#i think castle is the worst contender

[pinkeoni]

cop shows with snarky leads is the worst genre of television

#i think castle is the worst contender #so is rizzoli and isles #out of all of the cop shows my mom watches i think major crimes is the most tolerable #there was like one episode of the rookie that was actually pretty funny #although i hate overly serious police procedurals like svu too

[horizon-verizon]

Rhaenys killing smallfolk is so…. Like wtf, and then people be like “Kinslaying is the worst crime there is! She’d be stupid to do it!”, first HOTD never introduces the notion of kinslaying, and killing hundreds of people is a crime too! She is already a criminal for what she did, why stop halfway if you’re going full murderer ? If you’re gonna commit a decapitation worthy offence, then you might as well kill the people who are a legitimate threat to your future great grandchildren and granddaughters themselves.

Them coming out saying that Rhaenys didn’t kill them because it’s not her war…. Lol, it was her war the moment she agreed to betroth her granddaughters to Rhaenyra’s sons. Her family (the little that is left of it) is in legitimate danger and she passed up the opportunity to kill people who WERE ACTIVELY PLANNING ON KILLING HER FAMILY ANYWAYS. (Yes, I know it was mostly Rhaenyra and Daemon but Jace and Luke and Joff would have to go too and Daemon is the father of Rhaena and Baela, the twins have legal claim to the throne, so no ways they letting that slide either).

Yeah, this has been my argument as well. I will never not be angry about this damned episode, esp this scene.

My biggest gripe about this fool of an episode is that if Rhaenys says she doesn't want to "be involved" in "their" war is that in ANY iteration of these events where Baela & Rhaena exist without turning this into a full-fledged AU like sweetestpopcorn's "The Black and the Greens", Rhaenys will ALWAYS be "involved"...

because those girls are DAEMON'S DAUGHTERS and ONE OF THEM LIVES WITH DAEMON AND RHAENYRA!!! And this Rhaenys constantly has said she primarily cares about her own kids and grandchildren, not Viserys, Daemon, or Rhaenyra...so what gives?!

In a world where these strategy-minded people would, you know, think strategy...Rhaenys practically spoon-fed them a public reason to go to war and assume a protective-justice persona!!!

To further paint the blacks as violence mongerers or even just shit-starters, even with those killed being peasants, bc the sheer number of people killed simultaneously who live around you & around your castle who have historically been a part of some Faith-led attacks against the crown (Aenys, Maegor, Rhaena & her brother Aegon--the Poor Fellows) is astronomical. Killing that many smallfolk doesn't pay and rather makes for a larger number of angrier smallfolk with a reason to be angrier than average. You'd think she'd realize that and idk, maybe not kill dozens if not thousands of smallfolk.

Otto will always look to them as possible rivals because of that connection to the person he thinks will likely always contend with him/anyone for power, espe after he includes the younger boys' hostage-taking in his terms in episode 10. Aside from Otto--who had a grip on Alicent's decision-making until it came to Rhaenyra (as if Rhaenyra doesn't come with her kids, who Alicent has accepted the risk of exile or total ruination for 10 years, but I digress).

And Alicent--by the next season's 2 trailers--appears to go back to Otto as a consultant and guide as to how the greens will face the blacks, so we can't argue that she will not escape his influence even with her allowing herself to understand his manipulativeness. She obviously didn't want a war and has tried to stave it off by holding Rhaenys hostage and sending that damned page to Rhaenyra with Otto's terms--that is if she actually sent it--she also sets up a possible war through usurping Rhaenyra in the first place! And Alicent isn't actually fighting against Rhaenyra for the sake of "the realm" but for for her own position as the mother to a possible king/wife of a past king and the lives of her kids.

Even in the book--if you are inclined to believe that she believes this and/or has sincerely taken Otto's fear of Daemon as her own maybe bc similarly to the show he instilled in her that fear of him--Alicent brings up Daemon's supposed bloodthirstiness and inevitable murder of her kids as reason to usurp Rhaenyra ("The Blacks and the Greens"):

As for the kinslaying part, they refused to insert Rhaenyra's lines of that, instead making her grab Otto's pendant and throwing it off the bridge in a much more flaccid version of what she does with Orwyle's chains in the book. Without the context of her giving Aegon that chance to withdraw AND criticizing Orwyle taking the green side and basically going against his own maester code of following traditions and laws, show!Rhaenyra's protests against Otto is more losing the desired cool & careful, wise reservedness that HotD already favors over original "proud" book!Rhaenyra. And I think that it's to give the Dance story this faux measure of "balance" that ozymalek talks about HERE:

People often argue whether HOTD showrunners are biased in favor of Team Black or Team Green. I think the answer to this question can't be encapsulated within the context of "bias", at least not fully. They are biased for both and neither at the same time and it's difficult to explain, but I will try to articulate how I see it. The Dance era in "Fire and Blood" is something that will fundamentally cause the feelings of cognitive dissonance. I think this is why people initially disliked this book when it first came out. It did not provide easy answers, it was written as a historical account, the in-universe historians were clearly biased. People, however, had trouble realizing who the historians are biased for and against. Team Green would have you think that "F&B" is biased against the Greens, because their allegiance as maesters clearly being to Hightowers notwithstanding, they could not evade simple historical facts: that most of the kingdom supported Rhaenyra, that Greens were horrendously misogynistic and that her usurpation was clearly wrong. That's why, approaching it from the "choose your favorite war criminal" point of view, it was difficult for Greens to accept that their preferred side is so cartoonishly evil - obviously bias must have been involved, even though the only pro-Black narrator of F&B is Mushroom, the rest are Greens. The maester's anti-Targaryen bias, however, manages to sneak in and mess with the reader's balance, causing said cognitive dissonance. It's hard to deal with it as a reader, let alone as a showrunner who's trying to adapt a story in which not everything is set in stone. They incorrectly assumed that, because they are constantly forced to question what is happening in the story, the bias is with the underlying idea that there was a correct side. As such, they assumed that all the inconsistencies result from maesters not choosing to view it that way. Ryan Condal repeatedly stated that he does not want watchers to pick sides, while George RR Martin embraces it and even encourages it (and I think that he himself has picked the Blacks). Such is our nature as human beings. So they decided that they have to balance the scales. Because Greens are poorly developed, they added more characterization for them that contradicts their book personas (abused child bride meow meow Alicent who is clueless about the plans that in the books she herself set in motion, for example) while simultaneously taking the characterization AWAY from team Black members. Rhaena and Baela barely have any lines, and though this may be the case of simple racism, it's pretty telling that they ignored the fact that Baela is tomboyish and has short hair. Rheanyra herself is so toned down that she does not resemble her book counterpart in the slightest, making her seem weak, stupid and undecided. Daemon straight up becomes a villain and a wife murderer rather than a throughoutly gray character (book!Rhea Royce unambiguously dies after a hawking accident while Daemon is still fighting in the Stepstones); that's because Team Black was in a desperate need for a corrupting influence in order to balance the scales. But some Greens aren't spared from this treatment either. Otto is made much worse than he was in the books, he straight up pimps out his teenage daughter so that he can elevate House Hightower. While Aegon is also a sex pest in the books, showing him openly rape a lowborn woman was a risky decision (as was the not very subtle implication that he rapes Helaena as well); not to mention that the child fighting pits come from Mushroom, whose entire gimmick is making shit up. So neither side is really spared from being villified and whitewashed, depending on whom we look. The showrunners were fully committed to making choosing sides a confusing process, making the cognitive dissonance of this story to be even stronger. This is why they aren't really biased for or against anyone.

#asoiaf asks to me #hotd characterization #rhaenys targaryen #rhaenys targaryen (aemon's daughter) #rhaenys targaryen's characterization (meleys' rider) #hotd episode 9 #hotd inconsistencies #alicent's characterization #alicent hightower #the greens #hotd #hotd critical #hotd writing #hotd comment

[nalascat]

BARBIE SEXYMAN TOURNAMENT

HELLO and WELCOME to the BARBIE SEXYMAN TOURNAMENT

who is the sexiest barbie man? i dunno fam, id say [host bias]- (if you know me, you know who it is , but i DIGRESS)

I have compiled a comprehensive list of 64 Barbie Men who are totally contenders for the Sexyman Title. This has come from scrolling the wiki, the Bad Barbie Discord, and of course, the silly Google Form I sent out however many days ago

It's split out into four separate brackets of 16- A, B, C, and D. I wAS going to have a special sorting like. Prettyboys and. uh. i have no clue what else but- It's completely random. This means it could have the worst or the best matchups and i think its gonna be really funny.

SO! Without further ado, here are the four brackets!

We will go two matchups per day, each lasting about a week, so more people can see them and so i dont FORGET so quickly. Then, at the end, we shall have a final fight between the winners of A and B, and C and D- with one more to find the ULTIMATE sexyman. (maybe with a surprise match at the end... hmm)

I hope to start this tomorrow? Or soon? We will see how long it takes for me to start with the polls, ahah...

I will accept any and all propaganda for any character. I will watch this tournament burn.

Check under the readmore for specific matchups and the LINKS to em!!

Bracket A

Derek (Rockers) vs. Johan (Princess Adventure)

Azul (Island Princess) vs. Zombie Peas (Fashion Fairytale)

Pimm (Nutcracker) vs. Slyder (Diamond Castle)

Ryan (Dreamhouse) vs. Faban (Fairytopia)

Lord Gastrous (Mariposa) vs. Hue (Fairytopia)

Grodlin (Secret Door) vs. Etienne (Pony Tale)

Monsieur Treville (Musketeers) vs. Skeezites (Mariposa)

Sagi (Island Princess) vs. Rupert (Popstar)

Bracket B

Desmond (12 Princesses) vs. Maurice (Christmas Carol)

Rat King (Nutcracker) vs. Troll (Diamond Castle)

Doctor Maryhue (Rockers) vs. Don (Lost Birthday)

Agent Dunbar (Spy Squad) vs. Fungus Maximus (Fairytopia)

King (Secret Door) vs. Ferris (Pegasus)

Brock (Charm School) vs. Hervé (Pauper)

Closet (Dreamhouse) vs. Hotdogeteria Guy (Fashion Fairytale)

Otto (Rapunzel) vs. Baron Von Ravendale (Princess Power)

Bracket C

Alistair (Mermaid Tale) vs. Philippe (Musketeers)

Happy Trolls (Fairytopia) vs. King Randolph (12 Princesses)

Freddie (Christmas Carol) vs. Ruby (Fairytopia)

Brookhurst (Secret Door) vs. Myron (Thumbelina)

Cutie (Video Game Hero) vs. Brutus (12 Princesses)

Seymour (Popstar) vs. Rothbart (Swan Lake)

King Wilhelm (Rapunzel) vs. Constantine (Starlight Adventure)

Hugo (Rapunzel) vs. Wolfie (Pauper)

Bracket D

Spike (Pearl Princess) vs. Mr. Wexler (Diaries)

Caligo (Pearl Princess) vs. Philippe (Pony Tale)

Nick and Nack (Pauper) vs. Break (Mermaid Tale)

Ollie (Pegasus) vs. Erasmus (Swan Lake)

Dream Fish (Mermaid Tale) vs. Finn (Rock 'n Royals)

Wenlock (Pegasus) vs. Zane (Fairy Secret)

Major Mint (Nutcracker) vs. Bertram (Musketeers)

King Frederick (Rapunzel) vs. Frazer (Island Princess)

I tried to get as many movies represented as I possibly could, but I know I missed quite a few. Thanks to everyone who has given me suggestions!!

we are NOT going to talk about how i put treville twice. nope

#barbie #barbie sexyman tournament #tournament #tournament bracket #barbie and the 3 musketeers #barbie and the diamond castle #barbie life in the dreamhouse #barbie nutcracker #barbie movies #so many.... #barbie swan lake #barbie as rapunzel #fairytopia #barbie mariposa #polls

[litaskick]

hi! can you do a bayley x reader where reader has been trying to pin after bayley backstage and bayley isn’t showing any interest until reader gets attacked during their match and bayley rescues them and while backstage bayley confesses her feelings. hopefully angst to fluff :)

idk how to feel abt this one tbh, it took me forever

my requests are open, request here - who i write for - request rules - Bayley Masterlist

summary: Bayley has been ignoring you for months now, and it has really been bothering you, because secretly you had totally fallen in love with her. But it all changes after she comes to your aid after a surprise attack from Rhea Ripley.

Ignored

You crossed your arms, looking over at where Bayley stood in the gorilla. Shaking your head, you looked down at your feet. You remembered how it had used to be between you and Bayley. You guys were friends, good friends you liked to think, and then it all changed. Out of nowhere, she just distanced herself from you. You would try to ask her about it, and she would just brush you off.  She barely even talked to you anymore. No more of her congratulating you after your matches, going out to eat to celebrate big wins, playing stupid games to pass time in the locker room. All of that suddenly just disappeared, gone. It hurt, you missed it, you really, really missed it. The worst part about it all was that you had completely fallen in love with her, and now the person you loved wouldn't even spare a glance your way. You felt a tap on your shoulder, bringing you out of your thoughts. You looked to see that it was Liv, your best friend.

"Hey, what wrong?" Liv asked you quietly, not wanting anyone else in the gorilla to hear.

You sighed, looking over at Bayley, and then back to Liv. She frowned slightly, "Still?" You only nodded.

"Y/n, I think it might just be time to let it go, it's been months now. I know you love her but she doesn't seem like she loves you back like that." Liv explained softly, squeezing your hand.

"I know, but I just can't-" You started tearing up.

"No, no, no." Liv whispered urgently. "No crying, not right before your match." She reminded you.

You nodded, thankful that she reminded you before you full on broke down on her and ruined your makeup. You had a match against Sasha Banks tonight. It was a championship contenders match, the winner would go on to face Liv for the SmackDown Women's Championship at Clash at the Castle. You heard Sasha's music roar through the arena as you watched her step through the curtain. You and Liv stepped over to the curtain, Bayley walking off as soon as you two approached. You just let out a sigh, making Liv put her hands on your shoulders, forcing you to look at her.

"You got this! Okay? Don't think about her, just go out there and give it your all!" Liv smiled.

You smiled at back at her, you gave her a nod.

"I'll be out there watching you."

Liv was going to be sitting on commentary during the match since this was a contenders match for her title. You heard your music hit, you stepped out through the curtain and onto the ramp. You did your usual entrance, giving a few fans a high five, even giving a little girl a hug and signing her toy title. You finally got in the ring. You and Sasha stood in your respective corners, watching as Liv came down the ramp and over to commentators table. The bell rung, and you two started. It was a great match, you were main eventing, the crowd was super into it, and it had caused you to completely forget about Bayley temporarily. You and Sasha had always had great chemistry in ring and outside of the ring. That is until the whole thing with Bayley ignoring you, since then it had just been sorta awkward when you would talk to Sasha. You were able to pick up the win, meaning you were going to face Liv at Clash at the Castle for the title. You were celebrating your win, until you felt a steel chair hit you right across the back. You fell to the ground, looking up, you were finally able to see the attacker. Rhea Ripley. She kept brutally beating you with the chair. From the corner of your eye you saw Liv starting to get up and come to your aid. That is until Bayley's music roared through the arena. Wait, Bayley was coming out to help you? You saw the surprised look on Liv's face from the commentary table before looking over towards the ramp to see Bayley dashing towards the ring. You were totally confused. You watched as she slid in the ring, ripping the chair from Rhea's hands. Bayley hit her with it once before Rhea quickly slid out of the ring, slowly walking up the ramp. Mouthing to Bayley "I'm not done with you." Once Rhea was out of sight, Bayley helped you up to your feet. You stood, holding the back of your head. You and her stepped out of the ring, making your way up the ramp.

"You okay?" She asked.

You nodded slightly. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Bayley just nodded, offering you a small smile. You smiled back, but internally you were so confused. What had just happened? Out of all the people who would come out to save you, she would have been your last thought. You saw some of the stares from your fellow co-workers as you and Bayley walked back to the locker room, you knew that they were probably just as confused as you were about this entire thing. Pretty much the entire women's locker room knew about the whole thing between you and Bayley. None of the personal aspects of it, of course, but they noticed that suddenly she had stopped talking to you and ignoring you. However, now she was talking to you, and acting like she had never started ignoring you in the first place. And not only that, but she came out and saved  you. You were so deep into your thoughts you almost didn't realize that you two had made it back to your locker room. You went over and took a seat on one of the steel chairs, Bayley taking a seat right in front of you. You immediately questioned her.

"Why did you come out there and save me?" You asked.

Bayley turned her head up to look at you. "Well, you were being attacked, and nobody else was coming to help you out."

You shook your head, knowing her well enough to know that she wasn't being honest with you.

"I'm being serious. Why?" You asked again.

"I just told you why. You were being attacked and nobody else-"

You cut her off before she could finish her sentence. "Bayley, don't sit here and act like you haven't totally ignored me for the past few months for seemingly no reason. I couldn't even get you to look over my way most of the time! My life has been absolute hell without you. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since it happened. I just want to know what I did!" You ranted, letting out everything you had been holding in over the course of a few months.

She let out a sigh. "You didn't do anything, y/n."

"Then why? Why have you been ignoring me? We were friends, Bay. I'd like to think maybe that we were even best friends." You asked, your voice cracking up a little due to the emotion behind your words.

There was silence between you for a moment, Bayley had her head down, trying to think about what she wanted to say. She lifted her head back up to look at you.

"It was never anything that you did, okay? It was me and my feelings." Bayley announced.

"You and your feelings?" You questioned, not quite understanding what she was saying.

"You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?"

You just continued to look at her with a confused expression glued to your facial features.

Bayley let in a shaky breath. "I love you. That's why I started ignoring you. I- I didn't want to ruin what we had just because of my silly heart. Turns out I ended up ruining worse than I would have than if I would have just confessed it to you earlier." She confessed, looking into your eyes.

You had immediate butterflies in your stomach. You had felt the same way towards her for just as long. "I love you too." You smiled, a happy chuckle leaving your mouth.

Bayley smiled back at you, she stood up with you, gripping you into a hug.

"I'm sorry. You didn't deserve the way I've been treating you." She whispered.

You pulled out of the hug, keeping your hands on her shoulders. "It's okay, I promise. Everything is perfect now."

#bayley #bayley x reader #bayley fanfiction #bayley fanfic #bayley imagines #bayley oneshots

[dhwty-writes]

OC aak: mistake (if character specific, then for Thearis please)

Darling, I would love to answer that for Thearis but it has been so long since I thought about her that I cannot think of an answer. So, unfortunately, you will have to contend yourself with an answer about my current WIP.

mistake: What's the worst mistake your OC ever made? What led to them making it? Have they been able to fix it? How have they moved on?

Since I went with Eridis and Morys before, let's answer that for Amalinde. The tragic thing about her is that basically her worst mistake was staying alive. She completely destroyed her relationship with her mother when she was 14 and decided to flee the country and go live with her uncle, instead of condemning herself, her mother, and her little sister, as well as all the people living in her castle to die. Her mother has never forgiven her for it and Amalinde is haunted by that. Now, do I think it was the wrong choice to make? of course not, she's my protagonist, I need her to stay alive to tell the story. But there is no fixing it. As for how she moved on, she has managed to adapt to her new environment by climbing the social ladder and becoming a wizard. But in her heart, she is still yearning for home and her mother will never forgive her until she dies.

