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╬ OO1. standalone(s) ╬ OO2. series ✚ au

╬ OO3. headcanons ╬ OO4. original char.

╬ OO5. verse & vision .𝓮🪶

🐈‍⬛ * lace divider by @suupersonic .

𝓮’s navigation. house of the dragon s3.

overview. ormund's wife!reader runs into gwayne in the sept a week or so before gwayne leaves for king's landing and the war. a simple conversation amid cousin-in-laws is more than enough to put possessive husband!ormund in a horrible mood, leading to a very immature argument and an unorthodox way of reconciling.

contains. language, references to religion, eventual light smut (18+).

wc. around 5.4k.

a|n. FOURTH repost, tumblr is determined to flag it. i had to edit out a couple sections of the smut, so sorry if it’s inconsistent or on the dry side (utmost heartbreak, ugh) .

the frail handheld fan the septas offered outside of the sept earlier doesn’t do much to placate the sweltering heat; it hadn’t taken long to realize that there’s no use in vigorously fanning. all the paper-thin thing does is push and pull the hot air.

seated to your left, your husband, the lord ormund hightower, is also terribly vexed by the heat. he clasps and unclasps his hands, scratches at the collar of his grey doublet, and eventually tugs the rings off of his fingers on account of the clamminess of his hands.

to ormund’s own left, daeron sits in the center of he and ser jon roxton, or “bold jon” as many style him. as the septon approaches the sermon’s conclusion, daeron perks up as to not miss a single syllable. if you know anything about daeron, and you do, it’s clear he’s itching to return to the high-tower and slip out to the makeshift ‘dragonpit’ to look-in on tessarion; that is if daeron is able to sneak off without ormund noticing.

𝓮’s navigation. house of the dragon.

contains ✦ one small angst scene regarding lucerys, the rest of the headcanons are all lighthearted!

wc. 2k.

× i imagine jacaerys is a LOT to handle. one minute, he’s rambling on and on about baela (actually, you don’t mind this much; you adore baela) or he’s recruiting you to rummage through your grandfather, lord corlys’, treasure room; the punishment is always more lenient if you’re caught together, instead of jace alone. or so he swears. or he’s bored to death down at one of the beaches on driftmark, and decides to disturb your peace and throw a piece of slimy, sandy seaweed at you.

× “no—let’s just go inside, you’ve ruined it. you’re an idiot, you know that. a tried and true idiot,” you declare, and shove past him on the path back to high-tide. meanwhile, he’s laughing so hard at your reaction—the wheezing sort of laugh—he can’t breathe, much less issue any apologies.

× he’s a true rage-baiter in every sense of the word. and is quite successful, i must say. it’s immature. it’s irritating. that you know. but, you also know it’s jace’s weird way of showing love.

× “granddaughter, what’s wrong,” i imagine rhaenys asks as you re-enter high-tide with that demon on your heels.

× “jacaerys thought it properly funny to throw seaweed in my hair,” you state.

× “i did no such thing, grandmother,” he’d LIE. rhaenys is aware he’s a liar though, “jace, must you terrorize your sister so—i thought you grew out of that,” there’s a small smile on rhaenys’ face as she speaks though.

× “it’s not funny!” you snap, and stomp up the stairs.

× “my dear sister’s a bit of a brat, isn’t she,” jace smirks, as if he’s not as spoiled, and equally as much of a brat at times.

× despite the silliness, you and your twin are adept in politics and diplomatic matters of the realm. an integral part of the council, even if a few of the council members regard you as no more than the queen’s pampered eldests.

× when that sentiment gets too brazen, jacaerys is quick to go, “watch your tongue when you speak of the princess, my sister, ser.” defends you instead of himself. it works the other way too, “ser, i might point out that the prince speaks with reason. i implore you to respect prince jacaerys’ word, please.”

× in those instances, daemon glances over to rhaenyra with a roll of the eyes, “those two’ve got littermate syndrome,” he’ll scoff. in truth, he’s proud that you two are so protective of each other.

× on dragonstone (and years ago at the red-keep) your chambers are either side by side in the same hallway, or across from each other’s in the same hallway. you definitely regret that choice.

× any and all hours of the day, your door opens on account of absolute nonsense, “please tell luke i am a better dragonrider than he is.”

× then, luke barges in right behind jace, “no, he isn’t! truly! i don’t claim to be better because it’s me, i truly am the better rider.”

× i’m better than both of you. out! now!”

× lucerys at least tries to respect the ‘stay out of our sister’s chambers’ request. your twin, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. comes in whenever. let’s say ser erryk is one of your protectors and is on princess ‘chamber guardian’ duty. out of thin air appears jace, “good-morrow ser erryk, is my sister in.”

× ser erryk says, “yes, my prince. though the princess is still abed.”

× that second part went in one ear and through the other, “open the doors ser erryk, if you will,” and BEAMS while he says it. knows he’s evil.

× sometimes one of you falls asleep in the other’s chamber. imagine it’s early, around 8AM. rhaenyra enters jace’s chamber only to find you sprawled out on the floor at the foot of the bed, “jace you’ve let your sister sleep on the floor, seriously,” rhaenyra chuckles and shakes the pair of you awake.

× i forgot y/n was there,” he groans, crawling to the end of the bed to peer down at the floor, “hi y/n,” he waves.

× you’re in for a week of a sore spine and limbs, “mother my back hurts,” you wince. ser erryk enters to assist you off of the floor. “i suppose so!” rhaenyra scoffs in amusement.

× rhaenyra often tells daemon, “my eldest are a mystery i’ve yet to understand.”

× on another note, i know luke loves to bother his older siblings. he’ll waltz up to you and jacaerys in the courtyard of the castle and claim there’s a message for you. once you and jace are prepared to receive it, luke’ll pause, glance to you, then to jace, and proceed to fart.

× ah, luke that’s awful,” jace says, although there’s a huge idiotic grin on his face.

× “you’re not right in the head, lucerys,” you add on.

× “that is putrid, seriously,” jace laughs.

× “go away, both of you. actually, i think i’ll go,” you state and walk off.

