YouTube took a fairly big hit in traffic the 13th, but officially nothing has happened yet. Do not lose hope, and do not give in. This boycott might take until Christmas or even later before the wannabe corporate overlords come to their senses
In the meantime, spread the word about the YouTube Boycott, in person and online. Not everyone you tell will join us, but the more people you tell, the more people They will tell, and eventually we can start snowballing this thing.
So go hang out with your friends. Play games. Read. Pirate shows if you don't want to pay for them (use Firefox or Tor browser, then search "r/piracy mega thread"). Do whatever you want, just don't touch YouTube with a 10 foot pole until their extortionist policies change for the better, and for good.
Let's make an internet absolutely everybody can all be proud of, and a part of, one step at a time.
Don't forget those images. Don't forget those faces. Don't forget why they died. Don't forget WHO put them in that position, and destroyed their lives. And all for what?
Today should be a reminder of what's being stolen from us. Right now. Right in full view of us.
Don't you DARE forget who's name was on those flags that day.
Our Independence Day will come when HE is gone. When HE is no longer in any position to hijack what it means to be an American. When he can no longer bring to harm those who truly love this nation. Who remember what it means to love this country and each other, to remember the law of the land that made us greatin the 240 years he was NOT part of the equation.
Our Secound Independence Day is yet to come. Putting America First means putting HIM last.
Reject hate. Reject misinformation. Reject extremism. Reject authoritarianism. REJECT TRUMP.
Remember those faces above, remember those images, remember our Constitution. This Independence Day needs to be day to remember what is now at stake once again.
Let freedom ring again people, our Second Independence Day has yet to come.
The Lady Robin Reyne of Castamere, a Blackfyre by no fault of her own, is thrown into the turbulent world of Targaryen politics after being arranged to marry Prince Daeron.
Will be cross posted onto ao3
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, arranged marriages, kidnapping, hostage taking, fostering, sins of the father, rude language, berating, period-typical sexism, suicide, loss of parents, capital punishment, strict 2nd person narration.
Words: 3608
[A/N: This first chapter is highly expositional, but I wanted to build the foundations of Robin's backstory before building into the proceeding chapters. Prince Baelor does at least feature towards the end.]
A traitor’s daughter, that’s all you had ever been. Ever since your father, the late Ser Robb Reyne, swore fealty to Daemon Blackfyre under the assurance that you would be wed to his eldest son, your fate had been sealed. Within a year, your father, would-be husband and would-be king were dead. Blackfyre and his sons’ deaths had become the stuff of song; you’d even overheard your own father’s tale recounted drunkenly in a hall one night:
Sad Ser Robb of Westerland, he couldn’t win a tourney,
He shacked up with the Blackfyre’s to try and win some glory.
“Wed my daughter to your son”, he told the bastard traitor.
The Bastard Traitor said “Of course but they must marry later”.
Sad Ser Robb of Westerland pulled his sword out his arse,
He marched out with the Blackfyre’s to die in long, red grass.
With the traitor Blackfyre dead, Robb’s boots did quake him from beneath.
A thousand arrows struck his face when he met the Raven’s Teeth.
The rest of House Reyne spent the Rebellion practicing damage control. It was made clear to all others that Robb Reyne’s loyalty was his own to discard. It might’ve worked. But in the days following a crushing defeat at Red Grass Fields, King Daeron II Targaryen enforced harsh punishments on surviving Blackfyre supporters. Hostages were taken, land and noble titles divvied up, heads removed. It wasn’t long before mobs took to the streets seeking to route Blackfyre’s remaining sympathisers to their deaths. Your mother, fearing she would pay the price for your father’s choices, took her own life before she could be hanged by a mob in Lannisport. Your grandfather Lord Reyne, fearing that you would follow the fate of your parents at so young an age, formally declared you Lady Reyne of Castamere. Dispensing noble titles as such was unheard of, particularly as your father held no claim to Lordship of Castamere. But it worked. With the protection granted to noble women of rank, your life was spared. Rather than face death, you were sent as a hostage to Casterly Rock to be fostered as a ward and serve in the household of Ser Damon of House Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, the legendary ‘Grey Lion’.
