Hello, all! I am Em (she/her) and I enjoy writing grotty content! This is a side-blog, so interactions (follows, likes, comments, etc.) will come from my main, @em-likes-to-lurk.
MASTERLIST │ TERMS OF ENDEARMENT │ WRITING RESOURCES │WRITING FOR ASOIAF │BOOKBINDING
A note: I do not consent to my works being appropriated, reworked, translated or otherwise adapted by other parties without express permission. I do consent to my works being bound by hand for no profit in accordance with international copyright laws. I am not the owner of the universes in which I write, and thus commercializing my content is illegal and strictly prohibited.
Some stuff about me: I’m 28, Australian, high school English teacher by trade. Most of my work involves dark and/or questionable themes, though I am willing to sprinkle in a bit of lightness every now and then. At the moment, I am writing for House of the Dragon - you can expect me to tackle ANY and ALL dodgy themes from that series (non-con, incest, age gaps, medieval purity culture etc.).
I do not currently take requests outside my ‘Terms of Endearment’ series, though I do greatly enjoy discussing smut ideas with my readers!
TAGLIST:
Click here to apply for @em-writes-stuff-sometimes’s general taglist!
Click here to apply for @em-writes-stuff-sometimes’s terms of endearment taglist!
Sorry, sorry! I know I said I’d be writing again, but I’ve been COMPLETELY swamped by work/life (got some high-needs students this year + my cat’s sick and arranging specialist treatment is a massive hassle). Have some pics of the custom Daenerys I’ve been lucky enough to score second-hand!
Headsculpt is by @d.b.studio.dansont on Instagram
Paint work is by (I think) @l2293078265 on Instagram
Hair partial-root is by @goodluck_studio_ on Instagram
Costume (dress, boots, dragon pin) is by @dddddex_tao on Instagram
I added the non-screen accurate chain and red cloak (may look into making the dragon chain out of clay bits at some point, and I’ll definitely have to emboss some crepe or something to get the right dragon-scale pattern)
ARE YOU WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE BECAUSE I’VE JUST FINISHED YOUR DAEMON FANFIC AND OMG I HAVE NEVER READ A BETTER FIC YOU WROTE HIM AND ALL THE OTHER CHARACTERS SO ACCURATE LITERALLY MY FAV FANFIC 🤍 You’re so talented omg never be ashamed of your writing or fanfic because I’m just in awe of your talent give me some please 💕💕💕
Hello! This is incredibly flattering (thank you), and I really appreciate the kindness! I know I’ve quite a ways to go writing-wise before I consider myself technically good, but it is definitely nice to know that my work is being well-received. I try really hard to make sure my characterisation is reasonably accurate (though I think I’ve made Daemon a bit too OOC, or perhaps brought forward too many characteristics that only apply to pre-Episode 3 Daemon), so I’m glad this is a high point for you!
If you ever are interested/want another writer to touch base with, I’d be happy to lend an ear (well, metaphorically; basically, hit my DMs up bro)! I’m not super experienced but I’m enthusiastic!
"i don't comment on ao3 because i don't wanna be annoying or weird" skill issue + you greatly underestimate the power dynamic here, writing multi paragraph comments is like feeding a bunch of deeply insane and possibly starved ducks at the park and watch them go completely mad over having received a piece of bread
this is something impossible to articulate while lying in bed, but. at the risk of being misinterpreted as going "the curtains are blue", a lot of poor analysis and commentary and understanding on this site about theme and story comes, in part, out of this idea that a story has to Say Something. that the work is Making A Statement, that there's A Point. that every work is a fable and themes are the part at the end where The Takeaway is explained.
so, we end up with people trying to find instructional meaning in stories that aren't didactic. most narratives reveal political perspectives and work in ethical frames, yes, but there's this tendency these days to behave as if The True Point And Meaning of these works is political and ethical statements vis a vis these frameworks, and that other themes are ancillary to that, if worth consideration at all — and to many, it isn't.
in other, shorter words, many approach stories in the mindset of a story being about something is identical to making a statement. it's born of, among other things, this idea that works Say Something, thus people search for the Moral Of The Story, losing any perspective of storytelling as a craft and diminishing any sense of theme outside of ethical and political didactisism.
Who comes up with like, fanfiction concepts? I just spent AGES trying to figure out what a ‘munch’ was after seeing it in a smut post; I thought it referenced Munch from Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.
