardens are beautiful, and I see they’re tended with great care.”

Margaery’s smile widened as she gestured for you and Sansa to sit. "I do love the gardens," she admitted as you took your seats. "They remind me of Highgarden, though, of course, there’s nothing quite like the Reach. But it is lovely to find a bit of home, even here."

She poured tea into each of your cups, her movements graceful and assured, a picture of composed charm. Once the cups were filled, she settled back, her gaze drifting between you and Sansa with a spark of curiosity.

“Lady Y/N,” she began, a hint of admiration in her tone. “I must say, it’s a thrill to meet someone of Targaryen blood. I don’t think any of us ever expected to see a Targaryen here in King’s Landing again, especially not as Lady of House Lannister.”

Her words were carefully chosen, and you could feel the curiosity of her handmaidens lingering on you as well. You offered a small, thoughtful smile, acknowledging her interest. “Life is full of surprises, Lady Margaery,” you replied smoothly. “I never anticipated being here myself. But as Tywin’s wife, I find myself in a unique position, one that I am learning to navigate.”

Margaery leaned forward slightly, her expression one of open fascination. “It must be… quite an adjustment,” she said gently. “House Lannister is known for its strength, but I imagine that joining such a family as a Targaryen must come with its own challenges. And yet, you carry yourself with such grace. I imagine you bring a sense of… balance.”

Sansa glanced at you, her admiration clear as she listened, finding comfort in your calm presence. You reached over, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before answering Margaery.

“Strength takes many forms, Lady Margaery,” you replied with a smile. “House Targaryen was known for its fire, but House Lannister commands respect with a different kind of power. I’ve come to understand that strength and unity are what truly bind people together. Tywin and I understand that, and it guides our actions.”

Margaery’s eyes sparkled with interest, though her expression was carefully neutral. “Wise words, my lady,” she murmured, her gaze thoughtful. “It must be quite… exhilarating, to share such influence with Lord Tywin. A man of his reputation and power is certainly not someone one meets every day.”

You met her gaze, your smile softening as you replied, “Exhilarating, perhaps, though it also carries responsibility. Tywin expects much from those close to him. But he has been… respectful.”

Margaery inclined her head, as if pondering your answer. “Of course. Respect is a valuable thing in a marriage, especially one so… strategically placed.” She turned to Sansa, her tone shifting slightly to a more familiar warmth. “And you, Lady Sansa—how are you finding King’s Landing? It must be quite different from Winterfell.”

Sansa’s face paled slightly, but she managed a polite smile, glancing at you for reassurance. “It’s… different,” she murmured, her voice carefully measured. “I miss the North, of course. King’s Landing can be… overwhelming at times.”

Margaery nodded understandingly, her gaze softening. “I can imagine. But you have found yourself in good company.” She gave Sansa an encouraging smile before delicately adding, “And I hear that you and King Joffrey have grown close. How… wonderful it must be to know the king so well.”

Sansa’s expression grew strained, and you felt her hand tense beneath yours. She opened her mouth as though to respond, but her voice faltered, a flicker of fear flashing across her face. You sensed her discomfort and stepped in, your voice smooth and gentle.

“King Joffrey is an… interesting young man,” you said diplomatically, watching Margaery’s reaction carefully. “I’m sure Sansa has learned much from her time here, though I imagine she still holds Winterfell dear.”

Margaery’s eyes flicked between you and Sansa, her own polite mask slipping just enough to reveal a glimmer of understanding—and perhaps even sympathy. “Of course,” she said, her voice softening. “Home is a difficult thing to leave behind. But rest assured, Lady Sansa, I am certain you will always be cherished here.”

Sansa managed a small, grateful smile, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, Lady Margaery.”

Margaery’s expression warmed, and she turned her gaze back to you, her tone light yet probing. “And as for you, Lady Y/N… it must be quite a shift from the North to King’s Landing, let alone into the heart of Lannister power. Yet you seem to have found your place here, a Targaryen among lions.”

You smiled, noting the intent behind her words. “I find that adaptability is essential. The North taught me resilience, and here I am learning to use it.”

Margaery’s smile widened, her admiration for you clear. “Wise advice,” she murmured, as if storing away your words for future use. She lifted her teacup, a silent toast to the women gathered here, each maneuvering their own way through the treacherous waters of court.

You returned the gesture, meeting Margaery’s gaze with an understanding that spoke volumes. In that moment, you sensed that she was not merely a rival or an ally; she was a woman navigating a path as perilous as your own, with ambitions that ran as deep as her charm.

And for now, you both understood that sometimes, strength lay in the quiet alliances formed over tea, beneath the watchful eyes of a dangerous court.

The solar was bathed in warm light as Lady Olenna Tyrell sat with a serene air, her sharp eyes flicking over the gathered Lannisters: Tywin at the head, ever the embodiment of control; Cersei seated stiffly with a forced smile; and Tyrion, leaning back with an expression of quiet amusement, savoring every barb that passed Olenna’s lips. The preparations for Margaery’s upcoming wedding to Joffrey had brought them together, and the subtle tension between them charged the room.

Olenna adjusted her lace cap, her gaze sweeping over the parchment before her, filled with lists of arrangements and extravagances. “So,” she began, her tone light but edged with that familiar Tyrell wit. “We’ve settled the colors, the flower arrangements, and the musicians, yet I see here that Lord Tywin has removed the incense. Are we truly to omit something as small as that for a royal wedding?”

Tywin didn’t look up from his own notes, his response curt. “I find it unnecessary. We’ve made enough provisions for spectacle.”

Cersei’s face tightened slightly, her eyes flicking to her father with a hint of frustration. “It’s traditional, Father. Incense at weddings is meant to bless the union,” she said, her tone strained. “Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to include it.”

But Tywin’s gaze remained unyielding. “Lady Y/N can’t stand the smell. It’s unnecessary and will only be an irritation.” His voice carried a finality that silenced any further protest.

Olenna’s eyebrow arched, and a smirk played on her lips. “How very considerate of you, Lord Tywin,” she remarked, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I hadn’t realized your marriage was such a… tender arrangement.” She leaned in slightly, her gaze flicking between Tywin and Cersei with relish. “I must say, it’s quite charming to see you attending to her preferences so closely.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though a muscle in his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “The wedding is a union of two houses, Lady Olenna, not a festival. We do not need indulgences that serve no purpose other than spectacle.”

Tyrion, barely concealing his grin, raised his goblet in a mock toast. “Here’s to restraint, then,” he said with a gleam in his eyes. “One would think, however, that we could indulge in a small detail or two, for the sake of our honored guests from the Reach.”

Cersei’s lips pursed, her fingers drumming against the table with barely contained annoyance. “I see no reason why Lady Y/N’s preferences should affect the rest of the arrangements. We’re planning a royal wedding, not a dinner party,” she said, her tone laced with irritation. “And frankly, I find the absence of incense a… peculiar omission, considering the grandeur we’re aiming for.”

Olenna chuckled, turning her gaze to Cersei with a conspiratorial air. “Oh, dear Cersei, perhaps we should be grateful. It’s rather refreshing, don’t you think, to see a Lannister so attentive to his lady wife’s needs? A rare quality indeed.” She gave Tywin a mockingly approving nod. “I must say, Lord Tywin, you do surprise me.”

Tywin’s voice was cool, dismissive. “I care only for efficiency, Lady Olenna. A wedding’s success is not measured by the scent in the air.”

But Olenna, clearly enjoying herself, wasn’t about to let the matter rest. “Oh, nonsense. These little details are the very things that people remember. A feast for the senses, after all. And we Tyrells are rather fond of ensuring that our guests are… satisfied.” She gave Tyrion a sidelong glance, her smile widening as she noted his amusement.

Tyrion took the opportunity to interject, his voice laced with mischief. “I must say, I rather agree with Lady Olenna. It’s the smaller, more… memorable details that leave a lasting impression, wouldn’t you say, Father?”

Tywin shot Tyrion a sharp look, his patience clearly wearing thin. “My decision stands. The matter is closed.”

Olenna raised her hands in mock surrender, her expression delightfully unperturbed. “Very well, very well. I suppose the Lannisters’ preference for austerity wins this time. Though I do hope your guests won’t find the occasion… lacking.”