× what are they, five ? we’re all the middle of a war, for fuck’s sake.

× you and jace race on dragonback. all. the. time. you’re excellent dragonriders; quick, agile, work well under pressure. i imagine your dragon, vermax, and arrax are all the offspring of caraxes and syrax. i think an interesting headcanon is that your dragon takes after caraxes’ appearance. long and slender frame, spiked tail, hind-legs with wings and the trademark longer neck. or rather, right now the dragon is too young to say for sure that its neck will grow as long as caraxes’. 6/10 you’re the winner of the races. rhaenys and corlys will watch sometimes, so will daemon and rhaenyra on the off chance that there’s time.

× god, imagine rhaenyra tells you and your brother a bit about her crush on ser criston. you and your twin are in hysterics.

× “ser criston !? mother, ew,” jace cackles.

× “the queen’s brother, ser gwayne was right there, mother,” you grown.

× “ser gwayne ?!” rhaenyra laughs.

× “i KNEW you fancied him!” jace shrieks.

× you and jace burst into rhaenyra’s chamber on occasion, and invite yourselves to lounge on her bed or taste some of the expensive wines displayed on one of the shelves. rhaenya does not endorse that last part.

× “sister, would you’ve run off with cole,” jace asks, long after the subject of conversation changes.

× “no, i don’t think so. instead, i would’ve pleaded with grandfather to marry me to gwayne hightower. ugh, mother if only i were you at that time,” you shake your head.

× “if life played out that way, i wouldn’t have you, or jacaerys, or your younger siblings,” rhaenyra says.

× “you would, we would simply have red hair rather than brown, that’s all,” you answer.

× “i don’t think red hair would suit you y/n,” jace cackles again, as if the mere thought is hilarious.

× you and jace go to winterfell together. and lord is it a time. you forget all about gwayne hightower and develop a serious crush on lord cregan stark. you conduct yourself well though, you focus on the point of the visit—diplomacy, allies for team-black. however, during the short stay at winterfell, you and jace debrief every night on the recent developments in your cregan crush.

× “jace, stop—listen. lord stark brought a heavier coat and put it on my shoulders himself.”

× “he did the same for me, y/n!”

× “jacaerys just let me have this, i beg.”

× for now, let’s skip over the part when jace receives news of luke’s death to winterfell. imagine once you’re back on dragonstone, he can’t wait to tell rhaenyra about your crush on cregan stark.

× you have to YELL over him to get your point across, “mother—jace shut up please. you weren’t there, you didn’t hear how he said it. he went ‘my greybeards will fight haaard, like northerners—like nooortherners’,” you try to imitate the northern accent, and lay it on thick especially on the ‘northerners’ part.

× jace is quick to intercede, “y/n’s never ever stared so hard at any lord that hard ever in our life, i swear it.”

× rhaenyra shakes her head in pure amusement, “is that so.”

× “oh it definitely is. lord stark says, ‘i can see to switching you to a chamber without windows to keep out the cold, if it please you, princess’ and y/n went, ‘oh thank you lord handsome of the north’,” jace lies claims.

× “i never said that!” you exclaim.

× if rhaenyra says, “actually, i think you might live well in the north, my darling.”

× jace interrupts, “well i don’t do well in the cold, so there’s no way y/n will marry a stark.”

× “i never said a single thing about marriage,” you point out.

× jace ignores this, “we all know of your ‘appreciation’ for baratheons, what with their raven hair and those gaudy antler helmets. we’ll get you a baratheon instead, i’ll see to it myself.”

× “again, i never said a single thing about marriage.”

× alright, time for the angst. rewind to winterfell. when you and jace receive the news, of course you’re out of your minds with grief. it brings back memories of the death of laenor, or laena, or ser harwin strong, or your grandfather viserys, or your sister visenya. but it’s worse this time. a lot worse.

× i imagine that at first, you asked to accompany lucerys to storm’s end rather than go with jacaerys to winterfell.

× luke wanted to go to storm’s end alone, show rhaenyra, daemon, and everyone else that he was capable and of use to the cause.

× “luke, c’mon i won’t take over, it’ll be all you,” you’d urged.

× “no y/n, i want to go alone. now, shut up before mother makes me take you,” luke sighed, but smiles soon after, “besides, you only want to see the baratheon sons up close.”

× so, with that, you went with jace instead. the rest is history.

× “i knew i should’ve went with luke. gods, i’m so—i should’ve gone with luke, jace.”

× in the end, there’s no use in shifting around what would’ve or should’ve or could’ve happened. it’s over, it’s done. and luke’s gone. your first baby brother, the one that copied all of your mannerisms, and pestered the maesters whenever you were sick, and sat with you outside in the courtyard after any argument, big or small, between rhaenyra and you.

× it’s an unspoken agreement that the honor to name one of your sons ‘lucerys’ is yours, and jace is 100% supportive of it—doesn’t mind at all.

× after the funeral, i imagine you’ll fall sick for a couple weeks, it’s pure exhaustion and grief. it’s unforgiving and inopportune.

× jacaerys sits next to you in your chamber as the maester tends to you and administers medicines. you cry the entire time, each time. not from the pain of your throat or chest or gut, but from the wretchedness of grief that seems to peel back your skin and crawl underneath.

× anyway! let’s return to the scheduled program.

× lastly, let’s revisit the ragebaiter jace agenda. he hides behind the door of your chamber and shrieks to scare you. all the time. you think you’ve learned when to expect it and prepare, but you’re never prepared.

× “my prince, if i may. is it necessary to startle the princess,” ser erryk asks, to which jace smirks, “oh it’s very necessary, ser erryk.”

× jace will peek at your journal when you’re not around, and find the occasional, “my brother jacaerys is the most insufferable pest i’ve ever met, i think that is why the gods made me the prettier twin.”

× trust, he 100% confronts you about that one, “that’s so so wrong,” he’d insist.

× imagine he enters the chamber. you’re in there with a handful of servants. cue jace, “preparing to lie in bed and think of lord stark, hm.”

⠀×⠀george harrison x southern!reader.