I hate how bot comments on ao3 are making more and more writers disable their comments and lock their works so that only people with registered accounts can access their works (because while some of these bots are from registered accounts and therefore locking your fics won’t guarantee that you will be safe from them, a lot of them are commenting as guest users so locking fics helps a little), because there are so many genuine readers who read and comment on fics without having their own registered accounts.
these bots are not only annoying and harmful (if you fell for their lies and gave them money, an access to your personal informations), they’re also keeping artists and art from genuine audiences and destroying the community artists built with their audiences.
this is a post to say fuck you every bot out there.
WITH EVERY REBLOG THIS POST GETS, A BOT WILL DIE
also here’s how to spot and deal with bot comments
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The comments are often pleading or angry, asking you to "stop lying to your readers", "don't remove the AI prompts from your work", or suggesting that you "consider adding more diverse characters" to "repair the trust you've lost with your audience".
So far, these comments have all been from guests. Our advice is to flag them as spam to better filter them out.
To help train our automated spam-checker to block similar guest comments in the future:
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Go directly to the comment on your work, either by clicking on the link in your email or in your AO3 inbox.
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As of December 2025, bots have also left guest comments harassing users by:
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If you're not sure if something is a spambot comment, you're welcome to contact Policy & Abuse for assistance. Refer to the original post for more information!
As of January 2026, bots impersonating legitimate users have increasingly left guest comments harassing other users by:
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I cannot recommend enough making friends with the fan fic writers that you admire because #1. They're probably great people and you'll like them #2. And more importantly, YOU CAN SCREAM AT THEM VIA DMS ABOUT THEIR WORK and it's just a great use of everyone's time.
Pairing: Ramsay Snow (later Bolton) x Kyra Smith (original female character)
Warnings: No beta - we die like men. Mild animal related gore (related to hunting). Violence.
Word count: ~4k
Summary: A chance encounter in the woods sets two young people on a path which sees their fates irrevocably bound together.
Author's note: Ramsay and Kyra are both fourteen in this chapter. There will be a three year time skip in the next. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
“Leave it alone!” Kyra’s voice rang out, shrill and piercing, carried through the dense canopy of pine trees that made up the expanse of woodland south of the Dreadfort.
Her boots crunched upon the snow as she ran, and she swore under her breath at the cumbersome weight of the bow in her hands and the quivers strapped to her back – when her father had sent her out rabbiting that morning, she had dressed to move slowly and silently through the woods, and was not prepared to have to sprint over gnarled tree roots, sweating beneath the furs she was wrapped up in. There would be no supper tonight, she had likely frightened every living creature away, and the biting cold of the air would feel like a gentle caress compared with the sharp smack of the back of her father’s hand across her cheek. It would be worth it though, if she could stop what she could see was about to happen.
She was panting hard as she came to a skidding stop in front of the boy that knelt in the snow, holding a squealing, brindle puppy in one hand and a flaying knife in the other.
“Don’t hurt it! Let it go!” she demanded, her voice more commanding to her ears now that she didn’t have to scream from a distance.
“What’s it to you?” the boy asked, lifting his head to meet her wide eyed, angry stare. “It’s male, useless to me.”
A shiver ran down Kyra’s spine as they locked eyes – his were the palest, most intense blue she had ever seen, eyes that were not of this world. When she was much younger, her grandmother had frightened her with tales of things beyond The Wall that had possessed such eyes, and she had been thankful that she had never encountered them outside of a story told before bedtime – until now. Her fingers tightened instinctively around her bow.
“If it’s useless to you, you don’t have to kill it. Give it to me.”
“Are you going to eat it?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he grinned with a mouthful of teeth that appeared sharper than was natural.
“No, I’m not going to eat it!” she snapped, the offense he had caused making the hairs at the back of her neck prickle with annoyance. “What sort of question is that?”
To her relief, he set the puppy down upon the snow blanketed earth before placing his knife back into the brown leather scabbard that was belted around his waist. She watched with pity, her heart twisting in her chest as the little brown creature wriggled and whimpered in the cold.
“You could be a wildling,” he answered with a shrug, “wildlings eat all sorts.”
“I am not a wildling,” she retorted, feeling her face grow hot as her anger quickly bubbled to its zenith. She leaned down and scooped the puppy up with her free hand, her movements slow and gentle, despite her agitated state, and bundled it against her chest. The poor thing reeked of old straw and urine, but it nestled contentedly into the warmth of her, so she didn’t have the heart to pull it away again. “Too far south for wildlings.”