Cersei’s mouth tightened, her displeasure at both Olenna and her father’s favoritism plain. “I don’t see why we’re indulging every whim of hers,” she muttered, just loud enough for the room to hear.

Olenna raised an eyebrow, her sharp gaze fixed on Cersei. “Oh, Cersei, dear,” she said, her tone deceptively sweet. “I should think you’d appreciate a man who considers his wife’s comfort. We wouldn’t want poor Lady Y/N to suffer through something so… trivial, would we?”

Tyrion bit back a laugh, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, and leaned back, his voice teasing. “You do have to admire Father’s commitment. He’s always been… thorough in his approach to family.”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, but he ignored Tyrion’s jab, his tone cutting as he addressed Olenna. “House Lannister is mindful of efficiency, Lady Olenna. We need not resort to theatrics to secure our position.”

Olenna gave him a sly smile, her amusement unmistakable. “Of course, Lord Tywin. But as you’ll come to see, a little… fragrance can go a long way.” She cast a final look at Cersei and Tyrion, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Now, if there are no further changes, I believe we can proceed with the rest of the arrangements.”

The soft afternoon light came through the tall windows of the room as you lounged comfortably on a chaise, a rare moment of quiet in the midst of the chaotic life of King’s Landing. Across from you, Ser Barristan Selmy sat, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert, ever the dutiful guardian. You’d come to appreciate these brief respites in his company, his presence a steady reminder of the loyalty and honor you had once known in your family’s court.

“Does the Red Keep feel familiar to you, my lady?” Barristan asked, his voice gentle, carrying a note of nostalgia. “I remember you here, a child running through these halls. It’s strange how much changes and yet stays the same.”

You gave him a soft, wistful smile. “It’s strange indeed, Ser Barristan. It’s a comfort, at times, to have someone like you nearby—a reminder of what once was.” You paused, feeling the weight of memories, both bittersweet and painful. “But familiarity and comfort are two very different things here.”

Before Barristan could reply, the doors swung open with a sharp creak, breaking the tranquility of the room. Joffrey strode in, flanked by the Hound and Ser Meryn Trant, his expression one of calculated mischief, clearly seeking an opportunity to provoke. His gaze landed on you, a smirk twisting his lips as he looked between you and Barristan.

“Well, well,” Joffrey drawled, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. “Look at you, lounging in the very halls where your family met its end. How ironic.” His gaze flicked to Barristan, his smirk deepening. “And you, old man, lingering like some sad relic. I’m surprised you haven’t faded away with the rest of them.”

Barristan’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed firmly on the young king, his jaw set in restrained anger. You felt his tension, a reflection of your own, but you managed to keep your composure, meeting Joffrey’s gaze steadily.

“Your Grace,” you replied, your tone even but unyielding. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Joffrey’s eyes glittered with sadistic delight as he approached, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture that of a child attempting to play at being a king. “I was simply curious,” he began, his tone feigned innocence. “How it must feel for you, being here, where your family died… where your brother Rhaegar’s children were slaughtered.” He tilted his head, watching for your reaction. “Do you ever wonder if their ghosts still haunt these halls?”

The words hit with a cold clarity, a reminder of the brutality that had unfolded within these very walls. But you held his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even as the memories stirred an ache in your heart.

“Children deserve innocence, Your Grace,” you replied, your voice firm but sorrowful. “It is a tragedy that they suffered because of choices they never made.”

Joffrey scoffed, his smirk turning into a sneer. “Innocence,” he repeated mockingly. “Innocence belongs to the weak, like your precious little nephew, Aegon. Or was it… his sister?” He grinned, reveling in the cruelty of his words. “They weren’t very strong, were they? They couldn’t even fight for their lives.”

You felt Barristan shift beside you, his jaw clenched, his shoulders squared in barely restrained anger. His hand drifted instinctively toward the hilt of his sword, his gaze locked on Joffrey with a cold intensity that made the air between them crackle.

Joffrey’s gaze shifted to Barristan, a scowl darkening his expression. “And you, Ser Barristan, stepping in like a loyal hound.” His voice turned sharp, filled with disdain. “Isn’t it ironic that you’re guarding the last Targaryen here, in the very place where you once swore loyalty to her father, the Mad King?”

Without hesitation, Barristan stepped forward, placing himself firmly between you and Joffrey, his expression steely. “My duty is to protect Lady Y/N, Your Grace. That has not changed, nor will it ever,” he said, his voice like tempered steel.

Joffrey’s eyes narrowed, clearly irked by Barristan’s defiance. “Watch yourself, old man. I am your king. Or has loyalty to the throne vanished with your better years?”

Barristan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Loyalty, Your Grace, is earned by deeds, not by titles alone. I have served many kings, but respect must be given, even by a king.”

Joffrey’s face flushed, his hand twitching as if tempted to lash out. He glanced at the Hound and Ser Meryn, his mouth twisting with irritation. “You think yourself wise, don’t you, Barristan?” he sneered, his voice growing venomous. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten who I am, the power I hold. And that includes control over what happens to… traitors.”

You felt your pulse quicken, but before you could respond, Joffrey’s lips curled into a smug smile. “And to think you’re alone here. My uncle, Ser Jaime, was sent away to ensure the Stark boy didn’t overstep his bounds. It’s a shame, really,” he added, his tone laced with mock sympathy, “that you won’t have the pleasure of his company. It must be so… unbearable to reside here with the man who killed your father and is now your stepson.”

The cruelty of his words lingered in the air, a calculated jab that struck at the deepest wounds. You took a steadying breath, letting the silence speak of the depth of your resilience. Barristan remained between you and Joffrey, his stance unwavering, and the sight of his loyalty only strengthened your resolve.

“Your Grace,” you said softly, your tone carrying a steel edge beneath the calm. “It seems that you delight in disturbing the peace of others. But remember that, even as king, respect is not a gift—it is earned. And history has shown us that titles can be fleeting, while loyalty endures.”

Joffrey’s eyes blazed with anger, his face twisting in frustration at your unshaken demeanor. For a moment, he seemed on the edge of a retort, but then he straightened, masking his irritation with a forced smirk.

“Enjoy your peace while it lasts,” he sneered. “We hold the throne now, not the Targaryens. You’d do well to remember that, Lady Y/N.”

He turned on his heel, signaling for the Hound and Ser Meryn to follow. The Hound cast you a lingering glance, his expression unreadable, before falling into step behind Joffrey, leaving you and Barristan in the stillness of the room.

Barristan turned to you, his face softened with concern. “My lady,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of regret. “I apologize for his disrespect. It pains me that you must endure such… cruelty.”

You managed a small, grateful smile, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Thank you, Ser Barristan. Your loyalty is a balm against such bitterness. I am grateful to have you by my side.”

He inclined his head, his expression solemn. “My loyalty to you is unwavering, my lady. As long as I draw breath, you will not face this alone.”

In that quiet moment, you felt the warmth of his support surround you, a reminder that, even in a court as treacherous as this one, loyalty still held meaning.

In the privacy of her chambers within the Red Keep, Margaery Tyrell sat with her father, Lord Mace Tyrell, and her grandmother, Lady Olenna. The evening air drifted in through the open window, carrying with it the faint sounds of the bustling capital below. They had gathered to discuss the shifting landscape of King’s Landing, one that now included Lady Y/N Lannister—a Targaryen by blood, yet bound to Tywin by marriage.

Olenna sat comfortably in her chair, her sharp eyes reflecting a keen curiosity. Margaery leaned forward, eager but measured, while Mace looked rather pleased, though it was clear he hadn’t fully grasped the complexities of the situation.

“An intriguing development, wouldn’t you say?” Olenna began, her voice smooth but laced with a touch of sarcasm. “Tywin Lannister, of all people, choosing to wed a Targaryen. I must admit, I didn’t see that coming.”

Margaery nodded, her expression thoughtful. “It certainly adds a… unique dimension to their alliance. A Targaryen standing at the side of the Hand of the King. She carries both the mystique of her bloodline and the strength of her new position.”

Mace chuckled, his tone jovial. “Well, I say good for Tywin! He’s secured quite the prize, hasn’t he? A Targaryen—no one would have thought it possible after Robert’s rebellion.” He leaned back, looking rather pleased with his own assessment. “Our families are stronger together, and that means the realm is safer.”