𝓮’s navigation.

overview. southern-american reader runs in to the beatles at a diner in nashville, tennessee and gets along w george harrison quite well.

wc. 3k

a|n. new beatles fan. please excuse any inaccuracies !

you’re the last to enter the diner, at the tail end of the line with your four friends in front. one might think, after the previous six nights of eating here, you would finally know to brace for the gust of cold air from the air conditioner above the door. despite wearing a coat, the cold air somehow still manages to slither through the material and nip at the skin of your arms underneath.

a pair of windchimes on either side of the heavy double doors announces the arrival of your group, and rattles again and again with the press of each of our palms on the door’s glass; the door is plastered with people’s fingerprints, some of the prints are newer, others older.

at the sight of us, one of the waitresses, a ginger girl with huge brown eyes, starts on two carafes of coffee. we’ve created quite the reputation for ourselves over the past week as full-fledged coffee fiends. though tonight, i make my way to the front counter as the others claim a booth the back. the same one we’ve sat in all week. it’s so chilly, i can feel the coldness of the tile through my shoes. the ginger waitress is preoccupied with preparing the coffee, baby-blue fingernails tapping on the side of the silver coffeemaker.

“oh, my god! i’m so sorry! i didn’t know you were there, sweetheart,” the waitress smiles, and grabs a damp towel off of the counter to wipe her hands.

“oh no, no worries,” i return the smile, “i wanted to do tea tonight, instead of the coffee. if it isn’t too much trouble.”

my voice is weaker than usual; i screamed all of the strength out of it at a music festival earlier tonight. my friends and i had heard of a huge festival here in nashville, tennessee with the beatles as headliners. so, without a second thought, we threw our dollars together to cover two full tanks of gas and the nearly nine-hour road-trip from south carolina to tenneessee.

“no trouble at all. actually, i can get that cup of tea for you in a few seconds if you’re alright with waitin’,” she offers, sifting through a box of teabags.

“that’s perfectly fine,” i answer, deciding to take a seat on one of the burnt-orange barstools.

“so, what’d the five of you get into tonight,” she asks, “the festival i assume.”

“mhm, that’s the whole reason we’re in nashville. well, for the beatles to be specific. oh! and the supremes! but, i’ve seen the supremes too many times to count. it’s the beatles i’ve never seen.”

“you’re lyin’. you’ve never ever seen the beatles in concert,” she asks in genuine surprise, while pouring the fourth and final cup of coffee and wiping the excess off of the side of the mug.

“nope. never,” i confirm, “the west is where most of their u.s concerts are, and carolina and california ain’t exactly an hour or two apart.”

the waitress nods in understanding, stacking the 4 coffee mugs and single cup of tea on a tray. nearly twenty coffee creamers are stacked on the tray, along with sugar and lemon for my tea. “i can take it over, save you the walk,” i say, grabbing the sides of the tray.

“you’re an absolute angel, you sure,” she hesitates.

i glance at the teal nametag on her uniform. angela it reads, “of course, angela. it’s no problem.”

my use of her name brings a smile to her face.

i make my to the back of the diner and ‘our’ booth.

my friends are about ten minutes in to a spirited conversation about the beatles’ set, and susan’s longtime ringo obsession.

“i swear, if ringo starr so much as asked to go out for coffee together, i’d leave harold in a heartbeat,” susan insists, as she distributes the mugs once i set the tray down.

“your fiance, harold?” i question, smiling at the ridiculous of it all.

“that’s the one,” susan confirms, and empties four packets of powdered creamer in a mug.

“that’s a shame. susan, you’re a depraved woman,” rodney, the only guy in our group, declares with that trademark hyena laugh.

“oh fuck off. if a beatle asked your hand in marriage you would decline? the devil is a liar,” she scoffs.

“woah, ok. coffee perhaps, but marriage?”

“only a birdbrain thinks to reject john lennon.”

the other two in the friend-group chime in with obviously opposing opinions.

“y/n, seriously if paul mcc—” susan starts, until rodney interrupts, “no no, george. it’s george y/n likes.”

“ok, even better! if george fucking harrison points to you in the crowd and goes ‘hey! you there, i want to see you after the show’ you’re declining!?”

i’m laughing so hard at her horrible attempt at an english accent, i can’t answer.

so, rodney answers instead, “why would he ask for her when i’m right here?” he teases.

i haven’t checked a clock in ages. i think we’ve been in the diner for the past two hours or so. in that time, we’ve spoken to damn near all of the staff. it’s our last night in nashville, and the news spread like wildfire through the workers. in a weird way, it’s like the last night of summer-camp.

right now i’m resting on the table, using an outstretched arm as a cushion for my head. it’s emptier, the night rush is over for the most part. last time i took a look around, a group of seven or so entered through the side door. the faces of the four in the rear weren’t as visible as the three in front. the front three were all in suits, while the rear four weren’t.

the group took up a table near the counter, and angela started on two pots of plain tea.

i tuned out of my table’s conversation ages ago, another stupid debate on one stupid topic or another.

“oh shit, we forgot to order the pie!” susan interrupts.

“i got it,” i sit up, glad to take a break from the chaos, “keylime or pecan,” i ask with a stretch as i stand up and adjust my skirt.

“pecan,”

“pecan, of course,”

“keyli- okay, then. pecan,”

“coconut cream..,” rodney tries. the suggestion is met with immediate rejections.

“ew, rodney!”

“no way in hell,”

“you’re a sick person,”

i chuckle at that last one, “pecan it is, then.”

i maneuver through the tables toward the counter, their noise starts to fade the farther i get.

when i reach the counter, angela is working on refilling the tea for the table of seven.

i slide into the same barstool as before, and pick at my nail polish to pass the time.

“what can i get you guys?” angela asks, once those refills are squared away.

“pecan pie if you have it, please,” i say sweetly.

“‘course, gimme one second,” angela nods.

“take your time,” i settle in, focusing on a familiar song sounding through the diner’s ceiling speakers. i’m so occupied, i almost don’t catch the voice of the person right next to me, “pecan pie, is it?” it asks.

the man’s accent is an entire world of ‘different’ compared to the southern ones that flow through the place.