Send me some OC asks!

#look i've got an ask #parttime-creative #tivelfall #ask game

[secretwhumplair]

Another garden

801 words | Royal arms (after Reunion)

Content | Captivity, discussion of: forced marriage, pregnancy of a trans man, implied: gender dysphoria

Notes | "I don't want your man I don't even know why you want your man" - Arracen

Still not sure I'm best equipped to write this but here we gooo

Taglist | @whumpy-writings @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpzone @newbornwhumperfly @nicolepascaline @thegreatwhodini @wolfeyedwitch @onlybadendings @quietshae @whumpcreations @whumpydaydreams @whumpsy-daisy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @kixngiggles @tears-and-lilies @melancholy-in-the-morning @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whump-cravings @annablogsposts

»Come, walk with me.«

Arracen had been given leave to move around the castle grounds, and promptly Cassio had caught him off guard as he went for a walk into the gardens, trying to distract himself from everything, for however short.

Arracen could feel his insides squirm uncomfortably. It was only too easy to imagine what Cassio wanted to talk to him about, and the last thing he needed was for Cassio to treat him as a rival. The thought he might have to contend with the jealousy of such an influential person so close to Idalis, when he hardly even wanted this marriage himself, sickened Arracen. No doubt Cassio could make his life a living hell, as if matters weren’t already going to be bad enough.

Cassio remained silent for a long while as they walked through the orchard. The castle gardens were practical over pretty, but for Arracen, they had a charm. They helped feed and care for the people around them, just like he always wanted.

Finally Cassio said, »I wanted to talk to you about your upcoming marriage. I thought it might be worth clarifying some matters.« He paused to look straight at him, and there wasn’t any of the hostility Arracen had feared in his face; he couldn’t pinpoint what there was, either, though, and that was bad enough.

»Of course,« Arracen replied, determined to stay polite, stay on Cassio’s good side as long as he could.

Cassio continued walking. »I’m sure you’ve heard rumours about the King and I.«

»Yes.« There it was. Maybe he should be subtler, but he needed to make this unambiguously clear. »And I have no desire to come between you.«

»I know,« Cassio replied instantly and took Arracen aback. »That is one thing I wanted to… perhaps put your mind at ease about. I do not want you as my rival, and if you do not want that either, then we will have no issue.« He even gave him a small smile, and Arracen managed a smile back, even if he didn’t believe it looked half-genuine.

»The king is not a bad man,« Cassio continued, more quietly. »I know he came to you as a conqueror, but… you have nothing to fear from him as a husband. He will treat you well, he has a kind heart.«

A kind heart. The sort of kindness that would allow him to take and kill and conquer if only he wanted. »Why are you telling me this?«

»I figured you must be nervous. Going into a marriage with a man you know nothing but the worst of.«

It was so accurate it hit Arracen straight in the heart. He had been too worked up about too many things in the past days and weeks, and the tears came far too easily. Cassio didn’t push as Arracen turned away in a desperate attempt to compose himself.

»There’s another thing I feel you ought to know, if you haven’t already heard.« Cassio stopped again, and Arracen turned back towards him, not at all confident but hopeful he didn’t look like a crying wreck. »I am like you.«

Arracen didn’t need to ask what he meant - something about Cassio’s tone made it clear he was revealing something deeply personal. But he couldn’t think of a response. He hadn’t expected it at all, and it only brought another factor into the chaos of his feelings.

Thankfully, Cassio continued on. »When I told my parents I was a boy… Idalis and I were already quite close, and they had wanted me to become his queen. It didn’t change their mind. When I told Idalis,« he smiled at the memory, »he got me my first moondew behind everyone’s back. We were only foolish youths then, but…«

As his voice trailed off, Arracen found his speech again. »You - could have born his heir.« It was a stupid thing to say - why would Cassio want it any more than Arracen himself? And clearly, Idalis cared enough about one of them to not push him into it.

Cassio chuckled. »The court already thinks I hold too much sway with Idalis. If I were to bear his heir, no doubt I would find myself with a dagger in my back sooner rather than later. And,« he added more quietly, »I don’t want to. I’ve never wanted to.« He reached out for a moment, almost as if to take Arracen’s hand, but didn’t touch him. »I know you don’t want to either. And he knows it, too. If he gives you grief about it - I mean, additional grief… speak to me. I’ll set him straight.« There was that small smile on his lips again. »He won’t. But just in case.«

Arracen didn’t trust his voice. He barely managed to choke out a »Thank you.«

#whump #whump writing #my writing #forced marriage #royal arms #arracen #cassio

[agentnico]

65 (2023) Review

Adam Driver is such a strange looking dude. In fact, he’s a strange sounding dude also. The shape of him is strange. The structure of his face is strange. Adam Driver... so strange.

Plot: After a catastrophic crash on an unknown planet, pilot Mills quickly discovers he's actually stranded on Earth - 65 million years ago. Now, with only one chance at a rescue, Mills and the only other survivor, Koa, must make their way across an unknown terrain riddled with dangerous prehistoric creatures.

Right ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to ask you all so kindly to rise up from your seats and give a humongous round of applause to 65 - the first 2023 film to exhibit qualities of a top contender of the worst movie of this year. Look, I’m disappointed as you are. Adam Driver fighting dino-dinos’?! You’d be a madman to not want to see that! However here’s 65′s first mistake: there actually aren’t that many dinosaurs, let alone fights with them. I know right, I can sense the resounding aura of you, my kind audience, in unison thinking “what the f***?”. Exactly, what the fudge indeed. No, instead what we get is a couple of somewhat thrilling dinosaurs interactions, but overall the movie is just Adam Driver and this little girl walking. Just walking. Walking and whistling. The movie isn’t even a long one - an old-school hour and a half. However boy does it drag like a son of a bee! I don’t usually do this as I respect that whole magic of the big screen idea and of course the classic respect your fellow cinemagoers, but yes I do admit I ended up looking at my phone countless times throughout this film, constantly counting down the minutes left as well as looking up the Resident Evil 4 remake demo reactions. C’mon, don’t lie to yourselves, that game is looking awesome and I cannot wait to play as Leon again and enjoy a walk down memory lane through the castle dealing with that creepy little Napoleon dude whilst also experiencing all the gorgeous new graphics and overly gory intense kills. But back to my point, I was so easily distracted from 65 as I was so unengaged with 65. It’s a straightforward slog of a movie that is really dull and boring.

Speaking of the straightforward plot, this movie had the opportunity to be more unique and special. The entire idea of a humanoid alien crash landing on a mysterious planet only to discover that it is Earth from 65 million years ago could have been such a cool nifty little twist...if the movie knew how to keep it a secret. Instead both the trailer and the synopsis and even the first 10 minutes of the movie reveal that the mysterious planet is Earth, and with that any kind of thrilling sense of wonderment and awe is thrown down Jules Verne’s drain. What would have worked better is if they revealed that the planet was Earth at the end of the movie, making you rethink everything you just saw and realising it all was the prehistoric landscape of our planet. But instead the reveal if I can even call it that is shown at the beginning, leaving the rest of the movie to be stuck in this boring characters need to go from point A to point B storyline. In regards to the characters, Adam Driver is the humanoid alien. Yet we are given zero to no exposition about his people and what kind of aliens they are. Nope, they are just ordinary looking people that wear clothes stolen from the set of Dune and use guns that can be seen in like I don’t know, every futuristic science fiction film ever. There’s nothing special about him, again making the whole “alien visiting prehistoric Earth” idea pointless. As for the little girl accompanying him - she’s fine. Does the job I guess. She can whistle okay. Also, what’s with the whole whistling in this movie? It’s like that is the only way Adam Driver’s character knows how to bond with kids. 

65 is a soulless, pointless, bland mess of a film that tries to be a mix of Alien, Interstellar, Jurassic Park and 65 million other things whilst not doing any of it justice. Speaking of Interstellar, the movie constantly shows sequences of Driver’s character watching clips of his daughter and missing her deeply, and I felt absolute jack-poop. Yet in Interstellar that one short scene of McConaughey receiving the video message of his daughter all grown up and berating him for not coming back even though he promised her he’d be back by the time she’s reached his age is heart wrenching. Damn, now I kind of wanna go rewatch Interstellar. As for 65 - it’s just boring. Even if you’re a big Adam Driver fan, just wait for it to go on streaming and watch it on Netflix. It’s not worth your money or your time. Anyway, on that note I have to exit and go take care of my Interstellar and Resident Evil 4 needs...

Overall score: 3/10

#65 #65 movie #adam driver #dinosaurs #65 million years ago #65 film #65 movie review #65 review #2023 #2023 in film #2023 films #movie reviews #film reviews #film #movie #action #adventure #science fiction #scott beck #bryan woods #resident evil 4 #a quiet place #thriller #drama #sam raimi #ariana greenblatt #jurassic era #prehistoric #cinema

[stxrscrge]

Ask me a meta question about my muse! | accepting

@on-stained-glass-wings​ asked:

Radahn's thoughts on his siblings? 👀

Rykard: “Ryke was a little eccentric, even when we were children. He’s got a weird fascination with snakes, but who am I to say anything in regards to this kind of matter? Though he is far from being even a nice man, he does have his soft side that I know is hidden underneath all of his stubborn want to not be like our Father. I admire that he has the courage to stand up to Marika and be with the one that he loves the most in the world. It took myself longer to decide that I would no longer deal with our Eternal Queen and her so-called ideals to host my own wedding ceremony at the chapel in my castle. I wonder how he is doing now.” 

Ranni: “Little Ranni is one of the most intelligent sorceresses that I have known aside from our mother. I still remember how when we were younger, I’d send letters to her asking for help with my own studies when certain subjects come up since I truly do not find it in me to find time to sit down and study by myself when there isn’t something pressing coming up. She might come off as a bit aloof to some, but I think it’s because of, you know, Father’s absence…”

Miquella/Malenia: “I remember seeing little Miquella a few times in Caria Manor, when I would go back to visit Ranni since she never really liked going to the royal capital. He is one of the most intelligent beings that I’ve met before, likely bar none others, though there always strikes me something about him seem rather… sad, he was Father and Lady Marika’s favorite, I can’t imagine the pressure that he must feel growing up with that on his back since he’d always have to perform and be up to par with their expectations. 

‘Nia on the other hand, she was, is a stubborn girl that never gave up, I admire that about her. You don’t just see that kind of tenacity anywhere in this kingdom. A damn talented swordswoman, I firmly believe that there are next to none in the Lands Between that can match her prowess. No, I am not counting myself as a contender, we’ve fought before and I would rather not see it happen again. Sparring, perhaps, but not anything else. She deserved better, and I’m glad Finlay is there to give her that.”

Mohg: “While I do feel sorry that he was left in the sewers to rot, I wish nothing but the absolute worst for him and all of his bloody cultists. This bastard subjected my men, my dear dragon to years of agony, stole Miquella from his Haligtree and left Malenia a ghost of herself after turning her against me with falsehoods and lies, no words can properly encompass how much I would enjoy beating that little son of a bitch into the ground, make him suffer and feel each and every single thing that he dragged ‘Nia, Sal, Miquella and all of my friends and soldiers through. See if his dear Formless Mother would save him once I get my hands around his scrawny neck.”

Morgott: “Poor old fool who clings to a visage of a rotten old Order. I don’t know what drives him nor why he is so focused on protecting a society that once shunned him for merely existing the way that he is, but I can respect one that keeps fighting for their cause no matter how bleak it seems to be.” 

#⟪ headcanons ⟫ → ❝ mightiest demigod ❞ #on-stained-glass-wings

[toa-kirhan]

First time watching ToH S2E3 (Echoes of the Past). Thoughts below:

Detailed thoughts:

Hoo boy, what an episode! This episode finally gives all the information that I’ve wanted to know about King since the start of the show.

This episode was King’s worst nightmare made manifest. Imagine if your best friend admitted to never believing in the person that you told them you are, the person you earnestly believe yourself to be. Then, the one person that you’ve known for your entire life, the one person that could validate who you are, reveals that your best friend was right not to believe you: that everything you thought you knew about yourself was a lie.

This entire time, the people closest to you, the people that you love and love you in return, have just been playing along w/ this fantasy that you thought was real. At no point did they ever accept you for who you said you were. All that trust gone in an instant. Your whole world falls beneath you, leaving you w/ nothing in an emotional free fall.

Being the King of Demons has been King’s entire identity up until this point, and one that he’s held onto vehemently. It’s been alluded to time and again, but King has always felt like a nobody. Everyone else that King has ever met has only seen him for his appearance: a cute pet, not something, not even someone, to be taken seriously. The idea that King is actually the King of Demons is so important to him because it means that he is someone special.

That dissonance between how King thinks he should be treated, or rather, how he wants to be treated, and how people actually treat him has been a constant source of insecurity for King. It’s the reason why King desperately clings to any form of praise or validation that he comes across, even at the expense of his friends. To King, it represents finally becoming someone that people look up to and respect, whether as the King of Demons, a best-selling author, or as lowly as the King of the Scareground.

All of this is in keeping w/ the series’ overarching theme of identity and self-discovery. Like Eda and Lilith, King loses a key part of his identity and is forced to contend w/ how he sees himself. I imagine Luz, who also feels like a nobody and has that same desire to be somebody, might go through a similar process if she returns to the human world and is forced to relinquish her current identity as a witch.

One last note on King’s backstory. I think King really is the King of Demons. In my notes while watching the episode, I theorized that King was actually the son of the then Ruler of Demons. That theory has only been reinforced by the rest of the episode, w/ King living alone in a castle w/ creatures that serve and protect him, surrounded by murals of a figure that resembles him, with the lingering memory of someone calling him son.

At the very least, King is a prince of demons. If his parent is dead, however, by virtue of inheritance, King might actually be the King of Demons right now. Perhaps we will meet King’s parent alive and they’ll pass the crown onto him (possibly dying shortly afterword in one sacrificial act of love). Either way, if King does turn out to be the King of Demons, or becomes it, then perhaps King will be able to use his title to rally demons against Belos in the show’s finale.

General thoughts:

We’re opening the episode w/ past Eda. It looks like sometime has passed since she was cursed (she has long nails, a fang, greying hair, and of course, Owlbert c:).

Luz is experimenting w/ her glyphs. Based on her notes, it looks like glyphs can represent more abstract properties that can be drawn upon depending how they’re placed (assuming that her notes are accurate).

I’m amazed at Luz’s circle drawing skills.

Francois w/ a knife! Francois w/ a knife!

Lilith is going a little too hard on learning about glyphs.

Lulu and Hootsifer c:

Invisibility glyph!

King’s reaction ;-;

So Lilith was the EC’s “lead historical scholar.” Is that what got her into the EC? Her magical ability combined w/ her practical knowledge? Or did Lilith just out herself as a nerd?

I love this! All the characters just hanging out and interacting w/ each other.

It’s been a long time coming but we’re finally getting follow up on King’s backstory.

So Luz doesn’t believe King about his past either.

I really want to know if/when we’ll get Eaglebert’s actual name.

Oh... I don’t like that. Porta-Hooty is cute, but... I don’t like the pulsating hole in the door. Doesn’t Hooty still have legs underneath the house, or was that just part of the Moonlight Conjuring spell?

So heading off to his castle is something King regularly does?

Just assuming that King’s story is true, did Eda head out to find King to see if he could undo her curse, or did the two just stumble upon each other after King was cursed too?

“Wriggle, wriggle, wriggle!”

I love Lilith. From one nerd to another!

Love love love the all character interactions in this episode!

If King was the King of Demons, then he must have ruled long ago if the ruins are so ancient. King must have been cursed for an equally long time if that is true.

Alternate crackpot theory: King wasn’t actually the King of Demons, but his son. He’s the King of Demons now after his father’s disappearance. If that is the case, then Prince Jr.’s name would make a little more sense.

Appleblood is alcoholic?

Loving this music!

Baby King! Broken horn! :c

King’s having a nervous breakdown. ;_;

Alex Hirsch is putting their heart and soul into his performance and it’s breaking me up inside seeing King like this.

“Boop.” c:

Hooty only gets more awesome!

Dismemberment!

Are those potsherds, or egg shells?

Was that creature made to guard King? Is that why King was making those stone statutes that looked like it? Is that why King was living in the tower w/ getting attacked? Because it was protecting him?

So did King’s horns stay the same size, or did the broken horn get bigger? I’m confused.

Missing parent plotline, engage!

Oh, King’s keeping his broken horn from now on!

Jean Luc!

So everyone’s getting in on the mystery for King’s sake!

#the owl house #toh #toh season 2 #toh s2 #first watch

[hoochieblues]

100 Days of Writing: Day 37

Post your favorite line of dialogue that you’ve written recently.

for @the-wip-project 

Uh, well there are a series of smutty electricity-related puns from another prompt fill that’s gotten totally away from me, so ‘Care to ride the lightning, Captain?’ has to be a contender. (Pre-DA2 Anders/Isabela coming soon....)

Otherwise I’m going to say this line from a (very) heavily reworked section in the Feasting on Dreams series, which deals with in-universe speculation on Alistair’s mother, and whether or not Maric was actually a “good” man:

“I don’t know. Even heroes aren’t perfect.” I frowned at the flames, watching sparks soar into the darkness drawing close around us. “Especially heroes, if you think about it. When people build them up, make them into stories, they only want the shiny parts. The bits that reflect all the things they need to believe in, the best of what they want to make real. It’s never the whole truth of anything, though. Maker, nothing really is. Why beat yourself bloody over what you can’t know?”

under the cut - cw: sexual assault mention etc.

I like this line because, in the context of the scene, Alistair and Meri are dissecting the disastrous visit to Goldanna. He’s been brooding for some time over the fact she believes Maric raped their mother, having grown up used to thinking of himself as an accident, a mistake born of a drunken tryst or a woman other boys in the village/monastery/etc. called a whore, but never - sweet summer child - considering that Maric might have assaulted her. He was Maric the Saviour, etc. etc. - a hero and a good man - an impossible ideal for an unwanted bastard and potential embarrassment to live up to.

Meri doesn’t do a great job at comforting him as her first thought is well, yeah... that happens a lot. Shem men do that. Doesn’t matter to her whether Alistair’s mother was elven or human - she was a servant, and it happens. It’s reason #32 on her list of Why Nobles Are Assholes, but her lukewarm condemnation comes across almost like apologism. 

By the end of the scene, both characters have shifted their positions a bit, and the groundwork is laid in to look more at Eamon’s behaviour and motives. Why didn’t he offer a place in the castle to Goldanna too? Why separate the siblings, or send her to Denerim but keep Alistair at Redcliffe, unless it was about control?

Alistair’s left to ponder this, and the question of whether anyone ever does anything without an ulterior motive, while Meri has another brick in her wall of assumptions about humans knocked loose. It leads to some interesting thoughts about injustice, which eventually pays off in beginning to erode the worst of her crippling guilt over Vaughan and the purge his murder caused.

