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WE FOUND THEM GUYS

Thank goodness oh my gosh. They were in a backup I had previously disregarded

finally I can rest

fuckkkkkk I lost my writing notes AGAIN. I had all types of fantasy spells and lore I created written down and now they’re just gone. I must have moved them but I have NO IDEA where and I use so many different apps and websites to keep all of my notes they’re gonna be impossible to find I’m crying real tears

(no I’m not I’m lying)

Katara 🌕!!!

This urge to draw her probally came from the new atla live action. Idk if it's going to be good by my expectations are lowering with every new information we get. And i hate the whole art direction of the series. And don't even get me started on the costumes.

But putting that aside, ever since i watched atla 2 years ago, i couldn't wait to draw all the characters in digital medium ( : And here I am, finnaly doing so.

The patterns, tattos and jewerly are inspired by inuit coulture ( i know its not really accurate).

Anyway, I hope you like this piece

Be furious.

Be absolutely enraged.

Images put together by wearthepeace on Instagram, found them here

Found these but lost other ones SAVE ME

it’s for one of my fanfics where Lizzie and Hope have a lil affair and live in domestic bliss behind her husband’s back PLEASE LORD

fuckkkkkk I lost my writing notes AGAIN. I had all types of fantasy spells and lore I created written down and now they’re just gone. I must have moved them but I have NO IDEA where and I use so many different apps and websites to keep all of my notes they’re gonna be impossible to find I’m crying real tears

(no I’m not I’m lying)

where does the trauma end and I begin?

Hello! my fundraising is slow, my time is limited, I don't have enough reach, I really need your help, could you help me spread the word or donate what you can?

I need medication for life to prevent my lungs from collapsing, this implies permanent treatment with steroids, oxygen therapy, control of oxygen in the blood and antibiotics to prevent the development of bacteria in the lungs.

I'm afraid I have to insist on this because it may be the only way to get my treatment.

I need medication for life to keep my lungs from collapsing, this costs around $700 per month.

Things are really tough on me,I can’t afford. Please donate🖤

Oh my love I’m sorry I can’t donate but hopefully posting this can lead you to someone who can. Please help this person out if you can!

The United States of America, Germany, Britain and France support the terrorist Zionist-Israeli entity and have made the children of Gaza a testing ground for their destructive weapons.

The amount of "what's a reblog gonna do" responses to the global strike for Palestine/Gaza, disgust me. YOUR REBLOG IS GOING TO SPREAD AWARENESS. You are uplifting the voices of those lost and grieving from this heinous genocide. You're NOT being asked to march in the streets of the Gaza Strip. Your reblog, matters. It echoes through screens and radiates through the airwaves. Don't let them be forgotten simply because you're choosing complacency over a 10 second effort of a reblog. Silence is betrayal. Complacency is death.

For Palestine/Gaza!

sim just had a baby and they immediately tried to give it to Vladislaus who is a nurse??? at the hospital???

I’ve been looking for this methan fancam to “are we still friends” for like months WHERE IS IT

This is a beautiful way to think of it— you just changed my whole perspective on self insert stories

more than i even like self inserts i love the power of the second person perspective. like from a literary standpoint, the discomfort of you is so deeply appealing to me. it forces the reader to engage with a story in a way it is not required from other perspectives. i like it literature and in video games and in art. i like when a story challenges my concept of self and tells me: forget everything. this is a story about you (disambiguation)

fuckkkkkk I lost my writing notes AGAIN. I had all types of fantasy spells and lore I created written down and now they’re just gone. I must have moved them but I have NO IDEA where and I use so many different apps and websites to keep all of my notes they’re gonna be impossible to find I’m crying real tears

(no I’m not I’m lying)

Palestinian poet, Mahmoud Darwish

being asexual and experiencing arousal is sooooo weird cause like I’ll be feeling it physically but it won’t really translate mentally especially when I’m intoxicated cause I’ll be standing there and 30 minutes later it’ll click like OH that’s why my cooter cat is throbbing

WIP

Hayley has nightmares about it still.

That morning, that night— the hours blurred between waking and death, wandering and grieving. It started in the wee hours, just before the sun rose and joined the moon as it faded into the sky.

She remembers the smells. She remembers the sounds.

Bits and pieces of gravel pricking her hands from when she managed to scramble away, only to be caught and dragged into the church on her back. The scent of rain hanging in the air, another storm on the horizon. She remembers the high ceilings and the wooden arches, plaster and concrete echoing her screams back at her. Klaus’ voice reverberating as he called for her accompanied by her baby’s cries before it all just… went away.

Unbeknownst to her, Klaus had enlisted Davina to place a protection spell on her, one Elijah witnessed in use by Sabine.

She remembers the silence when she woke up in the church, covered in sweat and blood. How it felt when life punched its way through her chest, but not without the reminder of what death had been like in the soreness of her muscles, the stiffness in her bones. It took her body a second to realise it was… back. That she was alive. Awake.