“mhm, it’s really good,” i answer absentmindedly.

a second later, i turn my attention to the stranger, fully prepared to engage in a conversation on pecan pie of all things.

but, good lord i didn’t expect the stranger’s face to be the same one i spent the earlier part of my night staring up at from the pit beneath the stage.

george harrison.

george fucking harrison.

my head is turned in george’s direction, and my eyes turn slowly to the table of seven. clear as day are the other three beatles lounging at the table with the three men in suits; some sort of staff i suppose. their manager isn’t there, i think i would recognize epstein from the pictures in the magazines.

for a few seconds the entire table (and angela, with a knowing grin) glance from george to me, me to george, george to me.

i turn back to george to find he’s still staring at me. he’s leaning on the counter to the right the stool i’m seated on and. john, paul and ringo are failing horribly to hide their teasing smiles, like this interaction is peak humor to them.

“yeah, uh. the pie’s really good,” i repeat and manage to say so clearly and rather casually, even though i said the same thing moments ago.

“i’m sure it is,” george answers, eating up the puzzled expression on my face.

after plenty of rapid blinks and a pinch to the arm i manage to come to my senses, and find that george is rather easy to talk to.

“south carolina. i live on the coast sort of, the town’s called charleston,” i answer george’s question of where i’m from.

“ah, a beach town, is it?” he nods along, now seated in the stool to my right rather than standing next to it. i could swear it’s scooted a tad bit closer than before.

“pretty much; we call it the low country,” i say.

“and you listen to us all the way out there?,” paul chimes in from the table, earning a pointed stare from george.

“uh, yeah,” i chuckle, “south carolina isn’t another planet, we listen to the beatles like everyone else.”

george slides back into the conversation before paul can speak again, “what’s your name, then.”

“that’s a question to ask a lady at the start of the conversation, not ten minutes in, george,” john teases, prompting grins from ringo and paul.

i manage to suppress my surprised laugh, though the lifted corners of my mouth give away my amusement, “it’s y/n,” i say.

“got a favorite of us, y/n?” paul chimes in again, to which george mumbles an almost inaudible, “will you please, paul.”

i glance over to george, the silent indicator that he’s my #1 beatle. at least that seems to satisfy george. a lot.

“what about a second favorite. can’t pick only one, right?” paul follows up. i can tell paul loves to taunt, quite charmingly might i confess.

“i’d say ringo, i think,” i answer, though the fact that i didn’t say ‘paul’ doesn’t appear to dishearten paul in the slightest; it’s the air of a man that’s 100% sure he’s on every girl’s mind every now and again.

“y/n, where the hell have you been,” susan’s voice interrupts paul’s interrogation, like the scratch of a record.

oh shit, the pie.

“we send you over for pie and you’re out here fraternizing with—” she starts, though a single glance at their table silences susan in a second flat.

when she finally manages to tear her eyes away from ringo, she peers over with an incredulous expression in her eyes.

“su, i’m sorry, we started talking and one thing led to another,” i say, starting to slide off of the stool.

“oh no no, don’t worry about it,” susan’s tone softens; the pecan pie is the least of our worries.

“y/n, you didn’t say you were with friends,” ringo speaks up, and it’s the clearest i’ve heard ringo’s voice in the midst of all the overlapping conversations.

“much less gorgeous ones,” ringo adds, eyes trained on susan.

i almost laugh at susan’s awestruck expression, and the quickness in which susan settles into the seat ringo pulls out next to him.

“there’s three more of us, actually,” i point out, “i’ll go get ‘em.”

“oh, i’ll go too,” george pipes up. then, at a volume only i hear, “we’ll send the rest of your friends over here, then you and i can have your table to ourselves, yeah?”

i nod, stomach twisted into the tightest knot known to man, “sounds good,” i agree.

after george and i manage to shoo the other three, who stare at us (or george, rather) like they’re in the presence of an extraterrestrial, there’s only us in the back area of the diner. as the three scramble to the front to catch up with susan, rodney turns around to shoot me a shiteating grin.

i roll my eyes, sliding into the booth only for george to slide in beside me instead of across.

“so, all five of you are friends?” he asks, hands on the table. he’s got a gorgeous ring on the middle finger of his right hand.

“yeah, all five of us. since middle school, actually,” i tell him, my own hands hidden under the table to chip away at what’s left of my nail polish.

“even that one there?”, george inquires, turning to point at rodney, who’s helped himself to a seat next to john. the two seem to already be getting along.

“who? rodney?” i ask.

“mhm. not your boyfriend?”

“oh absolutely not, we all group rodney into the annoying older brother category.”

that seems to please george.

“no boyfriend at all as of now?”

“nope,” i say, with a faint pop of the ‘p’. when i rub my lips together, i can feel a few small specks of glitter in my lipgloss.

“means there’s room for me, then,” george says.

to that i finally let out the laugh i’d tried to suppress earlier.

“what? what is it,” he grins, leaning in a little.

i decide to redirect the convo a little, buy myself time to recover, “your accent’s a lot heavier than i imagined,” i point out.

“mine,” george gasps in faux surprise, “listen to your own, will you,” he teases, intense eyes drinking in the whole of my face, seeming to spend an extra second or so on my lips.

“mine!?,” i grin wider.

“mhm, it’s a hell of a lot sweeter sounding, especially comin’ from you, i’ll give you that much.”

“sweet? is that so,”

“oh yeah,” he insists, “you skipped up to the counter and went ‘can we get some pecan pie pretty please’,” he says, with a sorry attempt at mocking my southern accent.

“oh absolutely not, i don’t sound like that!” i laugh.

“really? this sounds pretty case in point to me,” he tilts his head.

“whatever you say,” i sigh melodramatically.

“i say, i’d love to hear it over the phone sometime. all the time actually.”

i nibble at the inside of my lip, eyes studying george’s face.

“i think i can make that happen,” i hum.

“good good,” he mirrors my smile. then, after a second or two of simply staring at each other, “i mean, i might need a translator, but that’s no trouble.”