Olenna rolled her eyes, waving a dismissive hand at her son. “Oh, Mace, honestly. You and your simple notions of safety and unity. We’re not here to pat Lord Tywin on the back for his marriage.” She turned to Margaery, her gaze calculating. “This Targaryen woman may hold more sway than we realize. She’s no fool, that much is clear.”

Margaery nodded, a faint smile playing at her lips. “She has a quiet strength about her, something that commands respect. Even Joffrey seems to view her a treat, which is no small feat. And Tywin… he’s attentive to her. More so than I would have expected.”

Olenna smirked, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Yes, I noticed that as well. The mighty Tywin, bending ever so slightly to the preferences of his Targaryen bride. He dismissed the incense for the wedding preparations simply because she dislikes it. And did you notice how he keeps her close, almost as if he were… guarding her position?”

Mace chuckled again, shaking his head. “Tywin, sentimental? I doubt it. He’s probably just ensuring she plays her role as he sees fit. He’s a practical man, after all.”

Olenna shot him a look that silenced his amusement. “Practical, yes, but he’s no stranger to ambition. This marriage is no simple alliance. Tywin may see her as a symbol of power, a way to consolidate influence even further. A Targaryen in his house strengthens his legacy, gives him claim to a bloodline once thought lost.”

Margaery leaned forward, her gaze thoughtful. “But does she know, do you think, how significant she is to him? She’s composed, polite… but there’s a fire in her eyes, a reminder of her heritage. She’s more than a trophy, and she seems to know it.”

Olenna nodded approvingly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Indeed. She carries herself with dignity, which is rare enough here. I imagine she has her own plans, her own desires. A Targaryen’s ambition never truly fades, after all. And with Tywin by her side, well… let’s just say it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s thinking beyond mere appearances.”

Mace looked between them, a puzzled expression crossing his face. “So… what does that mean for us? She’s just one woman. We have the Reach behind us; we don’t need to be worried about one Targaryen lady.”

Olenna sighed, shaking her head. “Oh, Mace, you are as blind as you are cheerful.” She turned to Margaery, her eyes sharp. “This isn’t about a single woman. It’s about understanding who holds the power, who commands respect in this city. If Tywin values her opinion, even in small matters, then she holds sway over him, which in turn affects us all.”

Margaery’s gaze was steady, a glint of ambition in her eyes. “And if she’s a woman of influence, then it’s to our advantage to find a way to… understand her better. She’s married into the Lannisters, but I wonder if her loyalties might not still lie with her family’s legacy, with her own history.”

Olenna’s smile deepened. “Precisely, my dear. It’s essential to know her motives, to see if there’s a potential… alignment of interests. She’s clever, certainly, and she values loyalty—she keeps that Stark girl close, after all. That’s a woman who doesn’t sever ties easily.”

Margaery’s eyes brightened at the mention of Sansa. “Sansa does trust her. I could perhaps use that trust to get closer to her. Lady Y/N may be reserved, but she doesn’t seem unreachable.”

Olenna nodded approvingly. “Yes, that’s exactly it. Find a way to befriend her, learn her intentions. She may be our ally yet, or at the very least, a useful source of insight into Tywin’s plans.”

Mace looked somewhat confused, though he managed to nod along. “So… we make friends with her, then? Is that it?”

Olenna rolled her eyes but patted his arm with a resigned smile. “Yes, Mace. We make friends, or at least appear to. Let her believe she has allies here in the Reach. Tywin may hold her in check for now, but who’s to say what she might become in time?”

Margaery took a deep breath, her determination clear. “Then I’ll see to it. A friendship built on trust and understanding… as far as she’s concerned, at least. It would be wise to understand her intentions. And if she truly holds sway with Tywin, then perhaps we’ll find an ally rather than a threat.”

Olenna leaned back, a glint of approval in her eyes. “That’s my girl. Remember, Margaery, knowledge is power, and alliances are forged in places most would overlook.” She tapped her fingers together thoughtfully. “Let the Targaryen think herself welcome. Let her think herself understood.”

The three sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their strategy settling over them, each understanding that in the shifting sands of King’s Landing, even the smallest connection could prove vital. Lady Y/N might be a Targaryen in Lannister red, but her blood carried the fire and ambition that no amount of alliance could truly suppress. And for the Tyrells, that fire was something to observe—and perhaps even harness.

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf #fire and blood #house of the dragon #hotd #got/asoiaf #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got tywin #tywin x y/n #tywin x you #tywin x reader #tywin lannister #legacy #house lannister #house targaryen

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sambhavami · 1 month ago

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If you don't mind, I would like to ask about how is krishna described appearance wise, was he described to be very handsome/pretty? (it's a silly question ik sorry)

Also, I rather perceive kanha to be quite queer and genderfluid, is there any point about that or implication to it there?

thank you sm!! <3

Sure, love to talk about him any time! ❤️ Also please don't feel weird about asking a question...they're all valid!

Let me just compile all that I've read in various sources and their respective commentaries.

Krishna's main draw for any person, is, more than his looks, his charm and personality. He is an extremely talented orator, who can carry an entire, unruly sabha on the edge of each word, and is also very dramatic.

He is really dark, tall, slender. Sharp features. Long curly hair down to his waist. Peacock feathers woven into his hair. Yellow/amber/white/beige-toned clothes. Likes nose rings [always has between 1-3 nose rings attached and fluttering]. Likes to wear heavy-ish anklets [these jewels were mostly common to young boys, Krishna just never outgrew them, and ignored the people who made fun of him for that], and fish/crocodile shaped earrings. Some sources also mention snake-motif armlets, and intricate bangles. Also, for young Krishna it's mostly flower-jewellery and kadamba-seed anklets.

The flute-and-bugle are there during his time in Vrindavana, but later is almost exclusively replaced with the paanchajanya[conch]-sudarshana[discuss]-shaarnga[bow]-nandaka[sword]-kaumudaki[mace] set of battle get-up.

He is a really great wrestler, but his opponents often think he can fly, since he uses gymnastic techniques like big jumps and all [he also sometimes uses this as a sort of a party-trick to scare the heck out of common people when he's out in public].

His body build therefore is that of a gymnast (as opposed to a modern day pro-wrestler), and his opponents often underestimate his because of this.

Krishna and Arjuna are physically nearly identical [to the point that no one but their families can tell them apart without the feathers]. I am guessing in that case both boys must resemble Vasudeva/Kunti too, since they are the common link.

Most of the time, another separator is that Arjuna most of the time has a mustache, and Krishna only grows one out right around the time of Kurukshetra since there is a rule that men without facial hair would not be allowed in the battlefield [I think Krishna did get rid of it after the war though].

Krishna does often dresses and behaves in 'conventionally feminine' ways, like how he just presents himself in general- not very 'manly'. I think there is a dialogue in a Sanskrit play (or most probably I am hallucinating this), where Duryodhana and Karna have a full-fledged in-detail conversation about how much like a woman Krishna looks from behind with his jewellery, flowing hair and general gait.

In a rarely-followed mini-epic retelling called the Prabhasa-Khanda by Ishwarchandra Sarkar [1973], Krishna meets his Lava-Kusha-esque sons (Radha's and his kids that he didn't know about) during Yudhishthira's Ashwamedha yajna after Kurukshetra when the kids have killed BANS (dude literally copied and pasted Uttara-kanda and just changed the names). Here, the kids mistakenly think that he is Yudhishthira, but then they see his anklets, and they ask him [they still think it's Yudi] to wear a saree to 'complete the ensemble' and then dance for them. [Krishna says yes without hesitation, just for your info.]

In southern retellings, there is obviously the Mohini-Iravana story, where Krishna 'becomes a woman' for a night, to marry Iravana before he is to be sacrificed in battle.

In Sabha Parva, Krishna and Arjuna often go out on picnics usually with Draupadi and Subhadra, where they watch dance performances and take off and throw their jewellery and even clothes at the performers as tips. Usually, after some more drinking the two of them retire to more private spots where they usually talk, or just go to sleep with heads on each other's laps.

