Sweet Seals For You, Always
Cosmic Funnies
blake kathryn
gracie abrams
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
taylor price
Kiana Khansmith
The Bowery Presents
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
occasionally subtle
Fai_Ryy
hello vonnie
Cosimo Galluzzi
@theartofmadeline
YOU ARE THE REASON
$LAYYYTER
Noah Kahan
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@threadedjade
𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒅𝒋𝒂𝒅𝒆 ⋆ for the glory of westeros, as sung by kris (she/her)
₊˚⊹⋆ gather and hear the ballad of KING AERION TARGARYEN and SER MIELLE YRONWOOD and LADY DOWAGER BRONWYN VELARYON and LADY ALYSANNE GREYJOY née BARATHEON and LADY VERA LEFFORD and LADY KAELA UMBER and LADY SELYSE ESTERMONT.
view full list of INTRODUCTIONS.
𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒏 ( @bybloods ).
𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉.
dark leather gloves clasp in front of the wool of her maroon cloak, neck lined with bear fur, keeping her warm as she watches the hulking figure of the lord mooton ascend the height of the keep's stairs. the snow floats gently from above blanketing the scene in a fresh, glittering blanket of white. it winks at her every so often, conspiratorially, reminding her of the shared camaraderie of the north. enough of those southern games, it tells her. your home is here. in the north. she breathes in, then out, bracing herself.
"welcome to the last hearth, lord mooton," kaela says, curtseying to the master of whispers. she does not apologize for the small retinue, comprised of herself only, sent to welcome him. "i trust that the wall treated you well?"
fated for kaela umber / @threadedjade .
pinpoint last hearth, just within the keep's walls.
benjen had made the journey to the outskirts of the gift on his own. it had been easier that way, without horse nor guard to widen his drag path. on foot, it had taken him just under a week's time to lay grey eyes on house umber's wooden stronghold. he may have been quicker still if he had not brought along with him the direwolf pup. she grew larger by the day, and benjen knew from raising up moonface before her that ensuring she was accustomed to unfamiliarity and sourcing her own meals was essential. upon his arrival, he had asked the keep's kennelmaster to stow her with the rest of the hounds. now, as he pushes the hood of his woolen cloak from his head and brushes the snow from his shoulders and beard, he can hear her howling — the lament of a beast who knows not if its master will ever return. " my apologies for the disturbance, lady kaela. " disturbance was perhaps a blanket term, meant to encompass both his appearance at her gates and hearth's somber noise. " she has not yet been confined to a kennel. but the practice is needed. "
"let us hope she is friendly," kaela says, a placid smile to her features, ignoring how the lonely howl of the pup against the wind's low whistle made her stomach tighten. "a three legged sled dog is as useless as one dead." house umber had always kennelled their dogs with love, or at least kaela had, lacking the heart to be brutal with their hounds. although in deference to their liege lords, she would not pleased if the whelp turned against her dogs.
"safe journey, lord stark?" she inquires after him, ushering the lord stark through the doors. "we should get something warm in you."
he nodded solemnly at the lady beside him and the words she uttered, with a strange smile on her fair face. a northerner, for the way she separated herself from the south. it was an idiosyncrasy so northerner, he found out the more he interacted with people from that region. dorne had actually succeeded in their independence from the rest of the kingdom a century after they kneeled for aegon targaryen, but they did not separate themselves the same way people from north of the neck did. ❛❛ — you have your own incredible things in the north, surely. — ❞ and surely more terrifying things also. he mused thinking about beasts with sharp fangs and a peculiar connection to their owners. he thought of the woman in the camp that healed him when she did not need to do it, and how she was followed by a beast too. magic was not blooming only in the north.
with her toast, aron turned to fully look her, he recognized her and the familial connections she possessed, there was even something in her eyes and countenance that were almost too similar to the commander of the kingsguard. ❛❛ — I will trust you in this toast for your brother's sake, lady umber. a man who I deeply admire. it is not easy to forsake your childhood loyalties, even when they are criminals to the crown. — ❞ he said, watching her reaction. part of him was just curious to understand what relationship one could have with a sibling who was on the kingsguard, someone who was not him and not his family. ❛❛ — have you talked to him lately, lady umber? — ❞
"lady kaela, please," she corrects swiftly. "the lady umber is my mother, and i would thank you not to remind me how swiftly i will stand on age's doorstep." for all she did for the last hearth, she would never hold the title of lady umber. which, was for the best in a way. for what would she do if one day she was possessed with the same urge to leave — seduced by the blue waters, and green grass, and waking up without feeling like she might lose a toe. "there are natural beauties, of course. snow is quite pretty if it does not kill you, but there is nothing as glorious as dragons and your white knights."
