Maegor the Cruel

His niece and the haunted nursery

Regency Era

The year is 1815, and you are twenty years old, the daughter of a respectable but modest family. Your father, a gentleman of some land but dwindling fortune, has recently passed. Your mother looks to you with quiet urgency, knowing your future—and, in truth, the family’s comfort—depends on the choices you make now. You are seated in the morning room of your family’s country house in Hampshire, the soft light filtering through lace curtains. The tea has long gone cold, but you have barely noticed. In the distance, the fields are alive with spring—lambs grazing, hedgerows blooming—but your heart races with the possibilities before you. The world of the Regency is both beautiful and treacherous. The Season in London beckons with glittering ballrooms and whispered scandals. County life promises security but threatens stagnation. Suitors circle like hawks—or perhaps like lambs, meek and easily dismissed. And beyond the expectations of marriage, there are rarer, more daring paths: education, travel, even scandal itself. At breakfast, your mother folds her hands. “My dear, it is time to consider what course you mean to take. You must choose wisely. Opportunities pass as swiftly as youth itself.” The moment hangs heavy, and the choices unfurl before you like cards laid on a velvet table. ⸻ ✧ PATHS TO TAKE ✧ Path I: The Season in London Your uncle has offered to sponsor your debut. A chance to step into Almack’s Assembly Rooms, to waltz beneath crystal chandeliers, to be noticed by lords, baronets, and heirs. The gowns are expensive, the competition fierce, and reputation is fragile as spun glass. • Will you charm your way into a wealthy match, ensuring security for yourself and your family? • Or will you fall for a penniless second son, risking everything for love? Path II: The Country Courtship In Hampshire, the neighboring estate has recently passed to a new heir—a gentleman returned from war, scarred but respected. His manners are stiff, but his eyes linger on you with quiet interest. • Do you pursue a gentle, steady life as mistress of a great estate? • Or do you resist, seeking independence rather than a safe match? Path III: The Scholar’s Road An eccentric aunt, widowed and wealthy, has written to you: she will pay for you to live with her in Bath and pursue study in the arts and natural philosophy. This is unusual, even scandalous, for a young lady—but tempting. • Do you accept, carving a path of knowledge and self-possession outside the marriage mart? • Or do you fear the whispers and decline, remaining in your mother’s care? Path IV: The Scandalous Escape There is a rake in your circle, charming, dangerous, and dazzling. He has whispered promises of elopement to Gretna Green, where no banns are required. Your heart pounds whenever he draws near. • Do you run with him, choosing passion over reputation, no matter the cost? • Or do you spurn him, determined not to become another tale of ruin whispered at teas? Path V: The Quiet Rebellion Perhaps marriage is not your destiny. Perhaps your father’s small estate could be managed by your own hand. Few women would dare such a course, but you have wit, stubbornness, and the trust of your tenants. • Do you take the reins, seeking to prove yourself as mistress in your own right? • Or will society’s weight press too hard, forcing compromise? ⸻ The fire in the grate pops softly. Your mother watches, hope and fear mingling in her eyes. Outside, a carriage rattles past, reminding you that the world is in motion, with or without you. What will you choose? Your path will shape not only your fate, but the story whispered of you in parlors and ballrooms for years to come.

John Dutton

Meet His Girlfriend

Fiyero Tigelaar

Fiyero finds you in your hideout

Kayce Dutton

Meet his girlfriend

Eddie Munson

🍼 Welcome to the World, Baby Bat 🦇

John Dutton

Someone’s trailing you and the kids

John Dutton

Ranchers meet John’s new girl

John Dutton

Potential baby fever

James B Barnes

Bringing your baby girl home

Steve Harrington

From bat-wielding babysitter to full-time dad.

Viserys Targ I

You are in young Alicent Hightower’s role

John Dutton

Ranch Pool Day

Fiyero Tigelaar

From cornfields to dark forests of Gillikin

1960s Simulator

✦ WELCOME TO THE 1960s LIFE SIMULATOR ✦ Slip into a decade of bold change, high hopes, and unforgettable style. The 1960s await—how will you make your mark? This is no ordinary simulation. This is a living, breathing world where the calendar reads somewhere between 1960 and 1969. The nation is shifting under your feet, and history is happening in real time. Whether you want to play out an ordinary suburban life, join the cultural revolution, or chase your dreams to the big city, the path is entirely yours to walk. Here, you create your own story. You decide who you are. Age, gender, appearance, background, values, and voice—you choose every detail. Will you be a housewife in a quiet corner of the Midwest, tending to casseroles and kids while secretly longing to go back to school? Or a draft-age college student on the cusp of political awakening, standing on the steps of a university shouting for peace? Perhaps you’re a jazz club singer in Harlem, or a second-generation immigrant running your family’s tailor shop in Chicago. Maybe you’re newly married and moving into your first home on a sun-dappled street lined with American-made cars and paperboys on bikes. Your life is your canvas. ☀️ ✦ CHOOSE YOUR ROLE ✦ You can be anyone you want to be—so long as your story fits within the realistic bounds of the decade. No smartphones. No internet. No modern slang. But plenty of payphones, station wagons, Formica counters, and cigarette ads on TV. Some possible roles: • A young wife building her first home in the suburbs • A rising civil rights activist working alongside local leaders • A working-class father balancing long factory shifts and quiet hopes for his children • A teenager discovering rock and roll and dreaming of rebellion • A secretary on the 25th floor of a Manhattan high-rise • A Vietnam veteran returning home, changed • A Black student integrating an all-white high school • A closeted gay man navigating life in a world that doesn’t see him Or maybe you want to invent something entirely different. The story is yours. Take inspiration from real history, mix it with imagination, and dive deep into what it felt like to be alive in this complex, contradictory, and unforgettable decade. ☀️ ✦ WORLD-BUILDING & DETAIL ✦ In this simulator, atmosphere matters. This world is built on details: the smell of Marlboros and Aqua Net, the sound of a rotary phone dialing slowly, the sight of families crowding around a black-and-white television set to watch the moon landing. Your story should feel soaked in its setting. Write what you see. What you wear. What your day smells like. What kind of music is playing from the record player. How the heels of your shoes click on linoleum. These small things will transport you—and your reader—back in time. The more detail, the more immersive. If you’re unsure, look up photos, commercials, recipes, or newspaper clippings from the era. Let the era guide your choices. ☀️ ✦ STARTING YOUR STORY ✦ You can begin anywhere: • Day One in a new home • The first time you fall in love • An ordinary morning that turns into something unforgettable • A letter in the mail that changes everything • Or just another Tuesday—because even small moments were part of the big picture Don’t worry about having all the answers. Part of the fun is discovering who your character becomes over time. ☀️ ✦ REMEMBER: THIS IS THE 1960s ✦ While you have the freedom to write your own journey, the world around you still obeys the historical and cultural realities of the time. That means: • Racial segregation is still legal in many parts of the U.S. (until 1964–65) • Women are often expected to marry young and stay at home • LGBTQ+ individuals face systemic discrimination and live largely in secrecy • Many workplaces are still ruled by Mad Men-style patriarchy • War, protests, assassinations, and political upheaval define the public sphere

Daemon Targ

Marriage meant for spite became his greatest love

Roman Roy

Softness is for suckers—right?

Jacaerys Velaryon

In the days of Jacaerys the Just, the realm healed

John Dutton

“I didn’t chase the land. I chose the man.”

Anthony Bridgerton

She noticed everything—except his title.

John Dutton

Morning broke over the Yellowstone with a stillness that didn’t last. Horses shifted in the pastures, their breath steaming against the cold, and the barns echoed with the usual rhythm of chores. But around the main house, there was something unusual: color. Bright streamers and balloons, tied to fence posts and porch rails, fluttered in the mountain breeze. Whoever drove past might have thought they’d stumbled upon some odd county fair, not the ranch that had built its name on grit, blood, and land wars. Inside, the kitchen smelled of sugar and butter, a rarity in a house more familiar with coffee and steak. John’s girlfriend—apron dusted with flour, cheeks flushed from work—was carefully smoothing frosting over a chocolate cake shaped vaguely like a horse. On the floor, Wyatt Bear Dutton sat cross-legged with toy cows, mooing with all the seriousness of a ranch hand twice his age. John leaned in the doorway, hat in hand, eyes softening at the sight. He wasn’t a man for birthdays, not after burying so many he loved, but watching his youngest son turning three stirred something deep in him. A second chance, late in life, and fragile as glass. By noon, the ranch yard was full of boots and laughter. Colby and Teeter arrived first, Colby holding a box wrapped in paper covered with trucks. “Happy birthday, little man!” Colby said, crouching down and handing it over. Wyatt tore into it, squealing at the sight of a toy lasso. “Boy’s got better toys than me,” Colby muttered. Teeter snorted. “Don’t take much.” Ryan came next with a gift tucked under his arm. He handed Wyatt a small cowboy hat, the brim just right for a toddler. “Now you’re official, partner,” he said, plopping it on Wyatt’s head. Walker wasn’t far behind, guitar case slung over his shoulder. “Brought the music,” he said simply, settling on the porch steps where he started tuning strings. The yard buzzed until Rip’s truck pulled in. He stepped out carrying a pair of miniature boots, polished and tough enough for real work. Crouching low, he set them in front of Wyatt. “Can’t run around this ranch barefoot forever,” Rip said. Wyatt’s eyes lit up as he stomped into them, wobbling until Rip steadied him with one hand. Beth and Kayce showed last. Beth carried a gift bag in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She scanned the balloons and shook her head. “Christ, Dad, I didn’t think you had it in you. Balloons. A horse cake. Who the hell are you?” John’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to her bait. Wyatt, oblivious, toddled up to her. “Auntie Beth!” Beth bent, scooping him up despite herself. “Happy birthday, Bear. You’re the only man on this ranch I’ll hug.” Kayce clapped his father’s shoulder. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he said. “Boy’s gonna remember this.” The afternoon unraveled with the kind of warmth rare on Yellowstone soil. Walker strummed as Wyatt danced in circles, Colby tried to teach him how to rope, and Teeter sneaked him a piece of cake before his mother caught her. Ryan whittled a stick into a horse just to keep the boy’s hands busy. Rip lingered near the grill, flipping burgers, but his eyes kept drifting to the boy as though seeing a reflection of the family he’d never had. Wyatt’s mother darted around with a smile, making sure everyone had plates, her laughter carrying even when Beth muttered sarcastic commentary. John watched her move, quiet pride flickering in his eyes. When Wyatt climbed into John’s lap, frosting smeared across his face, the old man froze, arms tightening around him. The boy pressed a toy cow into his father’s palm. “Here, Papa.” John swallowed hard, his voice rough. “Thank you, Bear.” As the sun set, painting the mountains orange and violet, the firepit glowed in the yard. Wyatt ran circles around the ranch hands, wooden horse clutched tight, his boots clopping against the dirt. His mother stood close to John, her hand brushing his arm as though anchoring him to this moment. Beth lifted her whiskey toward the firelight. “Wyatt Bear Dutton—may he be the one Dutton that doesn’t end up fucked up beyond repair.”

Billy Hargrove

You’re carrying his baby and want to terminate

1960s Hair Salon

Beauty Begins at Maribelle’s

Beth Dutton

Your aunt can help 👶🏼🍼

Ragnar Lothbrok

Fate wears the rune of a stranger

Regency Era

The year is 1815, and spring has unfurled itself across Hampshire in pale green leaves and birdsong. Your family home, though modest, is alive with preparation: the Season has begun, and you, the daughter of a gentleman of dwindling fortune, stand at the threshold of decision. The morning room smells of beeswax polish and lavender sachets. Your mother fusses with ribbons, reminding you that youth is fleeting and opportunities rarer still. Yet this year, things are different. For your cousin Sebastian—dear, irrepressible Sebastian—has arrived to spend the Season with you, bringing along a guest: Mr. Thomas Lancaster of Kent. He entered the household three days ago, and already you have pieced together the quiet puzzle of him. He is no flamboyant peacock of the ballrooms. His shoulders are broad from riding and hunting, his hands steady with the calluses of a man who works his own land rather than merely signing orders. Apples, peaches, and pears from his Kentish orchards are his pride; he speaks of them with rare warmth. Though stoic by nature, there is a steadiness in him that makes you feel—if not exactly at ease—then securely seen. He is not unkind to laughter, nor unwilling to listen when conversation turns lively. His friendship with Sebastian seems deep, marked by long silences that need no filling. Your mother is already sighing over the prospect of such a guest. “A gentleman with land, duties, and respectable manners, my dear. You must consider—” But she does not finish the sentence, only presses her lips and watches you over her embroidery hoop. The Season unfolds before you like a fan, each path an edge of silk waiting to be touched. ⸻ ✧ NEW PATHS TO TAKE ✧ Path I: The Artist’s Calling Your heart is stirred less by ballrooms and more by sketchbooks, paints, and the romance of creation. An old tutor in Bath invites you to apprentice under him. • Do you chase a life of artistry, risking whispers of impropriety? • Or remain in Hampshire, hiding your sketches while longing for something more? Path II: The Dutiful Marriage A baronet from the neighboring county, wealthy but humorless, begins to court you openly. Your family would be secure. You would never want for gowns or pearls. • Do you accept the match, binding yourself to duty rather than love? • Or defy your family’s relief, gambling on affection instead? Path III: The Orchard’s Whisper Mr. Lancaster often speaks of Kent, of the orchards where apples and peaches flourish, and of the satisfaction found in tending the land. He extends a subtle invitation—come visit, see it for yourself. • Do you take the risk of seeing him in his true element, where duty and heart intertwine? • Or do you decline, afraid of the intimacy such a step might mean? Path IV: The London Charmer At Almack’s, a gentleman of wit and wealth singles you out. He dazzles with conversation, flatters with every turn of phrase, and makes promises of a glittering life. • Do you let yourself be swept into the arms of charm and city society? • Or do you see through the glitter, recognizing the strength in steadier company? Path V: The Independent Heiress A distant aunt, widowed and eccentric, writes that she wishes to leave her estate to you—if you will come and manage it with her. The offer is unconventional, but it would free you from dependency on any husband. • Do you seize the chance, carving out a place for yourself as mistress of your own domain? • Or do you hesitate, unwilling to walk the lonely path of independence? ⸻ The afternoon sunlight spills across the polished floor. Sebastian calls from the garden, laughing at something Mr. Lancaster has said. You glance through the window, catching sight of him—stoic posture, strong jaw, one hand tossing an apple idly from palm to palm while your cousin grins. The world waits, as do its choices. Which path will you take?

Sam 1883

First Meeting

Tywin L

Blood, sweat, and a Lannister heir

John Dutton

Easter Sunday

Anthony Bridgerton

Royal engagement dinner with the princess (fiancée

Bucky B

Thunderbolts recover at Bucky’s family home

Steve Harrington

Dating Steve while carrying Billy Hargrove’s baby

James B Barnes

“From chaos to cradle—love finds its way home.”

James Dutton

New Embers in the West

John Dutton

Early newborn days with your son

Jacaerys Velaryon

Washed ashore, he found more than a second life.

Viserys I Targ

“A weary king torn between duty, desire and legacy

Eddie Munson

Hawkins’ freak is growing up—fast.

1960s Pinup Girl

Sugar’s Last Shoot — Los Angeles, 1963

John Dutton

Jamie’s Daughter, ten weeks pregnant

Roman Roy

Old money with heart meets New without soul.

Tom W

Tom Wambsgans: emotionally bankrupt, now investing

Tywin L

A dragon invited into a lion’s den

Imperial China

You are in Imperial China, during the height of the Tang Dynasty. The capital bustles with scholars, merchants, monks, soldiers—and those who serve behind the vermilion walls of the Forbidden Palace. You are seventeen. Your fate is about to change. ⸻ 🍃 Choose Your Origin: 1. Daughter of a noble scholar – Educated in calligraphy and poetry. 2. Merchant’s child – Quick-witted and observant, you know the price of silk and silence. 3. Village healer’s apprentice – You know herbs, pain, and what people whisper when they think no one listens. 4. Orphan raised in the palace kitchens – You’ve grown in the shadow of red pillars and know who fears what. ➡ Type your background number to begin. ⸻ 🌺 PATHS OF FATE: 👑 THE CONCUBINE You are chosen for your beauty, wit, or a favor owed. Taken into the Inner Court, you are renamed “Jade Whisper.” You may: • [A] Seek favor with the Emperor through music and poetry. If successful, you gain rank… but risk jealousy. • [B] Befriend the Empress and act as her informant. Dangerous, but powerful. • [C] Secretly study medicine from the palace physician. A slow path, but knowledge may save you—or someone else. Write: “Concubine A/B/C” to continue. ⸻ 📜 THE SCHOLAR You pass the Imperial Examination with distinction and are invited to serve as a junior official in the capital. You may: • [A] Serve in the Ministry of Rites, recording court rituals and managing the imperial calendar. A quiet but respected role. • [B] Uncover corruption in the Ministry of War, risking disgrace or honor. • [C] Teach poetry to palace children—including the Emperor’s own daughter, who asks you difficult questions. Write: “Scholar A/B/C” to continue. ⸻ 🍵 THE SERVANT You polish floors and listen to gossip as you pour tea. You’re invisible, but you hear everything. You may: • [A] Spy for a noblewoman, who offers protection in exchange for information. • [B] Discover a hidden passage beneath the laundry house. What you find may be sacred—or treasonous. • [C] Fall in love with a eunuch, and begin passing messages through lotus scrolls. Write: “Servant A/B/C” to continue. ⸻ ⚔️ THE GUARD You train with spear and sword. Honor is drilled into your bones. You may: • [A] Guard the outer gates, enduring boredom and the occasional bribe. • [B] Be selected to protect the Imperial Heir, a clever child prone to disappearing into gardens. • [C] Uncover a conspiracy against the throne, but your loyalty will cost you dearly. Write: “Guard A/B/C” to continue. ⸻ 🌕 THE MYSTIC You wander from a Daoist temple, dreams filled with fire and omens. The stars whisper strange things to you. You may: • [A] Become the Emperor’s seer, loved and feared by all. • [B] Hide your gift, working as a humble scribe until the stars demand you act. • [C] Flee to the mountains, founding your own hidden sanctuary—but fate still follows. Write: “Mystic A/B/C” to continue.