In Dwarika, Arjuna did not have his own room since Krishna would just keep him in his own bedroom, and they shared everything, from beds to food to seats in sabhas. When Krishna captures Arjuna near the end of his first vanvasa from Prabhasa, they spend the night, Arjun lying on his back on the bed, and Krishna lying beside him in the traditional-Vishnu posture [head held up in his hand], and Arjuna falls asleep in the middle of telling a story about his travels, and that scene ends with Krishna watching over him as he sleeps.

In Udyoga parva, when Sanjaya is describing his experience in Upaplavya he narrates a very interesting little story, among many other things: since he didn't know the layout of the palace where the Pandavas were staying and given Virata didn't give them much of a staff, Sanjaya accidentally wanders into the women's quarters. There he finds Arjuna, Krishna, Draupadi and Satyabhama, all drinking as they pass around the same cup amongst themselves. Here, Arjuna's feet are on Satyabhama's lap, and Krishna's feet are on Arjuna's lap. Sanjaya reports that when they see him, Krishna is too drunk to get up, and he put his foot down, allowing Arjuna to stand up only after the latter has blushed into oblivion. The ladies however are not embarrassed.

Sanjaya makes a comment here that is noted specifically by Dr. Bhaduri, which is, "When Arjuna and Krishna are together, forget about Abhimanyu or the Upa-pandavas, not even Nakula or Sahadeva dare to walk into that part of the house." This one comment among many others is a solid implication, though Dr. Bhaduri insists otherwise. [Personally, I mean just look at the wording of that!]

There are also many folk myths about Krishna cross-dressing in Radha's clothes and enjoying it. Sometimes the gopis also take initiative and forcefully doll him up, which Krishna only pretends to resist.

#hindu mythology #krishna #mahabharat #arjuna #asks

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agrachdyrr · 3 months ago

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I posted #3 solo but here's some more:

1: "Kozakura inspired". The patterns of menswear in Japan are really interesting in how subtle they are. Vhaeraun wants a lot of black clothes out of his followers, which I think might lead to a lot of subtle texture and embroidery work.

2: Dress from House Du'thar. This is one of the torn up gowns mentioned in "The Hunger", featuring Felyn'aste with his younger hair. He was really trying to be comfortable as a woman in this era. The dress was so hard to draw since it's campy.

3: Already posted this one. This is something that Felyn would wear day-to-day. Nothing fancy, comfortable enough. Main challenge is getting all your blacks to match.

4: Updated design for Felyn'aste's armor come 5e. This set of armor is called "Fool's Gold" or "Waelsulvir". It was forged by an armorsmith who fled Thay, leading to the fairly distinctive look of spikes and flowing cloth. The knuckles on the gauntlets are often razor sharp, leaving them with a weapon even if they've been divested of the matching flanged mace. Still sketchy since it's not finalized.

#art #lore snippets

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talonabraxas · 10 months ago

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♱ ⛦ ☠︎︎ Here are some mantras to please Kali Ma ☠︎︎ ⛦ ♱

1. Bija Mantra:

“Kreem”

This mantra will protect you from all the evil forces.

2. Simple form of Kali Mantra:

“Om Krim Kali”

K stands for full knowledge, R means she is auspicious, I means she bestows booms, and M that she gives freedom

3. Kali Mantra:

“Om Kring Kalikaye Namah”

This mantra is simple and transforms the devotee to pure consciousness.

4. Simple Kali Mantra

“Om Sri Maha Kalikayai Namaha”

Only a few people use this mantra due to its purgative nature.

5. Kalika-Yei Mantra

“Om Klim Kalika-Yei Namaha”

This mantra is believed to bring relief from all kinds of problems, no matter how complex it is.

6. The fifteen syllable mantra

“Om Hrim Shreem Klim Adya Kalika Param Eshwari Swaha” It is believed that this mantra brings rapid growth to one’s spirituality.

7. Kali Mantra for Worship

“Kring Kring Kring Hing Kring Dakshine Kalike Kring Kring Kring Hring Hring Hung Hung Swaha”

Meaning: The Mantra consists of three seeds, krim, hum and hrim, and the name ‘dakhshina kalike’ and ‘swaha’, which signifying offering. This mantra is used by the devotees of Kali, the preserver of Earth, who saves us from all the ignorance and the fear of death.

8. Kali Gayatri

“Om Maha Kalyai Ca Vidmahe Smasana Vasinyai Ca Dhimahi Tanno Kali Prachodayat”

Meaning: Om Great Goddess Kali, the One and only one, who resides in the Ocean of Life and in the Cremation Grounds that dissolve the world. We focus our energies on you, may you grant us boons and blessings.

9. Kali Chants

a). “Om Kali, Kali! Om Kali, Kali!

Namostute, namostute, namo! Namostute, namostute, namo!”

b). “Ananda Ma Ananda Ma Kali

Ananda Ma Ananda Ma Kali Ananda Ma Ananda Ma Kali

Om Kali Ma!”

These are the simple chants to please the Black Goddess.

10. Dakshina Kali Dhyan Mantra : This is also known as karpuradi stotram.

“Om karala-badanam ghoram mukta-kEshim chatur-bhuryam. kalikam dakshinam dibyam munda-mala bibhushitam sadya-chinna shira kharga bama-dordha karambujam abhayam baradan-chaiba dakshina-dardha panikam”

Meaning: Om. Fierce of face, she is dark, with flowing hair and four-armed. Dakshina Kalika divine, adorned with a garland of heads. In Her lotus hands on the left, a severed head and a sword. She bestows sanctuary and blessings with her right hands.

11. Maha kali dhyanam

“Om khargang chakra-gadeshu-chapa-parighan shulang bhushundIng shirah shankhang sanda-dhatIng karistri-nayanAng sarbanga-bhushabritam. nIlashma-dyutimasya pada-dashakang sebe maha kalikang yamastou-chhaite harou kamalajye hantung madhung kaitavam.”

Meaning: Aum, Her ten hands is holding a scimitar, disk, mace, arrows and bow, lance, club, a skull and a conch shell. She is a three-eyed goddess, Her body is covered with ornaments, and Her countenance with the brilliance of blue diamonds, with ten limbs. We offer our service to mahakali, She who Brahma praised for protection from the demons madhu and kaitava, when Bishnu was in sleep. Kali Maa 🖤 Talon Abraxas

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rmstitanics · 2 years ago

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Mace was deep in it now: submerged in Vaapad, swallowed by it, he no longer truly existed as an independent being. Vaapad is a channel for darkness, and that darkness flowed both ways.

— The Revenge of the Sith Novelization

#sw prequels #mace windu edit #mace windu #pro jedi #mace windu appreciation #star wars edit #star wars #revenge of the sith #sw creations #sw creators #* callie’s content

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duxbelisarius · 10 months ago

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The Velaryon Blockade or, How Not to Fight a War at Sea

Greetings and Salutations! After many months since completing the Military Analysis series, and having watched Season 2 of House of the Dragon (surely one of the shows of all time), I've returned to do some further analysis of the war of the Dance. I may end up including this entry in a subsequent re-write of the original analysis series, but I'm currently in the middle of working on a Daeron fanfic and wanted to write this to get my juices flowing. Without further ado, onto the main event: The Blockade of the Gullet (WARNING: Spoilers for HOTD and F&B; this is gonna be a long one!)

Analyzing the blockade of the Gullet or the Velaryon Blockade, as portrayed in Fire and Blood and House of the Dragon, requires tackling the subjects of how King's Landing is fed and whether such a blockade is feasible given the technology available to the setting. I'll start with the provisioning of King's Landing since the show made a big deal out of it, and it has implications for Fire and Blood's portrayal of the Dance.

The idea of a blockade of the Gullet leading to food shortages and near-starvation in King's Landing is a non-starter, since it is supported neither by the ASOIAF books or the show Game of Thrones. In the former case, we know that House Tyrells support for Renly leads to the Roseroad being closed and near famine conditions in KL, as noted by Tyrion in A Storm of Swords:

The mob loved Margaery so much they were even willing to love Joffrey again. She had belonged to Renly, the handsome young prince who had loved them so well he had come back from beyond the grave to save them. And the bounty of Highgarden had come with her, flowing up the roseroad from the south. The fools didn't seem to remember that it had been Mace Tyrell who closed the roseroad to begin with, and made the bloody famine. (ASOS, Tyrion VIII)

GoT retained this thread in Season 2 and returned to the subject of the Reach supplying KL with the 'Loot Train Battle' in Season 7.