There was a hollowness that greeted her during her introduction back to life. It took the place of that fluttering feeling that she was used to. The one that created an ache in her ribs with the downward pull and a pressure in her pelvis as her due date neared. The one that told her the baby was still there, still alive, growing everyday and moving about inside her.

Where is her baby?

A dark thought had grown in her mind before the memories had barreled back in. That maybe she had lost her in the pool that night, that it was all a dream. Or maybe the baby didn’t make it after the birth and they had put her back to sleep so she wouldn’t have to endure the stress of it. Or maybe they killed them both right then and there.

But then she remembered seeing her. Holding her. This pale, screaming thing covered in blood and vernix, looking up at her with clouded grey eyes. How she fussed and flailed in her arms, shrinking from the candles and flourescents. She remembers seeing so much of Klaus in her, and then the look on his face, the tears shining in his eyes as he looked down at them.

Their little creation. A perfect mix so small and tiny she barely fit in the crook of her arm. She’d been so afraid. It was too soon. Too soon for the contractions, too soon for her water to break.

But there she was anyway, seemingly healthy and kicking like a goat.

And then they took her away. First the witches and then her father.

For 8 months all Hayley had of her daughter was memories. Dreadful, violent memories.

The blood shed at her birth from rolling heads and slit throats and Klaus promising and delivering on rivers of it flowing from their enemies.

The attempted sacrifice at dawn when vengeful spirits stood between the mother and the newborn, waiting for her to join them on the other side mere hours after her birth.

The time spent afterwards when Hayley held her and shared in her cries, trying to feed her with milk that hadn’t yet come in, changing her with diapers that wouldn’t fit.

How Klaus had taken her out of Hayley’s arms, with pursed lips and glossy eyes, and spirited her away.

Every night for 8 months she dreamt of it all; sleepless nights turning into days wracked with grief, with worry not knowing where in the world her baby was. For 8 months she did not see her child. She did not get to see her grow, to hear her babble and cry, to see her gummy smile and hear her laugh. For 8 months all she had of her daughter was that day. All she had of motherhood was that day.

So when Dahlia tells her she is pregnant again, Hayley breaks.

i'm seeing people losing hope for palestine i'm begging you seriously please don't. the death toll is high but there are still people alive, there are still journalists risking everything to make sure the world sees what is happening. please continue protesting if you have the option to, keep demanding for a ceasefire and keep talking about palestinians both alive and dead. you have to keep going until the very end or else you really did fail them.

I Swear I Need You

Pairing: Dark!Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: You've been avoiding your husband. Aemond will do whatever it takes to correct that.

Warnings: possessive/unhinged!Aemond, time-travel, infidelity, period-typical views of gender and marriage, angst, murder (non-explicit), reader’s plans go awry real fast

When you mull over it further in the safety of your own bed, you realize just how unsurprised you are by your husband's actions. Tales of Targaryen madness have always been prevalent throughout the kingdom, and the prince’s own uncle was said to have murdered his first wife long before wedding his niece.

That's probably where he'd drawn inspiration from, you decide with mounting fury. Aemond must've taken a page out of his uncle's book and discarded you in a moment of aggravation. You were of little use to his present cause—whatever it was. Being the outsider that you are, you're not privy to his family's agenda.

Having come to with a violent start, heart racing painfully in your chest, you come to terms with what's happened—with what will happen, should you remain down the same path: your husband is going to murder you. He'll push you off the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay after you confront him about his dalliances; the ocean below you'll plunge into while you scream your lungs out, knowing full well you know not how to swim—that even if you did, you were no match for the strong currents of Blackwater Bay.

But you're alive now, you remind yourself. Not because, by some miracle of the Seven, you survived the waters, but...but because your demise has yet to happen. 

You've somehow traveled back in time. The thought is as ludicrous as it is a relief, but you know not how else to explain it.

If you're alive now, it must mean you can still avoid the fate you've just met. But how?

You remember the confrontation you had with him, all the words that had tumbled from your mouth while he watched, his face impassive, one violet eye as wide as it was blank. The problem was that you never could gauge his mood, but what you're actually realizing now is that you just weren't worth the effort for him to emote to any extent. After all, you were never the prize; your enormous dowry was.

I have been nothing but an attentive and devoted wife to you—but you, you choose to spit it all back in my face—they say your father, may his bones rest in peace, would never—if you're this blind, then perhaps your nephew should've maimed your other eye for good measure—

Well, that’s it, isn’t it? You'd gone off on your husband when once you wouldn't have dared to. In your defense, you were drunk from imbibing too much Dornish red, your bitterness and neglect at a fever pitch that night.Here you were, a hare forced to dwell amongst dragons; some at court called you an upstart, others called you a tart with middling blood. You were craving.

You know your husband craves, too. You're just not what he wants.

Well. 

In the end, this is what you surmise: if you want to keep your head above the water, you just need to stay clear of your husband. Keeping on his good side means keeping out of his way. Where once you longed for his attention, you are now more than happy to do without it, so long as it means you can live.

After all, Prince Aemond can't murder his wife if he hardly remembers he has one. 

In your head, at least, it makes sense.