“oh, you’re such an asshole,” i laugh again, mouth dropping open.

george and i pass at least another two hours or so in our booth in the back of the diner; the time’s coming close to 2:00am, the time the diner closes. now, my friends and the band are the only customers left, though it sounds as if there’s a full-house. from our peaceful corner, i can hear paul and rodney finishing off their third spirited game of pool with almost all of the staff gathered around. meanwhile susan and ringo stand a little too close for casual near one of the jukeboxes. how the hell susan is going to explain this to harold, her fiance, is absolutely beyond me.

george and i almost sitting in each other in the booth. i’m on the inside, closest to the wall and window where i’m leaning my back against the glass, with legs crisscrossed on the seat.

when angela apologetically approaches the table to tell us it’s time for the diner to close, george gently taps a hand on my leg, a silent (though reluctant) suggestion that we get up.

once he’s up, he holds a hand out to help me up, and doesn’t let go as we follow our friends out the door. again, that pesky gust of cold air above the door sends a shiver down my spine.

the parking lot’s dark and awfully humid as a result of the rainfall earlier while we were all still inside. the two groups start to split, the band turning toward their bus while we start toward rodney’s van.

everyone’s exchanging numbers and words rapidly, like there’s so much that they didn’t get to say in the diner. i even catch susan and ringo share a hug, and john and rodney a firm friendly handshake. as if to say ‘i can do one better’ george pulls my coat tighter around my shoulders and presses a soft kiss to the side of my lips; a few flecks of glitter transfer from my lips to george’s; he’s careful, like he doesn’t want to go too quick. nonetheless, the kiss is comfortable, like kissing a longtime lover.

on a napkin i snagged from inside, i wrote my number in the same bright red marker the workers use to write the specials of the day, and press it into george’s hand.

“george, c’mon!” john shouts from across the parking lot, and disappears into the bus.

george slips the napkin into his pocket, “don’t be a stranger, y/n. i mean it.”

i nod, “of course not.”

that same stupid smile is on both of our faces.

“phone works two ways though,” i add.

george laughs and shakes his head as he walks backward to the bus, “i’ll talk to you later, love,” he calls out, taking one last look back before climbing up and into the bus.

i shake my head in utter disbelief; this’ll be one insane debrief in our hotel room.

“what the fuck just happened to us,” susan giggles, as the five of us rush over to the van all rambling at once, the consequence of a lot of leftover adrenaline.

as the last of the van’s doors closes, we hear, “what’s this, georgie’s got glitter on his lips, hm?” the taunting voice of paul from across the parking lot, no doubt about it.

OO3. HEADCANONS ;

◟ 𝓮. जया, ʬʬʬ.navigation. net ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓 .

𔗫 HEADCANONS ON ORMUND HIGHTOWER X WIFE!READER . + A MINI-SCENARIO.

𔗫 HEADCANONS ON THE ADVENTURES OF JACAERYS VELARYON X TWIN!READER.

📽️ 𝓮’s navigation. house of the dragon s3.

wc. 1.7k

a／n. s3 ep1 and ormund’s 3 seconds of screentime is the only reference for this, might turn out to be 100% inaccurate to ormund’s character. out of the millions of times i’ve planned to post fanfics on this tumblr and didn’t, ormund hightower of all characters, is the one to break the cycle, lmao. also, i am a chronic italics over-user, sorry !

×⠀i have to hop on the bandwagon and agree on ormund’s obsession over the scent of his wife. in the summer, you’ll carry a simple crème handkerchief with a lace border and your initials woven in white silk, which barely contrasts. sometimes, you’ll bring another. you know your lord husband.

×⠀in the summer, or even the warmer weeks of spring, ormund neglects refuses to bring a handkerchief of his own. he has an admirable sense of patience, the man will wait until you use the handkerchief to pat at the sweat on your neck or forehead at least thrice, THEN and ONLY then does ormund request to “borrow” a handkerchief. which is code for ~ i am about to SNIFF the fuck out of a piece of fabric that carries the scent of my wife’s sweat, of all things ~

× ormund’s an odd man.

×⠀i imagine a servant says, “m’lord, i’ll make sure to prepare a few handkerchiefs for warmer weather.” ormund’s response is a simple, “‘tis quite alright, no need.” which, this time, is code for ~ please, don’t ruin a good thing ~

×⠀will swap your pillows on occasion. and, ormund is known to slide the pillowcase off of your pillow and pack it to put on HIS pillow when he’s away. once again, ormund’s an odd man.

×⠀prioritizes going to the sept at least thrice a week; on the morning of sermons, of course, and for prayer, confession, and contemplation on the other days. prefers to go together. ormund adores the idea that that’s a staple in your marriage.

×⠀at the sept, ormund presses the tip of his unlit candle to the flame of yours to light it, every single time. in general, i imagine you and ormund often sit shoulder to shoulder, to the point where while you’re in two chairs it appears as if you’re both in one. in particular, you and ormund sit in each other during sermons. while the septon speaks, you’ll fold your hands in your lap, and ormund slips one of his hands into yours. you held one of his hands in both of yours once, under the table at a feast; held it there and toyed with ormund’s fingers and rings. he’s so into it, so he silently requests it 24/7. not to mention the scent of your hands lingers on his.

×⠀i imagine closeness in general is another ‘thing’ ormund adores. in a physical and mental sense. he abhors the idea of having a wife he doesn’t know and vise-versa. and i mean know know. not the relevance of your house in the grand scheme of the realm and its political landscape, or the relationship of your house to the hightowers. important, true. but, that’s far from all there is to it. he’s interested in you as an individual. therefore, you and ormund are close. very close.

×⠀as a result, you’re one of the few few people that’s aware of how outright odd ormund is. or rather, the fact that he’s a professional nerd. he’s into all sorts of stuff: science, literature, theatre, even … beekeeping.

×⠀in less than three minutes, he’s able to point out any constellation at night. is an encyclopedia trapped in the body of a man. recalls the details of wars from ages prior to his time. recalls the entire hightower bloodline. almost recalls the entire bloodline of your house. can draw an accurate map of westeros by hand. recalls obscure facts about random animals. ormund reads a lot, is open to any genre, and provides 10 out of 10 commentaries.