Looked at more broadly, there are three sources of food that KL can access which render the Gullet completely redundant: Firstly, there is the Crownlands themselves, which should be accessible to KL by road or by boat via Blackwater Bay; there's the Reach, which is the most agriculturally abundant of all the Seven Kingdoms, although the main artery of this supply really should be the Mander river and not the Roseroad; and finally we have the Riverlands, which ought to be more important of a source for food since goods could reach KL from there entirely by boat or barge thanks to the Blackwater Rush and the God's Eye lake. Regardless, access to these areas means that little if any food provisions should be required to pass through the Gullet to support the capital, and this creates problems for the show and the books.

Leaving aside how the Blockade in the show is rendered useless, there is a massive plot hole for the Dance created by acknowledging this information. Prior to Criston Cole's Crownlands Campaign, most of that region, most of the Reach and all of the Riverlands have sworn fealty to Rhaenyra. Even if rationing was introduced and every source of food in the city were exploited, KL is still cut off from it's main food providers and this fact should have been addressed by the councils of either faction. Rhaenyra's allies were capable of cutting off the city's food supply and their armies could have come together to lay siege to the city. The only real obstacles they would face are Vhagar and Sunfyre, since Borros Baratheon and the Stormlands vanish from the narrative following Luke's death.

On the other hand, Aegon should have seized upon this threat to push for immediate action given his impatience with Otto's letter writing, the only payoff for which is the Triarchy's attack on the Gullet at the start of the next year. Aemond already secured the Baratheons, Tyland guarantees the Westerlands' support, and Ormund is effectively alone in supporting Aegon's cause in the Reach. As it turns out, neither faction is cognizant of this specific vulnerability of the capital at this time or later on in the Dance. When living conditions deteriorate under Rhaenyra, her tax policy is blamed rather than the fact that Cole's campaign should have negatively affected Crownlands agriculture; the Reach is rapidly switching sides thanks to Daeron; Daemon left the Riverlands in the hands of his army and those of the Lannisters, Aemond and Cole, with devastating consequences for the land and people; and finally, that the onset of winter should be having a negative effect on the food supply of the the Kingdoms.

It also needs to be stressed that for KL to rely on overseas shipments for the majority if not entirety of it's food supply, it would require the Targaryen monarchy to possess far greater governmental and military resources than they are given by George. Looking at Rome from the Middle Republic onwards and the Eastern Roman Empire prior to the Arab invasions, we can see that grain shipments helped to sustain far greater cities than King's Landing in Rome and Constantinople. In both cases though, they could rely on a hinterland for local food markets (Italy for Rome, Thrace/modern day Bulgaria for Constantinople) and possessed almost overwhelming naval supremacy which ensured the security of the seas. Rome could reliably access Sicily, North Africa, and Egypt for its grain needs, and Constantinople could do likewise with Anatolia, Egypt, the Black Sea basin and later Sicily and North Africa as well.

Ships bound for KL from the Reach would have to sail the treacherous waters and barren coast of southern Dorne, brave storms and pirates in the Stepstones, and risk further storms off the coast of the Stormlands, and this is without considering how dangerous the transit would be during years long autumns and winters. Essosi shipments have the same problem but with the added wrinkle that the crown would have to pay for them, whereas Roman grain shipments were often provided by collecting taxes in kind rather than cash from farmers in Egypt and North Africa. This alone would automatically elevate House Lannister above the Targaryens as the foremost house in the Seven Kingdoms, given their access to nigh-infinite gold deposits. This is all to say that the premise of the Gullet Blockade starving out KL is utterly preposterous, which makes it completely unsurprising that Ryan Condal and Sara Hess chose to run with it!

By contrast, the blockade attempted in F&B was meant to put pressure on the Greens by cutting off all trade to the capital, preventing merchants from reaching the city or leaving it. The foreign and domestic merchants trapped in Blackwater Bay are among the loudest voices criticizing Aegon and his leadership, which was seemingly the aim of Corlys Velaryon. Unfortunately for George's plot, close examination of the development of naval warfare in the Medieval and Early Modern Periods (c.500-1500 and c.1500-1800 respectively), the very periods George has derived his naval technology and ship designs from, indicate that the blockade of the Gullet makes no sense militarily. I arrived at my conclusion about the Blockade after consulting John H. Pryor and Elizabeth M. Jeffries excellent book The Age of the Dromon: The Byzantine Navy c.500-1204, with further insight provided by X users SzablaObr2023 and the "Orc Logistics Guy" himself, Professor Bret Devereaux.

The most fundamental problem with the Gullet Blockade is that it's the wrong kind of blockade to attempt within the setting; historically, there have been two types of blockade attempted in war: Close and Distant. Close blockades were the most common in pre-modern times, and involved cutting off naval traffic from a region or area (typically a port) with ships posted within sight of the coastline. Distant blockades aim to cut off traffic to a much larger area by posting ships at sea far from the coastline of the intended target. The Velaryons are attempting the latter kind by controlling the waters between Dragonstone and Massey's Hook, to prevent any ships from entering or leaving Blackwater Bay and thereby isolating King's Landing.

The forces available to Corlys Velaryon are not insignificant: we know that Alyn Velaryon sailed against the Stepstones in 133 AC with 60 war galleys, 30 longships, and over 100 cogs and great cogs, to which we can add the 7 warships that escorted the Gay Abandon in 129-130 AC. Increasing this fleet by a third and rounding up to account for the losses suffered in the Battle of the Gullet gives the Velaryon Fleet at least 270 ships at the outset of the Dance, potentially as high as 300. By comparison, the Redwyne Fleet in 300 AC possesses 200 warships, about equal to the Carthaginian fleet at the outset of the First Punic War and larger than any fleet used by Athens against Sparta during the Peloponnesian War (see this video from 15:27 onward).

Based on Alyn's order of battle, it appears that the Velaryon Fleet was evenly split between oared warships and pure sailing vessels, which presents a problem for the Gullet Blockade. While oared and sailing vessels could maintain a close blockade, the former are completely unsuited for a distant blockade due to their logistical requirements and seaworthiness. Close blockades were often used to cut off a port or narrow stretch of water in support of a siege by land forces; an excellent historical example is the Battle of Actium in 31 BC, when the army and fleet of Gaius Octavian trapped Mark Antony's forces in the Ambracian Gulf. Closeness to the coast and the friendly armies stationed there ensured that oared ships had access to food supplies and more importantly, fresh water. Pryor and Jeffries estimate that each member of a Byzantine rowing crew required a minimum of 8 liters of fresh water per day; a Dromon with 108 rowers would thus need 864 liters per day and 1000 liters or one tonne if the marines and officers are included (adding a second crew of rowers would almost double that amount). Mediterranean war galleys of the Medieval and Early Modern Periods had storage for only 4-8 tonnes of fresh water on board, making accessible fresh water sources a sine qua non for operations of any length.