Shiv Roy

He found what she pretended not to want

John Dutton

Bringing home your daughter

Thunderbolts HQ

Thunderbolts Compound Simulation — Internal Briefing Log Location: Former Stark Tower, New York City Now: Thunderbolt HQ /The Bolt Rebranded under directive of [Tony Stark’s Daughter] ⸻ Level 47 – Command & Tactical Hub The nerve center. Screens lined every wall, flickering with global threat alerts, encrypted video feeds, and Birdie—the sleek AI successor to J.A.R.V.I.S.—always listening. A polished table shaped like a crescent moon took center stage, glowing from underneath with soft amber light. Around it, mismatched chairs bore the names of each member etched in brushed steel: Barnes, Belova, Walker, Reynolds, Starr, Shostakov, and at the head, a seat marked only by the Stark crest—a private nod to the daughter who reengineered the mission from the inside out. ⸻ Level 46 – Living Quarters Suite 4601: Yelena Belova Loud, lived-in chaos. Throw pillows with Russian swear words, half-unpacked duffel bags, a wall of knives disguised as “art.” Her room always smelled like leather, black tea, and whatever new candle she stole from the common lounge. Posters of ‘90s girl bands and a photo of Natasha (taped inside a cabinet) completed the shrine. In the bathroom? Half a dozen hair masks, none labeled, all shared. Suite 4602: Alexei Shostakov The Red Guardian’s room looked like a gym locker and a Soviet museum had a baby. Posters of himself as Captain Russia, dusty weights he refused to admit were too heavy now, and a cracked TV stuck on static. A dent in the wall from a failed spinning kick. He said it was “authentic.” The only thing clean was the mini-fridge, stocked with beer and borscht. Suite 4603: John Walker Neat. Military. Compensating. His bed was always made, hospital-corner tight. Photos of medals, folded flags, and a bulletin board of strategies he pinned and repinned every week. He had a small library—mostly biographies of war heroes and outdated SHIELD manuals—but tucked behind a fake panel was a worn-out comic book. Captain America, 1964 edition. Unspoken. Suite 4604: Bob Reynolds A void and a dreamscape. The lights in Bob’s room flickered even when no one touched them. His bed was rarely slept in—he preferred the floor, or not sleeping at all. Blackout curtains stayed closed. One wall was covered in celestial maps and sticky notes with odd equations and strange symbols. In a corner: a sketchbook filled with portraits of the others. He drew them when he couldn’t speak. Suite 4605: Ava Starr Spartan and quiet. Sleek black shelves, a hanging harness for focus training, a meditation alcove in the corner. Her walls were soundproofed—her request. Her room pulsed with faint blue light from her quantum tech, like a heartbeat just below the surface. She kept a plant she never watered. It didn’t die. No one asked why. Suite 4606: James “Bucky” Barnes Warm and worn. Wood floors, a faded rug, his own coffee grinder. The bed was always slightly unmade, like someone lived here instead of staged it. Framed photos—Steve, Sam, an old Howling Commandos picture, and one of her. The woman who owned the building. On the bookshelf? Vintage poetry, dog-eared spy thrillers, and a secret stash of chili dog recipes handwritten by her in Sharpie. Suite 4607: [Tony Stark’s Daughter] Her room was quiet but alive. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled sunlight over a low bed wrapped in storm-gray blankets. Shelves brimmed with dog-eared multiverse theory texts, dreams recorded in ink, and a desk covered in sketches: dreamscapes, starscapes, and the same door repeated again and again—always slightly ajar. Her perfume—citrus and salt—clung to the air like memory. Birdie lived here too, in a wall console lined with rose-gold trim. Her hairbrush rested on the desk beside an open journal: “If dreams are windows, then why do mine lead to him?” ⸻ Level 45 – Communal Lounge Redesigned with her touch. Vintage bookshelves, potted plants named things like Thorny Stark and Brucie Spruce, rich amber lighting that bathed the room in honey. A coffee bar. Cozy mismatched chairs. Vinyls played from Birdie’s internal speakers—jazz in the morning.

Tywin L

Married to power. Pregnant with consequence.

John Dutton

Ballroom, Montana Cattlemen

Eddie Munson

“I know my girlfriend is a witch.”

Eddie Munson

Metalhead. Misfit. Dad. Still figuring it out.

Montana 1883

The train screamed into the valley with a howl of steam, scattering a flock of crows from the cottonwoods. You pressed your forehead to the glass, heart rattling with the wheels as the wilderness rolled past—endless grassland stretching into forever, broken only by the dark humps of bison in the distance and the faint silhouettes of mountains on the far horizon. Montana Territory. It was raw and wild, the kind of place that swallowed weak men and hardened strong ones. Your father’s limp was worse after days on the move, though he never spoke of it. He sat rigid on the bench beside your mother, jaw set, hand tapping the rifle laid across his lap. He’d fought once in a war far to the east and carried both the scar and the gait to prove it. His voice was low but steady when he muttered, “This here’s the end of the line. God help us, it’s also the beginning.” When the train shuddered to its stop, the doors burst open on a world painted in dust and sun. Men in wide hats and boots swarmed the platform, shouting for cattle drives, for wagons, for homesteads still unclaimed. Railroad men in brass buttons barked schedules, while immigrant families—Swedes, Irish, Germans—clutched trunks and children, their eyes sharp with the same mix of fear and hope you felt in your gut. Your mother adjusted her bonnet against the wind, her hands flour-dusted from the biscuits she’d packed. She always smelled faintly of bread, a comfort against the unknown. “Stay close,” she warned, gathering her skirts as you stepped onto the dirt street. The town itself was half-built, boards still raw, roofs pitched with tar instead of shingles. A saloon squatted at the corner, laughter spilling from its doors. Next to it, a blacksmith hammered iron into sparks. Beyond, the land yawned wide and empty. That emptiness was why you’d come. A man with a badge and a curled mustache greeted arrivals with a ledger in hand. “Homestead claims to the north,” he barked, “ranch plots to the west. Sign your name and stake your ground.” Your father leaned heavy on his cane but stepped forward anyway. “Dutton,” he said, slow and steady. “We’re here for land.” The marshal squinted at the three of you—your father’s limp, your mother’s steady hands, and your own wide-eyed youth. Then he nodded, jerking his head toward the open plains. “Head west ‘til the cottonwoods give way to river. That land’ll test you, but it’ll hold.” You loaded the wagon again, the boards creaking under the weight of trunks and tools. The air was sharp with sage and dust, the wind carrying the far-off cry of a hawk. Horses stamped impatiently as your father climbed onto the seat, pain flashing in his face before he hid it behind grit. Your mother pressed a loaf of bread into your lap as though food could steady nerves. The road out of town turned quick into nothing more than wheel ruts carved through grass. For hours you jolted along, the silence broken only by the creak of the wagon and the soft murmur of your mother praying. Then, just as the sun began to dip, you saw it: a sweep of valley framed by the distant teeth of mountains, a ribbon of water cutting silver through the green. Your father drew the team to a halt. He sat still, breath ragged, then finally spoke: “Here. This is where we make it.” The three of you climbed down. The ground felt solid under your boots, richer than any soil back east. You knelt and pressed your hand into the earth, dirt caking your fingers, while your mother lifted her face to the wind as if she could already smell bread rising from a hearth not yet built. Your father leaned on his cane, surveying it all. Land enough for cattle, for wheat, for children yet unborn. Hard land. Wild land. But it would be yours. “Dutton,” he said again, as though the name itself might root into the soil. “This is where we begin.” And as the sun bled red across the valley, you felt it—that something larger than yourselves had taken root here. A promise, bound by earth and blood, that this land would never forget the Duttons.

Ragnar and Sons

The price of a son

Otto Hightower

The bells of the Red Keep toll again—low and solemn, though no one has died today. In Otto Hightower’s solar, the sound carries like a warning. Not of death, but of endings. The chamber is still. Windows are thrown open to the late afternoon air, and the scent of the harbor drifts upward—brine, wet rope, wood smoke. The breeze is thick with warmth that doesn’t soothe but presses, slow and heavy. From the hearth behind him, a low fire burns—not roaring, but stubborn. Outside, gulls wheel over Blackwater Bay, their cries faint and wild. Inside, the only sound is the soft scratch of quill on parchment—and the pause that follows it. Otto stands at the window, his robe tugged gently by the wind. Fingers laced behind his back, he is still—rigid with thought. The stone beneath him is worn smooth by the footfall of decades, of secrets and schemes. The solar smells of ink and lavender oil, old ambition clinging to the tapestries. On the desk, a single goblet of watered wine sits untouched beside an opened letter. The parchment bears the seal of House Royce, but the script is not Fenrick’s. It is delicate. Composed. Unmistakably foreign. Lady Targaryen. The Everglowing. Born of bronze and flame. Daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce. A girl of mythic origin, too strange to dismiss and too distant to control. Raised in the Vale under her mother’s cousin, Fenrick, in the cold cradle of mountain halls. She learned courtly manners from maesters, swordplay from Royce kin, hawking from the high cliffs. But she never came to court. Not once. And that, Otto thinks, is what makes her dangerous. She belongs to no faction. Not yet. Her blood is royal, her land ancestral. She is unspoken for, and in war, neutrality is a kind of crown. The firelight flickers across the letter as he turns back to the desk. Her words are formal, thoughtful. She writes of snowmelt, of falcons, of half-flooded passes. She declines yet another invitation to court—gracious, unbending, and utterly unapologetic. He smiles, faintly. Rhaenyra has her dragons. Aegon has his crown. But Lady of the Vale? She has Runestone. She has absence—and power in it. She is blood of the dragon raised among ancient stones and cold winds. The Vale whispers about her: that she walks barefoot through the halls of her ancestors, that she rides a silver-grey mare swifter than storm. That she prays only to the wind. Some call her cold. Others say the gods kissed her forehead at birth. Otto does not believe in gods. But he believes in symbols. A Targaryen untouched by Rhaenyra’s war. A Royce unmarried. A woman whose loyalty has yet to be named. She could be many things. A bridge. A counterweight. A last hand to play. Or—if the realm continues its descent—a harbor. Somewhere quiet where an old man might retreat from the ruin he once helped shape. His gaze returns to the open window. Beyond, smoke rises from the harbor, darker now, touched by dusk. In the distance, the low sound of dragonfire breaks the wind. The dance has not begun in full—but the steps are being set. He does not tell her the truth. That he has been dismissed. That Aegon—his *foolish*, volatile grandson—has cast him aside. That he now writes not as the Hand of the King, but as something more dangerous: A man with nothing left to lose. A man whose wisdom is no longer bound by duty. Otto dips the quill again. His writing is precise. Measured. Civil. 💌🪶 Lady Targaryen, The realm leans toward ruin. I believe you may be the only force capable of steadying it. Come south, if you would. There are matters of strategy and state I would entrust to wiser hands than mine alone. 💌🪶 He lets the ink dry. Then, to the fire, to the stone, to no one at all, he says quietly: “Come, Everglowing. Let us see if your light can outlast the flames.”

Rip Wheeler

Youngest Dutton is home

Daemon T

Defiance is my inheritance (trans nephew, mlm)

Colonial America

The morning sun filtered pale through the frost-laced windows, dusting the wooden floorboards with gold. The air smelled faintly of pine smoke from the hearth, lingering from last night’s fire, and the tang of dried herbs hung from the rafters where you had strung rosemary and thyme. Outside, the town stirred slowly: a rooster crowed in the distance, wagon wheels creaked over frozen ruts in the road, and somewhere a dog barked at the wind that raced down the hills. You rose from the straw-stuffed mattress, feet brushing the cool boards, and stretched. The house was still quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire left to smolder in the hearth. Gideon Carter, your companion and confidant in so many small adventures of daily life, was already dressed, quietly tending to the few chickens you kept near the back garden. The scent of their straw and feathers mixed with the sharp bite of morning cold. He glanced over as you appeared in the doorway, his gaze warm, steady. The day lay ahead like a blank page. Decisions came not lightly in this small New England settlement, where each action carried weight. The hours could be filled with chores, social obligations, or ventures into the wider town—but your choice would shape the tone of the morning, and perhaps more. Option One: Tend the Garden and the Hearth You could spend the morning carefully checking the herb garden behind the cottage, brushing snow from the thyme, inspecting the rosemary sprigs for frostbite. There would be the simple satisfaction of work, the smell of earth, the warmth of the fire on return, and perhaps conversation with Gideon about what to plant for the next season. This path promises quiet productivity, grounding yourself in the rhythms of home. Option Two: Visit the Town Market The market had opened at first light, and the wagons were already delivering flour, salted fish, and furs. Merchants set up their stalls, calling out prices, voices rising over the clatter of iron pots and the squeal of pigs in pens. Visiting would allow you to procure fresh ingredients for the week—apples, onions, cured meats—and perhaps hear the latest town gossip. This path offers interaction, choice, and the chance to observe the world beyond the cottage walls. Option Three: Walk Along the Frozen River The river that ran near the edge of the settlement was frozen and glinting in the sunlight. A walk along its banks would be solitary and brisk, the only sounds your boots crunching over frost-hardened snow and the occasional crack of ice shifting. You might collect driftwood for the hearth, examine the tracks of animals, or simply breathe deeply of the cold, clean air. This path promises reflection, calm, and the chance to feel the pulse of the land itself. Option Four: Spend the Morning with Gideon He has plans of his own—perhaps repairing a fence, mending a wheel, or checking on his father’s mill—but he could accompany you in any endeavor. Walking together, working together, or even sitting by the fire to plan for the coming season could deepen your companionship, provide small intimacies, and allow the world outside to pause. This path promises connection, shared labor, and the comfort of trust. You pause at the doorway, the candlelight flickering over the boards, the smell of smoke and herbs wrapping around you like a cloak. The choice of how to spend the day feels weighty in its simplicity. Will you step into the rhythm of labor, venture beyond your walls, wander in solitude, or linger close to Gideon’s side? Outside, the wind stirs the branches, sending a small spray of frost to the windowsill. Somewhere down the road, the rooster crows again, as if to mark the beginning of possibilities. The house is quiet, but the day waits. And so, with the sunlight warming your face and the world paused at the edge of morning, you take your first deliberate step, deciding what kind of day it will be.

Eddie Munson

He’s a metal head falling for a southern belle

Mike Wheeler

He meets Robin Buckley’s sister at Scoop’s Ahoy

Larys Strong

A haunted bride from Harrenhal’s halls

Eddie Munson

When the past shows up in a polka-dot swimsuit.

Tywin L

Fire

Cregan Stark

Lemons, love, and secrets: twins bloom by the sea.

Criston Cole

You’ve birthed his second child

Lakota Camp

Young girl’s coming of age

Anthony Bridgerton

One princess’ debut, three cats, cake and solitude

Jacaerys Velaryon

The Lost Prince Returns

Eddie Munson

Some monsters wear letterman jackets

Daemon T

Wife to the rogue, mother to a dragon’s brood

Henry the 8th

*Autumn, 1537* You wake to the damp hush of a late October morning, the light diffused by fog crawling over the Thames. A fire crackles at the far end of your chamber, tended by a girl who curtsies too deeply when she sees you stirring. Your hand slides over your belly—a firm swell of life beneath linen. Six and a half months now, your midwife said yesterday. The boy, she said again with assurance. A boy for England. Your bones ache with the weight, hips tight, and your back stiff from the cold that seeps into even the tapestries of Hampton Court. You shift beneath the velvet covers, hearing the soft shuffle of your ladies in the next room. They’ll be in soon to bathe you, to dress you, to lace you in silver and Tudor rose. Henry has not come to you since the last frost. He is hunting in Windsor. You hear updates through couriers and Sir Edward Seymour, who tells you the king sends prayers—and venison. You nod politely at that. But you remember how his palm once rested on your belly, reverent and trembling, whispering of hope and sons. You hold to those memories like a rosary, bead by bead. They help you endure the court. You hear them whisper—more than Anne ever heard, perhaps because you do not shout back. You are too quiet, too careful. “Too meek,” Lady Rochford once said when she thought you could not hear. But they do not know the careful power of silence. You rise slowly, swaying for a moment. A footstool is placed swiftly beneath you. Your favorite lady, Alice, steadies your arm. “Careful, my lady,” she says softly. “His Majesty would not forgive a fall.” Nor would the country. Nor would you. Later, you sit in the solar with embroidery you cannot finish, the needle still between your fingers as you stare at the window. Mist clings to the glass like breath, and you wonder if your child will have your eyes or Henry’s—a thought so tender it startles you. The archbishop visited yesterday, murmuring of divine providence and the sanctity of marriage. You heard none of it, too distracted by the way his eyes lingered on your stomach like it was a reliquary. All things come back to the child. A knock. One of your guards. He bows and announces that the king has returned. Your heart jumps—not with joy, but a cautious thrill of anxiety. You have not seen him in ten days. He enters later that evening, smelling of smoke and pine and something darker beneath it. His beard has grown fuller, silver threading through the copper. His eyes brighten when he sees you standing—always standing when he enters. You force a smile. “My rose,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Still strong?” “Strong as I may be, Your Majesty,” you reply. He places his hand on your belly again, and something inside you shifts—your son, you hope. Henry feels it and his mouth opens slightly in awe. He laughs, genuine and loud, and calls for wine. You do not drink. But you sit beside him in the candlelight as he speaks of France and horses and new portraits being painted. He seems younger tonight, softened by the notion of fatherhood reborn. But when he leaves, the room feels colder. You are alone again. Later, in the stillness of midnight, you sit upright in bed, breath caught in your chest. The baby kicks hard. Pain laces your ribs. The midwife is called, though it is likely nothing. Still, they fan your face and press linen to your back and whisper prayers. You think of the other wives. Of Katherine, banished and unloved. Of Anne, whose neck was not spared. You think of what you are to him—a vessel, yes, but a beloved one for now. If you die giving birth, they will say you were gentle and obedient. But you are more than that. You are watching. Learning. Enduring. You press your hands to your belly and whisper, “Live.” It is both a command and a plea. Tomorrow, you will walk again. Slowly, through gardens that decay in golden fire. The country watches with bated breath for a prince, but you watch only the leaves as they fall. Not all endings are cruel, you remind yourself. And not all bloodlines run dry. You are still here. For now.

Tywin L

She finds refuge in the steady hand of the Lion

Eddie Munson

The Ellingtons

Eddie Munson

Six-month-olds: the ultimate conversation starter.

Eddie Munson

From one summer night came ten tiny fingers

Jacaerys V

Arrival in Dragonstone with a Stark n unborn babe

Eddie Munson

Dead, But Make It Metal

Aemond Targ

“Vengeance forged him, fatherhood changed him.”

Eddie Munson

He saved her son. She saved him.

Jacaerys Velaryon

His Dornish Betrothed

Victorian Era

A Victorian Afternoon Simulation

Jacaerys Velaryon

A sun from Dorne meets the storm of Dragonstone.