In the dimly lit, stone halls of Casterly Rock, you spent the next 12 years. In those 12 years: you were provided with a lady’s education, taught how to manage a household, how to balance books, how to avoid wasting gold. Yet in the company of Lannisters, there was plenty of gold to waste and any losses you incurred were quickly redundant.
Chiefly, you learnt the most valuable way to save gold was to be considerably more clever than anyone else believed you to be. Ser Lord Damon Lannister told you one day: “Whenever you cannot guarantee success, it is a gamble. Do not ever gamble. Your father gambled when he swore to the Blackfyre’s and that is why he is dead. Hear all, speak nothing, do exactly as is expected of you and you will never have to gamble.”.
Life in Casterly Rock soon became all you could truly remember. In absence of your parents the Lannisters had become your family. Damon was a man you would never claim to admit was a father figure, but he raised you just as much if not more so than his sons. His lady wife, Cerissa Brax, was always courteous to you and encouraged you to develop lady-like skills such as embroidery, a skill you would quickly apply to making your own dolls. Even Damon’s sons were like your brothers. Much like an older sister, you had your hand in raising them as well, making sure they practised their letters and keeping them entertained with silly games. Occasionally, you even joined in on their sword lessons, where you used your experience to disarm them, to their great dismay.
Your life may have continued in blissful triviality, but the Gods were often cruel in this regard. Had you known that the arrival of a single raven from King’s Landing would upend all you had known, you might’ve worked on your archery. There was no warning given, you were merely told to pack your things and to meet Lord Damon at Casterly Rock’s outer gate. It was sometime between the dead of night and early morning. You clutched your thick, red, woollen travelling cloak about your shoulders as you approached Lord Damon who was preparing a carriage.
Except Lord Damon wasn’t preparing just any carriage; it was the Lannister’s grand carriage, almost exclusively used for long journeys and to flaunt the family’s wealth at tourneys. Lord Damon spoke in hushed tones to the driver while a servant secured your luggage in the back. Like a good ward, you waited silently to be acknowledged, distracting yourself with the armed riders who would accompany the carriage.
Lord Damon turned, looking you once over quickly before pulling the carriage door open, “Good, you’re here. Get in.” was all he said.
Knowing better than to argue, you entered without complaint, settling lightly in one of the unpadded, wooden seats designed for servants rather than the cushioned benches designated for the Lannister household. Lord Damon climbed in after you, locking the door to the carriage and signalling to the driver to move. You shifted slightly to find balance as the carriage pulled forward. For a while, you sat in well-trained silence with your gaze cast upon the floor, hoping that your patience would be rewarded with answers as Lord Damon settled in and busied himself with a quill and parchment. The silence had grown almost unbearable before the caged raven in the corner of the carriage squawked loudly, diligently preened itself, enough to make you sigh loudly in exasperation.
Lord Damon glanced over your tense figure before looking back at his work. “It seems your lessons have paid off, I would’ve expected you to start asking questions by now” he hummed.
You took a moment to clear your throat and settle your voice before responding “All ladies must do well to avoid looking desperate, my lord.” Lord Damon hummed a mirthless laugh. “Might I ask, my lord, where we are travelling at such hours?” you asked, daring to look Lord Damon in the eye.
“We ride for King’s Landing.” He said sardonically.
Panic began to race through your mind, your thoughts sorting through all you had learnt of recent news from the Crownlands.
“My lord, why King’s Landing? I know there is no tourney and if you’ve been called on for business in the Capital we are thoroughly understaffed…” You lingered on the reasons why Lord Damon had particularly taken you of all people to King’s Landing. Sure enough you had made yourself a valuable asset to House Lannister’s financial works and you were a noble woman in your own right, but the only reason you could think of for Lord Damon dragging you all the way to King’s Landing in the middle of the night was for you to be executed.
Perhaps King Daeron II ‘The Good’ had finally decided that you, a traitor’s daughter, had lived long enough. Lord Damon seemed hardly concerned by your theorising. You struggled to hold back tears as you tried to accept your fate as gracefully as any noble woman could, “Am I to die, my lord?”.
“All men must die,” Lord Damon recited.