The other factor rendering oared warships unsuitable for distant blockade duties is their seaworthiness, which Pryor and Jeffries discuss at length:

if the wind rose to Beaufort Scale Four-Five (16-17 knots) ... That would raise waves of around 4.75 feet, 1.45 metres. All galleys at all times were designed to cut through the water rather than to ride the waves and such a wind, which is just a “moderate” to “fresh” breeze on the Beaufort Scale, nothing out of the ordinary, would send waves washing over the deck of any dromon. Even if the wind were astern, she would still be forced to run for the coast. If the wind were ahead, it would be worse because that would mean that the ship was attempting to beat to windward and therefore would be heeling over with one gunwale continuously under water." ... Scale Seven winds would raise seas up to 13.5 feet (4.115 metres) and no dromon would stand a chance of continuing its voyage in such conditions. The authors of the Olympias project have concluded that a trieres [Trireme] would be swamped in waves above 0.85 metres, and we believe that in all probability a dromon would have been also. ... However, galleys were simply not designed to be sailed and throughout history they were always notoriously poor sailers. Because their lack of deep keels meant that they made excessive leeway when beating into the wind, because their shallow draft and low freeboard meant that they could not heel under sail very much, because their narrow beam and low depth in hold meant that their hulls did not have the structural strength to carry a large press of sail, and because their extreme length:beam ratio and lateen sails meant that they carried pronounced weather helm, constantly griping, the bows coming up into the wind, galleys were always notorious for poor upwind performance under sail. That is nothing to be wondered at for they were not designed to do that ... Moreover, a heel under sail of a mere ten degrees or so would put the lower rims of the lower oar ports at the flat water line and at that point it is highly questionable whether the oar sleeves would have prevented water from entering the hull, even if they were tied off. (Age of the Dromon, pg. 336-338)

Velaryon war galleys and longships would need to stay close to Cracklaw Point, Massey's Hook, Driftmark and Dragonstone to be of any assistance to the Blockade, although with the rough seas and weather of autumn and winter even this would be a doubtful prospect. Corlys would have to rely upon the cogs and great cogs of the Velaryon Fleet to conduct the blockade; Devereaux and Szabla noted that sailing vessels are capable of conducting distant blockades, as demonstrated by Britain's Royal Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. They also note that conducting such a blockade entailed problems all its own:

A distant blockade with sailing vessels still required significant logistical support, a well developed naval command structure and bureaucracy, and only began to be attempted centuries after the High and Late Middle Ages when the Cog was widely used.

Even if we leave these issues aside, the Gullet Blockade still has another serious problem: Communications. Based on a distance map of Westeros, the distance between Crackclaw Point and Sharp Point appears to be c.125 miles while the length of the Gullet proper from Dragonstone to Sharp Point may be 100 miles or less. Meleys is the only dragon known to have supported the Blockade and seems not to have been replaced after her death at Rook's Rest. Over 100 cogs and 1 dragon at best would be the only forces capable of patrolling the Gullet to any effect, while the need for ships to resupply the blockade and to act as reserves to relieve ships from the Blockade line drastically reduces the amount of ships that could patrol the Gullet. Pryor and Jeffries' assessment of Byzantine visual signaling suggests that communications within the Blockade would be almost impossible:

The masthead height of the foremast of a standard dromon as we have reconstructed it was only around 10.65 metres above sea level. There were, admittedly, larger dromons; however, for what follows a couple of metres more of masthead height would make no difference to the conclusions reached. With a foremast height of 10.65 metres above sea level, the theoretical horizon of a lookout at the masthead would have been only around 11.8 kilometres. Theoretically, the peak of a lateen sail 21 metres above sea level could be seen a further 51.7 kilometres away but, of course, no man could see 63.5 kilometres with unaided sight. In all probability, around 15-20 kilometres would have been the limit of visibility from the masthead of a dromon. Scout ships could not, therefore, patrol a space more than 30-40 kilometres in advance of a fleet and probably no more than 30, since they were always said to have been smaller than standard dromons and would have had lower mastheads. In fact, in order to be able to actually read signals with unaided eyesight and communicate them back to the fleet, distances must have been even less than this. Syrianos Magistros advised that a fleet should always proceed with scout ships out ahead, up to six milia or so. Two scout ships should be 6 milia ahead and another two should be between them and the fleet to relay any messages. Six milia was only around 8 kilometres. If the forward scout ships then had a range of visibility of another 8-16 kilometres, then the real maritime space that could be observed was only around 25 kilometres at best. (Age of the Dromon, pg. 388-389).

Compared to the Gullet, the Strait of Otranto is 100 km wide (c.69 miles) while the distance between Crete and Rhodes is 180 km (c.112 miles) with the island of Karpathos in the middle; neither the Byzantines nor contemporary Mediterranean powers could control entry and exit through such space.

It might be argued that spyglasses, known in ASOIAF as Myrish Lenses or a Myrish Eye, could offer a solution to such long distances; unfortunately these devices are only produced in Myr, and of the three mentioned in the main books only one is used onboard a ship. The lenses used by Maesters Luwin and Aemon are large enough to require a tripod; the only one mentioned aboard a ship is a collapsible Eye carried by a Myrish captain whose ship is taken by Victarion en route to Slavers Bay. Even if Myrish lenses were available to some degree, it's unlikely they could overcome the problems of distance and the conditions at sea.

Writing about the War of 1812, Frederick Leiner states that a lookout "perched on the masthead, 80 or 100 feet above the main deck, and equipped with a spyglass, with the horizon perhaps 20 miles off ... might be able to discern a larger warship-like frigate perhaps as far as 15 miles distant, if the weather were clear and sea conditions allowed." 15 miles or 24 km is impressive compared to the 8-16 km of the Byzantine scout ships mentioned by Pryor and Jeffries, but the heights of Leiner's masts are more than double that of a Dromon and taller still than a cogs. Even a spyglass from two centuries after they were first introduced would not greatly enhance the vision of a Velaryon lookout, and the notoriously poor weather and seas of the Westerosi autumn and winter would certainly counteract it. With ships being kept off station to ferry supplies and act as reserves, the area needing to be patrolled would make visual signaling highly impractical.

To quote Pryor and Jeffries once more, "Expeditionary objectives could frequently be achieved best by preserving one’s forces intact and actually avoiding battle since naval warfare was essentially amphibious warfare whose purpose was to secure control of terrestrial objectives rather than to attempt to control maritime space (Age of the Dromon, 388)." Using the Velaryon Fleet to support the Black armies rather than attempting an exercise in futility by blockading the Gullet, would have applied pressure to Aegon and the Greens more effectively while being consistent with the setting that George created and its inspirations.

The most obvious way for the Velaryon Fleet to support the Blacks would be through transporting Northern and Vale troops south of the Neck and the Mountains of the Moon, to take the fight to Aegon rather than sitting back passively once Daemon rallied the Riverlords and the Blacks in the Reach marched on Oldtown. Considering how swiftly both of those armies were raised, it makes no sense why the Vale could not at least send troops to assist Rhaenyra in the Crownlands. Another option and one which I proposed in part 12 and the conclusion of my military analysis series, would be to send the Velaryon Fleet south against the Stormlords.

Otto Hightower believed that Tarth would support Rhaenyra's cause, and Lord Buckler and Lady Fel were both executed by Aegon for refusing to swear fealty to him instead of Rhaenyra. The bulk of the Crownlands supports Rhaenyra prior to Criston Cole's campaign, and Felwood and Bronzegate are located south of the Crownlands astride the Kingsroad to Storm's End. The Wendwater flows through the Stormlands and Crownlands before emptying into Blackwater Bay; assuming the river is even partially navigable, this could allow shallow drafted boats to move troops and supplies into the lower Kingswood and prevent Aegon and Borros from aiding one another. Naval operations along the coast would be risky given the arrival of autumn, but the weather rarely affects the plot of the Dance if the author doesn't want it to. Tarth would serve as a base for the Velaryon ships to resupply and further raid the coast or land troops and the Blacks in the Reach could threaten the border, with the Cockleswhent and Blueburn rivers potentially serving as supply arteries for an invasion from the west.

There are also compelling political reasons for the Blacks and particularly the Velaryons to attack the Stormlands: It would punish Borros Baratheon for breaking his father's oath to Rhaenyra, esp. since his father supported Rhaenys and Laenor in 101 and Rhaenys is currently part of the Black council; it could be portrayed as vengeance for the death of Lucerys Velaryon over Shipbreaker Bay; and it could potentially force the Greens out of King's Landing. Aemond's betrothal to Floris Baratheon would give him some obligation to support his ally and future good-father against their common foe, and failure to give aid would endanger the Baratheon alliance. Aegon's only other allies are in the Westerlands and the Honeywine valley of the southern Reach, and without the Baratheons he is completely surrounded by his enemies. Whether Aegon, Aemond or both set out with an army to aid Borros, King's Landing's garrison and perhaps one dragonrider are all that would be left to defend against an attack by Daemon and the Riverlords and/or the Black houses of the Reach.