Tywin L

A dragon has come home to a lion’s den

Rip Wheeler

The truth comes out

1960s Suburbs

The late afternoon sun washed over the cul-de-sac in soft honeyed light, glinting off the polished chrome of parked Chevrolets and Fords. Lawn sprinklers ticked in rhythm, sending arcs of water across freshly mowed grass that smelled sweet and green. White-picket fences framed neat rows of ranch-style homes, each with identical mailboxes and carefully trimmed hedges. Inside one of those homes—your home—the living room sat perfectly staged, as though lifted from a Better Homes & Gardens spread. Floral-print curtains framed the wide picture window, and a shag rug sprawled across the floor beneath a sturdy walnut coffee table. The scent of pot roast drifted from the kitchen, mingling with faint cigarette smoke curling from an ashtray. Thomas “Tommy” Jones, your husband, was already home from the office. His gray suit jacket hung on the coat rack, his tie loosened, his slicked-back hair gleaming under the lamplight. He sat in his favorite recliner, reading the evening paper with a faint frown of concentration, one polished Oxford tapping softly against the rug. His whiskey tumbler, with two ice cubes clinking inside, rested on the side table. You could hear the children upstairs—voices shrill with laughter, the patter of socked feet running back and forth. Suburban peace wasn’t always quiet, but it had its rhythms. The neighbors next door were hosting a barbecue; faint strains of rock ’n’ roll leaked over the fence, a bit rebellious for the block, where most preferred Sinatra or Perry Como. Tommy folded the paper down and gave you that half-smile he had, a blend of charm and weariness. “Pot roast smells good, doll,” he said, voice smooth with affection. “You always know how to make a man feel like king of his castle.” But beneath the perfect scene—gleaming appliances, a hardworking husband, laughing children—there was a hum of tension. The 1960s were changing the world outside these walls, and even the suburbs weren’t immune. ⸻ Paths You Can Take 1. The Domestic Evening Stay in your role as suburban wife. Call the children down, set the table, and enjoy dinner with Tommy. The conversation might be ordinary—school, office gossip, the price of groceries—but deeper truths could bubble up. Do you play the perfect housewife, or do you challenge Tommy on something you’ve noticed: his late nights at “the office,” or his old-fashioned views on your role? 2. The Neighbors’ Party Step outside when the Jones family next door invites you over. The air is smoky with grilled burgers, radios blasting The Supremes. A neighbor might offer you a drink stronger than Tommy prefers, and one of the wives whispers rumors about changing gender roles—women talking of “having more than just housework.” Do you embrace this new world of ideas, or cling to the safety of tradition? 3. The Secret Longing As you clear the dishes later, you spot Tommy stepping outside to take a phone call. His tone is hushed, his words clipped. You could choose to eavesdrop, perhaps uncovering something unsettling—a work matter, or maybe a secret of another kind. Do you pretend you heard nothing and preserve the peace, or do you confront him? 4. The Children’s World Go upstairs after dinner to tuck the children in. James, eight, is already thumbing through his comic books; Elizabeth, four, asks questions about the world with uncanny curiosity; and little Mabel, six months old, clings to her toy elephant, dreaming of far-off adventures. Here, you might choose to reflect on your own role as mother—whether you push them toward traditional expectations or quietly encourage them to imagine something different. 5. A Radical Break Later in the evening, while Tommy settles into his recliner to watch television, you receive a phone call from a friend in town—inviting you to a women’s discussion group. They talk about things suburban wives rarely mention: independence, careers, liberation. Do you accept and step into this hidden new world, or do you hang up and return to the curated perfection of suburban life?

Eddie Munson

Stoned confessions, clean slates, baby dreams.

Sandor C

Labor and Delivery

Roman Roy

Meet the Roys: where feelings go to die.

Aegon Targ

He has his lovers, so you find your own

Daemon Targ

Violation by Aegon II, Salvation by Daemon

Imperial Concubine

Pregnant with power, she treads where rivals wait.

Aegon Targ II

Power cannot bury the heart’s first sin.

Eugene Wilder

You came to study land…and maybe the rancher

Eddie Munson

Custard, gossip, and one very high Southern cat.

John Dutton

Shame that’s not yours to carry

Jimmy Hurdstrum

The day began the way most spring mornings did on the Yellowstone—sun just spilling over the ridges, mist rising from the creek beds, the smell of horses and dew mixing with dust and old leather. The bunkhouse had emptied with the clang of boots and spurs, a low rumble of men’s voices, laughter, and Rip’s barked orders keeping them sharp. Jimmy swung himself into his saddle, jaw tight. Today was different. Today, she was riding with them—the Native cowgirl John had hired a few months back. She’d grown up with horses in her blood, hands calloused from reins and ropes long before Jimmy had even figured out how to sit a saddle properly. She wasn’t just good. She was effortless. And Jimmy, God help him, wanted her to notice him. They were driving a group of restless steers across the lower pasture, the kind that tested patience and pushed even the most seasoned hand. Rip had paired them off: Walker with Lloyd, Colby with Ryan, and Jimmy—by some cruel twist of fate—riding alongside her. “Keep your eyes up, Jimmy,” Rip called. “Cows can smell fear.” The others laughed. Jimmy flushed, pulling his hat lower. He tried to focus, but every time she leaned forward in her saddle, guiding her horse with just a subtle shift of weight, Jimmy found himself staring. “You’re holding the reins too tight,” she said finally, her voice even, almost kind. “He’s fighting you because you’re fighting him.” Jimmy blinked. “What—oh. Right.” He loosened his grip, and the gelding under him eased, snorting as though in relief. She gave him the barest hint of a smile. “Better.” Jimmy straightened in his saddle, pride swelling. Maybe this was his chance. He spotted a steer breaking off from the herd, bolting toward the fence line. Before Rip could even shout, Jimmy kicked his horse hard and tore after it, dust flying up in a storm. He leaned low, hat nearly flying off, rope swinging as he tried to loop it. For a moment, he felt incredible—wind in his face, adrenaline surging, the kind of scene you saw in old westerns. Then the steer juked left. Jimmy’s rope missed clean, and his horse stumbled as he pulled up too sharp. The next thing he knew, he was half out of the saddle, clutching the horn like his life depended on it. The herd bawled, the other ranch hands hollering with laughter. “Nice try, rodeo!” Colby called. Jimmy’s cheeks burned. He expected her to laugh too—but instead, she was already ahead of him, guiding her mare with a fluid grace. She cut the steer off, spun her horse quick and tight, and with one flick of her wrist, her rope looped the animal’s horns. Dust churned golden around her as she pulled the steer back to the herd, calm and precise. By the time Jimmy caught his breath, she was riding back toward him, the rope coiled neatly at her side. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she said softly, low enough that the others couldn’t hear. “Not to me.” Jimmy swallowed, his throat dry. “I just—I wanted you to see I can do it. That I belong here.” She studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes unreadable. Then she leaned forward, resting her wrist against the saddle horn. “You already belong here. You’re just too busy tripping over yourself to notice.” It wasn’t teasing, exactly. More like truth. It hit him harder than any punch. The rest of the day wore on under the Montana sun. They moved the herd to higher ground, mended a section of broken fence, and cooled their horses by the creek. The men’s banter never stopped, but Jimmy felt different. Every time he started to clench up, to grip too tight, he remembered her words. You don’t have to prove anything. That evening, when the cattle were settled and the bunkhouse lights began to glow against the twilight, Jimmy lingered near the corral. She was there too, brushing down her mare, the fading sun catching in her hair. He thought of all the ways he could mess this up—how words always tangled in his throat.

Rhaenyra

It was a known fact that you could not sleep without your alpha’s presence beside you in the nest. Rhaenyra’s warmth, her solid and protective form, had become a dear comfort over the course of your union. What began as an awkward, sometimes frosty first year had deepened into a true and unshakable bond over five years together. So, when you blinked awake in the chill of the night and found her warmth absent, it was no surprise that you rose to find her. The empty space she left behind tugged at you, her presence more than just comforting—it was grounding, a flame that chased away your fears. Pulling on a robe, you padded through the quiet chambers. The elder children’s doors were shut, their soft breaths audible as you passed, soothing your nerves. The kitchens were dark and silent, leaving only one likely place: the nursery, where little Visenya rested in her moonstone-studded cradle. The nursery door, slightly ajar, spilled a sliver of moonlight into the hall. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes and stepped inside. What you saw stopped you in your tracks, the fatigue in your limbs dissipating instantly. Rhaenyra stood swaying gently, cradling your newborn dragonseed in her arms. Her silver-gold hair caught the moonlight, cascading down her back like molten light. She hummed softly—a lullaby from Old Valyria. Little Visenya rested peacefully, her tiny hand curled against her sire’s chest, safe in the arms of her alpha. Rhaenyra’s lilac eyes, softened with love, gazed down at the babe with a tenderness that belied the fierce dragon she showed the world. Here, she was not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms or a warrior—she was your mate and the sire of your dragonseeds. Lingering in the doorway, your heart swelled. The bond between you thrummed with unspoken affection, drawing you closer. Rhaenyra’s sharp ears caught your approach. Without turning, she spoke softly, her voice rich and soothing. “She stirred,” Rhaenyra murmured. “I didn’t want her to wake you.”

Jacaerys Velaryon

Modern Jacaerys at the club

Dwalin

A sweet bearer of secrets melts a hardened heart.

Viserys I Targ

He weds the elder Hightower sister

Tywin L

Tywin Lannister did not leave succession to chance

Titanic

Waking up to the ship sinking

Tywin L

A rose of thorns among lions

Bilbo Baggins

Two babes, one truth—and a road to the Mountain.

Tywin L

The Great Hall does not erupt. That is what unsettles them most. There is no cheer, no protest, no immediate outrage—only a creeping, collective stillness, as though the stone beneath their feet has shifted a fraction too far to trust. The banners overhead—red and black now, lions twined with three-headed dragons—seem heavier than they did an hour ago. Old gold still clings to the corners of the hall, but it no longer shines. It looks… outnumbered. You sit beside Tywin Lannister. Not behind him. Not arranged as ornament. Beside him, as though it was always meant to be so. That alone rewrites something fundamental. You are young. That is what they cannot reconcile. Too young to have survived what you did, too young to sit where you sit, too young to have undone a war with nothing but breath, blood, and patience. You are the daughter of a house Tywin once believed reduced to ash and memory—and now you are his wife, his equal in this moment, the axis around which the hall quietly reorients itself. Aerion rests against you, warm and solid, swaddled in red lined with black. Valyrian glyphs trace protection into the cloth, symbols old enough to have outlived dynasties. His hair catches the torchlight—gold veined through silver—and his eyes are open, already measuring a room full of people who do not yet understand what they are looking at. At your feet, Tyrax stirs. The hatchling’s bronze scales glimmer in the firelight, smoke ghosting from his nostrils with every slow breath. He is small, yes—but no one mistakes him for harmless. He is proof. He is punctuation at the end of a sentence they hoped had already been written. Tywin rises. The sound of his chair scraping back does not command the room so much as freeze it. No one reaches for a cup. No one shifts their weight. Somewhere, someone realizes they are holding their breath and does not dare release it. “You are here,” Tywin says, “to witness succession.” That word—succession—slides through the hall like a blade. On the Iron Throne, Joffrey shifts, restless, uncomfortable. A boy king surrounded by men who now understand how easily kings fall. Beside him, Cersei is perfectly still, her gaze locked not on Tywin—but on you. On the child. On the reality she cannot glare into obedience. Aerion makes a sound then. Not a cry. Never a cry. A low, indignant whine rises from his chest—deep, insistent, startling in its authority. It echoes faintly off the stone, and something ugly and undeniable happens in the room: They compare. Joffrey sneers, brittle. “Must it make that noise?” Aerion answers him, louder, longer, unapologetic. His small fists clench. His face twists in offense, and several courtiers flinch as if struck by the echo of a truth they didn’t want articulated—that this child already demands attention in a way the king must force. You murmur softly in Valyrian, adjusting him with instinctive ease. He does not quiet. He asserts. Tywin briefly glances at the infant. “This,” he says evenly, “is my son. Aerion of House Lannister and House Targaryen. Born of lawful marriage.” The floor tilts. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But enough that the room seems… wrong. As if the axis they’ve balanced on for years has shifted a degree to the left. “He comes from a royal line older than the Iron Throne itself,” Tywin continues. “Fire and crown both. He is the next Warden of the West.” That is when it sinks in. Not just a child. Not just a marriage. But continuity. You step forward with Tywin, presenting Aerion not as a threat, but as an inevitability. You do not bow. You do not apologize for existing. The girl from a ruined house now stands as the hinge upon which the future turns. “He inherits my lands,” Tywin says. “My authority. And my legacy.” You speak then, softly, almost gently. “He already has his dragon. As will his siblings. Dragonstone will be theirs.” Silence follows—not disbelief, but understanding. Now there is a boy with fire at his feet, a mother who survived annihilation, and a lion father who has decided the past no longer serves him.

Aegon II Targ

A crown, a cradle, and a dangerously kept secret.

Eddie M

Chaos, loyalty, and love in Hawkins’ hallways

Robb S

A dragon in the marsh

Sandor C

A scandal the realm couldn’t silence.

Thunderbolts

Mirror Boys

Eddie Munson

Loyal like a hound, loud like a storm — all yours

Kayce Dutton

Five shots, one heart—Kayce never stood a chance.

Bilbo Baggins

Two dwarves, one night, and a secret at Bag End.

1960s Young Adult

Saturday Morning in 1963

Eddie Munson

From online romance to small-town reality

Harwin Strong

The quiet before the dragon’s roar.

James B Barnes

A Valentines baby

Sandor C

Beast and Beauty, two pups incoming

Larys Strong

Courtship is a game—she just might play it better.

Dollar Princess

Choose your path and husband

Tywin L

She never wanted his name—only to keep her child.

Eddie M

Long time no see, old “friend”

Sandor C

The Ram and the Boar’s Blood

Steve Harrington

Checking him and the group over Dustin’s grief

Harwin Strong

Scarred by fire, Harwin returns with life in bloom

King Viserys I Targ

Remarrying after Aemma’s death, a new ember burns.

Jacaerys Velaryon

Birth of his second child

Tywin L

The halls of Casterly Rock hum with whispered panic, but you move through them like calm water, gliding between servants whose faces are pale, whose hands shake. The girl is gone—second wife, second threat removed—and the news lingers like smoke in the stone corridors. They do not yet know how, and you intend it to stay that way. You smooth your hands over your gown, each fold a shield, each step a declaration: this is yours. You find Tywin in the solar, standing as if the weight of the world rests solely upon him. He does not speak at first, merely studies you, brow furrowed, eyes sharp, lips tight. There is caution there, a calculation, and beneath it… something that only ever appears when he is thinking of you. Concern. Desire. Ownership. You step closer, hiding a smile, keeping your posture serene, unshaken. “The lady has fallen,” a page blurts, voice trembling, echoing the chaos of the household. “Over the cliffs, my lord. The sea—” He falters, eyes flitting nervously between you and Tywin. Tywin’s gaze sharpens, assessing the room, the servant, the silence. “Explain,” he says, low, clipped, but his eyes are fixed on you. Always on you. You can feel it, like a tether between your pulse and his. You do not answer immediately. You let the moment stretch, let him weigh the possibilities, let him imagine the danger you are capable of. Jaime bursts into the solar, anger radiating from him in waves. “Explain how a lady falls over cliffs! Who—what madness—?” Tyrion follows, eyes glittering with suspicion and curiosity, already analyzing, already questioning the cracks in the story. Even Cersei is present, silent, her gaze sharp as she notes your composure. She senses something more, though she cannot name it, and that alone satisfies a part of your possessive pride. “I… wandered the cliffs,” you say at last, voice soft, deceptively innocent. “She slipped. The wind… it was stronger than anyone expected.” Every word is measured, every pause calculated. Truth, bending around the edges of what must remain hidden. The servants nod rapidly, relieved to pin the disaster on nature and circumstance. Tywin studies you, his eyes narrowing just slightly. The storm behind his gaze mirrors your own, though his is tempered with suspicion. He has always known you have fire, a careful cunning, a possessiveness that borders on obsession. He does not yet know the full measure—does not yet know of the child you carry, growing quietly beneath your ribs, a future he cannot yet control. But he will know, and when he does, he will be bound to you more tightly than any oath of duty or marriage. “You are… certain of what you say?” His voice is even, but there is an undercurrent of something you recognize—pride, worry, desire. You nod, slow, deliberate. “Entirely,” you murmur, letting your eyes meet his, soft and intimate and challenging all at once. The weight of your gaze presses against him, reminding him that he cannot command this, cannot contain this, cannot resist it. Jaime groans, incredulous, running a hand through his hair. Tyrion’s lips curl in a faint, dangerous smirk, as though he suspects, yet cannot prove. Cersei frowns, quiet but perceptive, calculating the implications. Tywin, however, is fixed on you. His attention, as ever, is yours. Always yours. You let the room swell with murmurs and questions while you remain composed, calm, untouchable. The second wife is gone. The threat removed. And the child—the quiet rebellion beneath your ribs—remains yours alone to reveal, at the time of your choosing. You are the Treasure of Casterly Rock, the one who claims him, commands him, and protects what is yours. And as Tywin finally moves, silent but aware of the pull you exert, you know the game has only begun.

John Dutton

Christmas

Eddie Munson

Helping with autumn farm duties

Otto Hightower

She smiled sweetly—while unmaking a house.

Jacaerys Velaryon

An heir of fire. A bride of sun. A future reborn.

Daemon Targ

The gardens of the Red Keep were not meant for peace anymore. Not when Daemon Targaryen’s children turned them into a battlefield. The air carried the shrill clash of wooden swords and triumphant laughter, the flutter of silks dragged through the mud, the indignant screeches of a nurse chasing after whichever boy had decided to climb the hedges. Daemon sat on a stone bench in the sun, one hand propping up his jaw, the other holding a goblet of wine that he hadn’t yet managed a sip from. His pale hair caught in the breeze, a silver banner unraveling as his gaze followed the whirlwind of his offspring. “Seven hells,” he muttered, just as Aegon and Viserys—his firstborn twins—charged past in a tangle of limbs, one armed with a stick, the other with a shield stolen from a poor guard. “Aegon, stop trying to brain your brother. And Viserys—don’t let him brain you!” Neither boy listened. Of course they didn’t. Beyond them, Aerion had declared himself king of a makeshift fortress made of overturned stools and cloaks stolen from the laundry line. He shouted decrees to Maelor, who toddled faithfully at his heels, his small arms struggling under the weight of a practice helm that slipped over his brow. Every few steps, the helm would tip forward, sending him stumbling into Aerion, who shouted at him like a general barking at a squire. Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I once commanded armies. Dragons. Whole kingdoms feared me. And now I am defeated daily by children under the age of ten.” A soft laugh escaped you. He turned his head and found you watching from beneath the shade of a willow, your hands resting on the curve of your pregnant belly. You had been his shadow these past weeks, Rhaenyra’s sister, though Daemon called you little one more often than not. Now, with your condition keeping you from the rougher diversions of court, you were content to sit and watch the chaos unfold. “They’re only children,” you teased gently, eyes twinkling with fondness as Aegon toppled Viserys into a patch of flowers. “And besides, you look like you’re enjoying it more than you admit.” Daemon scoffed. “Enjoying? I am outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. Do you know what it is to raise twins? And then Aerion—by the gods, that boy has more of me than I care to see reflected—and Maelor, small though he is, will grow into a terror yet. They conspire against me, niece. Mark my words.” You arched a brow, shifting to ease the weight of your unborn child. “And you, uncle, are acting as though you do not love every moment of it.” At that, his façade cracked. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as Aegon’s laughter rang out, bright and unburdened. Maelor had fallen face-first into the grass, and Aerion was tugging him upright with surprising patience for his age. Daemon’s gaze softened, wine forgotten, the world momentarily quiet despite the chaos. “They’re mine,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Every scrape, every shout. They carry my blood and her fire. The realm may call me rogue, but here… here I am only father.” You pressed your hand against your belly, warmth flooding you at the words. Your babe shifted within, a reminder that soon you would know the very weight Daemon spoke of. He caught your gaze, sharp and knowing, and for once there was no sharpness in his tone when he said: “You’ll see soon enough. They undo you, the little creatures. Pull you apart and put you back together in ways you’d never expect. Gods help you if you have two at once.” The thought made you laugh, your hand brushing your stomach protectively. “If I do, I’ll send one straight to you. You seem to have the practice.” Daemon huffed, shaking his head as though you’d cursed him—but there was no hiding the grin he wore as his children’s voices filled the garden, their joy more victorious than any war cry he’d ever heard.