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

The basket of white linen shirts placed in your bedchamber startles you.

You've just returned from a game of shuttlecock with your handmaidens,basking in the cool morning weather before the near-stifling noonday heat takes over completely. You're feeling light and invigorated, but the sight of that basket chases away your happy mood. It's Aemond's, those linen shirts. You completely forgot about them, but here they are.

Playing ghost with your husband comes surprisingly easy to you, but you suppose the foundations for your success were always there from the start; there was the fact that the two of you have always kept to separate sleeping arrangements, and Aemond has only ever sought your company at a frequency deemed dutiful by royal standards: there’s the few meals taken together each week with or without your in-laws, peppered with an occasional rendezvous in the evening that’s held before the hearth in your bedchamber. Where you once took these opportunities to please and engage him, now you keep mostly to yourself, mincing empty words when silence was unavoidable. Your quiet complaisance seems to please him enough, you think, but you'll never know for sure.

Under no circumstances do you accept any appointments with him on the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay; you even turn down a surprising request to walk with him through the royal gardens, because you know one of the paths lead to that same fateful spot you were once pushed off from.

In short, you have no interest in gaining your would-be murderer's favour—though, of course, you're certainly not interested in gaining his disfavor, either. It's a thin line you walk on, and you're trying not to fall off before making it to the other side.

"You can take this back to the prince's chambers, Edyth," you order, gesturing toward the basket.

Your favourite handmaiden frowns at you. "But princess, you haven’t mended them yet,” she reminds. 

"You’re right, and I don’t intend to."

Edyth looks worried. "Prince Aemond will question this, won't he? You've always insisted on darning his shirts yourself. What am I to tell his page when asked?"

You doubt your husband remembers such trivial devotions coming from you. A truth that heavy may have once left you despondent, but now, with a spark of vindication, you realize just how well that works in your favour.

"You will tell his page that I've not the time to darn his shirts anymore," you respond. "Besides, Prince Aemond has important matters on his mind to heed who is darning his shirts, don't you think?"

The look on your handmaiden's face tells you she's not wholly convinced, but she obeys nonetheless.

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

"Won't you dance with me, sweet sister?" the Princess Helaena asks, and you smile brightly at her. You've never excelled at anything in particular, but you do consider dancing one of your stronger points. The King need not bother the two of you tonight, thankfully; as you rise from your seat you spot your brother-in-law watching fair Lady Bridgetts with a less-than-lecherous gaze, surrounded by his like-minded coterie. The King these days doesn't care much for small family gatherings, as was once the norm, you were informed; he prefers the more boisterous and wine-soaked kind, attended by courtiers he knows will keep him entertained. 

Despite her marriage to King Aegon, your sister-in-law has yet to be crowned queen, but she doesn't seem to mind in the least. Her steps are light and airy, cheeks red with excitement. You match her enthusiasm with your own, realizing that your feelings of joy are, in fact, genuine; Aemond is absent tonight, as he has been for the past few days, and so you've been able to breathe a little easier because of it. Your husband has been charged with mending frayed ties with the lords of The Reach, taking him away from the capital. A blessing, that—you wouldn't have attended tonight's amusements had he been in attendance.

And so you dance and dance with the Princess Helaena, the two of you spinning in delight as the music picks up its tempo; your surroundings blur while you move, eager to be rid of your present worries for a night or two. While you've taken it easy with the wine—you learned your lesson when you drunkenly confronted Aemond on the terrace that fateful day—you've indulged on the candied fruits that accompanied tonight's supper, the sugar elating your good spirits even further.

But perhaps you've been too eager to forget, it seems, that the gods have sought to correct this.

As you ready yourself for another spin, someone catches your eye—pale blonde hair and garments as black as night instantly betray his identity.

Aemond is watching you as you stumble lightly at his appearance, just as the music halts.

Your husband's gaze remains firmly upon you as a Kingsguard standing watch by the entrance announces Prince Aemond's arrival. You look away with haste, cursing beneath your breath. This wasn't what you anticipated; your husband isn't expected back for a few days still.

His mother voices as much after greeting her son warmly. "Nonetheless, the sweet air of the Reach has done you well," she comments, and you refrain from rolling your eyes. In your opinion, Aemond looks exactly the same, his pallor just as it was when he left King's Landing. You wonder, more with curiosity rather than bitterness, what fleshly delights he had sampled on there.

"For all of its riches, The Reach lacks what I truly desire," he says, casting a look at you over his mother's head. You're forced to hold back a scoff. You have no time for flattery.

"Then you will happily greet your wife with open arms, will you not?" the Queen Mother asks, turning to lead her son towards you.

With a smile painted on your face, you offer a quick curtsy in greeting. "Welcome back to the capital, husband." The last word tastes foreign in your mouth. 

The Prince must’ve changed into a fresh set of clothes before appearing before them all, by the pristine look of his leather doublet and hose. He doesn't respond right away, his expression impassive.

"You look well, my love," he finally says.

You actually want to agree with him because it's true, but you’re sure that would be in bad taste when you've been apart from each other for such a while.