Tears streaked down your cheek at this, as you bit your fingers to hold back a sob. How could they kill you after all this time? You had behaved so well, how would your poor grandfather react – you were sure he would drop dead on the spot when he heard the news, if only you could’ve said goodbye. This must be why Lord Damon locked the carriage door, so you could not escape your doom in the Capital.
Upon hearing your muffled distress, Lord Damon then looked up, “Gods be good, Robin, stop.” he commanded, and you sat up instinctively. Lord Damon rarely used your given name – but when he did it was to great effect. “Seems I must tell you all before you hurt yourself,” he turned, pulling a letter fitted with the seal of House Targaryen, cracked down the centre of the three-headed dragon, and handing it to you. Teary eyes scanned the letter frantically, Lord Damon continued “A missive from the King, you are to marry his grandson, Prince Daeron.”
Whirlwind thoughts and even your tears stop at this. An arranged marriage into the royal family struggled to compute in your mind, like trying to mix water into vinegar. “The King and his grandson have the same name?” your brows knotted with confusion, the letter crumpling slightly around your grip.
“Of course they do, a house as noble and traditioned as Targaryen has a legacy to uphold.” He said sternly. “The Targaryen’s will expect you to know that, as do I.” Lord Damon’s disapproval stung you more than any hot iron and you flinched as such.
“My Lord, you have always said I’m not good enough to wed your sons, yet now I’m to wed a prince” You tears continued falling, though more from relief than fear, adrenaline still rushing through your heart.
“You’re also too old to wed my sons,” Lord Damon quipped, taking a sip of wine from a leather costrel before handing it to you. “You’ve heard of the phrase: keep your friends close – keep your enemies closer? The King is certainly practicing it”. Wine fuelled back-and-forths were not unheard of between yourself and Lord Damon, though you’d been pre-emptively mourning these moments of closeness with your lord for some years now. You still bore the sin of betrayal which your farther had marked upon you, your days had always been numbered. Regardless still, Lord Damon’s sons were seven to ten years your juniors, more your annoying little brothers than anything else. Yet marriage to them may have provided you security and wealth within House Lannister. Though perhaps being a traitor’s daughter made House Targaryen the safest place for you to be.
“Surely I can’t still carry the reputation of a Blackfyre?” you queried, half rhetorically.
“Child, you’ve been a Blackfyre ever since Daemon Blackfyre agreed that you would wed his eldest son,” Lord Damon sighed exasperated, “Had the rebellion succeeded, you would be Queen and the roles of Houses Lannister and Reyne would be starkly reversed.” You imagined what it might be like to have the grand Lord Damon bow before you, for him to be as eager to gain your favour as you were to gain his. Lord Damon continued, “The sword Blackfyre, keystone of the rebellion, was never recovered from the Battle of Red Grass Field, it was taken over the Narrow Sea by those who still seek to depose House Targaryen. Those people may still see you as a missing piece of legitimacy to continue Daemon Blackfyre’s works.”
“Surely a single blade across the sea cannot inspire more revolts?” you calculated. All these ‘surelys’ and yet at this moment you swore you couldn’t be much too sure of anything.
Rolling his eyes, Lord Damon grimaced “Tsk, you’ve forgotten your histories again. It was no mere blade but a Valyrian steel longsword – one of the only few left. Forged for and wielded by…” Lord Damon paused, beckoning you to answer.
“-Aegon the Conqueror.” you added quickly, desperate to not look as stupid as you felt.
Lord Damon nodded “Thus the sword Blackfyre surely could inspire such and continues to do so.” Damon said succinctly as he returned to his writing. “For as long as that blade remains in the hands of Blackfyre pretenders, the threat of further rebellion looms.”
You paused at this, gathering in your mind how tumultuous the political background of your arranged marriage was proving to be. “Lord Lannister, what do you know of my future husband? Surely this Prince Daeron must have an opinion on out match?” you posed the questions delicately, knowing that Lord Damon did detest being pestered.
“He is the firstborn son of Prince Maekar, the fourth son of the King.” Lord Damon replied, “I believe both princes had as much say in the matter as you have.”
“By which you mean to say none at all” you surmised. Lord Damon gave you no hint of a response, which was typically how he chose to agree with you. “Is that all you know, my lord?”