Eddie Munson

Metalhead, misfit, menace—with a heart of gold.

Daemon Targaryen

He loves like fire & burns everything in his path

Otto Hightower

She who steadies the Hand

Corlys Velaryon

Two Wives: Rhaenys & Viserys’ second daughter

Henry the 8th

The Red Rose of Langley

Tom Wambsgans

Open marriage by Shiv. Closed door by Tom.

Robb S

The Ram arrives in Winterfell

Jacaerys V

Youthful daring meets royal scrutiny and choice

Ennis 1883

*Briar Hightower, once of Oldtown, once married to power, now a fugitive of war and whisper.* The wind was colder than she expected this far west. Not the cutting chill of the Narrow Sea nor the damp bite of Blackwater Bay, but something broader, sweeping—like a hush from the gods over land not yet tamed. Briar Hightower pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, one hand shielding the small bundle pressed to her chest. Oleander didn’t cry. He rarely did. Quiet as the snow that once fell on the rooftops of Oldtown, the boy blinked up at her with wide, pale green eyes rimmed in soot-dark lashes. He had her softness—but the stubborn tilt of his chin and that shadow of a smirk that ghosted across his lips when he dreamed? That was all his father. But that man—Otto—was gone now. Dead, perhaps. Or buried beneath the ashes of a war that had devoured thrones, dragons, and every ounce of peace they’d once pretended to share. She’d been the wife of the King’s Hand. A pawn in royal games. Now she was no one. Free. Untethered. And entirely unsure what came next. She walked forward with boots worn and skirts heavy with dust, every step a quiet rebellion against the life she’d left behind. Gone were the castle halls of whispering courtiers and dragonstone floors. In their place: open sky, the scent of livestock and firewood, and a thin column of smoke rising against the horizon. A homestead. Her stomach twisted—hope or hunger, she couldn’t tell. As she crested the hill, she saw him. A man at the edge of the corral, adjusting the reins of a tired bay mare. Young, though older than she. Tall with sandy brown hair that curled just behind his ears, face sun-warmed and open, like someone who had always known the meaning of work. “You lost, ma’am?” he asked, voice even but not unkind. There was something in his tone—wary, perhaps, but not cold. He glanced at the child in her arms, and something shifted in his gaze. Briar lifted her chin, exhaustion written deep in the lines of her shoulders. “Only if there’s nowhere decent left in the world,” she said, her voice rough from travel. He didn’t smile, not quite. But something like it flickered across his face. “Well… I reckon we can test that theory.” He opened the gate without another word. And Briar, still holding her son close to her chest, stepped forward—toward warmth, toward safety, toward a man who didn’t know her name… and wouldn’t ask until she was ready to give it.

Tom Wambsgans

From vacation to laboring in Lake Como

Criston Cole

Salvation at your hands

Aegon II Targ

She wears no crown, but bends the court around her

Viserys Targ

You birthed Criston Cole’s son

Victorian Pregnancy

The early morning sun filtered softly through the lace curtains of your chamber, painting delicate patterns across the polished floor and the folds of your silk gown. The room was quiet save for the distant clatter of carriages on the cobblestones below and the faint rustle of leaves in the garden beyond. A light breeze carried the scent of early spring roses, drifting in through the slightly open window, and you inhaled deeply, letting the fragrant calm settle around you. Your hand rested instinctively on the gentle swell of your belly, feeling the subtle, almost imperceptible flutter of life within. Each day brought a new wonder, a new reminder of the life that grew beneath your heart. A flush of warmth rose to your cheeks—not solely from the morning sun but from a mixture of anticipation, nervousness, and a deep, unspoken love for the man who had become your world. The Earl of Manchester entered quietly, his boots soft against the polished floor, carrying with him a faint scent of cedar and the rich leather of his gloves. He paused at the doorway for a brief moment, drinking in the sight of you: serene, radiant, and undeniably beautiful. His smile was slow, appreciative, and there was a tenderness in his gaze that made your chest tighten. “My love,” he murmured, crossing the room to take your hand in his. His touch was gentle, reverent, as though he feared disturbing the fragile balance of your morning peace. “You are positively glowing.” You laughed softly, a sound mingling amusement and shyness, pressing a hand over his. “I imagine it is not merely the sunlight that flatters me,” you teased. “Though I cannot deny it does help.” He bent his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hand, then rested his palm over yours on your belly. “I cannot believe we will soon have a little Manchester running about these halls,” he whispered, voice husky with emotion. “I cannot wait to see what they will be like—so clever, so kind, I hope even half as lovely as their mother.” Your heart swelled, and you leaned against him, savoring the warmth of his presence, the certainty of his devotion. “You are far too flattering,” you said softly, though the blush on your cheeks betrayed the truth of your pleasure. “I only hope I am fit for the task of motherhood.” “You are more than fit,” he assured you, tilting your chin to meet his gaze. “You are extraordinary, and I have every confidence our child will thrive under your care—and in a house filled with love.” For a long moment, you simply held each other, the quiet hum of the household around you fading into insignificance. Outside, the first birds of the morning called to one another, and a shaft of sunlight fell upon the both of you, gilding the moment with a sense of sacred intimacy. In that instant, the future seemed full of possibility, love, and quiet triumphs—the small joys of domestic life, the flutter of a child’s first movements, the whispered confidences between husband and wife. And though the world beyond your chamber walls would demand decorum, poise, and careful navigation of society, here—in this sunlit room, with the life you carried and the man you loved—nothing else existed but the promise of family, and the tender, steadfast bonds that would carry you through the days to come. ——— Paths 1. Stroll Through the Gardens – Enjoy the fresh air, feel the sun on your face, and perhaps share a quiet moment with the Earl or encounter a visitor. 2. Write Letters – Compose correspondence to family or friends announcing your pregnancy, or respond to invitations and social matters. 3. Visit the Nursery – Begin preparing a room for your child, selecting furnishings or imagining how your little one will grow up. 4. Receive Guests – Host a small, polite gathering in your drawing room; navigate conversation, congratulations, and subtle social intrigue. 5. Retreat to Solitude – Spend time in your private chambers, reading, reflecting, or simply resting while feeling your child move.

Jacaerys Velaryon

Modern Private Cruise Trip

Alicent Hightower

“Sadness is a condition of motherhood.”

Colby Briggs

Fried chicken, family, and a place to belong

Khal Drogo

*The air was heavy with the scent of sweat, horses, and the burning sun as Khal Drogo stood in the great pavilion of his khalasar. He loomed like a mountain, his long braid adorned with bells that sang with every move—a symbol of his unbeaten prowess. His gaze, sharp and unyielding, seemed to pierce through men’s lies and boasts alike. Before him knelt a lord from the lands of stone houses, trembling as he made his desperate plea.* “One thousand men, and in exchange…” The lord hesitated, guilt flashing across his face. “My daughter. She is obedient and will bear you strong sons.” *Drogo’s silence was deafening, his expression unreadable as his dark eyes moved from the man to the girl standing behind him. She was no warrior, no horse rider—soft and frightened, a creature of another world. Her hands trembled as they clutched the fabric of her dress, her gaze fixed on the ground as if the weight of his attention might shatter her.* *Yet, Drogo saw more. Beneath her bowed head and trembling hands, there was a flicker of something deeper. Strength, caged but not broken. Defiance, buried under fear. Her obedience seemed practiced, her quiet stillness honed to mask what lay beneath. It was this spark—this contradiction—that stayed his gaze longer than he intended.* *The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as he turned to consult his bloodriders in their harsh, guttural Dothraki tongue. Their voices rose and fell like the wind over the Great Grass Sea, fierce and commanding.* *The deal was struck. The lord, pale and sweat-slick, bowed low as he backed away. But Drogo’s focus remained fixed on the girl. His onyx eyes traced her face, her trembling stance, and that faint, hidden fire struggling to survive in a world of blood and fire.* *And then, for the first time, his deep voice rumbled like distant thunder:* “You do not belong here. But perhaps the wind will teach you to run with the herd.”

Tom W

He was supposed to feel guilty. He felt alive.

Briar McLaughlin

The train hissed to a stop, its old brakes screeching like an exhale too long held. Edmund Stark stepped onto the platform with a canvas duffel slung over one shoulder, hair damp from the drizzle that had followed him across the Highlands. The station was small — barely more than a bench, a cracked vending machine, and a faded sign that read “Glensbrae” in flaking blue letters. The air smelled of peat and wet grass. Real earth. Real quiet. He stood for a moment, letting the silence settle into his bones. Then the voice came, light and unmistakable: “Daddy-Ed!” He barely had time to drop his bag before Paisley barreled into him, curls bouncing, cheeks rosy with excitement and the cold. She wore yellow rainboots and a fox-covered raincoat, arms flung wide like she’d been waiting for this exact moment since sunrise. Edmund caught her with a soft “oof” and pulled her in tight. Her laughter shook something loose in his chest — something fragile, long-forgotten, and entirely sacred. “God, you got taller,” he murmured into her hair, which smelled like strawberries and the kind of shampoo made just for kids. “Did you grow a whole inch just to spite me?” She grinned up at him, missing one front tooth. “Maybe.” Behind her stood Briar, holding an umbrella too small for the both of them and smiling that smile she only gave him when no one else was watching — wry, tired, but honest. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid, her cheeks touched pink by the wind. There was something unshakeable about her. Always had been. Like a lighthouse in boots and denim. “You’re late,” she said, but her voice held no heat. “You’re still short,” he replied, hoisting Paisley into his arms. Briar rolled her eyes. “Come on, Stark. We’ve got tea on, and Mam made that lemon loaf you like.” The car was waiting, an old green Land Rover that coughed when it started but somehow always got where it needed to go. Paisley chattered in the back seat the whole way, recounting school art projects, a scraped knee from last week, and a new friend named Hamish who “talks like he’s swallowed a bagpipe.” Edmund listened with one ear, the other tuned to the quiet hum of the countryside — stone walls, sheep dotting green fields, the sea visible in flashes through breaks in the hills. It was the kind of place that felt older than time, where even grief might take off its coat and sit a while. The McLaughlin house came into view just as the sun broke through the clouds — a low-slung stone cottage with ivy crawling up one side, flowerbeds Briar’s mother insisted on maintaining even in winter. A windchime clinked above the door, and smoke curled from the chimney like a story being told in secret. Briar’s father, Eamon, stood in the doorway with a mug in hand, his silver hair a wild halo. “Look who’s finally showed face,” he said with a grin, clapping Edmund on the back as he stepped inside. “Mam’s in the kitchen,” Briar said, shrugging off her coat. “She’s thrilled. She made you a bed in the blue room — said something about the light being good for your mood.” “She’s not wrong,” Edmund replied. “Though that depends on who’s snoring down the hall.” “You snore worse,” Paisley chimed in. He looked at her, mock wounded. “You’re a traitor.” Inside, the house smelled like lemon, peat fire, and lavender soap. The kind of home where silence didn’t sting. Edmund lowered his bag by the stairs and took a moment, just one, to breathe it all in. Briar caught his eye. “You okay?” she asked, not unkindly. He nodded, slow. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” And for the first time in months, he meant it.

Rhaenyra Targ

Crowned in fire, she loves where the realm forbids

Tom W

The invitation arrives on thick, cream paper. No logo. No flourish. Just a name everyone at the table recognizes and hasn’t heard spoken aloud in years. Windsor Hall. Private Visit. Connor assumes it’s a joke. Kendall assumes it’s a trap. Roman googles it and goes very still. Greg asks if castles have dress codes. Shiv says nothing. Weeks later, they arrive anyway. The car pulls through iron gates older than most governments, the gravel crunching beneath the tires like bones. Windsor Hall rises slowly into view—not ostentatious, not flashy. Stone softened by centuries. Ivy kept deliberately trimmed. This is not a museum pretending to be a home. It is a home that permits history to exist inside it. You’re waiting on the steps when they arrive. Not dressed like royalty. Not dressed like money. Wool coat, tailored trousers, boots polished but practical. Tom stands beside you, comfortable here in a way that would have shocked everyone a year ago. He looks… placed. Chosen. Shiv steps out last. Her eyes flick over the façade, the grounds, the restraint of it all—and you can see the recalculation begin. This isn’t nouveau. This isn’t theatrical. This is worse. This is real. Inside, the hall smells faintly of beeswax and old paper. Portraits line the walls—not ancestors demanding attention, but figures who assume it. A docent doesn’t hover. A curator greets you by name. Tom is introduced without qualifiers. They walk through galleries where art isn’t labeled with price tags, because it never needed them. Pieces on loan to the Met. To the Tate. To private exhibitions that shape taste before the public knows it has one. At one point, Shiv finally snaps. “So,” she says, sharp, too loud against the stone, “this is all very… impressive. But let’s be clear—Tom was my husband. He’s not family. After the divorce, I don’t see why—” You stop walking. Turn. You don’t smile, but you don’t bristle either. Your voice is calm. Educated. Bored by the argument before it’s finished. “Oh, Shiv,” you say gently. “I wasn’t inviting you because of Tom.” The silence is surgical. “My family’s foundations loan art to five major museums in the U.S.,” you continue. “We underwrite preservation grants. We quietly fund history departments that decide which narratives survive. Logan already offered me a segment to discuss cultural stewardship—how investment shapes public memory. Tourism follows that kind of exposure.” You pause, just long enough. “And if I wanted to,” you add, “I could invest in Waystar. Directly. Strategically. The board would listen.” Logan’s mouth curves. Just barely. Shiv goes cold. Tom doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. His hand rests at your back—not claiming, just present. Equal. Planned. Later, over lunch in a sunlit room with windows that overlook land still being worked—fresh earth, new fencing—you mention it casually. “We broke ground on our place in New York,” you say. “Near good school districts. Quiet. Trees.” Everyone understands what that means. This isn’t impulsive. This isn’t rebellion. This is infrastructure. This is Tom moving on after Shiv opened their marriage. She’s the who opened the cage then was surprised when the dog bit her for depriving him. Roman grins like he’s watching a controlled demolition. Kendall looks faintly ill. Greg asks if castles come with Wi-Fi. Shiv stares at Tom like she’s seeing him for the first time. Not the kicked puppy. Not the accessory. A man who didn’t withdraw from a marriage. A man who planned his exit, found love, and moved accordingly—with someone just as sharp as she is, but who didn’t sell her humanity to get there. And as the afternoon light slants across stone that has outlasted empires, it becomes painfully, irrevocably clear: Tom didn’t fall upward. He chose better ground.

Criston Cole

He comes to your aid in labor

Tywin L

The last Targaryen survives the Red Keep

Montana 1883

Trading with Settlers

Joey Cruz

Love, sugar, and a hint of hellfire in every slice

Roman Roy

Can a Roy be raised on love and lasagna? Yes ❤️‍🔥

Ennis Crowe 1883

Birthing on the Oregon Trail

Alicent Hightower

The Ladies’ Solar, Maegor’s Holdfast — Late Morning Sunlight streams through the high, narrow windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, warm and golden, catching on the floating motes of dust suspended in still air. The rays paint dappled halos on the marble floor, which gleams faintly with polish. A spring breeze filters through the gauzy curtains, stirring them just enough to send pale ripples across the floor. The faint scent of lilacs wafts up from the lower gardens below, mingled with the sharper resin of the cedarwood furniture polished earlier that morning by unseen hands. It is, by all appearances, a serene morning in the Red Keep. But serenity, here, is often a thin veil drawn over deeper fractures. Inside the solar, half a dozen noblewomen lounge on embroidered cushions, seated in a crescent around a low lacquered table strewn with embroidery hoops, baskets of silk threads, and untouched plates of candied fruits and almond wafers. A brass brazier gives off a faint perfume of saffron and bay leaves. The soft hum of conversation drifts through the space, measured and practiced. This is court, after all. “I’ve always believed it,” Lady Staunton says, her hoop resting on her lap. “A mother’s disposition shapes the child in the womb. My youngest came out red-faced and shrieking, and I wept nearly every day I carried him. The septa said it was no mystery.” “My second was nearly silent,” Lady Beesbury adds. “I spent most of my confinement reading by the window. I think the child felt the peace.” Their eyes shift—subtle, serpentine—toward Queen Alicent. She sits a little apart from them, framed by the wide arch of an open window, the sunlight catching faint green glints in the silk of her gown. Her back is ramrod straight, her hands poised carefully on her lap. The gentle swell of her pregnancy is visible beneath the soft fall of fabric. Her shawl, draped loosely across her shoulders, twists slightly in her grip where her fingers tug it tighter. “It’s just an old wives’ tale,” she murmurs, her smile polite and unyielding. “But old wives’ tales carry truths,” says Lady Redwyne gently. “They last for a reason.” From across the room, seated on a bench just within the edge of the light, another woman listens. The youngest daughter of Viserys and Aemma—unnamed in whispers so the listener might fill it in—known now only as Lady Hightower. She is the King’s daughter, Rhaenyra’s sister, and newly wed to Lord Otto. Her position is both clear and undefined—her blood powerful, her allegiance shifting. She is dressed not in green but a pale blue, threaded with smoky gray, her hair loose down her back in soft waves, bound only at the crown with a twist of silver. A single moonstone rests at her throat. Her embroidery remains untouched in her lap. She has not spoken yet—not during the murmured tales of wombs and humors. Not when the ladies began trading glances like sharpened daggers sheathed in silk. The tension lingers like smoke, and then— “I’ve always wondered,” she says softly, her voice measured and cool, “if joy leaves its mark on a child the way grief does. If laughter sinks into the belly… the way sorrow stains the skin.” The room falls quiet. The light shifts again, moving slow across the floor. Outside, bells from the sept tower begin to ring the hour. A serving girl slips in and out with fresh cups of tea, unnoticed. Alicent says nothing. Her smile, still plastered gently across her lips, tightens at the corners. Her eyes drift to the open window, though there’s nothing outside to hold her gaze but sky. She feels the shift in the room. As if the air has realigned around someone younger, lovelier, and better poised. Someone carrying twins—a daughter of the King, not a second wife. Whispers have already begun. Otto Hightower, it is said, has drafted new provisions in his will. Holdings in Oldtown—perhaps even Hightower itself—will pass to his children by the Princess. Not to Gwayne. Not to the Queen. He claims it is prudence, ensuring his legacy. But everyone knows better. Alicent cannot meet her father’s eyes.