"Won't you dance with her, Aemond?" It's the Princess Helaena, speaking from across the room. "Those who dance and tumble, dance and tumble, will always discern," she portends, a faraway look blossoming on her still flushed-face.

You glance at your husband. "Perhaps some wine would be a better idea after such a long flight," you suggest instead.

"Only if you join me as well."

You can't just skip out this instant, you realize; that could raise Aemond's suspicions, and you don't want to deal with that. No, you'll make your exit when the moment's right, but now isn't it.

"If it pleases you, then I will."

His violet-eyed stare is unsettling, as it normally is. "It would please me very much."

You look back at Helaena with apology and affection. Here, at least, there is no bad blood to smooth over; your sister-in-law continues smiling at you in that otherworldly, enchanted way of hers. You also have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. 

Things fall back into place again as the two of you both seat yourselves at the dining table; the music winds itself back up again, but it’s a new tune this time. You smile knowingly at a trio of courtiers you’ve caught trying to scrutinize you discreetly by one of the stone columns. Tongues never stop wagging at court, and you suspect the grapevine will be plenty fruitful on the morrow, now that Prince Aemond has returned. 

At the head of the table, your husband holds out a cup provided by his servant. "To your health," he says, watching you. 

You raise your own cup before bringing it to your lips. You sip cautiously, as you’re wont to do now. 

Tonight’s retinue of courtiers gravitate around you both, but none dare approach close enough for discourse. From your vantage point, adjacent to the Prince’s own seat, you can see the Queen Mother’s tapestries on display along the gallery’s wall. She was forced to relinquish some of her favourites to King Aegon, he who has a penchant for life’s finest things. It’s mainly what you think about while nursing your wine, saying little to your husband.

"What have you been doing here in my absence?"

You shrug. "Things, here and there."

"Such as?"

For a moment, you consider telling him about your day traversing through River Row. Despite having never lived there for a day in your life, being surrounded by fishmongers and sea captains grips you with nostalgia you didn’t realize you yearned so badly for. More than once you’ve even had a selection of fish brought back to the Red Keep for your cook to try his hand at preparing. But why in the gods would you tell him all that? You want as little to do with your husband as possible; it’s as if the more you give, either with words or actions, the easier it will be for him to use against you, to lure you to the terrace you avoid like death itself. 

"Trifling things, husband," you finally say, fingers dancing around the rim of your cup. "I doubt you’d be interested in the courtly pursuits that maidens and ladies participate in to wile away the time."

"Hm. And yet my shirts have come back to me unmended each time they are brought to your chambers. My page insists you’ve been occupied."

Your fingers stop moving. "Oh. I didn't think you'd mind, to be honest. And besides, I realized I was too poor a seamstress in the end," you add for good measure.

"I ought to be the arbiter of that."

You know his gaze has barely left your face since he’s arrived, and it’s beginning to make you nervous. Instinctively, you open your mouth to apologize, but he cuts you off, his voice low and commanding in that calmly dangerous way of his. 

"I will ask you again, wife: what have you been doing in my absence?"

As the minstrels segue into a new song, you shift your focus entirely on him. The Prince sits with his back erect, one hand on the table; his face is, as far as you can tell, an attestation to his boredom and the company present. 

His gaze on you is another story, altogether. Beneath his stare, you’re reminded of the madness all Targaryens are supposedly capable of—that conquering dragons is madness itself. How else to explain wedding and bedding your own kin, or murdering them for sport?

Your husband has killed. He has killed his nephew, and once he has killed you. If you let him, he could do it again. You don’t know what he wants to hear, or what he even wants from you, but you know you’re right to try and stay clear of him.

One of his long fingers taps sporadically against the base of his cup. Tap. Tap, tap. Tap—

"I've taken to the arts," you confess warily.

He blinks once, and only once. "What kind?"

"Well, ink paintings have taken the court by storm as of late," you explain, shrugging. "There isn’t one person I know who hasn’t dabbled in it."

"And you’re taken by it as well?"

You nod. "Yes, quite. Our teacher is a good one, and I’ve done well under his tutelage. He hails from Qarth, actually, but from what I understand the art of ink painting comes fr—"

"Your teacher is a man," he states, cutting you off. 

You huff quietly, slightly incensed from his interruption. "Of course he is. Women aren’t allowed to apprentice."

Another tap of his finger against the base of his cup. "And how often do you congregate with this teacher of yours?"

You’re really hoping that your husband doesn’t plan on taking an interest in ink painting. That’s just what you need, isn’t it, the Prince hovering about your space while you indulge in a past-time you’ve genuinely enjoyed pursuing, and not just for social purposes. "Our circle meets once a week," you lie. So what if it’s actually more frequent than that? With a civil war on the horizon, you’re not even sure if any of this will last, and you want to enjoy it as husbandless as you’re able.  

Boisterous laughter rings across the room. You realize it’s coming from the King and his coterie, but the source of their humour is unknown to you.

"You must show me your work, then," Aemond voices. "I very much wish to see your endeavours."