the reprimand feels like a slap, but she forces her features to remain in place, unfaltering. what a petty lot this lord was cut from. "a wit sharp as sword," kaela murmurs, tilting her head to watch the man in turn. the handsome measure of his features were familiar but she could not put a finger to it. "what a strange curiosity. i have not spoken to my brother since he left the last hearth." the other houses had delighted in the honour of a kingsguard knight descending from their house. the lord umber saw only betrayal, how their humble keep was not enough for their heir. "he is an honourable man, my brother — one who holds his vows solemnly."
Watching Kaela retreat towards refreshments, Annaya sighed to herself quietly. Clearly she'd struck a nerve in some way, but there was no world in which the Umber lady would admit it or explain exactly how so that the brunette might rectify this discomfort in the future. After all, as much as she was a daughter of Claw Isle, she was a cousin of the Crown. And now, one of the new Queen's ladies-in-waiting. If anything the noblewoman was a bit surprised that her companion willingly chose to re-engage in conversation upon returning. Endeavoring not to cause further discomfort, Annaya chose her words carefully. "At the moment, I have busied myself with some smaller four pointed stars. A secondary detail of the Dondarrion coat of arms. Hopefully they will be well received."
"lovely," kaela hums under her breath, only a touch envious. it was a skill to look beautiful during the act of creation. kaela only knew such things through the swift sweat beads dripping down her profile in the sweltering heat of the forge, or the labours a woman completed monthly or spent one day making up for the last nine. creation asked for blood and sweat. the pinprick from a needle was enough sacrifice. but the thought was rooted in admiration as much as jealousy. "a thoughtful gift from you, my lady."
jon cannot find it within himself to offer any more than a mere grunt in response to her mention of retiring. he could, he supposes, call upon his aged bones and lack of leg as a reason to retreat to his chambers, but the fatherly parts of him wish to see the new queen through the final stage of her wedding night. once she left the feast, she was beyond his aid. but for now, he remained watchful. his ears, as well as the ears of those in his employ were open, listening for whispers of the realm's first reactions to their new queen. if the tides turned and their reception of his niece soured, jon would want to be present to do something about it. " my good brother has raised capable ladies. such is no small feat, " he admits. deep down, jon knows he and his wife, among others, have had their hand in moulding ysabel and sarella's dispositions as well. he is proud of the dondarrion girls in the same way he is proud of his own brood. " luckily my face remains ever smooth, " he jests in good nature, " it is the white of my hair that gives me away. " he sighs, dark gaze once again finding its way to the king and his bride. jon finds himself wondering when ysabel's affections toward the king had become so obvious. " she will be a fine queen, bronwyn. that much i am certain of. " he wrings his callused hands, elbows perched on either knee. " the king is singular in his desires. i believe his intention to be handfasted to her began longer ago than the realm may realise. "
she smiles softly, saying nothing else of it. but, while they were on the topic, bronwyn had always thought his hair reminded her of the snowcapped mountains of her youth. full days passing as she stared out her window and wondered how often — if? — the snow melted down at that altitude. "indeed not," bronwyn hums. as she always does, she thinks of her girls — the eldest and the youngest, her daughters and their sister. a pair of girls can be night and day. "but, it takes a village." their new queen would have many houses to thank for her position now, obligations woven like the delicate strands of of spidersilk — undoubtedly her devoted uncle deserved his flowers. "is that so?" a thin brow raises, curiousity piqued. this was why she loved jon so dearly! their master of whispers always had such thrilling insights, and bronwyn so loved being in on a secret. "truthfully, i was surprised to hear of his grace maturing so rapidly. i hadn't expected the king to marry so immediately."
"Might be sooner than you think" Raela muttered under her breath trying to ignore her fatigue and the radiating pain from her finger. Edmund and Raela have been trying to follow what Gwynesse wants. After thinking for a very long time, Raela had decided that maybe children would work to her advantage in certain aspects.