Kayce Dutton

A new life blooms beneath Yellowstone’s wild sky.

Eddie Munson

Dungeons, dragons, and a unexpected girl next door

Jacaerys Velaryon

A crown won, a secret confessed, a legacy begins.

Eamon Ó Braonáin

When the mist rolls in 🌊🦭

Sandor C

A hound in the Dornish sun

Dwalin of Erebor

Even stone softens when love finds its way home.

Bridgerton Simulator

The sun hung softly in the pale blue sky, casting golden light over the bustle of London in the height of the season. Mayfair Square shimmered with activity, a whirl of polished carriages, fluttering parasols, and voices bright with gossip. Flower sellers lined the edges of the walk, their baskets brimming with violets and primroses, and the air carried the faint mingling of horseflesh, fresh bread from nearby bakeries, and the delicate sweetness of lilac blossoms swaying in planters along the square. Your slippers tapped gently against the cobblestones as you strolled, skirts of dove-grey silk whispering at your ankles. A lace-trimmed parasol shaded your face, though the warmth of the spring sun still touched your cheeks. Passing matrons appraised you with sharp eyes, some whispering behind fans, while gentlemen tipped hats in polite acknowledgment. This was your first season under the name Lady Marquette, and though the air was filled with possibility, it was also weighted by expectation. The square was not just a place for leisure—it was a stage, each turn of the head and polite bow an act in the elaborate play of society. Your gloved hand brushed against the wrought-iron railing that encircled the central garden, where tulips blazed in neat rows of scarlet and yellow. The notes of a violin drifted faintly from a townhouse window, a student practicing scales, their errors softened by distance. The carriages rattled by in counterpoint, wheels striking cobblestones like a drum. You paused, watching as a pair of Bridgerton brothers passed on horseback, their laughter carrying easily over the din. A sharp-eyed Featherington lady rustled past with her sisters in tow, eyes narrowed, no doubt hunting for the next tidbit of scandal. Somewhere near the corner, a bookshop stood invitingly quiet, its windows glinting with gilt lettering. The square was a place of choice, and every direction promised a different outcome for the afternoon. Paths for Lady Marquette 1. Enter the Bookshop The scent of leather bindings and parchment welcomes you inside, away from the noise. You might find a new volume of poetry to linger over, or encounter a scholarly gentleman with ink-stained fingers who seems intrigued by your taste. 2. Walk Toward the Bridgertons’ Direction Following the sound of laughter, you might cross paths with one of the Bridgerton brothers—or sisters—and be swept into their lively orbit, where teasing conversation and unexpected connections often bloom. 3. Call Upon a Milliner’s Shop A smart new bonnet is always an advantage in society. You could stop by the fashionable milliner nearby, where lace, ribbon, and feathers tempt the eye—and perhaps hear the latest whispers from other ladies in attendance. 4. Pause in the Central Garden Among the tulips, with the scent of earth and spring heavy in the air, you might find solitude to think—or encounter someone who also sought respite, offering the chance for quiet, meaningful conversation away from prying eyes. 5. Return Home by Carriage The day need not be spent among society at all. Retreating to the Marquette townhouse, you might find letters awaiting you, perhaps even an invitation bearing the crest of a powerful family—or news that could shape the rest of your season.

James B Barnes

The Winter Soldier has a secret life…👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

Daemon Targ

*Red Keep, King’s Landing — Three Days After the Wedding Feast* The Red Keep had not yet recovered. What was meant to be a wedding celebration remembered for its grandeur had curdled into rumor and dread. A young knight lay dead, brutally beaten in the middle of the hall. The groom had vanished for a day and returned with his face hollowed by grief. And Queen Alicent had entered the feast in a gown the color of war. Servants whispered about the way Ser Criston’s hands trembled when he wasn’t gripping a sword. About the blood that wouldn’t come out of the stone. About how the greens and blacks were being drawn — not in ink, but in silence. King Viserys sat the Iron Throne more often now, as if pretending his authority was enough to hold the cracks at bay. At his side, Rhaenyra — newly wed and already burdened — listened and learned. So when the raven came, it stirred something sharp and unexpected. “From Sunspear. Sealed in Martell orange and gold,” Maester Mellos declared. The council had not expected a reply — certainly not acceptance. The invitation to Dorne had been ceremonial at best, a half-hearted gesture extended from tradition rather than expectation. Yet the letter read: *“Her Serene Highness, Naerys Nymeria Martell, Princess of Dorne and Blood of the Rhoynar, shall attend upon the court of the Iron Throne. In the spirit of future peace and understanding, and in honor of the crown’s heir.”* The silence in the council chamber was near-sacred. No one spoke. Even the fire crackling in the hearth seemed to hush. Otto Hightower, recently reinstated as Hand of the King, cleared his throat. “A diplomatic maneuver, no doubt. A chance to assess our… tensions.” Lord Strong chuckled softly. “Or an omen. When the snakes begin to stir, something has shifted in the sand.” Viserys raised a trembling hand. “Then let her come. Let us welcome her. Let her see the strength and unity of House Targaryen.” No one dared to correct him. *Two Days Later — The Arrival* Dawn broke soft and gold across the ramparts, and with it, the first glimpse of the Dornish. They did not arrive as most lords of Westeros did — with trumpet or fanfare. Instead, they came in hushed reverence, like a desert storm gathering on the horizon. Fifteen riders on lithe sand-colored horses, their armor glinting dull bronze and copper in the sunlight. Long spears adorned with tassels. Crimson banners edged in sunbursts and silk. At their center, a woman rode sidesaddle atop a coal-dark mare, her silks flowing like water. *Princess Naerys Nymeria Martell* — a vision of Sunspear’s lineage. She was veiled, but the thin fabric shimmered with gold thread, and the shape of her eyes was unmistakable — dark and sharp, like an obsidian dagger honed over generations. Her skin glowed with the warmth of her homeland, and her bearing was one of practiced grace, not submission. The Red Keep’s guards stiffened at her approach. Queen Alicent stood poised on the stone steps, flanked by Ser Criston Cole and the highborn lords of the court. Rhaenyra was present as well, her crown shining in the morning light, her gaze wary. As Naerys dismounted, she moved like silk poured over marble — cool, fluid, assured. She did not kneel. Instead, she bowed her head only slightly and smiled, slow and knowing. She looked past Rhaenyra, past Alicent — toward Daemon, who stood near the shadows, a faint smirk curling his mouth. Naerys didn’t flinch beneath his stare. If anything, her eyes glimmered with amusement. “So many dragons,” she said softly. “And still the air smells of smoke.”

Aegon II Targ

A son born of war, raised in silence, named for pe

Jacaerys Velaryon

“Family is all I have.”

Joe Goldberg

Joe wants a fresh start 🌾🍑

Jacaerys Velaryon

Targaryen Family Dinner

James Dutton

The Crossing

Rhaenyra Targ

Garden Confrontation

Daemon Targ

A dragon surrounded by sea

Eddie Munson

First Black cookout with his parter n family

Gambino Family

Twenty years later, love finally comes home.

King Viserys I Targ

Viserys’ new wife, Aemma still lives

Harwin Strong

“Honor rides beside him, but fire burns within.”

Ares and Librarian

When gods answer prayers, mortals bear the weight.

Titanic

Wealthy couple aboard during the sinking

Rhaenyra Targ

Heir to the throne chooses a mate

Eddie M

Alive after lockdown (Season 5, new identity)

Imperial China

Whispers of silk, power, and peril behind the wall

Robb S

What was done in warmth must be faced in winter.

George W

Meet my family

Theon G

He found her where the sea ends and myths begin.

Tywin L

A lion still scares when a viper slithers past

Harry P

A Slytherin Sort of Feeling

Eddie Munson

Fresh out the grave and back for his family

Colby Briggs

The sun hadn’t been up an hour, but the bunkhouse was already loud with the scrape of chairs, the hiss of coffee pouring, and the smell of bacon thick in the air. Teeter perched cross-legged on the table with a plate balanced on her lap, hair wild and eyes bright as always. Ryan leaned back in his chair, boots propped up, while Walker strummed a few aimless notes on his guitar in the corner. The screen door squeaked open, and in walked Colby, looking like he’d barely survived a cattle drive through hell. His shirt was buttoned crooked, his hat sat a little too low, and there was the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth, though he tried hard to hide it. Every head turned. “Morning, lover boy,” Ryan drawled, slow and deliberate, like he’d been practicing the line since dawn. Teeter let out a bark of laughter so sharp she nearly choked on her bacon. “Hot damn, he glows. Look at him, y’all—boy lit up like a Christmas tree.” Colby froze halfway to the coffee pot. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.” Walker’s guitar thrummed, a teasing little lick. “Funny, ‘cause the whole bunkhouse saw you sneakin’ back ‘cross the yard this morning, lookin’ like a cat that got into the cream.” “Cream,” Teeter repeated, wagging her fork at him with a wicked grin. “Or should I say, her cream?” The table erupted with hollers. Colby flushed deep red, gripping the coffee pot like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. “Y’all got filthy damn minds, that’s what.” “Filthy, sure,” Ryan said, smirking. “But not blind. You’ve been makin’ moon eyes at the boss’s lady for years, and now—what’s this? You finally tripped and fell into her good graces?” Colby’s jaw worked, words failing him for once. He poured himself coffee, careful and slow, trying to pretend the room wasn’t vibrating with laughter. “Don’t play dumb,” Walker added, strumming another lazy tune. “Ain’t nobody misses how you look at her when she rides up. Like she’s the sunrise and you’re the damn rooster.” Teeter slammed her plate down, laughing so hard she snorted. “Sunrise and rooster! That’s a new one. Oh, Colb, you poor dumb sap.” Colby dropped into a chair, muttering, “Ain’t like that.” But it was exactly like that, and everyone knew it. Ryan leaned forward, grin broadening. “What I can’t figure is how John took it. Man don’t share so much as a fence post—now he’s sharing that?” The teasing quieted for a heartbeat, the weight of John’s name settling heavy in the room. Even Teeter bit her lip, waiting for Colby to answer. Colby stared into his mug, then lifted his eyes slow and steady. “John knows. Wasn’t his idea, but… wasn’t a fight neither.” That landed like a stone in water. Ryan blinked. Walker stopped strumming. Even Teeter’s grin faltered into something wide-eyed. “You mean to tell me…” Ryan’s voice dropped low, incredulous. “John Dutton’s sittin’ comfortable with you—you—keepin’ his woman company?” Colby set his mug down hard, steel in his voice now. “Ain’t about comfort. Ain’t about permission either. It’s about her. And she wanted it this way.” Silence, thick enough to chew, spread across the room. Then Teeter whistled low. “Damn, cowboy grew a backbone overnight.” Walker chuckled, the sound rough but approving. “Guess hell done froze.” Ryan shook his head, grinning again. “Well, I’ll be. Colby finally stopped pining and started livin’. World’s gone upside down.” The tension broke, laughter spilling again. Teeter raised her fork in salute. “Just don’t screw it up, Colb. Otherwise, John’ll have your hide nailed to the barn wall.” Colby smirked despite himself, leaning back in his chair, finally letting the grin loose. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle it.” Across the table, Ryan muttered, “Handle it? Boy, you better pray you can survive it.” The room roared again, but under all the ribbing, there was a thread of respect—grudging, surprised, but real. Colby had always been the joker, the easy target. Now, he’d crossed some invisible line, standing taller for it.

Eddie M

Graduation after party, but where’s Eddie?

Eddie M

Moving and settling into his new Georgia life

Steve Harrington

She moved in with boxes. He unpacked a future.

Thorne Blacksmith

🕯️ *The Glow Between Them*

Percy Jackson

It began, as most things did at Camp Half-Blood, with something unexplainable. Not a monster. Not a prophecy. Just silence. The lake that usually danced with wind-stirred ripples had gone perfectly still. Naiads sank beneath its surface, vanishing in unison. A breeze stilled mid-whisper. Even the camp’s ever-present background hum quieted as though Olympus itself had drawn a long breath. Lilith Merrick stopped on the edge of the trees, spell half-formed in her palm. Percy Jackson, barefoot and salt-haired, turned mid-step as a fine pink mist curled across the lake, humming faintly with gold at its edges. It looked like dawn breaking underwater. It felt like the world holding its breath. Then came the cry. Soft. Human. From the lake’s silver belly, something floated to shore—not tossed, not pulled. Carried. A large, glistening clamshell drifted in on the tide, rocking gently, swaddled in seafoam and rose petals. Inside it lay a baby. Unharmed. Blinking. As if he’d simply been waiting. Lilith dropped to her knees in the wet sand. Percy didn’t speak. His breath caught like a wave before crash. The child’s skin glowed faintly with warmth, his hair dark and downy, curls already forming at the crown. Around one ankle was a string of ocean-polished shells. On the other, a crescent moon charm hung beside a tiny gold heart. The symbols of Hekate and Aphrodite. “Luka,” Lilith whispered, eyes wide with a realization too deep for logic. “Lucerys.” A name that hadn’t existed seconds ago, yet felt ancient. Like it had always belonged to him. Somewhere beyond mortal sight, two goddesses stood together in the veil between realms. Aphrodite’s smile was indulgent, eyes like sunrise over foam. Hekate, ever shadow-bound, regarded the scene with calm, cold wisdom. “You believe in shaping heroes,” Aphrodite said. “I believe in letting love shape us.” “They’ve already bound themselves,” Hekate murmured. “This is only the shape it took.” “Then we’ve done right.” And the mist burned away like a kiss fading from a dream. When Chiron arrived—Clarisse just behind him, sword drawn instinctively—Percy had already gathered the infant in his arms, holding him close, protectively, as if he had always known how. Lilith stood at his side, her hand brushing the newborn’s soft curls, lips whispering blessings in Ancient Greek. “Is that a baby?” Clarisse blurted, blinking. “What the Hades is going on?” Chiron said nothing at first. His old eyes went to the lake, then to the sky, as if seeking answers he already suspected. “This magic… is very old,” he said at last. Annabeth came last. She didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Just stood at the edge of the crowd, golden curls catching the wind, mouth parted in something not quite disbelief. Percy turned toward her slowly, guilt flickering across his face—but not shame. Something else. Something gentle. “He’s not… yours, is he?” she asked. Percy looked at Lucerys—Luka—nestled in his arms. “He’s not a mistake,” Percy said softly. “He’s a gift. And I think… he’s ours. Mine and Lilith’s.” “But you and I—” Annabeth began, voice tightening. “We’re—” “I know,” he said, aching. “I know. I still love you.” But in that moment, with Lilith beside him and Luka’s tiny breath warming his chest, love didn’t feel like a line between people. It felt like a tide. Bigger. Stranger. Irresistible. Lucerys yawned, curling into his father’s warmth. And not even the gods looked away.

Sandor

Still not dead, still not nice.

Aegon II Targ

A queen fights death to bring a son into the world

Tom Wambsgans

In rooms that remember history mistakes don’t fade

Titanic

Final Destination Premonition

Ivar

Viking Beserker

Rip Wheeler

Alone at last

Mara the Selkie

Mara’s Story “They called her Mara, but the sea had another name for her.” No one in the village remembered where she came from—only that she’d been found after the storm, a child half-drowned on the rocks with seaweed tangled through her hair and bruises like fingerprints blooming on her ribs. The widow who took her in said she’d come from the sea itself, carried in on the tide like a broken offering. She never corrected them. But deep in her chest, beneath the rise and fall of a girl’s lungs, lived the memory of another kind of breath. A breath taken beneath waves. A life half-forgotten, half-torn. Because Mara was no ordinary girl. She was selkie-born. A daughter of salt and skin, of storm-song and seal-fur. Her true form had been taken the night she was found—her seal-skin stolen, hidden, hoarded like treasure. And without it, she could not return to the sea. She could not choose. So she grew up walking the land like a borrowed echo. The village was small, stone-walled and weather-worn, perched on the cliffs where the gray waves hammered endlessly below. Men built their homes with their backs to the sea and their superstitions facing forward—carving charms into lintels, tossing salt over thresholds, muttering prayers when gulls circled too low. They fished when they could, traded when they had to, and trusted no one who came from the water. The only inn served blackbread and pickled herring. Children learned to swim before they learned to walk. And the village baker, a crabby widow named Eira, took Mara in and taught her to knead and shape dough like it was penance. Flour clung to Mara’s hands like ash. Her hair always smelled faintly of brine. She smiled quietly, never laughed. Her eyes were always drawn to the tide. She lived. But she did not belong. Not really. Not without her skin. ⸻ ⸻ Years Passed ⸻ The man who’d stolen it—old Toren with eyes like dull coins—was long buried and unmourned, his stone house on the cliff left to wind and rot. He’d been feared in life and forgotten in death. No one asked where his wealth had come from, or why his cellar was always locked. And so it was left to fall into silence. Until one spring evening, his grandson came home. ⸻ His name was Elias. A shipwright by trade. He wore the sea in his shoulders and the sun in his skin. Kind-eyed, quiet-mouthed, with the hands of a sailor but none of his grandfather’s cruelty. He came not to inherit but to rebuild—what, he wasn’t sure. The house, maybe. His name. Some semblance of meaning after years adrift. And when he walked into the bakery that morning, Mara felt it—a shift in the current. Not recognition, not yet. Just… a stillness. Like the sea before a turning tide. But Elias had found something. A chest. Sealed and forgotten, hidden under warped floorboards. Inside it: a diary filled with fragmented entries, careful and strange. Memories of a girl pulled from the sea. Described in eerie, intimate detail. And wrapped carefully beneath the journal—preserved in oilcloth, still warm to the touch—was a soft grey pelt that shimmered like moonlight on water. He didn’t understand what it was. Only that it didn’t belong to him. So he brought it to her. No questions. No claims. Only this: “I found this. I think… it’s yours.” ⸻ And in that moment, Mara knew. Knew it was hers—her skin, her self, her freedom. He had returned what his family had taken. Not knowing the weight of what he offered. Not knowing that, among her kind, to return a selkie’s skin without condition… is to propose. Not in words. Not in rings. But in choice. Because love, for her people, is only real when it’s given the option to leave—and chooses to stay. ⸻ That night, Mara stood at the shoreline, seal-skin in her arms and the waves whispering her name. She could go. Slip beneath the sea. Be whole again. But she thought of Elias. His softness. His sincerity. His silence where other men would have demanded. And suddenly, the tide wasn’t the only thing that felt like home.

Titanic

All aboard the Titanic!

Eddie Munson

Tea, Tears, and Tiny Socks

Daemon Targaryen

Sent back by gods, bound by blood and burning fire

Zeus

Zeus descended. Not in lightning—but in longing.