“You look like a wildling,” he taunted, cocking his head. “So, what will you give me for the dog?”
Kyra sniffed, pulling herself to her full height, bow in one hand and the puppy cradled to her chest in the other. “What will I give you?” she sneered. “I’ll let you continue to eat your meals with a full set of teeth by not knocking them all out.”
With that, she turned and stormed off towards home, not sparing a glance back.
The hunt was lost for the day, so Kyra started for home with a sigh, her stomach rumbling with hunger pangs as she thought back on her father’s words that morning; “we’re down to the last of the bone broth, lass, so bring something home this evening and we’ll not go hungry tonight.”
“We are going to go hungry tonight and you’re to blame,” she murmured down to the puppy who was now sound asleep against her chest, “but I don’t mind, perhaps one day you might repay my kindness.”
Kyra lived with her father, Rodrik Smith, in a small cottage set at the end of a gravel track that led up to the walls of the Dreadfort. Her father’s forge was housed in a ramshackle outbuilding set upon what would have been the cottage’s garden once upon a time. No life sprouted there now, only the rendering of steel beneath the blows of Rodrik’s hammer. Kyra had been born in a village just outside of Last Hearth, in a house that, while modest, had always been filled with laughter. She had shared the space with Rodrik, her mother, Erena, and her grandmother, Wynafryd. Illness had swept through the village like wildfire, spreading fever and death in its wake, and neither Erena or Wynafryd had survived it. With half the inhabitants of the village now gone, and no passing trade, Rodrik had had to pack up what little they owned and take Kyra south to seek out more gainful employment. Rodrik was a skilled blacksmith, and so Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, had taken him on as the castle’s armourer. Unfortunately, placing a roof over the head of Rodrik and his daughter had been all the payment that Lord Bolton had been prepared to offer, but with no other viable alternatives, Rodrik had had to grudgingly accept.
When Rodrik delivered his wares to the holdfast, the cook would take pity on him and, out of the sight of prying eyes, would give him bread and vegetables to take back to the cottage with him. They still needed meat, however, and so once a week Kyra would go out in search of their supper – during the colder months she would hunt rabbits in the woods, and during summer she would fish for trout upon the banks of the Weeping Water. Whatever Kyra brought home, Rodrik would make last an entire week alongside the cook’s charitable offerings – nothing went to waste, though as the days progressed, what was placed in front of her became less and less appetising to Kyra until she was able to hunt or fish again. However, her father would not allow for more frequent outings in search of food – the lands and river that Kyra hunted and fished belonged to the Boltons; she was technically poaching, and Roose had flayed and hanged men for far lesser crimes.
“Didn’t catch owt,” Kyra murmured shamefully, shrugging out of her furs once she reached home that evening.
The cottage was small; fully open plan with a table and chairs, and tools for cooking placed by the hearth that the door to their home opened onto. Their two single beds were tucked away at the far end, a privacy screen separated the two.
The fire that blazed in the hearth prickled at the chill of her skin, making her nose turn runny, and she sniffled, blue eyes staring expectantly up into the dark features of her father as she braced herself for the inevitable strike across her cheek. It never came.
Rodrik’s gaze dropped to the floor, taking a cautious step back from the puppy that now snuffled around his boots. “And where did you catch this? This is a hunting hound pup, looks like one of the kennel master’s whelps.”
“A lad in the woods gave him to me,” she said, her entire body sagging with relief at having avoided the sting of her father’s knuckles across her cheek.
“What lad?” Rodrik asked, dark eyes narrowing as he scooped up the pup for a closer look. It squirmed in his grasp, lapping at his nose until he tutted in irritation and set it back down again.
“Dunno,” she shrugged, moving towards the kitchen table, and beginning to slice a carrot that was too soft for the blade of the knife to have any real purchase on. She grimaced. “Looked about my age, couldn’t have been older than fifteen. He was gonna kill Dog, so I took him off him. His eyes were frightening, he looked like a Wight.”
“Dog’s a bloody stupid name,” Rodrik muttered, moving to each of the small windows and hurriedly fastening the shutters closed.