×⠀ormund’s commentaries are reserved for nights, before bed. you’re in bed, back against the headboard and bundled in a blanket. ormund’s pacing, with a towel tied around his waist. or an open robe, silk in hightower green or plain black. straight out of the washroom. your husband is 35 minutes into a long-winded review of a romance novel one of the maesters recommended. yes, romance.

×⠀ he appreciates the fact that you listen, and in turn, is an amazing listener. granted, you are also a professional nerd.

×⠀the conversations that take place in your chamber are entertainment at its finest. it ranges from questions as to the creation of mankind and animals, or lord so and so’s subpar swordfighting skills, to daeron’s newfound knack for spear-fishing. when one of you climbs in bed and leans against the headboard, it’s a telltale sign that it’s three-hour-conversation time. sometimes, ormund pulls you to sit on him during it, and absentmindedly tugs at the ends of your hair or the lace lining of your sleepgown.

×⠀wait !! back to the ‘closeness’ thing. that man stands so close to you. all. the. time. and invites you to do the same! denies the concept of personal space.

×⠀while he’s at his desk, he initiates the classic™️ sit on his lap while he does paperwork. i imagine you’re well informed on issues of the realm and politics in general. so, sometimes the pair of you discuss the recent events in westerosi politics. when ormund leans back, he pulls you back to lean on him.

×⠀likes to lift you up on your horse’s saddle. yes, he is aware you’re capable. no, he doesn’t care. even if your heights are similar, he likes to stand in front of you to shield you from the sun.

×⠀but! disclaimer! despite all of that, ormund swears he’s far from a diehard romantic. tries to convince you, tries to convince himself. hell, he even tries to convince daeron. daeron, for one, is NOT convinced. neither are you. what sort of man refuses to sleep when his wife has a headache, and instead is dedicated to rubbing your temples until you manage to fall asleep. a romantic one. what sort of man slides one of his rings on a thin chain for you to wear as a necklace, and plays with it when you’re in his lap. a DIEHARD romantic one.

×⠀still, ormund denies denies denies denies. daeron stares at ormund like he’s the lamest person ever.

×⠀ormund is a kisser, through and through !! in the morning. in the evening. in the night. in dreams, even. proper dreams and daydreams.  if you’re going to separate for the day, he’ll linger until you kiss him. if you somehow miss that hint, no problem. ormund’s got it, he’ll simply interrupt you for a kiss. and! a peck rarely ever does the trick. the KING of “you know that wasn’t a proper kiss” or worse, the command ver., “kiss me proper, y/n”.

×⠀right. ok, i’m about to foam at the mouth. do with the #kingofkissing ormund what you will. 

×⠀HE’s the one with a hand infatuation in the relationship. or, more so, his infatuation manages to outdo yours. as a result, ormund gifts you a lot of rings and bracelets. knows your preference for gold over silver, or vise-versa, and abides by it.

×⠀will signal daeron over in the middle of a meeting to murmur, “daeron, go find my wife.” everyone else supposes whatever their lord whispered was a simple ask, like a request for daeron to bring another carafe of wine. wrong! lord hightower’s intense separation anxiety is at an all time high.

the hour is late. ‘tis so late the perpetual scuffle of feet on the castle’s cobblestone floors finally subsided an hour or so ago. the faint creak and metallic clang of the guards’ armor on the other side of the broad bedchamber door serves as the backdrop to the murmured, though still spirited, conversation. your and ormund’s words are even the more muffled by the mound of pillows that surround the pair of you. 

one of the wider windows at the chamber’s far side is cracked open at ormund’s request, another of the man’s particularities; he appreciates a gentle breeze after an especially hot bath.

as is one of the customs of the marriage, one of you, you on this particular night, is leaning on a pillow propped against the ornate headboard. while ormund lies on top of you, snug between your legs, with arms wrapped around either side of your thighs and waist. the stubborn stubble on ormund’s chin and jaw skims against the skin of your stomach through the thin silk of your sleepgown each time he speaks.

“oh! your cousin gwayne received correspondence from alicent, at last. i meant to mention it earlier,” you say. your husband’s stare latches onto you, thick brown brows raised ever so slightly in inquisition.

“you and gwayne,” ormund replies, “my cousin gwayne. send each other letters. like, to and fro constant correspondence,” he asks, as if to confirm that he’s heard what he thinks he’s heard.

he has not heard at all what he thinks he’s heard.

there is an instance of silence between the two of you.

“ormund,” you trail off, “no, i don’t regularly send letters to ser gwayne. why would i, gwayne lives not even a hour’s time away. i do keep constant correspondence with the dowager queen, and when free time is tough to come by, alicent sends her greetings to me via the letters she sends to him.”

he nods, and runs a hand over his face. the friction of palm to stubble creates a subtle scratching sound. 

meanwhile, you’re left to wonder whether your lord husband has somehow contracted selective listening.

after awhile, those blue eyes latch again on your own eyes; it’s clear as ever that a bullshit question or comment is 100% brewing.

“my love, have you ever kept correspondence with my cousin ?.. my cousin gwayne, i mean,” he asks. in response to that, you let out a wholehearted laugh and press a hand to ormund’s shoulder to push him off, albeit he doesn’t budge. not even an inch.

“no, not that i can recall,”  you say incredulously, “if i ever do, rest in knowing it’s on the simple account of cousin-in-law camaraderie.”

“do you possess not even a half a morsel of interest in your other cousin’s comings and goings,” you ask.

“there is nothing new under the sun that alicent and those three hellspawn haven’t done,” he waves a dismissive hand.

“alicent’s pair of hellspawned sons, you mean. sweet helaena is no trouble. and actually, the news regards alicent’s father, your uncle the lord hand.”

with a melodramatic groan, ormund turns to lie on his back, between your legs still. he reaches back for your hands to raise to his head. it isn’t until you start to rake gentle fingers through those brown nearly but-not-quite curls, that he’ll sigh out a, “very well, i suppose i shall hear it then.”