You smile nervously. "Yes, of course. Perhaps soon."

He smiles back at you, but there is dark mischief beneath it. "Perhaps now, my love. Let us rid ourselves of this company and find sweeter things to do in your chambers."

Your mind halts, fearful and mortified. This is absolutely not the direction you ever intended this conversation to go in—far from it. You have yet to find a plausible excuse to keep the prince out of your bed when your duty remains unfulfilled, but the experience is few and far between. Your husband does not crave you; the suddenness of his request throws you completely off guard. 

Say something, anything.

"The time is late and you’ve journeyed far, husband. Wouldn’t you prefer the comfort of your own familiar bed? You’re back in the capital now, besides; we’ve plenty of time for, um, things."

He says nothing to you, but you catch it on his face. That gleam of madness again.

For a moment you think he’s ready to let it go. And then, without breaking eye contact, he extends his arm and tilts his cup sideways, Dornish red spilling out over your lap like a bloody waterfall. You gasp loudly for all to hear, but you're too slow to avoid it; the wine has soaked through your skirts.

"How careless of me," he says without even a sliver of remorse, his face turned upwards to your own, one violent eye aglow with calm mischief.

You'd shot up from your seat as soon as the wine splashed onto your gown, your chair screeching against the stone floor. The music had halted again and the discourse terminated, all eyes turned towards you and the prince.

In the hushed silence that has descended, you glare at the prince, fingers bunching into the folds of your gown not soiled by the carnage he has wrought. You're flushed with a mix of frustration and embarrassment, face warm as you catch attendants approaching you from the corner of your eyes. How could he?

"I was very fond of this dress," you say, waving off the attendants. There was nothing they could do to salvage the garment.

"Then you must forgive this husband of yours," he says, standing. "We will need to have another dress made for my lady wife. A much finer one, so that it wholly befits her status and beauty."

"Yes, indeed," his mother cuts in as she nears, turning you towards her so she can examine the damage done by her son. "What a shame. It isn't like you to be so clumsy, Aemond."

Despite his misdemeanor—or, perhaps, because of it—the corners of his mouth remain tilted upwards in a mischievous smile. "It would seem that reuniting with my lady wife has made me soft and befuddled," he confesses, standing. You take a step back, alarmed.

"Come, wife," he says. "Unfortunately in this state, you're no longer fit for company like this. We will bid everyone a good night."

You consider disobeying. I'm not fit for your company either, you think to say, but there is a shadow lingering in his good eye that you're wary of. Aemond will broker no argument or negotiation tonight. Besides, the stain on your dress is too unbecoming for this set, yes; you look down at it, noticing how it resembled a bloody island in the sea of the blue fabric.

In the end, it is the Queen Mother who decides for you. "You'll not want to linger in that dress for much longer, my love," she comments with an apologetic smile. "I'll see to it that Aemond makes good on his promise of a new dress. You are certainly deserving of it."

So you bow your head in deference towards her before bidding your King and his company a goodnight. Helaena kisses your cheek affectionately before whispering something in your ear. You don't think much about it just now, not until you're lying in your bed, coming to terms with everything that had transpired tonight.

What will transpire tonight, that is.

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

You make it a point not to look at your husband as you make your way through the Red Keep, back to your own suite of rooms. The few restless courtiers still milling about eye the two of you cautiously.

In the now-empty corridor leading to your chambers do you finally voice your anger. "You did that on purpose," you accuse, turning on your heel to glare at him. Even his close proximity cannot thaw your feelings.

His smile remains placid. "Yes, I did." Not even a half-hearted attempt to deny it, you realize.

"Why do such a thing? What have I done to draw such ire from you tonight?"

The warm light that emanates from the torches around you sets your husband aglow while he studies you for a moment, silent. You freeze in fear beneath his gaze; it’s a look not so different from that which he'd given you before shoving you off the terrace—but no, that hasn't happened yet, not in whatever realm you've found yourself in right now. That won’t happen, so long as you play your cards right, so long—

You fail to act in time; he already has you pushed against the wall, his warm body crowding into yours. His hands curl possessively around your waist, face a hair's breadth away from your own. And while you desperately try to claw yourself from his presence, unable to discern between this Aemond and the one who killed you, between the sturdy ground beneath your feet and the ocean you were once plunged in, he only seems intent to trespass, to enforce his presence on you the only way a dragon is capable of. 

"Something has come over you," he says at last with a gentle tilt of his head, his hands tightening over your waist. "Where once you seemed intent to occupy every moment of my time, you're now avoiding me as of late. Why is that, wife?"

Heart drumming loudly in your ears, you try your hardest to maintain a passive look on your face. "No, that's absurd," you insist with the lightest of scoffs. "What reason would I have to avoid you?"

"That, my love, is exactly what I plan to find out."

You shake your head vehemently, trying another tactic. "So what if I have been making myself scarce before you? You’ve been preoccupied with matters of state, don’t you see? I only wish not to add to your burdens!"

He seems to be mulling over your answer while you try to keep yourself together, but his grip on your waist doesn’t loosen at all.  