Raela tilted her head when her mother mentioned how difficult it might have been for Lord Baelon to meet the Waynewoods. "Truly? I thought grandfather was better with these interactions given how old he is"
her lips move but the sound is so indecipherable, bronwyn's features tug into a grimace. still, though, the lady dowager appears to smile, pearly whites bared. “raela — please do not mumble, darling. i cannot understand a word when you speak so low. what are you saying?” she tries not to dwell on troubles about her daughter, but selfishly, bronwyn had hoped that they'd more to relate more to each other now. "your grandfather has always been sharp-tongued, opinionated, and rarely enchanted by a charming word. age has nothing to do with it."
when brom wakes alone, it has been mere seconds since alysanne had vacated the bed. bleary - eyed, he stares at the planks of wood that constitute the ceiling of their marital chamber. years ago, he had painted a map of westeros on its warped facade. faded as it was, brom can still make out the sigils of the great houses in the darkness. his arm slides across the rumpled fabric of the bedsheets, arcing through the warmth that his wife left behind before it returns dutifully to his side. he sits up with a low groan, his abdominal muscles protesting against the movement. sleep clings to him as the sheets do, wrapped around his legs like a fishing net. he wrests them free, running a hand back through the mess of his dark hair. " aly, " he calls for her as he pulls on his breeches, a beckoning and a question of her absence all in one. he stands, and he is still tying the fastenings in a vague knot as he dips his head to exit the cabin.
alysanne is waiting for him at the railing, her back to him, and infinity lies in front of her in the form of a thousand stars. her legs are bare up to the mids of her thighs, nearly the bluish gray of a corpse's in the moonlight. even in half - death, she is beautiful. brom finds himself clenching his jaw painfully, remembering the bluish - gray tinge of the bodies that he had bled dry in the very place that she stands. three days' more of journeying until they reached lys may as well have been twelve moons. he joins her at her post, stooping to run his hands up the outsides of her thighs to her hips beneath the billowing fabric of his tunic hanging from her smaller frame. she smells of him, even as brom kisses the side of her neck, the chestnut of her hair in his mouth. " you left, " he speaks plainly onto her skin before he straightens, taking his hands with him only to press one to her abdomen, pulling her back into his bare chest with the flat of his palm so that her presence can warm him from without. " did you plan to return? "
her back arches against him like a stretching feline, pleased in the way he touches her. she leans into his affection, gasping into the whisper of his breath against her neck, the moment framed by the diamond shape her arms take while reaching behind her, claws running through his hair in turn. "am i to ask your permission next time?" alys hums, amused by the puerile accusation. the crescent of her smile can be heard in her voice, words happily stretched, “from one tyrant to another i see.” but if she thought too much about what she left behind, alysanne would feel the pit of guilt begin to take root in her stomach, punishment for the selfishness of her choice.
still pressed to his form, she turns to face him, featherlight hands drifting from his locks to the severity of his jaw. there, alysanne presses a kiss, apology in it. “i see you have no issue rising without my help.” she is fortunate to look upon him from such a close distance. to look upon her husband. a man of her own choice — their marriage born of their hearts' content. although she could not yet part with the words of sweet love, she felt it. it was there in the uncomfortable tightening of her chest. unable to wrap her lips around the word when it made her feel servile now, like a response to saving her — disingenuous when alysanne had spent so long refusing the tension between them, refusing to name it then, revealing that she did not know how to. “there are a million more stars than i knew,” she says instead. they crown him, shining brilliantly against his dark curls, a willing tribute to the king of the sea. her eyes are full of him and the stars. "do you know them all?"
Edmund regarded her quietly for a long moment, as if weighing every word she’d just spoken. Then a faint, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips more amusement than arrogance, more warmth than formality. "Freedom , choice , decisions aren't we all bound by our destiny and shackled by our past choices. Of course a woman who still believes in freedom and choice despite her current circumstances. I would say she is more powerful than any king." He found himself saying to her with a smug smile to try and judge her reaction. "And as for what else you might want for that is entirely up to you."
her laugh is a sharp bark — a surprise like a twig snapping underfoot in the quiet of a hunt. to be dubbed more powerful than a king was a dangerous elixir. even if it was true. "it seems your wife has taught you much, grace." who did not know of the prince's infamous lannisport wedding to the velaryon daughter? raela velaryon, the sneaky little watersnake. a lady and captain and wife and mother. the same metamorphoses that dogged her, biting at her ankles. "have you always been that wise or has marriage changed you?"