These scenarios offer a more effective employment for the Velaryon Fleet, but there is a way to retain the blockade while ensuring that the ending of the Dance remains relatively the same (Rhaenyra and Aegon are dead, Aegon III and Jaehaera marry, most of the dragons are dead, etc.) by acknowledging that the blockade is a poor strategy. It could start by allowing Mysaria's spies to discover the fate of the Royal Treasury, with ships carrying 75% of the treasury out of Blackwater Bay without the awareness of the Velaryon Fleet. It can even be implied that Larys Strong leaked this information to play both sides and drive a wedge between Rhaenyra and her Hand; this pays off as Rhaenyra blames Corlys and the Velaryons for this embarassment and imposes the Blockade against Corlys' judgement. The blockade serves as a way for her to get back at Aegon while asserting her royal authority after her claim was usurped.

The Velaryon Fleet is thus forced to commit the entirety of its forces to a task that Corlys, his vassals, and his captains and crews know is beyond their means to carry out successfully. Many galleys could be lost to the stormy seas and their crews drowned, while the cogs must endure the same weather and miserable conditions in pursuit of a pointless task. Morale declines steadily as many ships desert completely, turning to piracy or becoming merchantmen and sellsails in Essos, which further undermines the blockade. Tensions between Rhaenyra and Corlys would already be high before Rhaenys' death and could reach a crisis point after the Battle of the Gullet. The way the battle plays out in F&B could likewise be retained if the mistakes made by the Blacks are acknowledged, being the failure of naval or dragon patrols to detect the approach of the Triarchy Fleet. Gyldan could point out that both Prince Jacaerys and Lord Corlys are at fault for the disaster, but that Rhaenyra solely blames the Velaryons. I would even go a step further: Medieval and Early Modern naval combat relied heavily on boarding actions, excluding cannons since they're not present in George's setting. With many galleys and ships being entangled in these close-quarters bouts, it would not be surprising if the dragonriders set fire to Velaryon ships by mistake and further contributed to the deterioration of Velaryon support.

With many officers and crews having lost their families and homes in the Triarchy attack, this would present a perfect opportunity for Vaemond Velaryon's sons, Daeron and Daemion, and his nephews the 'Silent Five' to take action if they were not already involved in the events of the Dance. With Larys possibly assisting them, they could begin organizing a fleet-wide mutiny against Rhaenyra and the Black Council, which would take place after Corlys is arrested. Addam and Alyn would flee to Dragonstone and Driftmark, the former to seek Baela and Moondancer's help and the latter to rally ships and crews to help his father. The mutineers capture Alyn while Addam finds Moondancer dead, Baela imprisoned, and Dragonstone in the hands of Aegon II, with a battle ensuing between Sunfyre and Seasmoke which leads to Aegon's injuries and Addam fleeing the bay worse for wear. Heading to Maidenpool and finding that Nettles has fled and Daemon and Aemond are fallen in battle, Addam could then rally what forces he can for a suicide mission against Tumbleton with the aim of killing Daeron and the Betrayers and mauling their army before it can join Aegon at King's Landing.

This sets up how I would fix Second Tumbleton, by Addam showing up to find Daeron already battling with the Betrayers and the army divided. Knowing that neither Aegon and Alicent nor Alyn, Baela and Corlys will survive if the Betrayers take the capital, Addam and Daeron join forces and rout the Betrayers army, with all four dragonriders being killed in the battle. This change is important if Jaehaera's death is retained, since there needs to be strong foundations for reconciling the Greens and Blacks. Addam and Daeron the Daring's sacrifice gives both factions heroes that they can memorialize and honour together; Daenaera's marriage to Aegon III is also helped by her father and uncle having been actively involved in Rhaenyra's downfall in support of Aegon II. A final touch I would add would be for Alyn to lead a counter-mutiny following Aegon II's death which leads to deaths of Daeron Velaryon and three of the 'Silent Five'; Alyn could swear an oath to the dying Daeron to look after his daughter Daenaera now that both her parents will be dead. This magnanimous act by Alyn and the respect the Velaryon Fleet has for him could inform Daemion's decision to break with the remaining 'Silent Five' and support Alyn's claim as Corlys' heir.

If you've made it to the end of this wall of text, I commend you! For those that want a TL;DR: The Show's blockade is nonsense; the Book blockade is unworkable as a strategy; nonetheless, the blockade and the Velaryon Fleet can still play an important role in the story if the aforementioned flaws are acknowledged. Thanks for reading, and I'll catch you on the flip side!

#asoiaf #house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #asoiaf critical #hotd critical #grrm critical #house velaryon #team green #team black #corlys velaryon #alyn velaryon #addam velaryon #military history

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briliantlymad · 11 months ago

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Smth smth it's all about letting go but im not gonna lie I feel like wanting to write an anakin not going off the rails having a mental breakdown through palpatines manipulation. Palpy is like. I can teach you force techniques you don't know about and anakin is just like???? You're not a medical professional tho??? You don't have the force chancellor palpatine I think you've had too much wine tonight at the opera. Let's get you to bed.

But he's also not going to take any chances because if there is some force technique he's going to learn it himself. and instead of spending time with palpy he's searching up the jedi library and making his way through all kinds of other dubious sources. What's mastery over death if he's good enough at healing that it never gets to that point?

Council be like: Where's knight skywalker he's gotta go protect this planet with the 501st.

And anakin Walks into the council room manic vibrating out of his skin after having 10 cans of energy drinks: do you know what I need to do to knit someone's skin back together? Do you think I could intern with the healers for a few hours? I think I've figured out how to make the human body regenerate entire organs but it's the useless stuff like the appendix. Can I have access to some sith books I know yall have locked away in the vaults??

And the council :

Just. He's still sleep deprived, hes definitely losing his marbles a little cus his new hyperfixation is healing techniques, bros learning anatomy till 5 am in the morning and healing troopers through sheer force of will by the end of the next battle. Learns how to control the flow of the blood so he can stop bleeding from major arteries while one of the medics stitches people up.

Anyway he's basically so pumped up about his newfound knowledge he forgets about palpatine completely until palply gets impatient and pokes at him hoping to push anakin over the edge but all it does is make anakin run to the council, cus how the fuck does Palpatine know about his visions and nightmares anyway???????

The council goes to confront him. Only this time, anakin doesn't give into his urge to defend palpy cus he doesn't need him anymore.

Mace gets house arrest as a sentence for killing palpy without trial but he's like: jokes on you mfs I like the temple and I didn't wanna leave this place anyway.

Padmè gives birth, it's a pretty safe delivery, she gives birth at an actual well equipped med centre, the twins were a surprise but anakin doesn't get to use his skills which he mopes a little about but then he's too distracted by his kids' big eyes

And they all lived happily ever after ♥️♥️♥️

#anidala #does this count as crack?#ficlet #anakin and padme #padmè amidala #anakin x padme #anakin is going through it #star wars #my writing #plot bunnies #my plot bunnies

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yumjum414 · 25 days ago

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Stillness in his Power

Duryodhana’s pov

He had thought it was a game.

Gurukul had made warriors of them, yes, but not men. Not yet. It had taught them forms and stances, respect and rivalry. It had forged bonds and bruises both. But now, Drona had called in his price

Bring me Drupad, Drona had said, voice quiet as stone. And lay him at my feet.

Duryodhana had gone first, proud and full of heat. He had taken his brothers with him- ninety-nine strong, well-trained, carrying the legacy of a kingdom.

And still, they had failed.

The Panchala forces had scattered them like dust. Drupada himself had not even drawn his sword. The Kauravas had come back beaten and limping, their pride cracked open like a fruit, and now stood on the ridges of the battlefield, watching the second half of this farce unfold.

And yet, what emerged from the Pandava camp was not a warband. It was a storm.

Duryodhana watched from the edge of the battlefield. Armor dented. Lips split, with blood drying on his neck.

Five brothers. That was all.

No army. No fanfare. No backup.

Yudhishthira walked at the front, calm as dusk. He carried no weapon that could inspire fear, just a spear and the weight of a crown not yet placed on his brow. He didn’t look like a warrior. He looked like a man who would speak before killing you.

Bhima beside him, massive, breathing like an ox before the charge, iron mace slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. His steps cracked stones and bones of those who dared to stop him.

The twins moved like dancers, too fast and too graceful to be trusted. Sahadeva’s eyes were cold, calculating; Nakula smiled like he was already writing this battle into legend.

And at the center, between them all, was Arjuna.