"Perhaps you’re right," he affirms. "I’ve been a poor husband to you, haven’t I?"

"No! That’s not what I m—"

He doesn’t let you finish. "This needs to be rectified immediately."

You blink at him, throat parched. "I don’t understand."

A knowing smile blooms slowly along his mouth. "You will once the night is through."

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

AN: Guys this was supposed to be like, 2k words, but here we are past the 4k mark and I have no excuses other than this plot escaped me. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading! It’s been a while since I’ve written GOT fic, so I might be a little rusty. Let me know if you’re interested in reading more; I guess I could try my hand at smut or smth and I always planned to make our boy nuttier as the ideas flowed outta my head. 

Also, despite the sappy-sounding title, it’s ripped from Seulgi’s 28 Reasons which I had on full repeat because of its creepy, dark-pop vibe. Bye.

don't keep quiet don't stay silent please please please. keep reblogging, retweeting, spreading pro-palestine posts. do not shut your mouth about it. please. its the least we can all do. they are being murdered as i speak. they have been cut off from the internet & all other communication so the israel gov can do their ethnic cleansing in the dark. please do not stay silent. please speak up. give support in any & all ways you can.

I swear we will never forget how the slow death of these babies was literally being televised.

The whole world knows now that these babies have had their oxygen cut off from them by israel and the whole world knows that the hospital they are in is being bombarded by israel and the whole world knows that the families of these babies were being held hostages at gunpoint by israel inside the Al Shifa hospital.

The whole world also knows three of these babies have died already as the NICU shuts down.

Those who are silent about Israel's atrocities have made a deliberate choice to go down in history as the most shameless cowards. This is a very avoidable tragedy that you have chosen to maintain with your silence.

Me, reviewing the half-assed outline I wrote a while ago for my next WIP:

getting back into my VA bag so if anyone wants me to read their fics or have a fix read to them (with permission of the author ofc) PUHLEASE let me know

just a friendly reminder that laura lee never had a funeral!

jeepers crust this is profound

Trauma and Repeating Cycles

Full disclosure before I get into this little ramble I've been wanting to make— a lot of the theories and mutterings here are just the culmination of other theories and thought processes I've seen from much cleverer fans around the inets (primarily here and twitter), I would link them but frankly there's so many and I have no idea who would truly be the original coiner of these thoughts 😭😭😭

And also, of course, par the course for this show, very dark themes ahead.

I've just been thinking (probably too much) in depth about how Aegon and Aemond in particular are the final culminations of literal generations of sexual, psychological, and emotional abuse at this point. How Aegon wants so desperately for his mother's approval, and ends up instead a dark mirror of his father. And how Aemond wants to be his own, and instead ends up a dark mirror of his mother.

Alicent

I think it's important to start here with Alicent and just... Take a moment to truly detail and soak in the level of horror this poor girl has been subjected to.

She's the tender age of fourteen (important to keep this in mind later) when she's preyed upon by a man she not only regards as her father figure but is- yes- in fact the same age as her actual father. This man is the father of her at-the-time best friend. And though it's made more overt in the script than in the scenes, we see immediately even before the guillotine drops the fissures within Alicent's mental health. (Biting and chewing at her nails aggressively, for one.)

This is already horrifying enough, it should be enough. But it's exacerbated by the fact that this predatory union is propagated by her actual father, and that both of these men work to sequester her from the only person she would have had for support in this. Rhaenyra. The one with the temper, and the power, to be enraged by this without consequence. Conveniently, the only one who could have hissed and spat her rage at her father with impunity is the one completely erased from her life by them.

And by the time she finds out? It's too late, (none of the blame lies with Rhaenyra for her reaction, as she herself is a teenage girl going through horrific grief and finding out what has been done behind her back) Alicent is already set to be wed to Viserys, to become her step-mother.

This evolves into the first signs of an extremely important trauma response that we see carry down in different ways, much later on in the story. Alicent begins to lean upon duty, upon sacrifice, upon law and order. These things that she swaddles herself in from her youth to protect from having to admit how unfair all of this has been to her. What is leadership without sacrifice? What is being a Queen without suffering? She's too young and too wounded to look at the truth, she needs the structure of pain being a necessity in order to survive the burden of being a mother at fifteen years old. Of being the victim of martial rape at that tender young age.

And through these repeated traumas, she bears four children. The only part of her life worth anything to her, in the end. She's too young for them, too traumatized, too unequipped, but she loves them down to their souls.

And then, in her attempts to remain a good friend to Rhaenyra, in vouching for her, her father is ripped out from under her and she is completely alone with these toddlers. A moment which becomes defining for Alicent.

The moment Otto plants within her the seeds that would turn her- well, into Otto himself. Something she only realizes when it is tragically far too late.

Otto tells her, impresses upon her in a moment of extreme distress, that Rhaenyra will butcher the only good thing that has come of her traumas in life. That she will do anything to maintain the power her son rightfully (at least in the laws of Westeros) should have. She's not as cunning as Otto, and so where he uses cleverness and cunning she uses desperation and strict force (duty, suffering, law, order) to impress upon her firstborn that be must be King to survive.