the clearing jessamyn finds herself in is blessedly empty and she opts to go by foot, on the hunt for smaller prey. she's already felled a stag today and does not feel the need to overdo it, it's with measured steps that she makes her way around the clearing, enjoying the slight breeze and the silence. it does not last.
she doesn't hear the footsteps but the sound of an arrow cutting through the air is unmistakable and she watches with amusement as the arrow lands into a tree, with no prey in sight. she holds up her hands in mock surrender as alysanne baratheon comes into view. "i was not aware i resembled a fawn so much. no need to apologize, my lady. not to me." she answered. although she and the lady of storm's end had only crossed paths a handful of times jessamyn only had the utmost respect for her and the deepest sympathy for her situation.
it is no fun when they do not balk. the baratheon had always had a bit of a mean streak when it came to hunting and games — tanselle was wont to scare off any game in the vicinity as she screeched whenever alys did the same to her. she missed the levity of those days. she missed everything about it, but especially the laughter. her stride is confident as she goes to collect her arrow, drawing closer to the lady. "ah, one of the young karstarks," she recognizes her features now, puzzling her victim's identity out. "i applaud you for being such a good sport. my aim isn't what it used to be," not untrue, necessarily, but her muscle memory could clear a shot such as that easily.
𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒏 ( @bybloods ).
𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎.
what goes up, must come down. the king was nothing short of irritated this morning — somewhat hungover. back sore. balls heavy. truthfully, the sourness was overdue. he'd spent too long in a good humour. aerion had always been plagued with an uneven temperament — the pendulumn his mood hung upon swinging to and fro. none had expected that the anvil would come down so swiftly after his wedding.
“explain to me this, master of whispers," aerion muses, leaning forward in his seat with his arms bent against his knees. behind him, the halo of swords loomed. "why is there report that alysanne baratheon did not return to her rooms last night?" and, more importantly, why had it not come from jon?
𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 ( @draconianmuses ).
𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒍𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎.
it was undignified for the king to accommodate such a summons but aerion was a gracious ruler. there'd been no reason to stay anyway, his back sore from lounging on the settee he had claimed as his bed long after the queen had exhausted herself, melting into her sadness. he'd left his rooms with one last look at his wife wrapped in the silk of his crimson sheets — trace of her tears in the pillowed skin beneath her lashes. he could not claim to be angry yet, only annoyed. the joy of his nuptials had dissolved swiftly in his last cup of wedding wine.
"laurentia," he greets briskly, the doors shutting behind him. "if you were married, i would give you far longer than a single night to enjoy the bliss of it."
status: open to everyone! location: the feast after the hatching
Viserys Targaryen has been present for everything, from the festivities to the wedding, and of course, the unexpected hatching. To say that he was envious of his cousin, Caerella’s dragon egg hatching, would be an understatement of the century. He was just as dedicated to his studies and held his house’s traditions close to heart. Unbeknownst to the damned, suffocating high septon, Viserys was not even a true believer in the seven. secretly a follower of the old gods of Valyria and the drowned god, both honoring his father’s house and his mother’s beliefs. Aside from his obvious jealousy, the prince couldn’t be happier for Caerella–that and dragons are back, just as it should be. One of his calloused hands held onto the stunning jeweled goblet filled with wine as he decided to make conversation with the closest attendee. “A blessed day, is it not? It is as if the gods have blessed this wedding, 'tis a sign,” by which gods who is to say. “I wonder if more dragons shall hatch now?” the last bit mainly to himself than to anyone in particular.