...That’s the plan, anyway. 

#100daysofwriting #writeblurble

[ranger-kellyn]

I haven't watched Miraculous or played Pokemon Ranger and Danganronpa so IDK anything about them. Only played mainline Pokemon games. So I'd like to see a WIP of one of your Zelda fics you're making. (Only if you want to share them, you don't have to.)

ask and you shall receive!!

----

I haven't properly started on this fic, but I have a few scenes here and there that I've actually written out, rather than just outlining the idea of what I want to happen.

Have a small wip from my Age of Calamity Epic

----

While there were probably worse things she could be doing with her time, there were still plenty of better things she could be doing with her time, Impa reasoned.

The better thing would maybe be continuing research with her sister and Robbie. While the combined eccentricities of the two would eventually drive her to insanity, it surely was the ‘better’ option.

She tried to think of what the truly worse option was, because sneaking around Hyrule Castle with the princess was pretty high on the list already.

There was zero chance of her saying no to the princess, however. Ever since being assigned to her, Impa had distinctly lacked the ability to tell her “no”.

Whether it was helping her sneak away to see Purah and Robbie so that she could indulge in research, or simply accompanying her on field research trips, Impa had never been able to say no. She had tried, and never succeeded. It wasn’t that she even wanted to say no. If she had her way, she would indulge the princess at every possible turn. It was her duty that demanded her to say no.

Deep down, Impa figured she had to be the worst royal advisor to date.

From where they were at in the castle’s interior network, Impa knew Zelda was leading them towards the library.

While she was more than happy to accompany her on a late night library trip, she knew there had to be some other motive. The library was one of few places His Majesty had yet to ban her from.

She kept waiting for Zelda to take a different turn, but they soon arrived at the tunnel entrance that would take them to the hall across from the library.

“Are there any guards out there?” Zelda asked, almost making Impa jump.

She had been terribly quiet the entire time, barely even saying a word when she met with her at the designated time.

With a nod, Impa closed her eyes, feeling out into the world around them.

As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t as good as, say, the Yiga when it came to being able to tell when people were in various rooms. At best, she could vaguely feel a few feet ahead of them, and the thick stone walls of the castle made it even more of a challenge.

The stillness of the castle at least aided her. No normal foot traffic in the floors above and below them to contend with.

“We should be good,” she concluded.

With a nod, Zelda carefully led them out of the tunnels, into the open air of the castle. All was still, apart from the flicker of some of the lanterns, every crackle of the flames putting Impa on edge.

Just before Zelda could round the corner, Impa felt it.

Two people on night watch down the hall turned around.

“I was wrong,” she said in a harsh whisper, reaching out to grab Zelda, pulling her in by the waist.

At least she had managed to swallow that anxiety by now, able to will herself to do so without a slew of apologies that Zelda never wanted to hear.

“Hold on tight,” she said.

The teleportation trick, however, she considered herself better at than any yiga.

Thankfully, they had a clear shot to the library, Impa getting them to one of the reading alcoves without anyone noticing them.

Zelda’s face was buried in her neck, hands in tight fists at her coat’s back.

“Sorry,” Impa said in a whisper. “I know you hate that.” She wanted to run a hand up her back to try and soothe her, knowing it sometimes made her dizzy, but stopped herself, figuring having hands around her was already taking more than she was allowed.

As a royal advisor, that allowance was already little to begin with.

Zelda grumbled, still holding on tight. “I don’t hate it,” she said.

“It’s not your favorite,” Impa said.

She didn’t refute that, getting a small laugh from Impa.

“When you’re ready,” she said.

Zelda took longer than she anticipated to finally pull away from her.

#loz #tloz #hwaoc #zelimpa #zeldaimpa #impazelda #i hONESTLY have no clue how those two are tagged aha #wip wednesday #my fics #my first wip wednesday #thank you anon!!!! #anonymous

[sagesiren]

Heavy is the Head

Finally have my gift for @beautifulwhensarcastic! I was so excited to have you for the Steggy Secret Santa this year, since you were basically the one to really get me into this fandom!! I hope you had the merriest Christmas, and that next year brings with it all the love and joy you deserve <3

Summary: Peggy contends with the pros (unfettered access to palace prisoners) and cons (uncomfortable seating options) of being Queen of Camelot

read on AO3 here, or under the read more!

                                                            -

The throne was uncomfortable. It was sturdy and strict, the arms and back at harsh right angles, without any fabric or cushioning to soften the hard wood. The only aspect that Peggy didn’t loathe about it was the sense of history it carried in the way the armrests were velvet worn beneath her fingers, from the hands of Kings and Queens that came before her. As she sat primly and listened to another peasant from the lower town asking for something he desperately needed to survive, something that she would be frowned at for indulging, she thought longingly of a chair with proper lumbar support.

“Your Majesty?” urged her advisor, an older man with a smug expression and greasy hair whose name she was often intentionally forgetting, as he often intentionally overlooked the small fact that with his nephew dead, she was now his Queen. 

It wasn’t as if she wanted to be Queen; it had been a strategic move to accept Arthur’s proposal, despite the unfortunate effect being bashed in the head one too many times on the training grounds with the other knights had had on his brutish personality. 

“We will send him home with enough grain to feed his family, and will not collect taxes from his household through the end of the harvest,” Peggy decided.

“I do not believe that is—"

 “I do,” Peggy said, waving away her advisor’s concerns. The peasant bowed reverently. Light was slanting through the great hall’s high windows, striping the floor as the day approached its end. She wished to help these people more than she already had, but her time was limited. Without having received word from the knights she had sent to the cave on the edge of the kingdom over a fortnight ago, she had much more pressing issues of her own to attend to. She stood and clasped her hands together. “That will be all for today. We will offer a night’s shelter and meal to all who have journeyed here today and did not hold an audience with me.” 

 She stalked away before her advisor - Francis? Frederick? - could object.

 Her lady in waiting, Adelina, hurried after her, their footsteps accompanied by the whisper of Peggy’s impractically long gown trailing on the castle floors.

 The King’s chambers, now belonging to her, was the only place she was truly able to be herself in all of Camelot. She relaxed as soon as she was through the door, melting into her armchair in front of the fire.

 Adelina supplied her with fresh wine, stoked the fire by her feet, and regarded her with more kindness than she deserved. “Is there anything you require before you take your evening meal, Queen Guinevere?”

 “Yes.” Peggy set her goblet aside. “Send for the sorcerer. I wish to question him once again.” Her interrogations had yet to yield useful information for the guards, as the sorcerer was notoriously tight-lipped on the whereabouts of other sorcerers in this Kingdom. She could hardly blame him, considering magic was punishable by death, and considering the potential for information was the only thing keeping him alive. 

 Though she’d never say it aloud, he was, perhaps, a better strategist than she was. 

 Peggy’s royal advisor - Franklin? - had expressed doubts, both verbally and through his dismayed countenance, that her prisoner was in contact with the other sorcerers at all, but she stubbornly pressed on.

 Adelina curtsied. If the girl thought summoning the supposedly powerful sorcerer for a private discussion with the Queen was a bad idea, she at least knew her place well enough to not say. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

 It took until the logs of the fire had readjusted themselves in the flame before there was a rapping at the door. It had possibly been a half hour. Christ, she missed her wristwatch almost as much as she missed indoor plumbing. 

 Two palace guards, lower level knights, entered when she called her permission. The sorcerer stood in cold-forged iron shackles between them.

 “Lord Forwin insists that we remain for your protection, Your Majesty,” the shorter of the two guards said.

 Ah, Forwin. That was it. The absolute wanker.

 “That will not be necessary.” Peggy regarded them with a look she knew could cow men with tougher demeanors and more battle experience. “I need privacy for my interrogation. You will wait down the hall.”

 The knight who had spoken looked hesitantly between Peggy and the prisoner, but eventually bowed and took his leave. His companion followed suit. 

 The sorcerer shuffled further into the room, lifting his head from where it was tipped forward. His face was streaked with grime, pieces of straw stuck through his beard and the rest of his hair, from the makeshift bed he’d been allowed in his cell. The shackles on his wrists and ankles were meant to dull magic, though she knew how easily he could remove them if he wished to escape.

 “You appear in good health, my lady,” he said, with a minute, and unnecessary shake of his head; his words alone would have given her answer enough to the question she was not yet able to ask.

 Peggy set her goblet down. She pulled a pin from her hair, letting it fall in waves across her shoulders. She circled him. “Have you decided to confess to your crimes?”

 “And what crimes would those be?”

 “The charge of witchcraft. Another has come forward with an accusation, as well. Apparently you were seen three years ago slaying a chicken with only your mind as a weapon.” She rolled her eyes. Steve’s alibi for that night was conveniently living over one thousand years in the future at the time, though she wasn’t able to mention that to the supposed witness.

 Steve looked to the door, lowered his voice. “They’re far enough down the hall, now.”

 Peggy wasted no time in stepping close to him and using the pin to pick the lock of the shackles. Steve shook out his hands - she winced at the raw, red skin of his wrists - and she knelt to release his feet. “I haven’t heard anything from the scouting party.”

 “I was worried you’d say that.” He offered a hand to help her to her feet. “If we have any chance of getting home, you and I will have to head to that cave on our own, and try to open up whatever portal it was we activated that weapon.”

 “How am I going to come up with a reason for the two of us to travel anywhere together?” Peggy plucked a piece of straw from his head and flicked it toward the fire. “Forwin will claim I’ve been enchanted by you. He’s already attempted to unseat me once before.”

 “You know, this all would have been easier if you hadn’t said your name was Guinevere.”

 “I needed an alias to blend in!” she huffed.

 “You didn’t need to pick the name of the future Queen.”

 “How was I supposed to know that the King was going to fall in love with me? And I thought it was all legend, anyway.”

 “Either way,” Steve started, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand straying to adjust the simple golden crown on her head, “you could have said no to the proposal.”

 Peggy glared up at him. “He would have declared me a witch and had me killed. And I’m not the one who got myself caught lifting more than a human should be able to; I had to get access to the palace dungeons somehow, to save your sorry arse.”

 He tilted her head up and met her in a kiss that felt too soft after weeks apart. “I missed you, Peg.”

 Her frustration melted and she pressed closer to his warm chest, bookended by the heat of the fire at her back. “Have you been managing at night? It’s been snowing all day. I can have another blanket sent for you.”

 “Pretty sure that the Hydra device that shot us back in time left me feeling a little worse off than a cold night could.” Steve chuckled, his thumb still on her chin, a twinkle appearing in his eye. “Maybe you’ll feel better if I perform a little magic.”

 “That is your worst line yet,” Peggy muttered, but went on her toes, let him kiss her, tease her mouth open. His hands made for the ties on the back of her dress. "We should discuss our plan."

 "There's time." Steve mouthed a line to her ear, worried her lobe between his teeth… 

 Peggy cleared her throat. “Queen Guinevere and the Sorcerer ran away that night, and found the cave. I think that’s enough of a bedtime story for tonight.”

 Jane’s face contorted itself into her scheming pout, a pre-emptive frown for the times she was struggling to think herself out of something she didn’t want to do. “But that wasn’t a Christmas story!” She wiggled her legs around under the covers, peering up at Peggy. “What happens next?”

 “Sure it was,” Steve cut in from the doorway. “They came home just in time for Christmas that year.” He joined them on Jane’s other side, comically hanging off the edge of the twin bed that he’d hardly fit in without two other occupants, and handed her a mug. “Warm milk with a touch of peppermint in it, for the Princess.”

 “I thought we were trying to get her highness to sleep?” Peggy asked, thinking of all the gifts that still needed wrapping, the empty stockings hanging from the mantle, the cookies to arrange and set out for Santa, let alone the work she still had waiting for her.

 Jane took a sip of the milk, and spilled some on the threadbare stuffed dog tucked into her arm. 

 “I took care of most of it while you got her settled,” Steve said vaguely, producing a napkin and dabbing at the spill, winking at Peggy over Jane’s head.

 “Does that mean I can get another story?” she asked, beaming up at them with her gap-toothed smile.

 “No,” Steve said, at the same time as Peggy said, “Fine.”

 He raised his eyebrows at her.

 “It’s Christmas Eve,” Peggy sighed, leaning back on the headboard and smoothing out Jane’s bangs. “What sort of story would you like to hear this time?”

 “The princess story!” She started to lie back down, holding the mug out now that she was finished with it. 

 Peggy took the milk before more could spill, and briefly considered which type alcohol she might add to it once Jane was asleep—rum, if they had any left. “There’s not much to that one, love.” She patted Jane’s leg as she got up from the bed.

 “But the princess is in it!” 

 “Not until the very end.” Steve stood, dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “The Queen and the Sorcerer didn’t even know about the Princess until they’d been home for a while.” 

 Jane yawned, attempting to talk through it. “I like that story.”

 Peggy kissed Jane’s forehead and tucked her in. “I’m glad. Now, get some sleep. Santa can’t come when you’re awake.”

 “But I’m not tired,” she whined.

 “Why don’t you close your eyes and pretend you’re sleeping?” Steve suggested, flicking the light off as they made it to the door. “Santa won’t know the difference.”

 She shut her eyes with a quick nod and snuggled back down into the covers.

 “That was a good idea,” Peggy whispered, following Steve to the living room. Most of the presents were already wrapped and under the tree, but the stocking stuffers were still out on the coffee table. 

 “I have them every so often.” Steve grabbed a few things and brought them to the fireplace. Jane’s stocking hung in the middle, Steve and Peggy’s on either end. The mantle was cluttered with a clay pot Jane had made in art class a few months before, various Christmas decorations, a few candles, a photo of the two of them on their wedding day, and in the center, a re-purposed cake stand holding a crown. 

 She walked toward it, touching it with the pads of her fingertips. She couldn't believe it was seven years ago today that they'd returned. They had spent a year in medieval Britain after their search for a Hydra cell in Wales. When they'd returned, they were shocked to realize less than a minute had passed.

 Then again, Steve was probably less shocked; he was an experienced time traveler by then.

 “I do miss it, sometimes.”

 “What, being in charge? I thought you’d have enough of that with SHIELD. Or is it keeping me chained up in a dungeon that you enjoyed?” he teased, shooting her a grin.

 Peggy rolled her eyes. “It was the simplicity of it. No ringing telephones, no threat of nuclear war.”

 “No running water, no electricity…” Steve lifted the crown. She turned toward him as he placed it gently on her hair. “I’m also pretty sure that you prefer the desk chair in your office to that throne. But I gotta say, this is a good look for you.”

 “What do we do when Jane learns of the legend of Queen Guinevere, who reformed Camelot in a few months, and ran off with a sorcerer?” she asked, swiping a piece of chocolate from the small pile on the mantle before Steve could drop it in her stocking. Her posture was usually impeccable, but she could feel herself standing taller with the added weight of gold and the crown’s inlaid jewels. "There are paintings of me in history books."

 “She’ll just believe it’s just a legend, like most people do.” Steve lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Will you deign to help me finish with the stockings, Your Majesty? My magic alone will not be enough.” 

 “I’m not a Queen anymore,” Peggy said, her lips tugging into a smile despite herself. She pulled her hand away from his to remove the crown, set it back on its stand. It reflected the Christmas tree lights, the glow of the lamp in the corner of the room. “And,” she added, starting to distribute candy canes, “you were never a sorcerer.”

 Steve pulled a sprig of mistletoe out of his pocket and dangled it above her head. “That doesn’t mean I can’t work some Christmas magic.”

 Peggy’s laugh was soft as she went on her toes to kiss him. There was a draft coming in through the fireplace, where only a few embers were left. “You’re ridiculous,” she said against his lips, pushing her fingers through his hair, pleased to find no stray pieces of straw. 

 She might not have had her lady in waiting to supply her with endless wine and stoke the fire through the night, but she had Steve, warm and safe and clean in her arms, and their brilliant Jane, sleeping soundly down the hall. Even a Queen couldn’t want for anything else.

#steggysecretsanta #beautifulwhensarcastic #steggy fanfic #my fic #merry christmas! #sorry it's a few days late! #steggy #also sorry that you're probably asleep right now but i wanted to post it asap #and now you'll get to wake up to it tomorrow!

[photolover82]

The Masked Singer Season 5 Episode 4 Recap: Group B once again with a wildcard (Commentary & Guesses)

Hi everybody! Welcome or welcome back to Ana’s Masked Singer recap where I, Ana, recap every single episode of The Masked Singer. We’re back with Group B and this time we have a surprise wildcard which stay tuned until the end for that one. So yeah let’s get into that, starting with the *sigh* eliminated contestant (oof this one is gonna be um interesting to say the least because I have a lot of opinions and probably so do you so here we are... let’s do this)

The contestant who was eliminated this round was...

*DRUMROLL PLEASE*

Grandpa Monster 👹 👴🏻

Commentary: Am I surprised? Not in the slightest bit. He was honestly the weakest link of Group B, even though he didn’t suck, he was actually pretty ok (I am not gonna say good, ok is the best word I will use) , but he really ruined it with this performance of Bad Reputation by Joan Jett. It was like he was thinking who cares if I sound good, I am just gonna throw caution into the wind (is that how the saying goes? Idk). It kind of had the same energy as Sarah Pailin aka the bear in season 3 singing Baby Got Back. It wasn’t awful, just meh at best.

So yeah, he was revealed to be (as I unfortunately expected/guessed)...

*DRUMROLL PLEASE*

Logan Paul

Yeah, yeah, yeah... I know he be controversial and I am honestly not his fan by any means because those Paul brothers are the spawn of Satan especially the other one (that name is cursed, we don’t say it here), but you know what, I don’t think he’s the ABSOLUTE worst anymore, so I guess that’s a markup in his favor. He has stopped sucking, I gotta give him that, but I feel indifferent towards him right now, even though there are things that he has said that I am like hmmm why am I agreeing with you dude, stop being sensible. I know a lot of people were mad about this one and rightfully so, I wasn’t too thrilled either seeing him under the mask, but just think he’s gone so we won’t see him anymore. This was one of the only times where I wanted to be wrong, but here we are, 3rd correct guess of the season yay!

Anyways, let’s move on to the remaining 4 (yup wildcard included baby!):

1. Piglet 🐷

Commentary: He sang Good to be Alive by Andy Grammar and I really enjoyed it ngl even though it wasn’t my favorite of the night nor was it as good as his first one. He started off a bit shaky and then he really got into the groove of the song, I really liked it a lot. His voice is really smooth and sounds familiar *wink wink* 😉

Having said that, I am gonna double down on my guess of:

Nick Lachey

Clues/Reasoning:

Football clues and don’t be a ball hog= brooo get this... this man got kicked out of a football game for starting a fight with fans of the other team (like excuse me sir... what?! These celebs are crazy)

oh and in the first clue package he says how he falls so fast that he said I love you on the 2nd date= which is something that he did say to his wife Vanessa

Oh and Piglet can stay cool even in the heat= 98 degrees reference baby!