★ annie, smoke., sinners | ‘CRYING DURING SEX’ by ethel cain (2.55 - 3.35) ──── 10.04.25 𝓮. mini-sequel of v&v 001.

SYNOPSIS.; an eeqrv V&V is a lyric-based analysis; V&V’s connect the characters, themes, or dynamics in a 𝑓ilm or series to a song’s lyrics or tone. tune in to ‘CRYING DURING SEX’ for a more immersive read. v&v 001✚ is intended to be read as an extension of v&v 001.

CONTENT.; language, discussion of the death of annie and smoke’s daughter (emotional subject, warning!), grief & angst.

wc.; 830

i don’t know what happened (2x).

i hear it ⎯⎯ frenzied, frantic, and fearful.

i don’t know what happened.

i don’t know what happened.

i don’t know what ~

i don’t know ~

i don’t ~

repeated as a panicked mantra; a devil on annie’s shoulder, without an angel on the other. i imagine smoke and annie’s confrontation / conversation in annie’s workshop, when smoke asks annie where annie’s practices and protections were     when.

when. 

no question of “ when what ? ” ; no need to ask, annie’s aware of when and what it alludes to.

annie couldn’t answer. perhaps an answer didn’t exist. or, perhaps, annie wouldn’t ever uncover it even if it were out there. somewhere. i imagine the townspeople’s speculations, wonders and whispers about the death of their daughter, would wrap around annie similar to a snake around a mouse. then it starts ~ frenzied and frantic, frenzied and frantic.

i don’t know what happened.

i don’t know what happened.

i don’t know~

i imagine smoke and stack started on a custom crib. carved out of oakwood and adorned in lotus’ etched onto the crib. the lotus’ on stack’s side are a lot neater than those on smoke’s side, to annie’s surprise. annie’d told those two to etch out primroses, or at least roses on it ~ since she and smoke agreed on the name primrose. primrose moore. annie adored the nickname prim, smoke preferred p, a rendition of pea or sweetpea, sweet and simple.

smoke and stack carved lotus’ on the crib since primroses were too complicated to carve, plus, on the piece of scrapwood stack practiced on, the test primroses somehow resembled spikes rather than flowers. now, the crib sits halfdone and abandoned in a corner of annie’s bedroom, covered in dust.

i imagine a house, quiet and quant. the house had a sizable outside space ~ white paint and a wraparound porch. with a red waterhose hidden under the porch steps. when annie was around 2 months pregnant, and had to tuck a handkerchief in her pockets to pat the sweat 12x an hour due to the summer’s heat, smoke used to take annie out on drives ~ to pass the time. out on the plainside (as annie used to term it), the delta’s expansive fields full of old oaks, annie and smoke saw it ~ the blue paint on the porch was worn with age and wear. smoke slowed to a stop to, quote on quote, let annie look. however, smoke stared at it, inquisitive and quiet. 72 hours later, smoke’s in town, stack at smoke’s side, to ask around about the house. fast forward another 72 hours, and smoke’s signed papers, secured a payment plan, and set a work schedule to tend to the house’s troubles ~ the dull white paint, the worn windows, the sunken porch steps. if smoke stuck to the schedule, he’d have the house repaired right at annie’s 9 month mark.

it was theirs,

then it wasn’t.

in a blink, life busted the door of that dream down. then ~ the death, funeral, fights on fights on fights. a second later, without a word, smoke’s placed a bundle of crumpled cash bills under one of the cracked plant-pots on the steps of annie’s workshop; all smoke saved in preparation of prim’s birth. now, 7 years later, the house is a hideous image of warped wood and discoloration, and an image annie’s fought to forget as she starts to think;

i don’t know what happened.

i don’t know what happened.

i don’t know what~

i don’t know~

i don’t~

i was young & sweet. then, something happened; something overwhelming, something everlasting.

annie is still annie; she’s smart, she’s special, she’s sweet. 

though, the sweetness is the same as a sugarcube sunken in hot tea. as it sinks, it starts to subside and crumble at its corners. though, it’s still sugar.

time drags on; i hate him for the time he’s gone.

annie hates him;

true, of course, annie is in love w smoke, and it’s mutual as we’re aware. though, annie holds it in her heart for a awhile ~ the hurt of smoke’s decision to leave.

hates the fact that he left ~ left without a word. as the wheels of time turns, the pain piled up. i imagine a wheelbarrow of bricks. bearable earlier on, with 1 brick or 2. annie pushed and endured. but, as time went on, another brick is added, and another, and another. and annie is left to cope. and annie endured, no doubt, but it would’ve been less of a burden if smoke stayed ~

i’ve been here for weeks ~ i’ve been here for years ~ i’ve been here too long.

7 years later. 7 years late.

and, annie spent the entire 7 in solitude. alone.

days, months, years. the birthdate and deathdate ~ again, and again, and again, and again.

all alone.

OO2. SERIES ✚ AU ;

◟ 𝓮. जया, ʬʬʬ.navigation. net ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

coming soon …

★ annie, smoke., sinners | ‘HARD TIMES’ by ethel cain. ──── 05.11.25 𝓮.

SYNOPSIS.; an eeqrv V&V is a lyric-based analysis; V&V’s connect the characters, themes, or dynamics in a 𝑓ilm or series to a song’s lyrics or tone. tune in to ‘HARD TIMES’ for a more immersive read.

CONTENT.; language, discussion of the death of annie and smoke’s daughter (emotional subject, warning!)

wc.; 1k

hide me there, under the leaves.

oh. we’re thrown in headfirst on the opening verse.

i visualize the child’s grave; secluded, under the tree’s shadow, under the leaves. i see smoke, knelt in the dirt, as he sets a handful of flowers on the grave. he sets the bouquet next to another; a bunch of lilacs. annie had unearthed the flowers earlier that evening, nestled the bouquet in the dirt, with the stems hidden under a mound of leaves, so the wind wouldn’t disturb them.