"yes — !" aerion calls out, palm banging against the wood of his long table. the night was a raucous roar of livery with the king's own celebrations only adding to the chorus. the king promises, "mine." since the both of them had been boys, aerion had given much thought about what sort of dragon he would one day have, telling his cousin his dragon would be dark as night itself with a roar to rival even the whiniest maiden. the picture was clear in the king's mind eye. no dragon dreaming in the way of little aemma to boast, but it was so clear he swore it was reality. "we will ride the wind again, viserys. mark my fucking words, cousin." the sour tang of ale washed out the taste of jealousy that would find him in the morning.
her goblet of wine raised once more to her lips, ysabel exhales a quiet laugh into it. it is more air than it is noise, the scent of the remnants of the spiced wine within it floating into her nose. aerion's lips at her neck are a reverent caress, the warmth of his breath tousling the curls that have loosed themselves from the intricacy of the braids her ladies had laboured over that morning. the wine sits in her stomach like a pool made of fine rubies and merely manages to make her feel lazy, cat - like. the depth of his voice, the feel of it on her skin, makes ysabel feel utterly unlike herself. makes her willing to mould herself to the broadness of his torso when he pulls her even closer. wife, wife, wife. the word slowly begins to lose its meaning. " speak my name, aerion, " she insists of him, his own name as metallic - tasting as a gold coin placed on the flat of her tongue. it flashes like a blade — and ysabel, as his wife, wields it like one. she has called him by his first name many times before, but this is the first instance in which there is no threat of recompense.
perhaps it is the drink, or mayhaps the merry atmosphere of the night, but ysabel is extraordinarily pleased. she is pleased to have secured the stormlands for her house by wedding the king. she is pleased that aerion has promised her the crown's protection for edric's heir. she is pleased that her husband's desire for her is so obvious such that he cannot conceal it. she is pleased at the feeling of his arms around her waist, pleased to be pleasantly wine drunk so that she is capable of enjoying the feeling without its usual accompanying guilt. a smile finds its way onto her lips that would, when maesters wrote of the wedding of king aerion targaryen to queen ysabel dondarrion, likely be described as smug. ysabel is the king's wife, yes. but so too is the king ysabel's husband. " speak it, and i shall agree. " it seems a small concession, to ysabel — her body for aerion's kingdom. her voice is held low, meant for him only.
aerion would be remiss to refuse a key handed to him: "ysabel," he sighs reverently against her nape, the sound resonating like the first chord of his new favourite song. the king had been cautious of her given name, wanting not to stain it with the depravity his tongue was accustomed to. "ysabel," he repeats, savouring the flavour of it — sweet as the dornish wine that graced their table. "ysabel," he moans, breath soft and whining against her now. his fists curl into the fabric of her skirts, knuckles white as he grips her tighter, pressing the softness of her curves against his want. she had taken to his name quite easily, the sound of its syllables fitting nicely in her mouth in the private way he thought he might too.
"please, ysabel," he's a moment away from a whimper. to have her this close feels like his skin has been set alight, both sinew and derma aflame. "let us retire." he was done with the ceremony of it all, wanting the walls to fall away, giving way to the silk of his crimson sheets. as far as he was concerned, the room held only aerion and his wife. it had been this was since he'd returned to his seat, lids growing heavy until his violet hues could be filled only with her. she was so pretty when she was pleased, the satisfied crescent of her lips bringing out the bright apples of her cheeks. he wished to bite them — a wish that he imagined, could only be fulfilled in the privacy of their marital chamber.
ELLA PURNELL Makeup by Shayna Gold ahead of Late Night with Seth Meyers, December 16th 2025
𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒏 ( @hozina ) 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒏 ( @gniodnu ).
𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕-𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈.
fingers dig into the gap of scarlet fabric, adjusting the band so quickly it hardly needs the privacy to do it. the dress is ill-fitting but that's hardly anything new to the baratheon. it is taken in so severely at the chest that the extra fabric creates ripples along the sides. either that or leave a gap so wide you could gaze directly down to alysanne's rosy buds if you were blessed with enough height. it is not so bad when the second problem presents itself: the sleeves. the velvet sleeves were of a fashion some years ago, when it was the trend to slit them with pink satin. it took far too long until the court started to compare them to cunts. alysanne was proud that until this night, she had never given into the trend. but, she cares little about what she wears now. she will change before going to the water. after flipping off ysabel behind her back. after seeing florissa. after bequeathing their great antlered helmet — the only remaining baratheon heirloom of any worth — to her twin for safe keeping. after one final round of tedium.
as she was employed to stay tight to jon, assisting in all matters that he declared pertinent, it felt similarly as if alys must stay at the side of the ladies of the family. even if they did not like her. even though she did not like them. "a dragon and a queen," alysanne declares, tone flat and unenthused. "it is always a blessed day to add a new pet to the family."