Viserys I Targ

The corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were quiet that morning, save for the soft pad of slippered feet and the low murmur of servants smoothing fresh rushes over stone. Rain had passed through before dawn, leaving the air cool and bright, the scent of wet mortar and myrrh lingering beneath the high-arched ceilings. Queen Alicent Hightower walked beside her husband, skirts rustling like whispering silk, hands folded too tightly in front of her. Viserys looked older than he had the day before—older than he had the year she married him. The gray in his beard had grown in patchwork. His back, once regal, hunched slightly now beneath the weight of both crown and time. They had not spoken much on the way from his solar. They rarely did these days. “She delivered before the hour of the owl,” he said at last, voice hoarse with sleep and satisfaction. “Twins. Two sons.” Alicent offered a serene nod, though it felt as if her stomach had turned to lead. “A blessing,” she said. “Indeed,” Viserys replied, not unkindly. “A fine legacy.” The queen said nothing. They arrived at the queen’s solar—the other queen, though no one dared call her that. A midwife bowed low at the door, then opened it to reveal a chamber bathed in gentle lamplight. The scent of milk and rosewater filled the air. There was a hush here, the kind that wrapped itself around a newborn’s cries and softened them to near silence. She lay on the chaise by the hearth, propped against embroidered cushions of Targaryen red and black, her silver hair damp at the temples. Her skin had the sheen of recent labor—exhausted, flushed—but her posture was proud. Regal. Her eyes, dark-lashed and aglow, turned toward the door the moment they entered. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice gentle but even. “Lady,” Alicent returned. She did not say her name. Between them, cradled in silken wraps, were two impossibly small figures. One slept with his fists curled against his cheeks, the other stirred with a faint mewl. Their hair—thick, dark gold, not quite silver—shimmered in the lamplight like molten ore. “Baelor and Aerion,” Viserys said, stepping forward with something like reverence in his tone. “My sons.” As if he had no others, Alicent thought. As if Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron were candle flames to these twin torches. The younger woman held out one of the boys—Baelor, perhaps. Alicent could not tell. Viserys took the child into his arms with a gentleness that surprised her. She had not seen him hold Aemond like that. Had not seen him this way in years. “They are strong,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle down the child’s cheek. Alicent felt herself smile—thin, composed, careful. “May they grow to serve the realm with honor.” The other queen did not smile. Her eyes flicked to Alicent’s hands, still folded tight. “They will know peace,” she said softly. “They have been born into a kinder time.” Alicent wanted to laugh. Peace? In a court that never sleeps? But she said nothing. Viserys looked between them. “Will you hold one, Alicent?” She blinked. “No,” she said too quickly, then softened her tone. “I would not disturb them.” The younger woman tilted her head. “Twins are rarely disturbed for long.” Alicent stepped back. She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes and would not—would not—weep here. She had already given the king four children. She had done her duty. But now she stood as visitor to a newer queen, one who had given him heirs again. Targaryen sons, full-blooded and bright with prophecy. The moment stretched. The fire cracked. Somewhere below, bells rang the hour. “I shall leave you,” Alicent said. “Let you rest.” Viserys looked surprised. “You will not stay?” “No,” she said, turning to go. “There is little need.” And with her chin high and steps silent, she left them behind. Behind her, the soft cry of a newborn split the stillness. And Viserys, for once, did not follow.

Ennis

There’s brave, and there’s stupid. Ennis was both.

Rhaenyra

Before duty, there were only two girls and promise

A Cherokee Winter

Winter settles into the Appalachian hills like a held breath. Snow rims the edges of the river and clings to the laurel and pine, muting the forest until even the crows sound respectful. Smoke rises from the winter houses in steady columns, cedar-sweet and comforting. This is the season the Cherokee have always trusted most—not for growth, but for truth. Inside the council house, the fire burns low and constant. Elders sit in a wide circle, cloaks pulled close, their shadows stretching across packed earth. Each carries not only age, but clan memory. A woman of the Aniwahya—the Wolf Clan—sits with her hands folded, eyes sharp even in stillness. The Wolf Clan are protectors, warriors, and diplomats; they speak rarely, but when they do, the room listens. Across from her sits an elder of the Anigilohi, the Long Hair Clan, known for their orators, their caretakers of peace, their soft authority. Near the fire are the Ani Tsiskwa, the Bird Clan—messengers and keepers of the sacred fire—while slightly apart sit elders of the Anikawi, the Deer Clan, whose people have long governed hunting, balance, and kindness. Others are present too: the Anisahoni (Blue Clan), the Aniwodi (Paint Clan), and the Ani Gatogewi (Wild Potato Clan). All seven are represented. All seven must agree. This is the time of choosing. Among the Cherokee, a child belongs wholly to the mother’s clan. Blood does not pass through the father; it travels through women like a river that never forgets its source. Because of this, marriage within one’s own clan is forbidden—unthinkable. To do so would be to turn blood inward, to poison the future. So clans cross. Quietly. Carefully. With memory as witness. Names are spoken—not commands, but possibilities. A young woman of the Deer Clan is mentioned: steady, observant, her mother Deer, her grandmother Bird. Her hands are strong. Her laughter rare but genuine. She would do well in another clan. A man of the Wolf Clan is considered. Not her blood. His mother Wolf, his grandmother Long Hair. He has already proven himself in winter hunts. He listens more than he speaks. A good sign. Outside the council house, young people linger near the edges of warmth, pretending indifference. They feel the shift before it’s announced—the way elders’ voices soften, the way glances carry meaning. Winter unions are never rushed. Winter unions are prepared. A Long Hair elder speaks gently, reminding them that these discussions are not about possession, but balance. That marriage is not the joining of two people alone, but of clans, hunting grounds, and future children who will carry more than one story in their bones. Offerings are placed into the fire: dried corn, tobacco, river stones smoothed by time. The flames accept them without spectacle. Nothing is finalized tonight. That comes later

Aegon II Targaryen

“Aegon watches, doubts, and learns to play the gam

James B Barnes

Three hours after the gala, the internet breaks. Not metaphorically. Literally. The servers for half the celebrity news sites lag under the sudden surge. BREAKING – Super Soldier Bucky Barnes Announces Baby at Avengers Legacy Gala WINTER SOLDIER… DAD? Thunderbolt Barnes Expecting First Child With Longtime Partner Clips from the gala circulate everywhere. One shows you laughing at the refreshment table while Bucky piles shrimp onto a plate like a man who has survived multiple wars and intends to survive this buffet too. Another shows the moment you say it. We’re having a baby. Someone slows the footage down and zooms in on Bucky’s expression—half proud, half startled, like he still can’t quite believe the words himself. Within hours, the memes begin. A viral post shows Bucky holding a plate stacked with desserts. TOP TEXT: Former assassin. BOTTOM TEXT: Current girl dad. Fan artists work faster than news cycles. Drawings of Bucky holding a tiny baby with a metal arm circulate beside softer ones of him asleep on a couch while you drape a blanket over both him and the child. A trending tag appears overnight. #BabyBarnes By morning, morning shows are debating it. “Look, I’m just saying,” one host says, holding up a tablet, “if the Winter Soldier can settle down and start a family, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.” Across the country, commentators argue. “He’s a reformed assassin,” one pundit says gravely. “Should someone with that history be raising a child?” Another rolls their eyes. “The man helped save the universe.” Meanwhile, Sam Wilson appears on a late-night interview. The host grins. “Did you know?” Sam leans back, laughing. “Man, I knew something was up when Barnes ate half the gala buffet. That’s stress eating.” “So you’re excited?” Sam’s smile softens. “Yeah. I am.” Clips from the interview trend immediately. Two days later, paparazzi catch you and Bucky leaving a bakery. Bucky is holding three boxes like they’re classified intelligence. The headline reads: WINTER SOLDIER STOCKPILING CUPCAKES FOR CRAVINGS? The comment section explodes. “Let the man buy cupcakes!!!” “That baby is gonna come out bench pressing.” “Imagine Bucky Barnes reading bedtime stories.” A parenting magazine runs an entire feature: CAN A SUPER SOLDIER BE A SUPER DAD? They include an old photo of Bucky Barnes looking grim and haunted beside a newer candid of him at the gala, leaning close to you, smiling in a way that looks almost shy. Week two brings interviews. Bucky sits stiffly under studio lights while you squeeze his hand under the table. “So,” the host asks carefully, “how does it feel?” Bucky shrugs. “Terrifying,” he admits. The audience laughs. “But good,” he adds after a moment. “Really good.” The clip spreads everywhere. Fans begin calling him “Papa Barnes.” By week three, the narrative shifts again. The story isn’t about the Winter Soldier anymore. It’s about what comes next. Editorials appear: From Weapon to Father: The Next Chapter of Bucky Barnes A viral tweet reads: “The Avengers gave us heroes. Now they’re giving us families.” At home, your phone keeps buzzing with notifications. Bucky finally turns it face down on the table. “Enough,” he mutters. You laugh, leaning back against him as his metal arm wraps around your waist, warm despite the vibranium. Outside, the world argues, celebrates, speculates. Inside, the future kicks gently beneath your ribs. And Bucky Barnes—the man the world once feared as the Winter Soldier—is already arguing with you about baby names.

Gideon Carter

Returns from war, Colonial America

Hobbit - The Company

Harvest, hearth, and dwarves return to the Shire.

Eddie M

The reason Eddie keeps disappearing.

Otto Hightower

Married to Rhaenyra’s Younger Sister

Daemon Targ

Storms bring home what silence couldn’t keep away.

Rhaenyra and Daemon

The throne room of Dragonstone was heavy with expectation. The great hall, long scarred by the war, bore new banners: the three-headed dragon unfurled proudly above the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra sat upon it, the crown of her father glinting under torchlight, her posture rigid, regal, unyielding. At her side stood Daemon, his sword at his hip, his gaze sweeping the gathered assembly with a predator’s calm. He was not smiling. This was no tourney nor feast—this was a duty that made the chamber stir with whispers. A line of young noble ladies stretched before them, gowns flowing like a river of silks and jewels. Their fathers and mothers lingered nearby, exchanging nervous glances, measuring every twitch of the queen’s brow, every flicker of Daemon’s sharp violet eyes. Rhaenyra spoke first, her voice level though edged with weariness. “The realm demands stability. The crown requires heirs. My sons are lost to me, yet the line must not end. I will take counsel and choose, but it is my husband who will weigh your worth.” Daemon’s lips quirked faintly—just enough to unsettle. He prowled forward, hands clasped behind his back, inspecting the ladies one by one. Some lowered their eyes, trembling beneath his gaze. Others straightened their shoulders, determined to be found worthy. He paused before a girl of the Reach, her golden hair coiled in intricate braids. “You’ve the look of one who has never seen blood,” he murmured, circling her as if she were prey. “Could you stomach the weight of a kingdom in your womb, or only baubles?” The girl flushed crimson, her father stammering some reply about her virtue, but Daemon had already moved on. A hush fell when he neared a tall lady of the Vale, her chin lifted defiantly. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked—testing, daring—and then Daemon smirked before continuing down the line. The air was tight, stifling, every noble heart thudding with both dread and hope. Then the doors thundered open. A rider, dust-streaked and wild-eyed, stumbled into the hall. He bore a sealed letter, crimson wax impressed with the sun-and-spear of Dorne. The Dornish envoy bowed low, presenting the parchment with reverence. “From Sunspear, Your Grace,” he declared, voice carrying. “From the hand of the Princess herself.” Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed as she gestured for it. A servant delivered the letter to her throne. She broke the seal, her fingers tightening upon the parchment as she read aloud: “To Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, rightful sovereign of Westeros. Word reaches us of your need for heirs, and of Prince Daemon’s charge to choose among the noble daughters of the realm. Dorne does not send daughters for others to weigh and discard. Instead, we offer a princess of our own blood, not as supplicant, but as equal. By her own hand, she declares her intent: she shall take upon herself the honor of bearing royal issue, to bind dragon and sun in lasting fire. — Princess of Dorne.” The hall erupted into uproar. Murmurs clashed like swords, shock rippling through the gathered families whose carefully poised daughters now seemed pale beside the audacity of Dorne. Daemon’s laugh cut through the din—low, dangerous, amused. “She elects herself,” he drawled, violet eyes alight with something fierce. “At least one among them shows spine.” Rhaenyra’s gaze swept the hall, the parchment crumpling faintly in her grasp. Her expression was unreadable—equal parts intrigue, suspicion, and calculation. The noble ladies shifted uneasily, some pale, others resentful, as the whispers rose higher. A Dornish princess had claimed the choice before any lord or prince could make it. Daemon stepped closer to the throne, speaking low enough for only his wife to hear, though the hall strained to catch his words. “The game has changed, my queen. Will you play it?” And the great hall waited, breathless, as fire and sun threatened to entwine

Rip Wheeler

The bunkhouse was alive with echoes even after the noise had died down. Smoke lingered faintly from the stove, mingling with the sharp smells of leather, sweat, and dust. The long room, with its mismatched bunks and scattered belongings, looked as it always did—cluttered but lived-in, worn but whole. Earlier in the evening, the ranch hands had been loud, dealing cards, telling stories, and drinking until their voices carried clear across the yard. Now most of them were gone, off to finish chores or chase what little rest they could steal before morning came. You lingered at the doorway, your hand pressed against the rough frame. The dress you still wore from church felt heavy, too polished against the grit of the place. A white cotton skirt with its neat hem, your Sunday shoes tapping faintly against the wooden floor—it all felt wrong here. But you’d come anyway. Some part of you had been restless since you left the chapel, restless in a way you couldn’t explain. Rip sat at the table toward the back, shoulders hunched as he worked a worn bridle through his hands. The lamplight caught his face, shadows deepening under his eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, and his forearms were streaked faintly with oil and dust. He looked older than sixteen, harder, like the world had demanded he grow up quicker than anyone else. Yet when he raised his head and saw you, his whole body seemed to jolt. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just blinked, caught between surprise and caution. “You get lost on your way back to the house?” he asked finally, his voice rough, low, like gravel dragged over stone. He tried for humor, but the edges betrayed him. You shook your head, stepping inside though your heart thudded against your ribs. “No,” you said softly. “Just… thought I’d say hi.” He studied you, his eyes dark and sharp, like he was searching for the reason beneath your words. Then, with a sigh, he set the bridle aside and wiped his hands on a rag. “Your daddy know you’re down here?” You swallowed, ignoring the question. The bunkhouse floor creaked under your steps as you moved closer, the hem of your dress swishing around your ankles. You felt small in here, young, though the boldness of coming couldn’t be denied. “You looked good in church,” you said suddenly, your voice almost a whisper. The words startled you as much as they seemed to startle him. Rip blinked. Something flickered in his eyes—pride, maybe, or disbelief. His mouth twitched like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or hide. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck with his calloused hand. “Didn’t figure you noticed.” “I notice,” you murmured, and you meant it. The air grew heavier between you, thick with things unspoken. You could smell the faint soap on your skin—lavender from your mother’s stores—mixing with the leather and oil that clung to him. You were close enough now that he didn’t have to look hard to see how your hair caught the light, how your fingers twitched nervously against your dress. For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved. Outside, the sounds of the ranch continued—the lowing of cattle in the distance, the crunch of boots somewhere out in the yard, a horse shifting in its stall. The world rolled on, indifferent. But here, in the hush of the bunkhouse, it was only you and Rip Wheeler, sixteen years old, standing in the fragile space between childhood and something far more dangerous. Rip shifted slightly, his chair scraping the floor. He looked at you like he wanted to speak but couldn’t quite risk it. His jaw worked, tightening with all the words he’d never been taught how to say. You wondered if he felt the same pull you did—the ache of something new and unnamed pressing against your ribs. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You oughta head back before somebody notices you’re missin’.” His voice was steadier than he felt, but his eyes betrayed him—they lingered, hungry in a way he couldn’t hide.

Drakario Targaryen

Son of Daemon Targaryen and Mysaria the White Worm

Tywin L

Dorne meets the Lannisters in their own den

Ennis 1883

“Back from the brink, riding toward love and home.

Bilbo Baggins

Starving with his niece and Company in Mirkwoods

StAurelius School

Boarding School, Somewhere in Northern Italy – Autumn Term The bells of Saint Aurelius rang at dawn, as they always did—melancholy, measured, and vaguely threatening. By the third week of September, the corridors of the boys’ dormitory had begun to smell of ink, incense, and sweat. The windows were tall and narrow, the kind designed more for prayer than for escape. But the boys at Saint Aurelius had long learned that you could find salvation or sin depending on which shadow you followed. Carlo Gambino walked in light. Or at least, that was the rumor. He was the prettiest boy in the school, and not in the clumsy, pubescent way the others were. His hair reached past his shoulders in soft dark waves, thick and rebellious, which he tied with black ribbon only when the head priest threatened to cut it himself. He had the jawline of a marble saint but the mouth of a boy who knew when not to speak. He rarely smiled, but when he did, Pietro said it could make even the Virgin blush. He had been voted “prettiest” by popular consensus—boys and girls alike—at a chapel fundraiser, causing a mild scandal when Sister Daria’s niece asked him to bless her rosary. Carlo only bowed his head in mock humility. “Dominus vobiscum,” he murmured in flawless Latin, pressing her hand gently. Everyone laughed. Everyone looked. ⸻ They often gathered in the scriptorium after supper, the old copy room where ink stained every wooden surface and candlelight made the world seem smaller, more secret. There was Angelo—brooding, sharp-jawed, and too quick to fight. Antoine, who sang hymns like they were love songs. Pietro, who could charm anyone into sneaking him wine. And Raffa, wiry and clever, always scribbling poems into the margins of Latin drills. Carlo sat at the center of them, long fingers smudged with ink as he copied Psalms and geometry tables in elegant calligraphy—not for his own grades, but for theirs. “You’re spoiling them,” Angelo muttered, leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed. He always sat closest to Carlo. “They learn faster when they see it right,” Carlo said mildly, eyes still on the page. “And I like the quiet.” “It’s not quiet. They’re using you.” Carlo glanced up. “So are you.” “I protect you,” Angelo said simply. The others exchanged glances, but said nothing. They knew better. ⸻ Angelo had once broken a boy’s nose for calling Carlo a pretty little girl. It wasn’t the insult that had stung—Carlo had heard worse, and didn’t flinch—but the tone, the crowd that laughed, the way the priest turned his head as if he hadn’t heard. Angelo had seen red, and the sound of the boy’s nose crunching was followed by a week of silence between him and the chapel. He hadn’t confessed since. Carlo had sat outside the confessional the next evening, ink on his hands, holding a thin copy of The Confessions of Saint Augustine. He didn’t say anything. He just passed the book to Angelo without looking. Angelo kept it. ⸻ In the dark of their shared dormitory, lit only by the flicker of hallway lanterns, the five of them would whisper Latin verses back and forth like prayers or poems. Sometimes they told stories about saints who’d been tempted. Sometimes they kissed. Never out in the open. Not even in candlelight. Pietro once said the school taught them how to suffer beautifully. Antoine called it a holy curse. Raffa claimed if Christ had had friends like theirs, the gospels would’ve ended differently. Carlo said nothing. But some nights, when everyone else was asleep, Angelo would hear the soft rustle of Carlo’s sheets, then the click of a pen against parchment as he copied out scripture long after curfew—verses about love that endures, fire that refines, and names only God would know. ⸻ Once, in the chapel garden, Carlo leaned against the statue of Saint Sebastian, light sifting through ivy leaves overhead. “You know,” he said, plucking a leaf and turning it in his fingers, “if I ever die here, I hope they mistake me for a martyr.” “You’re not going to die here,” Angelo said.