2. Black Swan 🦢🖤

Performance: OMG I KNEW THAT SHE WAS GONNA PICK A BETTER SONG AND THEN SMASH IT.... which she absolutely did omg best performance of the night. She sang In My Blood by Shawn Mendes and wow is all I have to say. She really redeemed herself with song choice, THIS IS WHAT I WAS TALKING AB... it suited her voice so well. It started out so pretty and sweet and then BAM STRONG AF VOCALS BABY! Like wow wow wow... she is so a contender for the finals!

Having said that, I know (again doubling down) that this has to be:

Jojo

Reasoning/Clues:

Globe = she has a tattoo of a world map

Red X= She was a guest judge on X Factor

Castle= she was offered the role of Hannah Montana but she turned it down

Scales= she had a lot of legal problems with her record labels

3. Chameleon 🦎

Commentary: So he sang (or should I say rapped) 21 Questions by 50 Cent ft Nate Dogg and hells yeah this man is a pro. He’s so on the pocket with the song, you can tell that he does this for a living, like it’s not like them athletes who rap, he’s in tune with the music and very much a performer not an athlete even tho he is tall. Even though, to me, he is the weakest amongst the ones still standing, he is still a really strong performer.

I know exactly who this is and I am pleased to double down on my guess of:

Wiz Khalifa

Reasoning/Clues:

Rainbow Paint Brush= this is a mention of his sister who is trans and passed away a couple of years ago in 2017 (also when he says he helps others shine & the someone special he helped lift up, it refers to how he helped his sister be herself)

Peaches= his mom’s name is Peachie

Taxi= reference to his infamous song Black and Yellow

History with precious gemstones= he dated AMBER Rose and u could say Amber is a precious gemstone and his song with Charlie Puth, See You Again, is certified DIAMOND wow

Now our wildcard baby! Let’s give it up for.... The Crab! 🦀

Commentary: He sang Ain’t No Sunshine by Bill Withers and I am gonna be honest: I was pleasantly surprised. Last week’s wildcard was meh to say the least so I didn’t expect anything grand this time and wow what a raspy wonderful tone I heard in this crab. There was this one note that he kept repeating and holding that I was like woah baby this man can sing! It was absolutely wonderful of a performance, I really enjoyed it.

Ok, now for my guess:

Bobby Brown

Reasoning/Clues:

Tragedy & darkness endured in his family= the death of Whitney Houston, their daughter Bobby Christina, and his son

Butterfly and Bee= BB aka his initials

2+3= he was born February 5th and his band New Edition had 5 members

That’s all folks! Sorry for the delay in posting this but tonight is the next show and apparently we are gonna see this group one more time for the Group B finals, so I will see you then, I can’t wait! Bye guys! Don’t forget to like, comment, and do all the social media things.

#the masked singer #themaskedsinger #hollywood #celebrities #the masked singer season 5 #music #tv shows #competition

[nerdy-bits]

The Unspoken Rules of Stealth Games

I love stealth games. They are my absolute jam. I’ve been an Assassin’s Creed acolyte from the beginning and Splinter Cell rests firmly atop my list of favorite franchises. The industry isn’t flooded by this genre, but there are a fair number of quality contenders. The Dishonored games are a tour de force, I love the critically mixed Deus Ex prequels deeply, I only play Far Cry with my knife and bow, Ghost Recon is a kind of comfort food, even in Uncharted 4 I avoided combat in favor of being a sneak. In fact, really the only thing I like more than stealth gameplay is cooperative stealth gameplay (though I am a sucker for tactics games). There is just something about clearing a room with a friend, no enemy wise to your presence. Splinter Cell has brilliant co-op. Far Cry is at its best when your crew chooses the silent approach, one friend getting dirty up close with a blade while a ranger picks off sentries, putting arrows between armor plates. 

Most stealth games though, avoid multiplayer completely. I frequently lament that I can’t take out targets as agents 47 and 46. Most of these games, to me, feel like they would be better with a friend. Now a part of that is certainly because most things are better with friends but, secondarily, these games are difficult. Having a friend to help could both ease the game of chess you play in every encounter or allow creators to add differing levels of complexity. 

I could talk about the possibilities for, maybe literally, days. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. At least not today. If very few stealth franchises build out co-op experiences, a fraction of those games create adversarial multiplayer. Splinter Cell has tried it. Spies vs Mercs, a mode that pitches Splinter Cell agents against NPC-esque mercenaries, leverages darkness and verticality against mercs with flashlights. It’s, as I previously described, brilliant. By pitting factions against each other with different abilities to navigate the gamespace, adhering to the stealth game loop is the only thing that gives the spies an advantage. 

Assassin’s Creed also dabbled in multiplayer. Both PvP and PvE. The latter, while promising, fell victim to the extremely buggy launch of Assassin’s Creed Unity. Network issues, net code issues, strange pop-in, the experience was fractured from the start. The former, PvP variant, was introduced with the release of AC Brotherhood. Across a handful of game modes, and choosing between an impressive lineup of characters, players hunted each other down across crowded maps utilizing a number of distractive, offensive, and defensive abilities. 

The Brotherhood multiplayer was great in the first few weeks, but as time progressed players became savvy to the underlying systems and within months of release the idea of “Stealth” all but disappeared. The reasons, I believe, are perhaps why so many stealth games leave this feature off of the list: Balance and participation.

A few weeks ago Hood: Outlaws and Legends came out and a group of friends and I grabbed it up. At only thirty dollars it was kinda hard not to just grab it and give it a shot. Hood takes place in the Robin Hood universe (mythos?) and tasks players to cooperatively - stealthily - infiltrate an area, track down the Sheriff, pickpocket a vault key from him, and then abscond with the loot in said vault. It’s like Payday with a bow and arrow. 

Pulling off these heists is actually pretty fun. The PvE (versus AI only) mode allows you to dig into the mechanics of the game while working out the kinks in your team communication. Before long we were complimenting well placed shots and perfect dual takedowns as we carved our way to our prize. The formula is solid, if a bit repetitious. The requirements don’t change at all between maps. The location of the vault chest will move around from heist to heist, but that is really it; and after a few rounds we had grown a bit too familiar with the process. The game also randomly chooses the maps in this mode, so we ended up playing two maps in three games, which was a bit of a bummer. Also your XP gain is dramatically limited in this AI centered mode, which pushed us quickly into the game’s core mode: heists against competing human players.

The formula doesn’t really change for this PvPvE mode, save the fact that at the same time you are hunting for the Sheriff, his key, and then the vault, another team is as well. Initially the prospect of this dynamic was interesting, but pretty quickly it devolved.

This was when I realized multiplayer stealth is critically dependent on its players participating in the right way. Now some games incentivize this participation or choose to restrict your abilities altogether. Think AC: Brotherhoods scoring system for kills which took points from you for being loud or conspicuous. Spies vs Mercs restricts teams abilities based on their faction. Mercs literally cannot hide in the dark. Spies will not win a gunfight. 

Hood doesn’t really build any advantage or disadvantages into its gameplay loop. We started our first round of PvPvE and began to sneak around the map the same way we were in the PvE mode. Being seen by guards locks the area you are in down. They close all the gates and begin hunting for you. Against AI this was a paradigm shift. The whole group has to go into ghost mode or just shelter in place until the heightened awareness drips away with the invisible clock. In multiplayer you get notified if your opponents incur a lockdown. This is done presumably to give you a brief jolt of encouragement. Thoughts dart across your mind, “They are locked down, they got caught, we have a few minutes to creep ahead and really gain an advantage. 

Only that wasn’t the case. 

Ryan and I stopped playing the Brotherhood multiplayer a few months in. It was nearly impossible to play the game by its own rules. Shooting a target with your wrist mounted pistol was always the worst way to pull off a kill, but useful if your target just kept evading you. You received a meager serving of points and would move back into the crowd in an attempt to reestablish yourself as an agent of stealth. By the end of the first month people were sprinting across rooftops, shooting down into the crowd, and then running off to do it again. They had discovered that if you ran around on the rooftops it didn’t raise your profile and that picking off a target from a rooftop with a gun, the penalty wouldn’t be enforced unless you killed a second target. First kills in this method would rack around 1800 points, the second kill a measly 300 (the numbers may be way off here, its been years. It’s the proportion that’s important. 

The second kill was the system working, discouraging loud tactics with point penalties. But if you went and hid, let the system time out, and then did it again, you could farm high point value kills in perhaps the least clandestine way possible. Brotherhood became a shooting gallery. It was absolutely untenable. Assassin’s Creed would get away from adversarial multiplayer after Black Flag. I barely returned for Revelations. 

As we were creeping through the bushes in a castle courtyard, our band of merry thieves, we got the first notification that our opponents had triggered an alarm. A wave of relief hit the crew. We’ve got some time. Then the second notification came, then the third, then a fourth. Our relief was subsumed by a revelation: they are just ignoring the stealth altogether. What followed was a painfully reminiscent race to the objectives ignoring area guards altogether (If a gate got dropped each team had a character that could just lift the gate). Our opponents got the key first, found the vault first, and moved the prize first. Each time we got close we were either picked off by a camping Robin, thatching us through the reeds with pinpoint accuracy, or we got bodied by the two melee characters Tooke and John.

Dying, spawning, and running back to the objective is a drag in any game. In a game where you have to make a getaway, every second you have to run back to the last place you saw the objective is a second of distance they get to make. Combat felt clunky and secondary to a stealth system that had been completely abandoned. Knowing that your opponent trips an alarm is incredibly useful, but knowing when they got the key, that they had found the vault, and having a tracker for how far the chest was moving was a bit much. I kept thinking about how much cooler it would have been if we had found the Sheriff only to discover the key was already gone. Imagine coming across a vault that had been looted already, your team scrambling desperately to find out how far their opponents had gotten. 

Still, none of this works players don’t abide by an invisible set of rules, therefore relying on those rules just ends up feeling like a mistake. A private lobby with eight people, all who agree to be stealthy is one thing, hoping that the community at large adopts that mindset is, ever more clearly, dependent on systems. The question is, in an industry that builds to player’s fantasies of power, how do you implement these systems and simultaneously empower players while also guiding their play-style along the path you desire?

How do you penalize running around like Rambo adequately? How do you incentivize stealth to make it the only way players want to engage?

@LubWub ~Caleb

#stealth #stealth games #far cry #assassin's creed #multiplayer #asymmetrical multiplayer #splinter cell #hood outlaws and legends #article #blog

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 15

Some of you will hate me. Some of you will - well - love me just a little less than before, I guess. But this has always been where this story was headed. I can tell you, at least, that our heroes will have their justice in the end, if that softens the blow at all.

TRIGGER WARNING for blood and minor gore.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Fifteen: Tooth and Nail

"It is not, perhaps, the kind of love she once wanted. But it is the only kind of love she'll ever want again." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

They find Rhaegar Targaryen dead on a nondescript morning half an hour past dawn.

Jon and Sansa are roused from their bed and called down to Aegon's solar. Just before they reach the door, Jon slips his arm from her hold to instead reach down and link their hands together. She looks up at him as they stop just outside the threshold.

He sees the nervous flex of her throat and brings their joined hands up to brush a kiss along her knuckles.

"Jon, your father..." she says brokenly, the threat of tears lining her words. All for him. Always for him.

He lets out a shaky breath along her knuckles, keeps his mouth pressed to her skin. And then he pulls back, swallowing tightly. "I'll be alright." A short, tight nod. "We'll be alright."

Later, he tells himself. Grieve later. Rest later. There is too much at stake now to lose himself to it.

She keeps his gaze, says nothing in return. But something of understanding passes between them then, and the graze of her thumb over the heel of his palm is answer enough.

Jon opens the door.

The first gaze he meets belongs to Daenerys. She's standing at the edge of Aegon's desk, arms crossed over her chest with a glance over her shoulder at them when the door creeps open. Her face is a tight mask, the barest of shadows beneath her eyes. It strikes him suddenly, that she has lost her brother. And he cannot rightly tell what it stirs in her, so fiercely stoic is her mask. But the harsh clench of her fingers over her arms, digging white imprints into her flesh – that is enough to tell him something is stirred in her.

Jon looks away from her, to just behind her, where Rhaenys sits in an armchair along the wall, legs crossed gracefully, a nervous finger tapping along her armrest. She's wearing the same dress she wore the night before, and he wonders, briefly, if she's even slept at all. Her eyes flick to Jon and Sansa's joined hands for a moment, lips thinning into a tight line, and Jon is sure he feels Sansa's attempt to pull away, but he holds tight. Doesn't let her go. Rhaenys glances away as they step into the room.

"Welcome, brother." The silky voice calls his attention away and toward Aegon.

He's standing behind the desk, leaning over it with his fingertips perched elegantly along the wood top. The purple bruise from the previous night is harsher now, branching over his sharp cheekbone, the fall of salt-white hair over his shoulder casting it in shadow. "You're just in time," he says.

There is a measure of challenge to his voice, and Jon is perfectly aware as to why. He clears his throat. "Your Grace," he greets, head bowed.

(It is not the sort of challenge Jon ever intends to meet, after all.)

The slip of a smile curls at the edges of Aegon's mouth, like a spill of fine wine.

Sansa curtseys beside Jon as she releases his hand, offering her own greeting.

Aegon stands fully then, hands slipping behind his back. "Yes, well, I suppose even the servants must know by now," he says.

"They know a Baratheon traitor killed their king," Daenerys says, voice even. She cocks her head at her husband. "And they know we're vulnerable to siege. Dangerously so."

"We beat them back," Rhaenys contends, standing and walking toward them, stopping just at Daenerys' side. There's a subtle desperation to the words, a need Jon understands too well, for he cannot imagine her fate had they not beaten them back.

"Yes, but at what cost?" Aegon hisses, a glance to their sister. He shakes his head. "If they can kill a king in his own keep..." A refined sort of snarl mars his mouth.

"'They'," Jon repeats, stepping cautiously forward. "What 'they' are you speaking of?"

Daenerys nearly scoffs. "No one in this room is simple enough to miss the obvious."

Rhaenys folds her arms over her chest, shrinking in on herself.

Daenerys looks back to Aegon. "Stannis had help. He had help from the inside. Or else those gates would never have been opened. Those soldiers would never have made it so deep inside the castle so quickly."

"Agreed," Aegon says, brows furrowing. "And if we mean to show the kingdoms that House Targaryen has not been weakened by this assault then we need to act quickly."

Not been weakened? Jon wants to scream.

Their father is lying dead in his chambers this very moment, staining the air foul, rotting up the room.

Not been weakened?

Jon's hands clench into fists at his sides. "You speak as though you already know who's betrayed us."

Rhaenys glances up at the words, mouth parted anxiously.

Aegon sighs, chin lifting. "Father was near raving in the end there, I admit, but he had one thing right."

Jon swallows thickly.

Aegon tips his head slightly, eyes on Jon. "Viserys' fleet was too conveniently absent."

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Sansa begins, stepping up beside Jon, "But are you saying you believe your uncle orchestrated this with Stannis Baratheon?"

Aegon releases a short, sharp laugh – almost a bark. "Hardly, my lady. He hasn't the mind for such a clever coup."

"Then...?"

Daenerys frowns. "Either Stannis is a greater strategist than any of us have given him credit for, or Viserys has been getting some very treasonous ideas from his Lannister wife."

Rhaenys shakes her head, lip between her teeth, chest heaving. "Stannis would have done whatever it took to break Father after the rebellion. Even if that meant allying with the Lannisters."

"But the Lannisters have no reason to break faith with the crown. Not now," Sansa argues.

"They would if they thought they had a chance to supplant Father with Viserys and Cersei," Aegon says, a rueful chuckle leaving him. "Granted we were killed in the process," he finishes, nodding to Jon.

But Jon's mind is reeling, spinning. There's something in the back of his head like a steady scratching, a hum of discontent. It settles in his gut like shifting shards of glass. "Your Grace," he begins, licking his lips. "Do you really think Tywin would chance such a ploy with Ser Jaime in the Kingsguard? A possible victim of the siege? Do you really think he would risk his line, even if he would risk anything else?"

Aegon's mouth dips into a frown at the comment.

"If Cersei wasn't playing to her father's tune and whispering in Viserys' ear," Daenerys snaps, eyes fire-lit, "Then she was, at the least, privy to his treason and chose not to inform us. I cannot believe that conniving woman would not know what was going on under her own nose, in her own home, and thus, that Tywin Lannister would not know. The Lannisters are complicit in this attack, at best. And they are openly traitorous, at worst." Her eyes snap to Aegon. "There can be no mercy for either."

Aegon clenches his jaw, the motion seeming to pain his bruised cheek, or to pain something else, Jon cannot be sure. But there's a hesitance in his features, an uncertainty. It throws Jon just the slightest.

"Your Grace,' he tries, voice low and even.

Aegon's gaze flicks warily up to his.

"We're vulnerable, and we've taken too many losses." He licks his lips, swallows thickly. "But we are not alone."

Aegon quirks a brow his way.

"Call upon the North."

Daenerys releases a disbelieving laugh. "Summon Ned Stark? When we've not even discerned the traitor yet?"

"My father is not a traitor," Sansa says vehemently, chin raised. "He tried to warn us. He sent Theon Greyjoy with his missive, didn't he?"

"How do you know that?" Aegon asks quietly, voice thin, eyes sharpened like cuts of glass.

"I told her," Jon says instinctively, never missing the soft intake of breath Sansa breathes beside him.

Aegon's gaze slips to Jon once more, steady and unnerving.

Jon clenches his jaw at the look, hardly daring to say more.

"And what will the North give us, dear nephew?" Daenerys sneers.

He does not blink when he swings his dark gaze her way. "Time, at the very least."

She bristles at his remark.

He looks back to his brother. "You want to test Tywin Lannister's loyalty? You want the kingdoms to see our strength? Show them that the North still answers to the crown. Show them that fealty and solidarity are rewarded. Make Ned Stark your Hand."

Sansa swings wide eyes to Jon, stepping into him, a hand at his sleeve. "Jon," she whispers.

He presses his palm reassuringly over her hand.

It is too much to expect to be named heir, even if such a thing promises the sort of safety he wishes for Sansa, for their babe. To voice it would cast too much suspicion, especially now. And he never wanted a crown in the first place. Never wanted a hand in it. Let them squabble over heirs. Jon wants peace. Just peace.

But he's not stupid enough to think they can survive King's Landing alone anymore.

Daenerys' mouth opens, but no words follow.

Aegon's hands slip from behind his back, leveling on the table edge before him. His eyes narrow on Jon instantly. "What did you say?"

Sansa's hand curls tight in Jon's sleeve, but he ignores it. "Make Ned Stark your Hand," he repeats, voice steady.

A moment of keen disquiet passes through the room, and then Rhaenys steps up beside Aegon, a hand at his elbow, head bowed to him. "You would slight Dorne with such a choice for Hand," she says evenly. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. "They will not have it. Not with Stark blood next in line for the throne."

Aegon works his jaw, never looking at her.

A sound escapes Daenerys, strangled and low. She clears her throat. "Rhaenys," she seethes, wetness dotting her eyes.