As we all know, the death knell of Alicent ever believing otherwise first calls at Driftmark. When her son is maimed and Rhaenyra calls for torture (a desperate move to protect her own sons, but alas).

Now, why do I mention all of this that we've seen repeated plentily about Alicent? Because of how it trickles down into her children. Aemond in obvious ways, but less obviously in

Aegon

People have no trouble looking at Aemond and Alicent for the horrors that have been wrought throughout their lives, but not so much for Aegon the Elder, and while I think that's completely fair considering what we see of Aegon on the surface level throughout the season, I'd like to cut deeper into him.

Primarily, that I think Aegon himself has been severely sexually abused and traumatized, and that the character we see by the end of the season is a result of a great deal of very horrific circumstances that the show unfortunately either makes light of or completely undermines.

The mildest of the things I want to bring up is that Aegon's alcoholism very likely stems from that of Viserys- either the man is an alcoholic himself or at least fosters the unhealthy codependence in Aegon. I mean- he's two when Viserys first gives him a drink from Viserys' own cup. From a very young, very very much so still developing mind, I can't imagine what that would do to him.

But the more keen points, Helaena and Flea Bottom.

We all make our cracks about Aegon running to Flea Bottom for safety, that he's passed out drunk in a puddle somewhere or singing shanties in a bar with pirates. But I do want to point out the overwhelming odds that Viserys brought him there, or at least ordered for it to happen.

We even outright hear Daemon state that they used to run the whole of the Street of Silk in their youth. Viserys doesn't deny it, he simply grows hypocritically enraged that Daemon would do so with his daughter. Not his son. His daughter.

Who else in the entire keep would have the power and- frankly- the audacity to take Viserys' eldest son out into the city and to a brothel? Who would even benefit from that happening? And sure, you could say that Aegon simply chose to do it of his own agency. But how is it that a thirteen-fourteen-fifteen year old boy manages to escape what should be the most densely guarded location in the whole of Kings' Landing to go gallivanting off in the most dangerous corners of the city all night long? To end up drunk until sunrise there? At the very least do you think Otto would let his key to the throne go risking death constantly?

Unless, of course, the person to first bring him there has more power than Otto.

Aegon, at least from an age as young as Aemond and Alicent, had been brought by his father or at his father's behest, to a brothel to have sexual relations likely of a similar age gap to that of Aemond with the Madame.

Now, I want to bring up something that I already have a couple of times, something that I think envelops itself into his early experiences at the brothel.

There are two separate scenes, both dismissive and used as humor, that paint an incredibly bleak and tragic picture.

Aegon, age fourteen (the same as Alicent), outright stating that he does not wish to marry Helaena. He doesn't want it, and he words it in a crude and cruel way- as a drunken fourteen year old might be so inclined to do- but the sentiment beneath remains. Aegon is an unwilling participant in this marriage.

Aegon must, for duty, for order, for sacrifice, for law.

Helaena, standing from her chair with a cup in her hands, proclaims that Aegon mostly just leaves her alone, unless he comes back drunk.

On the surface? A joke that embarrasses Aegon and cuts the tension of the scene. Beyond that?

Aegon has already expressed that he did not desire to marry his sister, and now we hear that the only time he touches her is when he's inebriated. This doesn't give the impression of consent.

Which brings why I wrote about Alicent first into this. We see her impress duty upon him so aggressively, that it is his necessity to be King and all things that come with it. This is the product of a trauma response that duty and order and sacrifice and law are the means by which she survives, as well as a long held terror that her children will be butchered by proxy of having a stronger claim to the throne than Rhaenyra.

As a result, Alicent unwittingly subjugates her eldest son to the exact same traumas as Otto did with her. Aegon is robbed of his agency and autonomy in life. Everything about him curated with the intent to take a throne that was never meant to be his, that he does not want. He is forced to marry his sister against his express desires, and he is forced to bed her.

And make no mistake, it's force. Aegon is a notorious man-whore and lecher, he's a regular purveyor of brothels is he not? And yet he requires alcohol to crawl into bed with her, to sleep with her as he regularly and enthusiastically does other women.

I cannot say what this does to Helaena, I would like to think she is either neutral or accepting of this since she mentions what happens so casually and openly to her family. (Otherwise, we would need to get into the topic of a harmful stereotype of the neurodivergent girl being portrayed as having childlike innocence/stupidity and not understanding her own circumstances).

But at the very least, this means that Aegon is forcibly complicit in his own sexual assault, his own rape. Because he has to perform his marital duties, he has to have children by Helaena, it's his duty.

And we see the way this cultivates in Aegon. One of the most common symbols of someone attempting to seize control of their own life is to cut the hair (for a real world example, Britney Spears). It is extremely common symbolism in media, it has meaning in multiple cultures, even TGC himself says that Aegon's hair is short as a rejection of his blood, feeling like the black sheep of the family. I believe he hacks at his own hair in a desperate bid to feel some sort of control or ownership of himself in a world where he otherwise has none. Aegon copes by becoming an alcoholic and developing hypersexuality, he lacks any understanding of boundaries or what would be reasonable in a sexual environment.