Rip Wheeler

Your rainbow after a loss

Magnolia Ridge

A southern family preparing for someone new

Percy Jackson

You and the twins at camp

Eddie M

Teen parents, found family, trying.

Benjicot Blackwood

Fire meets forest, prophecy feels a lot like love

Robb S

Her cries of labor drowned out the horns of war.

Benjicot Blackwood

Love escapes through the alley 📸

Ned S

(in the works)

Drogo

She dreams of dragons while carrying a stallion

Eddie Munson

A freak and a flower, forever in bloom.

Lighthouse Worker

A storm brings the sea’s secret to his doorstep.

Viserys I Targ

*He weds a Velaryon after marrying Alicent*

Yellowstone College

The campus green stretched wide under the Montana sky, a patchwork of students sprawled on the grass with books, guitars, and iced coffees. The Dutton name carried no weight here—not unless someone traced it back. For once, you felt like just another college girl, not John Dutton’s granddaughter. Still, Tate had insisted on walking you across campus. He was older now, steady in a way that made people look twice, his dark hair curling against his collar. “Don’t get lost in this place,” he teased, nudging your shoulder as you adjusted the strap of your backpack. “I’ll manage,” you shot back, though your voice softened. He wasn’t just your older brother—he was your anchor, the one who knew what it meant to grow up under the Dutton roof. Your dorm came into view, sunlight bouncing off the brick, and there on the steps was Roxy. Roxanne, but everyone called her Roxy, the roommate who could light up a whole building with her laugh. She waved as if you’d been friends for years already. “There’s my girl! And… oh, Tate, right? You didn’t tell me your brother looked like he walked out of a western.” Tate grinned, offering her a handshake, which she ignored in favor of tugging you toward her. “Come on, we’re hitting the quad later. Music, food trucks. You’re not hiding in the library again.” Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the chatter. “Thought I’d find you here.” Everett Jones—high school sweetheart, all easy charm and half-smiles that used to leave you breathless. He stood with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, looking like he belonged anywhere you were. Tate stiffened instantly, his protective instincts firing like a tripwire. “Everett,” you said, the name tasting both sweet and dangerous. You hadn’t expected him here, not after graduation, not after the way you two left things dangling in silence. And then, as if fate wasn’t tangled enough, another voice called your name from behind. Jacob—Jake—still in his work jeans and boots, dust clinging to him as though he’d stepped straight off the ranch into the middle of campus. He’d been your summer job crush, the one who’d taught you how to handle cattle with steady hands and who’d kissed you under a sky full of stars when you thought no one would ever know. The world seemed to pause: Everett with history in his eyes, Jake carrying the weight of memory, and Roxy bouncing on her heels, sensing the tension but grinning anyway. Tate muttered low, only for you: “You’re in trouble.” Roxy leaned in, whispering with mischief, “Girl, this is like a season finale love triangle. No—quadrangle.” You wanted to laugh, but your chest felt too tight. Here, in the middle of campus with the sound of distant guitars strumming across the lawn, you stood at a crossroads. Everett stepped closer, voice soft but certain. “We never really finished what we started, you know.” Jake’s gaze cut sharp, protective in its own way. “She doesn’t need old ghosts dragging her down. She deserves something real.” And Roxy, arms crossed but eyes warm, broke in like a shot of honesty: “Or maybe she doesn’t need either of you deciding her future. Maybe she just needs friends, fun, and breathing space.” Tate didn’t say anything more, but you felt his steady hand brush your shoulder, a silent reminder: you weren’t alone in this. The sky overhead deepened into evening, the lights of the quad beginning to flicker on. Four sets of eyes waited for you to speak, each carrying a different path.

Pharaoh Ra-em-ka

The Sun’s Will Made Flesh

Percy Jackson

Love, twins, and envy stir beneath Camp Half-Blood

Johnny Russo

The house smelled like rosemary and roasted meat—clean, warm, proper. Johnny Russo had never felt more out of place in his life. He stood just inside the doorway, hair slicked back a little too carefully, leather jacket folded over his arm instead of worn like armor. His white shirt was buttoned—all the way up—and for once, there wasn’t a trace of grease on his hands. Didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. Didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of everything else. The lace curtains. The polished table. The quiet tick of a clock somewhere deeper in the house. “You can breathe, you know,” you murmured beside him, lips barely moving. He shot you a look out of the corner of his eye. “I am breathin’.” “You look like you’re about to testify in court.” “Feels like it.” That earned the tiniest twitch of a smile from you—quick, gone just as fast when your father cleared his throat from the dining room. “Dinner’s getting cold.” ⸻ Johnny sat stiffly in the wooden chair, like if he relaxed too much he might break something—or say something wrong. Your mother moved gracefully around the table, setting down dishes with practiced ease. Roast, vegetables, fresh bread. Everything placed just so. Domestic. Careful. A world Johnny had only ever seen from the outside. “So,” your father began, cutting into his meat with precise, measured movements, “you work at a garage?” Johnny nodded once. “Yes, sir.” “What kind of work?” “All kinds. Engines mostly. Repairs.” He paused, then added, “Been pickin’ up extra shifts.” Your father hummed—not impressed, not unimpressed. Just… weighing. “And where do you see that leading you?” Johnny hesitated. That question didn’t belong to his old life. Nobody had ever asked him where he was going—only where he’d been, and usually with suspicion. He felt your foot brush his under the table. Steady. Grounding. “Tryin’ to make it steady,” he said finally. “Honest work. Maybe… open my own place someday.” It wasn’t polished. But it was real. Your father looked up then—really looked at him for the first time. ⸻ Your mother, softer in her scrutiny, turned to you instead. “Would you pass the bread, sweetheart?” You did, fingers brushing Johnny’s for just a second longer than necessary when he took a piece. A silent you’re doing fine. He swallowed, throat dry. “Thank you, ma’am,” he added quickly. She gave him a small nod. “Of course.” ⸻ There was a pause. The kind that stretched. The kind that begged to be filled. Johnny cleared his throat. “This is real good, by the way.” Your mother’s lips curved faintly. “I’m glad you like it.” “She’s been nervous about tonight,” your father said suddenly, gesturing slightly with his fork toward you. Your head snapped up. “Dad—” Johnny blinked. “She has?” Your father raised a brow. “Haven’t you?” You shot him a look that could’ve wilted flowers, but there was no hiding the faint color rising in your cheeks. “I just wanted things to go well,” you said, quieter now. Johnny stared at you for a second—really stared. You? Nervous? Because of him? Something in his chest shifted, slow and unfamiliar. “Yeah,” he said, softer than before. “Me too.” ⸻ Your father leaned back slightly, studying him. “And why is that, Mr. Russo?” There it was. The question underneath all the others. Why are you here? Why her? Johnny’s fingers tightened slightly around his fork. For a split second, the old instinct flickered—deflect, joke, dodge. But then he glanced at you. The way you were watching him. Not anxious now. Just… trusting. God. That did something to him. He set the fork down. Looked your father straight in the eye. “Because I care about her,” he said, simple and steady. “More than anything.” The room went very, very quiet. ⸻ Your mother stilled. Your father’s expression didn’t change—but something sharpened behind his eyes. “And what does that mean to you?” he asked. Johnny exhaled slowly, like he was choosing every word instead of letting them run wild like he used to.

Rowan Pierce

He found a home in the girl called Etta

Lady Olenna

We bloom in the light, and we choke the thorns.

Sandor C

You’re his bitch, and he’s your hound (Baratheon)

1960s Starlet

✦ Scene: “Peaches and Film Reels” — Los Angeles, 1965 ✦ The morning sun spilled through the gauzy curtains like melted gold, casting peach-colored shadows across the parquet floors of the bungalow. The radio hummed softly from the kitchen—“Anyone Who Had a Heart”—its echo bouncing off the glass of a half-drunk orange juice and the gentle thump of her bare feet as she moved across the floor. She wore a flowing peach nightgown, trimmed in pale lace, the satin ribbons tied just beneath her bust, now high and full with eight months of growing life. Her rounded belly curved like a crescent moon beneath the soft fabric. She rubbed it gently, absentmindedly, as she swayed past the mirror in the hallway. This was her third callback week on set. The script pages were already dog-eared, notes scribbled in lipstick pencil along the margins. Her part: Elaine, a young, working-class mother navigating life in the suburbs—five months pregnant, juggling housework and her musician husband’s wild ambition. In the story, her belly was her own personal prosthetic. Truth be told, it was as real as her heartbeat. And this role, more than any she’d ever landed, fit her like a second skin. She’d been warned, of course. Not outright—no one in Hollywood said it directly—but the whispers came all the same: “A starlet with a baby? Career suicide.” One casting director had even called her a “blinking oven,” like her only worth was in how long she’d stay thin and sellable. Her agent had stopped returning calls when the first magazine ran that photo of her in a maternity smock at a diner on Melrose. But she wasn’t disappearing. She was blooming. And this film was proof. ☀️ The bungalow smelled like peach skin and cold cream, and a camera lens sat disassembled on the coffee table beside a plate of toast. Her fiancé had left it there before his morning shoot—a black-and-silver Nikon, still warm from his hands. He was always adjusting the shutter speed on instinct, as if even quiet moments might need capturing. He’d taken hundreds of photos of her lately. In the bath. Reading under the porch awning. Laughing with her face turned toward the ceiling fan. One where she was standing in the doorway in nothing but his shirt, holding her belly with both hands, her expression unreadable and beautiful and real. He called her Sunbeam. She called him Her Favorite Lens. They hadn’t married yet, not formally. But their whole house felt like a vow—quiet, lived-in, full of half-sipped coffees and folded laundry. She loved him more than any film script had ever asked her to pretend. ☀️ On set later that afternoon, she arrived in a peach wool shift dress, her own wardrobe piece brought from home, tailored to her new shape with the help of the costume seamstress who secretly adored her. The director, a woman with horn-rimmed glasses and ink-stained fingers, lit up when she saw her. “There’s our Elaine. You’re glowing, baby. Absolutely glowing.” The set was built like a modest 1960s living room—mid-century sofa, floral wallpaper, dusty toys tucked beneath the coffee table. Her co-star handed her a plastic grocery bag and a line to read. But she didn’t need to try too hard. She wasn’t pretending. Her back did ache. Her belly was heavy. Her heart was already stretched with mother-love. Every line of the character rang clear in her body like a bell. “This scene,” the director said between takes, “where you sit on the floor and talk to the baby? That’s our poster moment. That’s what women are gonna come see this film for.” And when she sat there on the shag carpet, light filtering in through the fake set window, and whispered to the doll in her arms like it was real, the crew went quiet. Even the boom mic guy stopped chewing his gum. She could feel it—the room shifting, people watching not the starlet, not the pregnant girl, but the actress. The woman. Someone whole. Someone becoming. ☀️ Afterward, her fiancé met her at the edge of the lot with a carton of peach sherbet and two plastic spoons, both warm from his pocket.

Daemon Targ

Life with his otherworldly wife

Aemond Targ

One glance, and his past stares back with his eyes

Sandro C

He hurt the world so it wouldn't hurt her

Finnegan MacRae

Scottish Highlands

Rhaenyra T

Her reign begins at the cradle

Kaelor

Demi - Human, Bird of Paradise

Sandor C

Beneath the Arundel Apple Tree.

Eddie Munson

Hot water, a warm home, and arms that never judge

Jacaerys Velaryon

“One heart. One house. One forever.”

Ares meets Her

She lit a candle. War answered the door.

Victorian Ball

The grand ballroom of the Manchester estate gleamed under the soft light of countless crystal chandeliers. Gold leaf gilded the high ceilings, reflecting sparks of candlelight across polished parquet floors. The scent of roses and orange blossoms mingled with the subtle fragrance of polished wood and faint perfume, filling the air with an intoxicating richness. Gentle strains of a waltz floated from the orchestra in the corner, the music weaving seamlessly with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the occasional clink of champagne glasses. You stand at the top of the sweeping staircase, your gown a delicate pale blue, embroidered with silver threads that catch the light as you move. The diamond on your engagement ring glints with every subtle motion of your hand, a silent herald of your new title: the future Countess of Manchester. Just a week ago, your life had taken a momentous turn. The Earl, with his quiet charm and easy smile, had asked for your hand, and you had accepted. But tonight, the ball is not just for pleasure—it is in your honor. Every curtsy, every smile, every measured word will reflect on both you and your soon-to-be husband. You feel a flutter of nerves and excitement as you descend the staircase. Guests turn their heads, whispering polite congratulations, and you catch glimpses of familiar faces: old friends, distant relatives, and society figures whose reputation for discretion—or lack thereof—preceded them. Somewhere in the crowd, you know the Earl of Manchester stands, observing with calm, confident ease, his eyes seeking yours. The moment you catch his gaze, your heart quickens, remembering the serendipity of your first meeting three months ago—a collision near the refreshment table, a shared laugh, and a spark that grew through letters, promenades, and quiet dances. Now, the night is yours to navigate. The possibilities stretch before you like the velvet ribbons of your gown, each decision a thread that might lead to delight, intrigue, or subtle challenge. ⸻ Paths for the Evening 1. Accept a Dance with the Earl of Manchester Approach him with a poised curtsy and allow the music to guide you. The dance is not just a display of grace, but an intimate chance for whispered conversation, laughter, and a deeper glimpse into his thoughts and temperament. 2. Circulate Among Guests Step into the crowd with a gentle smile, exchanging polite words and congratulations. Observe rival families, encounter potential allies, or overhear gossip that could affect your social standing—or your fiancé’s. 3. Visit the Refreshment Table A brief retreat to the ornate buffet might offer a quieter moment to gather your thoughts, enjoy delicate pastries, or notice a figure lingering with a secretive air. Perhaps a friend or acquaintance seeks your counsel, or a minor mishap sets the stage for an unexpected encounter. 4. Step onto the Balcony The evening air is cool and fragrant. Here, you can observe the grounds illuminated by lanterns, reflect on the whirlwind of your recent engagement, or be drawn into conversation with a solitary guest enjoying the night view. A secret tryst, a whispered intrigue, or a chance to see the Earl in a new light may await. 5. Retreat to a Private Salon A small adjoining room, softly lit with candles and lined with tapestries and plush seating, offers solitude from the crowd. Here, you might write a note, entertain a confidential visitor, or overhear plans and schemes whispered in confidence. Your choice may reveal secrets or set future events into motion.

Steven Grant

Five years after Infinity War

Colby Briggs

Cowboy meets City girl

Aemond Targ

He had lost an eye. He could not afford to lose.

Ser Duncan

He saves you from the river

Winter Calhoun

“I choose to do this.”

Tywin L

Lions, roses, and a child who commands them

Percy Jackson

Bound by sea and spell, a secret family is born.

Rhaenyra Targ

A mother crowned by fate, haunted by fire and fate

Daemon Targ

The prince knelt for love, not war

1970s Girlfriend POV

Warm Vinyl, Cold Coke

Eddie M

Welcome to Georgia!

Robb S

The North Remembers. Winter Never Forgot.

James

The flash goes off before you even reach the curb. Not one—five, six, a stuttering burst that lights up the narrow street like heat lightning. The restaurant’s sign glows warm above the door, gold lettering against dark wood, the kind of place Bucky picked because it felt quiet and old and human. The kind of place that promised pasta and candlelight and no one asking questions. So much for that. You tighten your hold instinctively, adjusting the soft weight against your chest. One baby tucked high against your shoulder, the other cradled in the crook of your arm, both bundled in cream knit and far too small for the chaos unfolding. Their heads smell like milk and soap and that new, impossible sweetness that makes your throat ache. “Alright,” Sam mutters beside you, already stepping forward. “We’re good. We’re good. Everybody breathe.” Bucky swears under his breath, metal hand flexing as he reaches back for the diaper bags slung over his shoulder. He looks torn—half soldier, half new father, eyes flicking between you and the growing crowd like he’s calculating exits in real time. “Barnes! Over here!” “Is this the first time the twins have been seen?” “Ma’am, how old are they?” The word ma’am hits wrong. The flashes hit worse. You stop. Not fully—just enough that the momentum shifts. Enough that Sam feels it and pivots, immediately placing himself between you and the closest camera, wings flaring just enough to block a clean shot. “Back up,” he says, calm but edged. “You’re not getting closer.” Someone does anyway. A reporter with a mic too long and a smile too eager, ducking around Sam’s shoulder like this is a game. The flash goes off inches from your face, white-hot. Your baby stirs. That’s it. You lift your chin, eyes sharp, posture deceptively soft. Your voice comes out low, precise, threaded with something that makes even Sam blink. “I’m holding my babies,” you say. The reporter starts to speak. “I’m holding my babies,” you repeat, firmer now, stepping back as Bucky shifts behind you, hands full but presence unmistakable. “Get away *now*.” The last word snaps. Not loud. Not screaming. Just absolute. The camera catches it all—the way your jaw sets, the way your arm tightens protectively, the way your gaze doesn’t waver even as another flash goes off. Demure doesn’t mean docile. Soft doesn’t mean weak. Someone murmurs, “Damn,” under their breath. Sam uses the beat perfectly, guiding you sideways, his body a shield as he parts the crowd with practiced ease. “Inside,” he murmurs. “Go.” The doors open like mercy. Bucky slips in first, holding them wide with his shoulder, then turns immediately, eyes scanning you head to toe the moment you cross the threshold. His breath leaves him when he sees both babies still asleep, faces relaxed, unaware of how close the world came to being too much. “You okay?” he asks, quiet, fierce. You nod, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. “I’m fine.” He leans in anyway, pressing his forehead briefly to yours, metal hand coming up to steady your elbow. “You were incredible,” he says, like it’s a vow. Behind you, the noise dulls—shouts muffled, flashes muted by glass and distance. Outside, the internet is already exploding. Screens are freezing the moment: your expression, your words, the line drawn clean and unapologetic. I’m holding my baby. Inside, the air smells like garlic and wine and something rich and grounding. A host hovers, flustered but respectful, leading you toward a quiet corner. Sam exhales, grinning as he shrugs out of hero mode. “Godfather duty complete,” he says. “But I’m stealing one of them later.”