“What you doing that for?” Kyra asked, her brow furrowing in confusion as she scraped the chopped carrot into the cast iron pot of bone broth that simmered over the fire. She’d never seen her father look frightened before, and struggled to understand what would cause such a reaction. Fright was not a state that suited him – in Kyra’s eyes, a man that big should fear nothing. Rodrick was tall, broad of chest and shoulder, with hands and forearms that were wired with muscle and covered in coarse hair. His dark features, so unlike the pale, delicate sharpness of her own, were broad. Her father laughed, he got angry, he had looked sad when Erena had died, but she had never, ever seen fear in his eyes until now.
“You aren’t to see that lad again, d’you hear me?” her father demanded, his voice turning to an urgent whisper. “He’s dangerous.”
“Who is he?” Kyra asked, stepping back as her father nudged her away from the cooking pot with a forearm to her middle, and busied himself with stirring.
“Roose Bolton’s son,” he replied, “be thankful he didn’t catch you hunting, or he could’ve reported back to his father that you’d been poaching.”
“Lord Bolton’s sons are all dead,” she commented, moving to sit at the table and setting out bowls at both of their places.
“His trueborn sons are,” Rodrik corrected, “Ramsay is a Snow.”
Kyra’s brows lifted. So, his name was Ramsay and he was a bastard. She suddenly felt smug for having treated him as she had, smirking to herself as she watched Dog’s little tail wag as he pottered about beneath the table. Her smirk faded the moment her father ladled bone broth into her bowl – it looked like steaming pond water and didn’t taste any better either. After forcing down a few spoonfuls, she placed her bowl on the floor and watched as Dog happily tucked into what remained.
“Well, at least one of us is enjoying it,” she thought, smiling fondly down at him.
Looking up, she caught her father’s reproachful stare and huffed, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her tired eyes. “I’ll do better tomorrow, Da’,” she promised, “I’ll bring home enough rabbit for all three of us.”
“Three of us, eh?” he grumbled, dipping his spoon back into his bowl, “You’re keeping that stinking mutt then?”
“He’ll be good for hunting,” she remarked casually, knowing that presenting the pup as useful would win her father’s favour.
“Fine,” he nodded, “but you’re to keep away from Ramsay Snow.”
“With pleasure,” Kyra yawned.
The quarrel whistled through the air, striking the rabbit through the eye – a clean and instant kill. Ramsay watched, eyes wide and lips parted in silent awe, from where he had hidden among the thick fir trees. The girl had taken her shot from at least forty yards away, he had never seen anyone shoot with such precision before.
He had stepped out that morning coiled tighter than a spring. The insolent girl’s threat from the day before had made his blood boil, anger at her for daring to speak to him in such a way had coursed hotly through his veins all the previous night, alongside annoyance at himself for allowing her to simply walk away. That would not be a mistake he would repeat if he found her today. He had imagined a thousand different ways that he would make her suffer, pictured her face contorted in pain as she babbled apologies while he flayed the flesh from her bones, before leaving her for the dogs to finish off. His hand had tightened around the pommel of the knife at his belt when he had spotted her, yet seeing her take her killing shot had stopped him in his tracks. There was a wildness to her that he was intrigued by, for the first time in a long time, Ramsay felt excitement.
When Roose had finally relented, and acknowledged Ramsay as his son, he had been thrilled by the prospect of being taken in by a noble house, especially one whose words were “our blades are sharp” and depicted flayed men upon their banners. Ramsay believed he was exactly where he was always meant to be. However, he had quickly found that life within the Dreadfort was dull, with the exception of training his pack of hunting hounds, he had fewer freedoms than he had enjoyed while in the care of his mother. Roose had high expectations of him, and those expectations were loaded with restrictions regarding how he conducted himself.
“You will not embarrass me,” his father had said, “it is shame enough that you are my bastard.”
The most fun that Ramsay had had since leaving Gilliane Miller’s cottage had been watching his half brother, Domeric, shit himself to death. However, observing the wiry, sharp featured girl that so expertly wielded her bow, he had a feeling that that would soon change.
“A fine shot,” he called out, stepping out from the shelter of the trees towards her.
Her head whipped around to him, causing her long, dark braid to fall over one shoulder, and she narrowed her eyes at him, her jaw ticking. “You stay away from me!” she warned angrily, never taking her eyes from him as she stepped towards the rabbit she had killed and picked it up.