“The Prince Daeron is distinguished only by his love of drink,” Lord Damon added, letting his words hang in the air.
“So I’m to wed a drunk?” You scoffed, swigging from the costrel.
“A drunk of the blood.” Lord Damon quipped.
“I have never known the wife of a drunk to be happy.” You grumbled.
“And I have never known a lady to sneer at marrying into the royal house.” Lord Damon retorted.
Your mouth hung open at the accusation. “I do not sneer.” You said pointedly.
“You sneer plenty, child” Lord Damon chided, “Perhaps that’s for the best, the dragons of old were known to be savage and unheeding – you’ll fit right in.”
“My lord, you pick now of all times to tease me so,” you lament, finally shifting from the wooden bench to a cushioned chair, ranks be damned, the roads were long and the carriage almost empty. “Did you lock the door in fear I’d try to flee this arrangement you’ve so suddenly sprung upon me?”.
Lord Damon hummed to himself thoughtfully before turning his sharp gaze towards you, “Dear child, in all the time you’ve lived within my walls, slept in my hall, eaten at my table – you have never once been predictable. I’ve come close to understanding you, certainly.” He gazed off wistfully and you returned to him the costrel from which he drank, “And you craved praise so much that it made you as loyal as a slave,” you narrowed your eyes at Lord Damon – clearly the wine was getting to him.
“But you have never once given me the luxury of knowing exactly what you would do next.” It was your turn to hum then as you lounged on the more comfortable sofa. “Would you have jumped out of a moving carriage onto the dark and filthy road?” Lord Damon asked rhetorically, “I do not guess. You know how I feel about gambling, child – if you remember anything of me, let it be that.” He said in a crescendo which you’re sure was heard by the driver and the accompanying mounted guards.
“Of course, my lord. Never gamble.” You smiled. It was rare to see Lord Damon tipsy; he had loosened up somewhat. He seemed comforted by your response and finished his letter, rolling and sealing the parchment with a waxen, gold lion before attaching it to the caged raven which was released out of the carriage window.
You looked as the loosed raven disappeared over the horizon before looking back at your lord. “Word to King’s Landing, to tell them of our coming.” Lord Damon answered your unasked question.
It was another four days before you reached King’s Landing. The Gold Road had been rickety and dull, and you could not have been more happy to see the great walls that surrounded the capital. Dawn had not yet risen, the details of the city too murky to decipher in the evening shadow despite your best attempts. As the grand Lannister carriage crossed the capital, the sun rose behind the Red Keep, which stood like an ominous shadow over all else, eclipsing even the Great Sept of Baelor.
Eventually the carriage entered the outer most courtyard of the Red Keep, and despite yourself you shrank away from the window, suddenly fearing to be seen. As the carriage stopped you pulled your red travelling cloak about yourself tighter. Lord Damon looked at you with a hint of understanding in his strict gaze and he waited a minute for you to calm before disembarking.
The walls craved with the seven-pointed star and the hanging of Targaryen banners hardly took your notice as you retreated into yourself. You and Lord Damon were guided by half a dozen White Cloaks, the Crown’s most elite guardsmen, to a large set of double doors. As the doors opened, a guard called “Announcing Lord Damon Lannister of Casterly Rock and Lady Robin Reyne of Castamere”. All eyes in the following chamber landed on you and Lord Damon. You clutched the inside of your red travelling cloak for security, mercifully the garment was loose enough that no one saw you grasping the fabric desperately. Lord Damon walked ahead of you and your followed, gaze to the floor, you could hardly bear to meet the onlookers’ eyes. Here you were, a traitor’s daughter, in the centre of those who saw your father dead, the most dangerous place you could be. Hanging dragon skulls cast toothy grins on the stone beneath your feet. As you walked, your shadow seemed to fly into their gaping beastly jaws.
Soon you saw the steps approaching the famed Iron Throne and the beginnings of the swords that made it. Lord Damon kneeled and you followed suit. To your surprise, the King spoke first. “Ah, Lord Lannister, I trust the Gold Road has been kind, it’s good to see you both here.” Without cause, you panicked instantly hearing the King acknowledge your existence.
“Thank you, your majesty. The roads were smooth and our travel unburdened.” Lord Damon stood but you remained kneeling, “I am honoured to introduce Lady Reyne of Castamere to your court.”