It results in Dyana, and it results in Aemond.

Neither of which are forgivable things, neither of which become less horrifying, neither of which become more acceptable. (And we're very blessed to live within an era and society where it is commonly held knowledge that these things are unacceptable and horrific). But with the context that Aegon has been subjected to brothels and sexuality from such an early age- and against his will- it sheds a little light on Sara Hess' statement that Aegon doesn't understand consent, for himself or for others. Even his depressive acceptance of becoming King. He never once mentions that it's unfair to him, he just reaches out like a child, asking do you love me? Wanting to know that if he does this thing being demanded of him, he'll be rewarded with affection for it.

It's a tragic shame that the first season was so short, because we didn't get remotely enough time with the children, I think it would have been valuable to flesh out Aegon's relationship with self actualization and lack of control. That everything he wants and desires is out of his hands, that he must perform, and that even when he does it's not enough because he doesn't do it right. He proclaims that he tries so hard in that scene with Alicent, and that it's never enough, and it sounds comedic because they don't even take the time to show us, or to expand upon the morbid crumbs left behind of how Aegon is in a very predatory situation of his own, and that it's burnt away at his understanding of how the world works.

Which in my mind, plays out why he would bring Aemond to the brothel. In some convoluted, distorted way, I could see it being his attempt to comfort or reach out, Aegon's deeply warped perception of bonding and affection. Their father brought him to one at the same age, no? Aemond needs to take his mind off of what is still a relatively recent trauma, and so Aegon supplies the only way he can, the only way he's equipped to do so. Unwittingly, like Otto upon Alicent and Alicent upon Aegon, Aegon traumatizes Aemond further.

Aemond

Which brings me to Aemond, I think this will be a touch more brief than the others because plenty of people much more eloquent than myself have already expanded upon the tragedy of Aemond and how he turned out the way he did.

Unlike Aegon, Aemond never had the burden of the spotlight, the opposite in fact. By the time Aemond existed, all of Viserys' children by Alicent had fallen out of favor, and so Aemond has never once known the attention or the love of his father. Instead, the only consistent and parental figure Aemond ever had in his life was Alicent. Alicent already favored restriction and piety from a young age, as a result of the things done to her, though they hadn't quite hit their summit yet within the story.

Instead, Aemond is raised nestled into her skirts, resenting Aegon for his behaviors toward him and being ostracized by all else. Helaena was the only other kind figure aside from his own mother in his life, and her absent mind meant that Aemond truly lacked any peers in his life to bond with.

As a result, we have a child that is incredibly isolated, attributing all the cruelties and absences in his life upon his own shortcomings, his need to succeed and match the image of the Targaryen Prince, because then Viserys would have to notice him, because then his nephews and brother would have to respect him. And so he does something incredibly brave, incredibly reckless.

As a result? He's permanently maimed. And who is punished for it? Him, his mother. Not the one who did it, the one who tried to protect him. He watches his mother have a massive outburst and he watches how emotion is a crime, he's witness to the fact that feeling anything at all is sin and makes you the one in the wrong. She's made out to be a shrieking lunatic, that Rhaenyra and her children are the innocents, that Aemond was the criminal in this.

Alicent retreats into herself, that transformation finally hits it's pinnacle, and Aemond chases after it. He learns to bottle himself the exact same way, he learns to suppress everything and to instead focus on violence and physical prowess. But Aegon learned to cope in completely antithetical ways, and so when he attempts to soothe, he further harms. He subjects Aemond to yet another scenario in which he has no control, in which leaving makes him the bad guy- wasting Aegon's coin, disappointing him at least. It completely solidifies Aemond's dislike of things he perceives as unclean or uncouth, and he becomes a violent and barely composed mirror image of his mother.

All in all, these three are on a wheel turning against each other, unwittingly they cultivate harm that drips from one onto the other. Aegon knew their love once upon a time, and so he dives into the unhealthy things laid at his table, he gorges upon them until he needs to vomit and consumes again in the attempt to return to the feeling of love that they gave him so long ago that they will be fleeting, foundational memories and little else, anymore. (Might I remind everybody of that conversation between Jason Lannister and Rhaenyra? "I wonder, Princess. Was your own second nameday as grand as this?" "I honestly don't recall, and neither will he.") Aemond never once knew those feelings, he never knew massive hunts and banquets and celebrations, gargantuan bonfires and fawning nobility. So he shelled in on himself, he became utterly cold and disconnected. The distance was his friend, but now he's completely alone and with absolutely no one to lean on, no one to understand him, and no outlets for emotions that refuse to be bottled up when Lucerys enters his life again. Aegon invites him to the feast, but there's nothing on the plates, and there hasn't been for a very, very long time.

Alicent became a facsimile of what harmed her in the pursuit of protecting her own children, not realizing she was sentencing them to the same fate. Not realizing until the ashes were settling around her and green was as horrifying as red that they'd never stood a chance, at all.