Ramsay could see as she angled her body that she had the pup she had taken from him strapped to her back in a sling. The sight of it was pathetic and he snorted in amusement, not moving closer but not retreating either. “I think me ending that mutt’s life would have been a kindness compared with how shamefully you coddle it.”
“He’ll get lost or hurt if I let him run loose,” she huffed, “this is just until he’s big enough to help me hunt.”
Clearly no longer feeling that his presence was a danger to her, she stooped down, laying the rabbit upon the ground, and tugged the bolt free of its head. Ramsay stepped closer as she pulled a blade from her belt, her fingers flexing around the grip. His brow furrowed as he watched her. How scruffy she was; dirt beneath her fingernails, a graze upon her cheekbone, and there was more hair peeking wildly out of the long braid she wore over one shoulder than there was twined into it. And yet her eyes were striking, even when narrowed in concentration as they currently were — the blue was not quite as intense as that of his own, they were softer, reminding him of the little blue flowers that had bloomed at his mother’s cottage during the warmer months, before he had come to live with his father.
Embarrassed by the thought, he swallowed, shoving it away, and glanced down to where the girl’s hands struggled with her hunting knife. “Give that to me,” he commanded, stooping down and snatching it away by the hilt, “I’ll show you how to do it properly.”
She fell heavily onto her bottom with a grunt. “Oi!” she protested, “I’m only trying to get it so I can string it to my back to take home.”
“How will we eat it if you take it home?” he asked, pushing his own knife through the rabbit’s fragile neck and separating the head from the body.
“I don’t want to eat it with you, I’m taking it home for my da’, we–”
She stopped speaking abruptly, and Ramsay lifted his eyes from where he had begun to skin the rabbit, and looked into her face. Her eyes were wide with fright, her lips pressed together in a tight line. “What is it?” he asked, directing his attention back to separating fur from flesh.
“Are you going to tell your father I was poaching?” she asked, her voice tight and quiet sounding.
Ramsay paused, keeping his head bowed. She knew who he was, but how? It had never crossed his mind that her poaching was something he should report back to Roose, Ramsay simply didn’t care enough. However, who knew what she might be willing to do if she thought there was a chance that he might.
“Let’s make a bargain,” he proposed with a cunning smile, lifting his eyes to hers, “you share this rabbit with me, and I won’t tell my father you stole it. Does that sound fair?”
He watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed before nodding.
“Good,” he grinned, “now make yourself useful and build us a fire. We’ll need something to cook this with. I’m hungry.”
A short while later, the two of them sat either side of a small, crackling fire. The skinned rabbit had been placed above it to cook upon a makeshift spit. The girl had taken the puppy from her back and placed it upon the ground so that it could wander, but was careful to never allow it to roam over to the side of the fire that he sat upon.
“I fear I am at a disadvantage here,” he began, “you know who I am, but I know nothing of you. What’s your name, girl?”
“Kyra,” she replied simply, staring pensively into the flames.
He hummed in acknowledgement, repeating her name, allowing the two syllables to roll off of his tongue like honey. He enjoyed the way it sounded to say, the revelation of it felt like ownership. “A pretty name. I would say it suits you, but…”
Ramsay eyed her up and down critically and she shot back a scowl at him that he couldn’t help smirking at. When the rabbit was cooked, he cleaved it in half, offering the back end to her. She tore one of the legs free, and threw it down to the puppy, before cutting away half of what was left of the meat and wrapping it up in cloth that she had pulled from her pocket.
“What are you doing?” he asked, frowning, before tearing into his own portion. Hot fat dribbled down his chin and he grunted in satisfaction as he chewed.
“Need to save some for my da’. He’ll beat me bloody if I come home for the second night in a row without supper.”
“Just eat it,” he rolled his eyes, “you are far too skinny. Do you even have tits under all those furs?”
“Do you?!” she retorted angrily, staring hard at him.
Ramsay laughed, sucking each of his fingers clean. “Tell you what, Kyra, if you eat all of your rabbit, I’ll give you two grouse from the castle’s kitchens to take home to your father. Who is he anyway?”
“He’s the armourer for the Dreadfort,” she revealed, tucking into her own meal.
She ate with a ravenous hunger that Ramsay found both repulsive and fascinating, and after a few moments where the only sounds were of her chewing, she finally caught him staring and hastily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A dusting of pink coloured her cheekbones, an indication that he had embarrassed her, and Ramsay leaned further forward, uncaring for the smoke that stung his eyes. Her discomfort was addictive.