Rhaenys frowns, hand slipping from her brother, face softening as she turns to Daenerys. "You know it as well as I. If you cannot conceive..." she says almost sadly, voice trailing off.

Sansa's hand falls from Jon's sleeve, and he does not miss the motion.

Aegon sucks a quiet breath through his teeth. "Rhaenys," he admonishes.

But her eyes are clear when they look back at him. "Jon is your heir, until you've a child of your own. Or would you rather name our uncle?"

Aegon's face screws into an ugly visage, lip curling at the insinuation. "Viserys will never - "

"No, he will never," Daenerys promises coldly, chin lifting.

"You don't have to name an heir, Your Grace, not just yet," Jon says. "You've just come into your reign. This isn't the time." He swings his imploring gaze around the room. "But we need allies. The North is still our ally."

"They are our subject, if you recall correctly," Aegon nearly snarls. "There is a difference."

Jon drops his gaze in deference, his skin itching with his frustration, knuckles white where he clenches his fists at his side.

Aegon's face slips back into a mask of practiced grace, the curl of his lip evening out. "No. What we need is to reestablish faith in the true Targaryen line." He looks to Daenerys then, a flicker of concern crossing his features. "And I will not let the Lannisters play our uncle like a puppet. Until I've a son to call my own, it must be Jon."

Daenerys's chest heaves, her eyes narrowing sharply. "He is a bastard."

Somehow, Jon thinks it should hurt less by now. And yet, it never does.

At his peripheral, Sansa presses toward him, a measure of silent comfort.

Aegon pinches the bridge of his nose. "He's legitimized, Daenerys."

"A hollow gesture," she cries, voice shrill now, desperate. "He's hardly a dragon."

Aegon ignores her, turning to Jon. "I'll consider your recommendation for Hand, but I promise nothing."

"Aegon," Daenerys bites out, jaw working.

Jon blinks at his brother, mouth parting. "That's not what I..."

Rhaenys shakes her head, a soft curse at the edge of her lips. "Don't insult Mother like this," she pleads, eyes imploring on Aegon.

"Your Grace," Daenerys tries again, voice dangerously low, a stillness overtaking her that chills the air in the room.

Jon swallows tightly when he glances to her, Sansa's words from earlier that morning taking root instantly.

Daenerys knows about the babe.

The air leaves him, the words stalled on his tongue, but Sansa must be thinking the same thing because –

"Your Grace, there's something you should kn – " Her words are cut off sharply.

"Sansa's with child," Daenerys interrupts with a snap of her teeth.

The room goes still. Jon's gut clenches painfully at Daenerys' exhale, his hand going for Sansa's at his side on instinct. He tastes her stark regret in the air, the confession stolen clean from her own lips. It rattles something of rage inside him, quieted only by a branding, instant fear.

Aegon slips his hands behind his back smoothly, eyes riveted to his wife. His pristine features, marred only by the blooming bruise at his cheek, sharpen almost indiscernibly. "What did you say?" His voice is like the snap of scaled wings.

Jon keeps his gaze resolutely from his sister's, even as he feels her sudden, wide-eyed stare on them. He only grips tighter at Sansa's hand in his.

"Brother..."

Aegon's gaze whips to Jon. "It is 'Your Grace'," he seethes darkly.

Jon lets out a stifled breath, blinking back the wetness. "Your Grace," he chokes out.

"How... how long have you known?" Rhaenys whispers out.

It takes all of him to tear his gaze to hers, only to find her eyes fixed to Sansa's stomach, tear-laced and unblinking. She clears her throat, wipes a hand over her face, looks back up at him.

Like the tears had never been.

But he catches the minute flex of her throat when she voices her question once more. "How long have you known?"

"Yes," Aegon breathes lowly. "How long?"

"Please forgive him, Your Grace," Sansa says suddenly, voice wavering just the slightest. "I only just shared the news with Jon this morning. It's what we'd meant to bring to you after we broke our fast but then..." Her voice breaks off with a pained sigh, gaze falling to the side.

"Then our father conveniently died," Aegon finishes for her.

She glances up at his comment, horrified. "No, Your Grace, that's not – "

"Your Grace," Jon pleads, throat tight.

"And how fitting," he interrupts, "That we should be speaking of heirs this morn." The king's smile is thin and wicked.

Daenerys stews in her disquiet at the edge of the desk, watching. Her fingers press white imprints into the pale flesh of her arms where they cross over her chest, like a shield. Or perhaps like a cage.

Jon thinks the distinction is rather lost on him these days.

He clears his throat, runs a reassuring thumb over Sansa's knuckles, though he cannot tell which of them he is trying to comfort more. "Please, Your Gace, there is still the traitor to consider. This... this changes nothing on that accord."

Rhaenys stumbles back a step, eyes drifting to the floor, clearly shaken. "This changes everything," she whispers brokenly.

It only makes him angrier. The vexation stains his throat, brings a growl to air. "Our babe is not the threat here."

"Enough," Aegon says tightly, jaw clenching. He's looking down at the desk before him, breathing deep. "Viserys will be summoned to King's Landing to account for his...dereliction." He looks back up, meets each of their eyes in turn. "I will hear no more talk of my heir. And that is final."

Daenerys' lips part, an aborted breath on her tongue.

"That is final," he presses, locking eyes with her. The flex of his jaw softens just the slightest when she glances away, eyes wet, nails digging half-moons into her arms.

Rhaenys draws an unsteady breath in, clearing her throat. "And Stannis?"

Jon glances to her at the mention, feels something stir in his chest. Remorse, perhaps. Or helplessness.

Always his sister, he finds.

Neither of them done right by, in the end.

She does not look at him.

Aegon sighs, shoulders loosening, and the look he gives their sister is startingly fond, tinged at the edges with a sadness like memory.

Not the sort he wants to keep.

"If he wants to keep his life, he'll talk."

Rhaenys' face screws into something ugly. Daenerys scoffs beside her.

"He should die for what he's done," Rhaenys grits out, trembling. "He must."

Aegon turns to her then, hand reaching for her cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "And he will. After he's spilled his secrets."

Rhaenys shakes her head, face bunching as though sick, stumbling back from Aegon's tender touch. "No, his life is mine. You cannot take that from me."

Aegon straightens slightly, hand falling back to his side. "You forget yourself, sister. I am king now, and my word is law."

"Aegon," she seethes, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes – wild and desperate.

"I'll not hear more," he says, turning away.

She lets out a disbelieving breath, head shaking again. "No, I can't - I can't sleep beneath this roof, I can't - not when he's alive. When he's here, alive, and – Aegon, please, no. I can't! Do not make me, please, brother. Kill him." Her voice cracks at the end, the rupture traveling all the way through her, sending her to violent shaking.

Aegon's eyes slip shut. "Leave me. All of you."

Rhaenys goes toward him, hands outreaching, but Daenerys grabs her back, hands at her cheeks, shushing her, pulling her gaze toward hers. "No, no," Rhaenys mutters brokenly, crumbling in Daenerys' arms, stumbling against her as Daenerys pulls them toward the door, a final, searing glance her husband's way, and Jon feels Sansa drifting toward the two women, face pained, words cracked and teetering at the edge of her lips, and he tugs her back by the hand, keeps her fist clenched in his larger one, swallows thickly as he shakes his head at her, even when his own pity for Rhaenys leaves him rattled.

"You will stay, Jon."

Jon glances up at Aegon's words, startled somewhat. Sansa stills beside him.

Aegon's eyes flit toward Sansa briefly, violet and sharp-hewn. "You may leave, Lady Sansa."

She offers a fumbling farewell, curtseying dutifully, hand slipping from Jon's as she backs away. "I'll wait outside, my lord," she says to him, a nod his way, lip caught between her teeth, and he sees the way her hand slips toward her stomach unconsciously. The door closes behind her before he can do more than croak in answer.

He is alone with his brother now. Or rather, he is alone with the king. It makes a fair difference now, he finds.

He looks up at him, meets his gaze.

Silence brews in the space between them. And then Aegon slips a hand toward the desk, tapping a finely-shorn nail along the table top. He cocks his head at him, a wan smile breaking over his lips. "What am I to do with you?"

The question lights something of unease in him. Jon shifts his weight from one leg to the other, mouth still clamped tight. Words fester and die in his throat, unheard. He swallows them back like bile.

In the end, he has no answer for him.

Aegon stops the delicate tapping of his nail, fingers curling into a fist, slow and measured. He braces his knuckles along the edge of the desk as he leans over it. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You did exactly what Father asked of you. Got a babe on your pretty little Northern wife."

Jon keeps is jaw clenched tight, standing stock-still on the other side of the desk.

Vaguely, he remembers the stone their father kept as a paperweight atop his desk – a stolen favor. He doesn't know why the thought should come to him now – only that it does. He swallows thickly, shaking the memory away.

Perhaps he does have an answer for his brother.

"You ask what to do with me?" he asks, chest heaving, just the once – a single, labored breath. "Send me away."

A finely arched brow is his only response.

Jon licks his lips, continuing. "Send us to Winterfell, away from the capital, away from any courtly influence. I know I will never truly be your heir. I've always known that, and I've never resented it. Naming me is just a means to punish Viserys, to remind him of his place, and I understand that, I do. So, have your justice. Call Viserys to King's Landing and hold him accountable. Drag whatever names you need to from Stannis. And then let us go," he pleads, voice cracking at the end, and he swallows it back, tries to rein in his breath, this thundering need in his chest, this rattle of desperation coiling tight in his lungs.

Just let us go.

Aegon stares at him quietly, a tick in his jaw, head cocked. He takes a moment, lets him stew in his unease. And then he blinks, face slipping into seemingly boredom. "No," he says.

Jon lets out a disbelieving breath, a hand wiped over his mouth, shaking with it. "Your Grace."

"You would have me send you North, and take Ned Stark as my Hand?"

"Ned Stark is – "

"Do not tell me what Ned Stark is," he seethes suddenly, face darkening. "I know very well what Ned Stark is." Aegon's lip curls, something angry and bitter branching out over his features. "He's a safety net for you. A way to placate my need for allegiance without costing you your freedom."

"What freedom, Your Grace?" Jon demands derisively, reckless in his urgency.

Aegon shakes his head. "I will not have it."

Jon leans over the other side of the desk, hands placed along the wood top, staring his brother down. "What are you so afraid of?"

A flicker of resentment lights Aegon's features, and it almost startles Jon with its sincerity, brief as it is.

There, and then gone.

Aegon's lip curls familiarly. "You can ask me that, after everything? After what has happened?"

Jon shakes his head, throat bobbing. "Aegon, talk to me."

"I will not be the king that let House Targaryen splinter to pieces," he snarls.

Jon presses closer, eyes imploring on him. "And I will not be the usurper Daenerys paints me as."

"She has reason to be wary, especially now."

"So send me away!" he snaps, acutely anxious, desperate now, teeth clenching at the words.

"With a babe on the way? With the only viable Targaryen bloodline in your wife's belly?" Aegon scoffs. "Come now, Jon, you can't be that simple."

It hurts. It hurts more than he ever thought it would. Jon rears back slightly, face pinched tight. "Is that what I am then? Am I a hostage now? In my own home?"

"You are a member of this House," Aegon says lowly, frown harshening. "And you belong in King's Landing."

Jon's sees red. Instant. Blaring. It overtakes him – rancid and biting. His lungs are full of it. He pushes from his lean over the desk, scoffing, stalking away to the far wall. "Oh, how convenient," he snarls. "To be part of the family – only now. Only now when it suits your purpose. When it is palatable."

"I am your king," Aegon bites out.

"And I am your brother!" Jon yells, stalking back to the desk, shaking with his fury. "Your brother, gods dammit, Aegon, I am your brother!"

"Aye, my brother!" he bellows, fist coming down hard on the desk, a snap of air chasing the motion, like a screech bent in half, a split-open wound. His eyes are wild. Violet-cut. "And I'm supposed to trust you, am I?" he shouts, teeth gnashing. "I'm supposed to take your loyalty at its word when it's already proven so fickle? When you abandoned your king – our father – once before already? Am I to expect the same? Tell me, Jon, is that what your loyalty is worth? Just a passing whim?" he demands, his booming voice filling the room, clattering into every corner, rattling the dust from the eaves.

Jon stares at him, chest heaving. He smacks his lips, the words tart along his tongue, aching for air. "I have never wished harm upon this family," he grinds out, voice catching. "Even when it wished harm upon me." His eyes prick at the corners, salt-tinged and hot. A smarting wetness. His jaw quakes with the effort to keep it at bay.

A stolen stone. Just a stupid, fucking stone. Not even worth the memory it takes to weigh him down.

As passing as a bruise.

(Except bones always remember, even when blood does not.)

A stolen stone, yes. And a loose horse in the night. A crushed petal beneath a boot. Years upon years upon years of it. Over and over. Until his skin is branded with it. Until it slips beneath his tongue like habit.

A shadow he can never shake.

You are not the kind of bastard they've always told you you were.

Jon holds tight to the memory of her words, even when everything else is fleeting.

(Because bruises are just shadows, in the end, and still, they pass.)

He holds tight.

Aegon straightens from his lean over the desk, fist slipping from the wood. An eerie quiet overtakes him then, an unearthly stillness. "Do you know what Father called you in the end there? When he was spluttering blood and breathing his last?"

Jon's rage quiets instantly, the breath raking from him. He cannot take his gaze from him.

Aegon works his jaw, brow furrowed. "Not 'son', not 'Jon', not even 'bastard'."

Jon's mouth parts, a coil of unease tightening in his gut.

"He called you 'traitor'," Aegon tells him.

Jon looks away, a hand wiping over his mouth. He tamps down the quake in him needfully. He looks back to his brother. "What are you trying to say?" he asks stiffly, never minding the rattle in his chest – the ache.

He wonders if he will ever stop looking for love in places it has never grown. His own foolishness, perhaps.

"'He's betrayed me', he said. As he was lying there bleeding, hand at the hole in his chest, the guards in chaos around him, and even when I screamed for him, when I dropped to my knees to hold him, to hold him, it was all he could say. All he could mutter between clenched teeth, his eyes never seeing me. 'He's betrayed me'. And even when enraged he was – he was crying, Jon, did you know that?" Aegon lets out a worn breath, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. When they open, they are wet, just the slightest. Just enough to catch a flicker of light from the far window, the sun seeping into the room like a reminder – irreverent.

Jon shakes his head, chest heaving. A croak leaves him, the words stalled along his tongue.

Aegon's hands wind behind his back, shoulders pulling taut. "And yet you want me to send you away, when I have every reason to try you for treason. When that's exactly what Father would have done, what he would have demanded, had he lived."

"Don't pretend you're doing any of this for me, to protect me," Jon grinds out, bitter suddenly. Bitter and shaken and holding himself together with the sharpness of resentment, with the vehemence of indignation. "Don't pretend I've ever been anything more than a tool to this family."

Aegon swallows thickly, voice hollow when he tells him, "We all have our roles to play." And it sounds so anguished, so unexpectedly regretful, that for a moment, Jon wonders if Aegon believes it – if he will always be this scared and this reluctant to break the mold.

Because he is, Jon realizes. His brother is terrified, he finds suddenly, startlingly.

Of kinghood. Of mortality. Of loneliness. Maybe of all of it.

Jon's throat goes dry, fists clenching at his sides.

And perhaps he would feel sorrow for his brother, for the unbearable pressure he must feel, for this great responsibility leveled on him before his time – perhaps he would ache for him, if he wasn't already so utterly resentful of him, if he wasn't so sick and tired of hiding his own agony behind clenched teeth.

Because Jon has learned well enough by now that understanding is not the same as condoning – that he can still be wronged by that which he pities.

And that he deserves better.

Jon sighs, the exhaustion rushing over him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his voice impossibly tender. "Aegon - "

A sudden banging on the door interrupts him. "Your Grace, Your Grace!" a voice calls.

Both men look to the door instantly, Aegon's command to enter sounding loudly through the room, and a guard bursts in without another second, panting, eyes wide. "Your Grace, it's Stannis Baratheon!"

Jon turns fully to the man, shoulders bunching in alarm. Distantly, he registers Sansa glancing into the room from her place in the hall outside, concern etched across her face.

Aegon narrows his eyes at the guard. "What is it?"

The man gulps. "He's... he's dead, Your Grace."

Jon blinks at the news, lips parting. "What?" It's a searing whisper that leaves him.

Aegon steps from around the desk, hands slipping from behind him and a dangerous glint to his eye. "What in the seven hells happened?" he seethes out, teeth nearly bared.

The poor guard blanches at the tone, mouth trembling. "Your sister, Your Grace, she...the Princess Rhaenys, she..."

Aegon rushes from the room without further word, a curse beneath his breath, and Jon follows instantly, reaching for Sansa's hand as he strides away, and she grasps it instinctively, eyes wide, questions at the tip of her tongue. They make their way through the halls quickly, down to the dungeons. Jon's heart is hammering, his lungs tight. He thinks of Rhaenys' desperate pleas just earlier. He thinks of her fallen face when Aegon hadn't granted Stannis' death that very moment. He thinks of his sister's shuddering form as Daenerys dragged her from the room.

But no, she wouldn't... To kill him would be...

Jon and Aegon stop short at the entrance to Stannis's cell, Sansa's gasp echoing about the stone walls when she pulls her hands to her mouth and stumbles to a halt just behind them.

Stannis is exactly where they left him, arms chained to the wall, back slumped against the stone, head fallen to his collar bone, only now his chest is cut to ribbons, his soiled cotton tunic drenched in blood, so that Jon cannot be sure where flesh ends and fabric begins, a tangled, bloody mess spilling out of his chest cavity, and the entire chamber is filled with a pungency, a sharp, copper-tang that lights the tongue – lessened only somewhat by the acrid scent of wet stone.

Jon rears back, a hand at his mouth. Distantly, he recognizes the light-footed steps of Daenerys coming down the stairwell toward them, racing, frantic.

"What happened? What happened? What – " Daenerys stills at his elbow, nearly jerking back when her eyes land upon the scene, chest heaving with her exertion.

Jon shakes his head, glancing to the side wall where the shadows fall heavy over Rhaenys' form. She sits on the dungeon floor with her back at the wall, bloodied up to the wrists, dagger held tightly and unflinchingly in the palm of one hand, the other curled into a loose fist in her lap, the purple silk of her skirts splattered with intermittent crimson – crumpled and stained. She stares vacantly at the opposite wall, mouth parted as though on a sigh, fingers flexing over the dagger hilt in her palm.

Jon's chest constricts at the sight.

He's only ever seen such a look on her face once before – when they pulled her near-comatose form from her half-dead horse all those years ago, Ser Arthur toppling to the ground behind her in a crumple of flesh and arrows.

"Rhaenys," he whispers brokenly, face pained as he looks upon her.

Her brow flickers at the name, but nothing more.

Sansa is at his side instantly, a hand at his wrist, touch trembling, her heavy, saddened 'oh gods' sounding at his shoulder.

Jon takes a steadying breath in, tries to block out the red. He takes a step closer. "Rhaenys," he tries again, voice wavering, hands trembling.