‘cause i hate this story, where happiness ends and dies with you.

again, a reference to their child. to be clear, i don’t intend to mischaracterize either of them, or encourage a narrative that annie and smoke never knew happiness once their child died. rather, i think the specific sense of euphoria at the idea of their child, their life as a family, ended and died with the kid. from another perspective, think of the nature of their grief. in an instant, the child was lost. in that instant, the specific sense of happiness associated w the child ended and died. such an abrupt change, so unexpected, no time to brace. so, true, annie might revel in the sight of the first magnolia of the season. and, true, smoke’s at peace when he’s w stack, a cigarette in his mouth, and cash in his pocket. but, something is amiss, and annie and smoke both understood what it was.

i thought good guys get to be happy. i’m not happy; i am, poison in the water, and unhappy.

perfect. here’s an invitation to discuss smoke a bit more. throughout sinners, there are references to smoke and stack’s troubled past, and of course, their troubled present. in particular, there’s the trouble in chicago, their respective relationships {annie & mary}and the abuse and death of their father. let’s consider their dad’s death as it applies to smoke. he did it, he murdered their dad to protect his brother. a deed done for the greater good. still, it’s inescapable. the thought of it, the feel of it. it’s a part of smoke. so, in addition to a number of other questionable deeds, smoke himself wouldn’t consider himself a good guy, no. in smoke’s case, that line is sort of an illusion. he had clung to the wishful thought that the universe would let him have this one thing {a relationship, a family} ──── but, he’s poison in the water. to expand on that, put it into perspective; imagine the lyric in the background of smoke’s final scene. he’s hurt, in the interstice of life and death. as annie appears and encourages smoke to let go, to join her and their child in the spirit, i hear it. he’d hear it. how he’s poison in the water. that pause before smoke sets out his hands to hold his child and join the girls, it’s the manifestation of smoke’s fear that he’d somehow ruin it. interestingly, i read an analysis of this scene. it highlighted annie’s use of smoke’s real name in this scene in particular. she told him he’d have to leave smoke behind before he’s able to hold the child and transition to the spirit realm. there it is; that’s when he let’s go. in reference to the verse {to create a full-circle} i interpret this as a sort of closure for elijah; smoke might be poison in the water, but, elijah is the eye in smoke’s storm. once he let go of smoke, and embraced elijah, the things that plagued smoke cease to exist. now, he can be in peace.

a little girl, who needs her daddy real’ bad.

ok, remember smoke’s “papa’s here” line. it’s a direct connection to this lyric. he thinks of her 24/7. smoke knew their daughter needed them; her papa, her mom. i think of annie and smoke’s relief once the three of them are reunited. paired w the visuals of smoke and annie’s final scene; smoke’s liberated expression, and annie in white {a symbol of peace and renewal or rebirth} it’s a beautiful moment of reconciliation, reunion, and alignment.

in the corner, on my birthday, you watched me ~ dancing right there in the grass.

wow. here, the child’s birth and death-date are the same, forever interwoven. so, i interpret the on my birthday line as the anniversary of {both} life and death. for the past 7 years, from the window of the shop, annie’s watched the wind whisk the leaves over and around the grave, as if her girl’s dancing right there in the grass.

prayin’ i’d be like you, doing all of the things that you do.

there’s no doubt, annie and smoke would’ve devoted so much to their daughter’s upbringing. imagine the things annie and smoke would’ve taught her; the lessons, the experiences, the stories. i imagine as she would’ve grown, so would her interest in her mother’s practices. but, annie would claim there’d be a lot more crickets in mason jars, and easter speeches at sunday service before she’s old enough to learn, and to do all of the things her mother does.

i’m tired of you, still tied to me. too tired to move, too tired to leave.

ouch. i think of smoke’s return, 7 years later. 7 years late. annie navigated the worst of the grief alone. now, he returns to reopen that wound, no warning. remember annie asking, “what do you want from me,” ? and smoke sat there for a second, quiet as a church mouse, before he responds. in smoke’s case, the lyric represents {another} inner monologue. it’s as if he’s questioning if annie’s tired of this, tired of him. then, once he told her he loves her, and thinks about her 24/7, there’s a silence between smoke and annie. again, smoke wonders if she’s tired of him, tied to her. however, as annie embraces smoke, it’s sort of a response; one that quells those doubts. yes, she’s tired {of the grief, of the pain} but, she won’t, she can’t ever tire of smoke. also, their embrace is so too tired to move, too tired to leave. think of it, it isn’t symbolic of a desire to separate or disregard the other. more so, i think there’s a juxtaposition. on one hand, the sight of the other awakens that grief, however, it also ignites a sense of interconnection, security, and {of course} love. neither would rather be elsewhere. neither would leave.

OO1. STANDALONE(S) ;

◟ 𝓮. जया, ʬʬʬ.navigation. net ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

a standalone is a oneshot piece; no sequels.

𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓 .

𔗫 ❝VIGILANT❞ smut (18+) ormund's wife!reader runs into gwayne in the sept a week or so before gwayne leaves for king's landing and the war. a simple conversation amid cousin-in-laws is more than enough to put possessive husband!ormund in a horrible mood, leading to a very immature argument and an unorthodox way of reconciling.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖘 .

𔗫 ❝PECAN PIE❞ southern!reader x george harrison. >> southern-american reader runs into the beatles at a diner in nashville, tennessee and gets along w george harrison quite well.

OO5. VERSE &VISION ;

◟ 𝓮. जया, ʬʬʬ.navigation. net ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

an V&V is a lyric-based analysis; V&V’s connect the characters, themes, or relationships in a movie or series to a song’s lyrics or tone.

𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖘 (2025).

𔗫 VERSE & VISION 001 ANNIE & SMOKE “SINNERS” SONG: “HARD TIMES” BY ETHEL CAIN.

𔗫 VERSE & VISION 001✚ mini-sequel of v&v 001. ANNIE & SMOKE “SINNERS” SONG: “CRYING DURING SEX” BY ETHEL CAIN.

𝓮. ; EEQRV’26. please, feel free to leave questions, comments, or feedback here or in the eeqrv mailbox.

◟OOO. ʬʬʬ.navigation.net 💬 .

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◟ me, in an incoherent scramble of interests, ideas & items.

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