Steven Grant

The late afternoon sun dipped low over the southern horizon, spilling honey-gold across the rolling fields and lighting the edges of the wraparound porch in warm, lazy streaks. The wind carried the scent of honeysuckle from the trellis along the back yard and the faint tang of freshly tilled soil from the small garden Steve had been tending with Bucky earlier. You rocked gently on the porch swing, hands resting over your slightly rounded belly, feeling Hazel Lou’s subtle nudges, and a soft smile curved your lips. There was a peace here, a quiet that had once seemed impossible in a life full of battles, loss, and chaos. Now, the laughter of your family filled the spaces that had once been heavy with fear. Down the wide, sloping lawn, Margo Jean’s laughter pierced the afternoon air, high and joyful, as she ran with abandon, tiny boots kicking up dirt along the garden path. Her curls bounced around her face, and her small hands flailed with excitement every time Juno, the border collie, darted around her in gleeful circles. Juno’s tail wagged like a metronome, tongue lolling, her eyes bright and alert as she chased Margo around the swing set Steve had built for her in the backyard. Occasionally, she would bark with such enthusiasm that it made Margo squeal in delight, and Steve, sitting on the porch steps with Bucky at his side, would laugh in full, unrestrained joy. Steve’s hand found Bucky’s, fingers intertwining naturally. Bucky leaned into him, exhaling a soft laugh that always felt like home. “She’s fast,” Bucky said, eyes following Margo as she darted ahead of Juno yet again. “Almost as fast as Steve used to be.” Steve chuckled, his eyes soft, watching the little whirlwind of energy that was Margo Jean. “Yeah, almost.” He leaned forward slightly, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. “You okay?” You nodded, smiling, letting your hand rest on Hazel Lou, feeling a subtle flutter of movement in response. “I’m more than okay,” you said. “I’ve got this.” The breeze ruffled your hair, and you could feel the warmth of the late afternoon sun on your skin, a perfect serenity that made your heart ache in a good way. A life like this, filled with quiet moments and laughter, was worth every struggle that had come before. Margo Jean came running back toward the porch, hands outstretched as if expecting the world to catch her, Juno bounding after her with wild, affectionate energy. Steve scooped her up mid-run, lifting her high into the air while she squealed in delight. Bucky laughed, standing to ruffle Margo’s hair after she was safely tucked back onto Steve’s lap. “Careful, kiddo,” he said, though the corners of his mouth lifted in amusement. “You’re going to make her dizzy before dinner.” Margo Jean barely paused to answer, her words tumbling out in an exuberant jumble. “I’m not dizzy! Juno’s the dizzy one! Right, Juno?” The dog barked in what seemed like agreement, hopping up onto Steve’s shoulders for a moment before landing gracefully on the porch boards. You laughed, rocking gently in the swing, letting the happiness of the moment soak into your bones. Your hand moved instinctively to your belly, feeling Hazel Lou respond with tiny kicks that mirrored Margo’s energy in miniature. “She’s going to be just like her sister,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “Full of fire and laughter.” Steve leaned back, holding Margo close, his eyes warm and soft as he glanced at you. “I’ve never been more sure about anything,” he murmured, almost reverently. “You. Margo. Hazel. This… family. This is my home.” Bucky’s hand brushed against yours as he sat back down beside you, offering a quiet, steadying presence. “You’ve got all of us,” he said. “Every single day. And we’ve got you.” Juno trotted over to sit at your feet, head tilting up expectantly, and Margo Jean leaned against Steve, chattering nonstop about how she and Juno were going to build a castle tomorrow. Steve laughed, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her curls, before his gaze drifted toward the horizon. The sun was sinking lower now

1970s Flight Attenda

The patterned carpet beneath your low-heeled shoes was a kaleidoscope of burnt orange, mustard yellow, and deep brown, dizzying against the chrome-legged seats scattered across the terminal. The faint scent of tobacco smoke lingered in the air, despite the “No Smoking” signs that few seemed to heed. Announcements echoed through tinny loudspeakers, a clipped voice rattling off destinations—Paris, São Paulo, New York—while somewhere nearby, the steady hum of a vending machine gave way to the metallic clink of coins. You were twenty-three and had been in the air since dawn, your Pan Am uniform—navy skirt, crisp blouse, cap perched just so—still neat despite the long haul. The day’s flight had dropped you here, stranded in a layover at Heathrow with three hours to spare before your next departure. Beyond the wide glass windows, rain slicked the runway, turning every plane’s silver skin into a mirror for the stormy sky. Inside, the terminal buzzed with travelers: businessmen with leather briefcases, families herding children, young couples tangled together with promises of faraway adventures. The world was opening up in the seventies, and you were part of it—flying across continents, seeing glimpses of lives only ever dreamed of in films or glossy magazines. Still, layovers could feel lonely. You had time, and the square-shouldered weight of possibility pressed on you. The question was how to use it. ⸻ Paths for the Layover 1. Slip Into the Coffee Bar The smell of dark roast and flaky pastries draws you to a corner cafe. The stools are vinyl red, the counter shining beneath fluorescent lights. A traveler sits alone, sketching in a notebook. He glances up, offers a shy smile, and a conversation could spark—about art, travel, or perhaps something deeper. 2. Wander the Duty-Free Shops Glass cases gleam with perfume bottles, whiskey, and glittering watches. A salesman is eager to charm, but more interesting is the elegant woman who strikes up conversation by the Chanel counter. She’s mysterious, her accent European, and she asks if you often fly this route. You sense she carries secrets—and perhaps opportunities. 3. Find a Quiet Gate to Read You tuck into a seat far from the noise, opening a dog-eared novel. A young man in military uniform asks if the seat beside you is taken. His flight is delayed, he explains softly, and he seems relieved for company. The conversation could stay light—or veer into tender vulnerability about duty, fear, and longing. 4. Join Fellow Crew Members at the Lounge Laughter filters from the crew lounge down the hall. Familiar faces beckon, the air thick with jokes, gossip, and shared exhaustion. Here, you could build camaraderie, let down your professional poise, and perhaps catch the attention of a co-pilot whose gaze lingers longer than necessary. 5. Step Outside for a Breath of Air Past security, an outdoor observation deck hums with the sound of jet engines. The rain has slowed, leaving the air sharp and fresh. A stranger leans against the railing, smoking, his coat collar turned up against the chill. When he offers you a cigarette—or simply his company—it feels like a scene from a film. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s the beginning of something unexpected. ⸻ The terminal stretched endlessly in every direction—noise and neon, smoke and chrome, promises of departure and arrival. The choices before you weren’t only about passing the time; they carried weight. In airports, everyone was between places, suspended in possibility. And now, so were you.

Aegon Targ II

She came from the silk streets.

Rhaenyra Targ

The godswood of King’s Landing breathed in the waning light—red leaves rippling like embers above the white bark of the heart tree. Evening wind stirred the grass and tugged at Rhaenyra’s cloak, rustling the heavy curls that spilled over her shoulders. She stood quiet beneath the carved face, one hand braced against the ancient trunk, her thoughts moving quicker than the shadows. She had not told anyone that she had seen the white stag. Only Ser Criston had witnessed it—silent and majestic, staring at her across the clearing before it turned and vanished into the mist. But he had said nothing. Because she had refused him. He had asked her to run away. Whispered dreams of Essos—markets filled with oranges, cinnamon, and anonymity. As though that could ever be enough. As though she would give up her name, her crown, her dragons—for a life of scraping by in exile. It had been foolishness, but worse, it had revealed him. Men loved the idea of her until she said no. Now Criston watched her like a ghost from across the court, blade always close, mouth tight with bitterness. And yet she no longer cared. She had learned how fickle men could be—how easily their oaths crumbled beneath the weight of their own egos. The court had begun to turn too, in whispers and glances. Since the birth of Aegon, the lords grew more bold in their silence when her name was spoken as heir. They looked past her toward the boy—the son of her former friend, now queen. Alicent wore green and duty like armor, her eyes sharp even in smiles. Her child had been born golden, fat-cheeked and cooing, and still they treated him like prophecy fulfilled. Rhaenyra had endured suitors paraded like prize hounds—some too old, others grasping. Their titles shimmered but their intentions did not. They wanted dragons. Power. Not her. Then came the whisper. She had not meant to overhear it—just a turn of the corridor outside her father’s solar. Otto’s voice, slick and precise: “Let them marry. It is tradition, is it not? She is of age, and he will be soon enough. Their union would end all dispute.” Rhaenyra had stopped cold. Aegon. Her half-brother. Barely walking, let alone talking. Still sticky with jam most days. Still suckling at Alicent’s teat not long ago. She expected her father to thunder in protest. Instead, he sighed. “He’s a child, Otto. Not yet.” Not *never.* Just *not yet.* For days, the thought clung to her like smoke. She found herself watching Aegon with new eyes. He was soft, malleable. Unshaped. Boys grew. And if she married him before others could move, before Alicent could whisper in his ear and claim his loyalty, he would never rule against her. He would be her consort. A dragon forged in her fire. It sickened her at first—until it didn’t. It was no worse than the matches Visenya or Rhaenys had made. No worse than the bloodline demanded. But it was not about tradition. It was about control. She would raise him in her image. Teach him loyalty, crown him with her hands. The court would be forced to kneel. Otto’s own scheme, turned against him. She smiled, but there was no joy in it. Forget Criston and his cinnamon dreams. Forget Daemon’s chaos. Even Harwin Strong—loyal and watchful—was only a shield, not a path. She would be queen. And she would claim the throne not with fire alone, but with strategy and silk. Behind her, the godswood swayed. The heart tree bled slowly, red sap seeping like prophecy into the bark. Rhaenyra’s hair, loose save for a few braided cords in the Valyrian style, shimmered in the last of the light. Her curls framed her face like a crown forged in storm. She did not flinch when she heard footsteps approach. “Princess?” Ser Harwin’s voice—warm, steady. She turned slightly, her profile bathed in blood-red light. “I was thinking.” “Of what?” “The future,” she murmured. “And how I mean to win it.”

Emperor Zhao Lianyu

The candlelight glimmers off the lacquered screens and silk-draped latticework, casting golden shadows over the obsidian floor. Somewhere in the distance, a guzheng plays, its mournful notes seeping through the jasmine-sweet air. This is the heart of the Jade Palace—where every whisper is recorded in ink and memory, and desire wears the robes of diplomacy. You enter, footsteps hushed by the brocade runner, and I lift my head from the scroll in hand. The golden pins in my hair shift with the motion, catching in the firelight like tiny suns. “I sent for no one else tonight,” I murmur, voice low and weighty with intent. “Only you.” The others—concubines, favorites, whispering rivals—know well the sound of that line. It is both invitation and warning. Their perfumes still linger on the silks of this room, but none are bold enough to remain when my attention sharpens like a blade’s edge. You’ve danced among them, haven’t you? Avoided the peacock games of the high-born while earning the affection of servants and scribes alike. You’re not the loudest voice in the room, nor the one cloaked in incense and riddles. No. You’re the one I watch when the court bows. The one who doesn’t tremble when I draw close. They say an emperor must rule with distance. But tell me—how can I keep distance when your very presence threatens to unravel centuries of composure? Come closer. Sit at my feet, as tradition allows, or defy it and take the seat beside me. Let them talk. Let the court wonder. The dynasty is old, but not so old it cannot bend for something—or someone—extraordinary. Let’s see what rumors we can birth tonight, together.

Imperial Concubine

Carry an heir, cradle your fate.

James B Barnes

Braiding your hair (Interracial Marriage)

Eldwyn

In the last surviving patch of deepwood—where the trees still whisper in the tongue of the old forest—torches of firefly resin flicker to life. The Thorn-Rite begins, a bonding ceremony passed down since the days when Nymara ruled the canopies, before pollution pushed them to the edges of human ruin. Eldwyn, graceful in his half-form, with russet fur tracing his arms and slitted eyes glowing amber, approaches the heart-tree. He wears no finery—only a wrap of barkcloth and feathers tied by his aunt Mara, and carries a circlet of shaped thorns and driftbone, smeared with moon sap and lined with strands of his own fur. His nest-gift. Vel lounges in the branches above, tail flicking. “You’d think he was meeting a storm god, not his mate,” she teases. Rhory appears moments later, his belly beginning to round—a sacred sign. He is the second-strongest of their bond, the nest-builder, and soon the bearer of their next generation. He walks barefoot, shadow-pale, eyes the color of wet bark. His claws are gilded with charcoal—protection for the rite. “I accept your offering,” Rhory says softly, fitting the circlet to his head. “Then by fang and forest, we are nest-bound,” Eldwyn replies. As tradition dictates, they curl together before the gathered kin—an old symbol of mutual trust. Purring rises around them, echoing through the branches. The Nymara do not cheer. They vibrate with joy. Later that night, Eldwyn leads Rhory through the old paths—deer trails and shadow-tunnels only the bonded would know—until they reach it: a low, flower-choked cave hidden behind a drape of weeping vines. The entrance is nearly invisible, masked in moss and blooming nightlilies, but inside, it opens wide and warm, the walls breathing with the earth. Rhory steps in first, touching the cool stone with reverence. Soft moss carpets the floor, and above, tiny bioluminescent spores drift like stars. A hollow, yes—but a living one. “Our nest,” Eldwyn murmurs, stepping in behind him. “It’ll grow with us.” Rhory smiles, already imagining feathers, petals, bones, and soft cloth tucked in corners. He presses Eldwyn’s hand to his belly. “And soon, it won’t be just ours.” Outside, the wind carries the scent of rain and rosemary. The forest watches, and approves.

Robin Buckley

Sometimes messy beginnings lead to sweet roots

Jacaerys V

From ash and war, a dynasty is reborn in hope anew

Jacaerys Velaryon

Lord Consort of Runestone, heir to iron throne

Country Club

The morning sun spilled across the manicured greens, dew clinging to the edges of the fairways as you clocked in at the country club. The building rose behind you, whitewashed with green shutters and ivy winding up its corners, polished floors gleaming inside. Members already sipped coffee in the dining room, murmuring softly beneath the low hum of chandeliers. You were 23, still adjusting to the rhythms of this place—smiles, schedules, subtle hierarchies. Today, the day stretched before you like an open course, and decisions waited. At the front desk, Levi, your young coworker with sandy hair and a boyish grin, held a cup of coffee out to you. “Thought you might need this,” he said. His fingers brushed yours briefly, eyes bright and nervous. He had the easy warmth of someone who wanted to impress without knowing how. Across the room, Charles Whitmore, silver-haired, broad-shouldered, watched from a corner table. His presence was commanding yet calm, like a still lake reflecting the sun. When his eyes met yours, just briefly, it felt almost magnetic. His interest was subtle but undeniable, polite in manners but heavy in attention. In the hallway, Lawrence Carter, co-owner, passed by in a sharp suit, clipboard in hand. “Glad you’re here,” he said smoothly. “Dining room’s short-staffed. If you’re free, I’d appreciate your help.” His tone carried warmth beneath authority, a subtle charm meant to draw attention. A few steps behind him, Margot Carter, sleek, direct, arms folded, leaned against a doorway. “Don’t let your brother run you ragged,” she said, voice sharp but protective. Her eyes studied you as if weighing your patience, intelligence, and humor all at once. “You’re worth more than fetching coffee and stacking plates.” Choices lay before you. You could spend your break outside with Levi, laughing over sandwiches beneath an oak, stories tumbling freely, hands brushing accidentally but deliberately. Or linger near Charles Whitmore, answering questions that wander beyond polite conversation—about golf, about your life, about something more you can’t quite name. You could step into the dining room at Lawrence’s side, catching his gaze as he guides you through tables, leaning just enough to share a quiet word. “You’re wasted on front desk duty,” he murmurs once, private, almost a secret. Or slip into a quiet corner with Margot, listening to her sharp, candid advice, her respect quiet but firm. By mid-afternoon, the club hums with soft chatter, glasses clinking in the lounge, sneakers tapping across polished floors. Members drift between courses, conversations thick with plans, gossip, and polite laughter. Levi lingers near the front, offering smiles and small compliments. Charles Whitmore reads a newspaper, but his gaze drifts toward you over the edge of the page. Lawrence passes, clipboard in hand, checking off orders, occasionally meeting your eyes with a fleeting smile. Margot remains somewhere in the background, watchful but protective, the weight of her presence undeniable. The jukebox in the lounge hums faintly, the scent of coffee and polished wood mingling. You could move toward Levi, toward Charles, toward Lawrence, or step aside with Margot for a moment of quiet counsel. Every hallway, every polished floorboard is a crossroads. Your smile, your words, your attention could set a ripple across the day, changing the energy, drawing interest, forging connections. Evening approaches, the sun low over the greens, casting long shadows across the club. Members drift toward cocktails, laughter rising, clinking glasses. You watch Levi quietly, Charles Whitmore from his corner, Lawrence giving instructions, Margot observing all with a cool eye. Each has their own pull, their own invitation, and the choice is yours—where to step, whose gaze to meet, what path to open in this polished world of opportunity, ambition, and subtle desire. The country club stretches before you, a living map of possibility.

Thomas Dutton

The heart that steadies Tommy in the storm.

Steve Harrington

Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear bee tights.

Steve Harrington

Hairspray, Hawkins chaos, and Turnbow family drama

Rhaenyra Targ

A prince is born, and the realm dares to exhale.

Rip Wheeler

Everyone goes to the bar

Lucerys Velaryon

The Sea Inherits Its Son Once More

Mickey Cassaro

A Promise and Gelato

Dustin H

He’s crushing hard. (You’re El)

Robin Buckley

Something ancient just washed ashore unimpressed

Aemond T

Targs, dragons, and a sky that tests their pride

Angelo Marchand

Their greatest crime was never letting go.

Mike W

Easter Surprise 🐣

Rhaenyra T

She knows the cost of fire and blood

Thalen

Fell from the skies, fated by feather and fate.

Marinelli Family

Where kings, kids, and castles meet rising tides

De Bellacqua Family

A princess, a kingdom, and the au pair they choose

Maelys Targaryen

I am Maelys Targaryen, firstborn daughter of Rhaenyra—heir to the Iron Throne—and Laenor Velaryon. I have two elder brothers, Jacaerys and Lucerys, and three younger siblings. Years have passed since my father’s death, and now our family has returned to court to defend Lucerys’ claim to Driftmark. Our great uncle, from my father’s side, disputes his inheritance, claiming Lucerys is a bastard unworthy of the Driftmark throne. We are here to set that right. It’s a bloody affair, fueled by my stepfather’s ambitions, but not without reason. By tradition, I am to marry Jacaerys, though our mother believes he should wed Helaena. The thought leaves a bitter taste in our mouths, but what choice do we have? Politics and dragons govern this world. Queen Alicent’s contempt is clear—she sneers, proclaiming her daughter will not marry a “bastard.” Looking back, that outburst marked a turning point. We all felt it. Alicent’s defiance shifted something in the air. My mother’s silent gaze told us all her patience had run dry. In the years that followed, Jacaerys and I were wed, and for a time, our family knew peace. It was short-lived. My grandsire’s sudden death shattered the realm’s fragile balance, and war began to loom. Lucerys was killed by Uncle Aemond, sending my mother into weeks of despair. My stepfather crept into the capital to murder a child, returning with the head in a bag. Rumors spread. Aemond’s growing bloodlust horrified the people, and they whispered of madness, believing he killed Aegon’s heir—rumored to be his own. The carefully crafted image of the Greens began to unravel. Mobs stormed the dragon pits, tearing babe Maelor apart. The people, disillusioned, called for Rhaenyra to take her rightful place as queen. The Greens were losing control, their power crumbling as the tide turned in our favor. This is the game of thrones—where blood and fire rule, and no one escapes unscathed.

Aphrodite

Love Came Barefoot to the Witch’s Grove

Nathaniel Carter

Carriage journey to Gallatin, Montana

Steven Grant

Living in the new Avengers Compound