Stannis's body slides just a fraction, corpse dragging down the stone wall, and then his weight is caught abruptly by his chained arms, his elbows snapping taut at a sickening angle.

Rhaenys barely registers it, breath evening out, eyes unmoving on the far wall.

"What... happened?" Aegon demands, jaw clenching tight over the words.

The guard at the base of the stairs behind them shifts uncomfortably. "She asked to speak to the prisoner privately, Your Grace, and we... we stepped outside for only a moment – only a moment! And then he was screaming, and we rushed back inside, and she was crouched over his form, stabbing and stabbing and silent as the grave as she did so, Your Grace. Not a word uttered since, just..." He blows a breath from his lips. "Just sat there along the wall and waited for you all to come. Wouldn't let us take the dagger – not that we were too keen on trying, Your Grace, if you understand." He seems to shudder at the words. "Stabbed him seventeen times, you see. Couldn't get her off him 'til she stopped suddenly on her own, mouth clamped up tight, not a word, and he wouldn't have lasted 'til a Maester, see, barely got another breath in before he was gulping like a fish, moaning something or other, and then he was gone, Your Grace. Wasn't no helping it. And the Princess Rhaenys, she..." He stops suddenly, a weighted sigh leaving him. "She sat herself right on down along the floor like she was waiting for you."

Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth in sudden realization.

Seventeen.

Seventeen arrows sunk into Ser Arthur Dayne's body.

He looks back to Rhaenys, to the dagger held needfully in her bloody hand, the wet glint of it eerie in the torchlight.

She's so utterly still and quiet, and he wants to shake her suddenly – bring back that biting, righteous anger of hers. Even her cruel digs. Even that. Something. Anything but this silence – this ruination.

He can't watch her break a second time.

Daenerys sighs beside him. "There's no questioning him now. We'll get no answers from a corpse."

Jon glances to her out of the corner of his eye, watches the tight flex of her jaw, the tip of her thumb pressed anxiously between her pursed lips. "Is that truly your concern right now? Rhaenys just killed a man."

"She's killed a traitor. A threat to our reign," Daenerys corrects, eyes slanting his way, and they're startlingly akin to his father's eyes in that moment, in the flicker of torchlight that illuminates her face – just briefly, just the span of a breath – like a memory you can't seem to shake. "I'd say she's done us a favor, except, perhaps, a little too hastily."

Jon huffs, brow furrowing. "She's clearly distraught by the experience. We need to get her to the maester," he growls out.

It's ridiculous, all of them standing around talking about it, talking about her. And she's just sitting there, there on the floor, without anyone even bothering to comfort her, and gods, he doesn't think she can survive another break, and he wants to hold her, he does. Wants to pull her into his arms and tell her it's going to be okay (even if it's not). Wants to pull the blade from her grip and clean the blood from her hands. Wants to look her in the eye and hold her face and let her cry and gods, even after everything, he just wants – he just wants to be a brother.

He just wants 'brother' to mean something again.

But he's too afraid to touch her. Too afraid to open that door again.

And he won't. He won't ever open that door again.

But she just looks so lost, and so sad, and so alone. And he doesn't know how to fix that anymore. Doesn't think he ever knew. Doesn't think even she ever knew. Just grasping at a shroud, really, just careening around each other – him and her and Aegon and Daenerys and even Rhaegar. All of them. Just blindly groping in the dark, missing each other by miles, flailing – falling.

Never learning how to fix what they never knew had been broken.

It breaks his heart, watching his sister. Breaks it beyond any repair he thinks could be possible.

He looks down to her bloodied hands.

(There is no going back from that. He knows this intimately.)

And throughout all of this, he is acutely aware of Sansa's presence at his side – the woman he wronged. The woman most justified to demand distance from his sister. She says nothing. Takes it all in. Breathes quietly at his shoulder.

And yes, the other – equally imperative – part of him is unable to reach out to Rhaenys for her sake. Because he will not submit his wife to any further disgrace, any disregard, any hurt. He will not betray his promise to her.

You, only.

And he means it. All the way down to his bones – he means it.

But he doesn't know how to reconcile these two halves of his heart. A yearning to protect. And a yearning to honor. To do right by those he loves. Always. To keep his promises.

Jon flicks his gaze from his sister, unable to look upon her any longer, his throat flexing with his unease.

Aegon looks at his wife, a softness flickering over his features minutely, even as his eyes narrow. "I thought you took her to her rooms," he says, not unkindly.

Daenerys glances up at him, gaze tearing away from Rhaenys. "I did. But she said she wanted to be alone. I thought some rest would do her good. I thought..." She shakes her head, frown deepening. "I guess I never thought she would... " She swallows back the words, voice thick.

Aegon sighs, a hand wiping over his mouth. He crouches down in front of their sister, watches her for an indefinable amount of time, brows pinching together, eyes wetting briefly, before he blinks it away. He clears his throat, takes a breath. "I don't want them to see her this way," he says softly, voice cracking at the end. His eyes flutter shut.

Sansa's hand curls around Jon's wrist, aching and tender. He can hear the shudder in her breath from this close.

Aegon shakes his head, eyes opening once more. He moves to stand. "I want any guards who were present at the attack brought to my solar immediately. And get me a cloak, something to cover her with."

The guard behind them voices his acknowledgement of the command, scurrying out of the dungeons quickly.

Jon watches the man go with knowing eyes.

Sansa shifts beside him. "What are you going to do, Your Grace?" she asks softly.

Jon turns to her, voice caught in his throat, but she's staring at his brother, a tremble lighting her as she holds tight to his wrist.

Aegon slips his gaze to her. "I will do whatever is needed to protect my sister's honor," he says decidedly. He glances to Jon, the two of them meeting eyes, and all at once, it is seven years ago again – when their father had called Rhaenys' rescuers to his solar and had his Kingsguard strike them all down, ensuring their silence.

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes. His chest feels tight, the words lodged there.

It's not a memory he likes to hold onto.

Aegon looks down upon Rhaenys. "You're a Targaryen now, Lady Sansa. I'm sure you can infer my meaning."

Sansa quiets beside him, watching the scene with keen eyes.

"And Rhaenys?" Jon croaks out.

Aegon sighs, frowning, eyes still on Rhaenys.

Daenerys takes a tentative step toward him, a hand at his elbow. "Your Grace..."

He glances to Daenerys at her closeness, jaw tightening as he nods. "I know. She disobeyed a royal command."

"Your Grace," Jon urges, voice tight.

"But she is my sister, Daenerys," Aegon says, and Jon stops at that, blinking dumbly at him.

Aegon pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing, and he is infinite years older suddenly. Wizened. Worn. Even the bruise beneath his eye seems ancient suddenly. Years upon years upon years settled into the lines of his skin.

Daenerys drops her hand from his elbow.

"She is my sister," he whispers brokenly, hand branching over his face, holding it there, releasing a tremulous breath into his palm. He shakes his head, teeth grinding. "You foolish, foolish girl," he croaks out.

All at once, Jon remembers the way Aegon had looked when they pulled Rhaenys from her horse seven years ago. The way his hands (bloodied and calloused – even as a lad, even as a boy too young to have taken life for the first time) gentled over her form when they dragged her down between them. The way he'd settled her to lean against him, nestling her weight into his side. The way he hushed her, a hand smoothing down her hair, the other at her shoulder, holding her to him. How he shook when he breathed her name.

And he remembers how they linked hands, steady and dry-eyed, at Queen Elia's funeral. He remembers how Aegon gifted her a rose after his first tourney, still armored and sweat-lined – silver and gallant. He remembers how Rhaenys sat with him when Daenerys lost their first child, how he came upon them in the gardens to find Aegon's head in the crook of her neck, arms wound tight around her waist, crying into her shoulder as she hummed a lullaby their mother used to sing to them at night.

She is my sister, Aegon had said.

Jon forgets this sometimes. Forgets it too easily, really. But perhaps that is to be expected as a bastard – only ever half-welcomed. Half-needed. Half-loved.

And he doesn't mean to grow this resentment, he really doesn't. But he realizes now that he will never be the sort of brother he'd always hoped they'd see him as.

Even when he wishes to be.

"Oh Rhaenys," Aegon breathes, voice caught in his throat, his hand sliding down his face to watch his sister once more.

She seems to recognize the name, mouth parting at the address. She brings the dagger into her lap, her other hand winding around it delicately – cradling it. Her jaw quakes, and she closes her mouth. Opens it again. Tries for words. Tears bead at the corners of her eyes suddenly as she stares at the far wall. "Father wouldn't give me justice," she whispers, licking her lips. She glances up, eyes drifting just over their shoulders, never really focusing on them. And then her face crumples, the tears gathering quickly. "So, I took my own," she says, shaking with it.

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep. He tries to wash this ache from him. Never succeeds.

"My brother," she mumbles, shifting in her seat, glancing around suddenly. "Where is my brother? I want my brother."

Jon's eyes snap open, his chest constricting, and he is half a second away from stepping back, disengaging entirely from the scene, even as his hands bunch into fists at his side, his own tears dotting the corners of his eyes, when Sansa's hand slips down his wrist to wind around his hand.

He snaps his gaze to her, but she's looking down at Rhaenys, tear tracks already lining her cheeks, mouth trembling. She gulps thickly, lashes fluttering with her tears. She gives his hand one final squeeze, before her touch retreats entirely. "Help her," she gets out unevenly, chest heaving with it, eyes never leaving the scene before her.

Jon barely manages not to stagger back. Because he doesn't think he'll ever be able to rightly fathom what it takes for her to say such words, to encourage him, to urge him in comforting the woman who caused so much heartache, who sought to strike a rift sharply between them.

"Sansa," he says, voice rough, eyes flicking over her face.

She only nods. Quickly. Short and static – sniffing back her tears. "Help her," she says again, more a plea than anything now, and he can barely manage to tear his gaze from her face when Rhaenys's frantic muttering cuts him off.

"Aegon," she calls out, the dagger slipping from her grip instantly, clattering to the stone floor. She reaches up, unseeing. "My brother. Where are you? Where's my brother?"

Jon stills, halting himself mid-step. He blinks at his pleading sister.

Her eyes darken as she blinks, focusing, eyes flitting about the room until they land on Aegon beside her. She reaches toward him, crying anew. "Aegon, help me." She tries getting to her feet but she's unsteady, falling into him. Aegon is already reaching for her though, hands winding around her back, hefting her up as she grips at him, face buried in his chest, and then he's dipping down, hooking an arm beneath her knees to lift her up.

"I'm here," he breathes into the crown of her head, her dark hair matted with sweat to her temples.

She winds her arms more surely around his neck, eyes slipping closed on a ragged sigh. "Please help me, brother. I just... I want to sleep."

Aegon adjusts her weight in his arms, grunting with the effort, jaw flexing. "I know," he says. "I know, Rhaenys."

Jon barely manages to step back in time when Aegon starts for the door, brushing past him with barely a glance his way, eyes fixed ahead instead. He makes it to the entrance of the hall of cells when the returning guard comes bounding down with a cloak, and Aegon directs him to spread the cloak over her, adjusting his grip to gather her bundled form more firmly in his arms, and then he's winding back up the stairs without a backward glance to any of them.

* * *

"How are you?"

Sansa laughs. But it's a teary laugh, catching in her throat at the end, a hand to her mouth to smother the break. She shakes her head at Theon's question, and he looks contrite at the motion.

"Suppose that was a stupid question," he mumbles, glancing away.

She laughs again, only this time – genuine.

He flits his gaze back to hers, hopeful, a hint of that mischievous smirk at the corners of his lips.

Sansa sighs, wipes at her eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it to air. "It's not a stupid question. I just... don't really know how to answer it right now." She goes for honesty, because her head is too full of everything else and she only wants to breathe. Her hands drop back down to her lap as they sit beside each other on one of the innumerable benches lining the many sunlit hallways of the keep. Just down the corridor is the door to Maester Gregoir's, where Bran still lays bandaged and drowsy from doses of milk of the poppy. Sansa glances toward the far door where her brother sleeps, her chest tightening.

Theon sighs beside her, leaning back on his hands along the stone bench. "Has the maester said anything? About..." He lets the words teeter off, closing his mouth around an aborted question.

She shakes her head. "He's made it through the night. He'll live, that we know. But whether Bran will ever regain the use of his leg..." She glances back to Theon, a sorrowful look to her eye. "I... I don't know."

He only nods, mouth a tight frown.

"Gods, he doesn't deserve this," she bites out, angry suddenly, hands curling into fists in her lap, her eyes drifting down to the motion. "He doesn't deserve this."

"Neither of you do."

She glances up at him then. "What do you mean?"

He meets her eye, a sigh leaving him. "You know, you may not tell me everything, and I get that." He scoffs, but it isn't harsh, only resigned. "I'm not your brother, after all. Never will be. And I'm certainly not your husband." He swallows thickly, meets her eye. "But I think I've known you long enough to know when you're scared."

Sansa stiffens, her knuckles going white in her lap.

He glances down to her hands, face softening. "You're scared, Sansa. Have been ever since I told you about the missive from Lord Stark. And now with the king – " He stops, scrubs a hand down his face. "Sansa, what's going on?"

She bites her lip, tries to keep from shaking. Her eyes are dry and unblinking when she tells him, "I'm with child."

He straightens from his lean instantly, glancing to her stomach, and then back to her face. "With child?"

She nods, a hand smoothing over her stomach.

Theon cocks his head, brows going high. "And Prince Jon, he knows? The Targaryens?"

She nods again, chest constricting at the memory of their earlier conversation. "Just this morning."

Theon lets out a breath between his teeth, head shaking. "Sansa, it isn't safe for you here."

"Don't you think I know that?" she hisses, fingers curling over the fabric at her belly. "But you're not stupid, Theon, as much as you sometimes pretend to be," she says.

He throws her a look at the familiar insult but she bowls over it with a waved hand as she continues. "You know Stannis could never have gotten this far into the keep without an accomplice, and you know that Aegon – who, may I remind you, is king now – would never let us leave King's Landing until the traitor is brought to light."

Theon scoffs, head thrown back, "Sansa, you can't stay here, you – "

"And you know," she grinds out, ignoring him, "that to hide this babe would only give our enemies more evidence to frame us as usurpers, especially if we attempt to leave the capital following such an attack."

Theon curls his lip at the remark, unable to deny its truth. "'Our enemies'," he repeats roughly. "And who is that, hmm? The Lannisters? The Targaryens? Someone else entirely? Who, Sansa?"

"I don't know!"

"Then you have to get out!"

"Don't you see?" she hisses, eyes flitting between his desperately, her hands moving to grip at her skirts, an anchor, something to steady the quake of fear rattling through her. "There is no 'out'," she scoffs. "Not of this family. Not of this life." She quiets, fierce and still. "There never was."

Theon stares at her hard, jaw grinding. He shifts to face her more fully, taking a deep breath. "Sansa, you just have to get Stannis to talk. You just have to – "

"Stannis is dead." It's a cold, even whisper that leaves her.

Theon's head rears back, eyes narrowing. "But... but he was captured, I know he was. I was there."

She keeps his gaze, fingers tightening over her skirts.

"The traitor, did they kill him? To silence him?"

Her mouth parts, closes, parts again.

The walls – splashed in blood. Rhaenys' haunted eyes. The grotesque way Stannis' body hung by his chained arms, innards spilling to the floor.

Her stomach turns at the memory, her skin tingling, a tremor going through her.

(To know it was Rhaenys who could carve such ugliness.)

Sansa turns her head. "I don't... I don't think that it's."

Theon looks out across the hall, brows furrowed in confusion. "But then how..."

"Please don't ask me how," she whispers tightly.

It is not her sin to bear, nor hers to speak. And she thinks of all the things Rhaenys deserves from her, after what she'd done to her and Jon. She thinks of all these things, and yet, can only settle on silence.

So silence she keeps.

Theon glances back to her, notes the determined look in her eyes, the tight clasp of her hands in her skirts. He says nothing, and she is grateful for it.

She swallows back her trepidation, takes a deep breath. "Stannis is dead," she says, voice cracking. She clears her throat, tries again. "And with the king dead now also, no one is above suspicion."

Theon growls beside her, eyes shifting as he thinks, shoulders curling.

Sansa softens at the sight, her hands easing their fisting in her lap. "Theon, this information is dangerous to whoever has it, you understand? You cannot repeat what I've told you. Your life would be at risk."

"I know," he says, voice rough.

Sansa sighs, eyes closing momentarily. "And I'm afraid for Bran." She opens her eyes once more.

Theon cocks his head toward her. "I'm not leaving the capital any time soon, you know."

"Promise you'll protect him?"

"It's what I'm good at, didn't you know?" he says on the edge of a chuckle, reassurance seeping into his words.

She nods, swallowing tightly. The breath eases in her chest somewhat at the consolation.

Theon eyes her quietly a moment, before asking, "And you?"

She blinks up at him, words halted along her tongue. He's staring at her so determinedly, and she realizes, just then, exactly what her answer is. She softens at his look. "I'm not alone here anymore, you know," she says. And there's a measure of surety that hadn't ever been there before.

"I'd make the same choice, every time."

He'd come for her. Every time.

No, she's not alone. And she would never be alone again.

Theon flits his gaze between hers, still hard, still uncertain. She can see the clench of his teeth from the tick in his jaw.

She finds it in herself to smile – small and sure. "Jon will protect me."

She's never said it aloud, and maybe that's because she hadn't fully trusted it until now. But she remembers the way he'd put forth her father for Hand, and how he curled his palm reassuringly around her own, and how he'd held her earlier that morning, trembling and sweat-lined and bare before her – bare in ways they've never been with each other.

How he held her more precious than anyone ever has.

She notices, belatedly, the tears beading at the corners of her eyes. She doesn't bother to blink them back.

Theon's face softens at the sight of her, mouth parting slightly. He looks at her, and looks at her, and then finally looks away. His throat bobs, his hands curling over his knees when he sighs out, "You trust him, then?"

She nods. "I do."

"And you love him, then?" He looks back to her with the question.

"I do." Her answer is instant. Hardly a thought, rather – instinct.

Theon nods, never looking away. "Have you always?"

At this, she quiets. Because no, she hadn't always.

It's a hard-won love. A tooth-and-nail love. It has never been an easy love.

"No," she says, but it isn't with any sort of surrender. It isn't a confession of weakness or wrongness. It's just the truth.

And here's another truth:

It is not, perhaps, the kind of love she once wanted. But it is the only kind of love she'll ever want again.

"I've never seen a man so scared in my life," Theon says suddenly, voice tight with remembrance.

Sansa furrows her brows at him, licking her lips. "What?"

"Jon. In the courtyard, with the attack. When he was screaming for you." He turns his stare to the wall, gripping his knees. "I've never seen a man so scared."

Sansa blinks back the memory, the scrape of air along her lungs when she'd laid eyes on him, watched him scramble toward her, her limbs heavy as they moved, as they carried her across the courtyard and into his arms, as she crumpled into him, shaking and beaten and wailing.

And she remembers, distantly, the image of Theon at her peripheral, bow still in hand.

Sansa winds her hands together in her lap. "Theon..."