“Well, I think the man that is responsible for forging this–” he patted the flaying knife that was now tucked back into its scabbard upon his belt– “is deserving of a couple of dead birds. Is it just you and your father then? No other family?”
Kyra shook her head. “Just me and Da’. My ma’ and nanna passed away.”
“Sounds lonely,” he commented, watching with rapt attention as she finished her meal.
“I like being alone,” she shrugged, “what about you? It must get boring not having any brothers or sisters in such a big castle.”
Ramsay smiled, thinking back to the powdered greycap he had stirred into Domeric’s spiced wine. “No. I think I prefer being an only child.”
Once they had finished eating, Ramsay leaned against a tree, arms folded as Kyra put out the fire, and packed her belongings, including the dog, back up onto her back. He turned without waiting to see if she would follow, eyes glittering smugly once he heard the crunch of her boots behind him.
“So, does your father treat you any differently?” Kyra asked casually as they walked, “Y’know, ‘cause you’re a bastard, Ramsay Snow, not–”
Ramsay whirled around, face contorted in fury. His hand shot out, the back of it striking so hard against her face that he felt the push of her teeth against his knuckles.
“Say that again!” he roared, pulling his knife free and pressing the tip of the blade to the soft hollow of her throat. White hot anger sizzled violently from head to toe as his eyes bored into hers. He watched her wide, watery eyes and the blood that trickled down her chin from her split lip as she stood frozen in place, his blade at her neck. “I am heir of House Bolton,” he gritted out, finally pulling the knife away and watching her shoulders slump in relief, “and I will make you suffer in ways that will make death seem a kindness if you deign to forget that again.”
He watched as she took a cautious step backwards, away from him, and felt himself grow irritated. He wasn’t finished with her. A silly, little slap shouldn’t frighten her away, he had thought her made of stronger stuff than that. He needed to make amends before she ran off, and he lost control of the situation.
“If you run off, I’ll have to tell my father about your poaching,” he warned, “I’m doing you a kindness, don’t be ungrateful.”
He turned, glancing at her over his shoulder. She swiped at her bloodied lip, bowing her head and made to follow him once more. Ramsay breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he began to walk again. It would have hurt him to lose his newest plaything so soon, but it would have hurt her a lot more – especially when he had caught her.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, and once they had reached the outer courtyard door of the scullery, Ramsay bade that she wait outside while he went and fetched what he had promised her – he was the son of Roose Bolton, after all, the cook and the scullion would never dare to question anything he took from the larder. It was his by right.
He stepped out, carrying two plump grouse by their wrung necks, their downy feathers were brown with white speckles. Unremarkable birds with lousy meat, but a simple blacksmith and his daughter would consider it a king’s feast. It would be like taming a hound – once you had given one table scraps, it would always come back, faithfully loyal, no matter how hard you beat it. Ramsay didn’t want to beat Kyra, but he wanted her loyalty, and so he would offer kindness first, as an assurance of her return.
Ramsay held the grouse out to Kyra and watched as her eyes moved from the birds to his face and back – she was hesitating.
“Don’t you want them?” he asked, cocking his head.
“My…my da’ will wonder where I got them from,” she uttered quietly, “he says I should stay away from you.”
Ramsay scoffed in amusement. “And yet here you are. Don’t tell him they’re from me – I won’t tell if you don’t, it’ll be our little secret. But you must promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“You’ll come back and see me tomorrow, and any other day that I ask, so that I won’t tell my father that you’ve been hunting on his land. Do you promise?”
Kyra ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, then reached forward, taking the grouse from him. “I promise.”
“Good,” he grinned, “and you’ll keep your promise, won’t you, Kyra? Because I find broken promises boring. You’re not going to bore me, are you?”
She smiled back, the blood upon her lip glistening like the juice of overripe fruit. “No, I won’t bore you.”
awesome that Daemon is being haunted by demons and spirits for being a kinslayer who should not be around children and the second he wakes up and sees a child he’s like you boy, why don’t you fucking murder your grandfather because the way to fix unbearable psychological torment from the gods themselves is of course, doubling down
I’ve been watching this video about Daenerys’s cool red cape thingy from Season 7 of Game of Thrones (context: I have a Daenerys figure that I’m trying to add missing parts of the costume to), and I’m just blown away by how cool.