Arjuna, freshly out of gurukul, with no dust on his boots, no scars yet weathered deep. The boy with the clearest eyes Duryodhana had ever seen.

There was something strange about him, even now. His presence didn’t demand attention, it drew it. Quietly. Like gravity. Like the way still water dares you to disturb it.

Then the Panchala archers fired.

And Arjuna moved. He did not duck. He did not flinch. He stepped through the hail of arrows as if walking through a dream, fingers a blur on the string of his bow.

The arrows he returned were not just fast: they were exact. One bent the arc of an incoming shot midair. Another snapped the shaft of a spear mid-throw. A third struck the mouth of a war-horn before the sound could rise.

Duryodhana blinked. No wasted movement. No errant gestures. Every draw, every shot, every breath flowed into the next like a river that had learned the battlefield’s shape.

And then Arjuna ran.

Gods, he ran like the wind had chosen a body.

He didn’t march into formations; he slid through them. Turned side-on to narrow his profile, loosed shots without looking, twisted low to avoid blade and axe, then sprang up, letting arrows fly in pairs. Always circling. Always flowing.

The Panchala lines fell apart not from fear- but from the realization that nothing they tried mattered.

They couldn't touch him.

Bhima smashed the front line open with terrifying ease. Nakula and Sahadeva struck like fangs on either flank. Yudhishthira offered no mercy, but no cruelty either- he moved with the justice of a mountain.

But Arjuna? He turned the tide.

And when finally, the Panchala troops broke, leaving their king exposed, Arjuna strode toward Drupad with the calm of someone who had been there before, even if this was his first true battle.

Duryodhana leaned forward, blood still ringing in his ears.

Finish him, he thought. Make it humiliating. Let him crawl. Let him beg like he made us beg.

Drupad was on his knees now- his crown lost, cheek split, armor unfastened and scorched. Arjuna stood before him like he’d only just stepped into the field, unbothered by blood or dust or the hundred men he’d dropped like a summer storm snapping trees.

Duryodhana’s fists clenched at his sides. If there will be one thing that stands after my defeat, he thought, it will be the Kuru honor standing tall over theirs. Make him beg. Drag him across the field to our Guru’s feet.

But Arjuna didn’t sneer. Didn’t gloat. He didn’t even raise his voice.

He joined his hands into a greeting- a clean, crisp warrior’s introduction, as if Drupad didn’t already know his name. Not to show submission, but to mark the gravity of the moment.

As if to say: I have defeated you. Yet you remain a king. And I will not become less by forgetting that.

It was unbearable.

Duryodhana ground his teeth, rage and confusion twisting inside him. Why do you fight like that? Why do you win like that? What are you trying to prove- to him? To Drona? To me?

Drupad rose slowly, gripping Arjuna’s forearm. His face was hard, unreadable. But his nod… it was not one given to a child.

Duryodhana’s jaw tightened. The wind blew hot across the battlefield, stirring the broken banners of his side. The third Pandava had just won their guru’s vengeance. Yet somehow, he still looked like he was offering mercy.

Stillness and steel, in a single breath.

Drona watched with pride in his eyes. Duryodhana turned away.

There was nothing left to watch.

That day had never left him.

Not the humiliation. Not the sight of Drupad bowing his head- not to Drona, but to Arjuna.

Not the way the younger boy had stood, calm and infuriating, like he could afford to be merciful.

Duryodhana remembered the sting of his broken pride every time he saw him now.

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

And here he was again.

The courtyard of Indraprastha shimmered under the afternoon sun. Soldiers moved in loose formations, leather sandals scraping against packed earth, as training dummies spun on iron pivots. The clatter of wooden swords rang like drumbeats.

Yet over it all, the air hummed with the presence of one man.

Arjuna.

Older now, broader at the shoulders, the elegant lines of youth hardened into something leaner, quieter. His hair had grown long again, streaked with silver, tied back in a looped knot. A thin scar split his left brow, fading into the curve of his cheekbone. His gaze, still that amber-gold, seemed even harder to meet now, not because it burned, but because it saw.

Duryodhana watched from beneath the stone pavilion, arms folded, shadowed by his own guards. He had come under the pretense of reviewing the soldiers, because at the end of the day, Indraprastha will always be a part of Hastinapur.

But he had come to see him.

Arjuna stood in the middle of a circle of recruits. His sandals were dusty, his training staff resting loosely in one hand. The soldiers surrounded him like orbiting moons. And like gravity, he held them without force.

“You flinch before the strike,” Arjuna said, pointing at one of the younger men with the tip of his staff. “That is not cowardice. Its calculation born of fear. But you cannot calculate what you do not see. Watch the shoulders. The breath. Every weapon speaks before it sings.”

The recruit swallowed and nodded, wide-eyed.

Duryodhana's fingers twitched. Same tone. Same cursed calm. Not a hint of performance. Arjuna had never raised his voice to claim authority. He didn't need to. People listened because he was precise. Because he never postured. Because he had never learned how to lose.

The training resumed. Three soldiers lunged at once. Arjuna turned, pivoted. He ducked under one staff, caught another with his forearm, let the third scrape harmlessly against his shoulder as he twisted into a clean sweep. One down. Two more. He moved like water bending around rocks. Unhurried. Exact.

Not a single soldier landed a blow.

Duryodhana’s jaw clenched. How many men had he fought alongside who blustered, shouted, roared like beasts to mask uncertainty? And this one- this maddening, silent bastard- made dominance look effortless.

A veteran captain, older than most, lunged suddenly, perhaps hoping to test the legend. Arjuna met his charge. Their staffs cracked together once. Twice. Then a blur- too fast to follow- and Arjuna disarmed him with a twist that spun the man halfway around before he caught his footing.

No smile. No mockery. Just a quiet, “Good.”

The captain nodded, chest heaving. He bowed, not with embarrassment, but with respect.

Duryodhana could feel it again. That knot in his chest. That same feeling from the field of Panchala. Of watching himself be forgotten while he- the third-born, the quiet one- redefined the terms of victory.

Across the yard, Arjuna’s eyes lifted and met his own.

A nod and a bow. Just a calm acknowledgment. The kind given from one equal to another. Or worse, from someone who had forgotten why they were ever enemies.

That stung more than any insult.

Duryodhana turned on his heel, the hem of his silks brushing the dust. He didn’t stop walking until the sounds of the courtyard faded behind him: until the ring of staffs on wood, the thud of boots against packed earth, and the quiet, rapt voices of soldiers faded into the hush of palace corridors.

His pulse didn’t slow.

The knot in his chest stayed where it was, old and familiar, like a stone lodged beneath the skin.

Third-born. Quiet one. Beloved of the Gods.

It should have been Yudhishthira he hated. The crown-chaser. The one whose throne clawed at Duryodhana’s future. It should have been Bhima- the brute who mocked him openly, who made no secret of his disdain. But it was always him. Always him.

Arjuna.

Because Arjuna didn’t hate him. Not openly. Not loudly. Not like the others.

And that was worse.

Because when Arjuna fought him, it wasn’t personal.

When Arjuna defeated him, it wasn’t about him.

He walked like a storm that forgot to name the villages it drowned.

And what do you do, Duryodhana thought, when the one thing you cannot defeat... refuses to see you as an enemy?

Now, in this new Indraprastha with its marble courtyards and its silver-plated gates, Duryodhana watched the world shifting around Arjuna, gravitating toward him again. Still. Even now.

A warrior with no crown. Yet every man followed him as if he bore the seal of the gods on his brow.

What power was that?

Duryodhana paused in the shadowed hallway, one hand resting on a carved pillar. The air was cool here, scented with jasmine and sandalwood, but it did little to soothe him.

Was it charisma? Luck? Magic?

Or was it that Arjuna had never needed to declare himself to be great?

He simply was. A quiet, lethal certainty.

And that was power.

Note: Hey hey! Still alive, I promise- college just has me in a chokehold right now. 😅 Wrote this little piece to clear my head, just a quick one. Let me know if you spot any mistakes! Also, where is the option for underline in Tumblr??? My mind is swimming in coffee and so is my common sense I'm afraid.

#mahabharat #arjun #arjuna #hindu mythology #duryodhana #drupad #pandavas #bhima #yudhishthira #nakula #sahadeva

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