Theon's gaze shifts back to hers, mouth a tight line. And then his lip quirks, just the slightest, just a hint. He rakes a hand through his hair, leans back along the stone bench. "I think maybe you're right."

She arches a brow in question, throat still too raw for words.

He throws a knowing look her way. "You know, the kind of man that can look like that – he's got something to protect alright." A roguish grin breaks across his face.

Sansa feels the lightness in her chest, the ease. She smiles back at him. "Thank you."

He nods, a gruff sort of acknowledgment sounding in his throat.

Her smile flickers, her hand going over his wrist then. "For everything, Theon. Thank you for everything."

His grin falters, eyes peering into hers.

She licks her lips, blinks back the wetness dotting her lids. "I know I wouldn't have made it without you – that Bran wouldn't have made it without you."

Theon sombers instantly, watching her.

Sansa pulls her hand back from his wrist, back straightening as she curls her hands into her lap once more. "I won't ever forget it," she promises fiercely, never looking away.

Theon purses his lips, a hoarse sort of laugh leaving him. "Yeah, well..." He stops, clears his throat, smiles once more – curled at the edges, wolfish – of a sort.

The image warms Sansa, her eyes wetting further.

He tuts at her, shoulders pulling back when he clears his throat once more. "Well, you'd better not. Because I plan on calling in a royal favor or two in the future, you know."

Sansa nods conspiratorially, a teary smile etching across her lips. "Of course."

Theon sighs then, eyes going to the ceiling, a hand wiping over his mouth. "Gods, this fucking place. Never thought I'd miss the asscrack of fucking nowhere that is the North."

Sansa braces a hand to her mouth as she barks a laugh, attempting to stifle it, and failing miserably. "Not enough snow for you, Greyjoy?" she taunts. "You've turned into a right Northerner, have you?"

He preens at the tease. "Near enough."

Before she can say more, Maester Gregoir opens the door down the hall, catching sight of the two of them along the bench.

Sansa stands instantly and makes her way toward him to greet him.

The greying man nods deferentially, a wan smile gracing his face. "Your brother's asking for you, my lady."

Sansa takes a breath, steadies herself. "Thank you, Maester." She turns to Theon but he's already bowing his farewell.

"I'll leave you two alone," he says. "Pretty sure Ser Rodrick is already crying for my return anyway," he laughs, head nodded toward the guest quarters.

Sansa offers an appreciative smile, curtseying delicately before striding through the door and making her way over to Bran's cot. She takes his hand, settling in a seat at his side, heart keening at the slight moan that leaves him.

Distantly, she takes note of Rhaenys' curled form along the other cot across the room, the princess' back to her, slumbering softly. Sansa swallows thickly, turning her attention back to her brother. She wipes a hand along his brow, relieved when she notices he's since sweated out his fever. "Bran," she greets gently.

His eyes flutter open to meet hers, a heavy breath raking through his lungs. "Sansa."

She nearly crumples at the sound of his voice, her words catching in her throat, her lip trembling. "I'm here," she says.

He blinks up at her, eyes focusing and re-focusing. "You're here?"

"I'm here. I'm okay, Bran," she assures him.

"I thought..." He smacks his chapped lips, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. "I thought you'd left."

She catches the break in her voice before it can make it to air. "Never."

Bran nods, the tension easing from his features. "That's right," he mumbles. "You would not leave me." He licks his lips, tries to form the words. A half-laugh breaks from him. "Stubborn as Arya, you were."

Sansa chuckles in response, watery and exhausted. She squeezes his hand in hers. "Though perhaps not half as skilled."

Bran groans something unintelligible, shifting along the cot. Sansa reaches for his shoulders, trying to ease him as he settles. "Why did you come for me?" he asks, voice rough with sleep.

Sansa blinks at him, a disbelieving breath leaving her. "Why did I come for you?"

His eyes search for hers, try to focus in his drowsiness, this state of half-wakefulness, half-dream. She wonders if he will remember this conversation, if he even knows what it is he's saying.

Bran nods, head turning to look at her more fully.

Her throat goes dry, her words sticking along her tongue. She glances down, moving to tuck his hand back beneath the blankets. "You're tired. And you haven't all your wits about you with that medicine in you. Rest."

But Bran doesn't let her pull her hand away, gripping it fiercely.

She stills at his bedside. He's staring at her, those familiar Tully eyes harsh in the candlelight – familiar in a way she doesn't particularly want to admit to.

In the way a mirror is familiar.

"Why did you come?" he asks again, his voice gravelly from sleep. "When you could have died?"

It's not something she thinks she'll ever forget – the stark, branding fear that had lanced through her when that man had gripped her by the hair and hauled her back, torn her from her clawing brother, sent her spinning with a ruthless slap along her cheek. She doesn't think she'll ever forget the wails, or the smoke, or the tightness of her own lungs in her chest as she ran and ran and ran and screamed. The fear. The godsdamned fear. The way it stained her to the root.

The way it stains her still.

(She only finds sleep in Jon's arms.)

No. She can never forget that. Not that.

Sansa opens her mouth but only a croak leaves her. She clamps her jaw shut, tries to smother that tremor that lights beneath her skin.

Why did she? When death had almost certainly awaited her?

Bran turns his head, a pain-touched moan easing from his lips, eyes slipping shut on a delirious sigh. "So stupid," he mumbles out.

Sansa stills at his words, brows furrowed sharply. "Bran, you're my pack, my – "

"Pack, pack, always 'pack'," he sneers in his drug haze, his free hand reaching up to his head. "So stupid, Sansa," he moans.

She rears back, a sharp pain in her chest, hand still gripping at his. She shakes her head, unable to find the words. "Bran, I don't..."

"Always the 'pack'," he grinds out, head turning back to face her, eyes alarmingly clear, even as he shakes from the effort, beneath both the pain and the drug. "Always the pack with you, like – like you aren't part of it yourself." His head falls back to the pillow, drowsy once more. "Like you aren't part of it yourself," he mutters groggily.

Like you aren't part of it.

Sansa sits back in her seat, hand slipping from her brother's.

"Jon will protect me."

Maybe she hadn't ever fully trusted it before because it wasn't something she thought she could ask for, or have, or demand. Maybe she'd gotten too used to living for others, even when those others were ones she loved dearly. Maybe she'd always seen the pack as something outside of herself.

And has it always been this way? Has she always been so dismissive of herself? Her own needs, her own wants?

Did she lose herself when she went looking for something more?

"Tell me what you need."

She'd never heard those words before until Jon spoke them – never even knew she needed them.

Sansa's mouth opens, a shallow breath breaking over her parted lips. She slumps with the revelation, a watery laugh caught in her throat.

(To be important to someone. To be important to herself.)

She sucks a shaky breath in, eyes tearing.

(To know that 'pack' does not mean others before self, but the whole before self. A whole that she is a part of. That she deserves to be a part of.)

Sansa curls both hands around Bran's now as he turns in his drugged state, trying to find a comfortable position to return to sleep.

"So stupid," he mutters again, eyes already drifting shut, and Sansa laughs at the words, blinking at the hot tears lining her lids. She squeezes his hand beneath her own, wants to remember this warmth always. She leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, tugging the blanket up his chest with one hand. "Rest, Bran," she manages roughly, the weight of tears behind her words.

But it's a comforting weight. A freeing weight. Because it bespeaks a grief that is hers, and a fear that is hers, and a joy that is hers. It bespeaks a hard-won love. A tooth-and-nail love.

(Because loving yourself is sometimes the hardest thing in this world.)

"Everything's so heavy," Bran says on a sigh, gripping at the sheet pulled up to his chest.

Sansa smooths his hair down, smiling at his sleep-touched face. "Rest," she says again, a gentle hum following the words, the faint start of a song.

She warms instantly at the smile that tugs at his lips when he hears the note.

And so, she settles further in her seat. And so, she sings her brother to sleep. And so, it begins – her watch to keep.

* * *

Sansa wakes some hours later, sitting up from where she had fallen asleep with her head over her arms, braced along the edge of Bran's bed. He's sleeping sounding before her, and she brushes the hair from his forehead, blinking in the late afternoon light. She glances up and finds Rhaenys sitting along the edge of her cot, watching them.

Sansa straightens, her hand retreating.

It's not a conscious stare, she thinks, the woman's eyes slightly unfocused, just a touch off kilter, as though her gaze had caught along her shoulder and not her face. As though she wasn't really seeing them.

Pulling her lip between her teeth, Sansa brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and blinks away the sleep, standing slowly. She watches as Rhaenys seems to register the motion, her gaze shifting up to meet Sansa's. Like seeing her for the first time.

Rhaenys' mouth opens, and then closes. She blinks, curls her hands over the edge of the cot. Looks away.

There is no conversation in this world that Sansa particularly wants to have with this woman right now. And yet, something tugs at her insides, sets her feet to motion. She steps around the cot, glides through slants of dimming light from the thin windows. She can hear Maester Gregoir's scribbling at his desk in the next room over, the door between them still ajar. It's unbearably quiet otherwise, and Sansa has to steady herself, smooth her hands down her skirts, keep her face an impassive mask. She stops just before Rhaenys, a bit off to the side.

Rhaenys looks to her hands gripping the edge of the cot, seems to catch sight of the blood caked nearly to her elbows, and she releases the cot instantly, stilling a moment, before bunching her hands together in her lap, fingers curling over her knuckles with an acute awareness that belies her quiet, untethered state.

Sansa glances to the water bowl along the table at the edge of the cot, catches sight of the clean cloth hanging over the edge. She reaches for it, twists the excess water out. "Here," she says, handing it to the princess. The word is a jagged cut of air. She clamps her mouth tightly closed after its release, hardly knowing why the tremor is there at all.

Rhaenys looks at it out of the corner of her eye, jaw tightening. Her hands bunch tighter, and she looks away.

Sansa stands with her hand outstretched for only a while longer, nodding quietly to herself when she finally sets the wet cloth back to the bowl. She opens her mouth once more, finds no words to muster, lets her gaze fall to the floor.

She closes her eyes, trying to push back the memory of that morning's discovery. She doesn't know which sight was worse: Stannis or Rhaenys.

In the end, she thinks it matters little.

Rhaenys shifts along the cot, the noise catching Sansa's ears so that she opens her eyes once more, and finds Rhaenys reaching for the towel herself now, taking it to her stained hands with jerky, half-coherent motions.

Sansa only watches her a moment, before she's overcome with an inscrutable discomfort, as though she were intruding on something intimate. Her eyes flit away, a delicate sigh escaping her. "I'll leave you, my lady." And then she gathers her skirts to go.

It's the king's funeral tomorrow, after all. And it will be a long day of ceremony. Rest, she'd told Bran. But she needs rest herself.

And she needs Jon, she finds.

"You know what he took from me," Rhaenys says suddenly behind her. Sansa stops at the words, at the evenness with which she says them. She turns to glance back at her over her shoulder.

Rhaenys is watching the steady motion of her hands as she wipes the towel over her palms, scrubs slowly and surely at the blood caked there.

Sansa stares at her, suddenly breathless.

"You know what fear his presence here stirred in me," she says, almost like an accusation, her jaw tightening over the words, brows furrowing sharply.

Sansa realizes then that she's speaking of their conversation just before the attack – how Rhaenys had gripped at her, begged for her not to leave, clung to her like a lifeline.

And she imagines the woman hates that Sansa was the one to see her like that. That Sansa was the one she clung to, revealed herself to, was weak before.

But Sansa can only nod, her words kept carefully behind the cage of her teeth.

She does not blame Rhaenys for her terror. Truly, she doesn't. She blames her for a great many other things, of course. But never for that.

(She remembers what fear feels like behind the crack of white knuckles. And she can never imagine a barrage of them. She knows this, admits it.

But her pity can only take her so far.)

"I couldn't go back to that," Rhaenys whispers tightly, fingers clenching over the cloth in her hand. She stills her cleaning, finally glancing up to Sansa. Her dark gaze is steady as stone. Not a flicker of smoke. A dead thing, wrapped in soiled silks. "I won't... go back to that," she says lowly.

A quiver makes its way down Sansa's spine, sharp in its coldness. She cannot take her eyes from the woman.

Rhaenys sets the towel back into the water bowl with a grace that almost mocks the muddied state of her hands, her skirts. She rinses the cloth, wrings it out, watches the water run pink. She takes the cloth back into her lap, gliding it up her bloodied wrist. "I waited, you know. Waited for him to come to me."

Sansa blinks at her words, confusion flitting across her face, before Rhaenys looks up, meets her eyes once more.

She understands then, without knowing how.

"I waited for Jon to save me," she says. The cloth swipes gently around her narrow wrist.

Sansa's shoulders bunch, a wariness lodging tight in her chest, face hardening.

"But he was too busy saving you," she continues, fingers splayed out as she dips the cloth between them. Her eyes flick toward Sansa's stomach, settling there. "You and that babe of yours." It's almost a sneer. Almost, but not quite. There is still too much quiet beneath the words, still too much stoicism keeping her rooted and blank.

But Sansa curves her palm across her belly instinctively, a jolt of protectiveness moving within her, flaring hot – instant and irrepressible. She feels the silk bunch beneath her fingers, tries to moor her heart to the sensation, to anchor there. "Whatever his choices, Jon has no regrets," she grinds out, the pity drowned out of her tone. Only caution remains. Only the slow circling of a wolf on watch. "Can you say the same?"

Rhaenys stills her slow wiping, sighing as she settles the bloodied rag in her lap. She looks down to it, jaw working. She blinks fiercely – like trying to clear the shroud away. Trying to see through the marring of her own skin. "I will," she says. She looks back up then.

(It's a face Sansa will remember for years and years.)

Rhaenys tips her head, the shadow of a smile curling at the edges of her lips. "I will," she says again, and Sansa cannot be certain whether it is a promise or a threat that colors her words.

She wonders if there's even a difference with this family.

Taking a single step back, she grips more firmly at her belly, never releasing her stare, never turning her back on the dragon before her. Her teeth grind – a war of pity and rage and rancid, fleeting greed coiling tight in her gut. "Rhaenys...," she begins warningly, not knowing where her censure will lead her.

And then Rhaenys laughs – nothing bright or boisterous. Only surprised. Enlightened, almost. Softening out in a disbelieving breath, a shake of her head. "She was right," Rhaenys says with one last, vehement swipe along her bloodied wrist, eyes never leaving Sansa. "To kill a living thing – it's not so hard, after all."

Sansa tastes bile at the back of her tongue, that coil in her gut bunching high in her throat now, a flash of red, and then a sudden, obtrusive halt. She rears back at the words, mind whirling.

Her hand slips from her stomach. "Rhaenys, what...?"

The door pulls open behind her, and she turns abruptly, words caught in her throat. She settles somewhat at the sight of Jon. He offers her a reassuring smile as he moves toward her. Behind him, Daenerys steps through the threshold, eyes landing on Rhaenys. She carries an orange silk gown in her arms.

Jon reaches her with a hand at her elbow, his eyes flitting over to her brother's cot. "Bran?" he asks in concern.

"Sleeping," she answers, a hand going to his at her elbow. She watches as Daenerys makes her way quietly over to Rhaenys, setting the gown on the table beside the bed. Sansa clears her throat, gaze still watchful over the two women. Distantly, she notices Jon's uneasiness beside her, how he leans toward her like comfort, his own gaze hesitant upon his aunt and sister.

"I am well, too, brother," Rhaenys says a little too sharply, dropping the soiled cloth into the bowl at her side. "If you were at all concerned."

Sansa knows how the words pain Jon, without even needing to see his face. She feels his hand curl more tightly over her elbow, hears the breath raking from him.

"Rhaenys..." he begins, and not knowing how to finish, it seems.

But Rhaenys looks to Daenerys then, wiping at her eyes, dragging a rough curl back behind her ear. "I'm done resting," she says determinedly.

Daenerys watches her with discerning eyes, sighing at the ragged look of her, head dipping down when she reaches for her arm, goes to help her from the bed. "Come," she says simply, and Rhaenys follows, one last, unnerving stare sent Sansa's way. She doesn't even glance at Jon.

Sansa blows a tense breath from her lips, turning swiftly, tugging Jon out the room with her as he fumbles after her.

"Sansa, what – "

When the door slips shut behind her she turns abruptly, winding her arms around his back, burying her face in his chest.

He stills, hands held mid-air.

"Please," she gets out on a heated breath, fingers curling in his tunic. "Please, will you just hold me?" she asks, eyes squeezing shut.

She feels his worried sigh brush along her hair, but his arms are already slipping around her at the request, pulling her into his chest, one hand snaking up her neck to settle in her hair.

She holds him tighter, lets it fill her, brands the skin of his throat with the anger of her exhale, with the exhaustion of her heavy pant in the crook of his neck. "Just... hold me."

And he does. Wordlessly. And endlessly.

She thinks he would stand there and hold her for eons, if she asked it of him.

For eons and epochs and long, countless ages.

For all the time that she may need of him.

For always.

The heel of his palm is cool at the nape of her neck.

She breathes.

He holds her.

And she breathes.

* * *

"Do you need more time?" Sansa asks gently, standing from her seat at the vanity to walk toward Jon.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned over with his elbows resting along his thighs, hands linked between his knees. He glances up at her question.

She stops just before him, brushing a fine braid behind her ear. It's the morning of the former king's funeral, and after having broke their fast with the rest of the Targaryens (a stilted, quiet affair that had her near screaming in her own skin, in much the same way she imagined every one of them at that table felt), Jon and Sansa had returned to their chambers to ready for the ceremony, donning their second best leathers and silks.

Their best, of course, are for Aegon's induction ceremony.

It's not a detail that escapes Sansa.

Jon sighs before her, rubbing a hand down his face. "No, no, I'll be...I'll be fine."

She cocks her head at him, lip caught between her teeth. She reaches a hand out toward him, palm up.

He glances to it, smiling softly, before slipping his own hand around it, tugging her toward him slightly so that she presses against his knees, staring down at him while he grazes an affectionate thumb over the back of her hand.

"Besides," he adds, "It would be improper for us to be missing, or even late."

Sansa huffs at that. "This all happened so fast. The attack, and now King Rhaegar's death. Why should you be expected to stay stoic, unaffected?" She shakes her head, ire filling her. And sorrow. "Even royals should be allowed to grieve how they need – publicly or not."

Jon chuckles at her remark, a sad smile lighting his lips as he looks down to where he holds her hand. He watches the motion of his thumb across her hand, slow and measured. He takes a breath, releases it slowly. "I'm afraid the show must go on," he says darkly, eyes never leaving their joined hands.

She reaches her other hand to his cheek, stroking down the length of his beard, heart clenching when he doesn't even look up at the motion. "Jon," she urges.

It's a worn, weathered smile that tips the corners of his mouth when he finally looks up at her. "But I thank you all the same, my lady." He pulls her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to her knuckles, swift and clean.

She misses the warmth when it goes.

His eyes catch along her waist and he cocks his head at the laces there, motioning toward it. "Your ties," he says.

She glances down, twisting somewhat to see what he's talking about, and notices the loosening laces along her side. "Oh," she says, brows dipping down, before giving him an impish look. "Help me?"