There seemed to be an infinite silence in your mind before you heard the King’s words “Well, I bid ye stand, girl, let me look at you.” You stood solemnly, finally daring eye the King just as he eyed you. King Daeron II was an older man, who appeared fat with round shoulders and a pot belly. The King had the distinctive silver Targaryen hair, turned white with age, upon which rested the elaborate dragon crown worn by his father, Aegon IV.
Beside the King sat a similarly older women with grey hair and dark eyes, who you surmised to be his Dornish Queen, Myriah Martell. She then leaned over to whisper something unheard to her attendants and you shuddered, fearing ridicule.
You dared glance to the side of the throne to see the Hand of the King and his eldest son, Prince Baelor, who had a neutral expression, hands clasped neatly in front of him. From the fringes of your vision, you could see a row of Targaryens looking upon you, your new husband no doubt among them, but you had not the strength to return the favour.
Then your ears began to ring, and the hall seemed to blur and sway around you. You couldn’t make out what the King said next, it wasn’t until you left Lord Damon’s hand gripped your arm that you looked up and Prince Baelor spoke, “Allow me, Lord Lannister, to escort you both to your chambers, no doubt some rest has been earned after your journey”. Lord Damon then offered you his arm, and you took it gratefully. Sweat began to form on the back of your neck despite the morning chill.
Prince Baelor led you and Lord Damon out from the hall and to the upper chambers of the Red Keep. Sun lit balconies and open-air courtyards beneath passed by until you entered a room darkened by closed shutters and lit by a roaring fire. Lord Damon took your cloak while you swayed onto a nearby sofa. You heard Prince Baelor call to the servants “Come, attend to Lady Reyne, she will need food and drink”. You could not see how even Lord Damon looked over you with concern in his eyes. “She has come here willingly, has she not?” Prince Baelor muttered to Lord Damon.
“As willingly as was possible, your highness” Lord Damon retorted gruffly.
“I’d have hoped your raven would’ve warned us of such, Lord Lannister, we’d not have brought her immediately before the court had we’d known” Prince Baelor bemoaned.
“She’s more resilient than she looks. Let her rest, and she will be herself by this evening” Lord Damon said resolutely.
“It is not our wish to continue distressing the Lady Reyne, my lord” Prince Baelor spoke in a hushed, gentle tone, mindful that you were only feet away.
“The Lady Reyne is a traitor’s daughter, your highness.” Lord Damon responded, “Distress is the least she has suffered. Trust in me when I say she will be well by this evening.”. You couldn’t hear the prince’s reply, but you then heard him bid Lord Damon farewell before leaving the room.
Lord Damon walked around the sofa to speak to you. “Sit up, girl,” you sluggishly complied, “Eat something if you can before you sleep, I’ll send for your luggage and come wake you at dusk. Then you’re to meet your new husband, Prince Daeron and his father.”.
At this, you grabbed a leg of roasted goose and began munching into it carelessly. Lord Damon looked at you while you devoured your lunch and hummed appreciatively, though he said nothing, as was his way.
“I bid you sleep well, child” he murmured in a tone almost as soft as Prince Baelor’s before leaving you alone in your chamber. You continued to attack the food and then your drink, caring little for the crumbs down your front. Then you stood and shucked off your overgown and kirtle. You then threw yourself into the plush, postered bed before letting oblivion completely overtake you.
It doesn't matter what party you're with. The entire government of the United States is completely compromised. There have been no arrests of any government officials for anything at all. The clock is ticking and we are out of time. There is no fix for this, none! We are heading into dark times in this country and we are all going to pay the price. Sad very sad.
Using a Broken Miraculous infects your body with the afterimage of total destruction. This instance leads to a severe decrease in Red Blood Cell production, giving you close to four months left to live as you slowly get weaker, paler, bruised, infected.
More Art for my Miraculous Ladybug Fanfic. I keep making more and more plans and then realizing that my version of Marinette looks nothing like how she should look. I saw some posts mentioning that it would make a lot more sense for Dupont to be a private school, which means uniforms, which just means more drawing :3 Marinette is always such a fun character to put in little outfits.