"Here," he says, nudging her to back up as he gives her an indulgent smile. She steps from his knees and turns to the side as he rises, releasing her hand to reach for her laces instead. His fingers are deft and practiced, tugging the laces out of their holes and threading them back through evenly.

She chuckles at the concentration on his face, watching him.

It's a calm, crisp morning strangely enough, even in the midst of the chaos that descended upon the keep ever since the night of the attack. And this room, this moment, it feels like a pocket of peace tucked away from the world. She holds it tight to her chest, tries to imprint it to memory. His face, endearingly focused. The soft hue of morning light that hits his dark curls from the near window. The steady, even lull of his breathing – rooting in its constancy. The conscious delicacy in his calloused hands when he tightens her laces.

She wants to cry suddenly, and she doesn't know why.

She wonders what this image might look like with the backdrop of snow falling past their open window. With the faint hollering of Arya and Rickon down the hall. With the crisp tang of winter filling her nose. With Winterfell, all around her.

She wants to cry suddenly, and she knows exactly why.

Keeping her eyes fixed to Jon, Sansa lets out a shallow breath of hesitation, voice low when she asks him, "Why did you put my father forward for Hand?"

Jon stills his work, eyes still fixed to his hands.

She stays watching him a moment, breathing deeply. "We haven't talked about it yet."

Jon swallows, nodding. He returns to his work, tying the laces off at the end. "Aye, we haven't." He straightens fully when he's finished, hands returning to his sides.

"Jon."

He shakes his head, a sad sort of resignation tainting his exhale. "You said you were all alone." His eyes finally meet hers.

She blinks at him, turning fully to face him. "What?"

"When you learned about my past with Rhaenys. The things you said..." He clears his throat, gaze dropping. "You said you were alone, and I guess I – it was the best thing I could think of at the moment. The best way I could make sure you were never alone here again."

Something swells in her chest, near painful in its intensity. Her throat bobs, her voice cracking. "Oh," she says, and then laughs at her own inarticulate answer, a hand going to her mouth. "Jon, I..." But no words seem right, and so she stops trying, reaching her arms around him instead, bracing around his shoulders as she pulls him into her. His arms loop around her waist instinctively, his hands warm at her back.

He sighs into her hair, his head dipping to her shoulder. "I just... I just thought that if there was no way to return you home, then at least you were safer with Lord Stark in the capital. And as Hand, he'd be able to protect you in ways I might not be able to."

She curls her hand along the nape of his neck, sighs at his throat. "Thank you." It's a tremulous exhale that leaves her, and she grips him tighter at its release.

Jon presses his temple to hers, a hand smoothing up her back, and then down again. "I don't know if Aegon will accept my suggestion, but I had to try. And even if he grants us leave to go North, if Ned Stark is Hand, we can be sure that he'll also speak for Northern interests. Your interests."

"Our interests," she corrects, muttered into his collar, her eyes slipping shut.

She feels his smile against her cheek in response, and then his short nod. "Our interests."

She doesn't move to release him just yet, too reluctant to be without him. His hand gliding up and down her back in comforting sweeps settles the breathlessness in her, but she's warm, almost unsettlingly warm, and when she opens her eyes her vision blurs at the edges, just a touch. She blinks it back in surprise, vision clearing quickly.

Sansa pulls back just a touch, enough to face him, her arms still wound around his shoulders.

He sighs at her mouth. "I never want you to feel trapped like that again. Like you have no way out – especially because of me."

A fond scoff leaves her lips. "Oh, Jon."

His hand settles at the small of her back, his thumb rubbing circles there. "And now, with Aegon and his suspicions, and Rhaenys..." He trails off, mouth clamping shut before he can manage the words.

Sansa drags her nails comfortingly along the nape of his neck. "I never... never thought her capable – of that."

Jon's gaze darkens, a worried furrow to his brow. "Neither had I."

They stand in each other's embrace a while longer, each remembering what they'd rather not remember. And then Sansa sighs, meeting his gaze. "Jon, something's not right with her. The way she looked back at Maester Gregoir's... " A shudder arches up her spine. "I can't shake that look from my mind."

Jon bows his forehead to hers, a heavy breath leaving him. "I know. And I'm scared, Sansa. I really am. I don't mean to alarm you, but... " He sighs, eyes slipping shut. "I don't know anymore. I just never thought she could do such a thing."

Sansa blinks at that, something pricking at the back of her mind. Something she should remember.

"Jon," she says warily, mind whirling.

"Hmm?"

"Something she said to me yesterday," she muses, voice trailing, eyes narrowing. "'She'...?" Her words cut off at the sharp twinge in her gut.

Jon looks at her curiously, arms loosening around her back to settle back at her hips. He dips his head to better look at her. "Sansa?"

Her eyes slip shut, a tight breath leaving her. The twinge mellows out into dull ache, hanging low in her belly. She shakes her head. "Sorry, I just... I think I need to – "

Another twinge, this time sharper, tighter. She bows beneath the pain of it, breaking from his embrace. "Oh, oh, I uh... I think – I need to sit down."

Jon's eyes go wide, shifting between hers frantically, his hands moving to her elbows instantly to help her to the bed. "Sansa, what is it?" His gaze shoots down to her stomach when her hand braces there. "Is it the babe?"

The quake in his voice is worse than any lance of pain.

Sansa starts to shake. "I don't - gods!" She doubles over, tears springing hot to her lids, mouth parting on a gasp.

"Sansa! Sansa, what is it?"

Her vision goes white, a low whine escaping her as she drops to the bed, one arm going out to brace her weight, the other wound around her stomach, trying to hold back the terrible pain, like a corkscrew winding slowly into her womb.

And then she feels the wetness between her legs.

"No," she mumbles, gasping, fumbling to right herself on the bed, arm protectively around her middle. She shakes her head vehemently, the tears salt-sharp at her eyes now. "No, no, no," she moans.

"Sansa," Jon begs helplessly, trying to ease her along the bed, face screwed up in fear.

The wetness is warm and heavy between her legs now, and she cries out, a shuddering wail cracking the air in her lungs, eyes screwing shut.

"Oh gods, Sansa," Jon moans, his own distress palpable.

She grabs for his sleeve, knuckles white and trembling. "Get the maester," she grinds out between tears.

He doesn't need a second command, bounding to the door and throwing it wide. "Bring Maester Gregoir!" he bellows at the guards outside their door. A passing chambermaid startles and drops a water basin, sending it crashing along the stones. "Now!" he shouts, his booming voice echoing through the hall, and the sound of their retreating footsteps reaches Sansa where she moans and drags herself up the bed.

When Jon turns back to her he stills instantly, eyes wide, a sharp breath sucked between his teeth.

The branding horror on his face lights a sickness in her, freezing her in place half sprawled over the bed, arm still wrapped tight across her middle. She follows his gaze to the spread of sheets she'd just dragged herself up, eyes lighting on the dark stain of blood trailing up to the soaked seat of her dress.

"Oh gods," she shudders out, sobbing anew, knees curling into her stomach, vision blurring, and she's hot, so inexplicably hot, sweat already lining her brow and then she's sick, bile rising sour and instant up her throat, making her cough on it, and she opens her mouth, gags on a vile breath, spits into the sheet, feels it dripping down over her chin and it's - it's -

Red.

A croak leaves her as she shudders atop the sheets, a trembling hand rising up to her chin, smearing the wetness there, and then pulling back before her tear-filled eyes for her to see. For her to see the blood staining the tips of her fingers. She looks down with disbelieving eyes, focusing on the spit-up of blood she'd just coughed into the sheets.

"Jon," she gets out shakily, terror coloring her voice, eyes fixed to her own blood-drenched fingers, "What's happening to me?" she sobs.

Just before she blacks out, she feels Jon's hands pulling her back by the shoulders, his cry of her name distant and muffled, his fearful face a hazy shroud above her.

Just before she blacks out, she remembers:

Tooth-and-nail loves will always leave you bloody.

#from instep to heel #jonsa #jonsa fic #jon snow #sansa stark #my writing #got fanfic

[mahou-furbies]

I actually really liked those insight posts about Precure brooches, items, and fairies. I was wondering if you could do one about their weapons?

The Precure rankings take quite a lot of time to write so it’s nice that someone reads them!

But yes, the weapons. I haven’t made it a secret that I dislike the toy ad-like weapon designs so I don’t really care for many of these (common complaints: looks ugly and cheap, too much pink even for non-pink characters, rainbow buttons where they don’t belong, buttons or lights that don’t seem to serve any purpose, too much detail), but reading about me complaining about that for dozens of paragraphs probably wouldn’t be very fun. So I won’t put that everywhere and this will be more about judging the items in relation to each other than how they’d fare against all fantasy item designs I know.

Especially with the season I haven’t seen it was a bit bothersome to see if an item was weapon or not, so I just made some quick judgements. I’ll do the other items that aren’t in this or the other precure item posts later.

Futari wa Precure

Not a huge fan of these kind of items where the design philosophy seems to have been “it doesn’t have to resemble a weapon in any way, a pink plastic thing with buttons will do”. I’m not against all weapons looking incredibly impractical (like I love Mew Ichigo’s Strawberry Bell) but here these just look incredibly bland and cynical to me (I mean cynical in a different way than me). 

I was going to be more generous with this since I thought it was a bow and bows are always elegant weapons and I’m always happy to have those regardless of how dumb the design looks, but reading the wiki I guess this is a baton instead. Boo! Still I like how it can be both a heart and also be bent open. The design makes me think of a baby toy though with all the round corners.

Futari wa Precure Splash Star

I like how the girls wear their items differently and the way the heart is framed is nice. But apart from that I don’t find these particularly aesthetically appealing, and they also look a bit too busy compared to the rest of the costume. Busy item designs are less of a problem if its a handheld item that’s clearly not a part of the base design, but when the characters are supposed to wear the item it often looks very out of place, as if it was just tacked on because the marketing team demanded it. Okay I’ll stop with this now

Not pictured: the versions with a star instead of heart, but they look otherwise the same and I like the heart better.

Yes! Precure 5

We now reach weapons I actually like! They’re pleasantly simple without unnecessary buttons everywhere, but with the tulip-like design with the cute little swirl there’s actually some point to it and it’s not just haphazardly placed buttons and lights and jewels. And as a fan of customisation I really like how everyone has their own take on the item. The pink girl apparently doesn’t feel the need to fit the theme though and hers is a lot less interesting to me, but at least it can sort of look like a flower (more like a butterfly though) so it’s not completely out of place.

Laser swors? That is a good idea. The flower is pretty too but I’d prefer it if it was a bit smaller, now it looks a bit unbalanced, and also why does everyone have to have a pink one again? Meanwhile the powerup version looks a lot more cheap, busy and gaudy.

Not a fan of this one, it feels like a portable lottery wheel, which would be a fun idea if Milky Rose had to work around with an item that gives her random powers, but I’m guessing that’s not the case. Another option would be that she’d use this to cut pizza. The blue roses and purple handle would make for a pleasant colour scheme, but then there’s the rainbow mini roses which break that, I think this would look more appealing if the roses were detachable and she’d attach the one she wants to use, but I guess the spinning wheel is supposed to be the Thing here.

Fresh Precure!

Pretty standard magical girl wands, white with obligatory pink for everyone and rainbow lights. At least everyone gets a crystal thingy at the tip in their own colour and card suit and it’s nice that they use their items differently (though Berry this is not a sword no matter how you try to slice it) but otherwise I’m not really interested.

Nice colours and the wing is cute, and I actually like the bizarre idea here. Like you could add power to the harp with the heart while playing it, or attach different attacks or whatever. But this exemplifies my main issue with the Precure items: okay, you can’t sell an actual harp with actual strings to kids so you sell this instead, ok. But why does the item in the show have to be a 1:1 replica? Disney can sell Elsa’s castle legos or inaccurate cheap-looking dolls but the counterparts in the movies look perfectly serviceable, so why can’t Passion have actual strings in her harp instead of these huge led lights?

Heartcatch Precure!

I like the metallic or glassy sheen at least in this shot and the shape of the handle. What I don’t like is the middle heavy design, I’d rather have the rainbow thing in the middle (which I’d prefer not be rainbow) either be smaller and moved to the tip, or the end part being longer so it’d look a bit like a sword.

This one is rather basic, like it’s just a circle with hearts around it. But at least it doesn’t do anything stupid and the colour palette checks out.

Suite Precure

I like the idea of being able to split the item in two but especially Rhythm’s looks a bit silly when it’s not in two parts, like now it’s not a baton or staff or really anything I could describe. But somehow I still like Melody and Rhythm’s items, at least they have consistent colour schemes and despite initially looking very different actually use the same base so that’s nice customisation. But how come the pink girl didn’t get the more ornate one? The guitar looks more on the cheap side, this is a toy guitar, not a magic guitar. And are those multicoloured buttons I spy again? But thanks to the more calm colour palette it’s not the worst toy guitar ever at least.

Smile Precure!

My first impression on this was “wow this is so dumb”, but the horse’s sleeping eye with the glamorous eyelashes makes it loop back to awesome. This is girly fairy tale magical girl design cranked up to eleven and I can only marvel the boldness. However like with the Heartcatch wand this one feels a bit unbalanced, the bottom and middle are pretty big so I’d prefer if the “blade” part was a bit longer and again the rainbow hears feel unnecessary.

Based on design alone this is a contender for my least favourite battle item, but I’ll have to hold my full judgement until I see it in action. But this has it all, there’s obligatory pink and rainbow, overdesigned, looks very cheap and gaudy. 

Doki Doki! Precure

This is some seriously extreme lipstick. I guess this is a serviceable design if you want to make a lipstick based weapon, it’d probably not look very impressive if it was regular size. I like the twist-able red jewel, and the fact  that while she can use different lipstick colours, the item sticks to just red and yellow.

Here we have the collapsible bow I was hoping we’d get with Shiny Luminous. Apart from the obligatory pink palette for everyone I really like these, again bow makes for a great weapon, and I also like its collapsed form, that thing just invites you to press a button and have it open up. Though holding the bow looks kind of awkward. And is this the largest Precure weapon we have? Where are the huge staffs?

For starters, I find there’s something absolutely hilarious about the name “Magical Lovely Pad”. Story-wise it has the baggage of belonging to an attack where the other characters send their power to Mana (of course) so she can take all the spotlight, but as far as the design goes I guess it’s alright for a magical tablet. And I thought this was one of the items where it just floats in the air awkwardly but apparently the Cures do hold it in their hands, so points for that.

The harp is kind of silly looking but i have to commend it for at least having the strings not be thick as a straw.

Happiness Charge Precure!

A pretty straightforward item, nice colour palette and the heart ribbon things at the ends are the same as the bracelet and resemble the brooch too so it’s consistent with the reset of the items in the season. I also like how it can be split into maracas too.

I think the idea of a star-shaped tambourine is perfectly serviceable, but this one just looks kind of cheap, like we’re in the baby chew toy category again. But I feel this could be salvaged if you gave it a more harmonious colour palette, made the heart look more like a crystal and the jingles metal (i.e. not so plastic-y).

This one always felt hilarious in that you have a grown man character showing interest in this thing. But as a weapon it’s one of my least favourites. The makeup pens that come with this are fine I guess (though the makeup the girls put on themselves looks like the “this character doesn’t know how to use makeup” kind) but the main item is very unappealing to me. I guess it boils down to the fact that this kind of items feel more like that the Cures just push a button and then the item does its magic light blast of goodness and love on its own, while with the wands and musical instruments and such the Cures feel more like they’re actively using the weapon.

Go! Princess Precure!

An alright wand, even if the tip feels a bit too heavy. The mostly white-and-goldd design is a lot more preferable to the usual pink, the dress up keys get to take a part, and the tip looks a bit like a crown.

This is in the same category as Passion’s harp, nice colour palette and a musical instruments make for a great magical girl weapon in theory, but here the result is just too cheap and toylike. No way I can imagine a violin sound coming out of this, the only thing I hear is two pieces of plastic rubbing together.

This is it, the worst item. Magical girl weapons don’t all need to resemble actual weapons, but there are some limits to how far you should go. Out of all the Precure items this feels the most like the toy department just said “we want to sell a toy castle, so have the main characters play with one in every episode after its introduction”. Can’t they use a less awkward item to conjure this castle around them and sell a miniature version of that as a dollhouse or something?

As a toy this is fine, like I had a similar little castle (it was semi-transparent blue and you could turn on a pink light in it) and sure I could imagine placing some Pikachu toys on it and have them dance, but as a weapon in a story I hate it. 

Mahou Tsukai Precure!

These look pretty nondescript and forgettable. At least they don’t have multicoloured beads running down the staff, but there’s not much to talk about.

This one is cute but kind of basic too; the gold butterfly feels a bit unnecessary but if you remove it the whole thing would be pretty bland. Still, there’s nothing overly stupid and I like that the flower bud doesn’t miss the obvious that it should open in an attack.

Kira Kira Precure A La Mode

This one is a bit too bulky, but at least it makes it stand out a bit more. It also helps the item not look so unbalanced with the huge glass (?) ball in the middle. And it’s nice how you can see the Kira Kiraru in it; it makes the item feel more real when you get to see the resource it uses. The cream like decorations are cute and appropriate and the walking cane shape reminds me of the candy filled plastic canes I used to get from the summer market as a kid.

I got nothing on this, it’s another magical girl wand that doesn’t particularly stand out in any way. At least the rainbow buttons fit the theme this time?

Google tells me it’s an actual product, but to me ‘creamer’ still sounds like a Wrong kind of name to use in a kids’ show. That aside the idea of piping cream on the enemy is fun, but I don’t think they do that in the attack... But for the potential I like the design; unsurprisingly I’d remove the multicoloured decorations on the handle but otherwise it’s alright.

Hugtto! Precure

This one feels really generic, white staff with pink accents and rainbow jewel thingies. Not interested, next!

These look a bit too bulky for my taste, I think they’d look better if the neck was longer. The colours are also a bit too gaudy for my taste (and the guitar totally disappears in Macherie’s dress), though in their defense in better pictures you can see they have more white so the result isn’t quite so stuffy. But still magical guitars make for a good weapon for idol themed characters.

This feels really generic, like it’s just a bunch of hearts glued together. Next!

Star Twinkle Precure

The wand is pretty basic, but there’s something in its simpleness that I like. If you removed the pink and purple crown thingy it would be better, like only neutral white and gold, and everyone’s theme colours equally in the shooting star (or I guess the star is also yellow for Soleil but it still feels more neutral than the usual pink). With its many colours and short tail the shooting star feels like something from a baby nursery but I guess if the tail was longer it’d start feeling more like a sickle.

As for the prefume bottle, I don’t find the design particularly attractive, and it also feels like yet another case where pink has been shoehorned in. And the little ribbon feels very unnecessary.

Healin’ Good Precure

My criticism on Passion’s harp also applies here, and this time I also find the overall design less appealing with several of the details feeling a bit tacked on.

(the wands have already been bitched at in the henshin item post)

#precure #stuff #ranking #Anonymous #responses #Hapuriainen bitches about children’s cartoons